"See-sickness afflicts me, and I strive
to peer down the barrel of the horizon, wondering,
what can I read from the lips of the New Year's shores?
Sea-seekness too afflicts, and I strive
to exchange this stream for the Sea, wondering,
on what key does it - the Sea - with its Fangs make Music."
--Tolu Ogunlesi
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Friday, December 08, 2006
why bother?
A tip
I have, over the last few weeks, had rather a lot of conversations with people in their late twenties. Who seem to think they are ancient and their lives are almost over and they no longer have any potential to accomplish anything amazing in rest of their lives.
This has got rather irritating because the way they vent these feelings is to warn me that I will, in four to six years, feel the same way.
Maybe I will.
But maybe I won't. Now, this might seem to be a rather know-it-all attitude from a 22 year old, but I have reasons for saying this.
So...I said I had a tip. What is it?
It is something I learned a while ago. Something that was imprinted in me. Something both enlightening, uplifting, and perhaps sometimes discouraging-- if you want it to be.
You will most likely not change the world in any large recognisable sense. It is highly unlikely that you will leave a mark on the Earth that any self-respecting Martian would deem worth checking out from her little pink spaceplane.
This does not mean, however, that you should give up and live on chocolate pudding while watching pay-per-view Bond films for the rest of your life. The world is not small, the world is not simple. Just because you can't change everything or even some of the things you most want to, you can still change a few crucial corners. Amongst the teeming masses of people, there are some that need you-- and not always in the ways you expect. Hidden in the vastness of everything, the details need you.
I learnt this by looking out from a hillside in the darkness. I was in a quarry, facing away from the naked landscape of crumbled stones and dust, looking out to the land below. All across the valleys and surrounding hills, thousands of little shacks lay under the shroud of darkness, all emitting only a tiny point of light from a lantern or a bulb surreptitiously linked to a passing overhead wire. There were so many lights. And each one representing a home most likely in need of more warmth, more food, more money, more clean water, more opportunity.
One light came from a family I had met that day. I was with a group building houses in the neighborhood for families identified by the local church as particularly in need of a warm shelter. We had given the family the new house, complete with a shiny front door and windows earlier that day, the mother tearing up as the father accepted the keys. She had told us all that she hoped her kids would grow up to be like us.
Details-- so many little things to remember. Little seconds filled with words and strange, heavy emotions. One family. Five children, two parents. In one town in one province. In only one country in our one world.
Only one light among all those thousands. One small detail. Thousands more lights still in need.
Why bother going? Can one light provide enough of a reason?
I have, over the last few weeks, had rather a lot of conversations with people in their late twenties. Who seem to think they are ancient and their lives are almost over and they no longer have any potential to accomplish anything amazing in rest of their lives.
This has got rather irritating because the way they vent these feelings is to warn me that I will, in four to six years, feel the same way.
Maybe I will.
But maybe I won't. Now, this might seem to be a rather know-it-all attitude from a 22 year old, but I have reasons for saying this.
So...I said I had a tip. What is it?
It is something I learned a while ago. Something that was imprinted in me. Something both enlightening, uplifting, and perhaps sometimes discouraging-- if you want it to be.
You will most likely not change the world in any large recognisable sense. It is highly unlikely that you will leave a mark on the Earth that any self-respecting Martian would deem worth checking out from her little pink spaceplane.
This does not mean, however, that you should give up and live on chocolate pudding while watching pay-per-view Bond films for the rest of your life. The world is not small, the world is not simple. Just because you can't change everything or even some of the things you most want to, you can still change a few crucial corners. Amongst the teeming masses of people, there are some that need you-- and not always in the ways you expect. Hidden in the vastness of everything, the details need you.
I learnt this by looking out from a hillside in the darkness. I was in a quarry, facing away from the naked landscape of crumbled stones and dust, looking out to the land below. All across the valleys and surrounding hills, thousands of little shacks lay under the shroud of darkness, all emitting only a tiny point of light from a lantern or a bulb surreptitiously linked to a passing overhead wire. There were so many lights. And each one representing a home most likely in need of more warmth, more food, more money, more clean water, more opportunity.
One light came from a family I had met that day. I was with a group building houses in the neighborhood for families identified by the local church as particularly in need of a warm shelter. We had given the family the new house, complete with a shiny front door and windows earlier that day, the mother tearing up as the father accepted the keys. She had told us all that she hoped her kids would grow up to be like us.
Details-- so many little things to remember. Little seconds filled with words and strange, heavy emotions. One family. Five children, two parents. In one town in one province. In only one country in our one world.
Only one light among all those thousands. One small detail. Thousands more lights still in need.
Why bother going? Can one light provide enough of a reason?
Sunday, November 26, 2006
oh william!
How does this guy get away with this? I love it.
1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.
2
We laughed at the hollydecks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.
3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.
4
Last evening we were dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy, and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!
-William Carlos Williams
1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.
2
We laughed at the hollydecks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.
3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.
4
Last evening we were dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy, and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!
-William Carlos Williams
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
ruminations on the southeast
My flatmate lies on the kitchen floor.
"I think he's gone into a state of hiberation."
"Yeah, the other roommates have left. Nate-Dawg went to a party."
"Yeah I am hanging out here this weekend."
"Dude, yeah it is like before 11. We should get me a pizza."
"So what do you want on your pizza?"
"Like pepperoni. I don't really care."
"Yeah, you'll eat most of it."
"No, I'll eat half. And you'll eat the other half."
A Wednesday night before 11. Things seem remarkably provincial and unimportant on nights like this. My mind is drifting. And I remember a conversation from earlier on in the day, about making money.
"You know, I know it sounds obvious. But some people are just motivated by making money-- it's amazing. Also amazing just how much money they have."
It is amazing. I still don't understand the detachment you feel-- when you agree with yourself that you exist day in and day out to get money. surely it's a means but an end in itself, how?
And then there are those conversations about places like Anacostia.
"Dude, it's like a third world country out there in southeast." This is a nurse in a DC hospital speaking. His comment has some foundation if the stories you hear about violence are true. There is an AmeriCorps program that cleans out the Anacostia River, dragging out all kinds of trash from the river. The team is about 18-19 people. Every year they lose a member, a young person who is shot as a result of gang violence. Every year, at least one or two members.
Anacostia is on the Green line of the metro, southeast region of the city. The Rough Guide recommends you don't walk around the area alone-- something like-- "Take a taxi. Go to the historical sights you want to see and then leave."
I am looking for ways to volunteer in DC. I want to find something to do near Anacostia. Just because I cannot stand when neighborhoods are talked about that way, when it seems like the rest of the city, chock full of NGOs and "young professionals", has given up on them. I don't like it when in my mind, neighborhoods become urban legends of death and despair and streets where none that value their life should walk. When even the name of the neighbourhood conjures up twisted, dripping images of hopelessness. That cannot be!
Maybe I am naive. Maybe I'll return in two months to this entry and laugh at myself. Maybe. Well, so be it. I'll let you know.
"I think he's gone into a state of hiberation."
"Yeah, the other roommates have left. Nate-Dawg went to a party."
"Yeah I am hanging out here this weekend."
"Dude, yeah it is like before 11. We should get me a pizza."
"So what do you want on your pizza?"
"Like pepperoni. I don't really care."
"Yeah, you'll eat most of it."
"No, I'll eat half. And you'll eat the other half."
A Wednesday night before 11. Things seem remarkably provincial and unimportant on nights like this. My mind is drifting. And I remember a conversation from earlier on in the day, about making money.
"You know, I know it sounds obvious. But some people are just motivated by making money-- it's amazing. Also amazing just how much money they have."
It is amazing. I still don't understand the detachment you feel-- when you agree with yourself that you exist day in and day out to get money. surely it's a means but an end in itself, how?
And then there are those conversations about places like Anacostia.
"Dude, it's like a third world country out there in southeast." This is a nurse in a DC hospital speaking. His comment has some foundation if the stories you hear about violence are true. There is an AmeriCorps program that cleans out the Anacostia River, dragging out all kinds of trash from the river. The team is about 18-19 people. Every year they lose a member, a young person who is shot as a result of gang violence. Every year, at least one or two members.
Anacostia is on the Green line of the metro, southeast region of the city. The Rough Guide recommends you don't walk around the area alone-- something like-- "Take a taxi. Go to the historical sights you want to see and then leave."
I am looking for ways to volunteer in DC. I want to find something to do near Anacostia. Just because I cannot stand when neighborhoods are talked about that way, when it seems like the rest of the city, chock full of NGOs and "young professionals", has given up on them. I don't like it when in my mind, neighborhoods become urban legends of death and despair and streets where none that value their life should walk. When even the name of the neighbourhood conjures up twisted, dripping images of hopelessness. That cannot be!
Maybe I am naive. Maybe I'll return in two months to this entry and laugh at myself. Maybe. Well, so be it. I'll let you know.
a plastic bag in harlem
I wrote this about a month ago but the blog system was down:
Well I was going to write a blog entry but the blog system was down. What trauma man. Not sure if I can stand it.
So…life in the US of A rolls on…am feeling rather exhausted after quite a busy workweek followed by a weekend in that mad city up north of here. And for some reason I seem destined to sit and watch American football until midnight. No wait, it gets worse. I am actually watching analysis of American football. Tragic.
I now want to live in New York…that city is one of the few places that just inspires complete awe in me. I am not sure why just New York has this effect on me. I think I just don’t know what to feel when I see it. One of the first feelings to hit me is how small I am. I like it—it’s reassuring to know that without you the world will just keep spinning on and on. You will never be so important that if you stop to take a breath the world will not keep whirling. You can relax and just watch the world—you’re allowed to sit in the audience from time to time. Sit with everyone else as they pass in and out of the sphere of watching, then leaving and returning to the stage, brushing through the velvet red curtains.
But then down some streets things are small again and you feel sheltered…fooled into thinking like the city cares for you, would deign to protect you for a few hours as awnings shade you and warm air drifts out of café doors.
Then quickly turn another corner and you are in a land detached from Americana. Languages from other lands, open air markets, stalls with strains of music outside the do-re-mi of your ear.
Yes, I love that city. Driving in on Friday, I felt nervous, imagined the streets of gold that would awe me, the alleys that would tempt me and confuse me, the avenues that would swallow me. I love how naïve it makes me feel, how new to the world I am when I walk down its streets. A child walking through the sun as it bounces off glass windows seventy stories up; a newborn watching the sun rise slowly in Harlem as a plastic bag flies high in the air, twirling, a strange stillness on a Sunday morning after a live Saturday night.
Well I was going to write a blog entry but the blog system was down. What trauma man. Not sure if I can stand it.
So…life in the US of A rolls on…am feeling rather exhausted after quite a busy workweek followed by a weekend in that mad city up north of here. And for some reason I seem destined to sit and watch American football until midnight. No wait, it gets worse. I am actually watching analysis of American football. Tragic.
I now want to live in New York…that city is one of the few places that just inspires complete awe in me. I am not sure why just New York has this effect on me. I think I just don’t know what to feel when I see it. One of the first feelings to hit me is how small I am. I like it—it’s reassuring to know that without you the world will just keep spinning on and on. You will never be so important that if you stop to take a breath the world will not keep whirling. You can relax and just watch the world—you’re allowed to sit in the audience from time to time. Sit with everyone else as they pass in and out of the sphere of watching, then leaving and returning to the stage, brushing through the velvet red curtains.
But then down some streets things are small again and you feel sheltered…fooled into thinking like the city cares for you, would deign to protect you for a few hours as awnings shade you and warm air drifts out of café doors.
Then quickly turn another corner and you are in a land detached from Americana. Languages from other lands, open air markets, stalls with strains of music outside the do-re-mi of your ear.
Yes, I love that city. Driving in on Friday, I felt nervous, imagined the streets of gold that would awe me, the alleys that would tempt me and confuse me, the avenues that would swallow me. I love how naïve it makes me feel, how new to the world I am when I walk down its streets. A child walking through the sun as it bounces off glass windows seventy stories up; a newborn watching the sun rise slowly in Harlem as a plastic bag flies high in the air, twirling, a strange stillness on a Sunday morning after a live Saturday night.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Part II of Reunions of Global Street Corners
An old friend follows me on the escalator. Just having hit my brother on the head with an umbrella, I say, 'Oh, hi!' He's doing a graduate degree here. I knew he was in the city, nice of him to share an escalator with me.
By this point of the day, the coincidence does not strike me that heavily. I mean I knew he was in the city, at the same university as my friends.
Earlier that day, at the AIDS Walk, with one of my friends from England, standing in the rain waiting for my brother. A girl walks past me, slows, stares at me. I stare back, I know her face. I know her eyes, her expression. We both give up and just stammer, 'Um, I think I know you. I think I met you...in, in Kenya! At the Ethiopian restaurant, yes!'
That is who walked past me today in Freedom Plaza-- the sister of a friend I met in Mathare, a slum in Nairobi. We met one evening as we celebrated my friend's time in Kenya. They were both leaving that next day.
Even this however does not floor me. Yes, I did lose my ability to find words, asking if she was Sarah's brother...I mean sister. But it all seemed to flow.
The reason this all flows is that I have to let it because there has just been so much of it; my average up to this year was so far below what is going on this year. I don't know what flipped the switch.
The climax I think has to be that completely randomly, I chose the same house as an old family friend from my time as a little kid in Lagos. We signed the lease within days of each other and even spoke on the phone without realising who the other was. It was not until the next day that he called me at work and said, "Hi. Um, I, well--"
"Yeah, we know each other, don't we."
"Yep. Good, I was hoping I was not the only one who thought this was weird."
"No, I am definitely with you on that one."
So. There we go. This year continues to bombard me with connections. They come right round the street corner and smack me straight in the face.
By this point of the day, the coincidence does not strike me that heavily. I mean I knew he was in the city, at the same university as my friends.
Earlier that day, at the AIDS Walk, with one of my friends from England, standing in the rain waiting for my brother. A girl walks past me, slows, stares at me. I stare back, I know her face. I know her eyes, her expression. We both give up and just stammer, 'Um, I think I know you. I think I met you...in, in Kenya! At the Ethiopian restaurant, yes!'
That is who walked past me today in Freedom Plaza-- the sister of a friend I met in Mathare, a slum in Nairobi. We met one evening as we celebrated my friend's time in Kenya. They were both leaving that next day.
Even this however does not floor me. Yes, I did lose my ability to find words, asking if she was Sarah's brother...I mean sister. But it all seemed to flow.
The reason this all flows is that I have to let it because there has just been so much of it; my average up to this year was so far below what is going on this year. I don't know what flipped the switch.
The climax I think has to be that completely randomly, I chose the same house as an old family friend from my time as a little kid in Lagos. We signed the lease within days of each other and even spoke on the phone without realising who the other was. It was not until the next day that he called me at work and said, "Hi. Um, I, well--"
"Yeah, we know each other, don't we."
"Yep. Good, I was hoping I was not the only one who thought this was weird."
"No, I am definitely with you on that one."
So. There we go. This year continues to bombard me with connections. They come right round the street corner and smack me straight in the face.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
i revel in the details, i revel in the folds in my life highlighted by the clashing of seconds. i am lifted up by coincidence and spooked by fate. asked by a friend for the difference between the two i laugh, stars crashing into each other-- where is she standing? today it's written on the palm of my hand, tomorrow a new line appears after the event.
honey, it is late and i am tired!
honey, it is late and i am tired!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
I admit it: I listen to Cher. And have a fringe.
Thought it was about time I did not have such a controversial lead title on my blog. Though by admitting this as a reason for writing I have now caused you to look at that unmentionable title and thereby defeated my purpose. well damn. i am always goin' and ruinin' my plans.
Exciting news-- I have a job interview. I was up to half three last night writing the application essay for the position so am pleased I get to have an interview. Hopefully I will have slept more by the time the interview rolls around. I tend to get rather too passionate when I live on less than six hours of sleep a night.
I swear though, I think I am doomed for life to procrastinate until I end up listening to Cher in the wee hours. Why Cher you ask? I ask myself the same everyday. I do have a secret love for her last cd. There is something about 'Runaway' and 'Love is the Groove' that inspires my most complex theses and ingenious analyses. The only problem is that my computer automatically starts playing Clannad straight after it finishes with the Cher songs which totally ruins the mood. It gets me all misty-eyed-I-am-in-an-Irish-bog-with-a-rough-Celtic-warrior which just does not make for sharp logic and inspired syntax.
Speaking of inspired, I also got a haircut today. This may sound too boring to report on a blog but I cut off half my hair. I now have a fringe, something I have not had since the age of 11. The only problem is that it falls over my right eye. So I may end up sacrificing my peripheral vision on that side for some mistaken conception of beauty. Still, it makes me feel like Audrey Hepburn which is always a good thing for a young lady. Or any lady really. I may never have to look in a mirror again, content with my impression of my appearance.
Beautiful.
Exciting news-- I have a job interview. I was up to half three last night writing the application essay for the position so am pleased I get to have an interview. Hopefully I will have slept more by the time the interview rolls around. I tend to get rather too passionate when I live on less than six hours of sleep a night.
I swear though, I think I am doomed for life to procrastinate until I end up listening to Cher in the wee hours. Why Cher you ask? I ask myself the same everyday. I do have a secret love for her last cd. There is something about 'Runaway' and 'Love is the Groove' that inspires my most complex theses and ingenious analyses. The only problem is that my computer automatically starts playing Clannad straight after it finishes with the Cher songs which totally ruins the mood. It gets me all misty-eyed-I-am-in-an-Irish-bog-with-a-rough-Celtic-warrior which just does not make for sharp logic and inspired syntax.
Speaking of inspired, I also got a haircut today. This may sound too boring to report on a blog but I cut off half my hair. I now have a fringe, something I have not had since the age of 11. The only problem is that it falls over my right eye. So I may end up sacrificing my peripheral vision on that side for some mistaken conception of beauty. Still, it makes me feel like Audrey Hepburn which is always a good thing for a young lady. Or any lady really. I may never have to look in a mirror again, content with my impression of my appearance.
Beautiful.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
why my mother spikes her drinks
(**First a quick note before any of you try to refer my mother to AA. Her spiking is very much under control and at a respectable and admirable level. If anything, I am the one who should adjust my behaviour.**)
One of my plans for the next few months is to learn to cook. I did cook occasionally at college, putting my flatmates through homemade and rather lumpy tomato sauces but also managing to surprising them with cakes, crumbles, and chickpea and chicken stew. However, the fact that I can remember everything I cooked while at college is not helpful when trying to put together a case that I am not completely averse to the kitchen.
I actually do love cooking. I just am not very experienced...
Yesterday prawns were on sale and so I decided that a prawn curry would be last night's chosen dish. I was advised my the in-house chef that the best recipes were to be found in Madhur Jaffrey's book. However, I could not find the book by said chef (did you know she started out as an actress and learned to cook through correspondence with her mother who was back in India?) so I pulled out the only book on the shelf which claimed to display the most thrilling Indian recipes.
"Prawn curry...page 95, ok is only about half a page long, seems simple enough. Oh it's from Goa, cool, I have never been to Goa, nice beaches, a bit touristy though, oh isn't Flora going there soon? Wonder if she'll eat prawn curry. Hmmm...ooh damn, do we have tamarind pulp? And I know we don't have a coconut, hmm, will ring up in-house chef and ask her to pick one up on her way home."
"Yes?"
"Hello Mummy, it's Emma, tonight's chef."
"Oh God, what do you want?"
"I need a coconut."
"What in general or right at this moment?"
"For tonight!"
"A whole one? Or just the milk? We have milk in the cupboard."
"No, it says here half a fresh coconut."
Impressively we had all the other ingredients-- chilis, cumin, tumeric, and yes tamarind pulp, a testiment to my mother's experience with Indian cuisine or perhaps a sign of my ignorance about what a good kitchen should contain.
Around seven o'clock in the evening, my mother gently mentioned, "I can cook dinner if you want." Horrified that the post of chef du jour was about to be stripped from my shoulders because I was too busy researching Rwandan politics for my sister, I abandoned the study and rushed into the kitchen, grabbing my trusty batik apron and gleefully rubbing my hands together in expectation, "Yeah, this should be ready in about an hour. Says here you only have to cook it for a couple of minutes. Don't worry Mummy, you'll be able to put your feet up tonight."
OK, have any of you ever been able to grind coconut, chilis, garlic, and peppercorns into a paste? Yes, a paste! Even the loosest definition of 'paste' was problematic. There we were, the clock hands slipping down from 8 o'clock and threatening to start rising all too soon, my mum with the food processor grinding up the coconut, white specks going all over the kitchen wall.
"Er, were you supposed to grind these peppercorns?"
"I don't know! It just says put it all together and then grind it to a paste. Doesn't say what to do if you use a food processor. Oh but we do have to sprinkle vinegar over the mixture."
"What kind of vinegar."
"I don't know!"
"What does it say?"
"Vinegar. Just vinegar! Use whatever vinegar they use in India."
"Is this what's-her-name's book? You know, that woman who gave me lessons in Delhi?"
"Probably, it was the only Indian book I could find."
"Oh hehe, she was funny. She would always be having us cross out parts of recipes and change amounts: 'No no, don't do that, instead you must take this and grind it with this, here Bharadwaj can you go and grind this please?' We all named our food processors Bharadwaj."
"Wait, what? She changed her recipes when you used them?"
"Yeah, that book was definitely a work in progress."
"And what, I did not even know you named your blender."
Not only was this whole conversation starting to be rather too politically incorrect for my genteel suburban family but now I knew that my plans for producing the most glorious prawn curry of all time had been doomed from the start. I hung my head, hoping overcooked rice and green beans would partly salvage my reputation. I ate one of the freshly baked chocolate cookies lying on top of the range. That's it. I am going to drown my misery in melted chocolate.
But just as I was about to pick up my suitcase and spend the night in the car, the curry sauce started to boil over and I realised that the egg timer had failed to inform me that two minutes had passed. Having too much to do to contemplate my failure, I forged ahead.
"Shit. You know, this egg timer is crap," throwing in the prawns. My mum pouted. She is rather fond of her egg timer, which is shaped like a chick popping out of its shell. She has stuck two other fluffy chicks to the side, their legs holding them to the revolving ticker.
"Don't you like my Cirque de Soleil chicks?"
How do you answer a question like that? I decided not to think about the evidence of inherited senility.
Finally, we were all seated at the table peering at my concoction. Although at first my sister said she felt like she was in Bridget Jones and about to be served blue soup and cranjelly, in the end she declared the curry to be 'very tasty' and demanded more. I had served everyone very small amounts, fearful of causing them to gag or slowly die of samonella poisoning. Luckily we are all still alive. And I am in charge of tonight's dinner (the less challenging task of heating up chicken casserole-- my mum did ask me with a worried look on her face if I could manage though).
On another level however, I am still rather suspicious. If my dinner had been met with a verdict of 'disgusting', I may not have cooked again. As it is, it is still possible to draft me in as kitchen labour. I will remain on my toes and alert to any subvert plans. Most of all, I won't rest on what may be my nonexistent laurels.
One of my plans for the next few months is to learn to cook. I did cook occasionally at college, putting my flatmates through homemade and rather lumpy tomato sauces but also managing to surprising them with cakes, crumbles, and chickpea and chicken stew. However, the fact that I can remember everything I cooked while at college is not helpful when trying to put together a case that I am not completely averse to the kitchen.
I actually do love cooking. I just am not very experienced...
Yesterday prawns were on sale and so I decided that a prawn curry would be last night's chosen dish. I was advised my the in-house chef that the best recipes were to be found in Madhur Jaffrey's book. However, I could not find the book by said chef (did you know she started out as an actress and learned to cook through correspondence with her mother who was back in India?) so I pulled out the only book on the shelf which claimed to display the most thrilling Indian recipes.
"Prawn curry...page 95, ok is only about half a page long, seems simple enough. Oh it's from Goa, cool, I have never been to Goa, nice beaches, a bit touristy though, oh isn't Flora going there soon? Wonder if she'll eat prawn curry. Hmmm...ooh damn, do we have tamarind pulp? And I know we don't have a coconut, hmm, will ring up in-house chef and ask her to pick one up on her way home."
"Yes?"
"Hello Mummy, it's Emma, tonight's chef."
"Oh God, what do you want?"
"I need a coconut."
"What in general or right at this moment?"
"For tonight!"
"A whole one? Or just the milk? We have milk in the cupboard."
"No, it says here half a fresh coconut."
Impressively we had all the other ingredients-- chilis, cumin, tumeric, and yes tamarind pulp, a testiment to my mother's experience with Indian cuisine or perhaps a sign of my ignorance about what a good kitchen should contain.
Around seven o'clock in the evening, my mother gently mentioned, "I can cook dinner if you want." Horrified that the post of chef du jour was about to be stripped from my shoulders because I was too busy researching Rwandan politics for my sister, I abandoned the study and rushed into the kitchen, grabbing my trusty batik apron and gleefully rubbing my hands together in expectation, "Yeah, this should be ready in about an hour. Says here you only have to cook it for a couple of minutes. Don't worry Mummy, you'll be able to put your feet up tonight."
OK, have any of you ever been able to grind coconut, chilis, garlic, and peppercorns into a paste? Yes, a paste! Even the loosest definition of 'paste' was problematic. There we were, the clock hands slipping down from 8 o'clock and threatening to start rising all too soon, my mum with the food processor grinding up the coconut, white specks going all over the kitchen wall.
"Er, were you supposed to grind these peppercorns?"
"I don't know! It just says put it all together and then grind it to a paste. Doesn't say what to do if you use a food processor. Oh but we do have to sprinkle vinegar over the mixture."
"What kind of vinegar."
"I don't know!"
"What does it say?"
"Vinegar. Just vinegar! Use whatever vinegar they use in India."
"Is this what's-her-name's book? You know, that woman who gave me lessons in Delhi?"
"Probably, it was the only Indian book I could find."
"Oh hehe, she was funny. She would always be having us cross out parts of recipes and change amounts: 'No no, don't do that, instead you must take this and grind it with this, here Bharadwaj can you go and grind this please?' We all named our food processors Bharadwaj."
"Wait, what? She changed her recipes when you used them?"
"Yeah, that book was definitely a work in progress."
"And what, I did not even know you named your blender."
Not only was this whole conversation starting to be rather too politically incorrect for my genteel suburban family but now I knew that my plans for producing the most glorious prawn curry of all time had been doomed from the start. I hung my head, hoping overcooked rice and green beans would partly salvage my reputation. I ate one of the freshly baked chocolate cookies lying on top of the range. That's it. I am going to drown my misery in melted chocolate.
But just as I was about to pick up my suitcase and spend the night in the car, the curry sauce started to boil over and I realised that the egg timer had failed to inform me that two minutes had passed. Having too much to do to contemplate my failure, I forged ahead.
"Shit. You know, this egg timer is crap," throwing in the prawns. My mum pouted. She is rather fond of her egg timer, which is shaped like a chick popping out of its shell. She has stuck two other fluffy chicks to the side, their legs holding them to the revolving ticker.
"Don't you like my Cirque de Soleil chicks?"
How do you answer a question like that? I decided not to think about the evidence of inherited senility.
Finally, we were all seated at the table peering at my concoction. Although at first my sister said she felt like she was in Bridget Jones and about to be served blue soup and cranjelly, in the end she declared the curry to be 'very tasty' and demanded more. I had served everyone very small amounts, fearful of causing them to gag or slowly die of samonella poisoning. Luckily we are all still alive. And I am in charge of tonight's dinner (the less challenging task of heating up chicken casserole-- my mum did ask me with a worried look on her face if I could manage though).
On another level however, I am still rather suspicious. If my dinner had been met with a verdict of 'disgusting', I may not have cooked again. As it is, it is still possible to draft me in as kitchen labour. I will remain on my toes and alert to any subvert plans. Most of all, I won't rest on what may be my nonexistent laurels.
Monday, September 04, 2006
my second cousin's dogsitter's ex-best friend's sister...visited London once
I volunteered last night at the Shakespeare Tavern in downtown Atlanta where they were performing A Comedy of Errors. The tavern is modelled after the Globe but for the fact that instead of space for groundlings or plain seats, it looks like a restaurant. I was working the house picking up trays and dishes-- being a friendly busgirl.
At one table a woman dropped her knife which hit her husband's foot, thereby kicking off a hilarious bit of banter about him getting stabbed in the foot. This of course led to that question I have so missed: "So where you from?"
I looked at them and replied, "Atlanta." They stared at me for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say so I decided to put them out of their misery.
"No, actually I come from England."
Silence. Geez, I don't mind being asked but if you are going to do it, have a follow-up question ready so you don't just stare at the freak from England. Finally came another demand: "So you in the play tonight?"
Do you think I am going to be in the play? After picking up your dirty greasy dishes? I know I have the accent but there is a lot more to Shakespeare than faking an accent.
They were actually a very sweet family and I am being unfair. But let's examine another conversation from the evening:
"So where you from?"
"England."
"Cool."
An hour later...
"So where in England you from?"
"Um," says I thinking oh dear God where in England am I from? Maybe I will just average my experiences.
"From just between London and Oxford."
"I have a couple of friends who live in England."
"Cool." (me too!)
"Er, one lives in London."
"Where in London?"
Ignoring the question, he continued, "And then there is this girl as well."
Ah ha, thought I, maybe this will get interesting now.
"A friend's sister's sister's second cousin, yeah she's the second cousin...she lives in a small village. It's, um, like about two hours, two hours southwest of London."
"Oh great."
"Oh damn, let's see, I have forgotten the name. It um, I think maybe it begins with-- with an 'e'?"
I was pleased to see that he looked rather sheepish by this point and put an end to the discussion with, "I am sure it exists, my geography isn't that great."
At this point I walked to the till and the conversation ended. Aaaaah! He was a nice guy and all, but I don't want to know about every person you know that has any kind of link with England. If your cousin went to Oxford, studied PPE, played women's football, and slept with someone from St. Anne's, then maybe consider telling me. Otherwise, don't do it!
Luckily I was quickly cheered as at the cash register, when my card didn't work, the cute caterer gave me my food for free. "This is not working. It's some English card. Hey, just don't worry about it." Sweet. Reminder to use that card more often.
Ok, so maybe I overreact about these conversations, but it does get ridiculous. I mean I could say, "Oh, so how do you know these people? That is absolutely great that you are forging some international friendships." But that might start sounding patronising. I think I just have to get used to being very weird again. I sometimes find myself getting insecure about the fact that whenever I speak to someone they look at me for a second or two like I might be clinically insane before actually responding. Or they whisper. At church on Sunday my dad said something to which I thought it necessary to reply, "Oh that's rubbish. Don't worry." The response from the group was a whispered, "Oh my god, she said rubbish!"
How cute. That's it. I am just too cute. Aw.
At one table a woman dropped her knife which hit her husband's foot, thereby kicking off a hilarious bit of banter about him getting stabbed in the foot. This of course led to that question I have so missed: "So where you from?"
I looked at them and replied, "Atlanta." They stared at me for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say so I decided to put them out of their misery.
"No, actually I come from England."
Silence. Geez, I don't mind being asked but if you are going to do it, have a follow-up question ready so you don't just stare at the freak from England. Finally came another demand: "So you in the play tonight?"
Do you think I am going to be in the play? After picking up your dirty greasy dishes? I know I have the accent but there is a lot more to Shakespeare than faking an accent.
They were actually a very sweet family and I am being unfair. But let's examine another conversation from the evening:
"So where you from?"
"England."
"Cool."
An hour later...
"So where in England you from?"
"Um," says I thinking oh dear God where in England am I from? Maybe I will just average my experiences.
"From just between London and Oxford."
"I have a couple of friends who live in England."
"Cool." (me too!)
"Er, one lives in London."
"Where in London?"
Ignoring the question, he continued, "And then there is this girl as well."
Ah ha, thought I, maybe this will get interesting now.
"A friend's sister's sister's second cousin, yeah she's the second cousin...she lives in a small village. It's, um, like about two hours, two hours southwest of London."
"Oh great."
"Oh damn, let's see, I have forgotten the name. It um, I think maybe it begins with-- with an 'e'?"
I was pleased to see that he looked rather sheepish by this point and put an end to the discussion with, "I am sure it exists, my geography isn't that great."
At this point I walked to the till and the conversation ended. Aaaaah! He was a nice guy and all, but I don't want to know about every person you know that has any kind of link with England. If your cousin went to Oxford, studied PPE, played women's football, and slept with someone from St. Anne's, then maybe consider telling me. Otherwise, don't do it!
Luckily I was quickly cheered as at the cash register, when my card didn't work, the cute caterer gave me my food for free. "This is not working. It's some English card. Hey, just don't worry about it." Sweet. Reminder to use that card more often.
Ok, so maybe I overreact about these conversations, but it does get ridiculous. I mean I could say, "Oh, so how do you know these people? That is absolutely great that you are forging some international friendships." But that might start sounding patronising. I think I just have to get used to being very weird again. I sometimes find myself getting insecure about the fact that whenever I speak to someone they look at me for a second or two like I might be clinically insane before actually responding. Or they whisper. At church on Sunday my dad said something to which I thought it necessary to reply, "Oh that's rubbish. Don't worry." The response from the group was a whispered, "Oh my god, she said rubbish!"
How cute. That's it. I am just too cute. Aw.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
passionate reincarnation
"As I walked down our street, under the persistence of the yellow sun, with everything naked, the children bare, the old men with exhausted veins pumping on dried-up foreheads, I was frightened by the feeling that there was no escape from the hard things of this world. Everywhere there was the crudity of wounds, the stark huts, the rusted zinc abodes, the rubbish in the streets, children in rags, the little girls naked on sand playing with crushed tin cans, the little boys jumping about uncircumcised, making machine-gun noises, the air vibrating with poisonous heat and evaporating water from the filthy gutters. The sun bared the reality of our lives and everything was so harsh it was a mystery that we could understand and care for one another or for anything at all."
--Ben Okri, The Famished Road
The book is (at least till about halfway through which is where I am) brilliant. It can be tiring to read; however most of the time this is forgivable as such books deserve all the energy given to them. In crafting his masterpiece of magical realism, Okri merges fantasy and descriptions of the crudest realities without completely revealing the dividing line. Despite this seamless blend, we are left with little doubt as to what is happening in the boy's life as his country struggles through the violent politics of the post-independence era. At the same time we wander through the whirl of hideous spirits and speaking trees, sensing a power transcending the daily troubles gripping the Nigerian villages.
The power surrounds the idea that lives connect and swirl into each other. Someone I met recently firmly believed in reincarnation and said he can remember his past lives. In contrast to his more zenlike conception of reincarnation, the cycle of lives that appears in Okri's book gives spirits strong emotions and passions. True enlightenment does not seem to be available for the likes of us.
About those who returned from the world of the living to the land of beginnings: "They had returned inconsolable for all the love they had left behind, all the suffering they hadn't redeemed, all that they hadn't understood, and for all that they had barely begun to learn before they were drawn back to the land of origins."
"When I was very young I had a clear memory of my life stretching to other lives. There were no dinstinctions. Sometimes I seemed to be living several lives all at once."
One of my favourite lines: "Being born was a shock from which I never recovered."
I like the idea of a metaconsciousness that feels pain and regret, hope and love. It really contrasts with a more balanced feeling of nirvana. Now maybe the latter is a wiser, 'better' state; however, there is something about imagining the humanity of a person being preserved. The continuation of ignorance, attachment, and curiosity seems rather more beautiful and fragile.
--Ben Okri, The Famished Road
The book is (at least till about halfway through which is where I am) brilliant. It can be tiring to read; however most of the time this is forgivable as such books deserve all the energy given to them. In crafting his masterpiece of magical realism, Okri merges fantasy and descriptions of the crudest realities without completely revealing the dividing line. Despite this seamless blend, we are left with little doubt as to what is happening in the boy's life as his country struggles through the violent politics of the post-independence era. At the same time we wander through the whirl of hideous spirits and speaking trees, sensing a power transcending the daily troubles gripping the Nigerian villages.
The power surrounds the idea that lives connect and swirl into each other. Someone I met recently firmly believed in reincarnation and said he can remember his past lives. In contrast to his more zenlike conception of reincarnation, the cycle of lives that appears in Okri's book gives spirits strong emotions and passions. True enlightenment does not seem to be available for the likes of us.
About those who returned from the world of the living to the land of beginnings: "They had returned inconsolable for all the love they had left behind, all the suffering they hadn't redeemed, all that they hadn't understood, and for all that they had barely begun to learn before they were drawn back to the land of origins."
"When I was very young I had a clear memory of my life stretching to other lives. There were no dinstinctions. Sometimes I seemed to be living several lives all at once."
One of my favourite lines: "Being born was a shock from which I never recovered."
I like the idea of a metaconsciousness that feels pain and regret, hope and love. It really contrasts with a more balanced feeling of nirvana. Now maybe the latter is a wiser, 'better' state; however, there is something about imagining the humanity of a person being preserved. The continuation of ignorance, attachment, and curiosity seems rather more beautiful and fragile.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
dances and helicopters
suddenly the memory returns.
'Are there roads like this in your country?'
'Well, most of them are paved. But there are some roads in the US that are in very rural areas that are not paved.'
'Is is easy to get a job in your country?'
'It depends. There are quite a lot of unemployed people. It is easier to get a job as a waiter or working in a shop, but hard to find a job you really love and which pays well.'
'But doesn't your government give money to people that don't have jobs...'
The matatu driver's questions went on and on for the whole ride. Not that I minded, just that it always makes me feel nervous when I am responsible for describing the whole of a society. The questions made me think though-- especially the ones about unemployment. All of a sudden it seemed absolutely ludicrous that the government would just hand out money to people that were unable to find a job. People are assured to have some small amount of income?
The matatu continued along the dusty road until we reached camp. I was informed there that my friends were actually in the market in Mile 46 and had told people at camp that I would meet them there. Turning round to the matatu, I discovered that someone had made them very comfortable in what had been my seat in the front. I was ready to hop into the back when the driver demanded that the new occupant of the front seat get out and resume his more uncomfortable position in the back. Not that the front seat could quite be classed as the lap of luxury, especially if you happened to let your hand fall on the thinly covered burning hot engine cover, but I appreciated the gesture...matatu hospitality.
Our matatu drove to a halt. 'Where are your friends?'
'I don't know,' I replied.
The driver pointed to the left, 'Look, there they are.'
There was a huge group of Maasai dressed in red blankets with blue, white and yellow adornments. I peered into the middle of the large circle they seemed to be forming and spied what was obviously one of my friends-- for how many mzungu could there really be at a Maasai market hours from a paved road.
I made my way to the edge of the circle, still carrying my backpack as well as a fur coat which my host had encouraged me to take to the coast with me...I stood on my toes and saw that in the middle of the circle were about five or six white and Asian people dancing. I looked at the woman next to me who grinned. I managed to say hello in KiMaasai but did not get much further than that. We stared at each other a bit-- it was nice actually to be in a situation of mutual staring. Just as much as her eyes examined my face and clothes, I looked at her ears, wondering just how the holes in her lobes had been formed and whether that long thick earring felt really heavy.
Suddenly though, someone took my hand and decided that I absolutely needed to be in the middle of the circle. I tried to escape, but it was no good, my wrist was held far too firmly. Before i knew it I was on the inside of the circle. And before I knew much more I was pulled into the centre. And yes, forced to dance. I am glad that in the past few years I have become familiar with rather frequent moments of managing to overcome an acute sense of self-consciousness and just 'shake that ass' in front of rather too many people for my liking. (I think the performing to Mariah Carey in the Oxford University Debating Chamber may have done the trick).
Luckily, my torture was not prolonged and I soon managed to step out of the spotlight to the safety of observor, merging into the crowd of Maasai...I wish. But still, at least I was not in the middle of the circle with one other dancing away to a drumbeat and lyrics never before encountered.
When I thought things couldn't get much stranger, there was the sound of a helicopter overhead. The crowd scattered as it swooped over us, stealing the audience from the dancers. A few minutes later, from behind the market, a line of Maasai men five or six wide came forward chanting and banging their herding sticks down onto the ground. They surrounded a jeep in which a local politician was riding. I found out later that the district commissioner (or was it councillor) had recently been reelected. Part of the KANU party, he had been a businessman until five years ago when he entered the political arena. Now he hired a helicopter to celebrate his victory-- quite a visual show of power. I asked a lady back at camp about what he had done for the area. She mentioned that he had improved roads and also helped provide scholarships for local children. I still kept wondering about how much it costs to hire a helicopter for a day and fly it over remote villages.
After all this excitement, I was still alone at market. As mzungus were not that hard to spot however, I was not too concerned and only had to wander around for a short while before locating my Canadian buddies. We finished out market day with a walk among the stalls before a much deserved chapati and avocado...with the essential sugared cup of chai of course.
***
ps. on a random tangent, i just found this quote.
No writer is nice. Anybody who writes is self-interested, and they're at one remove from reality.
- Alan Bennett
Very true. A sobering comment for anyone with a blog. Damn, better just down my glass of wine and get on with it.
'Are there roads like this in your country?'
'Well, most of them are paved. But there are some roads in the US that are in very rural areas that are not paved.'
'Is is easy to get a job in your country?'
'It depends. There are quite a lot of unemployed people. It is easier to get a job as a waiter or working in a shop, but hard to find a job you really love and which pays well.'
'But doesn't your government give money to people that don't have jobs...'
The matatu driver's questions went on and on for the whole ride. Not that I minded, just that it always makes me feel nervous when I am responsible for describing the whole of a society. The questions made me think though-- especially the ones about unemployment. All of a sudden it seemed absolutely ludicrous that the government would just hand out money to people that were unable to find a job. People are assured to have some small amount of income?
The matatu continued along the dusty road until we reached camp. I was informed there that my friends were actually in the market in Mile 46 and had told people at camp that I would meet them there. Turning round to the matatu, I discovered that someone had made them very comfortable in what had been my seat in the front. I was ready to hop into the back when the driver demanded that the new occupant of the front seat get out and resume his more uncomfortable position in the back. Not that the front seat could quite be classed as the lap of luxury, especially if you happened to let your hand fall on the thinly covered burning hot engine cover, but I appreciated the gesture...matatu hospitality.
Our matatu drove to a halt. 'Where are your friends?'
'I don't know,' I replied.
The driver pointed to the left, 'Look, there they are.'
There was a huge group of Maasai dressed in red blankets with blue, white and yellow adornments. I peered into the middle of the large circle they seemed to be forming and spied what was obviously one of my friends-- for how many mzungu could there really be at a Maasai market hours from a paved road.
I made my way to the edge of the circle, still carrying my backpack as well as a fur coat which my host had encouraged me to take to the coast with me...I stood on my toes and saw that in the middle of the circle were about five or six white and Asian people dancing. I looked at the woman next to me who grinned. I managed to say hello in KiMaasai but did not get much further than that. We stared at each other a bit-- it was nice actually to be in a situation of mutual staring. Just as much as her eyes examined my face and clothes, I looked at her ears, wondering just how the holes in her lobes had been formed and whether that long thick earring felt really heavy.
Suddenly though, someone took my hand and decided that I absolutely needed to be in the middle of the circle. I tried to escape, but it was no good, my wrist was held far too firmly. Before i knew it I was on the inside of the circle. And before I knew much more I was pulled into the centre. And yes, forced to dance. I am glad that in the past few years I have become familiar with rather frequent moments of managing to overcome an acute sense of self-consciousness and just 'shake that ass' in front of rather too many people for my liking. (I think the performing to Mariah Carey in the Oxford University Debating Chamber may have done the trick).
Luckily, my torture was not prolonged and I soon managed to step out of the spotlight to the safety of observor, merging into the crowd of Maasai...I wish. But still, at least I was not in the middle of the circle with one other dancing away to a drumbeat and lyrics never before encountered.
When I thought things couldn't get much stranger, there was the sound of a helicopter overhead. The crowd scattered as it swooped over us, stealing the audience from the dancers. A few minutes later, from behind the market, a line of Maasai men five or six wide came forward chanting and banging their herding sticks down onto the ground. They surrounded a jeep in which a local politician was riding. I found out later that the district commissioner (or was it councillor) had recently been reelected. Part of the KANU party, he had been a businessman until five years ago when he entered the political arena. Now he hired a helicopter to celebrate his victory-- quite a visual show of power. I asked a lady back at camp about what he had done for the area. She mentioned that he had improved roads and also helped provide scholarships for local children. I still kept wondering about how much it costs to hire a helicopter for a day and fly it over remote villages.
After all this excitement, I was still alone at market. As mzungus were not that hard to spot however, I was not too concerned and only had to wander around for a short while before locating my Canadian buddies. We finished out market day with a walk among the stalls before a much deserved chapati and avocado...with the essential sugared cup of chai of course.
***
ps. on a random tangent, i just found this quote.
No writer is nice. Anybody who writes is self-interested, and they're at one remove from reality.
- Alan Bennett
Very true. A sobering comment for anyone with a blog. Damn, better just down my glass of wine and get on with it.
Friday, August 18, 2006
a tired goodbye from nairobi and old friends in france
'Blog, meet Emma, your maker.'
'Emma, meet Blog, your poor neglected child.'
Yes, sorry for the long absence. I hope you have all survived the absence.
I don't think I can return all the way to Maasailand in this episode as that seems so far away and dusty in mind as I sit in London. I left Kenya on Aug 1st, actually feeling quite ready to leave. I felt very tired. The last week was quite wearing and for some reason my mood 'went about' and the new tack was full of grumpiness and bitterness. After six weeks of feeling completely oversensitised my mind was shutting down a little. I think it was the small things that were happening. For instance, I went with someone I met to the clinic because they suspected they were pregnant. They did not have enough money to pay for the test so I said I would cover the cost (a few dollars). She is pregnant. She has children before but had to leave them because her husband was mistreating her and married another woman. Her story was just another example of how life just seemed a vessel so oblivious to the occupants it carried. The fact that you just have to leave your children and go on to forge a new life. Along the way to the clinic, even, a man had approached me, asking me to buy him food for him and his four children. I agreed, not really actually having much of a choice. He informed me that he also needed soap for the children. Thinking that I needed more explanation (some people i have met in Kenya seem to think white women rather ignorant about the needs of children and sometimes even incapable of having their own children, coming to Africa to 'buy' children), he explained that children defecate on themselves. I said yeah, I got it. I do know that children pooh.
Also in the nights before I left Nairobi I had an argument with the husband of my host. He was rather drunk and seemed to get it in his head that I thought it funny that he worked with sesame seeds. he works for an agricultural NGO in Somalia, tracking the production of and international trade in the grain, hoping to find ways to improve the farmers' income. After I laughed at some or other comment, he glared at me: 'I can see the contempt-- you are looking at me with contempt. You know, you think you know about things, you people with your talk of trade rules, you don't know anything. I can feel your contempt...'
I told him that I was not going to sit there and have him insult me and went to bed. I had been to a meeting on trade rules that week-- knowing nothing about the subject being discussed (Economic Partnership Agreements between the EU and Pacific/African/Caribbean countries to get around the failure of the Doha Round of trade talks)-- and had mentioned it to him. At the time I sensed that he felt a little uneasy not knowing what I was talking about it but had subsequently forgotten about it. Amazing how insecurities can rankle.
Anyway, so that was another detail that soured the atmosphere for me that last week. And on top of my grumpiness was pure fatigue. I fully appreciated this exhaustion after travelling from Nairobi back to London made me as tired physically as I had been mentally. I flew out from Nairobi in the afternoon, got to Doha around 9 and then took off at 8 the next morning....fun! Doha airport was designed by someone who has never had to spend the night in an airport. The chairs all have arms specifically designed so that you cannot lie down-- save if you balance just on the edge and your hips perfectly curled round the arm. I managed an hour and a half in this position.
The day after I arrived in London, I decided that I needed to be on the move again and left for Avignon via Paris. Feeling rather exhausted still, I was almost defeated by the Paris metro. The Gard du Nord wins my award for the most confusing railway station ever. I just wanted to sit down in the middle of a hall with neverending signs and staircases and cry. Luckily I managed to convince myself that this would do no good and kept the tears at bay. I managed to find out where to buy a ticket, found my way to the Gard de Lyon and finally even boarded my TGV train to Avignon.
The train was my first ever doubledecker train, well apart from the metro I had just been on. Very cool. I liked where I was sitting in the carriage too. I shared a four seat area around a table with a lady and her two sons who were speaking a mixture of Spanish and French and laughing hilariously at things like how they managed to suspend their toy cars and power ranger from the window ledge. On the other side of the aisle were three New Zealanders. As soon as the train started to roll, one of them pulled out a camera and began to film the other guy as he described his day in Paris. They were making part of a travel programme for a NZ television programme...I am not sure whether they cut out all the shots of me pretending to read my book or not. My chance at fame!
Once in Avignon I was greeted by one of my favourite people in the world, my friend Marie who was my French correspondante when I was 13. We have travelled together once every one or two years since we met and always find plenty of reasons to laugh at each other. She mocks my habit of sticking my little finger out during pretty much any activity, especially when drinking, as well as my horrifically English French accent... though she claims that some French people like British French accents, I still feel rather sensitive about the topic.
I hope you are all well...I want to tell of roads travelled on in France, even if no one reads this. mountains and seas are so beautiful sometimes, i forget just how wonderful they are.
for now though, i have to get ready for dinner. i might even wear mascara. i have not done that in weeks... I won't shave though, that would be far too radical. I have to ease myself back into society slowly...
'Emma, meet Blog, your poor neglected child.'
Yes, sorry for the long absence. I hope you have all survived the absence.
I don't think I can return all the way to Maasailand in this episode as that seems so far away and dusty in mind as I sit in London. I left Kenya on Aug 1st, actually feeling quite ready to leave. I felt very tired. The last week was quite wearing and for some reason my mood 'went about' and the new tack was full of grumpiness and bitterness. After six weeks of feeling completely oversensitised my mind was shutting down a little. I think it was the small things that were happening. For instance, I went with someone I met to the clinic because they suspected they were pregnant. They did not have enough money to pay for the test so I said I would cover the cost (a few dollars). She is pregnant. She has children before but had to leave them because her husband was mistreating her and married another woman. Her story was just another example of how life just seemed a vessel so oblivious to the occupants it carried. The fact that you just have to leave your children and go on to forge a new life. Along the way to the clinic, even, a man had approached me, asking me to buy him food for him and his four children. I agreed, not really actually having much of a choice. He informed me that he also needed soap for the children. Thinking that I needed more explanation (some people i have met in Kenya seem to think white women rather ignorant about the needs of children and sometimes even incapable of having their own children, coming to Africa to 'buy' children), he explained that children defecate on themselves. I said yeah, I got it. I do know that children pooh.
Also in the nights before I left Nairobi I had an argument with the husband of my host. He was rather drunk and seemed to get it in his head that I thought it funny that he worked with sesame seeds. he works for an agricultural NGO in Somalia, tracking the production of and international trade in the grain, hoping to find ways to improve the farmers' income. After I laughed at some or other comment, he glared at me: 'I can see the contempt-- you are looking at me with contempt. You know, you think you know about things, you people with your talk of trade rules, you don't know anything. I can feel your contempt...'
I told him that I was not going to sit there and have him insult me and went to bed. I had been to a meeting on trade rules that week-- knowing nothing about the subject being discussed (Economic Partnership Agreements between the EU and Pacific/African/Caribbean countries to get around the failure of the Doha Round of trade talks)-- and had mentioned it to him. At the time I sensed that he felt a little uneasy not knowing what I was talking about it but had subsequently forgotten about it. Amazing how insecurities can rankle.
Anyway, so that was another detail that soured the atmosphere for me that last week. And on top of my grumpiness was pure fatigue. I fully appreciated this exhaustion after travelling from Nairobi back to London made me as tired physically as I had been mentally. I flew out from Nairobi in the afternoon, got to Doha around 9 and then took off at 8 the next morning....fun! Doha airport was designed by someone who has never had to spend the night in an airport. The chairs all have arms specifically designed so that you cannot lie down-- save if you balance just on the edge and your hips perfectly curled round the arm. I managed an hour and a half in this position.
The day after I arrived in London, I decided that I needed to be on the move again and left for Avignon via Paris. Feeling rather exhausted still, I was almost defeated by the Paris metro. The Gard du Nord wins my award for the most confusing railway station ever. I just wanted to sit down in the middle of a hall with neverending signs and staircases and cry. Luckily I managed to convince myself that this would do no good and kept the tears at bay. I managed to find out where to buy a ticket, found my way to the Gard de Lyon and finally even boarded my TGV train to Avignon.
The train was my first ever doubledecker train, well apart from the metro I had just been on. Very cool. I liked where I was sitting in the carriage too. I shared a four seat area around a table with a lady and her two sons who were speaking a mixture of Spanish and French and laughing hilariously at things like how they managed to suspend their toy cars and power ranger from the window ledge. On the other side of the aisle were three New Zealanders. As soon as the train started to roll, one of them pulled out a camera and began to film the other guy as he described his day in Paris. They were making part of a travel programme for a NZ television programme...I am not sure whether they cut out all the shots of me pretending to read my book or not. My chance at fame!
Once in Avignon I was greeted by one of my favourite people in the world, my friend Marie who was my French correspondante when I was 13. We have travelled together once every one or two years since we met and always find plenty of reasons to laugh at each other. She mocks my habit of sticking my little finger out during pretty much any activity, especially when drinking, as well as my horrifically English French accent... though she claims that some French people like British French accents, I still feel rather sensitive about the topic.
I hope you are all well...I want to tell of roads travelled on in France, even if no one reads this. mountains and seas are so beautiful sometimes, i forget just how wonderful they are.
for now though, i have to get ready for dinner. i might even wear mascara. i have not done that in weeks... I won't shave though, that would be far too radical. I have to ease myself back into society slowly...
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
dancing in a maasai circle
ooh, majorly have to go as is dark outside and have to walk home-- only a little bit but best to get home before 8 when you are alone.
having written that, a comment from a friend comes to mind. reading this blog, he asked me if i went out of my way to make my parents nervous. i see his point. but on the other hand, at least they know the worst-- there are not many dangerous escapades being hidden from them (really. i promise.) and anyway, they can't talk.
Ok...i wrote some of this the other day so i will include the beginning and then finish it:
"As this is my second entry in a row, I have to wrap up as I need, ok well want, to go and get some coffee before catching the citi hoppa home. I still have not showered in few days and am feeling a bit grimy. It is ok feeling dirty in middle of maasai land but not in central nairobi where people, as in cities the world over, dress up. I also have a presentation to give tomorrow for the 'Econews Africa' conference organised by the lady I visited at Oxfam here. I had better clean up before that.
After the night bus from Mombasa and after a cheeky serving of oh so good French toast at Java Coffee House, I hopped on a matatu bound for the sleepy town of Kajiado..."
Kajiado is a very very very small town-- a one road town. as i arrived earlier than expected, i had some chai at 'the Central Hotel' (obviously a huge glass-windowed skyscraper establishment...or rather a one roomed cafe with 10 tables and a much needed toilet out the back). What had made me laugh in this town was the comment that greeted me. when i arrived, i had looked up and down the street, trying to find the landmark my friend had recommended as the place to catch the matatu to her camp near the town of Mile 46. noticing my slightly blank and confused expression, a man standing next to a nearby shop asked, "Are you new to the area?"
...Obviously we then had a chat and he told me all about the homeowners association i could join and bingo for the over 40s at the Central Hotel as well as the charming new parents association which would definitely arrange for me and my husband to have a break from screaming toddlers....
Sorry for that tangent, but it just made me chuckle so much to be asked if i was new to the area!!
.....To be continued....
p.s. ok ok call me a hypocrite for breaking the story and not even mentioning how i managed to dance in the middle of a huge circle of hundreds of Maasai within two minutes of arriving at market day in Mile 46.... but it is dark as outside and i want to walk home before it gets darker (which i am not sure is possible). last time i walked home i walked into the support cable of a telephone pole. that was not fun. though very funny to be talking to tiffany and then suddenly bounce backwards... (for those of you in the know, kind of like the time i jumped into that door frame in the mud room at home...though not quite as dramatic. this time i did not end up lying on the floor.)
having written that, a comment from a friend comes to mind. reading this blog, he asked me if i went out of my way to make my parents nervous. i see his point. but on the other hand, at least they know the worst-- there are not many dangerous escapades being hidden from them (really. i promise.) and anyway, they can't talk.
Ok...i wrote some of this the other day so i will include the beginning and then finish it:
"As this is my second entry in a row, I have to wrap up as I need, ok well want, to go and get some coffee before catching the citi hoppa home. I still have not showered in few days and am feeling a bit grimy. It is ok feeling dirty in middle of maasai land but not in central nairobi where people, as in cities the world over, dress up. I also have a presentation to give tomorrow for the 'Econews Africa' conference organised by the lady I visited at Oxfam here. I had better clean up before that.
After the night bus from Mombasa and after a cheeky serving of oh so good French toast at Java Coffee House, I hopped on a matatu bound for the sleepy town of Kajiado..."
Kajiado is a very very very small town-- a one road town. as i arrived earlier than expected, i had some chai at 'the Central Hotel' (obviously a huge glass-windowed skyscraper establishment...or rather a one roomed cafe with 10 tables and a much needed toilet out the back). What had made me laugh in this town was the comment that greeted me. when i arrived, i had looked up and down the street, trying to find the landmark my friend had recommended as the place to catch the matatu to her camp near the town of Mile 46. noticing my slightly blank and confused expression, a man standing next to a nearby shop asked, "Are you new to the area?"
...Obviously we then had a chat and he told me all about the homeowners association i could join and bingo for the over 40s at the Central Hotel as well as the charming new parents association which would definitely arrange for me and my husband to have a break from screaming toddlers....
Sorry for that tangent, but it just made me chuckle so much to be asked if i was new to the area!!
.....To be continued....
p.s. ok ok call me a hypocrite for breaking the story and not even mentioning how i managed to dance in the middle of a huge circle of hundreds of Maasai within two minutes of arriving at market day in Mile 46.... but it is dark as outside and i want to walk home before it gets darker (which i am not sure is possible). last time i walked home i walked into the support cable of a telephone pole. that was not fun. though very funny to be talking to tiffany and then suddenly bounce backwards... (for those of you in the know, kind of like the time i jumped into that door frame in the mud room at home...though not quite as dramatic. this time i did not end up lying on the floor.)
As those of you who have watched television with me well know, I am not a fan of 'to be continued' tales, especially when they are of the X Files variety. So I apologise for breaking my story. I am also sorry because it means I am rather far behind in telling you all the ridiculous things that keep happening.
Upon arriving on Ngomeni Island, we walked up to the couple bandas that stood off the shore-- reed shacks, one for the living area with a couple tents in it and the other for the kitchen. In the kitchen were the fellow guests-- two Spanish girls. As their English was not very good, we ended up having to converse in Spanish and Swahili...interesting for someone who had never heard Swahili until a month ago and has not taken Spanish since 10th grade. Still, we all managed and I tried to look at the bright side of things-- by being left out of many of the conversations, at least I had thinking time...
That evening we took a stroll down the beach...the island is one of those places where you lose a sense of where you are in the world. Apart from the Italian satellite station out at sea, all around was silver water and sand. I ran all the way out the the end of a sand peninsula-- one of those moments when it is entirely necessary to let your grimy hair fall out of its tie and be blown about crazily by the wind of the Indian Ocean. Or at least I thought so.
That night we were treated to fresh shark (ninapenda papa as well as samaki) in a curry sauce that included dried apple mangoes-- a mix i highly recommend for those of you living on islands with mango trees nearby (are there any of you? how do i know you?). Night fell and brought the galaxy back with it...campfire smoke seeped out of the banda as we sipped our ginger chai (another recommended recipe).
The following morning, after a swim in the sea (showers? bah. as i write, water has not touched me outside of my hands and face for 4 and a half days), Tiff and I built a village in the sea. I had just completed the market stalls (what? did you think I meant a mere collection of sandcastles?) when it was time for lunch...fresh crab! with lime and a chili or two for me, apparently making me eligible to be african. not sure that is quite what the citizenship requirements mention but i will be sure to mention it to the immigration officers if I am ever considering trying to get a kenyan passport.
After lunch, we all sailed off in a dhow to visit the mangrove swamps. Sailing on the dhow has been one of the highlights of my whole trip-- it is amazing to be on a sailboat where there is only one sail, no boom, no winches-- simplicity makes you feel so close to the water and wind. the sailors, often quite small and thin, so nimbly seem part of their vessel. I always love watching people who are in tune with their boats-- when people can sail almost by instinct. On the return journey, I was sitting at the stern and ended up piloting the boat back, to the joy of the crew. I was titled 'Captain Wangu' -- my captain, which is one of my proudest nicknames. there is something about someone letting you sail their boat, even for a short while, that creates a little bond between you. when i saw the captain the next day, we were all grins and wished each other goodbye and god bless you. may he sail well, inshallah!
The mangrove swamps were everyone else's favourite part of the day and pretty cool. although my highlight was wading through the boggy mud, beautiful! though i later partially regretted that experience as it led to me having around 30 plus bites just on one foot from the little mosquitoes that live in the mud there. geez, speaking of which, i think i forgot my malaria medicine last night...eek! the coast is rather malarial, as compared to the highlands of Nairobi.
We departed from Mahdi Island the next morning, hoping to make it to the island of Lamu before evening. On the way to the island, we had crossed in a motorboat-- on the way back on our way to catch the bus from Malindi, we crossed in a little canoe, oh so stable! one of those times when you just have to roll wit' it... definitely!
After several hours of bouncing up and down to a ricidulous extent (the baby behind us managed to vomit over about three passengers to give you an idea), our bus to Lamu the first island of the archipelago off the northern coast.
From the top of our hotel, Pole Pole (slowly slowly, aptly named for the spirit of the town), we could see all the roofs of the town. Lamu reminds me a lot of the feeling of the old town in Fez, Morocco. This comparison is probably more due to the fact that I have not been to many old Arabic towns, but the atmosphere was similar-- cats leaping around, donkeys carrying loads, flat roofs, curling alleyways. Lamu however of course has a special twist, being a great example of coastal Swahili culture, with its mix of African, Arabic, and Indian. Along the alleys, the carved doors create a rather grand atmosphere, and at the top of them is the Arabic symbol meaning Allah is the beginning, here is where we start. But don't look up too long as often there is a traffic jam with donkeys wanting to go in the opposite direction from you. Indeed, they are the major mode of transport-- there is only one vehicle on the whole island, which belongs to the district commissioner (our guidebook reported that he has his driver drive it up and down the beach daily to show off). When I was strolling down a path holding banana skins trying to find a bin, someone stopped me at a doorway: "Oh, can I have these to feed my donkey?" Of course I said no that they were mine and there was no way in hell that his scummy donkey was getting them.
That evening we dined at the abode of Ali-Hippy, named so after hanging out with an American hippy in the 70s. He finds tourists on the seafront and invites them to dinner at his house at 7pm sharp. The food was ok (though we had been spoilt on the island to be fair) and we did not drink the highly diluted juice (having been forewarned about his bad record of increasing tourists' use of pit latrines rather substantially) but the whole situation was so ridiculous it was worth it. Imagine, this tubby guy wearing a little skullcap with a keyboard balanced on his short stumpy legs, playing out some simple Swahili tune, accompanied by about 10 members of his family singing such esteemed lyrics like 'Hakuna Matata' and 'Lala Salaama' (sleep well). We were accompanied at the meal by a gap year traveller from Birmingham who recounted a rather gory story of mob justice in Kampala where he had saved a guy from being stoned to death for stealing about $14. So all in all, a rather charming little dinner experience...
We departed the next morning, with Tiffany dashing down the seafront with henna all over her hands and feet. Another bumpy bus ride to Malindi, then a few more hours to Mombasa and we were back at the lovely New People's Hotel, basically my second home whenever I want a peaceful night's sleep. This time our room was right over the road...oh the sound of matatu horns lulling you to sleep!
In the restaurant below New People's we spied the Spanish girls from the island. We went to say hello, thinking they maybe were picking up some miraa (legal herb which is chewed as a stimulant). They informed us that there had been a police raid on the island the day after we left and they had spent most of the previous night at the police station. The police had rocked up the island in motorboats wielding machine guns and demanding to search the premises. Mahdi had somehow managed to escape and was hiding at his village, where all the elders would protect him, a hero of the village as he is. The girls looked somewhat peeved and said that the police had claimed that Mahdi was illegally operating his tourist venture without a license.
Mahdi was supposed to meet us that same day to take us shopping but after hearing of the raid we were unsure that he would come to Mombasa. We were so traumatised by all of this that we, ahem, went to eat lunch. Ah, I still smile when I think of the meal-- we went to the Singh restaurant down from the Sikh temple-- glorious Punjabi food! And even though we felt absolutely full of cofta and dahl and aloo(potato)-filled chapatis, we still made space for dessert. I had the most amazing kulfi-- Indian ice cream made of pistachios. My Lord, I was in heaven.
Ahem, anyway, yes the serious story. Mahdi walked into the restaurant during our meal. We were very glad to see him, obviously. He told us that the most likely explanation for the police raid was that they had been hired by a guy in Watamu, a nearby town. Married to an Italian (who dominate the tourist trade in that area), he had been threatening Mahdi and telling him to vacate the island repeatedly, even though the island is communally owned by the village-- and additionally cannot really be owned by an individual. It cannot be surveyed because much of it disappears at high tide.
The situation made me think again about the problems of a state which is detached from the communities which it is meant to serve. The police are often not seen as a source of protection and secuity but rather a dangerous weapon to be used by those who hire them. The state has not grown from the people but exists as a strangely detached body. This is what I think lies at the core of so many of the challenges facing Kenya today.
As it stands, I think Mahdi will be ok. As will his ecotourism project. In fact, (parents, don't read the next sentences), he has almost convinced me to come back and work at setting up the project next year. He needs someone to help him survey the village and its people and to come up with a proposal to submit to a lawyer. I could stay and eat for minimal cost...and learn Swahili....and swim in the sea...and learn to sail a dhow... who could resist? It would be a great opportunity for field research as well as learning about the ecotourism business...
Upon arriving on Ngomeni Island, we walked up to the couple bandas that stood off the shore-- reed shacks, one for the living area with a couple tents in it and the other for the kitchen. In the kitchen were the fellow guests-- two Spanish girls. As their English was not very good, we ended up having to converse in Spanish and Swahili...interesting for someone who had never heard Swahili until a month ago and has not taken Spanish since 10th grade. Still, we all managed and I tried to look at the bright side of things-- by being left out of many of the conversations, at least I had thinking time...
That evening we took a stroll down the beach...the island is one of those places where you lose a sense of where you are in the world. Apart from the Italian satellite station out at sea, all around was silver water and sand. I ran all the way out the the end of a sand peninsula-- one of those moments when it is entirely necessary to let your grimy hair fall out of its tie and be blown about crazily by the wind of the Indian Ocean. Or at least I thought so.
That night we were treated to fresh shark (ninapenda papa as well as samaki) in a curry sauce that included dried apple mangoes-- a mix i highly recommend for those of you living on islands with mango trees nearby (are there any of you? how do i know you?). Night fell and brought the galaxy back with it...campfire smoke seeped out of the banda as we sipped our ginger chai (another recommended recipe).
The following morning, after a swim in the sea (showers? bah. as i write, water has not touched me outside of my hands and face for 4 and a half days), Tiff and I built a village in the sea. I had just completed the market stalls (what? did you think I meant a mere collection of sandcastles?) when it was time for lunch...fresh crab! with lime and a chili or two for me, apparently making me eligible to be african. not sure that is quite what the citizenship requirements mention but i will be sure to mention it to the immigration officers if I am ever considering trying to get a kenyan passport.
After lunch, we all sailed off in a dhow to visit the mangrove swamps. Sailing on the dhow has been one of the highlights of my whole trip-- it is amazing to be on a sailboat where there is only one sail, no boom, no winches-- simplicity makes you feel so close to the water and wind. the sailors, often quite small and thin, so nimbly seem part of their vessel. I always love watching people who are in tune with their boats-- when people can sail almost by instinct. On the return journey, I was sitting at the stern and ended up piloting the boat back, to the joy of the crew. I was titled 'Captain Wangu' -- my captain, which is one of my proudest nicknames. there is something about someone letting you sail their boat, even for a short while, that creates a little bond between you. when i saw the captain the next day, we were all grins and wished each other goodbye and god bless you. may he sail well, inshallah!
The mangrove swamps were everyone else's favourite part of the day and pretty cool. although my highlight was wading through the boggy mud, beautiful! though i later partially regretted that experience as it led to me having around 30 plus bites just on one foot from the little mosquitoes that live in the mud there. geez, speaking of which, i think i forgot my malaria medicine last night...eek! the coast is rather malarial, as compared to the highlands of Nairobi.
We departed from Mahdi Island the next morning, hoping to make it to the island of Lamu before evening. On the way to the island, we had crossed in a motorboat-- on the way back on our way to catch the bus from Malindi, we crossed in a little canoe, oh so stable! one of those times when you just have to roll wit' it... definitely!
After several hours of bouncing up and down to a ricidulous extent (the baby behind us managed to vomit over about three passengers to give you an idea), our bus to Lamu the first island of the archipelago off the northern coast.
From the top of our hotel, Pole Pole (slowly slowly, aptly named for the spirit of the town), we could see all the roofs of the town. Lamu reminds me a lot of the feeling of the old town in Fez, Morocco. This comparison is probably more due to the fact that I have not been to many old Arabic towns, but the atmosphere was similar-- cats leaping around, donkeys carrying loads, flat roofs, curling alleyways. Lamu however of course has a special twist, being a great example of coastal Swahili culture, with its mix of African, Arabic, and Indian. Along the alleys, the carved doors create a rather grand atmosphere, and at the top of them is the Arabic symbol meaning Allah is the beginning, here is where we start. But don't look up too long as often there is a traffic jam with donkeys wanting to go in the opposite direction from you. Indeed, they are the major mode of transport-- there is only one vehicle on the whole island, which belongs to the district commissioner (our guidebook reported that he has his driver drive it up and down the beach daily to show off). When I was strolling down a path holding banana skins trying to find a bin, someone stopped me at a doorway: "Oh, can I have these to feed my donkey?" Of course I said no that they were mine and there was no way in hell that his scummy donkey was getting them.
That evening we dined at the abode of Ali-Hippy, named so after hanging out with an American hippy in the 70s. He finds tourists on the seafront and invites them to dinner at his house at 7pm sharp. The food was ok (though we had been spoilt on the island to be fair) and we did not drink the highly diluted juice (having been forewarned about his bad record of increasing tourists' use of pit latrines rather substantially) but the whole situation was so ridiculous it was worth it. Imagine, this tubby guy wearing a little skullcap with a keyboard balanced on his short stumpy legs, playing out some simple Swahili tune, accompanied by about 10 members of his family singing such esteemed lyrics like 'Hakuna Matata' and 'Lala Salaama' (sleep well). We were accompanied at the meal by a gap year traveller from Birmingham who recounted a rather gory story of mob justice in Kampala where he had saved a guy from being stoned to death for stealing about $14. So all in all, a rather charming little dinner experience...
We departed the next morning, with Tiffany dashing down the seafront with henna all over her hands and feet. Another bumpy bus ride to Malindi, then a few more hours to Mombasa and we were back at the lovely New People's Hotel, basically my second home whenever I want a peaceful night's sleep. This time our room was right over the road...oh the sound of matatu horns lulling you to sleep!
In the restaurant below New People's we spied the Spanish girls from the island. We went to say hello, thinking they maybe were picking up some miraa (legal herb which is chewed as a stimulant). They informed us that there had been a police raid on the island the day after we left and they had spent most of the previous night at the police station. The police had rocked up the island in motorboats wielding machine guns and demanding to search the premises. Mahdi had somehow managed to escape and was hiding at his village, where all the elders would protect him, a hero of the village as he is. The girls looked somewhat peeved and said that the police had claimed that Mahdi was illegally operating his tourist venture without a license.
Mahdi was supposed to meet us that same day to take us shopping but after hearing of the raid we were unsure that he would come to Mombasa. We were so traumatised by all of this that we, ahem, went to eat lunch. Ah, I still smile when I think of the meal-- we went to the Singh restaurant down from the Sikh temple-- glorious Punjabi food! And even though we felt absolutely full of cofta and dahl and aloo(potato)-filled chapatis, we still made space for dessert. I had the most amazing kulfi-- Indian ice cream made of pistachios. My Lord, I was in heaven.
Ahem, anyway, yes the serious story. Mahdi walked into the restaurant during our meal. We were very glad to see him, obviously. He told us that the most likely explanation for the police raid was that they had been hired by a guy in Watamu, a nearby town. Married to an Italian (who dominate the tourist trade in that area), he had been threatening Mahdi and telling him to vacate the island repeatedly, even though the island is communally owned by the village-- and additionally cannot really be owned by an individual. It cannot be surveyed because much of it disappears at high tide.
The situation made me think again about the problems of a state which is detached from the communities which it is meant to serve. The police are often not seen as a source of protection and secuity but rather a dangerous weapon to be used by those who hire them. The state has not grown from the people but exists as a strangely detached body. This is what I think lies at the core of so many of the challenges facing Kenya today.
As it stands, I think Mahdi will be ok. As will his ecotourism project. In fact, (parents, don't read the next sentences), he has almost convinced me to come back and work at setting up the project next year. He needs someone to help him survey the village and its people and to come up with a proposal to submit to a lawyer. I could stay and eat for minimal cost...and learn Swahili....and swim in the sea...and learn to sail a dhow... who could resist? It would be a great opportunity for field research as well as learning about the ecotourism business...
Friday, July 21, 2006
following strange men onto islands. and not getting arrested.
so the coast--- i love it so much!! the people, the culture, the architecture, the beaches, the food-- ninapenda samaki!
that means 'i love fish', one of my best swahili sentences. I know a very random selection of words. I can ask for rope and shrimp (they are the same word, confusing if you want to tie up a bundle of shrimp with some rope), say the basic greetings/thanks/etc, and ask for music, medicine, the chemists, fried dough balls, potatos, roasted meat. oh, and say that i like horses and please can i have some firewood? oooh-- and that i like blood.
we took the night bus from nairobi a week ago. when we arrived at the bus depot in the east of nairobi (the part that the lonely planet describes as dodgy), i jumped out of the car to ask about our bus-- they informed me that there was a problem with the bus we had booked. but then a guy that i had talked to the day before explained we would just be given seats on another company's bus-- and said, oh emma, so sorry so sorry-- i could not believe he remembered my name. i mean granted i did not see too many mzungus around but still. i think it was because my name has led to a conversation about whether i was muslim and then about how i should come at 5pm the next day to chat and have chai until the bus left at 9!
The reason we were late and rushing around that night is that we had gone with Shiro and her theatre group to perform at Precious Blood Kilungu Secondary School-- and yes, i was in the cast. As the random white woman who works at the church and delivers medicine to a woman who has been beaten by her husband. The woman-- named Ahoya, a well known British name-- has strange opinions on wife abuse and I was really unsure about the message of the whole scene.
That all went well, I knew my lines, caused some stirring among the audience...but then at the end of the play...I had gone backstage from my seat in the audience where I had been since my scene had ended to find the book i had forgotten there. I ended up passing by the stage around curtain call and was basically pushed on stage. I thought, ok, line up, i can do curtain call, shouldn't be too complicated. then when i got on stage, to my horror i saw, ahhhh, they are in a line. ah, and they are doing a dance...ok....yeah, so totally danced on stage to a dance i did not know. Then, after bowing, the leader of the group said, "Ok, now we start with introductions..." and looked at me.
Er, introductions? "What do I say?" I whispered. "Your name"...so i said, "Hi I'm Emma," not knowing that everyone after me would basically say a little speech about themselves to raucous applause.
Oh well, everyone has to rack up a few embarrassing moments in their life. I just hate that i had to reinforce the impression that mzungus can't dance...
Yes, so the coast-- we arrived in Mombasa last week and spent our first morning resting. We stayed in the New People's Hotel, quite possibly the loudest guesthouse I have ever encountered...not only is it right by the bus station where the horns just keep on hooting, and by the mosque with the electronic prayers blasting out, but it also has a very echoing courtyard in the middle where whoever was doing the washing up and laundry was really just having a field day. I was not quite sure how they were making so much noise but it really sounded like they were taking a saucepan and bashing it against a wall periodically...
We made our way to the old town of Mombasa, where the streets narrow, trying to find Island Dishes for a feast of biryani and curries. People would occasionally point us in the right direction, until a torrential rainstorm stopped us and we waited under a balcony. Then we met Ramzy, a very friendly guy who found us a bench upon which to watch the rain. When the drops were lighter, Ramzy took us to Island Dishes, actually leaving his phone number with us in case we needed help. That first encounter with coastal friendliness may have biased me from the very beginning but I have felt so welcomed here. Maybe it is partly being away from the intensity of Nairobi. You don't realise how tiring and stressful that is until you leave.
While we sat at Island Dishes, sipping our tamarind juice, a guy with dreads and a bandaged finger sat down next to us. He ordered some food and proceeded to chat to us as he ate, spewing rice while he talked (Tiff insists that I mention this-- I must admit, it was quite impressive how messy an eater he was).
Mohammed Mahdi is in the process of setting up an ecotourism venture in his village. During a relationship he had with a Peace Corps volunteer, he began inviting guests to come and camp on an island by his village of Ngomeni, wanting to preserve some of the coast for a gentler type of tourism than that found in the huge hotels and resorts that dot the coast around here (strangely enough, very dominated by Italians-- people here actually know quite a bit of the language even). Apart from camping on the island, people can tour the mangrove swamps around the island, sail on a dhow, enjoy fresh crab, and just generally chill on a rather private beach.
Mahdi told us all of this-- he had a flyer typed out and a phone number-- and an website address. Tiff and I at first sighed. Nairobi makes you suspicious of everyone. people are always claiming to know you, getting upset if you don't 'remember them'... Being approached by a random man telling you he will take you to his island smacks of a scam in major way...
So we decided to go. Actually he made it hard for us to refuse, offering to show us round Mombasa the rest of the day for free and saying we would not have to pay until we arrived at Mahdi Island. Still, we were worried...imagining arriving on the island, then being abandoned there, losing all our bags...
Actually Mahdi was amazing-- he walked us all around the city. We ended up listening to prayers in a Sikh temple. I love how this city has so many religions and temples crowded into it. It gives me hope. We had walked past multiple mosques and churches, visited one of the Hindu temples, and now sat on rugs listening to the words of the Sikh Gurus.
We met Mahdi again at 7 in the morning and went with him to the Gede Ruins, the remains of a Swahili city-state from the 14th century. Stuck out in a rather rural area, the ruins do not appear in many historical records and are a bit of a mystery. And a sense of mystery did hang in the air -- baobabs in the midst of the crumbling walls, ancient plumbing and cooling systems more advanced than much of what you see in come cities today, and monkeys rustling in the treetops. i did have to laugh though-- the rooms have been titled to reflect what was found there: the Room of the Iron Lantern, the Room of the Scissors, the Room of the Cowrie Shells...oh, and "We think this room was a barbershop because we found scissors here."
"How many pairs?"
"Oh, just one."
"Ah ok. Yeah I guess it is a small city and maybe people did not need to cut their hair very often. Would suck if the scissors broke though."
After Gede....a matatu from Malindi (read Italian resort town, complete with Italian supermarket) to Ngomeni and then a boat across the water to Mahdi Island.
.....
To be continued. I am quite tired of being in this internet cafe and have some bag shopping to do. Just wanted to say that there is more of the story to come...at the moment Mahdi is hiding from the police...
ps don't worry though, we are fine and dandy, looking forward to a lovely experience on a night bus to Nairobi tonight!! Woohooo.....
that means 'i love fish', one of my best swahili sentences. I know a very random selection of words. I can ask for rope and shrimp (they are the same word, confusing if you want to tie up a bundle of shrimp with some rope), say the basic greetings/thanks/etc, and ask for music, medicine, the chemists, fried dough balls, potatos, roasted meat. oh, and say that i like horses and please can i have some firewood? oooh-- and that i like blood.
we took the night bus from nairobi a week ago. when we arrived at the bus depot in the east of nairobi (the part that the lonely planet describes as dodgy), i jumped out of the car to ask about our bus-- they informed me that there was a problem with the bus we had booked. but then a guy that i had talked to the day before explained we would just be given seats on another company's bus-- and said, oh emma, so sorry so sorry-- i could not believe he remembered my name. i mean granted i did not see too many mzungus around but still. i think it was because my name has led to a conversation about whether i was muslim and then about how i should come at 5pm the next day to chat and have chai until the bus left at 9!
The reason we were late and rushing around that night is that we had gone with Shiro and her theatre group to perform at Precious Blood Kilungu Secondary School-- and yes, i was in the cast. As the random white woman who works at the church and delivers medicine to a woman who has been beaten by her husband. The woman-- named Ahoya, a well known British name-- has strange opinions on wife abuse and I was really unsure about the message of the whole scene.
That all went well, I knew my lines, caused some stirring among the audience...but then at the end of the play...I had gone backstage from my seat in the audience where I had been since my scene had ended to find the book i had forgotten there. I ended up passing by the stage around curtain call and was basically pushed on stage. I thought, ok, line up, i can do curtain call, shouldn't be too complicated. then when i got on stage, to my horror i saw, ahhhh, they are in a line. ah, and they are doing a dance...ok....yeah, so totally danced on stage to a dance i did not know. Then, after bowing, the leader of the group said, "Ok, now we start with introductions..." and looked at me.
Er, introductions? "What do I say?" I whispered. "Your name"...so i said, "Hi I'm Emma," not knowing that everyone after me would basically say a little speech about themselves to raucous applause.
Oh well, everyone has to rack up a few embarrassing moments in their life. I just hate that i had to reinforce the impression that mzungus can't dance...
Yes, so the coast-- we arrived in Mombasa last week and spent our first morning resting. We stayed in the New People's Hotel, quite possibly the loudest guesthouse I have ever encountered...not only is it right by the bus station where the horns just keep on hooting, and by the mosque with the electronic prayers blasting out, but it also has a very echoing courtyard in the middle where whoever was doing the washing up and laundry was really just having a field day. I was not quite sure how they were making so much noise but it really sounded like they were taking a saucepan and bashing it against a wall periodically...
We made our way to the old town of Mombasa, where the streets narrow, trying to find Island Dishes for a feast of biryani and curries. People would occasionally point us in the right direction, until a torrential rainstorm stopped us and we waited under a balcony. Then we met Ramzy, a very friendly guy who found us a bench upon which to watch the rain. When the drops were lighter, Ramzy took us to Island Dishes, actually leaving his phone number with us in case we needed help. That first encounter with coastal friendliness may have biased me from the very beginning but I have felt so welcomed here. Maybe it is partly being away from the intensity of Nairobi. You don't realise how tiring and stressful that is until you leave.
While we sat at Island Dishes, sipping our tamarind juice, a guy with dreads and a bandaged finger sat down next to us. He ordered some food and proceeded to chat to us as he ate, spewing rice while he talked (Tiff insists that I mention this-- I must admit, it was quite impressive how messy an eater he was).
Mohammed Mahdi is in the process of setting up an ecotourism venture in his village. During a relationship he had with a Peace Corps volunteer, he began inviting guests to come and camp on an island by his village of Ngomeni, wanting to preserve some of the coast for a gentler type of tourism than that found in the huge hotels and resorts that dot the coast around here (strangely enough, very dominated by Italians-- people here actually know quite a bit of the language even). Apart from camping on the island, people can tour the mangrove swamps around the island, sail on a dhow, enjoy fresh crab, and just generally chill on a rather private beach.
Mahdi told us all of this-- he had a flyer typed out and a phone number-- and an website address. Tiff and I at first sighed. Nairobi makes you suspicious of everyone. people are always claiming to know you, getting upset if you don't 'remember them'... Being approached by a random man telling you he will take you to his island smacks of a scam in major way...
So we decided to go. Actually he made it hard for us to refuse, offering to show us round Mombasa the rest of the day for free and saying we would not have to pay until we arrived at Mahdi Island. Still, we were worried...imagining arriving on the island, then being abandoned there, losing all our bags...
Actually Mahdi was amazing-- he walked us all around the city. We ended up listening to prayers in a Sikh temple. I love how this city has so many religions and temples crowded into it. It gives me hope. We had walked past multiple mosques and churches, visited one of the Hindu temples, and now sat on rugs listening to the words of the Sikh Gurus.
We met Mahdi again at 7 in the morning and went with him to the Gede Ruins, the remains of a Swahili city-state from the 14th century. Stuck out in a rather rural area, the ruins do not appear in many historical records and are a bit of a mystery. And a sense of mystery did hang in the air -- baobabs in the midst of the crumbling walls, ancient plumbing and cooling systems more advanced than much of what you see in come cities today, and monkeys rustling in the treetops. i did have to laugh though-- the rooms have been titled to reflect what was found there: the Room of the Iron Lantern, the Room of the Scissors, the Room of the Cowrie Shells...oh, and "We think this room was a barbershop because we found scissors here."
"How many pairs?"
"Oh, just one."
"Ah ok. Yeah I guess it is a small city and maybe people did not need to cut their hair very often. Would suck if the scissors broke though."
After Gede....a matatu from Malindi (read Italian resort town, complete with Italian supermarket) to Ngomeni and then a boat across the water to Mahdi Island.
.....
To be continued. I am quite tired of being in this internet cafe and have some bag shopping to do. Just wanted to say that there is more of the story to come...at the moment Mahdi is hiding from the police...
ps don't worry though, we are fine and dandy, looking forward to a lovely experience on a night bus to Nairobi tonight!! Woohooo.....
in the news
Before I start this entry I just want to say that I feel really disgusted right now. Tiffany has a cousin who lives in Beirut and who has been writing everyday to update her relatives on the war and what is happening to them. I feel like leaving this internet cafe and throwing up around the corner.
I try to keep a relative distance from speaking on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict because I don't know enough about it-- though to be honest I know more than most. But sometimes I just think that half the world-- or rather more like a fifth-- is completely blinding itself to the fact that so many people live such wretched lives because of Israel's military policy. Yes, countries do have a right to defend themselves and yes, Hezbollah is a group which uses violence and other illegal means, but this does not mean we should turn a blind eye to the rampant bombing of residential areas carried out by the Israeli armed forces.
One thing that you learn when travelling is that information is an incredibly precious commodity-- and so many people are incredibly ignorant. I remember a conversation I had with Ike Okonta at Oxford. Ike is a scholar and journalist from the Niger Delta region of Nigeria-- he authored a book with a lawyer who defended Ken Saro-Wiwa, the activist who founded MOSOP (Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni People) and who Abacha has executed along with 8 others-- while Shell stood by with its head barely in the sand, its eyes eagerly peaking out at the mounds of oil lying below the surface of the mangrove swamps in the region. Ike and I were talking about racism, and he told me it is all about experience, all about what people know. It is true. Racism is due to ignorance. Having knowledge and listening to people is what solves such problems. Ignorance also expains other things-- how people in countries like the US will not know about the hundreds of Lebanese citizens being wounded and dying and therefore listen to their president patter about in his office and wimper about countries having to defend themselves (by starting a war that will only strengthen Hezbollah's support and weaken the government???).
Information-- being in other places, talking to people, reading the newspapers, you realise the extent to which this world is structured around the hegemonous power of the elite in the west-- and the elite the world over. This is not surprising-- power and money have always structured the world. But what you realise is that the life is incredibly unfair and causes incredibly anger. If you sit quietly on your porch wondering why Hezbollah guerrillas would kidnap Israeli soldiers, go and do your research.
----------------------------------------
Ok. I think I need a new entry now.
I try to keep a relative distance from speaking on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict because I don't know enough about it-- though to be honest I know more than most. But sometimes I just think that half the world-- or rather more like a fifth-- is completely blinding itself to the fact that so many people live such wretched lives because of Israel's military policy. Yes, countries do have a right to defend themselves and yes, Hezbollah is a group which uses violence and other illegal means, but this does not mean we should turn a blind eye to the rampant bombing of residential areas carried out by the Israeli armed forces.
One thing that you learn when travelling is that information is an incredibly precious commodity-- and so many people are incredibly ignorant. I remember a conversation I had with Ike Okonta at Oxford. Ike is a scholar and journalist from the Niger Delta region of Nigeria-- he authored a book with a lawyer who defended Ken Saro-Wiwa, the activist who founded MOSOP (Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni People) and who Abacha has executed along with 8 others-- while Shell stood by with its head barely in the sand, its eyes eagerly peaking out at the mounds of oil lying below the surface of the mangrove swamps in the region. Ike and I were talking about racism, and he told me it is all about experience, all about what people know. It is true. Racism is due to ignorance. Having knowledge and listening to people is what solves such problems. Ignorance also expains other things-- how people in countries like the US will not know about the hundreds of Lebanese citizens being wounded and dying and therefore listen to their president patter about in his office and wimper about countries having to defend themselves (by starting a war that will only strengthen Hezbollah's support and weaken the government???).
Information-- being in other places, talking to people, reading the newspapers, you realise the extent to which this world is structured around the hegemonous power of the elite in the west-- and the elite the world over. This is not surprising-- power and money have always structured the world. But what you realise is that the life is incredibly unfair and causes incredibly anger. If you sit quietly on your porch wondering why Hezbollah guerrillas would kidnap Israeli soldiers, go and do your research.
----------------------------------------
Ok. I think I need a new entry now.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
kenyan soap opera stars
yes, so what does a girl to celebrate here in Nairobi when she gets some good news?
well, she spends the night in a karaoke bar and then heads to a reggae club to dance the night away with a kenyan soap opera star who goes by the name of 6Pack.
Right.
Actors are the same the world over I have decided. Egos crowding the room, pick-up lines dripping with syrup, and the most shallow deep statements I have ever heard. No, that is harsh. But the melodrama is the same, the swagger is the same...
One of our friends here in Kenya runs a touring theatre company that performs set books for the secondary schools-- I have mentioned her before. Last night we went out and randomly met multitudes of the acting circles of Kenya, oh yes, the smooth cool operators of this country. Two of them accompanied us to a club called Madhouse which is often overrun with prostitutes... And geez, some of the men hanging round there have the most leering eyes I have ever seen. Actually, in particular the approaching-middle-aged white men near the entrance were most clearly there for one thing and one thing only. No mystery about it.
But, it was fun and having missed dancing for a while, I enjoyed the dance floor even if it meant having to laugh off the romantic sugar-spun comments of my casting director, soap opera actor companion. He was quite a gentleman it must be said however in his defense.
I got home at half four and then woke up to let my friend in at 6...finally getting back to sleep half an hour later, I then woke up at half 8 to go a meeting at OXFAM with their trade coordinator. I managed to stay awake and concentrate and also to arrive there by matatu and with the help of Paul, a friendly Citi Hoppa (local bus system) route manager. After a brief stop at home to rehash the fun and annoyances of last night, it was back to Adams Centre to meet with someone from Christian Aid. I really enjoyed our discussion as he was talking about the proposed structure of the TJN for Africa. We then moved on to discuss the politics of the state in Africa, the effects and causes of the patronage system, and the changing dynamics of the aid industry. He also happened to be reading the same book as me-- Emma's War so that helped fill our two hour lunch meeting.
You know, I am beginning to get a little freaked out about all the coincidences. I randomly saw Emma's War in a bookshop in DC over a year ago and finally bought it to read after my exams. It tells the story of a British aid worker that falls in love with a Sudanese guerrilla leader. She studied art at a college in Oxford (maybe at Brooks, can't remember) and her parents grew up and were married in India. The author of the book works for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and also speaks of Carol Berger, a journalist who came to speak at St. Anne's last year. Since I have started reading it, I have seen it at bookstores here, found it at the book launch I went to, convinced my Finnish friend to buy it, been asked if I in fact also plan to marry a Sudanese warlord (me and the main character apparently have the same nose), and now found that my Christian Aid friend is also reading it. Weird.
Anyway, I think that is most of the coincidences and news. Oh apart from the fact that I was asked a while ago to run a nursery school in Kampala for 6 months. The main reason I was asked, the Ugandan guy bluntly told me was that parents would think a school run by a white person would be a good one. Hmmm. How do I feel about this?
Wil be heading to the coast this weekend...bring on the sunshine. Hoping we can go on an overnight dhow trip...
xx
well, she spends the night in a karaoke bar and then heads to a reggae club to dance the night away with a kenyan soap opera star who goes by the name of 6Pack.
Right.
Actors are the same the world over I have decided. Egos crowding the room, pick-up lines dripping with syrup, and the most shallow deep statements I have ever heard. No, that is harsh. But the melodrama is the same, the swagger is the same...
One of our friends here in Kenya runs a touring theatre company that performs set books for the secondary schools-- I have mentioned her before. Last night we went out and randomly met multitudes of the acting circles of Kenya, oh yes, the smooth cool operators of this country. Two of them accompanied us to a club called Madhouse which is often overrun with prostitutes... And geez, some of the men hanging round there have the most leering eyes I have ever seen. Actually, in particular the approaching-middle-aged white men near the entrance were most clearly there for one thing and one thing only. No mystery about it.
But, it was fun and having missed dancing for a while, I enjoyed the dance floor even if it meant having to laugh off the romantic sugar-spun comments of my casting director, soap opera actor companion. He was quite a gentleman it must be said however in his defense.
I got home at half four and then woke up to let my friend in at 6...finally getting back to sleep half an hour later, I then woke up at half 8 to go a meeting at OXFAM with their trade coordinator. I managed to stay awake and concentrate and also to arrive there by matatu and with the help of Paul, a friendly Citi Hoppa (local bus system) route manager. After a brief stop at home to rehash the fun and annoyances of last night, it was back to Adams Centre to meet with someone from Christian Aid. I really enjoyed our discussion as he was talking about the proposed structure of the TJN for Africa. We then moved on to discuss the politics of the state in Africa, the effects and causes of the patronage system, and the changing dynamics of the aid industry. He also happened to be reading the same book as me-- Emma's War so that helped fill our two hour lunch meeting.
You know, I am beginning to get a little freaked out about all the coincidences. I randomly saw Emma's War in a bookshop in DC over a year ago and finally bought it to read after my exams. It tells the story of a British aid worker that falls in love with a Sudanese guerrilla leader. She studied art at a college in Oxford (maybe at Brooks, can't remember) and her parents grew up and were married in India. The author of the book works for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and also speaks of Carol Berger, a journalist who came to speak at St. Anne's last year. Since I have started reading it, I have seen it at bookstores here, found it at the book launch I went to, convinced my Finnish friend to buy it, been asked if I in fact also plan to marry a Sudanese warlord (me and the main character apparently have the same nose), and now found that my Christian Aid friend is also reading it. Weird.
Anyway, I think that is most of the coincidences and news. Oh apart from the fact that I was asked a while ago to run a nursery school in Kampala for 6 months. The main reason I was asked, the Ugandan guy bluntly told me was that parents would think a school run by a white person would be a good one. Hmmm. How do I feel about this?
Wil be heading to the coast this weekend...bring on the sunshine. Hoping we can go on an overnight dhow trip...
xx
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
the price of life
I am sitting in the computer lab at the University of Nairobi after being shown around by some of the librarians I met at the conference-- I was in the archives section earlier-- it was so cool! They have all the old newspapers from earlier this century, diaries from settlers, and old photo albums from around 1913! They have photos of the Uganda Railway when it was new and also photos of Kikuyu in their dress before western clothing became ubiquitous. One of the photos was captioned 'a native beauty'; many of the settlers were wearing the classic round white hats and the soldiers uniforms were to be frank rather ridiculous.
I am here for a meeting with the dean of students and the head of the department of sociology to discuss plans for a conference in to be held with the university in January. They were very pleasant and even took me for a cup of tea in the SCR-- and mandazi (fried triangular lumps of dough...mmm!).
Yesterday is what I really want to write about-- one crazy day. We were planning to meet our friend Shiro (Mercy's sister) in town to ride the bus to Kilungu to go and meet teachers at a secondary school up there in the highlands. Shiro runs a theatre groups which goes round schools performing the set books they read for their exams-- both English and Kiswahili. Most secondary schools here seem to be boarding and are out in rural areas-- talk about sending your children away for a while to an isolated area where they can't cause too much trouble! The area we were going to was beautiful and very rural, in the area of the Kamba people.
She told us to take a taxi to the Salvation Army. Which we did, being dropped near Nakumatt Lifestyle, a big store tending towards the Walmart/Asda idea of we sell everything you could possibly want so you will never have to go into another store in your life meaning we will gradually steal the markets from other stores which may be more specialised...
Anyway, we call her and are informed that actually there is another Salvation Army, near an area of town called Commercial...we ask at a store how to take a matatu there. Instead we are informed we should take a taxi. When we say we don't want a taxi but rather want to take a matatu, we are told to walk. We are given a sketched map and make our way to downtown.
Soon, we are directed east of Tom Mboya Street, which sticks in my mind as the area which the Lonely Planet guide describes as the rough area of town which has a nasty reputation for robberies and which is best avoided...but no problem, ok, we make our way down the street looking for 'Jack and Jill' which at the time I imagined was a seedy bar but turns out to be a supermarket later on!
We eventually, after turning a corner and trying to look like we do know what we are doing and are not just two lost mzungus, we find the larger, better Salvation Army where our friend is waiting. Our slight irritation melted away-- after all, at least I know my way around Nairobi a bit better now...
We board the bus and wait while the luggage and sacks of maize are loaded onto the roof, being hassled by men convinced that we do really need to buy at least six fake Rolex watches. I had been looking all around-- that part of town was happening, people everywhere, little shops on every section of wall, colours, smells, sounds, enough to keep you occupied in staring out the window. I turned away for a second to look inside the bus and then Tiff asked, "What's happening over there?"
I turned to look and there was a crowd gathering. I could not really tell what was happening in the middle of the crowd but I gradually realised that there was some kind of argument going on-- I could see a lady dressed in a lime green suit looking rather upset about something and yelling at someone shorter than the surrounding crowd of mainly men, many of whom where grinning.
Then the woman seemed to start hitting whoever she was arguing with. And it became more and more apparent that the crowd was gathering round an argument that increasingly turned not into a fight but a beating. Another shorter lady in red was being hit by the other lady-- who was swinging her handbag high in the air, really going after her victim. The surrounding crowd at first seemed to do nothing but then began to push the beaten woman back into the circle, almost holding her to receive the blows. At one point she fell, her jacket was ripped off her, she looked scared and dazed.
We were sitting in the bus watching. Some people were clicking and murmuring but most were watching. People in the crowd were doing the same or actively pushing the beaten women. Mob justice? Theft? An affair?
The crowd gradually moved the woman off to one side and finally a policeman appeared and seemed to stop the beating.
I was disturbed. It was all very raw. I am not used to violence enforced by a crowd of people. I expect someone to stop it, someone to say there is another way. But no one did.
Later that day, returning to Nairobi in the dark, we saw another mob gathered on the side of the street, beating someone I was told. This was quite near the centre of town, which is generally safer and calmer.
We had just driven through what Shiro informed me was the worst area of town. She giggled as she told us-- told us it was probably more dangerous for her to be with us. Though I argued it could make her safer as we would definitely be a more attractive target. We had even just seen a mugging just a little up the road from our matatu.
After telling us all this about the 'worst' area of town, she said, "Ah, lets get another matatu here so we won't have to walk too far. Let's get out now."
"Er, I thought you said this was the bad part of town? But ok, let's get out here."
We hopped out and walked a few yards to another bigger matutu driving down the road. The vehicle then crawled its way up the street through the dark (streetlights? bah.)-- the door was open and I thought surely, if this area is so bad, someone would just see me from the wide open door and jump in.
Luckily my imagination was more active than any potential muggers and we arrived fine in the centre of town. We had our visit to Kenchic inn for grease and salt and then went home...what a day. On the way to the worst area of town, going through the 'worse' (ie not the worst yet) area of town, our matatu has swerved violently...a man was lying in the road with his bike, obviously having been knocked over by a previous vehicle. He was just lying there-- did no one see him?
Life seemed very cheap yesterday-- lives very fragile and easily crumpled up and thrown away. Rules did not seem to apply, because they could not be taken seriously, surviving required other codes of action-- or maybe just action, without a code.
It is so easy to take order for granted, so easy to take security for granted.
I am here for a meeting with the dean of students and the head of the department of sociology to discuss plans for a conference in to be held with the university in January. They were very pleasant and even took me for a cup of tea in the SCR-- and mandazi (fried triangular lumps of dough...mmm!).
Yesterday is what I really want to write about-- one crazy day. We were planning to meet our friend Shiro (Mercy's sister) in town to ride the bus to Kilungu to go and meet teachers at a secondary school up there in the highlands. Shiro runs a theatre groups which goes round schools performing the set books they read for their exams-- both English and Kiswahili. Most secondary schools here seem to be boarding and are out in rural areas-- talk about sending your children away for a while to an isolated area where they can't cause too much trouble! The area we were going to was beautiful and very rural, in the area of the Kamba people.
She told us to take a taxi to the Salvation Army. Which we did, being dropped near Nakumatt Lifestyle, a big store tending towards the Walmart/Asda idea of we sell everything you could possibly want so you will never have to go into another store in your life meaning we will gradually steal the markets from other stores which may be more specialised...
Anyway, we call her and are informed that actually there is another Salvation Army, near an area of town called Commercial...we ask at a store how to take a matatu there. Instead we are informed we should take a taxi. When we say we don't want a taxi but rather want to take a matatu, we are told to walk. We are given a sketched map and make our way to downtown.
Soon, we are directed east of Tom Mboya Street, which sticks in my mind as the area which the Lonely Planet guide describes as the rough area of town which has a nasty reputation for robberies and which is best avoided...but no problem, ok, we make our way down the street looking for 'Jack and Jill' which at the time I imagined was a seedy bar but turns out to be a supermarket later on!
We eventually, after turning a corner and trying to look like we do know what we are doing and are not just two lost mzungus, we find the larger, better Salvation Army where our friend is waiting. Our slight irritation melted away-- after all, at least I know my way around Nairobi a bit better now...
We board the bus and wait while the luggage and sacks of maize are loaded onto the roof, being hassled by men convinced that we do really need to buy at least six fake Rolex watches. I had been looking all around-- that part of town was happening, people everywhere, little shops on every section of wall, colours, smells, sounds, enough to keep you occupied in staring out the window. I turned away for a second to look inside the bus and then Tiff asked, "What's happening over there?"
I turned to look and there was a crowd gathering. I could not really tell what was happening in the middle of the crowd but I gradually realised that there was some kind of argument going on-- I could see a lady dressed in a lime green suit looking rather upset about something and yelling at someone shorter than the surrounding crowd of mainly men, many of whom where grinning.
Then the woman seemed to start hitting whoever she was arguing with. And it became more and more apparent that the crowd was gathering round an argument that increasingly turned not into a fight but a beating. Another shorter lady in red was being hit by the other lady-- who was swinging her handbag high in the air, really going after her victim. The surrounding crowd at first seemed to do nothing but then began to push the beaten woman back into the circle, almost holding her to receive the blows. At one point she fell, her jacket was ripped off her, she looked scared and dazed.
We were sitting in the bus watching. Some people were clicking and murmuring but most were watching. People in the crowd were doing the same or actively pushing the beaten women. Mob justice? Theft? An affair?
The crowd gradually moved the woman off to one side and finally a policeman appeared and seemed to stop the beating.
I was disturbed. It was all very raw. I am not used to violence enforced by a crowd of people. I expect someone to stop it, someone to say there is another way. But no one did.
Later that day, returning to Nairobi in the dark, we saw another mob gathered on the side of the street, beating someone I was told. This was quite near the centre of town, which is generally safer and calmer.
We had just driven through what Shiro informed me was the worst area of town. She giggled as she told us-- told us it was probably more dangerous for her to be with us. Though I argued it could make her safer as we would definitely be a more attractive target. We had even just seen a mugging just a little up the road from our matatu.
After telling us all this about the 'worst' area of town, she said, "Ah, lets get another matatu here so we won't have to walk too far. Let's get out now."
"Er, I thought you said this was the bad part of town? But ok, let's get out here."
We hopped out and walked a few yards to another bigger matutu driving down the road. The vehicle then crawled its way up the street through the dark (streetlights? bah.)-- the door was open and I thought surely, if this area is so bad, someone would just see me from the wide open door and jump in.
Luckily my imagination was more active than any potential muggers and we arrived fine in the centre of town. We had our visit to Kenchic inn for grease and salt and then went home...what a day. On the way to the worst area of town, going through the 'worse' (ie not the worst yet) area of town, our matatu has swerved violently...a man was lying in the road with his bike, obviously having been knocked over by a previous vehicle. He was just lying there-- did no one see him?
Life seemed very cheap yesterday-- lives very fragile and easily crumpled up and thrown away. Rules did not seem to apply, because they could not be taken seriously, surviving required other codes of action-- or maybe just action, without a code.
It is so easy to take order for granted, so easy to take security for granted.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
attack of the baboons
Ah, just having a quiet weekend. Thanks Flora for your e-mail, good to know we are keeping bored receptionists entertained!
It sounds like it is rather steamy in England. Here I am wearing layers and a scarf as it is rather chilly. Nairobi is in the highlands and July is the coolest month. People here have been asking me if I am cold ever since I got here. I can now proudly reply that I now agree that it is cold. Before, the question was reaching ridiculous proportions-- people would ask me if I was not freezing to death when they had just seen me take off my sweater in a rather hot bar.
Tiff returns from Western Province tonight finally (I have missed having a friend around all the time)-- she promises to regale me with tales of bad roads, late buses, liars and late nights...intrigue!! I am as curious as you. We have only texted back and forth a few times and spoken for about 3 minutes as credit is fiendishly expensive here-- about 20 shillings a minute (which is about 15p probably or 27 cents). A lot of people don't have landlines either so phone conversations tend to consists of choppy sentences and no goodbyes.
On Friday I went to Nairobi National Park with Mikael, a Finnish guy I knew from Bamako and met again at the library conference. I was dubious about how much I would see having been told the previous day by my taxi driver Peter that the park was empty. Also, entry fees to national parks rose a week or so ago, meaning that entry for a non-resident is $40! A little steep...And that does not include renting you vehicle. Still, I thought well, you need to splash out once in a while and it would have been rather rude to abandon my friend at the park gate...
As it turns out I was rather impressed by the park. Once you drive in and reach the crest of the hill, you look out over a giant savannah dotted with acacia trees and herds of zebra, impala, and buffalo. We also saw various types of gazelle as well as rock hyraxes, an eland, two types of giraffe, and a cerval, which I was very excited about since cats are generally more shy and rare to show their faces on the side of the road. We were lucky too with the giraffe-- we turned the corner and there they were bang smack in the middle of the road! They gradually sauntered off with their strange gait as we slowly drove up.
And...there were also a few adrenaline-filled moments...at one spot Mikael and I got out of the car to look out over a valley-- a beautiful spot where a river was surrounded by acacias and trees of all the hues of green that can exist-- and to spy on some little rock hyraxes sunning themselves rather nervously. After a few minutes, I turned around only to spy a male baboon approaching. Now, I really don't like baboons. I remember once when I was young, I was in a vehicle with my mum and we saw a troupe of baboons out of the window. She pointed and proceeded to detail how dangerous these animals could be: "They are ferocious-- they can bite you like a dog-- look at their teeth."
Ever since then I have really been a little scared of them. My trip to Botswana had not helped matters-- there on safari I learnt that baboons can tell the difference between human males and females and are not scared of the latter. This thought had returned to me in Western, when Tiff and I visited Kakamega Forest Reserve. A troupe of baboons at one point blocked the path, just as we were returning from a lookout point on the other side of the forest from the rangers' camp. We have a video of our approach, with my voice rather nervously recounting the fact that these terrifying animals are sure to come and take a chunk out of your leg. Luckily our slow approach did not spook them and they slowly retreated into the leafy darkness with their babies.
However, back at the Nairobi Park, things felt different-- it did not help that we had just passed a sign warning us to 'beware of wild baboons.' Sure enough, this rather huge baboon jumped onto our car and stepped onto the roof. Mikael and I were at this point rather nervously staring at the car, wondering how to get back in-- the driver was not inside either, having gone to the toilet.
I have to admit that the bravery in this situation came from the Finn. We stalked up to the car, around to the side, and pondered what to do. After about a second of sizing us up, the baboon started to jump up and down, clearly telling us that we were not in charge. Mikael grabbed the door handle, "Get in, get in." I hesitated for a moment,wondering if the baboon would leap onto my back and rip out my spine before finally leaping into the vehicle, quickly followed by Mikael. We rolled up all the windows and proceeded to sit there as the entire band of baboons clambered onto the car, fought on our windscreen, biting and scratching at each other and sliding down the glass, and made sure they had us surrounded...
Luckily another van drove up at the same time as our driver returned and was able to chase some of the animals off so the driver could enter the car. We then drove off, leaving the baboons feeling triumphant but rather confused as to how their conquered territory could suddenly move away in a cloud of dust and gas...my heart was still beating a little fast.
I don't think I will ever really feel very fond of baboons.
It sounds like it is rather steamy in England. Here I am wearing layers and a scarf as it is rather chilly. Nairobi is in the highlands and July is the coolest month. People here have been asking me if I am cold ever since I got here. I can now proudly reply that I now agree that it is cold. Before, the question was reaching ridiculous proportions-- people would ask me if I was not freezing to death when they had just seen me take off my sweater in a rather hot bar.
Tiff returns from Western Province tonight finally (I have missed having a friend around all the time)-- she promises to regale me with tales of bad roads, late buses, liars and late nights...intrigue!! I am as curious as you. We have only texted back and forth a few times and spoken for about 3 minutes as credit is fiendishly expensive here-- about 20 shillings a minute (which is about 15p probably or 27 cents). A lot of people don't have landlines either so phone conversations tend to consists of choppy sentences and no goodbyes.
On Friday I went to Nairobi National Park with Mikael, a Finnish guy I knew from Bamako and met again at the library conference. I was dubious about how much I would see having been told the previous day by my taxi driver Peter that the park was empty. Also, entry fees to national parks rose a week or so ago, meaning that entry for a non-resident is $40! A little steep...And that does not include renting you vehicle. Still, I thought well, you need to splash out once in a while and it would have been rather rude to abandon my friend at the park gate...
As it turns out I was rather impressed by the park. Once you drive in and reach the crest of the hill, you look out over a giant savannah dotted with acacia trees and herds of zebra, impala, and buffalo. We also saw various types of gazelle as well as rock hyraxes, an eland, two types of giraffe, and a cerval, which I was very excited about since cats are generally more shy and rare to show their faces on the side of the road. We were lucky too with the giraffe-- we turned the corner and there they were bang smack in the middle of the road! They gradually sauntered off with their strange gait as we slowly drove up.
And...there were also a few adrenaline-filled moments...at one spot Mikael and I got out of the car to look out over a valley-- a beautiful spot where a river was surrounded by acacias and trees of all the hues of green that can exist-- and to spy on some little rock hyraxes sunning themselves rather nervously. After a few minutes, I turned around only to spy a male baboon approaching. Now, I really don't like baboons. I remember once when I was young, I was in a vehicle with my mum and we saw a troupe of baboons out of the window. She pointed and proceeded to detail how dangerous these animals could be: "They are ferocious-- they can bite you like a dog-- look at their teeth."
Ever since then I have really been a little scared of them. My trip to Botswana had not helped matters-- there on safari I learnt that baboons can tell the difference between human males and females and are not scared of the latter. This thought had returned to me in Western, when Tiff and I visited Kakamega Forest Reserve. A troupe of baboons at one point blocked the path, just as we were returning from a lookout point on the other side of the forest from the rangers' camp. We have a video of our approach, with my voice rather nervously recounting the fact that these terrifying animals are sure to come and take a chunk out of your leg. Luckily our slow approach did not spook them and they slowly retreated into the leafy darkness with their babies.
However, back at the Nairobi Park, things felt different-- it did not help that we had just passed a sign warning us to 'beware of wild baboons.' Sure enough, this rather huge baboon jumped onto our car and stepped onto the roof. Mikael and I were at this point rather nervously staring at the car, wondering how to get back in-- the driver was not inside either, having gone to the toilet.
I have to admit that the bravery in this situation came from the Finn. We stalked up to the car, around to the side, and pondered what to do. After about a second of sizing us up, the baboon started to jump up and down, clearly telling us that we were not in charge. Mikael grabbed the door handle, "Get in, get in." I hesitated for a moment,wondering if the baboon would leap onto my back and rip out my spine before finally leaping into the vehicle, quickly followed by Mikael. We rolled up all the windows and proceeded to sit there as the entire band of baboons clambered onto the car, fought on our windscreen, biting and scratching at each other and sliding down the glass, and made sure they had us surrounded...
Luckily another van drove up at the same time as our driver returned and was able to chase some of the animals off so the driver could enter the car. We then drove off, leaving the baboons feeling triumphant but rather confused as to how their conquered territory could suddenly move away in a cloud of dust and gas...my heart was still beating a little fast.
I don't think I will ever really feel very fond of baboons.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
making friends with librarians
Eek-- ugh, this internet cafe is overpriced-- two dollars an hour instead of one. geez.
Tiff is still in Western Province-- or else on a bus back from there to Nairobi. I at least hope she is coming back as I miss having a friend to travel round Nairobi with. I don't like being the sole centre of attention!
These past few days I have been attending a conference hosted by the Kenya Library Association in conjuntion with NIGD (something that starts with N, something that starts with I-- maybe institute, for global democracy) about how librarians can participate in the World Social Forum and record the information produced during the forum in Nairobi. I was invited as a rep of the Tax Justice Network as a result of an e-mail I sent to the organiser of the conference...in fact on the second day, I gave a presentation on the issues dealt with by TJN and also what our goals are for the Nairobi forum-- including launcing the TJN for Africa. There was a Q&A discussion session after my presentation which was really interesting. Among the audience was someone working in the Ugandan Ministry of Finance for example who shared how their ministry carries out tax education sessions with street hawkers. There were also questions relating to how librarians could help protect information related to public accounts when that was sure to be stepping on some VIP's toes...
In truth it sometimes makes me feel silly discussing some of the issues related to freedom of information with people who have been part of a struggle for increased freedom of information and association in their own countries. I learn as much from their stories. One of the presenters for instance had to go into exile from Kenya during Moi's crackdown in the 1980s as a result of his research in the Mau Mau movement. He actually authored a book which was launched last night. We went along to the book launch downt0wn where we were treated to speeches from a Cuban ambassador (i think), the asst minister for education and others (good speeches tho rather long, esp when after about half an hour or more, the minister said, "and finally....yes, and then in other words..." No. No other words-- you said it already! No more words needed...your point has more than made it across!
It still was fun to chat to people, esp the people I had met at the conference-- now half the people I know in Kenya are librarians! And i have invites to go to tea at various uni libraries around Nairobi. Ah, comme j'adore le chai!
Well, i have to dash downtown now to meet up with friends near the Hilton...hopefully I will find it! I am still not very familiar with downtown having only walked around it half a half a dozen times (er, yes, that would be about 3)!
Still...I will try to write more soon. I have not even mentioned my adventure out west in Nyanza and Western where I ate a most deliciously cooked fish by the shores of Lake Victoria (where people bring their cars and matatus to wash them!)...and watched the end of the Germany v Argentina match in a bar full, chock a block, of men. Needless to say, felt a leeetle out of place. But, I was given a prime seat near the front-- the seats were all in rows facing the tv-- and personally brought a Tusker beer by the barman Adam who had the most hilarious giggle. Adam liked to meet people from countries like mine and was rather anxious to know when we could meet again. still, for walking into such a male-dominated environment, i think i escaped lightly with only one demand for my phone number. plus germany won the match.
bueno...off i go to town. wish me luck.
xx
Tiff is still in Western Province-- or else on a bus back from there to Nairobi. I at least hope she is coming back as I miss having a friend to travel round Nairobi with. I don't like being the sole centre of attention!
These past few days I have been attending a conference hosted by the Kenya Library Association in conjuntion with NIGD (something that starts with N, something that starts with I-- maybe institute, for global democracy) about how librarians can participate in the World Social Forum and record the information produced during the forum in Nairobi. I was invited as a rep of the Tax Justice Network as a result of an e-mail I sent to the organiser of the conference...in fact on the second day, I gave a presentation on the issues dealt with by TJN and also what our goals are for the Nairobi forum-- including launcing the TJN for Africa. There was a Q&A discussion session after my presentation which was really interesting. Among the audience was someone working in the Ugandan Ministry of Finance for example who shared how their ministry carries out tax education sessions with street hawkers. There were also questions relating to how librarians could help protect information related to public accounts when that was sure to be stepping on some VIP's toes...
In truth it sometimes makes me feel silly discussing some of the issues related to freedom of information with people who have been part of a struggle for increased freedom of information and association in their own countries. I learn as much from their stories. One of the presenters for instance had to go into exile from Kenya during Moi's crackdown in the 1980s as a result of his research in the Mau Mau movement. He actually authored a book which was launched last night. We went along to the book launch downt0wn where we were treated to speeches from a Cuban ambassador (i think), the asst minister for education and others (good speeches tho rather long, esp when after about half an hour or more, the minister said, "and finally....yes, and then in other words..." No. No other words-- you said it already! No more words needed...your point has more than made it across!
It still was fun to chat to people, esp the people I had met at the conference-- now half the people I know in Kenya are librarians! And i have invites to go to tea at various uni libraries around Nairobi. Ah, comme j'adore le chai!
Well, i have to dash downtown now to meet up with friends near the Hilton...hopefully I will find it! I am still not very familiar with downtown having only walked around it half a half a dozen times (er, yes, that would be about 3)!
Still...I will try to write more soon. I have not even mentioned my adventure out west in Nyanza and Western where I ate a most deliciously cooked fish by the shores of Lake Victoria (where people bring their cars and matatus to wash them!)...and watched the end of the Germany v Argentina match in a bar full, chock a block, of men. Needless to say, felt a leeetle out of place. But, I was given a prime seat near the front-- the seats were all in rows facing the tv-- and personally brought a Tusker beer by the barman Adam who had the most hilarious giggle. Adam liked to meet people from countries like mine and was rather anxious to know when we could meet again. still, for walking into such a male-dominated environment, i think i escaped lightly with only one demand for my phone number. plus germany won the match.
bueno...off i go to town. wish me luck.
xx
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
ok....so just have to add one more thing. we leave the internet cafe, walk down the road, feeling slightly dazed after being in the stuffy cafe room for 2 hours...
and, on the corner, i see a familiar figure, wait, that's jessi....oh my god, JESSI VALENTINE!!!!! All three of us screamed and ran together, i was laughing till i cried, li'l' bit hysterical.
wow, so one of our bestest friends from atlanta that tiff and i went to school with is in kenya for about 3 months! and we had no idea.
we just got pizza and sat and chatted. oh life, so sweet sometimes.
p.s. i forgot to mention that i met the man i am going to marry yesterday. a french photographer from concern worldwide sitting on the stairs at KENWA. beautiful, truly beautiful. i am in love. of course he knows the marriage plans too. i think i even remember his name too.
and, on the corner, i see a familiar figure, wait, that's jessi....oh my god, JESSI VALENTINE!!!!! All three of us screamed and ran together, i was laughing till i cried, li'l' bit hysterical.
wow, so one of our bestest friends from atlanta that tiff and i went to school with is in kenya for about 3 months! and we had no idea.
we just got pizza and sat and chatted. oh life, so sweet sometimes.
p.s. i forgot to mention that i met the man i am going to marry yesterday. a french photographer from concern worldwide sitting on the stairs at KENWA. beautiful, truly beautiful. i am in love. of course he knows the marriage plans too. i think i even remember his name too.
a more sober update
Well, finally in an internet cafe so have some more time. Plus, you will be glad to hear, I have had no gin and tonics today.
At the moment, I am sending e-mails to all the contacts we made in Bamako during our seminars at the World Social Forum. The Tax Justice Network is planning to launch a network for Africa in 2007 and also is holding their annual research conference here before the WSF that will take place in January. So...I am hoping to check out the facilities that the University of Nairobi has on offer and also find some more contacts interested in participating.
It is good to be starting something that was part of the reason I came and also is something I have really been encouraged by over the last six months. I hope that our plans come to fruition-- the issues of capital flight and tax evasion really need to be talked about a whole lot more. Not that they are out of the limelight here in Kenya-- The Nation practically everyday has had a front page story concerning the tax evasion carried out by CharterHouse bank and Nakumatt, the biggest supermarket chain here (well, the only walmart style one actually with a tight grip on the market and expanding all over the place). Oh, and on the news yesterday, it was reported that another top Transparency International person quit...
Apart from that...yesterday we went to Thika, a drop-in centre that KENWA has about an hour outside the city proper. It is so good to be able to escape the pollution and drive through maize and tea fields. The centre at Thika had a nice feeling about it. There was ventilation in the kitchen for one so the whole place was not filled with smoke during cooking time, always a bonus when you have a building filled with people who have compromised immune systems and often TB infections.
First of all I watched the distribution of the ARV drugs--which are provided free to the government to those with CD4 counts below 200 and those who come regularly to pick them up. If people do not come every month or however often they are supposed to pick up their drugs, they are often struck off-- taking the drugs irregularly is the surest way to develop drug-resistant strains necessitating second or third line drugs.
Later we went out into the field. One particularly depressing case was a man in his late forties, paralysed on one half of his body and then with tumors constantly growing to block his vision, despite an operation back in February. He lives in a rented shack with his sister; god knows how they survive with neither of them regularly employed. When we arrived the front door was locked-- the community health worker escorting us told us that the sister was out. Whenever she leaves the house, which is most days, she padlocks all the doors from the outside, leaving her brother prisoner inside. We had to talk to him through a window, passing maize and medications in the same way. Crazy. It was so dark in that house!
Another house we visited was a little oasis of optimism-- sisters and brothers and other family members shared the bungalow, painted brightly and including one room which was filled with yellow armchairs around all four walls! One of the sisters was in bed, looking a bit wasted but apparently much healthier after having been on ARVs for a while. Her brother explained to me how they had found her at her husband's relatives house in a terrible condition and had brought her home to care for her. He said he had once also been in a similar condition-- he now looks so full of life. He bagged up some bananas and a pineapple for us to take as we left.
We also were given a huge sack of maize and bananas by an old lady who became HIV+ while nursing her younger daughter who died from the disease. I thought she would break carrying that huge sack! She only has two teeth on the top-- her canines. They look huge because all the other teeth have fallen out and her gums have shrunk. Ah, she had the best laugh.
I have been in this internet cafe far too long now though and am rather hungry...there is a nando's downstairs and a chic-inn (for all your greasy but tasty fried goods) as well as a pizza restaurant. yesterday we even treated ourselves to a visit to nairobi's exclusive coffee chain-- the nairobi java house. the mango juice is divine...
At the moment, I am sending e-mails to all the contacts we made in Bamako during our seminars at the World Social Forum. The Tax Justice Network is planning to launch a network for Africa in 2007 and also is holding their annual research conference here before the WSF that will take place in January. So...I am hoping to check out the facilities that the University of Nairobi has on offer and also find some more contacts interested in participating.
It is good to be starting something that was part of the reason I came and also is something I have really been encouraged by over the last six months. I hope that our plans come to fruition-- the issues of capital flight and tax evasion really need to be talked about a whole lot more. Not that they are out of the limelight here in Kenya-- The Nation practically everyday has had a front page story concerning the tax evasion carried out by CharterHouse bank and Nakumatt, the biggest supermarket chain here (well, the only walmart style one actually with a tight grip on the market and expanding all over the place). Oh, and on the news yesterday, it was reported that another top Transparency International person quit...
Apart from that...yesterday we went to Thika, a drop-in centre that KENWA has about an hour outside the city proper. It is so good to be able to escape the pollution and drive through maize and tea fields. The centre at Thika had a nice feeling about it. There was ventilation in the kitchen for one so the whole place was not filled with smoke during cooking time, always a bonus when you have a building filled with people who have compromised immune systems and often TB infections.
First of all I watched the distribution of the ARV drugs--which are provided free to the government to those with CD4 counts below 200 and those who come regularly to pick them up. If people do not come every month or however often they are supposed to pick up their drugs, they are often struck off-- taking the drugs irregularly is the surest way to develop drug-resistant strains necessitating second or third line drugs.
Later we went out into the field. One particularly depressing case was a man in his late forties, paralysed on one half of his body and then with tumors constantly growing to block his vision, despite an operation back in February. He lives in a rented shack with his sister; god knows how they survive with neither of them regularly employed. When we arrived the front door was locked-- the community health worker escorting us told us that the sister was out. Whenever she leaves the house, which is most days, she padlocks all the doors from the outside, leaving her brother prisoner inside. We had to talk to him through a window, passing maize and medications in the same way. Crazy. It was so dark in that house!
Another house we visited was a little oasis of optimism-- sisters and brothers and other family members shared the bungalow, painted brightly and including one room which was filled with yellow armchairs around all four walls! One of the sisters was in bed, looking a bit wasted but apparently much healthier after having been on ARVs for a while. Her brother explained to me how they had found her at her husband's relatives house in a terrible condition and had brought her home to care for her. He said he had once also been in a similar condition-- he now looks so full of life. He bagged up some bananas and a pineapple for us to take as we left.
We also were given a huge sack of maize and bananas by an old lady who became HIV+ while nursing her younger daughter who died from the disease. I thought she would break carrying that huge sack! She only has two teeth on the top-- her canines. They look huge because all the other teeth have fallen out and her gums have shrunk. Ah, she had the best laugh.
I have been in this internet cafe far too long now though and am rather hungry...there is a nando's downstairs and a chic-inn (for all your greasy but tasty fried goods) as well as a pizza restaurant. yesterday we even treated ourselves to a visit to nairobi's exclusive coffee chain-- the nairobi java house. the mango juice is divine...
Monday, June 26, 2006
a week's madness
Having had a week away from the internet, i have had many an idea about how to start this blog. but now i am just so grateful to be able to post after taking about half an hour trying to hack into my own blog. anyway, am here now, to confirm am still alive.
this past week was totally crazy...finishing university (still not sunk in) and then flying out to nairobi the following monday! My good friend tiff met me at the airport and then we went to the house where she has been staying for a month -- with a lady who used to volunteer with the organisation where we are also volunteering.
that same night we had dinner with a retired brigadier who we knew from zimbabwe when we were on our year out...first night in nairobi and i am eating at a swish restaurant, wine, homemade mozzarella, kingfish, good wine and coffee...the next day we headed to KENWA-- Kenyan Network for Women with AIDS. We went out to one of their drop-in centres in the field-- in a slum called Mathare.
We visited families to discuss their medications, their situations, and just to talk generally, to give them hope i think, though i was just listening; i think i was still on auto-pilot. there were about six of us visiting either single parents or whole families. we would crowd into their one room cramped house, welcomed to sit on the sofa or armchair that was somehow fitted in. normally this was opposite the bed where often the patient would be lying, with the lace curtain covering the bed lifted up. at the end of the visit, there is always a prayer said. the second day in the field it was my day to pray-- i have not prayed aloud in years, not that i have prayed silently very often...
there is so much to say, i wrote down so many details in my journal, planning what to say to people. typically now here i sit, slightly drunk from multiple g&t's and glasses of wine, at our friend the brigadier's house out in karen (named after the author of out of africa)...and everything merges together, flashes of sewage in the slums (what happens when it rains and the grey water floods into the houses?), then memories of trying to find a home for an orphan who has spent two years on the streets, only to have his own grandfather reject him and tell us to go, leave...
i am more and more struck by the enormity of everything i encounter. when you are small, your world is limited i think, well mine at least to a point. i mean, yes, i saw slums, opposite my elementary school, i saw beggars, lepers knocking on our car windows, but...now it's different, slowly you realise you are the same as anyone else, fighting for the good life. and being here, everything is so huge. while i sit here in one of the most beautiful houses i have ever seen, that woman we saw the other day is sleeping with her children. we bathed her the other day, leaning her forward to wipe her bottom as she can no longer move to go to the bathroom. in one city, so many stories, so many lives, such a range of problems and miserable sufferings. you end up being caught between your cynicism and your need to do something. you want to care for something, make it simple. but you know nothing will every really be that simple.
well i am not sure how much this entry has been informative and how much it has just been an opportunity for me to ramble on. it is good just to have the opportunity to describe what is happening as here your senses are so overwhelmed. my dreams have been crazy, of course with the occasional dream that mentions exams (yikes, two weeks now till results? they feel like another world away), but also with flashes from each day's scenes.
mzungu, mzungu! white person, white person. apparently derived from the swahili verb for 'to wander around aimlessly, like a mad person', similar to the noun for hangover. this gets called out to you constantly here, especially in the slum areas where white people are a rare sight (i made a baby cry even, just by my white skin and a shy wave!). occasionally when i am in town, i feel like replying, "No shit, Sherlock." But most of the time you accept someone just reminding you that you are white. in case i forget. and it does make me laugh anyway.
then there are the matatus...and their blaring rnb music. yesterday we were treated to the delightful melody of "oh, yes, fucking me now, fucking me now...' and so on. and the vehicle even had a tv screen where we could see the action....matatus if you don't know are minivan taxis that travel all over the city. if you know where to catch them and where you are going, you're set. though knowing what number to catch also helps. as each one stops, the conductor (ie guy who opens and shuts the door while half hanging out the door) yells something or other. most of the time it is as if they are advertising their destination, just in case at the last minute you changed your mind as to where you were going!
ok, i have to end here. this is scrappy, am blaming it on the gin. if you believe me, i say asante sana. and finally, a wee shoutout, happy birthday baby brother!
xx
ps for those of you who knew the plans before, we are no longer going down south. we'll stay in kenya and tanzanzia (mainly zanzibar je pense). so no worries (that's for you padre).
this past week was totally crazy...finishing university (still not sunk in) and then flying out to nairobi the following monday! My good friend tiff met me at the airport and then we went to the house where she has been staying for a month -- with a lady who used to volunteer with the organisation where we are also volunteering.
that same night we had dinner with a retired brigadier who we knew from zimbabwe when we were on our year out...first night in nairobi and i am eating at a swish restaurant, wine, homemade mozzarella, kingfish, good wine and coffee...the next day we headed to KENWA-- Kenyan Network for Women with AIDS. We went out to one of their drop-in centres in the field-- in a slum called Mathare.
We visited families to discuss their medications, their situations, and just to talk generally, to give them hope i think, though i was just listening; i think i was still on auto-pilot. there were about six of us visiting either single parents or whole families. we would crowd into their one room cramped house, welcomed to sit on the sofa or armchair that was somehow fitted in. normally this was opposite the bed where often the patient would be lying, with the lace curtain covering the bed lifted up. at the end of the visit, there is always a prayer said. the second day in the field it was my day to pray-- i have not prayed aloud in years, not that i have prayed silently very often...
there is so much to say, i wrote down so many details in my journal, planning what to say to people. typically now here i sit, slightly drunk from multiple g&t's and glasses of wine, at our friend the brigadier's house out in karen (named after the author of out of africa)...and everything merges together, flashes of sewage in the slums (what happens when it rains and the grey water floods into the houses?), then memories of trying to find a home for an orphan who has spent two years on the streets, only to have his own grandfather reject him and tell us to go, leave...
i am more and more struck by the enormity of everything i encounter. when you are small, your world is limited i think, well mine at least to a point. i mean, yes, i saw slums, opposite my elementary school, i saw beggars, lepers knocking on our car windows, but...now it's different, slowly you realise you are the same as anyone else, fighting for the good life. and being here, everything is so huge. while i sit here in one of the most beautiful houses i have ever seen, that woman we saw the other day is sleeping with her children. we bathed her the other day, leaning her forward to wipe her bottom as she can no longer move to go to the bathroom. in one city, so many stories, so many lives, such a range of problems and miserable sufferings. you end up being caught between your cynicism and your need to do something. you want to care for something, make it simple. but you know nothing will every really be that simple.
well i am not sure how much this entry has been informative and how much it has just been an opportunity for me to ramble on. it is good just to have the opportunity to describe what is happening as here your senses are so overwhelmed. my dreams have been crazy, of course with the occasional dream that mentions exams (yikes, two weeks now till results? they feel like another world away), but also with flashes from each day's scenes.
mzungu, mzungu! white person, white person. apparently derived from the swahili verb for 'to wander around aimlessly, like a mad person', similar to the noun for hangover. this gets called out to you constantly here, especially in the slum areas where white people are a rare sight (i made a baby cry even, just by my white skin and a shy wave!). occasionally when i am in town, i feel like replying, "No shit, Sherlock." But most of the time you accept someone just reminding you that you are white. in case i forget. and it does make me laugh anyway.
then there are the matatus...and their blaring rnb music. yesterday we were treated to the delightful melody of "oh, yes, fucking me now, fucking me now...' and so on. and the vehicle even had a tv screen where we could see the action....matatus if you don't know are minivan taxis that travel all over the city. if you know where to catch them and where you are going, you're set. though knowing what number to catch also helps. as each one stops, the conductor (ie guy who opens and shuts the door while half hanging out the door) yells something or other. most of the time it is as if they are advertising their destination, just in case at the last minute you changed your mind as to where you were going!
ok, i have to end here. this is scrappy, am blaming it on the gin. if you believe me, i say asante sana. and finally, a wee shoutout, happy birthday baby brother!
xx
ps for those of you who knew the plans before, we are no longer going down south. we'll stay in kenya and tanzanzia (mainly zanzibar je pense). so no worries (that's for you padre).
Sunday, June 18, 2006
The Start
This is the beginning of my travel blog...designed so that mass e-mails will no longer fill inboxes. I head out to Kenya tomorrow night and will try and post here any news...I will have internet access quite frequently so contact me that way.
I say travel blog but am not sure when the travel stops and when I am 'home'. where am i living next year again? anyone know of any apartments in DC?! or jobs for that matter?
Today nothing much has happened and I am about to fall over from exhaustion so will leave this wee post as the beginning...
I say travel blog but am not sure when the travel stops and when I am 'home'. where am i living next year again? anyone know of any apartments in DC?! or jobs for that matter?
Today nothing much has happened and I am about to fall over from exhaustion so will leave this wee post as the beginning...
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