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.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
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...
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