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.