Salamu Kenya!

Wao wapo Shuleni! - They're in school!

2008-04-09T17:28:00.007+03:00

Mapelu, Milia and Mumeita (the middle three boys with Jennie above) are triplets. The custom in Maasai culture is to separate them at birth to lessen the burden on family. But baba Kutel refused. He saw a special bond between the three and decided that their lives would be harder alone. He and mama raised them to work hard, study harder, and enjoy life. But the family could not raise the funds to pay for secondary school. Sending one would have been unfair but raising funds for three was an obstacle even a Harambee could not meet.

Last year they received letters of acceptance to secondary school due to their achievement on the nationwide entrance examinations. But given a lack of funds, they were unable to attend. In my opinion most kids would have called it quits. These three are different.

They attended primary school for another year, studied harder, and increased their test scores. This may not seem so amazing but, given that their school is a wreck, voluntarily going back to repeat a grade displays a willingness to succeed that is nearly astonishing. Jennie taught their form 8 health and science curriculum and noticed immediately that they were enthusiastic students. They always spoke up with questions and participated even in the face of embarrassment.

They frequented our home, brought us water when there was none, and helped us build a garden. They tutored us in Kiswahili and even taught me some Maasai. Most of all, their kindness and presence made us feel like welcome members of the family in a place where we had no one else. When I say that we miss Kenya, it's mostly because we miss them.

These are great kids that really deserve a chance to better their lives and those of their family. They never once acted as though it was coming to them. They had no reason to believe the opportunity would present itself and worked in sheer defiance of that fact.

So many thanks to all of you that contributed. Together we have sent three young men to secondary school and increased their chance of success immeasurably (or is it measurably). Giving these kids an opportunity is quite possibly the most important and fulfilling thing Jennie and I have ever been a part of.

As we get photos and letters from them we will post. And as always thanks for reading.

Rough Guide to Kenya

2008-03-13T16:52:00.003+03:00

Richard Trillo over at Rough Guides picked up a piece I wrote. My description of a few hotels and a hiking trip in Kitui Kenya is up on their rough guide blog. The Rough Guide to Kenya was an invaluable resource during our time in country.

Click Here to have a look.

They supplement their guides with an online travel blog service featuring local happenings, updated information, and plenty of great stories about traveling experiences and misadventures. Definitely worth scouring while planning your next excursion.

The main URL for Kenya is http://theroughguidetokenya.blogspot.com/

Many other countries have blogs that can be found with a few keystrokes in a Google search. Now enough already with the computer, shut it off and go somewhere!

Chasing Hemingway's Ghost

2008-02-27T04:00:00.013+03:00

We are giggling uncontrollably at the mountains of freshly made deserts only feet from our table. An assortment of ice cream flavors is wonderfully garnished with cookies, bonbons and fresh fruit. Behind us a chef prepares stir-fry wearing a tall white hat. He tosses cubed steak into a wok that flames a brilliant blue with the emulsion of flavored oils. At some point a waiter arrives with our drinks—two sweating glasses of perfection with ice cubes that we haven’t even dreamed about having these past nine months. It’s all I can do to stop from erupting into fits of awkward laughter.

Having taken a few days to indulge in a safari we feel as though we have stumbled onto the other side of the planet. Our experience of rural Kenya has been of people raising goats and wearing sandals cut out of old tires. Our rural Maasai home is a world apart from metropolitan Nairobi and the well-trodden track that spirits tourists past in Land Rovers. The Maasai of our world are a culture of people strewn across the Kenyan-Tanzanian border; former nomads that have reluctantly adapted to modern life in a rapidly changing nation. This world and that of tourism only intersect through the window of passing vehicles and at dusty roadside curio shops. Sadly these interactions are so manufactured that they rob tourists of the chance to know these people. The Maasai are genuine, kind, uproariously funny, mischievous and willing to give you their proverbial shirt.

Even with the advance of modernity the Maasai have maintained traditions that make me feel transported to a lost time. Their singing is hauntingly beautiful. They live in homes made of dung and mud and they still wrap themselves in traditional cloth. Standing amongst dancing mamas bedecked with beaded necklaces, cleanly shaven heads and brightly shining faces I am inspired. Their strength and cohesion is amazing, and yet, it is mitigated by a humility and childlike happiness. These people eek out an existence in defiance of their incredibly bleak surroundings, and their unflagging optimism may be a major ingredient to their tragically iconic status as Kenya’s most famous, if not marginalized, tribe.

At times it feels as though we are in a zoo. Tourists pass and take photos of us as we hike out of the bush. Clearly there are two realities that run parallel here. There is the tourist world and the world that millions of rural people inhabit. More to the point, there is Kenya, and then there are places in Kenya that tourists go. As a country, Kenya is a complicated place where business minded Kikuyu, Asian traders, Swahili people and rural Maasai must all be governed equitably, and with deference to their particular climatic, religious and cultural needs.

Kenya is a dizzying array of cultures that few people can grasp through a window and a sad testament to how people oft times take a back seat to big game and hunting lodges. But this is not a new phenomenon. This is the legacy of decades, left behind from colonial rule and the haphazard visitation of the rich and famous. There exists an entire sub-genre of literature dedicated to the imprint Kenya has had on its high-profile visitors. The list includes ex-presidents and movie stars, and even Hemingway in the twilight of his life.

Hemingway loved the sunrise and the way that a hot bath soothed his feet after a long day tracking. He described it all in vivid detail, and thankfully, very little of it has changed. The Giraffe still amble into stands of acacia to feed amongst wildebeest and dikdik. Massive families of Elephant still make their way majestically to the cold waters of Kilimanjaro’s glacial runoff. And decades later camera wielding tourists can still enjoy Observation hill with its dramatic view of the Pleistocene hills.

Hemingway also loved to drink, and this led us on one particular evening to find a small bar bearing his name in Loitokitok. I have no idea if he ever graced the structure with his presence but his pictures are everywhere smiling next to the carcass of some formerly living and beautiful animal. The room has a decidedly friendly atmosphere and huge bay windows at the back. A set of spotlights are focused on a feeding station for nocturnal animals where they place leftovers from the evening’s meal. Jennie and I were the only ones there, and so we ordered a drink and chose the two best leather chairs next to the window.

Our site is arid, but has the capacity to support agriculture. And so, in an attempt to understand why so few people plant crops, we decided to start a garden and suffer through the drought stricken season alongside our neighbors. We started a large compost pile which attracted hyenas to feed in the evening. They make an ominous whooping sound that rolls across the plains and shudders up your spine. I grew up watching nature programs where hyenas stole from lions and snapped the necks of small prey with their powerful jaws. They are ugly and resourceful buggers with a creepy laugh and an appetite for meat. I sat up many nights worried that they would find a way into the house as we slept, maybe taking a limb or two before leaving us in terror. Thankfully that never materialized and as we sat staring out the windows on the feeding scene below we learned why.

Several large hyenas had gathered on the periphery of the spotlights reach. In the middle was a large boulder covered with table scraps upon which several house cats sat feeding. In a most pitiful display the hyenas, far from being vicious and predatory, were skulking in the shadows watching ten pound house cats devour chunks of chicken and steak. Any movement towards the food brought a stern rebuke from the claws of these otherwise domesticated fur balls.

We watched the drama unfold, sipping wine from the comfort of plush leather chairs as a group of German tourists wandered in ushered by a guide dressed in Maasai cloth. After they were settled the guide went behind the bar to prepare drinks. I wandered over, in search of more wine, and greeted him with a traditional Maasai saying. He coolly dismissed this in exceptionally clear English by telling me that he was Akamba. Now, I know that people in theme parks are actors, and that the medieval manor is not, in fact, filled with Elizabethan Englishmen, but I was somehow taken with the idea that this man was Maasai. And in thinking about the situation I began to realize how manufactured the whole tourist experience really was. We could have been in Arizona or New Jersey because the bar, named after an American writer, featuring Italian leather seats, British lagers, and New Zealand wines, was a showcase for domesticated animals and their nocturnal hand-feeding habits.

Hemingway’s baths were heated and drawn for him by servants. Men carried his gun, cooked his food, erected his living quarters, and even washed his clothes, completely separating him from the reality of rural Kenyan life. The man saw a beautiful country, but he totally missed out on the actual life of some amazing people—an eerily similar viewpoint from which modern day tourists view things more than 60 years on. I’m not advocating that safaris be turned into poverty tourism where tourists are routed through shanty towns to learn about how poor people live; that would be ridiculous and potentially immoral.

What I am saying, is that there is so much more to see given a little imagination and patience. Go and experience a safari, but, while you’re at it, take a few days and live amongst the people. Ride public transportation, stay in a cheap hotel, buy food from the roadside, take chai at a strangers home (they will invite you) and haggle for clothing at an open air market—you won’t regret it. It will bring you closer to the people in a way that organized tourism cannot accomplish. A good safari can redefine your view of a great vacation, but, I believe, a good trip through Kenya as it really is, will redefine your view of the world. That may be both the most cliché and most incredibly true thing I have written in my short time on this planet.

Hemingway can keep his guns and his trophies, and all of his widely acclaimed novels too. For all his perceptiveness, he didn’t see Kenya. He saw the animals and the trees instead. He lamented leaving the eerily fast equatorial sunsets and the snow capped peak of Kilimanjaro. But he missed the strength and the beauty of the regions people. He missed their wisdom and their greatest attributes—humility and optimism in the face of crushing poverty and marginalization. I feel like I’m chasing his ghost everywhere I go, and I want to tell him to look again.

The News

2008-02-03T21:34:00.001+03:00

I hate that news outlets are still calling Raila Odinga the “opposition candidate.” Was Al Gore ever called the opposition candidate when he and bush had a close and protracted election? Was the Democratic Party referred to as the opposition party in 2006 while trying to unseat Republican law makers? Like Odinga, Gore represented the other half (or more) of the electorate. A typical news headline might read “The opposition leader met with Kofi Annan this morning.” It makes him sound like he emerged from the jungle to have a meeting in his combat fatigues.

Continuing to label Odinga as the “opposition candidate” perpetuates a long held belief in African political history: movements are not to be taken seriously, but seen as struggles for power that are devoid of meaning. The “opposition” represents more than half of the Kenyan electorate and should be given the respect they earned through a strong win in the Parliament. ODM have proven to be the overwhelming choice of the people, not some marginalized faction. Furthermore, continuing to reduce ODM to second rate status plays directly into the hands of an already powerful and oppressive regime.

Jennie and I emailed with a friend today, and he wrote that “People believe their current president is having people assassinated." But it doesn’t sound quite as bad when the press reports it as “opposition member killed.” It makes it sound as though someone who was in opposition to the status quo was killed in the name of keeping peace, when in actual fact a political assassination occurred in the name of clinging to an increasingly tenuous position of power.

My opinion is that an “opposition” label is more befitting Kibaki. Call this an argument over semantics, but I think it has merit. He has made political protest in the country illegal and life-threatening. He gagged the media, leading to cartoon reruns instead of coverage that may have saved Kenyan lives. And he has refused to negotiate terms which would end the crisis. The only opposition I am seeing is from Kibaki in reference to a free and fair democratic process.

Kenyan politics have matured and the international press needs to find a new vernacular to describe them. The violence that has ensued has been a result of the oppression and crushing poverty endured by millions. Marginalized people rise up when things become untenable. We need to stop seeing political violence through colonial eyes, and realize that people have a legitimate beef with what has transpired. Kibaki’s theft has sent the message to millions of voters that they do not matter. It’s as though he ripped up their ballots and threw them back in their collective face. Their anger is understandable, not irrational. Unfortunately, the outcome has been deadly, and I think it is the responsibility of the international press not to feed this monster, but accurately portray it.

AP google

Reuters

Canadien news

BBC newsclip

Returning

2008-01-25T09:31:00.000+03:00

Nobody was looking as we got off the plane. Nobody stared as I knelt to tie my shoelaces in the hallway. And nobody cared to notice as I hefted our bags from the carousel. In Orinie every move we made was watched and analyzed. Every item bought was a communication; every person talked to was some sort of political maneuver. Jennie and I were celebrities in our village. People liked to recount what they had observed us do and then ask a litany of questions regarding purpose and outcome. When you enter the Peace Corps they tell you about being in a fishbowl, a feeling that was decidedly absent now that we were back stateside. I'm not complaining, its just novel not to be gawked at.

Stan and Carol met us at Standiford Field with sympathy in their eyes. Sitting amongst a pile of luggage, we were still caked with dirt from our harried departure. I played football on Friday. The evening sky was clear and the snows of Kilimanjaro were visible in the distance. Saturday we got the word and started packing our things. Sunday we said our goodbyes and spent all day getting to Nairobi (at that point we believed our flight was Wednesday evening). Monday we got to the Peace Corps offices and were told we would fly out that night. And so after more than a full days worth of probing from the medical team, and endless paperwork from the admin staff, we piled into a cab, slogged back to the hotel, gathered our things, and were whisked off to the airport past the few remaining jacaranda and matatus we would see for quite some time.

Peace Corps sent us home with a $16 per diem, meant to last a full 24 hours of international travel, in response to which a fellow volunteer wryly opined, “It’s a nice round number.” While in service we got a small stipend for food and the necessities of daily life. This was paid through a bank account Peace Corps arranged. As part of the leaving process we were required to close these accounts. And so prior to getting our sixteen bucks, we were driven to the bank and asked to pay a 500 shilling per person account closure fee. I made a theatrical display of ripping the checkbooks from their jackets and retorted that I was keeping them for my trouble. I was tired and hungry, and really impressed with the clerk’s ability to ignore my flourish despite the cackling line of customers I had won over.

The medical staff was in rare form as we processed out. The nurses gabbed about the election troubles and other countries they had evacuated. They named off a shocking list of countries and sighed heavily over Kenya’s current state. One of the ladies actually got a text message the day before Kibaki’s swearing in. Her friend watched them pre-tape the ceremony and felt betrayed enough to send messages about it to colleagues. Maybe it’s a lesson for aspiring dictators. You can clamp down on the media, and bribe officials, but in this modern age, you can’t silence a country full of cell phone owners.

Our flight was re-routed south to Dar es Salaam before heading back north to Amsterdam. Still clutching my $16 dollars, I decided to invest in a Heineken and one stylish eye patch for sleeping. At this point airline peanuts and beer was a luxury I was happy to indulge, and really guilty for having the chance to do so.

By all accounts, our leaving was justified, but that doesn’t make sleeping with that decision any easier. Leaving a troubled country feels like kicking someone when they’re down. The peanuts and beer did nothing to quiet my conscience, and so I tried talking to passengers around me. Unfortunately I met eyes with a missionary who had been in country for a week. I told him that several of our friends were in western Kenya when the rioting started and had to be evacuated by helicopter. To this he replied that he had been through western and thought it was “no big deal.” I could have puked on him, and may have if the embarrassment of being accidentally associated with him hadn’t made me turn away first. I descended into the logic of a 3 year old and decided that my eye patch made me invisible.

We landed and went through customs in Minneapolis. The officer who looked over our passports asked why we had been in country. “Peace Corps” we replied in the stereo speak that couples acquire after 20 years of marriage, and/or a year of isolated Peace Corps service. He handed back our passports and said “was it everything you dreamed of?” Jennie nearly lost her hand while trying to pet a customs dog, and then broke out into a violent nosebleed which stopped only moments before leaving the tarmac for Louisville. By the time we found Stan and Carol, we must have looked pretty ragged.

We have returned home abruptly. Things in Kenya have not been good, and we have come home under a status of interrupted service, which means we can go back if the situation permits. Regardless, I hope that you will stick with us. I have a fair amount of material squirreled away in notebooks that I will post given the time and electricity.

As always, thanks for reading.

Some days in December

2008-01-06T01:06:00.001+03:00

For the holidays and election time, we were invited to stay in Karen at a friend’s home while he and his wife were away. Among other things there is a Rothschild giraffe rescue, an orphaned elephant reserve, and an abundance of colonial era relics that add to Kenya’s interesting, if not unique, brand of African culture. Most importantly, we were eager to soak up all the electricity and hot showers we could in a week’s time.

Quite a world apart from our site, Karen could be a small British village. Besides the enormous, vaguely Mediterranean mansions, the roads are small and walled by thick hedge. I am taken back to my childhood. My mother, still a green-card holding British citizen, brought me to the family farm in Ockbrook every summer as a child. We would whiz through hedge-lined corridors in some rented bomber, or pass thousands of small homesteads nestled in greenery dotting the English countryside on the train into Derbyshire. Taking a cab home from the veritable American atmosphere of Nakumatt (a Walmartesque superstore) I am struck by how reminiscent the journey is of the British Midlands. I could be seven again, humming along to pop music, buckled into the wrong side of the car, and gazing at the monotony of the impenetrable hedgerows.

Thursday, December 27th, 2007 – Election Day

Outside observers have rubber stamped the election proceedings as overwhelmingly free and fair. In the space of 24 hours 70% of the Kenyan electorate has showed up to perform their civic duty. This is almost double the amount that American presidential aspirants can expect, and a monumental achievement for such a fledgling democracy. Consider that Mwai Kibaki is only the third president in Kenyan history. He was born and educated before independence. And he was one of the drafters of Kenya’s first constitution.

Friday, December 28th - Our two year anniversary

We start our day with a long run through the neighborhoods of Karen. A thick foggy blanket sits over the hills making it feel insulated and quiet. We notice with building curiosity that the roads are empty. It’s our second anniversary, so we decide to enjoy an evening in the city.

Overwhelmingly we are struck by the complete lack of activity given that it’s a Friday afternoon. We skirt the Kibera slum on Langata road—the streets are empty of vehicles, and the sidewalks are devoid of pedestrians. Everybody seems to have gotten the memo except for us. There are no men on bicycles or mamas with shopping bags balanced on their heads, and there is a decided absence of noisy youth.

Upon reaching Uhuru highway we turn left without stopping. The normally congested route is lacking in human presence. On workdays Uhuru Park, Nairobi’s central meeting place, fills with people enjoying sunlit benches or napping under towering Eucalyptus. But today, an eerie silence prevails. No hawkers or people in suits; no soda carts or maintenance staff; just empty space and political leaflets. We make the turn towards city center on Haile Selassie, and finally a few people are visible. There is no traffic at all, and it makes the four lane barricaded route seem like a marathon in which we have finished dead last. The lack of people, in a normally crowded city is ominous.

We wander into a supermarket where the workers anxiously crowd around a television monitor blaring results of the parliamentary seats, but still no presidential outcome. The bakery staff is setting up for the next day and heatedly exchanging ideas. Their Swahili is mixed with Kikuyu, a slang referred to as Cheng. I can only catch parts of the conversation, but it seems that several prominent MPs have been ousted. “A future without corrupt officials is still an uncertain future” says one man, waving a gloved finger at his bread making coworkers. “Now, will you take your bread sliced bwana?”

After dinner and a movie we arrange for a cab and head home. In the pitch of a Nairobi evening we pass onto a section of the Gichuru road lined by Jacaranda. The trees make an impenetrable tunnel, blotting out the stars in an eerie, sleepy-hollow sort of way. Posters cover the lower trunks. The orange and white of the Orange Democratic Movement (Odinga’s opposition party) are most numerous, with some blue Party of National Unity (Kibaki’s chosen party) posters intermixed. The polls have long since closed, but there are still no results.

I discuss with the driver, a young Kikuyu, how the president is fairing. What does he think the future holds given that the incumbent, also a Kikuyu, may lose? Current polls put him almost a million votes back from Odinga, a Luo and former political prisoner of the Moi era.

He thinks that legacy has a lot to do with the current situation. Kibaki has been in government since independence, and shares close political ties with the previous administration of President Daniel arap Moi. Power is shared by a select few, its borderline aristocracy, and according to our cabby, it has welled up in the non-Kikuyu consciousness as something to oppose. The driver worries that it will again marginalize the Kikuyu, the historical implications of which are not lost on him. And he makes an interesting connection as well.

Wealth, in his estimation, curbs civic action. “Your people probably don’t vote because they are rich” he says as we round Nakumatt junction, a bastion of Asian and Kikuyu owned consumerism. “My people have gained wealth and power through politics, something they stand to lose if they don’t get out and vote. All these businesses are here because of political connections, other tribes see this and feel resentful—they have reasons to vote.” He is young, and doesn’t feel that he votes along tribal lines, but he quickly follows by outlining why voting based on tribe is essential.

Saturday, December 29th

The country is still waiting for results in the presidential election, but the Electoral Commission of Kenya (ECK) says it needs more time. Things are degenerating here quickly. To the south of us in Ngong, people are raising homes and killing each other with pangas. To the northeast of us in the Kibera slum, armed groups are engaged in small-scale warfare—poor Kenyan against poor Kenyan. The electoral commission has delayed issuing the results to the detriment of stability. The opposition party ODM is saying that the substantial lead they had is disappearing under the cloak of corruption as the incumbent PNU candidate catches up and, according to some sources, overtakes him.

Sunday, December 30th,

I walk into the small town center and chat with some of the merchants. And after procuring bread, tomatoes and Safaricom I head back home. Upon arriving, we decide to order pizza. I call to order and a distraught voice comes over the other end. The accent is clearly Indian, and he is sending his staff home “right now” as there is prone to be violence. “Did you hear? They have announced Kibaki the winner. I can’t believe it! Wherever you are” he says breathlessly, “stay there and don’t go outside, it’s going to be a very bad night.” He hangs up leaving me staring at the phone.

Renewed chaos has broken out in many parts of the country as the incumbent is announced to have won a second term. This is a monumental comeback considering two days ago he was almost a million votes down to the opposition candidate. Within an hour of the announcement Kibaki suspends nearly all media coverage of the elections, and swears-in for a second term. A stunned silence seems to follow Kibaki’s hasty swearing in ceremony, and the normally scheduled news hour gives way to cartoon re-runs.

Monday, December 31st – New Years Eve

Our food supplies running short, we decided to venture a little further than the kiosks in the center, but there was no transport. Rioters have been turning Kikuyu owned matatus into rolling Bunsen burners, leaving the transportation sector fearful and walking. In light of this, we called a cab and asked him to drive fast.

We arrived at Nakumatt just as they were closing the big metal doors. Apparently they were keeping them closed while groups of customers shopped, opening for successive groups every half hour. I have never personally attended one of those midnight super sales, but the bonanza type atmosphere upon the next door opening was quite ridiculous. We watched as rich Kenyans, expatriates and tourists trampled children, cut lines and swore at the more modest native Kenyans. Maybe wealth wears the same face the world over—the best dressed and the worst behaved. Or maybe we are still reeling from how different this world is to our site. Arriving at an ultra-modern supermarket after months of living in the bush was particularly jarring, and the brusque self-importance of the shoppers only insulted our senses further.

On getting inside we noticed that people were taking this civil unrest really seriously. The normally overstocked abundance of Nakumatt had been reduced to a ragged collection of damaged items strewn about on empty shelves and dirty floors. There were shopping carts everywhere filled with rotting produce, meat, and dairy products abandoned by impatient customers. The few remaining eggs were broken, the produce section was barren, and there had been a run on water and toilet paper. The apocalyptic state of one of East Africa’s best stores begged the question, what is it like in other parts of the country?

On the ride home, our cab driver acted oblivious as to why people were unhappy with the election results. I told him that as a neutral observer I only wanted the country to find a way through this mess. But he seemed much more dismayed that people would “play stupid with police and lose their lives,” as though government soldiers were crocodiles just waiting by the riverbed for an easy meal. “You can’t blame the soldiers he said.” But I wonder if he had considered blaming the men behind the soldiers that may have robbed the people of their right to a fair electoral process. I’m sure we don’t fully understand. I just hope that he acknowledges that he doesn’t either.

As I am writing this, Odinga has planned to swear-in as the people’s president—a move which the Kibaki administration has said will be construed as a coup attempt, and will deal with in a swift and militaristic way. This does not seem to be headed towards a speedy resolution. Frankly, it seems like the country we have come to love is screeching to a halt before our eyes.

Jumapili

2007-12-23T18:15:00.000+03:00

We hiked the two exhausting hours out to the main road, dropped our luggage, and began looking for transportation into Kajiado. Looking north, I noticed a man laboring up the hill toward us on a mountain bike, loaded down with gear and towing a sizeable trailer. I turned to Jennie and said, in rather Kenyan fashion, “Look, it’s a mzungu!” Adrian was riding his bicycle from Switzerland to Cape Town South Africa. He had ridden down through France and Spain, caught a boat to Morocco, and rode his way through West Africa, stopping in Timbuktu for a night (because everybody has heard of Timbuktu), through the Central African Republic, and then finally down into Nairobi. He had spent a few months in Nairobi recuperating and touring around with a friend, and then had set out, the day before we saw him, headed south for the Tanzanian border. We spent about ten minutes with him before a matatu showed up and finished the conversation, but we did get a website address http://www.to-adi.ch/

I would say that this type of chance meeting is odd, because it is by my standards at home in the U.S. But for some reason, this is an altogether typical event in our lives here. Okay, it’s not everyday we meet someone on such an epic journey, but considering that he had, not ten minutes earlier, passed a Japanese man headed for Cairo, coming from Cape Town, gives you an idea of what I mean. Sometimes being a Peace Corps volunteer fits into what policemen have told me, “hours of boredom punctuated by moments of shear adrenaline.” We aren’t getting shot at, but things are a bit more interesting than a normal morning commute.

And so we set out for a Nairobi Christmas in our matatu, thinking of how amazing it must be to ride a bike that far. And it wasn’t long before we passed a small, determined looking Japanese cyclist, gritting his teeth under the strain of a rather long hill.

Leaving Kajiado to the north we encounter Isiniya and Kitengela. Western sensibilities would lead you to the conclusion that these areas are on a dangerous decline, but they are actually quite friendly cosmopolitan intermediaries between the bustle of Nairobi and the quiet border towns to the south. In both towns, litter covers the main thoroughfare and muddy side roads, where construction is happening faster than should be expected or allowed. Except for the gangs of roaming goats, nobody is working on trash removal as the local economy explodes. New businesses spring up almost daily, creating strange juxtapositions. One brand-new supermarket in Kitengela is particularly jarring with its bright white flooring and fluorescent lights, whirring checkout lines and expansive isles. From this paragon of consumerism, patrons step onto a muddy, trash laden embankment where hawkers and touts raise a frenzied din.

At some point, our route takes us over the Athi River as it winds its way out of Nairobi national park. One of the muddy shorelines serves as a car wash currently, which due to its profitability, seems to persist despite government fines and the arrest of its operators. The oil slicked river runs out of the park ostensibly saving the rare animals contained within from poisoning but leaving the regions human population in a rather awkward fix. I notice that ironically, one of the areas largest tree and plant nurseries is located across the street, sporting freakishly large banana trees, and enough bougainvillea to choke the Charles twice over.

After Kitengela, you reach the Athi river junction and the main Mombasa highway which runs into Nairobi. The highway is getting a much needed face lift at present which serves to both anger and excite matatu drivers who see it as an especially perfect opportunity to drive recklessly. The few parts gravel, and busted tarmac detour is an unhinged matatu driver’s paradise. Women line the road selling food cooked in shabbily erected tin enclosures. Hawkers wander in the middle of traffic selling T-shirts, auto accessories and anything else that can be passed through a car window quickly. Also intermixed are surveyors, construction workers, livestock from god knows where, and an assortment of hangers-on. This eclectic mix crowds the ill-defined route where drivers commonly use the shoulders for passing and avoiding crater-like potholes. I sit in the back of our matatu, somewhere between nausea and hysteria, staring at a sticker that says “don’t just sit there while he drives crazy.”

I just sit there, wincing every time a pedestrian narrowly escapes being struck, or livestock avoid becoming road kill. I have no idea how the whole thing works, but I have yet to witness any carnage. Through a seemingly intricate barrage of hand signals and traditional traffic laws, everyone seems to get where they are going while narrowly avoiding death, transacting business, or chatting away on cell phones. I just hope that no one notices my white knuckles and feverishly sweating forehead. I look funny enough as it is, perched on the tiny seat, clutching my luggage and swearing I will never again board another vehicle with the words “Thug Life” stenciled across the windshield. For now, squished between a business man and a goat, I dream of a hot shower, electricity, and an ice cold beverage which is after all worth risking your neck for. I can only imagine the stories Adrian will have to tell about encountering drivers during his trek, and I just hope that he makes it in one piece.

Maisha yako, Chaguo lako

2007-12-12T23:23:00.000+03:00

A cold breeze blew through the pitch as players anxiously perched along the penalty box, side-by-side with spectators. For the moment the ball was motionless—the goalie poised in anticipation and the shooter nervously eyeing his shoelaces. A whistle broke the silence and the shooter lunged at the ball, shuffling his feet before striking at its middle with a laced arch. The goalie dove right, guessing at the shooters direction, and for the briefest of moments the village was captivated.

They had come together to acknowledge a day and celebrate life. These people had summoned the interest and capacity to place their arduous lives on hold and attend a function. They sang together, ate together and prayed together, all at the behest of an invisible force, both powerful and uniting, that required an entire day to pause and reflect. World AIDS Day—an annual event where we acknowledge that an unliving chain of nucleic acids is dismantling human lives the world over. This unstoppable bug made its way into the blood stream of 4.3 million people in the last year alone, crippling economies, devastating communities and orphaning children. Not exactly the rally cry we would have hoped for, but a desperate and necessary annual acknowledgement of our shared reality.

The ball sailed wide left, the goalies guess irrelevant, and one teams struggle vindicated. After a 1-1 draw, penalty kicks decided the victors of Saturday’s game between Orinie and Oleshaki. The game had been a rousing success, and even though the home team lost, an entire community had come together. In the fading light of a cool December evening, I handed over a shiny new Adidas trophy ball to the visiting village and concluded a very successful World AIDS Day celebration.

The African Inland Church, our sponsor organization, provided funding for the food, beverages and enough gasoline for the entire days festivities. Solar Cookers International pitched in to provide a demonstration of fireless cooking and energy saving thermal baskets. The Mamas used nothing but sunlight to prepare chai and rice for the spectators. The Demille family got together several months ago and shipped some footballs, without which the soccer tournament would have been impossible. And our friend and fellow PCV Milcah showed up with her youth group and entertained the trousers off the whole community. Hope Worldwide, Milcah’s sponsor organization, supports youth mobilization with the goal of training youth in life skills that they will in turn disseminate to the community through various means. In the case of Milcah and her Kajiado based youth group, dramas and song are the chosen method. They were both hilarious and inspiring and showed the youth in Orinie a glimpse of what is possible when creativity and public health knowledge are inter mixed with energetic teenagers and far too many caffeinated beverages. Its no small feat when outsiders are able to tell old mamas penis jokes and come away seeming like saintly harbingers of vital information.

In truth, Jennie and I sweat over this day for months, worried sick that we would spend the day alone in failure. But the morning came, a goat was slaughtered, the district officer arrived, football happened, music was enjoyed, and hopefully, a few more people walked away determined to take their personal health seriously. Our theme, Maisha yako, Chaguo lako (your life, your choice) really seemed to resonate with the youth. Jennie ran a poster contest in November with some of the kids here. They took the idea and ran; I would try to explain, but a picture is so much better. This was the 1st place winner, and by far the community favorite. That's a coffin at the bottom with the words, "AIDS can cause death" scrawled across. It would be hilarious if it wasn't way too close to home.

Travel Journal - Kajiado, Kenya

2007-11-25T14:33:00.000+03:00

5:30 am. I awake with a start as a man’s shrill cry comes over a loud speaker calling devotees to prayer at a nearby mosque. In Arabic he repeats several phrases, singing that none are to be worshipped but Allah, and my personal favorite, prayer is better than sleep. Now fully awake, and musing about the muezzin, I climb out of bed and quietly step outside to watch the sunrise. Its morning in Kajiado and in the growing light another market day is beginning. The air is cold, but the winds have calmed. And this small, dusty outpost about 75 Kilometers directly south of Nairobi feels like a scene straight out of the pioneer American west. Small, stunted trees grow crookedly in defiance of the bleak, windswept atmosphere. And the local population seems to do much of the same, as their lanky outlines sweep past in the grayish light of morning.

This is Kajiado, and it’s booming at present. Housing is being furiously erected and laborers are constantly seen ferrying large bags of Portland cement, lumber, and jerry cans of water on flat bed rickshaws. These two-wheeled contraptions appear to be the rear axle of a car, which has been converted, complete with a front handlebar, for the purposes of human propelled cargo movement. As in many parts of the country, enterprising young men with strong backs and a fearless disposition, can be hired to move anything along the frenetic road system, dodging matatus and cattle on their journey through the scorched expanse.

The town itself is a U-shaped affair with a tarmac loop passing several gas stations, an open-air market, and a multitude of storefronts on its way diverting from, and then reconnecting to the A104 as it continues south towards Namanga and the Tanzanian border. The loop is easily traversed in 25 minutes, though a brisk walk may cause you to miss the diversity and color that is the town’s most redeeming quality. Kajiado district in general is a place inhabited by the Maasai. But in Kajiado town, a decided Somali-Muslim influence predominates. That’s not to say that the Maasai aren’t present, just that they are intermixed with robed Muslim men and women, and more than a few west Asian traders. Ironically, there is even a Maasai store, which happens to be an all-purpose trading post, run by an Indian family. But this makes the small town vibrant and interesting.

We like to stay at a guest house run by the local Anglican Church, smack in the middle of town. The rooms are very clean, the showers are hot, and they throw in breakfast for 700 shillings per person, or about eleven U.S. Dollars. The rooms are part of a 1 story row of buildings perched on the edge of a hill, allowing the cool evening breezes to come straight in from the south. And unlike many of the establishments in town, it is on a large compound, giving you the sense of space, in the growing congestion.

The soko, or open-air market, is one place you must experience. Most days, purveyors are set up in a cement walled and tin roofed area. But on Wednesdays and Saturdays the chaos is increased and moved to an adjacent, fully open air venue, where tree limb and burlap enclosures have been erected on a dusty plain. Here, you can get everything from freshly ground spices and milled grains to hand picked fruits and vegetables. The atmosphere is raucous, with plenty of yelling, and young men lugging massive bags of goods around. They will knock you over if you don’t heed their calling “wewe!” I have, more than once narrowly escaped impalement on stalks of sugar cane, or smothering by huge bundles of flying kales. There is also the usual assortment of used clothing and random goods vendors if you are in the market for kitchen utensils, drapery or tire sandals. Just make sure that you haggle for goods. I find walking away twice before settling on a price is a sure strategy. The food prices are generally fixed and low, but it’s a free for all when it comes to anything else.

Day of Peace - Letters and Laughter

2007-11-23T23:00:00.000+03:00

Jennie and I want to acknowledge Carol Dunn, Mary Jones, and her grade school class for writing letters to the standard 8 students here in Orinie. In observance of the International Day of Peace, the kids wrote about themselves, their community and what the concept of peace meant to them.

The idea came up a few months ago when Jennie and I cautiously wandered over to the school and promised to teach a few lessons. At that time our mere presence within line-of-sight of the primary school caused a riot. If I had to explain what it would be like to land on earth as a Martian, I now feel qualified to do so. Walking into that school felt like descending from the mother ship into a crowd of gasping, leering, mute with anticipation, and generally amazed children. There are kids here who have never seen pavement, so I would like to think that having seen us will shake out to be at least as strange and interesting an experience.

But all too quickly, we were just teachers, demanding attention from students and grading assignments. Jennie became the crazy mzungu who teaches reproductive health intermixed with science curricula, so hers was a more racy identity. But for me, the arduous task of teaching English composition was saved only by bribing the children with candy and national geographic magazines.

In conjunction with Carol and Mary, Jennie arranged for a Peace Day letter exchange. We did a letter writing session, where peace was discussed, and first drafts were scrutinized. Finally, we created letters that the class was proud to send out over the Atlantic. The kids here wrote amazing letters, in, what is their third language after Kimaasai and Kiswahili. But in truth, the hardest part was telling them to be patient as more than a month transpired before we received letters with the Indiana postmark.

The school buzzed with the news that letters had arrived. Instead of the usual grazing goats looking through the glassless, iron barred windows, hundreds of students watched expectantly. The letters were read and re-read and then passed around. They had so many questions about slang, and pop-culture references, and why Americans spell differently than British writers do. They really got to see a day in the life of a little Midwestern town through the eyes of their age mates—it was amazing to watch.

Jennie walked them through a discussion of social similarities and differences, as well as their ideas of peace. They responded with thoughtful notions and more than a few laughs about the way Americans see the world. They pondered how we can spend so much time indoors and how that affects our social interaction. And they marveled that while most of us don’t live with goats, we often have dogs sleep in our beds—that’s just weird. Most of all, they noticed how a little writing experiment made everyone feel much more connected, and that its hard to hate or fear someone after you have shared a little space and time.

Apart from all this, Jennie and I find it incredibly difficult to sort out how worthwhile our efforts are, and whether or not they are sustainable solutions to the problems we are seeing. When being here gets tough, we turn to questioning our purpose, and if what we are doing is helping make lasting change for the better. But Carol really emphasized to us that investing in children is always a sustainable and purposeful endeavor. So amongst the hard questions and loosely defined work roles, this interaction with the kids was clearly a great thing, and the closest thing to immediate gratification we have had since coming. The kids had a blast, they learned a lot about American culture, and we felt that we had accomplished something, while small, that will stick with all of us for years to come, so many thanks to all that were involved.

The goatfather

2007-11-16T18:39:00.000+03:00

Taketi herds about 75 goats for his family, which means that he is up by 5 am to drive them to the river for water. By 7:30 he is at school while the goats wander, and by 2pm he is back out into the bush rounding them up. He herds goats 7 days a week, and he does it well, at least that’s what I would like to believe. And though he is only 8 years of age, he has found a way to extort gifts from each and every garden owner that his goats pass on their daily migration to and from the riverbed.

I wasn’t keen to it at first. The goats amble into the yard, prompting me to chase them. And there is Taketi, smiling away, ignoring the fact that the goats are making fast work of our crops. “I have come to greet you” he says in his 3rd grade Kiswahili. I happen to be at about the same level and so I respond by asking about school, news of his home and how his goats are doing that day. He peeks behind me into the house and says, “kuna zawadi leo”? Which, roughly translates to, “do you have any gifts for me today”? To which I usually produce a piece of candy, a banana, or even just a cup of water. His tiny stature doesn’t allow him to see over the live fence, so most times he is either jumping for a peak, or leaning awkwardly to see what’s happening through the wall of thorns. Some nights, as the sun goes down, he even helps me add thick thorny branches to fortify the barrier because his tiny little hands can so ably sneak past the thorns that ensnare me in fits of cursing.

I have slowly had the chance to meet neighbors and learn about his racket. It’s simple, but effective. Give him gifts and he will keep his goats out of your yard. Cross him—deny him treats or toys from town—and you will find goats nibbling away the precious shoots and leaves that you have so dedicatedly sown. His little tire sandals and big pearly white smile don’t fool me. He’s running a little goat syndicate complete with payoffs, retribution and old world black mail. If I tell him we have no treats, he usually gives me one last opportunity by asking “Jennie yupo hapa”? I tell him that Jennie is around, but we still don’t have sweets, and to this he turns slowly, eyes me one last time as if to say, “Your crops are goat food sucka,” and then meanders home.

Travelers beware. If you’re looking for the mugger in a hoodie, you are sure to get taken. The real robbers here are the adorable children that warm your heart and talk you into giving them all your stuff. Taketi has already booked half of the things I own, and I will probably just wheel a couple of suitcases to his place when we leave. I marvel at how we came 10,000 miles to realize that there’s a Dennis the Menace in every town.

Lifevest Lingerie

2007-10-30T13:58:00.001+03:00

We got home safely this week from Nairobi, but not exactly in the way that I had envisioned. Like normal we grabbed a matatu from the City Centre stage and suffered through the dust, noise and danger that is modern Kenya's finest mode of transportation. We arrived with our lives and person intact in Kajidao, and set up a meeting with one of our counterparts. Julius was also worried about the looming water crisis and set about solving the problem. This was music to our ears as we have been saving bath water to wash our clothes in before dumping it on the few remaining green plants we have in the backyard. Its been pretty tight here water wise, which made our experience in Nairobi slightly more bizarre.

We met with our APCD on Thursday, and discussed, among other things, our emergency action plans. This roughly translates to discussing all of the worst case scenarios, and then laughing at the possibility of ever having to implement them. For example, on this particular trip, we discussed the riverbed we cross to leave our village. Its a dry beach for 11 months of the year, and a seething torrent in heavy rains. Under normal circumstances, if the river is raging, you just don't cross. This is a widely accepted method of coming away with your life, even if you don't get to town to buy peanut butter or luke warm soda. But like I said, we weren't there to discuss what normally happens.

A month ago, we had discussed the very same river crossing issue at site visit. I had laughingly suggested that, should we need to leave when the rains come, we could use a rope and some flotation devices to help each other across. Tie one end to a tree as the other person wades across, and then repeat on the opposite bank. So you can imagine my shock when we were handed a "life vest sign out sheet." I quipped that they must have made this form specifically for us, and got a rather annoyed glance in reply. Anyhow, we found ourselves the next day holding life vests in Kajiado, walking to a meeting with Julius.

Julius shares our concern over lack of water. In fact he took it so seriously that he arranged water and a ride for us back to the village. But like I have continually said about this experience, the aspect which I assumed was the strangest, took a close second to the massive tanker truck that appeared to chauffeur us to Orinie. We spent the final hours of our day, bouncing along the dusty track that leads to our home, squished between two truck drivers, a huge bag of vegetables, and two life vests, all headed, strangely enough, for one of the driest places I have ever been.

We arrived at dusk and helped the guys load our dispensary tank with water. At the request of Julius, I was to put a lock on the tank, which put me in an awkward position standing amongst a crowd of thirsty locals. I didn't get a hard time from anyone really, though I could tell they weren't happy. I was saved however by a scream from our house. I ran in to find Jennie in a pile of our dirty laundry, cursing like a sailor. In our absence, a mouse had set up his home in our clothing, and had found a way to nibble all the important aspects of our undergarments. We had made it safely, and with water, and had to laugh at life vests and risque underwear, because it was just another day in Orinie.

Dust Football

2007-10-17T20:48:00.000+03:00

I have started playing football in the evenings with the kids here. The field is rough, extremely potholed, lacking goal posts or sidelines, and definitely not flat. But they don’t care, they just play.

As the sun sets, crowds of students battle in the rising dust. The action stops frequently to restitch the ball due to thorns and sharp broken glass. The kids huddle around and find some way to fix the ball, and then, amid screams and much chaos, play resumes. It’s so much shabbier than any field I have ever seen and I have no response to “Nicko, how do you see our field”? In the end, I guess what I see are kids, too enveloped in fun to notice how much they lack. And for their sake, I hope that this reprieve stays with them, and gives them joy through all the difficulties they face. There is so little here, and the small moments really do matter. Every little bit of enjoyment is squeezed out, reused and savored.

The fading of the light makes continuing almost impossible, and yet, there is always one final goal to score. “Last one is the winner.” At some point an enormous hum comes across the field, and for a minute we are covered in bees—millions of honey bees. They are migrating right through the middle of our match, and everyone is on their knees, shirts pulled up over heads, screaming, laughing. The bees pass, and one enterprising lad scores as the defense is still half-shirtless and cowering. The ball pops for a final time and it’s not repairable due to darkness. We all wander home coated in dust, sweating, and laughing at the bad plays I have made. This is how the games are savored, walking home in the dark, arm-in-arm. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, only maybe you won’t miss. Maybe you can actually send it in the direction of the opponents goal, just a suggestion, nothing personal. Do they have football in America? Do the kids sleep with their cleats on?”

I can see their outlines in the fading light, jumping, sprinting, arms raised, mouths open, eyes wide, chests heaving, feet furiously seeking the ball. They are playing because they can forget about herding goats, or hauling water. They can forget about typhoid, malaria and AIDS. They can breathe in the cold evening air, and exhale all the worries that 12 year olds carry here. The weight is lifted, even if only for a moment, and I can see their gleaming faces in the moonlight. They are children who must grow up fast. But for an hour or so, they are football stars, and I think I shall always remember them this way.

Volunteers log: Day 135

2007-10-05T15:40:00.000+03:00

Jennie has come through a rather nasty fight with a stomach bug. She spent the last few days camped out under the mosquito netting, feverish and reading a Jodi Picoult novel. Wednesday was site visit, which among other things brought, not one, but two boxes from France. Our supervisor Anne came by Land Rover to see us, and reaffirm that we are in fact, the most remote posting that she has under her domain.

As for the package, it contained every essential item necessary for survival in the bush. Jen tore into the Sudoku puzzles and wasn't seen or heard from for a full day except to sharpen her pencil. The package also had two gallon sized bags of M&Ms, which are at this moment being finished (2 days after receiving the package). There were also several large chocolate bars of possible French and or Belgian origin, though I can’t say with any certainty given that the wrappers are already torn, and the chocolate, likewise consumed greedily and embarrassingly fast. There were also some sticky things that probably glow in the dark, though we have not yet confirmed this. The packaging was entirely in French, and so we spent most of the time talking about how, despite several years worth of French classes, I still couldn't ascertain what the heck these things were. At any rate, we are enthused and plan to stick them on a board in the sun, and then around the house on the walls. Most likely, they will make good night lights for our resident frog population.

We must also report that toast is now possible. We have realized after many bread and butter mornings that grilling toast here not only works, but also thankfully removes all hair on my hands. This means that Jennie’s trifecta of Oatmeal, bananas and cinnamon toast is complete. We have only to convince the local store owners that there is in fact a large market for diet soda. This has proven to be no easy task, but one that, working in tandem, we may be able to bring to fruition given two years worth of pleading and tantrums.

For me, I spent the morning trimming my beard. Usually about once a week I happen by a mirror and stand aghast at the freak staring in my direction. This particular morning, I decided I had the time, and the need to trim the thing given that I woke to find a moth fully dead and probably partially decomposed somewhere underneath my chin region. I wouldn't call the result a proper haircut or beard trim, but it certainly is shorter. I still make babies cry, old mamas snicker and school children flee, but I think they pause for a minute now before doing so. Sometimes I give them what they want and do something strange. Running at the kids, hands raised and growling like the abominable snowman is priceless, though I don’t have a sense for what it does to my professional credibility as of yet.

More than anything, we want to thank all of you for supporting us with kind words and packages. We miss home, and we miss family and friends, so your words, and your chocolate mean a lot. Stay tuned for a safari update, and our work with the school, and many, many thanks.

Much Love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie

Goats drive me insane with anger

2007-09-24T11:29:00.000+03:00

I have avoided talking about work like the plague itself, because it's so hard to give the proper context. You can obviously understand when I say we are building a garden. But what you don't really get is what that entails here on the ground. For starters, we seem to be at the nexus of the known goat universe. Everyone here owns and grazes goats. And this presents certain unforeseen barriers to agriculture. For example, we planted a banana tree and routed our sink waste water into a catchment for it. This was our first foray into horticulture and we were really psyched about it. But the very next day goats stripped the tree bare, just short of killing it, and clearly indicating that a fence was necessary. And so, with the help of a local farmer, we erected what I thought was an impenetrable barrier.

Our fence is comprised of cut trees that are so hardy they continue to grow when chopped in half and replanted. And they have the nastiest thorns imaginable, such that pioneering Europeans named them "wait a bit.” I can only too well imagine my pale ancestors bloody and cursing the local plant life as they tried to explore the region. The trouble is that the goats seem almost immune. Instead of an impenetrable barrier, they seem to see a minor obstacle that is both sieve and smorgasbord. If they fail to make it through on the first attempt, they seem to delay a moment nibbling on the shoots to make better holes for their closely following brethren. This means that I obsess about goats getting into the yard. It would be funny if I wasn't such a freak about it. And I can only imagine what it must look like to the neighbors. Goats enter the yard, and in response, a large, bearded white man comes charging out of the house throwing stones and yelling, eyes gleaming with impotent rage at the inexhaustible appetite of the invading herd. So, here we are, doing development work, and it seems, protecting a smallish patch of earth from animals that raise my ire mightily. You can imagine Jennie's amusement as I feverishly stalk from desk to window attempting to write and defend said garden simultaneously.

If, by some miracle, we are able to defend our crops, our plans are to cultivate some vegetables for personal consumption. The walk not withstanding, it’s fun to do and a great learning experience. Apart from that, we want to accomplish several other, more important objectives.

Food security is hard to come by in this region. As such, we want to develop ways to encourage farming for personal consumption. To do this we needed to identify local crop varieties, how to grow them, and if anybody here actually wants to eat them. Cassava, for example, grows exceptionally well in arid conditions, and you can find a million books and websites touting its hardy and nutritious attributes. The problem is, nobody here wants to eat cassava, or do the work to grow it without any market in which to sell it. However, people here do love to eat corn and beans, and we have met several local farmers who have had success growing these crops. Our hope is that by highlighting their work, we can encourage people to do the same for themselves.

Our second goal is to create a small tree nursery. This area has been ravaged by the charcoal industry. Most of the trees that grow locally are chopped down and cooked in big piles of dirt to create briquettes for use in small clay stoves called jiko. This is a major source of fuel for the rural community here, and so its creation is also a major source of income for anyone with some energy and an axe. As an outsider you could come and talk ad nauseam about why this shouldn't be done due to soil erosion and global warming. But charcoal is the cheapest and most available source of cooking fuel and people will continue to exploit it until they are given a cheaper and more available alternative. So instead of trying to convince people to abstain, Jennie and I are hoping to continue talking about alternative energy sources (such as solar and wind), and the merits of tree planting. And we are also hoping to grow some saplings and have the local kids plant them.

This garden is one small piece in a host of projects we are working on, but like I said, there is too much context to just say it simply. I hope that you will come back again and read some more about what we are doing. We hope to write a number of postings related to our work here, and start to de-emphasize our own stupidity and almost complete lack of ability to live here without somehow injuring or subjugating ourselves to intense humiliation at the hands of small school children. Okay, the school is for another posting, but we really appreciate your following along. Much love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie.

Mambo, Mwamba, Mwalimu

2007-09-23T21:15:00.000+03:00

Last post I mentioned the "big five" thinking that it would make me sound safari savvy. The problem was that I hadn't really done my homework. It's actually a game hunting term used to refer to the five largest, and most difficult animals to kill in the region. So the "big five" refers to the Lion, African Elephant, African or Cape Buffalo, Leopard and the Black Rhino. While my inner vegetarian (one goat eating incident does not a carnivore make) cringed at the thought of advocating for such a term, the writer in me jumped at the chance to put my own spin on the subject. Many thanks to Annie for calling my bluff, and here is what I have learned about the big five.

The Cape Buffalo, also called the African Buffalo or "Mbogo" in Kiswahili, is big, ugly, gregarious and it seems, also quite dangerous. Like the Hippo, the African Buffalo has the mythological aura of having claimed the most human lives on the continent. It seems that researchers are currently engaged in a pissing match of sorts, over who has trampled, mangled or otherwise led to the demise of more Homo Sapiens. And all of this is particularly strange given that the Buffalo's closest genetic relation is the dairy cow, making East Africa's most seen safari animal, a bit like a heifer with a nasty hangover.

The Leopard, called "Chui" in Kiswahili, is one of the most dangerous and elusive animals in East Africa. The interesting thing about these guys is their ability to live in close proximity to humans. In fact, they are careful not to hunt in routine ways, making them tough to stop when they decide your livestock is dinner. I am told that they are the most feared animal in Africa, which leaves me with only one question. What does it say about a place when damn near everything is the "most deadly" or "most feared?"

The Lion, called "Simba" in Kiswahili and some Disney movies, is huge and famously lazy. It is said that their favorite pastime is sitting under large acacia and watching other animals hunt. When cheetah or hyena come down with a big kill, the lions snatch them with glee. I seem to remember a kid like that in my grade school cafeteria. It is also said, that of 42 tribes in Kenya, the lion chases 41. But lions know the tall loping gate of the Masai, and run from them. I have yet to see anyone actually prove this, but I will say that the Masai have lived alongside lions for many years, and they have a deep respect for the animal--unless of course their livestock get eaten, and then all bets are off.

The Rhino, of which there are two varieties, is called "Faru" in Kiswahili. The smaller of the two is the black rhino, which primarily forages in thick undergrowth. The white rhino is bigger, and prefers the open plains where more grasses are in abundance. The distinction between the two is not so much about color, but the unique adaptations they have evolved for consuming certain kinds of vegetation. So, as I understand it, the white rhino is actually a mispronunciation of the original description, or "wide rhino" given its wide flat mouth. The black or hook-lipped rhino is so called because of its smaller, more hook like orifice, which helps it eat more precisely around thorns and branches. It seems that in this region, there are many names which are some sort of perversion of an older, more traditional one, and some are just plain misunderstandings. I am told that Spanish settlers, first entering the harbor near the soon-to-be named city of Mombasa, were told by their deck hands, "Mwamba Sir." Which roughly would have meant, "hey look, a really big rock."

The African Elephant, called "Tembo" in Kiswahili, is Jen's personal favorite. These endangered and yet resilient creatures eat approximately 3000 tons of foliage a month in the Masai Mara, which, according to ecologists, creates a lot of poop. As such, Elephants are called the architects of their environment. They drop football-sized turds that are feasted on by a host of thankful dung beatles, who pull chunks off, and drag them into their underground burrows. It seems that along with their groceries, the beatles bring acacia seeds that become planted in the fertile soil, speeding up the normally slow germination process. So while the big fellas eat a lot, they also help to regrow the forest, which makes them at least as smart as most of the humans I know.

As always, many thanks for reading, and please check back often with our photos link as we are constantly updating.

Small Seven

2007-09-14T10:30:00.000+03:00

Since I'm always writing about us, I was worried that we might come across as a bit ego-centric. So here is a thinly veiled attempt to write something that isn't directly about us, that in actuality, is really about us--enjoy.

This region is known for its amazing array of wild animals. Of course there is the “big five.” What you won't read about in the travel guides however, is the assortment of critters that are here in abundance that are much more a part of the daily experience. Jennie and I like to call these critters our “small seven”—a grouping of equally colorful life forms that not only brighten our days, but inhabit our house.

First on our list is the Dikdik. They don’t live in our house thankfully, but they do like our garden. The Dikdik is a very small and crafty little deer that scurries around in the bush. They have enormous black eyes, at least in relation to their bodies, and they have a black swatch across their face that looks like one of those really small party masks. These little guys made the list because they are cool looking, really fast, and love to nibble on freshly planted crops.

Our next life form inhabits, probably every continent, and scares the bejesus out of Jennie on every one of them. This is of course the spider, of which there are many large and hairy varieties here. Jennie has taken to naming them in an attempt to conquer her fears, but frankly, when push comes to shove, it usually happens in the form of the nearest large object and one really dead arachnid.

Our third buddy hails from the lizard category, though I wouldn’t take that to science class with you. We have salamanders, geckos and some other large green lizards with red heads. This seems like an incredibly cruel evolutionary experiment to me given that they repeatedly get eaten while sunning themselves. Regardless, they love the heat that the concrete and brick houses give off in the evenings, so they are everywhere. Unfortunate for me, they always seem to come crawling out of the pit latrine at just the wrong time, and nearly send me careening for the house, paper in hand, clothing not quite fastened, thinking all the while that the man-eating monster I had imagined has actually come to life and intends to devour me with special zeal given that I am, at present, only half clothed. Too much television for this kid I think.

The middle child on our list is the starling. These birds are beautiful shades of blue, black and orange. They are everywhere here, and are totally fearless. They love to drink from our kitchen sink, and they will all but tackle you for table scraps—when most birds flee, starlings seem to sneer. Jennie is concerned that we have started an obesity epidemic and has won their disdain by throwing out fruit peels instead of the French fries they love. They pooped on her clothes—I really can’t say anymore in case they read this.

Now, I wouldn’t say that our house is completely porous. I wouldn’t say that because a large dog couldn’t decide to come in when the doors are closed. But I also wouldn’t say that it’s an impenetrable fortress either. As such, we have embraced living with the mice that made this their residence long before our term as home owners began. If we were talking about cockroaches, well then I would say that we have taken a much more “shock and awe” approach for sure. But we have made our peace with the mice. Our neighbor on the other hand, does not share our love of nature. Solomon swears that the mice antagonize him. And so nightly we are treated to what sounds like a street gang mêlée, and not, one Masai, one broom, and one 2 oz mammal working out their differences. In response, we have set up a small refugee camp that provides old TIME magazines for bedding, and safety from aggressive, broom wielding Masai.

Not to be outdone in the personality category are the frogs. They come in at dusk, by crawling under our back door and through the sink drain pipe, which broadcasts their croaks throughout the house. It’s a bit unnerving the first time, and totally hilarious after that. The problem is that they are always under foot. They seem to wait until you are barefoot and sans flashlight—I think you get the picture.

Our final and most prized housemates are the bats. An enormous colony of them live in the upper half of the structure we call home. Most buildings here are one story, mud or brick constructions, roofed with tin. Our rather posh accommodations (I’m not being facetious) have plywood ceilings that demarcate bat from human quarters. The funny part is that the bats have the tin roof nearest their domicile, which amplifies every squeak, chirp and bat altercation amazingly well. They seem to get really quiet when Jennie puts on the BBC news, so we like to think that they are strong minded and socially conscious critters, that work hard every night to ensure we don’t get malaria. We do have to yell at them occasionally when it turns into an all night, upside down kegger. But you take the good with the bad I suppose—and that’s what we have come to love most about our time here.

Thanks for reading, and many thanks for posting.

Fear and laughing in Kenya

2007-09-05T20:13:00.000+03:00

The house is starting to come together, albeit slowly given that most things must come in on our backs. The situation is such that we have a 2 hour walk of approximately 13 kilometers from our front door to the main road. From there we catch a passing Nissan bus called a matatu another 35km north to the market village of Kajiado. We can get most of our supplies there, food, furniture, tools and electricity. And I can proudly say that Jennie and I recently hand carried 2 large papaya, 3 pineapples, several large bags of random other fruit and veggies, 5 rolls of TP, a large tin of coffee, a gallon of paint, a shovel, several plastic lawn chairs, a pick axe, and at least three diet cokes. It puts a new spin on how quickly you choose to consume things, and it definitely makes recycling and reusing a huge priority.

The paint, as it turned out, was a putrid shade of mint green that must have come to East Africa by way of every other continents distaste. Our 1st clue should have been the price. So we did what any poor volunteer would do; we painted our toilet and bathing rooms with it figuring that we spend the least of our time there. The fact is, we were invested financially, and we lugged the can for hours, so the damn paint was going on a wall.

I do have to say that our new home is a place of contradictions. For all the toil, lack of water, and lack of electricity, we are treated to some ridiculously beautiful landscape. This last particular walk was saved by our first view of Mt Kilimanjaro. We struggled with our load up the final few kilometers, and just as I was about to crab at Jen about something phenomenally trivial, there it was. The snow capped peak had, until now, been hidden from view by a dense cloud cover. I would take a picture, but there would be no justice in it.

Beautiful as the scenery might be, there are also some really infuriating aspects as well. I already mentioned the charming two hour hike in, which gets old after the fifth time you do it carrying copious groceries and a days worth of dust and grime from the road. There is also the ad hoc nature of everything here which is quite baffling to American sensibilities. In the U.S., stuff just works. I cant explain it any better than that. But here, everything needs a little kick, or ingenious tweak to work somewhat properly. And so in this vein we come to probably the most angering and tear-jerkingly hilarious part of Jennie's journey. It's the type of thing that seems trivial, and yet is so uniquely Jennie in fashion.

Well, we all know that Jen is fond of her clothes. And here it seems that clothes take a particular beating. Add to that the strange and breakable (remember I said ad hoc) nature of the door knobs in our house, and you are headed straight for hilarity. Somehow, Jennie managed to break just about every door knob in the house. And by break I mean snap off such that a jagged edge remains upon a turnable and still sort of functioning stump. So after accomplishing the door knob massacre, Jennie repeatedly walked past the aforementioned knobs, resulting in the partial impalement, and subsequent tearing of, the right shoulder of every shred of clothing she owns in Kenya. From my perspective there would be a shriek, followed by cursing and frantic shirt changing.

Anyhow, we have a good chuckle when people ask about her clothing tears and subsequent tailoring with odd colored thread. Ironically, we are quickly adapting to the ad hoc nature of things by being, well, ad hoc ourselves. Take this blog entry for example. Three days ago I put our dead car battery on a truck and sent it to town for charging. The battery left, and with the truck, was arrested and impounded for a few days. When we had word that the truck, and battery had been released, it was finally taken to town for charging. Day three saw the battery return, and charge our computer for about 40 minutes and then die.. so needless to say, we are out of power until next time, much love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie.

Afriqueness

2007-08-30T19:20:00.000+03:00

It’s been about a month since we last wrote an entry, and in that time we have sworn in as volunteers, moved into our new community, and realized that we now live in Africa. And I mean this quite literally, because it is a shocking revelation to sit up in your bed and see Acacia trees and Masai men wandering with their herds—Africa is now truly just outside our window. I can’t say with any certainty why I didn’t know it until now, but such is this crazy experience.

We swore in at the ambassador’s home, which is beautiful. The seating arrangement in his backyard was such that we (the volunteers) sat in several rows under one tent, and the audience, our trainers, and Kenyan dignitaries, sat under a second tent to our right. The ceremony began under seemingly normal circumstances when the Kenyan side sang a song of national pride. Given my limited impression of Kenyan ceremony, this did not seem out of the ordinary. I was totally unprepared however, for our class to comically fumble through a tone deaf version of the star spangled banner, complete with incorrect wording and more than a few bewildered looks askance.

And so with that, plus a few more formalities, we became official PCV’s. We were even graced by the presence of a large baboon, who sauntered in to see what the racket was all about, and what food might be to his liking. According to the ambassador, whom Jennie and I asked later, this same baboon flooded a wing of the house after some rather ill treatment by the previous occupants. Current U.S. policy is to give all manner of food and fair treatment in an attempt to avoid further hostilities.

It was a day which reaffirmed how happy we are to be here volunteering. And we really got the sense that we had achieved something, a feeling which up to this point has been rather hard to come by. We walked up individually and received our Peace Corps diplomas, smiled for the camera while shaking the ambassador’s hand, and listened to a rousing speech from the minister of health. If I had to sum it up, I would say that it’s been almost a year (counting application, staging and training) of uncertainty and exploration, punctuated by a few tear provoking moments of intense pride and excitement. And most of you know that I strictly reserve my tears for weddings and sentimental film.

Then lots of other important stuff happened, we met up with some of our host family, and I ate the hell out of some roasted goat. That’s not a typo, and it’s not even the craziest part of our evening. Our host family’s eldest daughter is married and lives in Nairobi with her husband and two kids, and they were nice enough to take us out to dinner after our ceremony to celebrate. We went to a really bizarre Miami Vice meets Africa club called Club Afrique. The place is decked out with mirrors, a light up dance floor, large shiny chrome railings, white booths with red velvet seating, and an aerial light show that would make the cast of blue man group insane with jealousy. I half expected to see Scarface slouched in one of the corners chewing on a stirring straw. The really crazy part is that half-way through dinner Geoffrey showed us a news blurb on his phone about the arrest of the minister of health. So the very same woman, whom we were received by and spoken to at swear-in, had just been arrested, which totally stole my whole “vegetarian eating the hell out of some roasted goat” thunder! The following day’s newspaper had her with police and in the same outfit she spoke to us in, which might explain her early and rather abrupt departure from our ceremony. It seems that it was a minor affair after all, but it made for a day we won’t soon forget. This is us pre-ceremony. Enjoy the picture, there’s more to come I promise.

Awkward and Halting

2007-07-26T16:31:00.000+03:00

Just a quick hello... Jennie and I are set to swear-in next week as training comes to an end. It's been a crazy 10 weeks, and as we reflect on what we have done, we just really want to thank all of you for being supportive. In truth coming here has been hard, and frustrating, and at times it has been one of the best experiences of our lives. I think that the next two years will prove to be no less amazing, and we hope that you will continue to follow us through it.

So with that said, some details. Saturday is family appreciation day, which in peace corps roughly translates to a community day full of cooking and awkward, halting conversation in Kiswahili. It will be really ridiculously fun for our language group, and frankly we all love chapati (Kenyan naan basically) and guacamole, a dish we have shamelessly inculcated our host families with. There is an abundance or ridiculously tasty avocados just falling off the trees at present, so it had to be done. We'll also roast a goat. Jen and I are still veggie, but the folks here get positively giddy over some nyama choma so we couldn't disappoint.

After that we have our final language proficiency interviews, which again basically amount to awkward and halting conversation, only this time sans goat. For one half hour we have to discuss food, culture and family in Kiswahili with a trained interviewer, who then rates our level of proficiency. And I must say, for only speaking Kiswahili this last 10 weeks, we have been chattering on pretty well.

Monday we have a party with our whole class, which officially makes it a full weekends worth of awkward and halting conversation, only this time with beer. It's just a time to unwind and appreciate how far we've come. We started as a group of 50, and now we are about 45, but that's still amazing considering how hard uprooting and moving to a developing country is. In the final analysis here, it looks like we are going to do great. Stay tuned for photos later in the week, and for goodness sake, will somebody post and let a kid know whats happening with the Tour De France already!!!!!

So much to say

2007-07-18T14:39:00.000+03:00

My apologies for the last entry. The formatting was really strange, and the pictures were a bit random. I think it represents what "can" be done given the worlds slowest Internet connection, one bad photographer, three chimpanzees, and a blog all locked in a room. In the future I will host our photos on a third-part site TBD. In the meantime, enjoy my senseless anecdotes.

So with that said, we've had an amazing few weeks. First, we now know our future site. We will be living in a small Masai village about 30km outside of Kajiado. This puts us only a couple of hours drive from Nairobi, and an hour or so from the Tanzanian border. We have Amboseli National Reserve and Kilimanjaro to the southeast. And we have the Masai Mara to the southwest, and both are in close range for those thinking of visiting.

Our site is amazing! The village mama's greeted us formally and gave jennie some beautiful Masai jewelery as a welcome. And the kids swarmed us as we walked into the village. It was overwhelming, and friendly, and completely what we imagined when we dreamed of Peace Corps in Africa. Kilimanjaro is visible in the distance, and baboons run across the road as we hike the 2 hours into the village from the main road. To say that we are happy with the placement is a gross understatement--it really is postcard Peace Corps.

Second thing; we were on television. And not only were we on t.v., but people have been recognizing us. While in Nairobi having lunch, we had two women randomly ask about Peace Corps, and compliment our Kiswahili on the nightly news. And in Kajiado we had a man cross the street and say "it was you, on the t.v.!" It's been totally surreal, and really funny. In fact, we complained to one of our host country nationals that we looked stupid. He replied that he "had lived here thirty years and never once been on the news dammit!" We are trying to get a tape so that you can all have a good laugh, so stay tuned for that.

Lastly, we learned that when in Kenya, buckle thy seat belt. On our way to site visit we had an incredible time. We saw some amazing scenery, and met our counterparts, who happen to be incredibly progressive and cool, not to mention dedicated. In short, we laughed, we cried, and we almost went to jail... If you want to know more, you will have to send us a care package, or at least a letter with some chocolate. It's shameless extortion, and we aren't going to try and hide it. Until next time, Much love and many thanks for reading/posting, Nick and Jennie.

2007-07-08T11:39:00.000+03:00

This is a shot of our language group. Every morning we study at our host home with a Kenyan language tutor for several hours before working on our technical skills. From left to right are: Nate, Jennie, Hannah and Simon, our instructor. I shot this photo on our first week of training, in the front yard of our host families garden.

Our host family brothers took us to a nearby rock, where legend has it, running around seven times actually changes your sex. You can't tell from the photo, but Jennie and I actually switched places. From left to right are: Nick, Jennie, Dixson and Joseph. At some point the town erected a set of metal stairs to climb to the top. They were the most harrowing part of the entire experience, but the view was well worth it!

Besides being really community oriented, and incredibly hard working, the local government have a great sense of humor. We happened upon this chiefs office while meeting with a local youth group and had to get a photo.

Big in Kenya

2007-07-02T15:54:00.000+03:00

The past couple of weeks have been ridiculous! Really great, but totally, absurdly, ridiculous... Let me just set the stage for you. We have been going along our way learning Kiswahili and our technical skills. The material is dynamic and applicable to the lives of our future community. Its been really fun. And then, Friday happened.

So we were informed that some media might come and observe our language class. This was mildly unnerving but interesting news. They were to visit for 20 minutes or so and then move on to some other classes to create some sort of news piece. What happened in actuality was quite different.

A cameraman observed the class for at least 20 minutes. And by observed I mean he got right up in our faces while we stumbled through rudimentary Kiswahili; it was pretty tough to keep it together. The crew then proceeded to take Jennie and I through a series of b-roll shots intended to reinforce mazungu gender roles. They had her washing potatoes, and cleaning our clothes, and all the while firing questions at her. She handled it like a champ. I on the other hand was pulled aside separately and interviewed while picking peas in the garden. It wasn't pretty. To make this long story short, they got enough footage of us looking stupid to keep the continent laughing long after we're gone.

In light of this, things are really going well. We are anxious to know where our future site is, and will be finding out within a few days, so keep your eyes peeled for another post. And yes... pictures as promised.

Blessing blessing fast hyena!

2007-06-12T15:25:00.000+03:00

Okay, it's been exceedingly hard to get Internet access. Jennie was successful once when we arrived, but only got off half an email before drawing a crowd of leering school kids that sent her running from the terminal.

We've been training for several weeks now, and though it's only been a short time, for us eons have passed. We are like children again--everything is incredibly, tryingly, interesting. We can't communicate effectively, and days are exhaustingly long. Most days start at 6am with a cold bucket bath and some hot tea. We leave our house just after 7 and walk for an hour to our training site, wherever that happens to be. It truly doesn't matter where it is, it's always an hours walk from where we are. In fact, whoever designed this place put everything seemingly equi-distant from everywhere else. So like I said, it takes an hour. We have a class, we walk an hour for some lunch, we walk some more... you get the picture. And when you have errands to run, you try your damnedest to string them together to save time. Paradoxically, services being as sporadic as they are, you can never set out on said errand with any reasonable expectation of ever completing it.

Apart from daily life, things here are amazing. We eat very well as vegetarians with fresh fruit and veggies every night. The farm we live on always has fresh mangoes, avocados, papaya and bananas. And the main dishes are usually made up of rice or a thick slab of ugali (cornstarch and water) and a cooked pea and bean stew. Mamas here base their self worth on fattening their men, so I'm coming home a good 25 pounds heavier.

Learning Kiswahili has been challenging, but we are starting to turn a corner I think. I spoke in church this weekend (yes, I went to church) and the entire congregation stopped laughing after only about half a minute, so I'm clearly doing something right. Immersion is hard though, and can make for some pretty funny situations. A friend of ours tried to throw a popular Kenyan phrase into conversation about how being in a rush is not a blessing. He ended up blessing a really fast hyena to the hilarity of the people he was addressing... and we're still giving him a hard time as I write this.

Lastly, and it is of note, Jennie's extra sensory perception has led us to find several purveyors of diet coke. Apparently someone tipped off the folks at Coca-Cola that they should send a diet product to the far reaches of Africa where starving Americans will fall all over themselves to buy it. Who knew?

Well time is running short, but please keep commenting, they're great to read. And we will try our best to post with pictures very soon. Much Love - Nick and Jennie