Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Holy Chapos Batman!

What’s McCracken? That’s what every Kenyan youth means when they ask ‘Safi?’ It really means, ‘How is your health dear friend?’ but slang (called Sheng here) has done wonders to proper Kiswahili and now you can hear every teenager spitting ‘safis?’ left and right.


Our time in Tanzania was very much a tourist vacation. And maybe I just need to accept that, in the end, I’m a tourist whenever I travel. We spent a day in Arusha visiting the UN International War Crimes Tribunal for Rwanda. It’s a somber place. After the 1994 Rwandan Genocide, the UN organized this tribunal to prosecute those who had committed crimes against humanity and crimes of genocide. After almost 15 years of operation, the Tribunal is wrapping up its proceedings. We sat in on one case during a discussion about how to measure the height of a witness. Law can be sooo slow, especially when it comes to prosecuting those who acted as the masterminds of genocide without actually committing any acts of violence themselves.


The mini-Utopia we stayed at is called the United African Alliance Community Center, and there was a family from Florida staying there while they worked on an orphanage project through their church back home. Luke (Wayzata dude), Erinn (St. Cloud gal), and I stayed up one night talking about who knows what. After a bit, we got talking with this family about this and that, mostly to do with missionary work, their belief that whites were living in a post-racial America, and how they felt about poverty in the US as compared to Africa (think bootstraps, read: Nickled and Dimed, Savage Inequalities).


An hour later, I left this convo feeling very frustrated. I felt like I had very very different views from them, and that I wasn’t able to explain why in a way that they could accept as legitimate. Erinn was also mad frustrated and we concluded that in our Northeastern elite liberal arts schools we never really need to defend our beliefs and opinions. Everybody agrees with us when it comes down to the fundamentals. But this family represented the way a LOT of Americans think about these issues. It can be so important to have the ability to discuss ideas about society, religion, and culture with someone who has very different views.


The next morning, we trucked it out to a small Maasai village for three days of mingling and understanding. Though it was a bit of cultural tourism, I think I came to enjoy my time there. As a bit of a tangent, cultural tourism implies one culture paying to see another culture on display. It can be wicked stuff because some level of significance in a community is lost when they are coerced to authenticate their culture to an outsider so they can pay the mortgage. Or in the case of this Maasai community, feed the family. In essence, the fake becomes part of the real. It would be a whole different ball game if this Maasai community had the opportunity to travel to Minnesota and see my own culture on display. I imagine my family out on the front lawn barbequing some burgers. Someone would probably be mowing the grass; maybe we’d take some of the tourists on a walk through the neighborhood with Rossignol, the family golden retriever. Some of the Maasai tourists would probably let out hoots of amazement when we cleaned up after Rossignol’s business. They might think, “It looks like the dog runs the show around here. He walks around and the human picks up after he goes to the long call.” Oh, we’d fo sho have a bonfire and play some night games when night rolled around. Yet even this cultural display would not be a good representation of the broader American culture. It would only be a display of my family’s interpretation of American culture. What do you think you would put on display if you were in the Maasai community’s position?


My point isn’t to make myself feel guilty or hopelessly question cultural tourism. I was there in the Maasai village whether I liked it or not, and to imagine myself in their position changed how I acted and reacted during my time there. Our guides, a Tanzanian named Chaka and a Maasai dude named NgoNgoi, really made this time something other than cultural tourism for me. Chaka was mad chill and had been working with this Maasai community for years to help reconcile true Maasai culture with the need for cultural tourism. NgoNgoi, an older Maasai warrior, was the most impressive person I have met in East Africa. Because he spoke Kimaasai, Kiswahili, and some English, he was able to guide us through whatever we were doing. This dude knew what was going on. Everything he said or did was significant because he had this deliberate and dignified air. He, more than anyone else, pushed us to share things about ourselves rather than just see what was going on in Maasai land.


We had a bonfire the first night with a bunch of Maasai elders. We asked questions. Chaka would translate into Kiswahili, then NgoNgoi would translate into Kimaasai. The Maasai elders asked questions. NgoNgoi would translate into Kiswahili, then Chaka would translate into English. We were put on the spot to come up with a consensus about what Americans thought and then let one person answer. It can be quite the challenge to decide how all Americans think about marriage.


I think I’ve said this before about the chai in Shirazi, but I had the most scrumptious cup of chai while visiting NgoNgoi’s boma (house). I actually drank 3 cups and then tried to find out how it was made. No luck. There’s some sort of root in the mix, then other goodies, and poof! you get a cup of chai far superior to any Starbucks blend.


The next morning we were part of a ritual goat slaughter. A group of young Maasai boys helped us wrangle in the poor white goat destined for the lunch plate. After the initial death by suffocation, we watched and helped a couple dudes expertly skin and prepare the goat. There was a blood drinking and some questionable organ tasting. In many ways this act, though kind of intense, was much more humane than how we get red meat on our plates back home. The Maasai community had much more of a connection with their source of food, and out of that connection comes a sense of respect and sustainability that we miss out on with our factory farms.


Later that day, we got some glimpses of the magical white stuff atop Mt. Kilimanjaro off in the distance. Nick Cunkelman, word on the street is that you made a few ski turns at that one place…what’s it called? Oh yeah, Chamonix! I thought we were taking this season off with so many of us in snowless places? We also met an mzee (elder) who was wearing a “Jack’s Bait and Tackle Shop, Duluth, MN” hat. A few of us had a spear-throwing contest with NgoNgoi. The next morning, we left for a small town near NgoroNgoro Conservation Area.


NgoroNgoro is a massive crater that formed when a volcano erupted a few kazillion years ago. Thanks to the steep crater walls and a lush vegetative environment, high concentrations of animals chill in the crater for the majority of their lives. We got up early, piled in a few Land Rovers, and went on your classic safari through the crater. Besides a funky-looking bird named a Gory Bastard, I enjoyed the landscape more than anything. It was a surreal place. I was much more comfortable with the whole ecotourism deal than the cultural tourism. If the natural environment can be conserved, then the benefits of wealth redistribution via ecotourism far outweigh the negatives.


After safaritime, we traveled back to Pete O’Neal’s community center for the night. Early the next morning, with half the group down and out for the count with stomach issues, we drove to the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro for a day hike up what’s commonly known as the Coca-Cola route. I guess you can buy a Coke on the way up. Anyway, we hiked through a magnificent jungle with lots of vines and moss and other green stuff. Vines and moss really make a jungle a jungle.


Upon returning to my homestay digs, I slept and ate some mad chapos, short for chapati. If naan were to be a person in history it would probably be the dude who invented the Starter jacket. And chapati would be the dude who invented Velcro. Sure Starter jackets are styling and all but they just don’t compare to the magical adhesiveness of Velcro. And the noise Velcro makes? Yeah, chapos are that good. The next day I washed clothes for about two hours. It felt really good, and I think I did a marginally good job because Mama Angetta was impressed enough to dig out her camera and take a picture. If she ever shows you her pictures, I’ll be the one holding up a half-washed t-shirt trying to figure out how in the cow’s hay I got red dirt stains on the left shoulder.


This past week in Nairobi has been filled with me visiting different humanitarian relief agencies begging them to let me go to Kakuma Refugee Camp for my Independent Study Project. I’ve learned a great deal about the whole world of refugee camps and asylum seekers, especially in regards to the work international organizations are doing in the camps. Basically if you want to go to a refugee camp in Kenya it works like this: You need to find a host organization willing to accommodate you and feed you during your time in the camp. You handle the expenses of course. Then you need to get government approval. My Academic Director graciously went to the Department of Refugee Affairs everyday for a week to get this part done for me. Then you need to get the UN High Commission of Refugee’s approval to interview refugees. I started all this way back in the ol’ days, but last week the organization I was going to work with, the International Rescue Committee, backed out on me. Big bummer. I got to know the system well enough that I started pulling some strings in a last ditch attempt to go to the camp, but alas, the system kicked my butt. Why was it so tough to get permission? Aside from some legitimate reasons about overstressing the refugee community, there is definitely a lack of accountability that is threatened by bringing in an outside perspective. The organizations working in the camp don’t want people coming in to point out the flaws. These aren’t just Kenyan organizations either. These are American and international organizations run by Americans and Kenyans alike. It’s just the reality of the sitch I guess. I was a bit disgruntled about it for a while, but whatever.


So, I’m staying in my homestay for the month and studying the potential for collective political action in poor and marginalized communities such as Kibera. This community has become a major asset in the national political scene, probably because of the sheer number of people living in such a small area (check out: Post Election Violence 2007, Prime Minister Raila Odinga, ethnic identity in Kenyan politics). I’ll be checking out different media outlets and how they can influence and foster a sense of community strong enough to bring about political action in support of pro-poor legislation. There’s a local newspaper, a TV Network, and a radio station. I actually visited the radio station, Pamoja FM, yesterday. It’s designed to service the needs of the Kibera community. I’m going back soon to see how radio works out in this neck of the woods, and I might get on air a bit. I might even snag a talk show for the month. Who knows. I’m taking this project on the fly, so we’ll see where it goes.


One last blurb about something I’ve learned this spring: Trying to explain why I believe something can be so good. It’s uncomfortable to be put on the spot and siphon through my thoughts to explain why it is that I think what I think. But going through that process adds so much depth to my opinions and beliefs. Or I can’t explain why and then I’m open to change. That may be what I esteem to most in my identity; to be a seeker of change and an open perspective. What if a friend asks me why I think we should be a part of something larger than ourselves? Or what if they ask me why I like Dunkaroos so much? Once I tunnel past the obvious emotional or authoritative responses for belief I can really start to foster an identity that is fully mine.