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.

Way up in the air.

In the midst of the blur that has been the last few weeks in Nairobi, I realized that I’ve failed to keep y’all in the loop. My b.

A few weeks ago, while we were still in Mombasa, a traditional medicine healer talked with us about her work and the relationship between traditional and Western medicine. This healer’s complete confidence in her medical techniques was amazing. Who knows if her ginger root actually did anything to reduce stress levels. It was her belief (and the belief of her patients) that brought legitimacy to her practices. Belief enables a reality of truth that is distinct from our Western double-blind study proof that we need to determine the truthfulness of anything. Say there’s a new drug developed in the US. For this drug to ever reach a human market, it must go through a series of rigorous tests and examinations that prove its potency. We need this rational process to determine the truthfulness of the drug.

This scientific basis to explain truth is one way to think rationally about medicine, technology, philosophy, etc. Yet I think we sometimes confine rational thought to this very narrow definition, thereby delegating any other thought as something other than rational. A friend of mine coined an idea that offers an alternative to this Western-style rational thought. He said there’s a distinct system of thought called cultural rationality. It’s the idea that rational thought can manifest itself through unique cultural perspectives. For example, the traditional medicine healer’s cultural experience regarding her work has, in her eyes, legitimized her practices as rational. I’m falling short of what I want to say, but basically I just want to be cognizant to other systems of thought that may be just as rational as my own Western idea of how to think logically.

Back in Nairobi, we flew through a week filled with a Kiswahili oral exam and development lectures by a mad smart agricultural economist. Though our goal was to touch on ALL of Kenyan development, academic tangents successfully inhibited this pursuit. Kenyan professors love tangents. I think it’s just a different teaching style. In the US, a university class usually stays very focused and on schedule. In Kenya, I need to treat our lectures as informal discussion and change my expectations if I want to learn anything.

We also had the opportunity to attend an International Monetary Fund panel discussion at the University of Nairobi. We listened as the Prime Minister Raila Odinga, the Finance Minister Uhuru Kenyatta, the IMF Managing Director, and a few reps from civil society discuss Kenya’s current economy and its future financial opportunities. Quite the interesting power dynamics at work. It appears that the IMF has moved away from its dreaded structural adjustment framework (read: conditionality, lack of ownership, one-size fits all) to a more acceptable approach to loans. Our professor believes that this change in policy is due to the influx of grant money and investment from China and India. This grant money is building a Kenyan infrastructure without trying to drive development this way or that. So the IMF member states have to change their ways if they want to compete. Serves ‘em right.

Trying to make good on my walking and talking dreams, I went back to the University of Nairobi a few days later to interview some students for a project. It was simply grand to just walk around campus and try to spark conversation with random people. I failed a few times, but talked with two political science students for a good 30 minutes before I realized I had to book it back home. I’ve realized that Kenya, and specifically the Nairobi metropolis, is the ‘real Africa’. It’s a place situated between the Western idea of modernism and the traditional way of life. It’s real and authentic, maybe more authentic than the exotic images we have of Africa as an endless savannah occupied by villages of simple peoples.

The following weekend, Luke, Mama and I trekked it out to Mama’s rural home in Siaya, Kenya. My Mama is originally from this area of Western Kenya, so on the way out there she was made for an excellent tour guide as she pointed out all the places she had lived, schools she had worked at, and stores she had shopped at. The drive was green and mountainous. So many fields of chai and bananas and other goodies. The weekend was spent cruzing around town on bada badas (bicycles) and meeting all sorts of relatives and friends. It was a marathon of epic proportions. Mama kinda treated us like small children, but we countered with a solid argument: We had been in Kenya for 2 months...so we were basically Kenyans. If you say this in Kiswahili it really drives the point home.

But let’s talk about the stars. In the words of Mama, “the stars are so near and so fresh.” That about sums it up. Luke and I sat out on some lawn chairs late into the night trying to figure out why one of the stars was blinking. We also had a sweet discussion one night that has continued and developed since we’ve returned from Siaya. It’s basically this:

1) The action of DOING has no inherent purpose. Its purpose is constructed by who and how you are.

2) Thus it is more crucial to decide who and how you are before you decide what you DO.

I consider this to be my most undeserving opportunity. I have the ability to decide who and how I am BEFORE I decide what I will do. In the US, we place way too much importance on the action of doing, which is not shared by the rest of the world. Having agency to decide who and how you are is a universal process. Most people in this world cannot decide what they do, but maybe we can all decide how and why we are regardless of what we are doing. In other words, it’s really your attitude that defines you rather than your career.

My ISP prep has been working me over. Getting access to Kakuma Refugee Camp is a truly bureaucratic experience. I’ve been all over carnation looking for the one person who says, “Yeah dude, you can live in the camp for a month, no problemo.” I want to explore the relationships that exist in regards to the right of freedom of expression for refugees. I would be so ecstatic to interview refugees and humanitarian relief workers about the importance of freedom of expression. I think it could be a challenge to my own views. I place a high value on the right to say what you want, but what if I come out of this experience with the perception that the majority of refugees don’t give a hoot about their right to say what they want? Maybe their ability to find the day’s food is so much more important. I’m optimistic about how it’s all going to turn out, but right now I feel like I’m in a hot air balloon. Everything’s just up in the air, way up in the air.

During some of my background research I checked out the differences between a ‘right’ and an ‘entitlement’. Entitlements are given to an individual by a governing body as a means to access rights. However positive these entitlements can be in our society, sometimes they can be detrimental to equal distribution. In Kenya, for example, the Kikuyu tribe has a distinct sense of entitlement. The resident anthropologist, Donna Pido, believes that this entitlement is the single greatest problem in Kenya. The Kikuyu tribe was central to the Mau Mau Revolution, a movement that acted as a catalyst for the fight for independence in the 1960s. Yet the Kikuyu’s fought for land, whereas the fight for independence was a broader struggle for a sense of identity as a nation. Over the years the Kikuyu tribe has blurred the difference between these two struggles, and thus rooted entitlement in their role as freedom fighters during the fight for independence.

This past week has been filled with academic rigor in the most pure sense. And it’s taken a toll on me. I sunk into an everyday routine. I was totally comfortable with my daily life. I didn’t even have to think during my walk to school. It was automatic. That’s something I never wanted to feel in Kenya because it’s a sign that I am not pushing myself to explore more or push myself out of my bubble. Though I was in school everyday this past week, I always had this urge to shrug off the academic work and go home. I can push my self intellectually when I’m at Colbs, but I can’t talk with my Kenyan host mother about abortion everyday.

During this automatic routine, I started to become tired of being seen as a dollar sign to so many Kenyans. If I enter into a conversation with someone and get a sense that they’re motives are financial, then I instinctively retreat and thus prohibit the conversation from reaching its full potential. But I’m trying to move beyond this attitude and engage someone in conversation regardless of his or her perceived motivations. A great façade for the money-mentality is the ‘exchange of ideas.’ Give it a shot sometime when you want to make a buck or two.

I am reminded of the color of my skin everyday, and it’s worn me down. But I don’t hold any anger or resentment towards this reception. It’s simply reality. A reality that so many people in our world deal with each and every day.

Hills have been my refuge. We’ve got a bunch of them outside the Kibera slums, and it’s so refreshing to jog up and down these hills in the late afternoon.

So here I am. Everything’s up in the air, and I’m okay with that. We’re in Arusha, Tanzania for the next week chilling with an exiled Black Panther in his mini-Utopia, checking out a crater filled with wildlife, and searching for some bushmen. Just your everyday tourist adventure. And the exiled Black Panther’s dog has some sweet dreads for a tail. Doesn’t get much more utopian than that.

Cooking up some Nonsense.

Mombasa is a bustling port city located in southeastern Kenya home to quite the salad bowl of Arab, Indian, and upcountry Kenyans. Throw in some amazing Arab spices, a bit of heat, and you’ve discovered the Swahili culture, a largely Islamic way of life very distinct from the overwhelming Christian presence in Nairobi. We only spent a night in Mombasa before shipping out to the small coastal village of Shirazi, but staying right on the coast in this fresh new place was to inviting to pass up. So a few us decided to take a walk around.

This idea of walking and talking is quickly becoming my most cherished pastime here in Kenya. My friend Luke is very good at striking up conversation with random people, and we’ve both decided that exploring Nairobi is where it’s at. We can often talk of street smarts and book smarts, but I think there is an altogether separate brilliance that comes from the ability to connect with people through conversation. I’ve found that my most interesting and exciting experiences have come out of walking around town and talking with people I meet. The formalized “cultural” experiences offered by my program can only go so far to paint reality. And besides, hearing stories from people is just dandy. It’s been hard to step out of my comfort zone though, especially when Kiswahili gets involved. Stepping off that ledge has been like jumping off a 100-foot cliff into a pool of orange jell-o. You’re at the top looking down and thinking, “that’s a long drop and what if that orange stuff is lava?” But then you jump, it’s awesome, and you can eat all the orange jell-o you want.

The night I spent in Mombasa helped foster this newfound idea. A few of us were down by the water talking and checking out the moon when we heard some laughter close by. Our jabbering had woken up a homeless dude who was sleeping on the pier. Rather than just say sorry and walk back to the hostel, my friend Luke started chatting with the dude. His name was Jerry. We spent a good hour sitting there by the water talking with him. Whether or not his stories were true didn’t matter, his optimistic and refreshing perspective was mad bomb diggity. He talked of travels to Panama hiding aboard a cargo ship and his struggle to live without a home or family in Mombasa. He talked and we listened.

The next day we drove the two hours south to Shirazi. We spent 9 days there living with different families, studying Kiswahili in the morning, and doing whatever in the afternoon. I lived with a baba and mama who were older and had some children living with families of their own. The eldest daughter was staying with us while she cared for her newborn son. A 6 year-old boy named Idriss also lived with us. Along with his crew of rugrats, we spent our afternoons throwing disc and trying to knock cashew nuts out of trees.

Just like the rest of the world, soccer was a big deal in Shirazi. A lot of the teenagers in our families played on the local team, and one evening I got to hop in the back of a big yellow truck with 40 players and superfans. We sped off at top speeds, dodging mango branches and piki-pikis (motorcycles) as we traveled to a nearby village for a game. Flying down the road hooting and hollering with a bunch of Kenyans was quite the grand ol’ time. By the time we reached the soccer pitch, the whole truck was singing the Remember the Titans rally song. Big intimidation factor.

Mission, let’s get to the kitchen. This became my goal in Shirazi because for me the kitchen represented a separation between the men and women of the family. There were times throughout the week when I got really frustrated with my host father because he would just sit around and do nothing while my host mama worked tirelessly. She worked so darn hard. All day, everyday. This seemed to be the family dynamic in many of the homes around town. And it really ticked me off at times. Idriss, Baba, and I even ate separately from the women of the house. I was determined to spend some time with my mama by helping cook. It usually resulted in my non-English speaking mama laughing at me while I fumbled about, but it was a way for me to break away from the distinct gender roles. If I had seen a woman tell her husband to make his own darn dinner one night, it probably would’ve given me as much satisfaction as dropping some sweet cliff in the Utah backcountry.

Besides the patriarchal system, there was some extreme chillaxing going on in this little village. The relaxed attitude in Shirazi was so polarized that it can only be described as extreme. I had a real hard time getting used to the fact that Shirazi folk (especially the men) spent a lot of time resting and that everything was SO much slower than anything I was used to. Before this I thought of myself as pretty relaxed, but compared to most peeps in Shirazi, I may just as well have been running around with an Epipen in my leg the whole time. Hammocks would be a hit there. The slow pace of life may be in part due to the amount of time it takes to do things in a place without many of the amenities we take for granted in the US. No available laundry machine? Alright, let’s spend the next 5 hours washing our clothes by hand. No easy-bake oven? Let’s spend an hour looking for firewood and then grill some fish. I experienced this a bit in Nairobi, but Shirazi really drove home the idea that for many the basic daily tasks of life become the focus of each and every day.

There was a lot of swimming in the mangrove forest-surrounded harbor and brushing my teeth under the stars. Dinner sometimes became a hazardous activity as I burned my fingers in stemming hot ugali (ground maize-staple along the coast) and then stabbed myself with fish spines. Yowzer. From my food pyramid perspective, my family in Shirazi did not eat very nutritiously. Maybe this was partly because they couldn’t afford all the veggies and fruits, but they also seemed to be making a decision to eat lots of meat and grains. This ugali stuff, for instance, has just about as much nutritional value as a toothpick. But people love it. I bet my family would say that they eat well, which makes me wonder if our accepted ideas of a nutritional diet are as universal as we think they are.

Maybe the nutritional value of a diet should be determined by what the goals of the day seem to be. I value foods that give me the energy to adequately perform the work of the day. Yet I also import foods like mad and screw up lots of people’s lives and home environments (indirectly) to get that banana and my daily dose of potassium. I may be called a Taker. I take the situation in my environment and mold it to fit my own needs or wants. My family living in Shirazi eats whatever fruit happens to be in season. Rather than alter their environment they adapt to fit into it. They could be called the Leavers. I think there needs to be much more overlap between the Takers and Leavers, and that they both have something to learn from each other.

We ate some saucy fish and tried to climb a baobob tree. And that’s a wrap on Shirazi.

We returned to Mombasa for 5 days of guest lectures, rooftop laundry washing, and more swimming. We had a fair amount of free time to do whatever, and the narrow streets of the Old Town area became a bit of playground while we were there. One afternoon it started to monsoon while a couple of us were walking amongst these narrow streets squished together by the overgrowth of homes and buildings. It was invigorating. If there had been a stampede of wild goats I would’ve been totally ready to sprint along.

The chai that I had every morning in Shirazi was top-notch, probably better than peanut butter in liquid form. Back in Mombasa, my friend Kags and I were determined to replicate the magic in a mug that was Shirazi chai. We wheeled and dealed for the numerous spices (cinnamon, cloves, black pepper, other good stuff) and bought some pure Kenyan tea in the spice market. We’ve yet to perfect the art of chai-making, but we’ll get there. All chaimasters start out making hot water with a hint of cinnamon flavor.

Since returning to Nairobi on Sunday I’ve been researching up the wazoo. It’s time to decide on an Independent Study Project idea. Basically, we’re given a month to pursue a research topic of our choice and then pump out a massive paper. You can do anything and go anywhere in Kenya. I’ve become very interested in the civil society working in Kenya, and specifically the ability of the press to coerce accountability and transparency within different power structures. Hopefully, I’ll be working with an independent press in Kakuma Refugee Camp for my project. It’s become apparent that the political class in Kenya is also the business class, which produces the corruption that is so rampant in Kenya. This corruption is a stark indicator of impunity within the government, but the lack of accountability extends beyond the national governing body.

In Kenya, development/aid projects are so intertwined with every aspect of life. From free lunch for students to television programs, foreign development organizations are pumping money into Kenya as if that’s just how it should be forever. To some, the whole development field can be seen as a parallel government with no accountability. Often development project managers are only truly accountable to themselves. The donors can be persuaded that everything is running smoothly and the people receiving help have no means to project their voice. Sometimes the only impetus to do ANY meaningful work is to get more funding. In the refugee camp, the independent press (http://kakuma.wordpress.com/) I’ve found has a very tense relationship with the UN and other NGOs running the camp. I want to explore why this is and explore how people living in the camp can have a stronger voice to keep the development agencies accountable to those they are trying to help. It’s still in the works, and getting permission to go to the camp takes a bit of grunt work, but hopefully it’ll work out.

Wherever you are in this green and blue place, I hope your time is beached as. Here’s a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ as you go on your way:

“If they’d nurtured and cared for human nonsense over the ages the way they did intelligence, it might have turned into something of special value.” -Yevgeny Zamyatin

Dream away.

Things have become real for me. And it’s made me quite dizzy. The past week has taken my grandiose theoretical opinions/dreams/ideas and placed them directly under the big yellow bus of the real experience. It’s chizi comma ndizi (crazy like a banana).

On Friday, we visited a non-governmental organization in Eastern Nairobi that helps women living with or directly affected by HIV/AIDS. Part of the organization’s work was to provide counseling through home visits to women enrolled in the program. A staff member and four of us visited a young mother who was staying at her mother’s home. I’d rather not lay out the circumstances, but what it came down to was this: within the past two weeks, an elderly mother had found out that two of her daughters and a granddaughter were HIV positive. And there we were talking with them about it in their one-room home. Talk about intrusive.

My ideas of what it means to have HIV/AIDS and what the disease was all about suddenly took on an altogether human look. My ideas about how to design an effective free-ART (antiretroviral therapy) public health program were cut to shambles. This young mother and her 15-month old baby could not get started on the free ART meds from the federal government because they were both too weak from TB. They had fallen through the cracks of a theoretically amazing HIV/AIDS program. And the reality of the matter is that many people, especially young women, do not get tested until they become very ill. Stigma sucks. If they find out that they are HIV positive they cannot get started on the ART meds because they are too sick from whatever brought them to get tested in the first place. The government plan, most of it funded through USAID programs, was failing this family.

On Saturday, we traveled across town to help with a trash clean-up project designed by a very large non-governmental organizations in the slums of Mathere. This organization promoted youth soccer teams in the community and integrated community service by requiring that every soccer team volunteer for x number of hours in order to be in the league. On paper, it seems like a decent idea, but when it came to the actual clean up, all chaos broke loose. The slums of Mathere are home to a massive amount of trash because Kenya lacks a public waste management system. For an hour and a half, with a team of about 100 youth soccer players and random kids, we attempted to put a dent in this mass of used everything.

Imagine if the surface of Mars was covered in trash of all sorts, some of it burning with a thick black smoke. Throw in a few goats, mzungus (white peeps), and some soccer players. Shazam! You’ve got the product of our hard work. I simultaneously wanted to photograph the scene and felt a sense of disgust that I even had the urge to “aim and shoot”. The whole photography deal has really been nagging me here. To me, the trash clean up scene was a landscape altogether foreign to me. Yet there were homes situated right across the street from the huge trash piles, so what right did I have to capture the dramatic poverty of someone’s life in a photograph? I had no relationship with the environment and the people living in it, and therefore no legitimate reason to photograph anything. I was just this advantaged kid who traveled all the way across the pond to visit this way of life. I could leave the smoke and smell whenever I wanted. But I also really wanted to take some pictures. Photography, I’ve found, is much like an anthropological field study.

Those feelings were exacerbated the next day when one my friend’s host mothers agreed to take us on a walk through the Kibera slums. Walking along the railroad tracks surrounded by hundreds of tin-roofed shops and homes was a very intense experience. Everything is sooooo close. Where people sleep, eat, poop, and threw their trash all seemed to be in the same place. Cramming to the utmost degree.

These real experiences have challenged and complicated my own ideas, perceptions and beliefs about development and the global village. But they also make me think of a phrase I once saw masterly spray-painted on some plywood. It goes something along the lines of; “the hope of a different world shapes how we view today.” There is an opportunity for a different social order, a different paradigm of development, a different whatever.

So, I can feel helpless and disheartened by the realities I’ve experienced, but I can also imagine the possibilities of what could be. And I can run into Victor and Bridget, two neighborhood kids who will find any reason to burst into uncontrollable laughter. Or I can walk through the market and stop to talk with someone who sells vegetables. After a few minutes, maybe I can ask to take a photograph of them. I can also see the vibrancy of life that emanates from the streets of Kibera. And I can see the amazing work of my host mother, who will take in and support anyone struggling with HIV/AIDS. I can see the hope and hard work of Kenyans dreaming of a different world.

Tomorrow, I’ll be traveling to the Eastern coast for two-weeks and will be unable to access the information superhighway. We’ll be staying with families in a rural town called Shirazi, chilling with the Islamic community in Mombasa, and maybe throwing some disc on the beach. Take it easy until next time, and let me know what hooliganisms you’ve gotten into.

Mangoness and Mind Scrambling

Walking through my neighborhood the other day, I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I thought I’d be living in some swanky homestay digs, but I’ve discovered that my homestay family lives in a quaint little home in the Ayany neighborhood of Kibera, parts of which encompass the largest slum in Kenya. It is wonderful. The Ayany neighborhood, though close to the slums, is very safe and secure, just so you know Mom. It’s a hustle and bustle of activity all day long. Kibera is actually a very old area of Nairobi and it wasn’t until the 1980s that the slums started to appear. Even in my neighborhood you can find a number of very upscale homes, if you look hard enough. Mama Angetta, a retired schoolteacher, runs the house with love and discipline. Mama’s biological children are all older and living with their own families around town, but she has an adopted daughter, Mary, who has just started high school. There is also an 8-year old girl named Rita staying with us for a while.

Adoption is a funny concept here in Kenya. Because the idea of the family encompasses so much here, rarely is a child seen as adopted. They are simply part of an already established family whose roots run to all corners of a community. I don’t know if the Uncle Samson who visited yesterday is actually related to my host Mama, but by identifying him as Uncle, his relationship to the family is given a level of significance often absent in US relationships outside the immediate family. The family seems to be the essence of life here, and maybe that’s something we’ve left behind in the US as the accomplishments of the individual becomes the focal point of one’s life. Ya know, a few folks have asked why in the world I would leave my family for so long. The value we place on “going solo” is a sentiment not shared by many in this community.

Though the bucket-basin shower combo is quite superb, shaving in the dark without a mirror at 6:30am can make for some pretty interesting sideburns. And I’ve become a mango-fiend. Yum.

The intricate home security systems here in Nariobi make me wonder if each home with a security guard, steel gate, and a barbed wire fence protects a colorful assortment of gems, jewels, rubies, and gold coins locked away deep inside. Anyone that can afford the elaborate accessories of the “compound” seems to be very wary of the hamburglar. For those less well off, security is still no less of a concern. The “compound” also elicits a sense of curiosity about what lies beyond the tall walls and castle-style defense systems. I’m curious, not enough to climb over a wall topped with a mosaic of broken glass bottles, but definitely a bit curious. We’ve got perfect green grass yards that show off our wealth, they’ve got huge walls and security guards to hide theirs. Hmmm.

After joining Mama Angetta at a massive church downtown on Sunday morning (Catholic mass in kiswahili= total confusion for me) we hopped on a matatu to head back home. While driving through Kibera, something that really stood out to me. Wall art and other forms of graffiti are all over the walls, empty buildings, and sides of shops. Within my small scope of Nairobi, my favorite place to walk by is an abandoned apartment building covered with graffiti of superior quality. The Post-Election Violence of 2007 was most concentrated in Kibera because the losing opponent, Raila Odinga, was from the area. Often conveying a political message related to the violence, this artistic canvas is situated directly behind a trash dumping spot. Scattered across the grass is trash of all sorts, most of it burning and smoking in one-way or another. It’s an intense scene that I can only describe as the Beautiful Commons. A work of art and a defacto dump for all to see.

The past week has been a whirlwind of activity. A whirlwind in a great way, but there’s been some heavy overstimulation going on. Every minute there seems to be so many things I could be doing to make the most of my time here and not take this opportunity for granted. My thoughts become even more scrambled when we discuss our biases and ethnocentric tendencies (basically seeing Kenyan culture through the lens of our own culture) only to go home and see these theoretical ideas take form in our everyday lives.

For example, a young boy orders his sister to get him some mango juice when he is totally capable of doing it himself. I might view his behavior as a sexist action (the male superiority complex is very prevalent here, especially with husband/father figures) that undermines gender equality. Yet in that instance I am judging a Kenyan cultural norm by applying my own cultural background to the situation. Moving away from this ethnocentric tendency doesn’t mean that I condone the practice, but it may allow me to have a more complete experience. I want to see what life in a working class Kenyan home is like, and to do that I need to let go of my biases. Anyway, it’s not my place to judge a family’s actions while I am a guest in their home.

500 Shillings? A bit too spicy.

After two lectures on Kenyan history and society, I can confidently say that I knew zilch about Kenya and the East African region before arriving here. Thanks to an Anthropology PhD by the name of Donna Pido (a very enlightening individual who has lived in Kenya for the past 40 years) we students have discovered that Kenya has become a human magnetic vortex, attracting many ethnic groups from all over Africa for the past 3000 years, give or take a year. The complexities of how Kenya came to be are fascinating and a bit overwhelming. From the existence of an Italian exiled-mafioso community in Nairobi to a large population of Indian proprietiers that comprise the backbone of the economy, the demographics of this country both contribute to its beauty and compound politics that are still fragmented by tribal organization.

If you were to ask a Kenyan about who they were, most would identify themselves as a Kenyan. Yet behind this veil of nationalism, what tribe you belong to is really what matters. There are 42 tribes in Kenya, with the Kikuyu being the most abundant and powerful (President Kibeki is a Kikuyu). Some might say that this number pales in comparison to the thousands upon thousands of tribes in the US, though we would never want to describe our social organization in such a primitive way. Our sports teams, religious institutions, friend circles, neighborhood organizations, and families comprise the tribes we know. It’s funny that we often see tribal organization as backwards thinking when in fact the idea of tribe is simply a social construct designed to embrace the basic human need (and want) to be part of a community.

During our last day in Karen, my curiosity got the better of me and I wandered over to the farm that was on the hostel grounds. Picture the quintessential organic farm that we so desperately strive for back home. This quite diverse establishment was nurtured by the expertise of a farmer by the name of Paul, who, after a brief introduction, proceeded to describe each and every vegetable that he was growing and how you could incorporate it into some tasty recipe. He asked about farming in the US, and the only scene I could paint was that of a farm home to endless acres of corn too mutated by genetic engineering to resemble the maize Paul was growing in one corner of his garden. He couldn’t understand why we needed so much maize, and neither could I.

Anyway, I’m moving in with my homestay family this afternoon. I don’t really know much about my fam except that they’re upper-middle class. It seems that oftentimes the mighty wealthy live right across the street from the mighty poor. I’ve got about a 5-10 minute walk to Kibera (one of largest slums in Africa), so I’m pumped to explore and walk and talk with people.

I just recently went to the local grocery store with one of our Academic Directors, Odoch, the other day. Our mission: find a superb soccer ball. There were plenty to choose from, and we spent about 5 minutes just going through them to see what we could find. Upon finding a nice, but slightly overpriced ball, Odoch said; “Oh, 500 Shillings, that’s a bit spicy.” Just found my new favorite word.

Whoa there Betty!

I’ve made it to the magical land, limbs and all, accompanied by some 15 other fine US students on my program. Though we’ve come to study how development really works, my first impressions of Kenya have been confined to a very wealthy part of town. Amid fleeing from a very slow giraffe named Betty a few minutes away from our hostel, I was able to make out the plethora of mansions dotting the countryside outside Nairobi. The district of Karen is home to the vice president, ministers of all sorts, and a large portion of the mzungu (white) population in Nairobi. Imagine a European-style Hamptons with a splash of colonial fervor. That’s our home for the next 4 days as we get acquainted with this little corner of the world often seen as the capital of East Africa.

Kiswahili lessons gave me a lickin’ last night, but Mama Mary (our language coordinator) has declared that we will be fluent within one week if she has anything to do with it. We’ve been out and about a bit too, kicking up clouds of dirt as we kareem through town in our big neon pink bus named the Jazz Quartet. Interior lighting is provided by a number of black lights. Did somebody say rave? I’ve been a bit hesitant to talk with Kenyans when we’re in town. Even if they speak English, which most everyone in Nairobi does, I’m still a bit intimidated. But I’ve learned that the key to starting a sweet conversation lies in your ability to show respect and pick up on subtle queues. When in conversation, many people living in Kenya tend to avoid addressing a topic, issue, or problem directly. It’s just the norm to dance around and imply a message rather than just say it bluntly. This linguistic tradition perforates all types of conversation, and its something that takes a bit of practice to pick up on. I just really want to walk up to someone, start a conversation, and walk away two hours later having learned all about there is to know about life. But I guess that just takes some time.

Today, we spilt into groups to explore different parts of Nairobi. I got to go on a little excursion to the train/bus station with a few other students. What a hoppin place. We kinda just walked around and talked to as many people as we could. Once you get past the whole conversation-starting dealio, Kenyans tend to really open up, especially if you try and throw a few Kiswahili words into the mix. The bus station was home to an army of Matatus, the legendary vans that shuttle people all over Nairobi at all kinds of breakneck speeds. Generally, a Matatu driver will wait until their van is full of people before they will depart for their destination. The fullness of a matatu defies all rules of physical space as goods and commuters are squeezed into every nook and cranny.

Other groups visited the Kenyatta Hospital, University of Nairobi, and a women’s hospital. We had a marathon discussion afterwards as a big group, which is an awesome mix of students who have had some amazing experiences and who are very passionate about international development work. It really adds another element of learning and growth when everyone around you is so focused and driven towards a common goal, kinda like at Colby. But for me, I’m becoming interested in ideas of the media’s influence on public opinion, especially as it relates to development. Questions of how Kenya should develop seem to be at the forefront of many people’s minds, and the local papers and television stations comment on this topic quite frequently. Freedom of speech in Kenya is very progressive and the two major papers in Nairobi, the Daily Nation and the Standard, can comment and critique on whatever they wish without fear of repercussions by the government. In many ways, the media is able to offer more accurate and holistic perspectives than media sources in the US. For a developing nation, freedom of speech can oftentimes be limited or controlled by the ruling power, but its sweet to see this unique media environment here in East Africa.

Over and out Houston.