A New Spin on an Old Idea

This is posted on the edge of the employees parking lot of the National Museum of Kenya headquarters in Nairobi, next to the dumpster. Much has been written by African intellectuals and scholars about the African epistemology being centered not on "I think therefore I am" but on "I am because we are" ; I guess this is just further proof of that emphasis.

In case you can't read it, the Ministry of Health Warning goes: "Cigarette smoking is harmful to people next to you."

Uh oh, we've been adopted

One thing you learn to get used to and even cherish in Lamu are the various infestations of bugs in your home. At first, the hundreds of ants in the kitchen seem like a nuisance, until you realize they stay out of the fridge just fine and are quite efficient at cleaning up after you (on their own timescale of course). The large ants are a little more alarming, but they compensate by looking really cool; they're big enough for you to see them wash their antennae with their front legs, and its quite funny watching them continually fall over as they attempt to balance some unwieldy burden. Sometimes they pick fights with the smaller ants, with predictable results. The flies, well the flies are unredeemable, but there are not quite so many of them as to qualify as an infestation. And while they don't make it into the house (at least not yet), the donkeys must be mentioned (because Patience insists on it). "They're wonderful. With their furry little heads, and babies..." that's a direct quote. I think she's still annoyed that I throw a hissy fit every time she pets them. She just doesn't understand that donkeys around here aren't used to that kind of treatment - they much prefer being beaten. Well, probably not, but they're certainly more accustomed to it. And they do flinch a little bit whenever Patience rubs their heads. They are decidely beasts of burden, not pets, in Lamu. And they are EVERYWHERE. Standing in the narrow alleys, rolling around in the town square, grazing through the various garbage pits (from which they appear to do quite well), and, oddly, meandering between grounded boats at low tide. (I honestly don't know what they're getting out there, unless somehow they're digging up shellfish or cast off ropes!).

On Tuesday we had a new kind of infestation - children. Somehow I didn't notice the dozen or so flip flops and backpacks when I went in the front door. But as soon as I entered our bedroom I was mobbed. 3 or so boys sat around the computer fiddling with the music volume, another set was trying to get the stereo working (they succeeded a few minutes later). The rest swarmed me, greeted me and named me mjombe (uncle) since I was obviously the other half of "auntie" (which they did not translate into Swahili). The greeting itself was actually quite cute, they would each briefly take my hand, say hujambo (hello) and then kiss their hand. It’s a quite common greeting style among adults as well, but cuter when kids do it. Apparently this was the same gaggle of girls who had been greeting Patience in the street and following her around. On Tuesday they seemed to gather enough courage to follow her home and made it into the house. I heard later they'd gone upstairs and played on the hammock a bit before being chased off of it by Jeffa (he's the custodian of the house). It had been 15 minutes by the time I arrived and Patience asked me to get them to leave (some of them understand some English, but Swahili is much more effective). Eventually I got them to leave, but only after promising that we would attend the birthday party of one of the girls on Friday. This was at lunchtime, around 12:45.

They came back twice more that day, or rather, six of them did. They wanted to go see the view from our balcony upstairs (which is quite nice). I again had to shoo them away from the hammock, and they noted that the wind was very strong up their. One of the girls asked for food, and the other girls laughed. Patience and I decided it would probably start a bad precedent to be feeding them, especially since we don't know any of their parents. Maybe we'll relent once we know their situations better. I gave them 5 minutes upstairs on the second visit, and didn't invite them inside on the third visit.

They've come back every day since then, to ensure that we'd come to the birthday party, which we did. They told us to come at 4pm. As usual, we were on time, but needed to wait about an hour and a half before anything actually started. We were escorted up the stairs of one of the Swahili houses to an upstairs courtyard with a large doorless room behind us, a kitchen on the left side, and another closed door (we think it was a bedroom) to our right side. They laid down handwoven mats - one for sitting, the other serving as a dance floor - and within 20 minutes a male relative brought up a boombox and started a CD. He disappeared never to return, but about 4 mothers came in and out of the room as the girls danced and played with balloons (which Patience had been pressed into buying ahead of time, along with candles and streamers). In the back room were the two birthday girls getting all dolled up. It was very much like a rehearsal for the bride's party at a Swahili wedding. The music was generally Taarab music, but a few remixed American songs as well as some Bollywood ballads made their way into the mix as well. Taarab is a local style of music heavily influenced by Arab and Hindi styles and instruments. One girl in particular (who wants to be a Taarab singer when she grows up) latched on to Patience and made her dance with her, or alternately demanded Patience to sit and watch while she danced. As a man I was neither invited nor expected to dance. There were a few young boys there as well, but they rarely danced, mainly confining themselves to playing tag, stealing balloons, and generally doing disruptive boy things that are apparently common fare around the world. Finally, around 6, the two birthday girls made their appearance (after a couple of false alarms). A path was cleared between the 25 or so kids (including not a few babies being babysat by their "older" siblings who were attending); then the girls were ushered out by one of the moms, while the other moms took pictures with their cell phones. One of the girls was forced to throw out the 4 or 5 mint candies that had been placed in her hand, and the walked as a pair toward a bed (a hand-woven mat affixed to a wooden frame, quite comfortable). They were followed by another girl holding a small urn burning some incense. Once the girls were seated, bhajia was served (small round bits of dense fried dough), then some punch. Out of nowhere, the wazungu (that's us) were summoned to sit with the girls on the bed for pictures. It took them a while to manage to get all of us into the cell phone camera view finders, but they were happy with it by the end. Realizing this was our best chance, we pulled out some colorful animal-shaped erasers that we'd gotten from Grandma Grace just for an occasion like this, and gave three each to the birthday girls.

This was a bad idea. Instant mayhem ensued as the children rushed to grab the erasers from the birthday girls, as well as the remaining ones that we'd brought. (I had come with 20 erasers hoping to give one to each of the children at the party, but when more than 30 arrived we thought it best to give it just to the birthday girls). We managed to wave off the kids initial strike, and gave the remaining erasers one of the moms, but at least one of the little boys managed to sneak one off anyway. After a few more pictures, the girls went to join the dancing, and we were served some light cake (more of a sweet bread), more bhajia, and some punch (which was quite good). Eventually we were able to beg off to go home (I took my cue from the dancing girl who asked "are you going to go home now?"), with the moms and everyone assuring us that we were welcome anytime.

Since then, the visits have tapered off a bit, though one girl (one of the ring leaders) has come seeking erasers for here and her friends. Today she came because, "ninataka kukuangalia" - I wanted to see you. So there you have it, we've been adopted. And just for the record, I don't really mean to relate all the kids to an infestation of bugs; they're all very nice and respectful, just a tad too persistent.

Merry Christmas!!!

Christmas in Kenya is - how do we say? - warm. Rather like Christmas in Arizona actually, but warmer and wetter. Sure, the shopping malls put up scraggly Christmas Trees and oddly coloured lights (Flourescent Blues and Purples instead of Green and Red?), and I even saw Holiday greetings in the windows of the "Swahili Delicacies" restaurant I frequent for lunch (which you'd expect to be an upstanding Muslim sort of establishment), but the general Christmas frenzy we're used to in the states just failed to appear.

But maybe that's because we don't have a TV, or a radio, or venture into Malls unless we want to see a movie [yes the "megaplex" has arrived in Kenyan malls too, but usually 4 screens is the max]. Despite our promises to the contrary - we did manage to get each other some presents for Christmas. Patience replaced by iconic "hat" which I had lost a few weeks earlier [IT WAS STOLEN AT A WEDDING!!! FROM A CHURCH PEW after I'd been commandeered to play the wedding march!!!!]. And I searched for a guitar for several days to give to Patience. In vain. Failing that, I got her a handwoven several-gallon bag made from bark fibers that she'd been eying.

[Do we have to mention that she was eyeing it ON Christmas Day, in my presence, before I got it for her? No, I think we'll leave that detail to ourselves...]

Anyway, I digress. The point is that we were finding it difficult to get into the Christmas spirit. So we made Toffee. Nothing like nearly burned sugar covered in chocolate and almond slivers to get you in a giving mood. All our neighbors are fancy bank execs who live behind hedges and gates, so we gave the toffee to their guards instead. And our guards, and housemates. We also put up our nativity set (see above, courtesy of our friend Joseph, who made it). And of course on Christmas morning we had a walk around the nearby arboretum and ate a breakfast of apples and Panetone bread (that's a Lanier tradition - the bread, not the Christmas walk).

We also paid homage to the venerable Lanier tradition of hosting a Herdegen for the holidays. Usually this happens at Thanksgiving, but seeing as how Siddhartha (last name Herdegen) has known Patience since she was in the womb and happened to be stationed in Bahrain for the holidays without his family, we were happy to host him (besides, he graciously treated us to some very delightful meals).

Along with Siddhartha, we spent Christmas at the Arboretum; sharing Christmas dinner with another history PhD student I met at the archive who grew up in Kenya and lives in what he describes as the "white enclave" of Gigiri; shopping for souvenirs at the few shops desperate enough to stay open on Christmas (let me tell you, Siddhartha MADE THEIR CHRISTMAS); and, because why not, an Indian restaurant for dinner. And since we're 8-10 hours ahead of our families in the states, all of this was before most of our family had finished opening their presents.

So, exhausted and dressed for bed we called up the Ray clan on Skype and observed the general mayhem that is the Ray home through the miracle called the Internet and called it a night shortly after Dad opened his present of Chain saw oil. Unfortunately calls to our other family members scattered across the globe were delayed a bit by various malfunctions and conflicting schedules. All in all, a very rewarding and enjoyable Christmas. But Next Year, caroling will definitely be in order.

But for now we leave you with a picture of the Ngong Hills, which was our Boxing Day activity. Oddly, it looks quite similar to the Shenandoah Valley, but not as steep, and with a few more sheep, and cows.

Recollection Tag

Yes, we know. It's been over a month since our last post, so we're going to play a little game of recollection. Ready Daren? Go!

Mombasa - hot sticky, sleep in afternoons so you don't die kinda weather, first night in usually reliable hotel that has since increased prices by a third - funny cuz they're STILL doing construction - literally around the hall from our room there is a nifty, shall we say, "Moon roof/wall" to let in all the mosquitos. So we dodge out of there and get a hotel in the middle of Old Town down from the Shiite mosque which is celebrating Ashura (that's the holiday where they commemorate the martyrdom of the Prophets grandson Hussayn). Here's a view from the roof of our second hotel.

We're in town for the "swahili cultural festival". Think Drums, singing, play sword fights (well if you consider 10 men standing in a row waving around canes to a slow beat a play sword fight), bao (African "chess"), and of course, Henna, or Heena as they call it here.

Tag.

Patience:

They also say" kuchora," or "drawing." Very cool stuff. I got to help judge a heena competition. It was totally wicked! So there I was sweltering in a sunny court yard in my hijab (head wrap that covers the hair and neck) with a bunch of other women sweating in theirs when, saints be praised, one of the judges comes out of the inner sanctum, grabs me by the hand, and take me inside to a small, but wonderfully air conditioned room where all the models come to show off their heena tattooed arms and legs. I love it when people like me :) There are three judges, a video camera woman, and now me, camera in hand, chewing at the bit to judge between nineteen girls and weed out the best from the not so best.

The first model sedately come in the room, head downcast, her body shrouded in form concealing black cloth. All that can be seen of her face is her eyes, the rest of her face also covered. "Salaam aleikum," she murmurs. "Aleikum as-salaam," everyone in the room responds, including myself. She shakes her head when she finds out they want her to remove her buibui (black out

er garment) so they can fully view the designs on her arms and legs. She refuses and even starts heading toward the door. They finally convince her, and she takes off the buibui. And that's when I got a little lesson in Muslim fashion. She looked as if she had just walked off the streets of New York, a regular woman of the night. Hot pink spaghetti strap tank top incrusted with rhinestones around the neck and a very snug mini-skirt with Dior written, (again with the rhinestones) across the back pockets. And I thought the outward super conservative modesty was more than, well, buibui deep.

Anyways, back to the wonderful heena. Here are some of my favorite pics. I narrowed it down a bit for you (I took over 200 hundred shots. Yeah, I'm a little obsessed).

Tag.

Daren:

Sandals. We also got sandals after two attempts. Patience was the one who remembered where to get them so we started off down the narrow alleys deep into Old Town, only to emerge right on the main drag of Mombasa (Digo St) and realize that all the shops had already closed down for the night (at a healthy hour of 6:30!). But the next day we return about mid-day to find the sandal shop staffed by Somalis (and perhaps owned by them as well) and begin to piga bei. (to hit the price, or bargain). But like any good shoe shop it takes us each half a dozen or more attempts at trying on various cuts and sizes of sandals to find the ones that fit - and while the sellers conception of "fit" meant the foot generally hits the sandal, ours was more along the line of our toes don't spill over the front sides of the sandal and are relatively comfortable to walk in. In the end we both get a pair of handmade leather sandals sewn into the rubber soles that selflessly take the brunt of nails and mud scattered about the streets of Kenya. Of course, walking in the sandals for a full day does quite the number on the feet since they're not broken in yet, and by the end of the day I'm ready to chuck them out the window. But the bars on the window (did this used to be a prison?) prevent that, and so I now have a moderately comfortable pair of sandals to walk around the house and neighborhood.

Tag

Patience:

After a hot three days we pack our bags and head to the train station on a late and entirely energy sapped Sunday afternoon. The train is supposed to set off into the sunset at 6:30, but boarding doesn't begin till an hour later (African

standard time), so Daren and I entertain ourselves by paying a guitar strumming man who keeps trying to hit us up for a few shillings to play us a song. He has a pretty good voice and with his e string entirely flat, he rips into a song about one of his heroes, a native son who was born just down the street: Obama. And yeah, we recorded it. I felt like telling him that Obama was totally born in Hawaii and probably doesn't even speak a lick of Swahili, but he was just too happy high up in his Obama balloon and I didn't want to burst his bubble.

Tag

Daren:

There is only one railway in Kenya. It used to stretch from Mombasa to Kampala, Uganda with a few side spurs down to Tanzania and out to Lake Victoria. Now it stops at Nairobi. And the passenger rail only travels every other day in either direction. The compartments are nice enough, if not roomy. First class (about $110 for two people) has two narrow beds, one atop the other, a small closet, a sink that hides away under a fold down counter and a mirror, behind which hides a non-functioning tap of "drinking water". Its brother the non-functioning fan is above the mirror and would have been a welcome blessing at the beginning of the trip in Mombasa. But the air cools down within a few hours and your thankful for the exceptionally warm bedding they turn down for you while your away at dinner.

Dinner isn't as impressive as the dining car. Colonial era cutlery, folded napkins, silver (plated?) sugar bowls are nice, but the food catered by Glory Hotel (remember the one with the "moon roof" mentioned above) is just barely on par with any run of the mill diner in Nairobi or Mombasa. Vegetables or chicken or beef, plus rice or potatoes (advertised as roasted but mashed without butter in reality), fruit salad, and coffee/tea/drinking chocolate (though you have to wait about 20 minutes if you want drinking chocolate) are included in the price of the ticket, but you pay extra for any drinks, including water. But its also the best chance to meet with your fellow passengers and at breakfast we have a nice time with a young married couple on their way to spend Christmas with their Jain parents who don't celebrate Christmas.

As expected though, the best part of the train ride is the scenery. Actually it looks a lot like Arizona on this route, except the trees are all a little different and there's much more green (it is the rainy season after all). Of course there's also the occasional wildebeest, several small herds of eland and a sprinkling of ibex to keep you busy shuttering away at the camera. And as you approach the outskirts of Nairobi, you get to greet groups of children screaming at the train as it passes within centimeters of many of the tin and wooden shacks in the slums without fear of being pick pocketed.

Well, that brings us back from Mombasa. Tune in for Christmas later. Hopefully we'll be able to find some good shots of "scenery" for you next time.

cheers,

pd