Fresh Air Fund!!!

I got an email recently from the Fresh Air Fund. Here's what they had to say...

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Or you can simply click on the banner on the right side of the screen. Support a great cause; pay them a visit today.

Thanks again for reading, Nick

Disturbance in the darkest night

I woke with a start. The blustery night had given way to an eerily calm and dark early morning. The trees had been rustling and the clouds had been racing across the moon as we laid down to sleep. But now, there was no sound, except for that which bolted me upright in our plywood and foam bed.

As the sun went down we had helped Faith with dinner. In the fading light we had pounded corn to remove the husks. We had rolled dough for chapati and had fed the fire that simmered the beans. And squatting in that smokey mud hut, is where some of our favorite moments happened.

Mama and Faith would talk to us like children. Pointing at objects and saying their names in Kiswahili. Jiko, kitchen; kisu, knife; maji, water; and so on. At some point the fire died down and began to smolder, pumping black smoke into the tiny structure. The doorways were caked with the soot that had collected over decades of cooking.

We all would run out coughing, eyes burning, laughing. Moshi, moshi (smoke) Faith anapika moshi! Faith she is cooking smoke! Mama thought this was really funny and it was to be my signature retort whenever I passed the kitchen.

A break from the cooking brought the whole family together to sit in the dirt and enjoy some tea. This was a time for friends to stop by. This was a time for children to run and play in the cool evenings beginning. The dogs chased chickens and were rebuffed by the goats. And the bush babies with their tiny heads and enormous eyes would begin to come out and call.

We would sit quietly to one side and watch the family. Enjoying their closeness, their familiarity and their ease. And I couldn't help but feel that this place was another time. We had stepped through some doorway into a place where people valued above all else the relationships that made up their daily lives.

Darkness would come and the conversation would move inside. A tiny black and white television was connected to a car battery and set to the nightly news. We would rush around to help bring in the food, pray, wash our hands, and then devour whatever was set in front of us. Afterwards the Fresh Prince of Belaire would come on. Baba loved this show. It was peculiar and foreign to him, but he understood the comedy. He knew that, regardless of the setting, Will played the fool and the butler was the voice of reason.

We brushed our teeth outside in the moonlight, went to the choo one last time and retired with our bellies full. Lala salama, sleep peacefully. Turn off the lantern and curl up while the wind rustles the leaves.

The noise was unmistakable. The car was being jostled. It was parked just outside our window and somebody was moving it. The brothers had always told us that robbers would try and take it. They said that people would steal anything if they thought they could get away. But after several months, I had come to find Kitui as safe and friendly a place as I had ever been. I would leave a bike unlocked there before Los Angeles or Boston. I wouldn't dream of leaving my backpack in front of a store in D.C. But Kitui, other than being a bustling market town, was a perfect place to experience real Kenyan life. Big enough to be somewhat anonymous, and yet small enough not to get lost.

I sprung from the bed and crept to the window. The bars prevented a good view, but I was able to fix one eye on the car. It was rocking side to side. The rear end seemed to be lifting slightly. They must be taking the tires!

I raced from our room and into the central living space. One of the brothers was sleeping on a couch and I roused him. He was very alarmed and went to wake his older brother. The older brother woke with a scream and came running out of his room. We conferred in hushed but racing tones and moved towards the big iron door.

I unlatched the door as quietly as I could considering the locking system was three massive iron bars drawn through iron loops in the door frame. We stood for a moment and looked at each other in terror and then slowly opened the door. As we peered around it at the car we could see it was still moving. There was grunting and the car slid forward a small amount. The back wheels seemed to be off the ground.

We recoiled to plan our attack. The brothers stood behind me and said that we should yell and run at the thieves. They grabbed a couple of shoes by the doorway and readied themselves. We took a collective deep breath and turned back towards the door.

During training we had several visits from the embassy security staff concerning personal safety. They told us about muggings and carjackings. They told us that it was better to assume people were dangerous and give them whatever they wanted. Make friends the man had said, they won't think twice about killing a stupid white kid to take his cell phone and wallet.

That flew in the face of what Peace Corps was about for Jennie and I. We had envisioned being with the people. Living right where they lived and not missing a moment of personal interaction because of our fears.

How many men were there? What weapons did they have? Are they big? Their grunting was deep and suggested enormous efforts at taking the car apart. All of the stupid preconceptions that people had said about how dangerous Africa was flew through my head. And with that, I turned, yelled loudly and ran at the back of the car.

We were three determined assailants the brothers and I. Arms raised and running fast, we must have seemed a force to be reckoned with. But no sooner did we come in full view of the rear of the car then we realize the folly of our aggression.

The cow had escaped from the pen during the storm. Or for that matter it may have stayed outside as the rest were rounded up. Benson was often drunk when he brought them in and rarely counted correctly anyway.

The old cow was scratching his back on the rear hatch. The cars back wheels lifted off the ground slightly as his deep grunts of satisfaction resonated throughout the compound. He was entirely unimpressed by our display, continuing his exercise despite the cursing and laughing humans around him.

The commotion woke the rest of the family, and the neighbors. And after several minutes of laughing and explaining it was back to bed. The cow was put in his pen, and for now the car was safe.

Wao wapo Shuleni! - They're in school!

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

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

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

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

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.