5:30 am. I awake with a start as a man’s shrill cry comes over a loud speaker calling devotees to prayer at a nearby mosque. In Arabic he repeats several phrases, singing that none are to be worshipped but Allah, and my personal favorite, prayer is better than sleep. Now fully awake, and musing about the muezzin, I climb out of bed and quietly step outside to watch the sunrise. Its morning in Kajiado and in the growing light another market day is beginning. The air is cold, but the winds have calmed. And this small, dusty outpost about 75 Kilometers directly south of Nairobi feels like a scene straight out of the pioneer American west. Small, stunted trees grow crookedly in defiance of the bleak, windswept atmosphere. And the local population seems to do much of the same, as their lanky outlines sweep past in the grayish light of morning.
This is Kajiado, and it’s booming at present. Housing is being furiously erected and laborers are constantly seen ferrying large bags of Portland cement, lumber, and jerry cans of water on flat bed rickshaws. These two-wheeled contraptions appear to be the rear axle of a car, which has been converted, complete with a front handlebar, for the purposes of human propelled cargo movement. As in many parts of the country, enterprising young men with strong backs and a fearless disposition, can be hired to move anything along the frenetic road system, dodging matatus and cattle on their journey through the scorched expanse.
The town itself is a U-shaped affair with a tarmac loop passing several gas stations, an open-air market, and a multitude of storefronts on its way diverting from, and then reconnecting to the A104 as it continues south towards Namanga and the Tanzanian border. The loop is easily traversed in 25 minutes, though a brisk walk may cause you to miss the diversity and color that is the town’s most redeeming quality. Kajiado district in general is a place inhabited by the Maasai. But in Kajiado town, a decided Somali-Muslim influence predominates. That’s not to say that the Maasai aren’t present, just that they are intermixed with robed Muslim men and women, and more than a few west Asian traders. Ironically, there is even a Maasai store, which happens to be an all-purpose trading post, run by an Indian family. But this makes the small town vibrant and interesting.
We like to stay at a guest house run by the local Anglican Church, smack in the middle of town. The rooms are very clean, the showers are hot, and they throw in breakfast for 700 shillings per person, or about eleven U.S. Dollars. The rooms are part of a 1 story row of buildings perched on the edge of a hill, allowing the cool evening breezes to come straight in from the south. And unlike many of the establishments in town, it is on a large compound, giving you the sense of space, in the growing congestion.
The soko, or open-air market, is one place you must experience. Most days, purveyors are set up in a cement walled and tin roofed area. But on Wednesdays and Saturdays the chaos is increased and moved to an adjacent, fully open air venue, where tree limb and burlap enclosures have been erected on a dusty plain. Here, you can get everything from freshly ground spices and milled grains to hand picked fruits and vegetables. The atmosphere is raucous, with plenty of yelling, and young men lugging massive bags of goods around. They will knock you over if you don’t heed their calling “wewe!” I have, more than once narrowly escaped impalement on stalks of sugar cane, or smothering by huge bundles of flying kales. There is also the usual assortment of used clothing and random goods vendors if you are in the market for kitchen utensils, drapery or tire sandals. Just make sure that you haggle for goods. I find walking away twice before settling on a price is a sure strategy. The food prices are generally fixed and low, but it’s a free for all when it comes to anything else.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Day of Peace - Letters and Laughter
Jennie and I want to acknowledge Carol Dunn, Mary Jones, and her grade school class for writing letters to the standard 8 students here in Orinie. In observance of the International Day of Peace, the kids wrote about themselves, their community and what the concept of peace meant to them.
The idea came up a few months ago when Jennie and I cautiously wandered over to the school and promised to teach a few lessons. At that time our mere presence within line-of-sight of the primary school caused a riot. If I had to explain what it would be like to land on earth as a Martian, I now feel qualified to do so. Walking into that school felt like descending from the mother ship into a crowd of gasping, leering, mute with anticipation, and generally amazed children. There are kids here who have never seen pavement, so I would like to think that having seen us will shake out to be at least as strange and interesting an experience.
But all too quickly, we were just teachers, demanding attention from students and grading assignments. Jennie became the crazy mzungu who teaches reproductive health intermixed with science curricula, so hers was a more racy identity. But for me, the arduous task of teaching English composition was saved only by bribing the children with candy and national geographic magazines.
In conjunction with Carol and Mary, Jennie arranged for a Peace Day letter exchange. We did a letter writing session, where peace was discussed, and first drafts were scrutinized. Finally, we created letters that the class was proud to send out over the Atlantic. The kids here wrote amazing letters, in, what is their third language after Kimaasai and Kiswahili. But in truth, the hardest part was telling them to be patient as more than a month transpired before we received letters with the Indiana postmark.
The school buzzed with the news that letters had arrived. Instead of the usual grazing goats looking through the glassless, iron barred windows, hundreds of students watched expectantly. The letters were read and re-read and then passed around. They had so many questions about slang, and pop-culture references, and why Americans spell differently than British writers do. They really got to see a day in the life of a little Midwestern town through the eyes of their age mates—it was amazing to watch.
Jennie walked them through a discussion of social similarities and differences, as well as their ideas of peace. They responded with thoughtful notions and more than a few laughs about the way Americans see the world. They pondered how we can spend so much time indoors and how that affects our social interaction. And they marveled that while most of us don’t live with goats, we often have dogs sleep in our beds—that’s just weird. Most of all, they noticed how a little writing experiment made everyone feel much more connected, and that its hard to hate or fear someone after you have shared a little space and time.
Apart from all this, Jennie and I find it incredibly difficult to sort out how worthwhile our efforts are, and whether or not they are sustainable solutions to the problems we are seeing. When being here gets tough, we turn to questioning our purpose, and if what we are doing is helping make lasting change for the better. But Carol really emphasized to us that investing in children is always a sustainable and purposeful endeavor. So amongst the hard questions and loosely defined work roles, this interaction with the kids was clearly a great thing, and the closest thing to immediate gratification we have had since coming. The kids had a blast, they learned a lot about American culture, and we felt that we had accomplished something, while small, that will stick with all of us for years to come, so many thanks to all that were involved.
The idea came up a few months ago when Jennie and I cautiously wandered over to the school and promised to teach a few lessons. At that time our mere presence within line-of-sight of the primary school caused a riot. If I had to explain what it would be like to land on earth as a Martian, I now feel qualified to do so. Walking into that school felt like descending from the mother ship into a crowd of gasping, leering, mute with anticipation, and generally amazed children. There are kids here who have never seen pavement, so I would like to think that having seen us will shake out to be at least as strange and interesting an experience.
But all too quickly, we were just teachers, demanding attention from students and grading assignments. Jennie became the crazy mzungu who teaches reproductive health intermixed with science curricula, so hers was a more racy identity. But for me, the arduous task of teaching English composition was saved only by bribing the children with candy and national geographic magazines.
In conjunction with Carol and Mary, Jennie arranged for a Peace Day letter exchange. We did a letter writing session, where peace was discussed, and first drafts were scrutinized. Finally, we created letters that the class was proud to send out over the Atlantic. The kids here wrote amazing letters, in, what is their third language after Kimaasai and Kiswahili. But in truth, the hardest part was telling them to be patient as more than a month transpired before we received letters with the Indiana postmark.
The school buzzed with the news that letters had arrived. Instead of the usual grazing goats looking through the glassless, iron barred windows, hundreds of students watched expectantly. The letters were read and re-read and then passed around. They had so many questions about slang, and pop-culture references, and why Americans spell differently than British writers do. They really got to see a day in the life of a little Midwestern town through the eyes of their age mates—it was amazing to watch.
Jennie walked them through a discussion of social similarities and differences, as well as their ideas of peace. They responded with thoughtful notions and more than a few laughs about the way Americans see the world. They pondered how we can spend so much time indoors and how that affects our social interaction. And they marveled that while most of us don’t live with goats, we often have dogs sleep in our beds—that’s just weird. Most of all, they noticed how a little writing experiment made everyone feel much more connected, and that its hard to hate or fear someone after you have shared a little space and time.
Apart from all this, Jennie and I find it incredibly difficult to sort out how worthwhile our efforts are, and whether or not they are sustainable solutions to the problems we are seeing. When being here gets tough, we turn to questioning our purpose, and if what we are doing is helping make lasting change for the better. But Carol really emphasized to us that investing in children is always a sustainable and purposeful endeavor. So amongst the hard questions and loosely defined work roles, this interaction with the kids was clearly a great thing, and the closest thing to immediate gratification we have had since coming. The kids had a blast, they learned a lot about American culture, and we felt that we had accomplished something, while small, that will stick with all of us for years to come, so many thanks to all that were involved.
Friday, November 16, 2007
The goatfather
Taketi herds about 75 goats for his family, which means that he is up by 5 am to drive them to the river for water. By 7:30 he is at school while the goats wander, and by 2pm he is back out into the bush rounding them up. He herds goats 7 days a week, and he does it well, at least that’s what I would like to believe. And though he is only 8 years of age, he has found a way to extort gifts from each and every garden owner that his goats pass on their daily migration to and from the riverbed.
I wasn’t keen to it at first. The goats amble into the yard, prompting me to chase them. And there is Taketi, smiling away, ignoring the fact that the goats are making fast work of our crops. “I have come to greet you” he says in his 3rd grade Kiswahili. I happen to be at about the same level and so I respond by asking about school, news of his home and how his goats are doing that day. He peeks behind me into the house and says, “kuna zawadi leo”? Which, roughly translates to, “do you have any gifts for me today”? To which I usually produce a piece of candy, a banana, or even just a cup of water. His tiny stature doesn’t allow him to see over the live fence, so most times he is either jumping for a peak, or leaning awkwardly to see what’s happening through the wall of thorns. Some nights, as the sun goes down, he even helps me add thick thorny branches to fortify the barrier because his tiny little hands can so ably sneak past the thorns that ensnare me in fits of cursing.
I have slowly had the chance to meet neighbors and learn about his racket. It’s simple, but effective. Give him gifts and he will keep his goats out of your yard. Cross him—deny him treats or toys from town—and you will find goats nibbling away the precious shoots and leaves that you have so dedicatedly sown. His little tire sandals and big pearly white smile don’t fool me. He’s running a little goat syndicate complete with payoffs, retribution and old world black mail. If I tell him we have no treats, he usually gives me one last opportunity by asking “Jennie yupo hapa”? I tell him that Jennie is around, but we still don’t have sweets, and to this he turns slowly, eyes me one last time as if to say, “Your crops are goat food sucka,” and then meanders home.
Travelers beware. If you’re looking for the mugger in a hoodie, you are sure to get taken. The real robbers here are the adorable children that warm your heart and talk you into giving them all your stuff. Taketi has already booked half of the things I own, and I will probably just wheel a couple of suitcases to his place when we leave. I marvel at how we came 10,000 miles to realize that there’s a Dennis the Menace in every town.
I wasn’t keen to it at first. The goats amble into the yard, prompting me to chase them. And there is Taketi, smiling away, ignoring the fact that the goats are making fast work of our crops. “I have come to greet you” he says in his 3rd grade Kiswahili. I happen to be at about the same level and so I respond by asking about school, news of his home and how his goats are doing that day. He peeks behind me into the house and says, “kuna zawadi leo”? Which, roughly translates to, “do you have any gifts for me today”? To which I usually produce a piece of candy, a banana, or even just a cup of water. His tiny stature doesn’t allow him to see over the live fence, so most times he is either jumping for a peak, or leaning awkwardly to see what’s happening through the wall of thorns. Some nights, as the sun goes down, he even helps me add thick thorny branches to fortify the barrier because his tiny little hands can so ably sneak past the thorns that ensnare me in fits of cursing.
I have slowly had the chance to meet neighbors and learn about his racket. It’s simple, but effective. Give him gifts and he will keep his goats out of your yard. Cross him—deny him treats or toys from town—and you will find goats nibbling away the precious shoots and leaves that you have so dedicatedly sown. His little tire sandals and big pearly white smile don’t fool me. He’s running a little goat syndicate complete with payoffs, retribution and old world black mail. If I tell him we have no treats, he usually gives me one last opportunity by asking “Jennie yupo hapa”? I tell him that Jennie is around, but we still don’t have sweets, and to this he turns slowly, eyes me one last time as if to say, “Your crops are goat food sucka,” and then meanders home.
Travelers beware. If you’re looking for the mugger in a hoodie, you are sure to get taken. The real robbers here are the adorable children that warm your heart and talk you into giving them all your stuff. Taketi has already booked half of the things I own, and I will probably just wheel a couple of suitcases to his place when we leave. I marvel at how we came 10,000 miles to realize that there’s a Dennis the Menace in every town.
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