Travel Journal - Kajiado, Kenya

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.

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 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.

Lifevest Lingerie

We got home safely this week from Nairobi, but not exactly in the way that I had envisioned. Like normal we grabbed a matatu from the City Centre stage and suffered through the dust, noise and danger that is modern Kenya's finest mode of transportation. We arrived with our lives and person intact in Kajidao, and set up a meeting with one of our counterparts. Julius was also worried about the looming water crisis and set about solving the problem. This was music to our ears as we have been saving bath water to wash our clothes in before dumping it on the few remaining green plants we have in the backyard. Its been pretty tight here water wise, which made our experience in Nairobi slightly more bizarre.

We met with our APCD on Thursday, and discussed, among other things, our emergency action plans. This roughly translates to discussing all of the worst case scenarios, and then laughing at the possibility of ever having to implement them. For example, on this particular trip, we discussed the riverbed we cross to leave our village. Its a dry beach for 11 months of the year, and a seething torrent in heavy rains. Under normal circumstances, if the river is raging, you just don't cross. This is a widely accepted method of coming away with your life, even if you don't get to town to buy peanut butter or luke warm soda. But like I said, we weren't there to discuss what normally happens.

A month ago, we had discussed the very same river crossing issue at site visit. I had laughingly suggested that, should we need to leave when the rains come, we could use a rope and some flotation devices to help each other across. Tie one end to a tree as the other person wades across, and then repeat on the opposite bank. So you can imagine my shock when we were handed a "life vest sign out sheet." I quipped that they must have made this form specifically for us, and got a rather annoyed glance in reply. Anyhow, we found ourselves the next day holding life vests in Kajiado, walking to a meeting with Julius.

Julius shares our concern over lack of water. In fact he took it so seriously that he arranged water and a ride for us back to the village. But like I have continually said about this experience, the aspect which I assumed was the strangest, took a close second to the massive tanker truck that appeared to chauffeur us to Orinie. We spent the final hours of our day, bouncing along the dusty track that leads to our home, squished between two truck drivers, a huge bag of vegetables, and two life vests, all headed, strangely enough, for one of the driest places I have ever been.

We arrived at dusk and helped the guys load our dispensary tank with water. At the request of Julius, I was to put a lock on the tank, which put me in an awkward position standing amongst a crowd of thirsty locals. I didn't get a hard time from anyone really, though I could tell they weren't happy. I was saved however by a scream from our house. I ran in to find Jennie in a pile of our dirty laundry, cursing like a sailor. In our absence, a mouse had set up his home in our clothing, and had found a way to nibble all the important aspects of our undergarments. We had made it safely, and with water, and had to laugh at life vests and risque underwear, because it was just another day in Orinie.

Dust Football

I have started playing football in the evenings with the kids here. The field is rough, extremely potholed, lacking goal posts or sidelines, and definitely not flat. But they don’t care, they just play.

As the sun sets, crowds of students battle in the rising dust. The action stops frequently to restitch the ball due to thorns and sharp broken glass. The kids huddle around and find some way to fix the ball, and then, amid screams and much chaos, play resumes. It’s so much shabbier than any field I have ever seen and I have no response to “Nicko, how do you see our field”? In the end, I guess what I see are kids, too enveloped in fun to notice how much they lack. And for their sake, I hope that this reprieve stays with them, and gives them joy through all the difficulties they face. There is so little here, and the small moments really do matter. Every little bit of enjoyment is squeezed out, reused and savored.

The fading of the light makes continuing almost impossible, and yet, there is always one final goal to score. “Last one is the winner.” At some point an enormous hum comes across the field, and for a minute we are covered in bees—millions of honey bees. They are migrating right through the middle of our match, and everyone is on their knees, shirts pulled up over heads, screaming, laughing. The bees pass, and one enterprising lad scores as the defense is still half-shirtless and cowering. The ball pops for a final time and it’s not repairable due to darkness. We all wander home coated in dust, sweating, and laughing at the bad plays I have made. This is how the games are savored, walking home in the dark, arm-in-arm. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, only maybe you won’t miss. Maybe you can actually send it in the direction of the opponents goal, just a suggestion, nothing personal. Do they have football in America? Do the kids sleep with their cleats on?”

I can see their outlines in the fading light, jumping, sprinting, arms raised, mouths open, eyes wide, chests heaving, feet furiously seeking the ball. They are playing because they can forget about herding goats, or hauling water. They can forget about typhoid, malaria and AIDS. They can breathe in the cold evening air, and exhale all the worries that 12 year olds carry here. The weight is lifted, even if only for a moment, and I can see their gleaming faces in the moonlight. They are children who must grow up fast. But for an hour or so, they are football stars, and I think I shall always remember them this way.

Volunteers log: Day 135

Jennie has come through a rather nasty fight with a stomach bug. She spent the last few days camped out under the mosquito netting, feverish and reading a Jodi Picoult novel. Wednesday was site visit, which among other things brought, not one, but two boxes from France. Our supervisor Anne came by Land Rover to see us, and reaffirm that we are in fact, the most remote posting that she has under her domain.

As for the package, it contained every essential item necessary for survival in the bush. Jen tore into the Sudoku puzzles and wasn't seen or heard from for a full day except to sharpen her pencil. The package also had two gallon sized bags of M&Ms, which are at this moment being finished (2 days after receiving the package). There were also several large chocolate bars of possible French and or Belgian origin, though I can’t say with any certainty given that the wrappers are already torn, and the chocolate, likewise consumed greedily and embarrassingly fast. There were also some sticky things that probably glow in the dark, though we have not yet confirmed this. The packaging was entirely in French, and so we spent most of the time talking about how, despite several years worth of French classes, I still couldn't ascertain what the heck these things were. At any rate, we are enthused and plan to stick them on a board in the sun, and then around the house on the walls. Most likely, they will make good night lights for our resident frog population.

We must also report that toast is now possible. We have realized after many bread and butter mornings that grilling toast here not only works, but also thankfully removes all hair on my hands. This means that Jennie’s trifecta of Oatmeal, bananas and cinnamon toast is complete. We have only to convince the local store owners that there is in fact a large market for diet soda. This has proven to be no easy task, but one that, working in tandem, we may be able to bring to fruition given two years worth of pleading and tantrums.

For me, I spent the morning trimming my beard. Usually about once a week I happen by a mirror and stand aghast at the freak staring in my direction. This particular morning, I decided I had the time, and the need to trim the thing given that I woke to find a moth fully dead and probably partially decomposed somewhere underneath my chin region. I wouldn't call the result a proper haircut or beard trim, but it certainly is shorter. I still make babies cry, old mamas snicker and school children flee, but I think they pause for a minute now before doing so. Sometimes I give them what they want and do something strange. Running at the kids, hands raised and growling like the abominable snowman is priceless, though I don’t have a sense for what it does to my professional credibility as of yet.

More than anything, we want to thank all of you for supporting us with kind words and packages. We miss home, and we miss family and friends, so your words, and your chocolate mean a lot. Stay tuned for a safari update, and our work with the school, and many, many thanks.

Much Love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie

Goats drive me insane with anger

I have avoided talking about work like the plague itself, because it's so hard to give the proper context. You can obviously understand when I say we are building a garden. But what you don't really get is what that entails here on the ground. For starters, we seem to be at the nexus of the known goat universe. Everyone here owns and grazes goats. And this presents certain unforeseen barriers to agriculture. For example, we planted a banana tree and routed our sink waste water into a catchment for it. This was our first foray into horticulture and we were really psyched about it. But the very next day goats stripped the tree bare, just short of killing it, and clearly indicating that a fence was necessary. And so, with the help of a local farmer, we erected what I thought was an impenetrable barrier.

Our fence is comprised of cut trees that are so hardy they continue to grow when chopped in half and replanted. And they have the nastiest thorns imaginable, such that pioneering Europeans named them "wait a bit.” I can only too well imagine my pale ancestors bloody and cursing the local plant life as they tried to explore the region. The trouble is that the goats seem almost immune. Instead of an impenetrable barrier, they seem to see a minor obstacle that is both sieve and smorgasbord. If they fail to make it through on the first attempt, they seem to delay a moment nibbling on the shoots to make better holes for their closely following brethren. This means that I obsess about goats getting into the yard. It would be funny if I wasn't such a freak about it. And I can only imagine what it must look like to the neighbors. Goats enter the yard, and in response, a large, bearded white man comes charging out of the house throwing stones and yelling, eyes gleaming with impotent rage at the inexhaustible appetite of the invading herd. So, here we are, doing development work, and it seems, protecting a smallish patch of earth from animals that raise my ire mightily. You can imagine Jennie's amusement as I feverishly stalk from desk to window attempting to write and defend said garden simultaneously.

If, by some miracle, we are able to defend our crops, our plans are to cultivate some vegetables for personal consumption. The walk not withstanding, it’s fun to do and a great learning experience. Apart from that, we want to accomplish several other, more important objectives.

Food security is hard to come by in this region. As such, we want to develop ways to encourage farming for personal consumption. To do this we needed to identify local crop varieties, how to grow them, and if anybody here actually wants to eat them. Cassava, for example, grows exceptionally well in arid conditions, and you can find a million books and websites touting its hardy and nutritious attributes. The problem is, nobody here wants to eat cassava, or do the work to grow it without any market in which to sell it. However, people here do love to eat corn and beans, and we have met several local farmers who have had success growing these crops. Our hope is that by highlighting their work, we can encourage people to do the same for themselves.

Our second goal is to create a small tree nursery. This area has been ravaged by the charcoal industry. Most of the trees that grow locally are chopped down and cooked in big piles of dirt to create briquettes for use in small clay stoves called jiko. This is a major source of fuel for the rural community here, and so its creation is also a major source of income for anyone with some energy and an axe. As an outsider you could come and talk ad nauseam about why this shouldn't be done due to soil erosion and global warming. But charcoal is the cheapest and most available source of cooking fuel and people will continue to exploit it until they are given a cheaper and more available alternative. So instead of trying to convince people to abstain, Jennie and I are hoping to continue talking about alternative energy sources (such as solar and wind), and the merits of tree planting. And we are also hoping to grow some saplings and have the local kids plant them.

This garden is one small piece in a host of projects we are working on, but like I said, there is too much context to just say it simply. I hope that you will come back again and read some more about what we are doing. We hope to write a number of postings related to our work here, and start to de-emphasize our own stupidity and almost complete lack of ability to live here without somehow injuring or subjugating ourselves to intense humiliation at the hands of small school children. Okay, the school is for another posting, but we really appreciate your following along. Much love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie.