Bushka!

My four-day affair with tranquility that went down on Kenya’s Lamu Island came to a tragic end, and what I mean is that it was tragic because it ended. It’s arguably a good thing that I left because I don’t think I registered a pulse for the final two days once I really settled in. In Swahili, the words pole pole (pronounced poll-lay, poll-lay) literally mean “slow slow” – which was probably coined initially to describe the experience in every bank line in Kenya --  though the message it is meant to convey is “slow down.” The pace on Lamu Island is an extreme illustration of “pole pole,” so much so that I bet dead people feel right at home among the living on Lamu.

Pole pole isn’t a speed in which I operate very often.  So it took about two days for me to figure out Lamu. Even after I transferred to the super-awesome Mfalini Guest House where I will demand I be taken if and when I am placed on a death bed, I still couldn’t quite entirely figure out why Lamu was such a desirable destination. The pace is so slow, there’s not a whole lot of “what to do” options, etc.  Then it hit me: that’s exactly why Lamu is a desirable destination.  In four days, I went on four runs on the beach, went in and out of the ocean with the frequency that a child goes in and out of a screen door in summer, read 2.5 books (one sucked and I gave up), ate seafood within hours of it being caught, and drank my body weight in fresh fruit juice.  In one instance, a fisherman pulled up a crab pot on the pier, handed me one of the crustaceans as a gift, I turned around, walked about 20 meters to the modestly-sized restaurant behind where they prepared it, and I was eating fresh crab about a half hour later on the beach. I had a Top 10 eating experience that was interrupted when I was horrified at myself for probably eating the crab in direct view of its family. In the future, I will ensure there is some anonymity between me and the family of the sea creatures I eat.

As I was checking out of the guest house, the owner thanked me for the business. I told him that I co-owned a small safari business (Shameless plug:  www.usoafrica.com) and I would recommend his guest house whenever the opportunity came up. Then he said “Rafiki, (‘friend’) you should have told me that sooner and I would have accommodated you in the suite.” Then he showed me the suite and I observed its massiveness and top-floor 270 degree view of the ocean. And then I cried and staggered to the airstrip, missing Lamu as soon as the plane was off the ground. Spent the night in Nairobi, and made the six hour return trip to Samburu the next day.

To say that Samburu is sort of hot this time of year is to say that Lance Armstrong was sort of a cheater when he won all of those tours (I also got caught up on current events while in Lamu). There just aren't the right words to express the disbelief.  From mid-morning to mid-afternoon, the primary focus becomes preventing your body from metabolizing its organs in an effort to garner the energy needed to keep the body at 98.6 degrees. Today I may have lost my left kidney (my left, your right). When you’re near the fattest part of the Earth (Samburu is about 90 miles north of the equator), you’re closer to the sun which means less ozone in the atmosphere, and ozone helps filter out the damaging and skin-piercing ultraviolet from the sun’s rays. So the hot temperature (upper 90s/low 100s) is accompanied by a nearly intolerable intensity. If Satan were in Samburu today, he would have casually remarked that today was sure a nice day that reminded him of home.  

 

 

There is one organism that withstands the heat nicely, and that organism is Bush Car, or what sounds like “Bushka” when my Samburu friends say it. “Bush” is what Americans would probably refer to as wilderness. It just means areas off the main roads and amidst rugged elements such as rough terrain, lack of marked roads, and animals that might eat you.  A few years ago when it became apparent that I would probably be returning here with some regularity (by regularity I mean consistent intervals of time, not bowel movements), I purchased Bush Car because it would save me and my generous grant funders money in the long-run by not having to rent a vehicle every trip to do the various community conservation and research work that we’re up to here. And the roads around Samburu can be rough.  One time I rented a vehicle and I returned it to the company with one headlight, the horn and the back bumper placed in the back seat. I parked in the last row of the company’s return lot, paid cash, and briskly walked away. I thought running might be too conspicuous.

So Bush Car entered my life in 2009 or 2010 BB (Before Bushcar). I’ve never been one to become attached to a vehicle. I’ve always just considered them enclosed hunks of metal to move me around.  I’ve not named my cars nor talked about them with human-like characteristics. That was all before B.B.  Things are different in 2012 AB.

I love Bush Car. Actually, I love-hate Bush Car. But during my time in Samburu on this most recent trip, it’s all love. Bush Car has started up every day (not quickly, but eventually), not rolled away a single meter (parking brake doesn’t work which is why Bush Car is never allowed to face downhill toward the river), and not sustained a single flat tire. In its lowest moments, Bush Car had three flat tires in a day and swallowed my cell phone on the same day by making its air vent look like a little place to hold things. A punctured tire isn’t so abnormal for vehicles around here, but three in a day pushed the limits, and the cell phone travelled down the vent and behind the dashboard, and became more challenging when the phone’s battery died and we couldn’t call it to find out if we were moving it any closer to the exit point of the vent with the help of a small child’s arm and a coat hanger. Eventually we retrieved the cell phone but the small child is still in the air vent and has the coat hanger to play with.   

Last year around this time, Bush Car hiccupped and would only go in reverse, and after awhile, driving in reverse started to hurt my neck. After a temporary fix that involved a mango peel to prevent two pieces from rubbing against each other and generating fire, I drove Bush Car to the nearest mechanic that actually uses tools (20+ miles) and as I pulled in, the brakes seized up, smoked and I think even belched as we pulled into the station. I loathed Bush Car for its colossal break-down in the Isiolo town that I detest, but appreciated it at the same time for going unconscious in the confines of what turned out to be a trustworthy service station.

Note that I don’t refer to Bush Car as “he” or “she.” I’ve checked, and Bush Car has neither a penis nor a vagina. It’s the opposite of a hermaphrodite.  While I do anthropomorphize Bush Car, I’ve never really thought of it as being a specific gender though with its dependability and fringy dashboard, it arguably leans female or in the case of the fringe (see photo below), leans Liberace. For those of you that speak with a normal person’s vocabulary, “anthropomorphize” is an unimpressive piece of jargon that academics use to make non-academics roll their eyes, and it means applying human-like characteristics to non-human things, like animals, cars and Joan Rivers’ face.  This evening I lifted my head while doing some paperwork at the table, noticed Bush Car facing a beautiful sunset and I swear one of the thoughts that occurred to me was that Bush Car was sure enjoying a nice view.

 

 

Bush Car’s dashboard is adorned with a velvety fringed fabric that is nothing short of breathtaking. It was custom-made: it has holes that fit perfectly around the phone-consuming air vents. Sometimes I lift my leg a little bit while driving just to feel the soft tickle of the fringe on my quad (too much?). Let’s be super clear about this feature though: the fringe was in Bush Car long before I took ownership.

The air vents aren’t really useful except for dispersing dust throughout the vehicle’s interior and so far I’ve liked all of the asthmatics that have joined me in Bush Car and therefore I haven’t needed to engage the air vents. The door to the back is unlocked by a small piece of rod-iron that is filed down to a square-like shape and in a pinch can be replaced by a stick.  It has a sun-roof type of hatch that will fly open on its own if I exceed 30mph, and if I forget to open the hatch before that time, it makes a noise when it slams open that I associate with the car being shot, and I usually pee a little. When Bush Car is washed, we use the hose on the outside, and the inside.

In our time together, Bush Car has contributed to some important moments, such as the transport of 18 people (including two babies passed to me through the driver’s window) to a traditional Samburu circumcision ceremony. Around these parts, boys get circumcised around 12-14 years old, in public view of the elders or wazee, and this isn’t considered cruel or humiliating. It’s an important moment in a Samburu male’s multi-step transition to manhood.  Personally, given it involves cutting off a part of the penis (second use of penis in this blog) and the fact that I would scream if I was in that position, seems more like a transition to little-girl hood.

Bush Car has delivered many hundreds of pounds of rice, beans and maize to villages around here on behalf of charitable people and organizations, and also served as an ad-hoc school bus if I’m headed that direction anyway. Some kids around Samburu walk miles to get to class, so a lift to class is welcomed without hesitation. If I were in the U.S. I would be serving life in prison for the number of unfamiliar children that have entered my car and further, not been secured in a weight-proportionate car seat. But around here I promise you it’s totally normal, and I further promise you that I drive slowly and safely. Bush Car starts uncomfortably vibrating around 20 mph anyway.

In addition to many pounds of food and many pounds of children, Bush Car has transported live goats, chickens, an elephant skull, 10 foot sheets of iron metal, a full-size bed frame, and one prisoner.  Because my parents read this blog, I will not elaborate on the final item on that list.

Later today Bush Car will transport a load of mosquito nets to Lorubae Primary School for its new girls’ dormitory courtesy of some recent generous clients of the safari company that you should book a trip with (that website again is www.usoafrica.com). A new dorm for girls is a big deal around here. If a girl can remain at school overnight, she won’t be asked or forced to do many of the time-consuming house chores at night such as fetching water or wood, or taking care of younger siblings, and she can study, avoid harassment by boys, not get pregnant, and so on.  In sum, she will do better.  Girls’ access to education is THE MOST IMPORTANT THING that a developing country can do to alleviate poverty and disease and turn the corner to prosperity and self-sufficiency. That has been shown over and over and over. So it should be a good day in which another valuable task is added to Bush Car's unheralded lore, and I will attempt to remain hydrated and upright in the Samburu’s heat while doing so….

Escape from Kipepeo prison

Kenya had a primary election this past Thursday in preparation for their general election on March 4, their first presidential election since the closely contested outcome in December 2007 that escalated into violence, brought tribalism to the surface, and killed more than 1,300 people.  It was arguably the lowest point for Kenya since gaining independence in 1964 from Britain. This March, in my opinion, Kenya will show the world whether it is ready to transition fully toward being a prosperous and democratic nation, or whether it will be cast into yet another storyline of an African country that is a long ways from putting its worst times behind them for good.

Kenya requires that people be registered to vote in their home town, and since there is no equivalent to an absentee ballot system here, election day as well as the day before and the day after are often national holidays so people can travel home to vote.  In this instance, this three-day sequence lead up to a Sunday, a day when life definitely slows down in Kenya, markets and stores are often closed, and there are finally no lines at the bank, albeit because the bank is closed. I hadn’t anticipated this beforehand, and found myself looking at four days of unexpected down time. Not wanting to spend it in the Nairobi chaos, I hopped on a plane to the island of Lamu. I’ve heard stories from others who have been to Lamu about its uber-slow pace and vibe, and the respite it provides from the frenzied intersection of traffic, crowded streets, long lines for everything, and polluted air that is Nairobi.

So I got on the internet, secured a place to say, and off to Lamu I went for my first days of complete down time in a little while.

There’s a threat to that down time, however, when you’re a white guy on a small tourism-dependent Kenyan island during off-season. 

The airstrip for Lamu is actually on a second island that is a few minutes’ boat ride away. As we’re making the short voyage across the strait and the arrival pier becomes more clearly in view, I was either about to experience the greatest welcome of my life or be assaulted by every tour boat operator on the island.  Unfortunately, it was the latter.  Dead squirrels on the roadside have been attacked by magpies more gently than what I endured.

Two things helped me tolerate the magpies. One, I knew enough Swahili to make it apparent than I might not be as easily manipulated into hastily buying their tours as perhaps other mzungus. Not that my Swahili is great, but throughout Kenya I'vev noticed that speaking a few lines in this situation helps keep the hawkers at bay, if only momentarily.  Amid the madness, I was amused by and appreciative of the vendor who ignored my obvious solo-ness and offered to sell me “romantic cruise by sunset with fresh crab” though I wondered later if I misunderstood and I would have to be romantic with the crab.  My second strategy was knowing the directions to my guest house and therefore, not sparing a moment of uncertainty for the Lamu world to exploit to their advantage. In fact, I didn't know where I was going, but I could act like it. From the website I remembered that it was to the right of the pier, so off I went with my entourage, a fake confidence in Lamu geography, and an ability to steal some looks to the guest houses along the way in search of "Kipepeo Guest House." 

Just beyond the very friendly woman who sat on the stoop of her hut and offered me a massage “later, when it’s dark” was the Kipepeo Guest House. The Kipepeo Guest House was described by on-line Trip Advisor reviewers as “charming,” “quiet and well-run,” and “great value” and I have since concluded that all of those reviewers could only have been recently released from long stays in prison to conjure up such descriptions.

I was met at the door by the portly German proprietor who apologized because she had just woken up for the day (it was after 4pm), a fact that was verified as she stood there disheveled in her nightgown, out of which one of her boobs was nearly escaping.  In her no-nonsense demeanor she showed me  to my room which was basic but clean, the small refrigerator that I was to leave unplugged unless I absolutely must have something cooled, the balcony from which I was to throw all of my trash so as not to attract ants inside, and then unapologetically told me breakfast was not included (as is the norm in guest houses throughout Kenya) because she liked to be on the internet most of the night when there’s less competition for bandwidth, and she was usually going to bed around the time an omellete might otherwise be served. "Going to be a nice sunset," she said with her back to me as she left, to indulge in her breakfast, I assumed. The only other time I saw her was when she heartily knocked on my door later that evening to announce that ceiling fans should be turned off when leaving the room, which explains why mine was off when I returned from my one outing of the evening.  This also implicated her in lying to me earlier when she said everything in my room would be safe since I had the only key.

I had one of two rooms on the third floor. The other room was unoccupied which gave me the entire shared balcony to myself. If I kept my eyes looking directly ahead, my chin perfectly parallel to the floor, I had a spectacular view of the Indian Ocean from that balcony and the potential for peace provided by waves breaking gently on the beach.  But it was not to be as my imagined serenity was interrupted by the tour-selling paparrazi that had reconvened on the ground three floors below me. As I suspect most mzungus do upon arrival to their seaside room,  I had stepped out to take in the view within the first minutes of getting settled, and there my admirers stood, looking up in anticipation, like I was the Pope coming out to see his followers. I half-expected them to start serenading. Instead, I heard broken English calls of “Romantic cruise tonight!” “Fishing kesho (tomorrow), my friend!” “Come take dinner in local village!” 

My good attitude was fading.  I was quickly reframing what I understood Lamu to be about.

And it worsened when she showed up.

Her name was either Melinda, Belinda, or maybe just Linda. I never really knew for sure because she chewed her gum with such force that she produced gallons of saliva with each motion and it muffled her speech. After the no-nonsense introduction to the guest house by the German in which Belinda/Melinda was also told that no local boys were allowed, even ones that offered to make her juice from fresh fruit (metaphor?), she initiated our first and only interaction. “I’m Belinda/Melinda. Isn’t this view, like, amazing? I wonder if they sell water here or if I, like, I have to go find it somewhere else. Do you know? Do you want to, like, go find water with me?”

Before I could answer she had moved on to describing how Africa was, like, amazing and there weren’t as many hungry people as she thought there would be and it’s just so hard to, like, find sunscreen which seems crazy since it’s so hot and sunny here and do I want to go on one of those boat cruises with her because it would, like, reduce the price and we could find out information right away because the tour guides were, like, just outside the door of the guest house. Somehow she spoke without pause and maybe even without taking a breath. Her verbal barrage made me feel like I had been the victim of a no-contact violent crime.

The onslaught continued for a bit longer and she talked mostly about her own adventures. On the rare moment when Belinda/Melinda asked me a question, she repeated my statement as another question.

“So you’re, like, doing research in Samburu?"

Yes, that's precisely what I just said.  The topics jumped around a lot, usually moving to something unrelated and involving a partially correct observation about somethign on the African continent.

"Do you know where, like, all of the drumming goes on in Kenya?"

Drumming is really more of a thing in West Africa, but I didn't have the chance to reply before she had moved on.

"So you just, like, got here today too? It's not like a desert here at all." 

I was pleased that she used the word "like" in an appropriate way in one of those statements.

I took a step back on the balcony while she spoke. Her presence was forceful and loud, and sometimes I felt the soft arrival of her saliva on my face and arms. Within minutes, I knew that Melinda/Belinda and I did not have a quest for down time in common.     

I returned to my room and did some calculating. If I stayed inside the guest house, I was subjected to Belinda/Melinda and the scary German owner. If I escaped outside, the paparrazi awaited. I was imprisoned no matter where I went.  If I leapt with enough strength from the balcony, I could land in the ocean and swim to the nearest Somali pirate ship which was sure to be out there somewhere, which would be an improvement over my current circumstances.

After devising an excuse about meeting some people for dinner that I had met on the flight over, I left Belinda/Melinda and opted to deal with the paparrazi again. I felt guilty that I didn't invite her along, but I can’t invite people to a dinner with friends that I entirely made-up. 

So I strolled along the seafront with the paparrazi in tow offering me numerous options for how to spend my time and the assurance that if I didn't tell anyone else they would give me a good price. "Facemask snorkeling with dolpins." "Come fishing for kingfish and we will make kingfish on the beach for lunch then you will have kingfish." "Brother, you are Dutch? I take Dutch fishing!"

They reminded me of a random dog who joins me on a run near my dad’s place in central Minnesota.  He emerges from a small farm I pass, runs alongside me for awhile, hopes I'll take an interest, but eventually gives in to my ambivalence and turns around to go home, and neither of you end up with any fulfillment from the temporary togetherness.   

I continued walking along the seaside of the main part of town and took in the sights but mostly took in the smells. Smells of low tide, trash rotting in Lamu’s heat and humidity, and donkeys and donkey poop.  Lamu has almost no vehicles, and the primary form of invented transport is donkeys and I would estimate that there are 900 donkeys for every Lamu resident, and they roam the paths and streets of the town like rats roam New York City. It’s bizarre.

During my walk I passed the pier in the photo below and hoped that nothing would happen to me during my stay on Lamu that requires quick emergency attention. And I regrettably admit that I thought if something serious happened to Belinda/Melinda, she wouldn’t get quick emergency attention either so maybe the location of the ambulance wasn’t such a bad situation after all.

 

 

I wore down the papparazi who turned back while I ventured further in search of why this island gets so much attention from tourists. Up to this point, I hadn’t seen it.

Forty minutes later, I found it.

A long, golden sandy beach that stretched literally as far as my eye could see.  A civility among pedestrians that included pleasant and sincere greetings of “jambo” but nothing more. Giant coconut palm trees. Mango trees. And the moment that brightened my life for good: signs for guest houses. I stepped into one such guest house for data gathering.  Moments after I entered I was brought a glass of fresh mango juice with a hibiscus flower adorned on the rim. “I’m not staying here, though” (yet). “No problem, our gift to you.”  I looked at one of the rooms and its view of the ocean over the treetops of palms. In short, it was perfect. Open, airy, welcoming and a view of the ocean. He quoted me the price. Only $12 a night more than my prison guest house with the German guard, and this one included breakfast.  They could charge twice the amount he quoted and it would still be a great deal. I had found the promised land.  I wanted to embrace the hotelier on the spot, though I wasn't sure how such an action would be interpreted in this Rasta-meets-Islam world of Lamu.

At this point it was near sunset, my belongings all remained at the Kipepeo House of German Terror, and I didn’t know how to reserve a donkey or a dhow (wooden boat) to get me there and back again before complete nightfall which comes quickly when you're this close to the equator. The owner of The Promised Land recommended I stay at Kipepeo for the night and he would send a boat as early as I wanted in the morning.  I wanted to say 5am, but agreed to 7:30.

I retraced my route and returned through the sea of donkeys, stinking trash and the papparazi, and took refuge in my room. I only had to fall asleep, and upon waking up, would hit the reset button on my Lamu experience.

I woke up a little after 5am with an excited feeling that Santa had arrived and patience knowing I had to let the parents wake up first. I packed, then re-packed for something more to do. I didn’t want to leave the room until I left for good, for risk of waking Belinda/Melinda or the German gatekeeper whose room I would have to pass in the loud stairwell.  At 7:20 am, I left money for my one night stay on the bed, and made a slow run for it. I felt my heart beat faster as I snuck past the proprietor’s room, who thought I would be staying three more nights. Given the four other vacant rooms, her unwielding ways and the time she would gain back for more internet surfing by not checking on the status of my ceiling fan, I felt no guilt. I hoped that her all-night rendevous with Google had left her in a deep slumber and she didn’t hear my duffle bag hit the narrow metal door on my way out.  I momentarily welcomed the outside and its donkey air, and the earliness that kept the paparrazi away.

At 7:25, the boat showed up and I’ve never been more appreciative of a Kenya who kept time. 

And here I sit on my balcony at the Msafini Guest House with a view of the ocean and the smell of salty air. I’ve gone on a run on the beach, cooled off afterward with an ocean swim, had one glass each of pineapple, and passion fruit juice at breakfast, and have no idea what I’m doing after posting this blog…..

Cheers!

 

 

 

 

That's not what I meant

This was a story in one of Kenya’s main daily newspapers recently.  I chuckled. And as I thought about it more I became more amused at how this might play itself out, when frisky soccer fans from around the world visit Brazilian prostitutes, each practicing their limited English skills to conduct a transaction that requires some fairly specific vocabulary that won’t be listed in a travel guide . 

My own experience with learning a new language is that the progression starts out something like this: first you learn just enough words to survive and get around – things like “Thank you” and “how much does it cost” or “pull the bus over, I have diarrhea.”  The next level of proficiency is a danger zone, when you start using the language more often and feel reasonably sure that you said something sensible, but in fact you did not say something that made sense, and you have no idea what was said back to you anyway.  So you humbly accept your embarrassment and try again. In most instances, these moments are benign and harmless.  Exhibit A:  last week, I asked for a pumpkin in Swahili when I meant to ask for a watermelon. No biggie. 

But in other instances, these mistakes when speaking another language can result in prolonged embarrassment, the kind that becomes fodder for story-telling  by locals around town.  Exhibit B:

In Swahili, the word wasassi  is a term for “poachers” and wazazi  is “parents”.  You can probably see the potential problem by a failure to clearly annunciate the “s” or “z” in either word.  I’m pretty sure that in November 2011, I welcomed all of the poachers to Parents Day at Gir Gir Primary School, which is an awards ceremony held on the last day of the school year to recognize the achievements of their students. Ironically, poaching has escalated dramatically in this region of Kenya over the past 18 months and it’s possible there were, in fact, a few poachers in the crowd, who were probably puzzled by the warm welcome I extended to them (see note below about poaching). 

Exhibit C:  the spelling of the word for grandmother and chicken in Samburu (different language than Swahili) is the same: nkoko (pronounced en-ko-ko). The difference between the words is based on which syllable you emphasize. Seems like a dangerous situation for Grandma if someone hits the wrong syllable when talking about dinner preparations. 

Speaking of chickens – and let me warn you, this next paragraph might get uncomfortable for those of you who identify as fairly innocent and/or godly – the meaning of the English spoken word “cock” in Kenya simply means a rooster. There’s no understanding of that word to be a reference to, ahem, anything else. So it’s not at all unusual for someone in Kenya to say, for example, that they were awaken in the early morning by a cock. In a conversation at a Samburu village last week, I was told that there were no recent chicks born in the coop because the hens lacked access to a cock. Seems pretty accurate regardless of how you interpret the word, in that instance.  My point is if it were Kenyan prostitutes learning “technical sex vocabulary” like the ones in Brazil, well, things could get weird real fast if there isn’t a shared understanding of the meaning of some terms.

So consider this Brazil scenario where you have people from around the world speaking limited English to prostitutes who also speak limited English, and some of the English they know has different meanings to different people, and well, seems like you’ll have clients leaving that sex room thinking that Brazilians do some crazy stuff, and Brazilian prostitutes thinking the same thing about their clients from around the world, when really all along neither party wanted a chicken or grandma involved at all.

** Regarding my reference to poaching:  poaching of elephants and rhinos has increased tremendously throughout sub-Saharan Africa over the past 1-2 years. A market for ivory has re-emerged, primarily in the Far East and especially China and Indonesia. 

Many countries, including Kenya, have undergone massive infrastructure projects over the past few years such as paved roads and improved electricity lines and cell phone networks.  These are important developments for economic progress, particularly for the poorer regions of these countries where people live on a less than a dollar a day.  

While improved infrastructure provides tremendous benefits, the additional cell phone coverage and paved roads have also made poaching more efficient and less risky. Poachers can communicate with each other about the whereabouts of anti-poaching patrols and conservation rangers, and they can get ivory to the coast for export more quickly than ever– sometimes multiple days sooner than before.  In conversations I’ve had with people around here, the poaching problem is almost as big now as it was at its height in the 1980s. An entire herd of 11 elephants was killed not long ago in the southeastern part of Kenya, bringing the total to more than 350 for all of 2012 in Kenya alone.

In the 1980s, when poaching last occurred at these levels, it was curbed by the world’s consumers getting smarter and eliminating the demand.  Kenya is working with the Chinese government to educate its population. NBA start Yao Ming even made a visit in the past year to record public service announcements to be aired in China. I often feel like we forget about our power as consumers and instead wonder why government doesn’t do something to address an issue. In the case of ivory, consumers unknowingly banded together and nearly eliminated its demand. That needs to be repeated and led primarily by our fellow global citizens in the Far East, but it emphasizes the point that our decisions as consumers have implications for the health of our planet.  Our world’s ecological well-being is not government’s responsibility alone. It doesn’t lie mostly with China or India either. We share this responsibility as a population of seven billion. Every day, I hope we remember that as we go about our lives.

 

Samburu youth.....

My group of students from Colorado State University left about a week ago after spending 12 days in Samburu with me.  This annual trip started in 2006 as an option for students to do something meaningful over the 5-week winter break between semesters.  In planning for that first trip six years ago with my CSU colleague, Jen Johnson, we estimated that we needed 9-10 students to sign-up in order for the trip to be affordable and worth the effort, and were unsure if that many students would have both the interest and the resources.  More than 70 applied. 

That trend has generally continued every year, and an advantage of this situation is we can select a group of students with diverse backgrounds, prior experiences, academic majors and so on, and create a group dynamic in which they learn from each other and be exposed to different reflections of the same Kenya experiences. So the trip can not only rock your world from a global understanding standpoint, but it can clarify the strengths that you contribute to help make a group successful.  There’s also the risk that it turns into a mild version of Lord of the Flies. Over the years I know we’ve had moments in which some within the group didn’t so much learn from each other as much as they learned to tolerate each other.  I s’pose that’s a worthwhile skill to acquire as well. We all have people that we have learned to tolerate, and vice versa.

This year, my group was awesome. Mature, flexible, supportive of each other and opportunistic of every chance to experience something new. Within days my role was narrowly focused on practicalities such as buying supplies for projects and food for consumption; the group took primary responsibility to take care of each other in terms of emotional well-being and support.  That works out really, really well for me because ensuring others’ emotional well-being is not my specialty. I really do care, it just displays itself in unintentionally awkward ways, like offering a mango to deal with the feelings.  I could have a student in full scale meltdown and my response would be to slice an avocado, share it with a nice cold Fanta and assume we’ve sufficiently addressed the issue at hand through nourishment (side note: Fanta’s grip on the developing world extends to Kenya, as well). 

The timing of the trip coincides nicely with the academic calendar in Kenya in which the new school year begins in early January. So we have local students around for most of our visit.  A few years ago, my good friend Adam Beh and I started a non-profit to support secondary school for Samburu youth: the Samburu Youth Education Fund (www.samburuyouth.org. Donate now!). Long story short, secondary school in Kenya is not free. Students must pay for tuition, text books, uniforms and boarding fees. Most secondary schools are boarding schools, and while that increases the costs, boarding schools are especially important for girls, many of whom would otherwise be diverted from their studies at night to assist with chores and child-rearing at home.  So with that big barrier to education in place, it's particularly troubling when our research in this area keeps circling back to the need for education (and investment in women) to address its conservation and poverty issues.

The average amount we pay annually per student is $580. It’s a completely prohibitive amount for most people in a place like Samburu where household income in a year probably doesn’t surpass that school fee total. So clearly there’s a systematic problem with how Kenya delivers education and its failure to address the cycle of poverty.  That’s a big problem, and much bigger than two mzungus from the U.S. can or should tackle. In the meantime, we started SYEF to assist a number of hard-working students every year.

And I mean it when I say “hard working.” Some of our recipients we first knew six years ago when they were in primary school. While Adam and I would do our research thing (and sometimes our boxed wine and card-playing thing) at one end of the table at our camp, they would be on the other end working diligently in workbooks for hours and ask us for help when they were stuck or when they were finished and wanted us to make up story problems so they could continue. The kicker for me was this wasn’t required homework. They were just doing the extra work because they knew that their school didn’t have the resources to teach them everything they were supposed to be learning in a given year. I was struck by their diligence and the value they placed on education as 11- and 12- year olds. These kids also offered to help us cook, clean up, handwash our dirty laundry, and rarely asked for anything in return. When they did, it was typically school-related such as a uniform shirt or a text book.  When they completed primary school (8^th grade), it was going to be the end of the education road for them. Most came from families with a single female care-giver, and this is not a region where it’s easy for a woman to earn an income. Secondary school would be out of the question.

So voila, Samburu Youth Education Fund emerged from the depths of a pile of required IRS paperwork in December 2010.  Two years later, we’re supporting 32 students and will add 9-10 more in a few weeks.  About two weeks ago, we convened our 32 current recipients for a forum to hear their stories about the previous school year and for them to share advice with each other based on their respective experiences.  It was a terrifically fulfilling morning.  At one point I noticed maybe about 15 or so younger kids looking in the windows, listening attentively to what was going on.  Here’s an excerpt that I recorded:

“We can all agree that we must honor where we come from. I am Samburu but I will be a different Samburu than my father. I will make this place better and I will show all of these young childrens looking in the windows right there that education makes us Samburu and not the poverty or not the way we have treated the womens and each other in our past.”

This was from a young man who didn’t know he would be asked to speak until literally seconds beforehand (a classic Samburu meeting tradition).  This came off the top of his head. And these young kids peering in heard it too, and maybe, just maybe, a different way of thinking is showing the earliest sign of taking root here. A way of thinking not presented or forced by an outsider with their agenda, but from the young people within this community.   

Getting Kenya'd

It’s been quiet in my blog-o-sphere the last two weeks while I’ve led a group of 12 students on a trip to Samburu, Kenya. More on that soon in another post. The students left about 2 hours ago for their return to Colorado, and the no-alcohol policy has departed with them.  The dust probably hadn't even settled from their departing vehicle on the gravel road before I had a warm Tusker beer in my hand.

My zebra researcher friend and colleague Siva (pronounced “Shiva”) lives in Kenya and uses a term that I’ve since adopted to describe when everyday things take an excruciating and irrationally long time to complete. The term is contingent on the city.  So if you’re in Archer’s Post when this happens, you get “Archer’d” or if you’re in Meru, you’d get “Meru’d”.   In this story, I was Isiolo'd.

While in Isiolo (ee-see-oh-low) earlier this week, I had to exchange another small pile of U.S. money for Kenyan shillings. Isiolo is about 25 miles away from my Samburu base in Archer’s Post, and it’s one of the few places in Kenya where I’ve been entirely unable to find anything appealing at all other than the opportunity to buy avocadoes that are bigger than my nephew’s head. But I can do that throughout Kenya so it doesn’t separate Isiolo from any other town around here.

I figured I was likely to get Isiolo’d from the moment I walked in the bank and saw one teller and 15-20 people in line. In truth, there were two tellers but I’m not counting the second who was fiddling with her cell phone in plain view of us all, like she intentionally wanted to screw with our emotions and remind us that customers are not in the power position here. The remaining teller swiveled back and forth in her chair with enjoyment while she served customers. When I finally got to the counter just more than a half-hour later there was a piece of protective glass between myself and the teller that was so thick you can’t hear the other person speak. Instead, you both lean over and talk into the slot through which you pass money, deposit slips, etc. It’s awkward because with both of us leaned down close to the protective glass it feels like I’m trying to make out with someone that I’m visiting in prison.

After my 30+ minute wait, I decided to time the remainder of my duration in the bank. I wanted to quantify my misery. I wanted to know exactly how much time would be sucked up by getting Isiolo'd. In the end, it's not a number that any one really wants to know, like checking your credit card balance on-line. But I was curious.

After I handed over my money, the teller left for eight minutes, thirty seconds.  I saw her walk past a few times during the 8:30 minute interlude, in searrch of something, and I got the impression that this type of internal scavenger hunt is normal.

She returned with a brand new notebook, drew five lines on a page to create six columns, and then handwrote a title to each column.  While she carefully drew her perfectly vertical lines, I momentarily pondered and got lost in a juxtaposition: whatever information is to go within these columns seems important given her attention to vertical line detail, but if so important, why was the previous notebook not kept in a standard place.

Simple column titles emerged from her pen, one by one: “Name,” “passport number,” “mobile number,” “serial number” (of the bill), “date of issue” and so on.  And then she numbered the lines on the page by hand: 1, 2, 3 and so on. I desperately wanted that piece of paper so I could do it for her. I’ve seen toddlers write numbers in sequence more quickly than what I observed before me.  She stopped at 200. Then she slid the paper through the make-out slot and asked me to complete this information for each bill. EACH BILL.  I discovered shortly thereafter that I had 58 bills. I know that because I used 116 lines on her paper.  58 x 2 = 116.  I had to do it twice.

I screwed up the first time.  I drew a vertical arrow down an entire column after I wrote information once that would not change for the remaining 57 entries, such as my name and passport number, and that was apparently a violation.  She placed a massive "X" over my 58 lines of work. Her expression of disapproval was strong; one of the lines of her "X" extended off the page and onto the counter, and our process was interrupted so she could go find a spray bottle of cleaner to wipe it clean. She found the spray bottle quickly. It is kept in standard place.

I started again, and asked for her approval after my first entry in the way a 1st grader asks the teacher if he summed correctly on the first problem of a worksheet when learning to add. "Like this?"  She nodded with approval. I continued.

I tempered my emotion with a minor bit of research during my second attempt. Was my initial observation true that most of my bills' serial numbers started with an “H” or “J?"   And I’ve since learned that those letters correspond to the respective Federal Reserve location where it was printed: “H” is St. Louis and “J” is Kansas City.  I continued some more, with my stack of bills that in fact were printed mostly in the state of Missouri.

I wondered silently if the teller was making up rules, as I've never encountered this step in a money exchange, and the notebook approach seemed too hasty to be legit, but nonetheless, I continued on my second attempt.  I felt like what I imagined Kerry Strugg felt like in the 1996 Atlanta Olympics when she did that second vault on a sprained ankle to win gold. I was going to get it right this time.  Kerry Strugg had a sprained ankle; I had a sprained spirit.  And like Kerry, I’m proud to report that I nailed it. Not only did I nail it, but within this second round of entries of the 58 bills, my second 29 entries were more than two minutes faster than my first 29 entries.  In marathon world, that's called a negative split, when your second half is faster than your first. It’s a sign of high performance.   Unlike Kerry Strugg, however, I celebrated alone. No cheers from the others in line. No jumping into the embrace of my coach, the teller (damn you, protective glass).  I salute and envy you, Kerry.

Recording all of my bill information twice took 34 minutes.  Cumulative total to this point was more than one hour, thirteen minutes.  I looked at the clock; we were squarely within the dangerous time period of 10:30-11:00am. The only instance when a Kenyan pays attention to a clock is when it works in their personal favor to do so, such as the mid-morning tea break around 10:30.  The British left behind customs such as morning tea and misspelling words like "centre" before they packed up for good in 1964 and left Kenya to be its own country, and unfortunately they didn’t leave behind something of arguably more value such as a capacity to govern cleanly or prosper economically and widely. Morning tea and medicocre cuisine, however, are firmly in place.

Nothing interferes with morning tea. I’ve been in presentations at universities in which the speaker was interrupted to allow for a tea break, and I’ve been around laborers digging a 6 foot hole in direct sunlight and 95+ degree heat who take a break for hot tea. Back in the bank, I was up against the clock. In the back, I saw the tea cart preparations being made. I feared the teller would turn around. I knew she liked that swivel chair. I made flirty eye contact with her. I smiled. I asked her trivial questions. Do you live here? Do a lot of mzungus come here to exchange money? Just keep looking forward, my teller. Keep looking forward.  What do you think when I smile at you? Will we get married? Will I see you in the market later?

I persevered.  I earned my 143,000 Kenyan shillings which came to me as a stack of 143 bills of 1,000 shillings each. She counted it out, bill by bill.  She asked me to count it out to confirm. Our counting matched.  We were on the same page. Two countries, two ethnicities, bridged through the universal language of counting whole numbers the same way. I feared I would have to record information about 143 bills but I did not. I smiled. I was done.

Before turning to leave, she asked if maybe I wanted two 500 shilling bills in exchange for one of my 1,000 ones. An odd suggestion to swap out just one of my 143 bills, but I appreciated the gesture. I would need smaller bills at some point, this I knew. But in a flash I wondered if she would have to swivel to get those two 500 shilling notes and feared she would see the tea cart. So instead, I declined and I left. One hour, twenty seven minutes. The bar is set. Next time, I go sub 1:20