Mixed Emotions

Warning: this is a long one. Grab a bottle of wine.

A few years ago, maybe around the time of my 10^th or 11^th trip to Kenya, I finally and more fully recognized why each trip continued to have an impact, no matter how predictable my time here had become as I became more familiar and more comfortable. What I realized is that while in Kenya, I more fully feel a gamut of emotions. As someone who generally lives a life focused on efficiencies and productivity, I either keep emotions neatly packed away, or in many situations, I really just don’t have any which is why I wish I had more friends who are robots.  I sometimes think of “emotions” and “distractions” as synonymous terms.  Go ahead, psychoanalyze it. My mother does it all of the time. She considers all four of her children to be emotionally challenged which is ironic given that she sits on the other end of the spectrum with her box of tissues, claiming to live the human condition more fully as she holds a to-do list that fits on the back of a wine label. Conversely, living a more partial human condition enables me to get a lot done.

Nonetheless, I allow emotions to see the light of day at times while I’m here, before packing them up prior to my flight home.  It’s often not just the emotions, but the combination of emotions that has its effect.  In one situation, or even one moment,  I can experience emotions that otherwise don’t seemingly belong together and that might make a nice title for a future Kenya-based memoir.  Amusement and sadness.  Inspiration and hopelessness.  Respected and ill-treated. 

I ventured to the western part of the country with my Kenyan colleague, David, with whom I started Uso Africas Safaris (“Faces of Africa”), on the latest edition of what I refer to as one of our Tours of Hunger and Exploration. We take a 10-12 day safari we might offer clients and cover it in 5-6 days, and on at least a few of those days we fail to plan sufficiently and find ourselves in the 10^th hour of no caloric intake while trying to navigate with a road map of poor detail. If there’s an occasion when attention to detail is necessary, I daresay it’s when publishing a road map, though the publishers of Kenyan’s road maps apparently think otherwise.  Maybe that’s my Western bias showing itself though I’m comfortable sounding like an arrogant Westerner when making the statement “Roadmaps should actually be helpful for getting to places.” Low blood sugar, mild uncertainty about whereabouts and a shoddy map. Bad combination.

“Turn left at Highway A-4,” I instructed.

“Is that toward Homa Bay?” David asked.

“Homa Bay isn’t on this map.”

“It’s one of the largest cities on Lake Victoria.”

“I promise, David, it’s not on here.”

“Give me that map.”

“Give me peanut butter.”

“What?”

 “We went down, in a blaze of glory.”

That last sentence was from neither David nor myself, but from Kenny Rogers who sang to us from the radio. Frustration with my hunger and the company who produced a crappy map, while amused that Kenny Rogers serenaded us through our lack of direction. Throwback songs from the 70s and 80s have some impressive staying power on Kenyan radio.

Before David and I offer an itinerary or destination through our company, we scout everything out in that location in great detail.  We show up at hotels like home inspectors before a real estate closing. We lay on the beds, test the door locks and flush the toilets, often to the bewilderment of the hotel staff. We visit places around the area to get an idea about the community experiences available to visitors. We rule out tourist-trap sorts of places – the kind that fail to provide any awareness-building or knowledge – and which tend to involve experiencing other human beings in the same way that tourists experience wildlife: mostly through the lens of a camera and with a focus on “looking at” rather than interacting with.  I’m troubled by this willingness for one human being to experience another human being in such a way.

Despite the long days and long hours in the vehicle traveling much of Kenya’s subpar road network, we get a lot done and we have the routine on these trips fully developed such that we rarely need to discuss next steps.  We tour a site, get back in the car, debrief while I write up notes on the laptop and David drives, fail to take food, and move on to the next destination, and occasionally confuse each other with our respective accents.

David:  “We need to bring along KATO” (kay-tow)

Me:  “Why do we need cattle?”

David: “They’re a good organization that can help us.”

Me: “What am I missing here, David? I’m already lost by this conversation.“

David: “What are you missing? I’m not talking about the bag at the airport.”

Me: “It’s just a saying. We need to start over.  Are we talking about cows at all?”

David: “Not cows.  Unless you were talking about cows but I thought you were talking about the bag.”

And so it went.  We’re together 24 hours of the day on these trips, so moments like this are common.

KATO is Kenya Association of Tourism Operators, and “bring along” in Kenya means something like “partner with.”  Cattle are all over the place in Kenya, and not just in fields. They’re on the roadsides, roaming around parking lots and outdoor markets, and so on, and they are a show of wealth in nearly all tribes here. Kenyans often give the “L” a soft pronunciation when they appear in English words, and David is a shrewd businessman always looking to diversify, so all of this led me to think it was reasonable from a practical standpoint that I heard David suggest  we have cattle on safaris, though the idea  seemed absurd to me personally.

On this trip of western Kenyan we first visited the tea-growing region, the most lucrative cash crop in the country.  We toured a facility’s leaf-to-tea bag factory that would have sent an OSHA employee into seizures as we ducked under moving conveyor belts and dodged forklifts. I appreciate that Kenya defers to people’s common sense not to get run around by forklifts or carried away on a belt to the leaf chopper. The whole tour was awesome. I was fully enamored by the automation of the process and its creative and simple ingenuity.  At the end of the line stood two employees with white lab coats and the title of “tea taster” written in big block letters on the back, and there they stood all day, with dozens of thermoses of hot water and tea cups on a nearby table that included a lacy tablecloth, which made me smile. Nearby was a giant lever with the words “Stop Factory” written above it, which seemed dramatic and serious, yet precariously unprotected; it looked like someone could accidentally brush it as they walked by and shut down all operations. Below it was a posted sign about safety and helmets, and one of the silhouetted people on an illustration was missing their head from some kind of factory sign-making defect, not graffiti (I made sure to look closely). It made me smile wider.  I love these unexpected moments of hilarity in this country.

After the tea tour and a stop in Kenya’s soapstone carving region, we arrived late to Mbita town on the shores of Lake Victoria. We had a rotten sleep courtesy of two barking dogs on our side of the guest house. At some point during the night while we both laid awake I jokingly asked David if he had a slingshot and he replied his yard isn’t big enough but maybe he could just get a slide because his daughters would love it.

A full day personal tour on a dhow fishing boat took us around a section of Lake Victoria – the second largest freshwater lake in the world by volume --  and we loved it. We visited small islands and met people in their 30s and 40s who have never left their island but asked me about Hillary Clinton and Chuck Norris.  They were incredibly hospitable and welcoming.  We met a 70-year old man who I would have guessed was in his 50s; he started a school in his village after he said God spoke to him and told him to close his bar and open a school, which he did.  He also said God spoke to him once about his multiple wives and 11 kids, but he said he felt mixed about that message.

“He told me that I must take care of the ones I already have, but I’d like to have another,” he said.

“Another wife or another child?” I asked.

David chuckled but I didn’t intend the question to be funny.  I’ve become too comfortable in this culture at times.  

“Maybe both,” he responded.

‘Near, far, wherever you are…”

Celine Deon was belting out a song on a speaker somewhere nearby. It was time to go.

The western Kenya tour ended with a drive through Masai Mara National Reserve, one of my favorite places on this planet for its amazing savannah landscape and abundant wildlife. A male lion slept directly on the dirt road, and we waited for an hour while he held us hostage until he finally awoke and moved out of the way.

After returning and staying in Nairobi for two nights, I headed back to Samburu where the past 24 hours have again produced a swirl of oddly-coupled emotions.  Part of the journey included driving a colleague’s vehicle from Nairobi to the town of Nanyuki, about two-thirds of the way from Nairobi to Samburu.  “Driving” isn’t really the right verb; “racing” is a more appropriate description. There’s about as much order and cooperation on Kenya’s roads as a bumper car ride, punctuated by periodic challenges to yield enough room for you, the oncoming vehicle, the other oncoming vehicle attempting to pass, a motorbike threading the smallest of spaces through which to pass, and a multitude of living things along the shoulder: a herd of goats, a bicyclist with six crates of soda stacked on the back, a man pushing a wheelbarrow of watermelons.  

The final segment of the journey to Samburu was by matatu (mah-TA-too),  a 14-seat mini-van that serves as public transportation throughout most of the country. The inebriated and poorly spoken ticket-taker asked me to buy him a soda while we waited for the matatu to fill up. It was more of an order than a request, and he spit the words along with the green leafy remnants of the miraa (or qat) he chewed. Miraa is a mild and perfectly legal stimulant in Kenya, but like most substances that are available here, I find that it’s typically used in excess in this region.  If you drink one beer, you’re probably intending to drink at least five more. 

The behavior of the matatu conductor encroached on one of my breaking points, which is when a complete and non-desperate stranger requests or demands something for the only reason that I’m a mzungu (non-African).  My usual response is a friendly and straight-forward “no” spoken in Swahili which sends the message that I’ve been in this country enough to know some of the language and the antics of clever people around here.  He repeated his request a few times, and I sat there fiddling around in my backpack looking for nothing but avoiding continued interaction as my frustration silently mounted.  Though our matatu was full by the Kenya legal standard of 14 people, we were going to wait longer while he solicited more passengers to cram into the vehicle so he could make a few more shillings probably to buy more miraa, holding the 14 of us in the vehicle to facilitate his self-interest.

“How am I supposed to live without you?” Michael Bolton asked from a speaker in a nearby shop. It wasn’t a song that was appropriate for the moment.

A teacher I know from one of the primary schools was also on the matatu. He, too, chewed miraa, and his benchseat in the vehicle was shared with four school-aged children.  He told me he was returning home from attending church service (it was Sunday). A self-proclaimed Christian who works as a teacher is chewing miraa in a community with significant substance abuse issues while sharing a seat with school children.  I could feel the reaction building in my stomach and moving through my chest; it’s a feeling I easily recognize here. 

Realizing it would still be awhile before we left, I exited the matatu to use the bathroom. There was a bathroom attendant selling toilet tissue, by the square, at the entry, which I assumed meant it was not available in the bathroom itself.  “How many pieces do you need?” he asked, and I was thankful I only needed to urinate, and hoped that most buyers erred on the side of over-estimation. Then again, I think it’s a tough thing to estimate. You don’t really know until you’re in there and even then I think it’s tough to give it a number. He’d arguably be more successful in taking a door-to-door sales approach and hit the stalls directly. The shillings would probably be tossed under the door faster than he could keep up with. Frustrated at my matatu situation but humored by the toilet tissue broker.

I arrived to Samburu needing to decompress and recalibrate. None of this miraa or solicitation behavior by the matatu conductor surprised me, especially on a weekend. Nonetheless, I was feeling cynical as I considered that this is the type of behavior that kids see day in and day out. It’s how many of them understand you’re supposed to act in adulthood. 

Later that evening I had a discussion about malaria and diabetes with some of the usual people around the camp area that I’ve known for awhile now. The day before I was in Nairobi to attend a college fair with two students that are supported by our Samburu Youth Education Fund, and a Dutch doctor and her husband staying at the same guest house joined us at the dinner table. They were living in Mozambique, and she talked about how difficult her work is sometimes because of some age-old beliefs such as eating too much fruit causes diabetes or malaria can be caused by cold weather. I’ve heard similar statements in Samburu. 

A few of them questioned if the doctor knew what she was talking about, and one stated that what’s true for mzungus isn’t true for Africans, to the nods of a few others. I asserted that science had this stuff figured out well beyond a reasonable doubt, but their unwillingness to consider new information persisted and instead they hung onto these beliefs that have been passed down for generations. The stubbornness, also something to which I have grown accustomed here, deflated me as I recalculated the odds unfavorably that substantive change could occur here.  It’s an unsettling feeling when I have these moments, a mix of feeling naïve and honestly, a little bit stupid, for thinking that my efforts, and the efforts of those that have joined me, would actually matter. 

Benedict rescued my hope-for-the-world freefall.  One of the most hard-working and thoughtful young men I’ve met in Samburu if not in my life, and one of our scholarship recipients from Samburu Youth Education Fund, he walked out with a full bowl of guacamole and a plate full of sliced pineapple.   He knows I love both, and Benedict, god bless him, goes to excruciating and mind-boggling efforts to keep me comfortable here.  I woke up once, walked outside from my hut, and he was cleaning out the inside of the airvents of my vehicle with an old toothbrush.  He once offered to clean my toe nails.  One time I gave him the equivalent of $25 after a visit of a few weeks in which he worked tirelessly, and he walked up to the nearby women’s village and gave it to them. 

One avocado in Kenya makes about enough guacamole to cater a Cinco de Mayo party in El Paso, so the tension of the discussion about what causes diabetes or malaria was mitigated by us filling our mouths. I love the freshness and simplicity of the ingredients.  I was still frustrated with the discussion but satiated by the half-gallon of guacamole I consumed.  

The next day I went to a local primary school to meet with one of our advisors for Samburu Youth Education Fund, Mr. Isigi.  I wasn’t sure what was on the agenda; he asked last minute if I would come talk about “something important.”  I arrived and in his office sat two women. One woman I knew from a local village, Rose.  She introduced the other woman, Monica, and told us the reason for our meeting was to request a scholarship for Monica to attend secondary school.

Monica was a tall and slender 21-year old with a simple elegance.  She wore clothes that were crisp and pressed, as though they were purchased brand new for this occasion. New clothes don’t exist around here, so it’s noticeable and impressive when someone is dressed sharply. Monica was far better dressed than me. Given the last minute request, I just went as I was, though schools are more formal environments than what my clothes on this day would suggest. The second-hand t-shirt I wore, which I recently picked up from a roadside vendor because I mistakenly left a few shirts behind earlier in my travels, read “Reclaim the Dance Floor” and was on its third consecutive day of use though I have failed to reclaim any dance floor in Samburu or anywhere else.

Monica was formal and proper in the conversation, referring to us as “Mr. Brett” and “Mr. Isigi.” Her English was proficient, an indication that she had probably done well while in primary school.  She spoke softly but confidently and started by explaining her previous five years.

She looked down as she started to talk.

In 2008, she finished 8^th grade at age 15, and intended to enroll in secondary school as her father had promised. Instead, her father arranged for her to marry a man much older than her, someone she described as one of her father’s friends.  

“He’s my father, so I consented.”  

This man, her husband, refused to allow her to enroll in secondary school.

“He was my husband, so I had to consent to him also.”

She looked down further, squarely looking at the floor by this point, feeling embarrassed or shameful, but maintaining confidence as she spoke.

“This year I got a divorce.  I want to go to secondary school now. I have arranged for how my son will be taken care of while I’m in classes. I want to be a lawyer.  I want my story to be one of the last stories like it.” 

Her head was starting to lift up again.  

A lump formed in my throat while she talked.  Stories of arranged marriages and other terrible violations of women’s rights are not unusual or new to me in Samburu, but I don’t recall ever hearing a story first-hand, from someone so young, and in English. The words I heard were exactly hers; nothing was lost in translation.

Whatever might have been going on in the school yard by the hundreds of children there, or even by others in the room where we met, I have no idea.  I was entirely focused on and taken by her presentation and her resilience.  The sorrow, self-doubt and despair Monica had undoubtedly suffered in her past was slowly but increasingly that: in her past.

“I know I can make you proud, Mr. Brett and Mr. Isigi.”

She had convinced me of that long before she articulated it.

She had made her case, and done it well.  A brief period of silence followed as we all processed her story and request. The tone and emotions of the moment were simultaneously inspiring and heart-breaking, and then comically interrupted by three or four small goats that entered the office, took a few steps in, then turned around and exited as though they realized they were interrupting something important.  During one of the heaviest of moments I can recall in Kenya from my many experiences, the country still managed to make me smile with its odd combination of occurrences. Goats interrupting a young woman as she talks about her arranged marriage? Of course.

Mr. Isigi raised some questions to consider about the divorce. Was it recognized by the government? Did she have the written proof of the divorce? Otherwise, he noted, the Samburu Youth Education Fund could be liable for going against the wishes of her ex-husband. 

What? I was confused. A million questions raced to mind. How could the ex-husband sue?  What on Earth was written in Kenyan or Samburu law that a girl going to secondary school would violate? On what grounds was there any viable potential for an organization to be sued? I was dumbfounded and thought the question was a little bit absurd, but I was the outsider because everyone else in the room acknowledged it as something to look into further.  My emotions raced from empathy for Monica to contempt to the ex-husband and Kenya’s judicial system.  If the ex-husband walked into the room at that moment, I surely would have violated a suite of Kenyan laws and ethics, and a few of my own as well.

Our half-hour meeting with Monica ended with a commitment to place her at the top of the list for consideration on the next round of scholarships.  Starting school at this point in the year, we all agreed, would be setting her up to struggle as the school year is more than half completed.  Come January 2014, we intend to see Monica fully outfitted in a school uniform and on her way to class.  By 2025, I hope I’m reading about her as an advocate and defender of women’s rights.  There’s something about her that makes me believe that’s not a far-fetched possibility.

I returned to the camp with a mix of emotions while Linda Ronstadt and Lionel Richie expressed their endless love for each other on someone’s transistor radio nearby.  Earlier in the day I had promised a group of kids a game drive if they completed lessons in their workbooks during the afternoon. The teachers are on strike and if local kids want to hang around the camp, the deal is we have ad-hoc independent study with occasional breaks for diabetes-causing fruit and fun-causing Frisbee.  A few take me up on it and unsurprisingly, they didn’t disappoint. I’ve been introduced to some of the most hard-working, diligent and knowledge-hungry 10-12 year olds that I could ever imagine.  The five of them plus four older teenagers that have grown up before me here for the past six to seven years joined us, along with one of our local research assistants.  If you’re keeping count, that’s 11 people in my five-seat bush car, and it makes for a whole lotta fun as we bounce along slowly on the corrugated roads of Samburu National Reserve from a car with extraordinarily poor shock absorption. It’s like experiencing a safari from a running washing machine. The laughter over the next two hours was nearly nonstop from the tomfoolery of a group of young people, and one adult (that's me) who allows for and occasionally contributes to it.  The car has a large hatch in the roof over the backseat so passengers can stand up for better safari-viewing, which means there was laughter coming from above me, as well as behind and beside me.  It was only interrupted when we saw the peaceful march of a herd of elephants, a pair of gerenuk in full sprint for reasons we could not identify, or some other wonderfully similar moment that occurred during the backdrop of brilliant orange colors that make up an African sky at sunset.

Two of the silly kids that steal my heart every day here.

After dinner that night, my face was buried in my laptop to complete a few things, mostly emails. Teku, an 11-year old boy with a wide smile and kind heart, tapped me on the shoulder, and then pulled on my arm to take me out from under the lights to watch the moon rise which was just starting from behind a small mountain off in the distance. Last night we all watched “supermoon” rise, and I figured that Teku didn’t realize it was a one-time event and taking time to watch moon rises wasn't part of a new nightly routine at the camp. Teku is mostly deaf and we usually struggle to communicate verbally, but he knew enough from lip reading my poorly spoken Swahili and my body language to interpret what I was saying, refused to agree to it, and said, “twende” (come).  So I did, because you can’t resist Teku’s smile. We sat riverside as the water peacefully flowed by and watched the moon emerge off in the distance for maybe five minutes during which time I doubt Teku ever broke his smile. I want to believe that somehow, he knew that the moonrise was what I needed to put the finishing touch on again feeling at peace and hopeful for this area, and maybe when he's older, he'll realize the role he had in all of it as well. My purpose seems to be here in this place at this point in my life, as ridiculous as that seems to me sometimes....