lmlangf's TravelStream™ — Recent TravelPod.com entries TravelStream™ news feed for member lmlangf on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/lmlangf en-us Copyright ©2012 TravelPod.com Wed, 20 Aug 2008 12:04:33 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com jaisalmer jana hai — Jaisalmer, India http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1219164360/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1219164360/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1219164360/tpod.html Wed, 20 Aug 2008 16:04:33 +0000 A year in the thar desert - heat, sand, and lassis in india
Jaisalmer, India

i thrust a dusty arm onto the splinter of greasy wood jutting out from the ticket shack, jerking my head in the direction of an ancient coach bus nestled in a line of near-identical forlorn-looking cousins. "yehwallah jaisalmer ka bas hai?" my hindi is pathetic, but the thin fiveoclockshadowed man sitting behind the grimy metal grate throws me a gracious nod. yep, it's going to jaisalmer. "ek single seat chaahiye," i say, pulling out my weatherworn wallet from the dusty messenger bag slung across my hip. he nods again easily, free of the burden of enthusiasm, and scratches out a number onto the topmost carboncopy in his ticket book. "ek sau pachas." i hand over the 150 and take my ticket, stepping over an ominous puddle of murky liquid simmering in the dust between me and the bus. i can see through the cracked windshield that the aisles are already packed full with bag-laden chattering bodies. i wonder how much the seat number written on my ticket is going to be worth. i push my way through the throng crowded about the door and haul myself up the steps, my black backpack clinging dubiously to my shoulders. "'scuse me, 'scuse me," i mutter in english, having thus far not found a suitable equivalent in hindi, as i elbow my way past 2, 4, 10, 16 people standing in the aisle, hovering protectively over their gym sacks, boxes, tin containers, trunks, children stacked along the walkway. my backpack gets into a scuffle with a few people as i squeeze my way through. i squint through the crowd, searching in vain for any sign of my seat number, that little detail that few indian buses deem fit to adorn themselves with. when they do appear, they're on the back of the seat that they match, so out of necessity you have to pass your seat before you know that you've reached it. i eventually arrive at the back of seat 14, the number just barely visible through a winter's cloak of grime, oil, and heavy wear imposed upon the plastic it graces. i take a step back, almost knocking a man over. he seems unperturbed. a man with an impressive shock of heavily oiled wavy hair is reclined in 14, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly ajar as he dozes and dreams of the cozy seat 14 voyage to jaisalmer. i poke his arm. "yeh mera seat hai," i say simply, only slightly apologetically, as i point to the flimsy chickenscratch ticket clutched in my left hand. he blinks twice and stands up, yawning, crabshuffles his way out of the little seat niche, picking up the well-worn duffel bag nestled in the seat beside him as an afterthought. he squeezes his way into the aisle with everyone else, easycomeeasygo, buses weren't made to be comfortable. at least not in india. chucking my backpack to the floor, i fall into the pre-warmed seat, a bead of sweat scampering like an illicit thought from my neck down into my shirt. not that it matters, because i'm already soaked. i shoo away a trio of tenacious flies that have found a happy focal point since my arrival. as i wrestle with the stubborn sliding glass window, desperate for a breath of air, a smile spreads across my sticky face. i hear the driver's door slam shut, and the engine hacks up a hearty rumble as it turns over. i'm happy to be on this bus. it's 5 o'clock on thursday afternoon and the air is thick with, among other things, the anticipation of my first 3-day weekend in india. around 4:25 i'd been sitting at my computer in my apartment, finishing up some details for the upcoming september internships, and the thought had hit me like a rogue wave on a peaceful beach. it's a holiday weekend, i have to do something! i'd jumped up, thrown a pair of jeans and a couple shirts in my bag, hairbrush, toothbrush, book, underwear, let's go. slamming shut the waterlogged windows of my poorly planned apartment, throwing the lock on the door, cursing and opening it again to scurry across the kitchen and turn the dial of the battered gas cylinder, turning on my heel and back out the door again, flying down the 3 stories of slippery marble stairs, out the front gate, and down the block to the main traffic-thundering road ahead. i flagged down the first sputtering black-and-yellow autorickshaw that came choking along. "jaisalmer jana hai," i said to the driver, who looked past me as if to say to some sympathetic listener behind me, "this mad white lady thinks i can drive her all the way to jaisalmer." i clarified: "jaisalmer ka bus stand jana hai, kahan hai?" he looked relieved, realizing that i was only interested in the bus stand for jaisalmer, which he informed me was located at bombay motor circle, a 15-rupee ride up the road. i tossed my backpack in and glanced at my watch. 4:50. "challo, jaldi!" i breathed, and he kicked the podlike little contraption into gear. i'd arrived at the bus stand just in the nick of time to grab my 150-rupee single seat and squirm my way into my present sweaty space. i'm going to jaisalmer. the golden city. land of camels and sandcastles. yeehaw. by the time the bus musters up enough energy to rouse itself from its resting place, the battered walls of the coach seem ready to burst with the teeming mass of bodies inside. each single seat contains at least 2 people, and every sleeper compartment above is packed with no less than 5 crosslegged figures. a standardly bonethin young man inexplicably swathed in longsleeved plaid flannel is perched firmly on my seat's armrest. he leans in closer and closer until i shoot him a glare which sends him retreating back up a couple inches away. i can't really tell how many people are in this bus, since the aisles now resemble a mosh pit and leave not so much as a sliver of space through which to peer, but i estimate that there can be no less than 150 contented jaisalmer-bound souls surrounding me on four sides (above being one of them). whatever, i think, slipping off 50 rupees worth of sandal, propping my left foot up on my backpack, pressing my sweaty back to the sweaty seat behind me, and inhaling deeply from the exhaust-laden jodhpur highway air, i'm going to jaisalmer. and go we did. flew, we did. thanks to the driver's predictably homicidal road tactics, within three hours we had reached the pit stop. three boyish men clutching little rectangular paper boxes swarmed around the windows. "icecreamicecreamicecream." it took no more than the flicker of a glance to bring them to my window. i plucked a chocosicle box from one of their outstretched hands and examined the picture. i knew better than to be fooled by the alluring photograph of the creamy fudge-centered chocolate-almond-coated treat thereupon, but ice cream did sound pretty good in the evening heat. "kitna?" i asked, feeling in the pocket of my bag for a 10-rupee note. "thees rupiyee," the bold entrepreneur ventured. "are' baia!" i exclaimed, shoving the ice cream back into his hand. thirty rupees, what do i look like? "thik hai thik hai, bees!" twenty, his competitor, still hovering alongside, offered. i continued to stare disinterestedly ahead. "dus!" the first guy came down to ten. i was just about to turn my head slowly their way when he finally arrived at the real price, "panch!" i handed him a 5-rupee coin and took back the ice cream box, popping open the end to reveal an ashen brownish brick perched on a stick, huddled forlornly inside its little box home, self-conscious of its nakedness and not having enough confidence in its own deliciousness to even brave an attempt at seduction. 5 rupees, what did i expect? i pulled it out by the cracked stick, barely having time to take a first tentative bite before the entire hunk, melting like a polar ice cap, began sliding down towards my vulnerable fingers, awakening my sticky phobia. i started taking giant bites off the top, the sides, desperately trying in my panic to inhale the impending stickiness rocketing towards my hand. the chocosicle appeared, by taste, to be composed of a block of frozen tap water cut with a sprinkle of milk powder and dolled up with a paperthin layer of brown candle wax. but i was constrained to eat it as quickly as was humanly possible for fear that any hesitation would result in a chernobyl-style meltdown onto my grimy, but otherwise sticky-free hands. just as i slurped up the last tasteless bit, though, the bus engine cut off. so we're stopping here after all. i tossed the stick back in the box, got up and joined the river of people streaming out into the dusty evening air. i looked around for something to wash down the flavor of candle, which turned out to be a doughy little disk that was frying in a shallow woklike pan by the side of the road. as i approached, the man behind the pool of bubbling oil picked up a piece that had been sufficiently cooled in a neighboring pan and courted by flirtatious flies, wrapping it in a square of old newspaper, handing it over to me wordlessly and accepting my 10 rupees with his other hand. seeing nothing better to do with the 10-minute bus break, i climbed back in the coach and sat looking out the window, nibbling away at my greasy roadside dinner and pondering the irritable-looking brahma bull making the rounds through the vendor carts down below. two bump-riddled hours later, dozing to the snareheavy sounds of okkervil river, i felt the bus screech to a halt. a guy waving a hotel flyer materialized outside my window, "madam, madam!", to which i gave my standard tout response, "nahi thank you." i closed my eyes again just as the image of the flyer clutched in his hand registered in my brain. hotel golden city...hey! that's where i'm going! "oh baia! actually, yeh mera hotel hai," i called after him. he produced a crumpled piece of folded-up notebook paper which he held upside down a few inches in front of my eyes, MANOR written in large blockprintblueballpoint letters thereupon. "yeh aapka naam hai?" he asked hopefully. nope, not my name. "nahi hai, lekin anyway mein aa rahi hu," i said, scooping up my backpack and tumbling my way down the aisle of the bus which by now had begun chortling its way slowly forward. "ekminutekminutekminut!" i trilled out to the driver, who slammed on the brakes, bringing my whole body hurtling forward almost into the windshield, and out onto the dark roadside i spilled, grinning broadly at the bewildered representative of hotel golden city who still clutched the upside-down MANOR sign as if it would explain the presence of this dusty, smiling, decidedly non-MANOR girl standing in front of him. "dusra tourist bus me tha?" he asked wearily. i shook my head, no, i'm the only tourist you're going to get tonight. i tossed my bag into the back of the open jeep, hoisted myself inside, and off we went. ------------ two days later i'm squinting against the pungent odor of the massive heaving animal sneering me down and gritting its gnarly teeth a few feet away, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. i'm eyeing another camel standing a bit down the rocky scrub-streaked hill, and noticing that his bugspeckled belly doesn't reach any lower than the top of my head. those spindly legs are deceptively long. i turn to the narrow young man beside me, grunting as he tightens the strap holding a filthy woolen blanket against the back of the camel that in theory i should be boarding in a moment. "toooooh...kabi-kabi log fall karte hain?", i ask with an air of forced casualness, forgetting the hindi word for "fall." "oh yes!", he grins back at me in english, "people are sometimes falling." he pauses and raises his voice slightly. "and korean people, all the time they are falling." the dainty south korean girl a stone's throw away looks duly nervous as she examines the snarling beast beside her. i like this guy already. "mein lillian hu," i say, extending my hand. "i'm sunny," he says, taking it in his with a vigorous shake. a few hours along the path we're bounding, bouncing, bumbling our way across the desert, the sun collapsing down onto our heads, our guides laughing and cajoling one another along the path, occasionally turning back around to my scarf-wrapped head to pose another bemused hindi question, "kitna bhai hai?" "do," i say, jiggling along, i have two brothers. "kahaan se hain?" "me amerika se hu." "kya umr hai?" "pachees." i'm twenty-five. "shaadi ho gaya?" "nahi," i say, i'm not married, though i realize later that i probably shouldn't have, since the next two days will be riddled with hints and anecdotes from our guides about their friends and brothers who have married foreign chicks to get visas for western countries. we siesta in the heat of the day. a couple of generously-leaved squat green trees shield us from the rioting sunlight as we munch on fried onion pakoras and boiled vegetables with thick sandy rotis. my lower back, which i managed to throw out somewhere between waking up this morning and hoisting myself atop my camel, is screaming a sharded solo. ouch, i lower myself down onto the plastic tarp in the sand. a dung beetle scuttles industriously by, having noticed the troop of highly efficient dung factories grazing behind us in the scrub. i close my eyes for a moment, then open them again. something is strange. i close them again. wow. i open them to the leaves above. it's silence. actual, pure white, deafening gorgeous silence. the first i've heard in 6 months. i can almost feel tears coming to my eyes as i doze off. ------------ by late afternoon we've reached the dunes, great sweeping stretches of sunsoaked sand and little else. the sun sets, a full moon rises, and i meander off alone into the desert. the moonlight is slathered, decadent and creamy, across the soaring dunes all around. padding my way along a solitary ridge, rising gently towards that miraculously reflective disc above. craving the light it gives. i feel suddenly satisfied, and let my body tumble heavily down against the crest, my feet dangling over the plunging edge. selfishly solitary, haloed by a slick silvery melancholy. a peaceful blue. i lift my eyes to the icy dune ahead, immortalized in moonlight. light a cigarette. sigh the pregnant sigh of over-introspection. lake, like, look, lock. these silly english words all sound the same. lick, lack, luck. luca. i sink my fingers into the velvety soft sand, the warmth just below the surface betraying the memory of day. the thar desert, such a harsh place cushioned by such soft, delicate carpeting. the finest sand in the world. i scoop up a huge peppery handful, pushing my fingers together with all my strength to retain it. it slips away like a glance, the familiar cliche about the sands of time irresistibly invoked. i roll the dying ember of my cigarette between my sand specked fingertips, releasing a tiny orange star into the dark dull space between my bare feet. i sigh again and wonder where three years have gone. a breeze comes skirting along the dunes to my right, breathing a delicate arc of granules up and over the ridge, a shower of sparks under the moon's glow. i follow its trajectory out over the valley, my eye falling on the face of the massive dune opposite me. a slithering ridge dissects it along the right side, casting an elusive ribbony shadow which clings to its flank. this place where absolute dissolves into all these slippery shades of in between. to the left of the ridge someone has left a trail of footprints ascending in a zigzag pattern that resembles the snout of some massive prehistoric fish, the shadow of each individual depression brought out by the moon's presumptuous glare. my mind flutters, capriciously following a vein of imagination that pulls me to prehistoric times, this desert underwater, these powdery parched dunes skirted along by shrimp and snails in place of scarabs, cowering under great lithe reptilian beasts slipping by in the murk, casting heartstopping shadows of what will be, what could be, what if... a melody drifts through the sandsparked air, the vibration of meandering voices, a child and a man harmonizing together. the thumping of some dull cavernous drum. i snap back to reality, the dull luminescence of all this limitless sand beneath me. i turn my head slightly away from the wind in order to hear the music better. laughing, drumming, singing, casual voices intertwined in chips of conversation scattered through the darkness. another indifferent gust of wind sweeps up the soft slope behind me, feathering pieces of dirty hair out in neutral squiggles about my head as four lumbering silhouettes pierce the bright peak of the dune ahead. patches of italian come clattering across the blank space between us. why am i being so anti-social? i rouse myself from my sandy reverie and slip my way back down the ridge. there's a fire, and faces, and voices, and tinkling deserty laughter. i squeeze my way into the uncircular circle, digging my toes into the sand and stretching a smile across my face. "che, siete italiani? piacere...sono lillian..."
]]> washed out and walled in — Amritsar, India http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1212400140/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1212400140/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1212400140/tpod.html Mon, 02 Jun 2008 09:50:30 +0000 A year in the thar desert - heat, sand, and lassis in india
Amritsar, India

this city is a lake. no, i haven't eaten any strange little mushrooms i found growing along the side of the road. this desert city has really become a lake. i'm crosslegged, sticky with sweat, my sheer chiffonlike magenta sari clinging to my skin like it's the last lifeboat launching off a fast-sinking ship. i have it hiked up around my knees, exposing my shins in a rather un-indian-ladylike fashion, seated on the plush covered mattress which rests on the floor of our office (a feature which every office should have). my grimy greyish mac is open in front of me, a half-completed hindi worksheet staring back at me from the screen. i knit my eyebrows, scanning my mind for the word for "bucket" ("...baalti!"), not even entirely sure what business i have producing a hindi worksheet for others given that my own hindi is embarrassing at best. a plump black ant emerges from under the command key and makes a mad dash across the touchpad, a noble but ultimately futile attempt at escape from my vengeful thumb, which comes down on it just as it's almost cleared the mouse button. these despicable ants are omnipresent in this office, seemingly unorganized but appearing in perplexingly equal distribution across the floor, on the mattress, and now, under my sari. and they're not the sweet little innocent ones that are only after sugar, either. every 15 minutes or so i'm reminded of this fact by a sharp stabbing sensation on my toe, ankle, or somewhere along the length of my legs. i loathe them with a passion bordering on mania. i sigh and shift positions, stretching out my right leg just in time to catch an alarmingly cool cross-breeze that comes streaking across the feverish room. i allow myself one split second of enjoyment before hoisting myself up off the mattress to peep out the open window. as i suspected, a brownish-greyish haze has covered half the sky that's visible from the narrow space ahead. it's 7 o'clock in the evening, and prime time for a sandstorm to come rolling through. au revoir, hindi worksheet. i'm getting out of here before i don't have the choice of leaving anymore. walking the 15 minutes home through a raging wall of sand isn't exactly my favorite activity to partake in while carrying a thousand-dollar piece of sensitive electronic equipment on my body. my laptop looks up at me in relieved gratitude as i begin packing up. padding to the back room in my bare feet, i snatch the chai pot off the hot plate, knocking the residue of afternoon tea leaves into the sink before filling it with a little water and chucking it on the marble counter. dishwashing doesn't take priority over avoiding total sandstorm immersion. i gather up my papers in a hurry, scores of handwritten documents from this morning, when the power was out for 3 hours and my computer battery was dead (20 months of life in the developing world still haven't taught me to plan ahead), toss them into a folder, grab my laptop, swing my kenyan sling bag cross-wise over my be-saried chest, slip into the black strappy sandals which are already falling apart 6 days after their purchase, and fly out the door. saris aren't exactly marathon wear, mind you (although during my daily 6 AM jog, i do frequently see indian women in saris and sneakers doing their panting power walk rounds). i shuffle along as quickly as the long stretch of tie-dyed cloth will allow me, half-jogging in a scissorlike fashion, making a small detour across the road to avoid the death glare trajectory of a massive grey bull evidently in the midst of angry hour, stepping gingerly over a heap of trash which has spilled over from (or perhaps was never actually deposited into) a big green garbage receptacle, swerving to avoid yet another set of licenseless preteens on a motorcycle which is clearly driving them. i weave my way across several backstreets, passing in front of my former gym, "superbodies," where the aerobics instructor would drudge in each morning 43 minutes late, cheerful as an african honey badger roused from a peaceful afternoon nap, flop down on a step in front of the eager class, flip on some bollywood film music which in no way was conducive to rhythmic, coordinated motions, and proceed to shriek out to the class what made-up aerobics move we should be performing, all the while remaining firmly seated in front, scowling and pointing out the errors of certain individuals from time to time without over rousing herself from her throne of black doom. i stopped going there after the fourth class, but to be fair that was partially due to the illness i had acquired that eventually required a hospital visit. even so, the sweet memory of that glowering face in front of me at 7:43 each morning did little to entice me to return. there goes my $12 monthly membership fee. just as i'm scissoring past the ever-present group of scrawny indian dudes trying desperately as always to appear beefy by leaning against their motorcycles in front of the gym, i feel the first drop. ah. so that's the kind of storm this is going to be. my laptop, clinging nervously to my side, is not relieved. i look down and try to sympathize. i'm doing the sari-scissor-shuffle just as fast as i possibly can! drip, drop, splat. the sweat has soaked through my sari blouse and my face has gone from dewy to slick in the muggy heat. but i'm on the home stretch. around the corner where a few months back some construction worker deposited a giant mound of dirt in the middle of the road for no apparent reason and left it there, forcing everyone to drive a new road into existence across someone's lawn; past the home and proud hand-painted sign of DR. (MRS.) VIJAY LAXMI SHARMA, COMPUTERISED HOMEOPATHIC TREATMENT; past the latest in emerging sandstone mansions, with its small village of slight-bodied brown-skinned construction workers living within, toiling away 14 hours a day, 7 days a week; and at last my apartment building springs into view, all four stories of hideous blue-and-red striped glory of it. all the mansions here have giant ornate gold and silver letters stuck to their otherwise beautifully crafted facades proclaiming the owner's name, which i suppose is like the show-off equivalent of having a big gold grill installed in your mouth, but in a country where dental work is so cheap that no amount of oral modification could possibly convince anyone that you're rich. certain buildings, though, have a nickname instead of the owner's name, and that which my landlord has chosen for the pride of all his tenants, who by the way are all, without exception, female college students, is "prem bhavan," or "love palace." did i mention that all my neighbors already think i'm a russian prostitute? i get the feeling, as i approach my circus-tent-like building for the thousandth time and shudder for the thousandth time at that glaring silver sign, that my apartment block's name isn't helping my image. by now the drops are falling at steady intervals, and it is with immense relief (on the mac's part) that i bound through the front gate and into the open stairwell, edging as always past the moped that's perpetually parked in the middle of the entrance, up four flights of stairs, carefully holding up the front pleats of my sari so as not to take a face dive into pure marble pain, arriving at last to the door of my apartment, which is very classily adorned with a life-size brightly colored decal of a highly stylized indian woman engaged in joyful dance. as always, fumbling for my keys, i take a bemused moment to ponder where one would even begin to look for such a thing. oh yeah, in india, and once found, i slip the key in the padlock and unbolt the slide, entering, kicking off my shoes at the door, and tossing down my laptop just as the bottom drops out of the imposing mantle of clouds outside. after just a few moments, though, the thick drops of rain abate into a mild drizzle, having swept through my neighborhood just long enough to blanket the dusty roads in moisture and chill the 104-degree air by a couple degrees. now in my home gear, a loose cotton tank top and a brown elephant-print sarong, i peer suspiciously out the window into the falling dusk, expecting evidence of some new impending weather disaster. but looking out into the dwindling day, the sky seems suddenly light, a beam of sunlight breaking through some white fluffy clouds to the west. from my 4th-story vantage point, i can see that traffic on the large 4-lane road a block away is buzzing along at its typical chaotic pace, reckless autorickshaws veering around motorcycles piled high with 5-member families, bubbly new marutis flying by at an autobahn-appropriate speed with their teeth-grindingly shrill horns steadily compressed in unending cacophony, two-story sleeper buses blaring their creatively programmed melodic horns while narrowly missing vendors shuffling along behind their ware-piled wooden carts. everything seems to be back to normal. it seems like a good time to head over to paratha house to grab some food. three minutes and another costume change later (now adorned in a public-appropriate pair of trousers and a long kurta (tunic) and scarf, i slip into my rubber market flip-flops, put the padlock on my front door, assure the frozen dancing-lady that i'll be right back, and bound down the stairs. just 150 meters away, across the same main road of which my balcony affords such clear view, is smita's and my favorite dining establishment, paratha house. as always, the 8'x10' space constituting the dining area is packed with hungry customers clustered around two slim flimsy tables and a smattering of aluminum chairs. mr. singh, standing as every day behind the small glass case in a long maroon tunic, greets me with a broad smile, exposing a row of perfectly white teeth parted like curtains by a modest gap in the front. his plump face is wound tightly underneath an immaculately tied navy blue turban which compressed the edges of his eyebrows slightly and accentuates the size of his deep-set glassy brown eyes. his beard is as reassuringly perfectly trimmed and groomed as every day, not a single black hair out of place. he is a perfect portrait of sikhdom, standing tall behind the counter from morning til late night with an ever-present smile of welcoming. sikhism isn't the dominating faith here in jodhpur, but a fairly large number of the businessmen i come into contact with on a daily basis are indeed sikhs, each as dignified, poised, and yet as warm as friendly as mr. singh, here. to be honest, i've never met a sikh i didn't immediately like. back in november, traveling by motorcycle through punjab with a friend, we stopped at a little roadside eatery for a bite. exhausted from the 6 hours of riding through dusty, hill-punctuated terrain, scraping the sand and grit from the corners of our bloodshot eyes, we tumbled into a couple of plastic chairs at one of the tables off to the side of the small building. our backs were to the road, and off to the left the sun was a blazing orange orb setting over a ridiculously picturesque field of emerald green. we sank into silence, absorbed by this unusually peaceful scene of indian beauty and abundance. naturally, it couldn't last. a husky voice suddenly called to us from a few tables away. "hello!" we tried to ignore it. "hello! come join us!" i warily turned my head towards the source of the intrusion. three sikh men were seated around a table, three ill-matching glasses and a bottle of whisky set between them, wagging their heads in synchronized invitation as the outspoken one waved us over with rigorous insistence. we politely refused a couple times before at last giving in to the imposing hospitality of the trio, hoisting our tired bodies from the plastic chairs and transplanting ourselves over to their table. they won us over immediately. within about thirty seconds, several plates of piping hot food and a couple of cold beers had appeared in front of us, which one of our jovial turbaned shiny-faced new friends insisted on spiking with an extra shot of whisky (for good measure). within another 5 minutes, we'd been invited, or rather forced to promise, that we would be staying with the family of another man, whose wife and 2 kids were awaiting him back in amritsar, the sikh capital of india, where we were also heading. although the whisky-touting gentleman was clearly the conversational ringleader, each of the three was exceptionally learned and was extremely interested to hear our views on india, punjab, our education and careers, and the politics of our own nations. we passed a long time chatting with them, eating, drinking (not too much...), and soaking up the unconventionally wholesome atmosphere. in the end, back on the road in the evening dust and rolling into amritsar, the city of the sikh's stunningly beautiful golden temple, we decided not to take our newfound friend up on the offer to stay at his house. but the slightly hazy memory of that afternoon of sikh hospitality in punjab has stuck with me. i've been fascinated by sikh history ever since reading salman rushdie's midnight's children while trucking across the desert plains of namibia (an unlikely match) back in september. two months later, the afternoon following our encounter with the overwhelmingly hospitable sikh trio, i found myself cross-legged, head-covered, and necessarily bare-footed (men and women alike have to cover their heads and check their shoes before entering) at the edge of the marble ghat (step)-lined lake enveloping the blindingly beautiful gold-leafed temple in amritsar. staring at the intricately-embellished explosion of gold under the blazing indian sun, i tried to mentally wipe away the thousands of pilgrims and visitors who now milled about its splendor in amazed delight. ignoring the slow fluid motions of a cloud of plump languorous goldfish skirting along the edges of the shallow stepped lake, i tried to imagine this peaceful place of pious devotion back in early june 1984, occupied by sikh militants in a dangerous stand-off with the indian government. after a series of failed negotiations with the radicals, then-prime minister indira gandhi had finally set "operation bluestar" into motion, a military invasion of the temple, the holiest of sikh sites, to flush them out. while the indian army still claims that the total number of civilian (including militants as well as innocent men, women, and children) lives lost were 492; independent observers placed the figure closer to 5000 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation _Bluestar). whatever the exact death toll, this unfortunate strategic move cost mrs. gandhi her life at the hands of her sikh bodyguards on october 31, 1984, after which several days of retaliatory anti-sikh rioting in delhi and bombay saw the brutal murders of thousands of innocent sikhs. william dalrymple's brilliant 1994 book city of djinns provides an excellent, though horrifying, account of the barbarous bloodletting in delhi in those days following mrs. gandhi's assassination, as told by the sikh survivors themselves. "namaste, baia," ("hello, brother"), i say this evening as i approach the counter of peaceful-looking mr. singh's paratha house, "aj kaunse sabzi hai?" ("which vegetables are there today?"). he takes the half-step from the far right side of the counter where he is currently standing to the far left side where the containers of vegetables are kept warm, lifting each metal cover and stirring the simmering dish inside with a little flourish of the metal serving spoon as he announces each vegetable in indulgent hindi (he speaks excellent english), "chola (chickpeas)...mattar paneer (unfermented cheese with green peas)...kathal (curried jackfruit)...and rajma (red beans)." it all looks frightfully tasty. my stomach rumbles a little as i place my regular order for the 50-rupee ($1.25) "executive thali," consisting of 2 vegetables, raita (yogurt with chopped raw vegetables and spices), 2 roti and a handful of rice. just as the word "thali" is leaving my lips, though, the single flourescent light above flickers out, the black dust-streaked fan ceases to turn, and consequently the little green pineapple windchime above the counter falls into silence. the cramped tiny cube of eating space is instantaneously transformed into a dark, stuffy little cave smelling of frying onions and bodies following a full day of 108-degree heat. turning around to face the front glass wall, i'm shocked to see that not only has it commenced raining again, but that within the 3 minutes since i entered the shop, the sky has become drenched in inky black and the suddenly materialized sheets of rain are blowing horizontally across the sky. a flash of lightning fills our little observation space with a second's worth of cool white light, sending a frisson of excitement through the clutch of bodies pressed within. as we watch, a medium-sized limb snaps off a sturdy-looking tree outside the door and comes crashing to the ground, narrowly missing someone's honda two-wheeler parked outside. unable to take the clammy proximity any more, i sidestep several young working men, their laminated name tags hung around their necks, expensive trendy cell phones clutched in their hands, to reach the door and squeeze myself through it onto the small porch. i arrange myself into place next to a classically beautiful woman in her late 20s whose startled 3-year old is clinging with manifest alarm to her mother's sari-clad leg. the mother fixes me with an interested look as i attempt to wedge myself into the 13-square inch space to her left which is neither out under the driving rain nor under the dozen or so tiny waterfalls which are now coursing at full speed through the holes in the awning. "andar bahut garam hai," ("it's really hot inside,") i attempt in explanation, motioning to the tight-packed cluster of bodies pressed together inside the shop, which with its full glass facade is beginning to resemble a fish tank. "ah, you speak hindi!", she replies in english, delighted yet, as is typical, unwilling to sacrifice her own opportunity to show off her linguistic skills. she introduces me in perfect english to her sister-in-law and daughter, both of whom smile widely and wave at me enthusiastically from 3 feet away. behind us, the grease-smudged glass door swings open and two immaculately trendy 20-something young indian men in matching modern-indian-man uniforms of dark blue jeans, black collared shirts, black leather belts, and black leather shoes come tumbling out into the storm like a couple of downy soft puppies let loose from their leashes in the park. the young mother and i watch with bemused smiles tacked on our damp faces as the pair proceeds to frolic in the pouring rain. once outside and soaked to the bone, though, they're not too sure what to do with themselves, so they run out in the road and stand in the median waving their arms for the benefit of no one, as far as i can tell - the roads are deserted. still smiling with a hint of diversion, i turn to the woman with a little gesture of my arm and say, "pagal hai, na?" ("they're mad, huh?"). she looks back at me with a wistful sigh and says in english, "i wish i could do that." a deafening crack of thunder sends her toddler, who had by now ventured a few steps away, flying back to her anchoring point against her mother's right leg. ............ in spite of the unfulfilled longing of this sari-clad middle-class mother to abandon her dignified poise and run amok in the thunderstorm, it is all too clear that she's got it better than most of her female compatriots. women's empowerment is as tricky an issue in india as it is in other developing nations where women have long been the less-privileged sex, and an issue that is all the more complicated by the rigidly oppressive caste system. in spite of increasing reports in the outside world that the complete dissolution of the caste system is imminent in india, from within the borders it's clear just how absurd this supposition really is. in one of our first meetings with host organization UNNATI (www.unnati.org), which works on social inclusion and dalit ("untouchable") rights among other topics, the organization supervisor briefed us on the state of dalit rights in rural areas of rajasthan and neighboring gujurat. "in one case that we were working on," he began, pausing to take a sip of his tea, "a 19-year-old just-married dalit girl was raped by 3 teachers from a nearby primary school. only after three days, with counseling and support, was she able to report what had happened." (the stigma surrounding rape cases and the difficulty in prosecuting rapists here causes many victims to think twice, and thrice, before speaking up). "in the first court proceeding, she won and the rapists were each given 10-12 year sentences plus a 50,000 rupee fine ($1250). they immediately appealed and came to the victim's father and offered him 8 lakh rupees ($20,000) to drop the case. he refused." listening to this account, we nodded in affirmation, relieved and encouraged up to this point by the proceedings. "but in the end, they simply bribed the prosecuting attorney with 5 lakhs ($12,500) and he removed the medical exam from the files. the case was dismissed on lack of evidence." several more stories similar to this one followed, all centered around discrimination against dalits and subsequent lack of legal action (he reported that the prosecution rate for dalit-related cases is a mere 4%), and particularly the plight of dalit women throughout. this NGO works to bring these cases to light, assists with legal fees, and takes a community-based approach in the fight for justice when the court system fails. the rights of harijan ("untouchable") women are also being addressed in a very different style by another much smaller, homegrown non-profit organization working in jodhpur. sambhali trust was founded just 2 years ago by a young local man, govind singh rathore, who was appalled by the treatment of harijan women living in jodhpur slum areas. the efforts of his organization now revolve around empowering these women through vocational training (their sewing initiative is producing beautiful handbags, clothing, scarves, and other cloth items), basic academic classes (most were unable to afford any schooling), and the creation of an atmosphere which builds confidence and trust between them, a luxury which few are afforded in their homes. i could go on for ages about this initiative, which through its sewing project is on its way to self-sustainability, but the organization itself maintains an amazing website which provides a comprehensive and very clearly-laid out synopsis of its activities: www.sambhali-trust.org. govindji also keeps up a blog of the organization's activities, which lately have included some very interesting high-profile meetings with important local government officials: www.durag-niwas.blogspot.com. a few of these news clippings are features on FSD, our work here in jodhpur, and our "interest in indian culture" (as concluded by the journalist by the fact that we all appeared in saris for our meeting). the latest entry (as of now, may 31) was written by an FSD intern who's working there now and provides her very interesting impressions of the organization so far. ............. back in front of the paratha house in the unusual may thunderstorm, the rain appears to be thinning out. i imagine by this time that my food will be ready, so i squeeze back behind the daydreaming indian housewife and her child and back into the sticky little space inside. mr. singh is just spooning out the last bit of my mattar paneer into a little foil container and places it into the plastic bag which holds the rest of my promising executive thali. i hand over my slightly damp, lavender 50-rupee note and take the bag with a smile. i step back out the door, smug and happy with my dinner in hand and the rain at least temporarily quelled, only to note with apprehensive amazement that the big four-lane road in front of the little shop has been transformed into the nile's only slightly lesser sibling. it is solid water, and not like a thin slick layer rushing across the asphalt, but a veritable body of water that appears deep enough to harbor the hull of a 40-foot sailboat. a little whimpering sound is subconsciously generated in the back of my throat. i carefully pick my way across the hard-packed dirt embankment in front of the shop down to the edge of the abyss. what i am observing in this moment with a growing sense of dread is a liquid manifestation of everything that is unwholesome and insalubrious in this world, a chunky minestrone of every indian roadside ingredient that's ever been counted on a list of things that should never make intimate contact with human epidermis, including but far from limited to: organic and chemical detritus of every imaginable form and level of toxicity, blatant samples of human feces, bloated dog carcasses, dirty blood-streaked syringes, heavily used and discarded feminine products, and of course enough animal effluent to put every pig factory farm in america to shame. okay, so i'm not actually watching all these items float by in the sludge in this very moment, but based on the fact that i have personally seen each of these things on the side of this same road sometime over the course of the past 7 days, i feel comfortable assuming that they're all part of the simmering stew at this point. the love mansion's comfortingly hideous facade is just on the other side of this river of doom, teasing me in its nearness. in the twilight, it's impossible to tell how deep it really is. my dinner feels deliciously heavy in the bag clutched in my left hand. if ever there was a time to bite the bullet, this is it. i can always burn these pants. with a cringe, i gingerly place my flip-flopped right foot down into the grease-streaked fluid. i'm encouraged not only by the fact that my skin doesn't instantly burn off upon contact with it, but that the level of it only reaches to the bottom of my ankle. emboldened, i take a big step forward with my left foot, shocked (a good indicator of my level of inflated optimism at this point) and repulsed by the sensation of the unnervingly warm liquid shooting up to mid-shin, and even more so by just how squishy the bed of this waste river is, my rubber flip-flop sinking with alarming ease into a level of muck the composition of which i force from my mind with the velocity of a crash-test dummy being ejected from a crumpling vehicle. the third step with my right foot, though, is the fatal blow to my hopes of living a long and cancer-free life - by now i'm standing stock still in a lake of indian roadside discharge which fully reaches my knees, waiting in shocked alarm for a suddenly-appearing wall of vehicular traffic to pass before being able to dislodge myself from what i am suddenly sure is the most unsavory bath ever taken by anyone, ever. tim robbins in the shawshank redemption notwithstanding. at last the untimely surge of traffic passes, and with some difficulty i unearth my feet from the subaqueous sludge to which they are now cemented. over the median, across the other side of the 4-lane road (mercifully not as flooded as its counterpart), and onto my street. i break into a full run, "chariots of fire" booming through my conscious mind as i bound towards my apartment gate. up the stairs, into the apartment, hurling my dinner on the granite-topped kitchen counter and throwing myself under the shower. i spend the next 17 minutes or so in the dark (the electricity still hasn't come back on), repeatedly soaking and washing out my thankfully not too absorbent pants and scrubbing off the top 4 layers of skin on my legs. mr. singh's dinner was even more delicious than usual. and now this city is a lake.
]]> secondhand saris, the sabziwalla, certain shock — Jodhpur, India http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1211812740/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1211812740/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1211812740/tpod.html Mon, 26 May 2008 14:46:14 +0000 A year in the thar desert - heat, sand, and lassis in india
Jodhpur, India

i'm taking some time. i'm sitting here under the frenetically spinning fans of my perpetually too-warm apartment, taking deep dusty breaths in the sandstorm-ravaged air, trying to force just a little more oxygen into the lungs which have been squeezed too tightly in an abdomen which is crunched by the amazing dinner i just had. i'm taking some time for paneer tikka masala and tandoori rotis and plain yogurt straight from my fingers off a red plastic plate, a dinner perhaps as delicious as each day's dinner, but one which i'm actually taking a moment to relish. i'm taking some time to close my eyes and savor it, feeling the paneer squish between my teeth, letting the rich array of spices permeate all my taste buds, gathering up all the sensory pleasure and routing it directly, unadulterated, to that tiny forgotten section of my brain where the chemicals governing satisfaction have long, too long, lain dormant. i'm taking some time for lychees, one of those unintentional purchases which are so blessedly common along busy indian market streets at 7 o'clock in the evening, that dusky hour when all the vendors are out in their most aggressive salesmanship, nudging their rickety wooden carts piled high with multicolored produce ever further out into the middle of the road to ensure that unwitting potential customers will be forced to stop and consider buying. just so, amidst a flurry of other errands, i was physically stopped by someone's cart, almost brushing past him before eyeing the small mountain of the oblong little fruits piled atop. lychees are my new love affair, spiky and forbidding on the outside, miserably shackled to their dry, scratchy bundles of stems, but so tantalizingly juicy and sweet and pure once you get past that rough exterior. i'm sitting on the cot-cum-couch in my living room a couple hours later with a bundle of them, lovingly cutting through those ugly barbed facades with a fingernail, peeling away the world-weary calloused exterior before squeezing out the eyeball-like fruit (a trait which would be alarming were the eyeball itself not so unbelievably delicious) into my mouth, nibbling the flesh off the disproportionately large dark brown pit before spitting it into the little black-and-white espresso mug which previously housed my yogurt. i'm taking some time for ginger lemon honey, my old love affair, that unabashedly contradictory miracle of beverages which will always remain an inextricable part of my memories from my first trip to india last fall, and in particular with many an amazing conversation with my accidental chicagoan friend josephine. gingerlemonhoney, the flavor of a cold windy night in rishikesh, wondering why christmas lights were blazing all around us in the garden of a guest house high above the rushing blue of the river ganges. it only just occurred to me last night, as i was sweating in the unusually humid air of a jodhpuri may evening while waiting to buy a bottle of water at a little grocery stand near my apartment, that i could actually manufacture this marvelous concoction in the sanctity of my own home. so now i'm taking some time, standing in bare feet on the smooth white marble of my kitchen, carefully skinning and julienning the plump 3-rupee hunk of ginger root, dropping it carefully into the rapidly boiling water on my silver gas stove, neatly bisecting two knoblike lychee-sized greenyellow lemons and squeezing them in, pouring a little honey into the bottom of a mod-looking lime green ceramic mug, just a little more - a little more - and catching the excess drop with my finger, which goes promptly in my mouth. now i'm back on the makeshift couch, my back against the dusty white wall, legs tucked up under me, smiling to myself as i sip at this stupendous phenomenon of a culinary invention - an item which is at once hot, sweet, sour, spicy, and drinkable - easily falling into the realm of modern world wonders. i'm taking some time to read a book for sheer pleasure, something that i haven't done in about 6 months, since the last time i was in india, tucked safely away in one or another train racing across the subcontinent. eat, pray, love. it's a new york times bestseller, which is how i know it's for sheer pleasure. and it is absolutely intoxicating. i'm laughing out loud, and then laughing more out loud about the fact that i'm laughing out loud about something. i'm taking some time to be taken back to italy, back to rome, back to a life there that was as different from my life here in india as i am a different person than i was then, over 4 long years ago. it is a sensation that is both beautiful and heartbreaking, but in a way that makes me feel positive, and whole, and grateful for so many things in spite of where life has taken me in that time. i'm taking time to translate whole english passages into italian, seduced by the memory of a life lived in such a stunning language, passages which i speak out loud and accent with all the normal hand gestures and facial expressions and laughing at the absurdity of it, just for the pleasure of sinking back into that girl, that place, that time that was. i'm taking some time not to think about now. to forget, if just for a little while, about all the stress and anxiety and simple occupation that has kept me pinned firmly to my consciousness for the past few weeks. the almost four months since my arrival in india have been marked by a frantic racing, a pushing ahead, the constant sensation of always being just a half step behind, only able to keep up, never able to quite get a grip on the present. each new occurrence more energy-consuming than the last, with the thought of tomorrow looming larger and larger in my mind. for the first time in all my travels, i'm experiencing fairly persistent health problems, and i can feel my physical presence wavering, stumbling, recovering, and collapsing again almost faster than i can pull it back up again through days and nights with highs well up into the 100s. so i'm taking some time to take it easy, to remind myself that i don't need to have all the answers, that nothing will fall apart if i take all day today, sunday, technically but not frequently practically my day off, and do nothing but read and eat lychees and lie half-naked under my living room fan while the hot dust-streaked breeze slips across between the open windows of my 4th-story apartment. i'm taking some time to be alone in a nation of over 1 billion people, to remove myself from the constant shadow of curious eyes, innocent though they may be. some time to remind myself that there is still a place to withdraw to, a place of sanctuary and peace which is not necessarily a physical location. i'm taking some time to remind myself that i am this place, and that no matter what sandstorm is raging outside, i know where i've been, what i've come through, who i am, and it's not too too far from who i want to be. ...... it would be idiotic to attempt a comprehensive survey of the pieces of india that i've gathered over the last 4 months. everyone in the world knows that the complexity and overstimulation of india is incapturable and, perhaps for this very reason, overly yet persistently inadequately documented. here's what i can say about india that's obvious but time-stoppingly true: it's teaching me so, so many things. every day is a startling new lesson in culture, patience, language, understanding, and, not least of all, humility. by now i've certainly crossed the threshold from the realm of traveler into that of resident, a move which is akin to leaving the anticipation of an interesting, cluttered, inviting, and naked-lightbulb-lit doorstep of a giant eccentric-looking mansion and entering into total darkness within. this entrance has yielded all kinds of interesting, bizarre, frustrating, and often rewarding new surprises, but i'm forever bumping into odd-shaped little objects in the darkness, skinning my shin and cursing out loud, starting in panic as something creaks or whispers behind me, shuddering at the feeling of something hairy darting across my bare foot. every so often, though, a little candle flickers in the darkness and fills me with warmth, gratitude, and happiness to be part of this place. today i'm paying my rent for the 3rd month in my apartment, a beautifully-designed if shoddily-constructed marble-floored 4th story space that i am in love with. it's teaching me the value of living space. last night, flipping out the light, opening wide all the 5 windows on adjacent walls in the little square bedroom, stretching myself out on the light-blue solo sheet spread across my single simple bed, i almost whispered a prayer of gratitude for the miracle that is a cross-breeze in the middle of an un-air-conditioned desert night. in spite of my exhaustion, i propped myself up against the wall of my consciousness, smiling and taking deep breaths through my nose, contorting my body into a comfortable stretch, and appreciating more than anything the beauty of finally removing the pressure and heat from the physique after a long sweaty day. among the more dramatic shifts in mentality i've experienced over the past 4 months is the complete re-examination of what is meant by "culture shock." such a vague ridiculous term. what does it take for an individual to become stunned, incapacitated, astonished, perhaps even traumatized by total immersion into a very different culture? as always, the folly of confidence had me blindsided upon arrival in india. having already lived and worked on 3 continents, settling into life on the 4th hardly seemed like an overwhelming assignment. ah, yes. if only i had allowed just a glimmer of reason in my consciousness to shine through and shout, "india is neither america, nor italy, nor kenya, you idiot!" eventually this realization, simple yet elusive as it seemed to be, did break through, around the usual time when life in a new place shifts from that of a traveler to that of a resident. and against all expectations, it truly shocked me. culture shock for me manifests itself in certain small, seemingly banal moments of everyday life. all those little things about this new place that were initially novel, amusing, or even charming - the moaning, constant call of the sabziwallah (vegetable vendor - see below), making his rounds through the neighborhood, pushing his cart along dutifully as every morning...the veering homicidal antics of the autorickshaw drivers negotiating their way through tight sewer-lined alleyways...the screeching of traffic stopping for a self-assured, attitude-laden cow who has decided arbitrarily to lie down in the middle of the highway - these things suddenly start to lose their entertainment value, the glimmer fades, they even start to become irritating, like little obstacles that have been thrown up in the middle of a busy day simply, it seems, to make your work more difficult. the things that were initially irritating - the unabashed staring by every single person who catches sight of your freakishly light complexion on the street...the stacks of 3 teenage boys pressed together on a single motorcycle veering within inches of you to scream "HELLO GORI!" ("hello white girl!") in your ear...the impossibility of getting a broken lock or a hole in the wall fixed within 6 weeks of having reported the problem, if ever - these things now become almost unbearable. at the height of a bout of culture shock, leaving my house is like stepping out into a battle zone, a battle where i'm fighting only against myself with anxiety and incomprehension, wearing my weary body down further each time i note with irritation another person staring with a laser-beam intensity that seems to have been switched from "stun" to "kill," another rickshaw driver who appears intent on running down some innocent family of four, another set of teenage boys who seem to have no other purpose in life than cruising round in their happy threesome seeking out single foreign women to harass. but that's just the culture shock talking. and without fail, at some unexpected point, it always abates. things i love about life in india: the juicewallah, at whose description i will eventually duly arrive, but not without first pointing out another love of mine - the hindi term "wallah," a generic term meant to mean "the one who/that/which..." that can be applied to almost anything, i.e. doodwallah ("dood" = milk, so the milkman), lalwallah ("lal" = red, so the red one), sabziwallah ("sabzi" = vegetable, so the vegetable vendor), and so forth. so the juicewallah, or rather my favorite juicewallah, stands behind a counter from early morning til late night in a space approximately the size of a vertical coffin about 2 blocks from my apartment building. he has the slight shadow of a unibrow between his smiling eyes and a face so frankly open and likeable that i knew immediately, the first time i shuffled up the stone steps to his little juice niche 2 months back, that he would be indeed become my favorite juicewallah. four cylindrical jars stand proudly on the built-up wooden display in front of his standing space, displaying the fresh fruits and vegetables of the day. when i first started frequenting his stand, i was greeted each day by the fleshy orange-white outsides of little peeled clementines jumbled up together in jar 1, the glistening taut green spheres of hundreds of grapes in jar 2, the big bulbous pale yellow forms of peeled mousambi (sweet limes) in jar 3, and usually the beady little wine colored seeds of pomegranate squeezed tartly together in jar 4. with the changing of the season, those four old friends have slowly been replaced by new favorites - the oblong naked freckled bodies of pineapples in one jar, another holding the mellow pink seed-studded slices of watermelon (the juice of which, i was shocked the first time to discover, is typically served with salt and pepper). a typical day is hardly complete without a trip to the juicewallah, who always greets me with a friendly smile as he picks up his blender in anticipation of my order. lately i'm on a pomegranate kick. he keeps a giant sack of pomegranate seeds (the harvesting of which i am absolutely certain was done under less-than-hygienic conditions, but it's worth it) in the giant deep freezer behind him (forming one wall of his coffin), which he scoops out with scientific accuracy using his bare hands, the hair on the backs of which could form an impressive toupee. he tosses them in the blender, runs a few watts of electricity through the sucker, then slocks the whole thing into a slightly cloudy-looking grease-smudged glass that's been waiting there on the counter just for me. the result is a freezing cold milky pink beverage that could very well have been thrust down onto the earth by the gods themselves, and i have to remove the straw and drink in little sips from the glass in order to keep myself from downing it in one giant slurp. after all, it's the most expensive thing on the menu at 30 rupees ($.75) for a large glass, the same price as my daily lunch of parathas (stuffed chapati-like things) and yogurt. the juicewallah will even make my juice to-go on request, tossing it into a plastic cup covered with cellophane and a rubber band and then chucked into a polyethylene bag filled with crushed ice, which remains frozen for approximately 1.8 seconds in the desert heat as i hustle to make it home. something else i love about india: the secondhand sari vendors in the clock tower market of the old city. sometimes on sundays smita and i indulge ourselves by jumping in an autorickshaw and making our way to the crazy, chaotic, psychedelic city center in the afternoon heat, beelining our way through the fruit and vegetable stands, the little displays of pots and pans and buckets, the slick young guys touting bootleg bollywood DVDs, straight to the half-dozen or so staid-looking women sitting with their legs pretzeled up around them behind neatly-stacked rows of secondhand saris laid out on a blanket. they always keep their poker faces on when they see us coming, but usually the initial realization ("it's them!") that flickers in their eyes as we approach is hard to miss. we must be their best customers. for our part, we always saunter up casually, greeting them with even-toned "namastes," nonchalantly eyeing their wares with an all-too-calculated air of indifference, carefully restraining ourselves from jumping at the first gorgeous silk piece that catches our eye. slowly laying my hand down on a divine cerulean silk piece, unfolding just the outer layer to expose the paloo, the long specially-ornamented piece that dangles down over the left shoulder, i carelessly ask, "yeh kitna hai?" ("how much is this one?"). "ek sau rupee" ("a hundred rupees"), comes her usual reply. as per our normal routine with these same women, smita makes a little clucking sound and i pretend to forget all about the blue one. with faux boredom i point instead to a butter yellow fold near the back. "aur yehwallah?" ("and that one?" - good example of how "wallah" becomes a daily vocabulary star). "ek sau rupee." another cluck from smita. i start craning my neck in a display of exaggerated interest in her neighboring competitors' saris. "thik hai, assi," ("okay, eighty,") she chirps. "nahi, assi donon," ("no, eighty for both,") smita chimes in. eventually after some good-natured clucking from both sides, we agree on a hundred for both, which makes this sari sale exactly the same as the last 13 times that smita and i have come here, in which we almost without fail buy whatever sari we end up buying for 50 rupees ($1.25). still, the routine of the whole exchange is an important part of the overall process, and none of us would dream of changing it ("hello ladies, i know that you must be having a very busy day here in the clock tower market, and i myself have a lot of sitting here calling out to potential customers to do, and i would be loth to waste either my or your time, so i'm just going to go ahead and quote you 50 rupees for these saris instead of either one of us bothering with the hassle of the negotiation. what do you think?"). it's just not india. nor would i want it to be. we buy these saris for a variety of different reasons. some are just intoxicatingly beautiful silk of colors so rich you cannot believe that they can possibly be captured on a fabric so delicate, pinks and blues and yellows and greens, with intricate silver handwoven brocade that calls to mind the corridors and passageways of eternal mazes of flowers. others look like they would make pretty sweet apartment curtains, although to date i've only been bothered to sit down and hand-sew one set of them (a sky blue adorned with flowers and peacocks, which isn't nearly as tacky as it sounds, and flutters nicely under the fan in my living room). others, usually nice cotton ones still in good condition (no rips, holes, or bloodstains - i'm not kidding), we actually wear (after a thorough hand-washing up on my sunny balcony, of course). since lately i've fallen into the habit of wearing saris like they're going out of style (which believe me, they are definitely not), i'm always up for another nice light one that will swath me through another mindnumbingly hot desert day. if we're planning on wearing whatever we buy, though, the purchase of the sari itself is only half the battle. as i discovered the first time i was trying to buy a new sari 3 hours before the wedding i was planning on wearing it to, sari-wearing is not such a flippant event. for those who are not regular sari-wearers, i shall explain. the sari is actually a 3-piece deal. the sari itself is a length of fabric somewhere around 6 meters long, with the 6th meter constituting the paloo i described earlier. after buying a new sari, one must purchase a fall, a length of fabric about 5 inches wide and 4 feet long and of the same color as the sari, to be sewn into the opposite end as the paloo, weighting the bottom of the sari so that it doesn't fly up while walking. underneath the sari, aside from the regular undergarments one would wear under any outfit, there is also a petticoat, a long cotton skirt with a drawstring waist that matches the color of the sari, and finally a blouse, the little short-sleeved shirt that closes shut with a series of hooks down the front and reaches just below the bustline, exposing the entire midriff and lower back. the blouse is also the same color as the sari, if not made from the same material (more expensive new saris come with the blouse material included so that you get a perfect match). the sari is wrapped around the waist once, tucked into the petticoat all the way round, pleated 8 or 12 times with the ends of the pleats tucked into the waistband, and the remaining piece is wrapped up around the waist and thrown over the shoulder, often with a pin in the blouse to keep the paloo in place. it's easy enough to find a ready-made petticoat which will match the sari, but the blouse is a whole different story. first you have to find a matching center that has an array of colored fabrics that you can choose from for a color which will match the sari. then you buy that material and take it somewhere else to a tailor (neither sari shops nor matching centers actually have tailors). here you drop it off, describe the type of blouse that you want (deep-necked, belted, shorter sleeves, etc...a vast variety of options that mean a difference of perhaps one or two inches of fabric in the overall design of a blouse), he takes your measurements, and then you wait anywhere from a week to a month until the tailor feels like giving it to you, which is never, ever, don't even dream it, on the day that he originally told you it would be, but generally after your 3rd or 4th exasperated visit to pick it up. let it be testament to my ignorance of indian culture that the first time i was picking up a set of blouses from my tailor, i actually had the audacity to ask on my 4th disappointing visit to the tailor's shop (over a week after they were supposed to be ready) if he was going to give me a discount for the delay. smita, standing next to me, looked mortified. the tailor, a stout little man in his 50s with a greying swatch of hair and a no-nonsense crease between his eyes, stared at me blankly for about a quarter second, sniffed, and then went right back to cutting the length of fabric that was in front of him. nowadays, like any other sane woman residing in india who is in need of a sari blouse, i wait until at least 4 days after the date when the blouse is supposed to be ready for pick-up, and then only if i have other business in the tailor's neighborhood do i swing by and ask if it's ready, so that when i'm told with remorseless certainty that it is not, i don't feel too bad about having gone out of my way. luckily my favorite tailor is situated right next to a place that serves amazing sweet lassis (that mindblowingly delicious yogurt drink that is one of india's many culinary miracles) in squat little terracotta cups that i get to take home, so it's never a big loss when the blouses aren't ready. i think the routine itself is what i love about this aspect of india. i really do love it. and as a result i have a gratifying collection of little terracotta cups accumulating in my apartment (right next to an ever-growing pile of second-hand saris). another classic indian love is the chai. yes, everyone loves the chai. few travelers to india get away without becoming smitten by the taste, the custom, and the very culture that is indian chai. i love the utter accessibility of it, the universality of it, the way that anyone, and i mean anyone, will stop what they're doing right this second for a tiny cup of strong, sweet, spiced chai. i wouldn't doubt that there's a chaiwallah who makes his mid-morning and afternoon rounds through operating rooms in major indian hospitals, peddling as always with that unique only-in-india dying-man's last sound call of "CHAIIIIII!", refreshing the dry lips and dull minds of the exhausted doctors as they roll up their bloody sleeves and pause in the middle of a grueling 11-hour open heart surgery for a spot of chai. it's just that good. there's something else about the chai that i love, although i suppose it's more a part of indian culture than anything. i love how it's impossible to enter someone's house, for any length of time, without being offered a cup of chai and usually a delectable array of accompanying snacks in little glass bowls (which, if i'm lucky, often include rasgulla, spongy little spheres of paneer that have been soaked in rosewater sugar syrup - they are violently delicious). even as your insistent protests of having to make your next appointment or having just five minutes ago taken chai are flying at your eager host, she or he is on his way to the kitchen, or at least calling out to a servant to put the chai on the stove. like many things, this aspect of indian culture initially seemed like an impediment to productivity ("how will i ever make all these appointments if i have to take chai at every stop?"). not one that i was unfamiliar with, since kenyans have adopted the same custom, but nevertheless an extra small chunk of time that would have to be carved out for each house or office visit i made. man, talk about a cultural adjustment that required very little sacrifice on my part whatsoever. it's all i can do now to stop myself making extra house visits just to get at some more chai. i'm getting ever more suspicious that this chai is laced with something less than wholesome and highly chemically addictive. and aside from the obvious deliciousness of the chai and snacks themselves, that extra little sliver of time can make a great deal of difference in the ultimate relationship between myself and host, or at least in my understanding of it. a tiny cup of chai in hand is like a magic talisman that allows one to sink a little deeper into this place that is at once so irritating and captivating. and so, hoping to be able to hold this power over my own unsuspecting house guests, i giddily rushed to the corner shop and purchased my own christening batch of tea leaves, spices, powdered milk, and sugar for my initiation into indian domestic life. my first opportunity to bedazzle a group of house guests with my effortless chaimaking abilities came in late april, during the orientation of our first group of interns. i had bought the milk from a local doodwallah (nice, right?) just about an hour before, and it was sitting in the little styrofoam box in my kitchen that i like to pretend actually keeps things cool in the 4th-story space that more closely resembles an oven (at around 115F each day) than a living space, an especially optimistic belief since i never bother purchasing ice to put in it. after all 7 people had filed into my apartment, i carefully poured the milk into the pot on the lit gas burner, breathless with excitement, and waited for my moment of chaimaking fame to arrive in all its blinding glory. the milk started to look a little funny. i ignored it. smita walked over, looked in the pot, and declared, "there's something wrong with the milk." i took another look. the formerly innocent-looking white chunks floating on the surface had grown into rather uninnocent looking giant gobs of gooey disgustingness. "no there's not!", i insisted, "it always does that!" (yes, i literally said those words. that's how bad the denial was). smita looked at me sympathetically, but firmly, and turned off the gas stove. our friend and host organization founder govind rushed over to see what all the commotion was about. "not to worry!", he exclaimed, "we can make paneer!" i glared at him with dubious melancholy. he ignored it. "do you have a scarf?" so instead of enjoying world-class chai that day, we did, in fact, make unfermented cheese with the help of a scarf. which no one ate. since then my chaimaking skills have indeed improved, but the number of unexpected guests who drop into my place for a stunningly delicious hot cup hasn't exactly skyrocketed. more often than not, it's smita who falls victim to my merciless chai-touting - "just come in! for one second! i'll make you chai!" i shout down the stairs, where she's in her own apartment, trying to get ready for work. she usually delays it for as long as she can, then eventually trucks up the stairs with a sigh, smiling as she kicks off her shoes and enters, responding to my tenacious offers with the typical indian response, "well, only if you're already making some..." so many things to love about india. so many things. it's shocking.
]]> stolen drops in a sunscorched place — Jodhpur, India http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1203870780/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1203870780/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/3/1203870780/tpod.html Wed, 27 Feb 2008 16:34:24 +0000 A year in the thar desert - heat, sand, and lassis in india
Jodhpur, India

one hundred million breathtaking heartbreaking suffocating liberating invigorating exhausting captivating terrifying things. india. this is india embedding itself in my consciousness. quickening steps along sunseared dust. jagged hunks of creamy pink sandstone and twisted bits of tiny scorched roots. the merciful rustle of a lukewarm breeze, the unnervingly human cry of a distant goat. grateful for the breathing of my billowing red and white cotton punjabi suit, the synthetic red scarf trailing behind the carefully placed steps of my camel leather sandals. scowling into the screaming sun, the tiny valley between my eyebrows deepening against the harshest of lights, reflected off the yellowbrown sand and soft pink stone all around. the faces of three sunblackened most somber of men greeting us at the end of the dusty road. we have arrived at bheel basti refugee settlement on the fringes of the thar desert, several kilometers outside of jodhpur. in periodic surges since the first india-pakistan war in 1965, some 200,000 hindus from pakistan's sindh province are estimated to have fled from religious persecution across the border to india. before partition in 1947, many of these were poor, low-caste agricultural laborers hailing from the western rajasthan area of modern-day india who migrated seasonally to find work, becoming trapped on the wrong side of the pakistan border when india fractured into two very different nations. within the smattering of shoddily pieced together huts before us, set amidst the monstrous sawtooth government sandstone mines, are the scant belongings and collective lives of 150 refugee families. the deliberate man walking a few steps ahead of us has dedicated his life to forming a movement aimed at fighting for the rights of this and 600 other similar communities along the india-pakistan border. this particular settlement was strategically placed in the heart of the sandstone mines, the only place that these refugees, all agriculturalists according to their caste tradition, were able to work given the restricted movement of refugees in the indian state. the work is tremendously demanding, long days under a desert sun chipping and hauling massive blocks of stone out of a quarry by hand. for those who have never known anything but the rhythmic ebb and flow of sowing, cultivating, and harvesting, it is particularly grueling, but these men and women must remain within the very limited physical area in which the government has granted them refugee status - this barren mining area outside of jodhpur, where, conveniently for government pockets, agricultural activities are not an option. as we approach, the three men awaiting us join their flat palms together under their chins in greeting. "namaste," we echo in muted tones, our hands joined in greeting. "come," our host says with a flick of the hand as he begins down the path. our entourage grows quickly with bonethin white-clad men, some wearing dust streaked turbans against the scorch of the sun, already unforgiving at 10 o'clock on a february morning. a few haggard acacias provide the landscape's only shade. wide-eyed dust smudged toddlers peek out from behind lopsided sandstone walls as we pass. we're led down a straight dirt path to an open area where tarps and blankets have been laid out on the pebble-strewn ground. by now our group has grown to myself, my co-worker alex, our host, one of his female office associates, and about 30 refugee men. i slip out of my sandals and take a seat, cross-legged, between alex and the associate. the sun is glaring so hard in my eyes i immediately begin catching the tears rolling out of their corners. the men quickly take their seats, squeezed together facing us on the tarps, staring but not directly into my eyes; while they are clearly as interested in us as we are in them, blatant and prolonged eye contact between men and women is perceived as a provocative and dangerous gesture. i adjust my knee-length tunic over my baggy, cuff-ankled trousers, pulling the U of my sheer scarf down over my chest to be sure i project adequate conservatism, stealing stealthy glances at the creased and weary faces all around. i cast a look back over my right shoulder at the path behind us. the drop-flecked silver spheres of steel water pots lope by, balanced atop the heads of female shapes, elegantly swathed in the vibrant reds and yellows of their rajasthani saris, sheer shawls pulled down from the hair to cover their entire faces in the presence of unknown men. a couple of thigh high barefooted children totter alongside, balancing their own full mini pots on their already top-heavy frames. behind the gauzy veils, any possible interest on the women's faces is beyond my discernment. their steady heads continue pointing directly ahead as they advance along the path toward their huts. the children gape at the foreigners seated in the heart of their territory, afterwards tottering double time to catch up with their unfaltering mothers. i turn my attention back to the gathering of stonyfaced men before me. "accha," ("well,") begins our host, addressing the crowd in marwari (a language of rajasthan), greeting them all and providing what i gather is a brief summary of our organization, the foundation for sustainable development, and possibly an explanation of what we're doing sitting on their tarp. we smile sheepishly and pretend to know what's going on. when silence falls, i use the opportunity to awkwardly introduce myself in one of my stock hindi phrases, "namaste. mera naam lilli hai." a few hands come together in greeting along with low scattered murmurs. marwari conversation ensues between our host and certain members of the group, the words resounding with a feeling of grievance. i continually jerk my hands in tiny, subtle motions to repel the army of flies that have descended upon us. a man approaches with a small tray, offering four glasses of water balanced atop it. i consider taking one before the memory of my experience with giardia in kenya flickers in my mind. i politely decline. our host stops the conversation with the men to ask if we have any questions for them. "how long have they been living in this settlement?" i posed quietly. he translates and answers back, "most of them have been here for about ten years." a group of about 6 women suddenly appears at the edge of the tarp in a blinding collage of color, veils pulled lower than ever over their mysterious faces. a voice drifts out from under one of them, addressing our host. he listens before translating, "the women also want to join the group." we all shift to make room as they arrange themselves in one corner of the tarp, segregated from the men. we're given the opportunity to ask the women questions. my eyes skip along the veiled faces and draped saris, resting finally on a point between two laborworn bodies where a tiny dirt-streaked face peeks out from under a matted head of black hair. the toddler sinks further behind his mother when my eyes meet his. a sensation so indelible, a question so sudden. "what do they want for their children?" silence among the women for several seconds after our host translates the question. a few low murmurs and consulting between the bowed heads. finally a thin figure draped in a brilliant yellow sari in the front of the group turns to us and releases a few bold words from under the veil. our host translates: "education and employment." he stands up, followed by a wave of group members doing the same. he motions to us to follow. "come." straightening our legs and replacing our shoes, we fall in step behind him and the group of men who arrange themselves about him, magnetized. it is clear that this man has the respect of this community as he listens to their hushed, urgent words, his brow knitted, nodding solemnly. our steps lead us around a crumbling sandstone wall and up a slight incline, allowing a truncated view of the stony countryside. rising out of the dust ahead are three and a half semi-walls, arranged to form a square perhaps 15 feet to a side and reaching no higher than 5 feet on any side, flat slabs of sandstone precariously balanced one atop the other, seemingly slipping apart before our eyes. gnarled branches serve as posts at several points around the square walled-in area, suspending a pitiful weathered scrap of a tarp, sagging with ripped shreds dangling down in several places. the semiopaque plastic sheet casts a ragged trapezoidal shadow over about three quarters of the 250 square feet within the makeshift walls. as we approach, the bulging eyes of 40 or more children, seated on the rocky dust floors of their learning institute, turn to meet us. standing in a sun-drenched corner of the little enclosure, a haggard-looking teacher in a well-worn emerald green sari stops speaking to examine us wearily. a few tattered posters stamped with letters and numbers cling noncommittally to the jagged walls. squeezed together in their little dustbox school, swathed in a hodgepodge of light blue cloth, an attempt at uniformity, the children stare, some smiling shyly at the foreign faces peering into their corner of existence. my heart sinks even as i catch my breath. how could something be so heartbreaking and awe-inspiring at the same time? "up until recently, these children had no school at all," our host explains. "it was only through intense rallying and pressure put on the local government that they were allotted a government teacher." we come to learn that the melange of students make up grades one through five, ranging in age from about five to twelve. all sitting cross-legged, quiet, soaking up whatever knowledge they can possibly glean from the words of a single exhausted teacher. i wonder at her position, laden with the responsibility of educating these tiny wide-eyed people, born into an outcast society with the sandstone mines as their playground, this one wretched sliver of schooling their only chance of getting a step out of this hell. "the government promised to build a real school, but they haven't," our host says simply, walking again. a cluster of mud-and-sandstone huts rest feebly on a rise above the classroom. two musky goats, milking bags tied around their waists, bleat irritatedly as we trod by. the group pauses in front of one tiny mud construction, windowless and about 6 feet to a side. i examine it, sweat beading on my upper lip in the heat, wondering if this little structure might be a pit latrine or a storage place. "what is this?" alex asks. "a home. a whole family sleeps in there," our host replies. and with that, the tour continues. back down the path, around the corners of walls and huts, a maze that grows heavier with each new piece that rises up in front of us. shuffling along with my eyes on the ground, discerning tiny 5-inch footprints impressed in the sand below, marred by the occasional splotch of water, a precious drop escaped from someone's vessel, already mostly soaked up by the thirsty sand. on our left a water tower looms high, strangely incongruous with the impoverished setting. a thick black pipe runs down it and along the ground like a tail, stretching off into the dusty landscape as far as the eye can see. we follow alongside it for a few hundred feet before reaching a point where a small milky pool spreads from beneath it, two inexpert pipes with makeshift taps protruding abruptly from the side of the larger, sturdier parent pipe. "there is no water in this settlement. so the people have simply punctured the pipeline running into jodhpur. see," our host indicates as a small girl steps deliberately past us, unselfconsciously skipping down the steep little embankment in a long flowing skirt, bowing down to place her steel pot below one of the meager taps. the ringing of water against metal fills all of our ears as we stand, a group of two dozen people, absurdly staring as this child completes her utterly mundane task. as the pot fills, a veiled woman with a woven grass ring atop her head joins the little girl at the tap, filling her own vessel as we continue to stare. neither seems to mind as alex takes out his camera and begins snapping. back at our original meeting point, the tarps have been moved so that three or four people can benefit from the patchwork shade of the area's only acacia tree. we sit. i accept a glass of hot chai. and people begin to speak. so much to hear. so much to see on the faces of such hard, heartbroken people. one man lost seven members of his family, including a 5-year-old child, blown apart by india's border patrol as they were fleeing across the border. another's father died as a result of injuries inflicted by border officials as they pleaded for visas while crossing into india. one silver-bearded man became paralyzed in a mining accident and lost his wife and his livelihood in one fell blow. several men suffer from severe tuberculosis and silicosis, common for those who spend all day inhaling the fine razor powder of stone kicked up in the mines. most of these families have had to sacrifice huge sums of money to government officials at one point or another to secure a visa, renew a passport, or simply avoid a hassle. though these men are luckier than some; most of them, after a decade or more, have at last been granted indian citizenship, which allows them to access government-subsidized wheat and other staple foods. even so, they're still ostracized as foreigners and abused as members of hinduism's lowest caste. these men and women are skilled. they speak the local dialect. they want to be able to do the work they're trained to do, not slave away in government mines for a daily pittance. in a moment of excitement during our protracted discussion, several men rush to their homes to collect samples of high-quality embroidery and weaving work they and their wives have created. they want a market, but those who are lucky enough to find a middle man to buy and sell their products are exploited to the fullest, often receiving pennies for a full day's work on a product which will eventually sell for 300 times as much. how can these creators be linked directly to a free market? listening to their voices flying, leaning into their words, my eyes growing bigger as the ideas balloon into the atmosphere, i suddenly hit a ceiling. i feel like there's a solution there, just there, just on the other side of...the sandstone mines. where is the market? how do we link these people, with their adroit hands and their steely wills, to the fat-pocketed consumers of the west? why are we shopping at wal-mart and supporting the large-scale destruction of ancient culture and basic human rights in china when there are literally millions of skilled people wasting away on the asian subcontinent, begging for an opportunity to work while their children sit patiently on the dirt floor of a makeshift classroom? where is the missing link to this seemingly simple chain? i don't know. i know virtually nothing about markets and exports and market linkages. but i know that someone knows. i'm begging for ideas. tell me your ideas. there are so many livelihood projects just waiting to take off, silk and leather and embroidery and cotton. colorful, beautiful things, but most importantly the hands and minds that create them. a huge workforce waiting for designs, eager to make whatever the west can dream in return for fair wages that won't be snatched out of their hands by greedy middlemen. they have the ability. they just need a chance. a chance to make a life where before there was none, climb up out of these dusty hovels, out of the TB-ridden depths of the mines, up into a world where their children can sit in a real classroom and their pregnant wives will have access to healthcare, a world where water is a resource of the environment, not a precious commodity to be stealthily stolen for survival. they're not asking for charity, not asking for money or a free ride. just a chance, a window. how can we show them that window?
]]> pieces, pandemonium, and a passage to india — Nairobi, Kenya http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1181652840/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1181652840/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1181652840/tpod.html Tue, 12 Jun 2007 16:36:41 +0000 12 months in east africa
Nairobi, Kenya

the lone tinkle of a fork colliding against ceramic escaped from a point across the unsettlingly empty-seeming room and echoed off the dark, dull walls before landing with a thud against my ear. holding my fork in an exaggeratedly delicate manner, as if i were dining with the queen, i stabbed the last caramel-stained cube of tofu from the plate and placed it serenely in my mouth, savoring the diversity of its flavor. pushing away the garishly-printed plate, i continued reading from the water-damaged book laid out on the white tablecloth in front of me: "no, this isn't a place for me. that is how we will lose our speech, how our dreams will turn to mist. the way our adolescence, so tedious we worried it would last forever, evaporated." i hung on this line for a moment, letting it roll about in my mind for a few lingering seconds, before quickly finishing the rest of "a slow boat to china," one of the stories featured in haruki murakami's collection the elephant vanishes. closing the book, it occurred to me that it's really grown on me since the first few pages, which struck me as largely nonsensical and meandering without end. in this vein, and at the risk of sounding overly philosophical, i'm now more inclined to believe that murakami's words have more direct bearing on life than i initially gave them credit for. the book was a gift from someone whose taste in books is a truly exquisite trait of his personality. in my estimation, the books people give you say far more about their personality than any other single factor. there's something about nairobi that makes me feel alone. it's strange, isn't it? big cities are reputed to have that effect on many people, but there's just something about this place in particular that seems to hollow out the space around you, creating a vacuum that leaves you in the purest of isolation. its nature is so cosmopolitan, albeit in an exasperatingly retro fashion, compared to that of kakamega, or even kisumu, that it recalls the overtones of my life elsewhere. it calls to mind the absence of all those people and places i love which continue living as always across one ocean or another. nairobi makes me realize how far away they are, both in terms of distance and time. last week i had a phone conversation with my best friend, who also happens to be my brother john. i was sitting pretzel-shaped in a worn red velvet armchair, one of two which are stuffed into my impossibly small sitting room/kitchen, my cell phone crunched between my shoulder and cheek as i studied the shiny red nail polish chipping glibly from my half-naked big toenail. we were talking about living situations and plans for the future. "you know," i said, extending my leg to prop my heel against the tiny plastic table in front of me, "to tell the truth, i really like living alone." i paused for a second to let this sink in. "i really like being alone, actually," i followed up in a slightly smaller, less convincing voice. to his great credit, he didn't miss a beat. "of course you do! you've made it that way. you've trained yourself to like being alone because that's what people do to adapt to their situation." all the matter-of-factness tumbled from my attitude. i looked about me at the dull white walls, poorly disguised behind the colorful swahili-emblazoned lesos that kenyan women wear wrapped around their waists like sarongs. at the maroon-painted concrete floor, flecked with the odd s************* peel and eggplant skin from last night's culinary experiments. at the bare tungsten light bulb protruding abruptly from the ceiling, casting a jeering yellow glare on everything. at the strange hodgepodge of furnishings, sat, written, and cooked on by who knows which prior tenant here in the muddy depths of amalemba. outside the rain drummed steadily as always down through the sheet iron gutters. a dull ache suddenly materialized in the pit of my stomach. adaptation. what does that mean? last week i made my third trek through the winding alleys of nairobi's kibera, one of the world's largest slums with about 700,000 residents packed into dilapidated shanties stretched along narrow dirt paths slick with garbage and human waste. in past trips to kibera, i've always been distracted from its true nature by the assault on the senses that the rotting garbage, dirty, barefoot children, fly-covered meat, and pressing calls of "mzungu!" create. this time there was something else which struck me far more acutely than any of the other sensations. this place, i thought to myself, is really alive. it's true. the muddy alleys are packed with people roasting corn, hawking used shoes and cracking cassette tapes, carving bloody sides of goat, collecting grimy shillings in return for cell phone credit scratch-cards. commerce is an extremely important part of life even in this most wretched of places, where some cannot even afford kerosene for their lamps after dark and "flying toilets" (a practice where residents defecate into plastic bags and throw them out their windows into the street) are the solution to a lack of running water or even pit latrines. these are people who are pouring into nairobi from all over the nation, abandoning their jobless existence in rural areas for the promise of work and money in kenya's capital. people who arrived to realize that urbanity is not the promised land they always believed it would be. people who trickled into kibera as the prospects of employment grew dimmer and the money was gone. here they are, in the most desperate of situations, still opening shacks of corrugated iron to sell githeri (a stew of corn and beans) for 20 shillings a plate to passersby, still hawking tomatoes and onions for everyone who still has to eat and feed their children, still opening kiosks to cut keys and make rubber stamps and repair mobile phones. still living. kibera is a tangible example of human adaptation at its greatest. well then, here i am, finishing off my second cold tusker, my body limply leaning against the dull red walls of an obscure chinese restaurant on a nairobi side street. scratching out these ridiculous thoughts into my little black hemingway-dedicated moleskine notebook. i traveled from kakamega today, combating the hellish 9-hour bus ride into kenya's capital with a learned routine of alternate dozing, reading, and snacking. all the novelty of the remarkable scenery lying along the road between kakamega and nairobi has flaked away, one sheet of interest at a time, since my first cross-country trip 7 treks and 9 months ago. i've come to meet peter and retrieve the first group of 8 new interns who will touch down tomorrow afternoon at the diminutive nairobi airport. last night was a quilted expanse of time, consisting in patches of dreams, shifting, nightmares, shivering. because it is my habit to sleep straight through my alarm, no matter how loud i set it, i always sleep poorly the night before a morning event i know i can't miss or postpone, like the boarding of an 8 a.m. bus. the resulting haze of consciousness i found myself in during the bus ride made for an interesting trip. by reserving my ticket early, i'd been able to secure my favorite seat on the massive coach, the aisle seat just behind the driver. he was wearing a fraying red knit cap with the new york yankees logo stitched into the back, bowing his head slightly in time with the strained swahili gospel scratching its way through the static of the overhead speakers. at one point we reached a particularly bad stretch of road, more common than not for the A-1 highway that runs between kakamega and nairobi, in which the potholes are more frequent than the asphalt. the chalky dust kicked up by the constant stream of traffic hung thick in the air, partially obscuring the sunny expanse of acacia-dotted plains on either side. i was gazing lazily out the window, allowing my eyes to skip along the anomalies in the landscape. a sharp dip suddenly appeared along the right side of the road, quickly deepening into a low valley thick with trees, vines, and shrubs. i followed the pleasing green of the shadowy landscape, almost jungle-like, as we continued bumping along the road. suddenly the uniformity of the flora was broken by the immense, metallic corpse of an 18-wheeler sprawled helplessly in the valley, its cab crushed beyond recognition, the cargo trailer crumpled and positioned somewhere between lying on its side and upside down, the back end sticking up in the air like the tail of some giant pitiful beast that has fallen into a trap. two or three dozen young men were seated at the edge of the road, staring wide-eyed at the wreckage as if it were some prime time special on KBC. it's sights like these that remind one of how road accidents are among the leading causes of death in kenya, where excessively common police road blocks serve as little more than opportunities for the traffic cops to make money off the small bribes they're paid by matatu drivers carrying 22 people in a 14-passenger vehicle. it's a vicious cycle in which the public transport owners overload their vehicles and fly at breakneck speeds down what are often no more than one-and-a-half-lane, barely paved roads to make the maximum profits in order to be able to afford the police bribes necessitated when they're caught speeding or carrying too many passengers. if it weren't so sad it would almost be amusing. i saw 3 more accidents along the way to nairobi that almost certainly betrayed recent fatalities. it recalled a conversation i had over lunch with my friend joseph a couple weeks ago. we both keep so busy with our jobs that the meetings we do manage are characterized by rapid-fire conversations in which we both speak almost without taking a breath for a few hours to fill each other in on all the happenings of our work, personal lives, and random amusing tidbits of kenya experiences we've had since last seeing each other. on this particular day we'd just eaten lunch and were sipping on cold beers as he finished describing to me the hugely successful results of a wheelchair distribution project he'd written a grant for and was finally seeing brought to fruition. we'd been chatting for 2 hours or so, and i responded to his story with the giving of some much-deserved kudos. we both paused for a second before moving on to the next topic of conversation, his recent climb of mount kenya, africa's second-highest peak, and the possibility of making the trek together later this summer. after describing the incredible 4-day climb, the moon-like landscape and snowy peak that they reached after waking up at 2 a.m. on the final day and scaling the last stretch, he began describing the trip home. "oh yeah!", he exclaimed, just remembering some detail of the story. "our driver totaled the bus on the way home." my eyes bugged out of my head. "what? WHAT?! you were in a major bus crash and you're JUST NOW TELLING ME?!" his blue eyes looked up at me even as he kept his head bowed towards the table, like a child being reprimanded. "well, i forgot. there was a lot to tell you." came his tiny-voiced reply. highly representative of the banality of motor vehicle accidents in kenya. evidently the bus, a coach like the one i took to nairobi except traveling at night, was attempting to pass a slow-moving vehicle, an act that is done on kenyan highways without a shred of caution or even attention to whether the driver is approaching a blind curve or hill. not surprisingly, as the driver was attempting to pass the car, the headlights of an oncoming vehicle appeared suddenly and alarmingly close, evidently having just mounted an upcoming hill. the bus driver slammed on the brakes and swerved back into his lane, unaware that there was a broken-down truck half-obstructing the road that the slow-moving car in front of him was just swerving to avoid. the reader can imagine the results, a collision in which the bus narrowly escaped a roll down a steep embankment and the vehicle was (presumably, according to joseph's description) totaled. luckily all the passengers and driver survived, the latter with only minor injuries. i continue to find it unbearably amusing when people who have never traveled in a developing country express fears of threats like venomous snakes, lions, and crocodiles in kenya. even the thought of injury as a result of violent crime pales in comparison to the risk we face every time we board a bus, matatu, or bodaboda in kenya. pikipikis, or motorcycle taxis, moped-like affairs in which neither driver nor passenger sports a helmet, are becoming increasingly common in cities like kisumu and even now making their debut in kakamega. their presence will no doubt significantly augment the nation's annual road deaths as they permeate even the most rural areas, popularized by what drivers argue is the most cost-effective way to transport people in a country where petrol costs far more than the price america's SUV-driving soccer moms are paying to fill up their monster vehicles. but traffic deaths rarely make the newspaper unless more than a dozen or so people die at once, and the outside world is too enchanted by the thought of sub-saharan africa as a place in which HIV/AIDS, violent crime, and wild animals are the biggest threats to imagine that something as banal as traffic accidents could in fact be among the leading causes of death that kenyans and foreigners alike face here. so it's an occupational hazard. i do my best not to think about it on these long rides cross-country, focusing instead, as i mentioned, on a systematic blending of sleeping, reading, and snacking. the vague smell of urine hung in the air of the poorly-ventilated bus as we continued along the bumpy road, strong enough to be irritating but not nauseating. it called to mind a story that a peace corps friend of mine had recounted the week before. she was telling me about her own trip back from kampala after the white-water rafting trip in uganda a couple months ago (see past blog "violence in the city" for the full story). she and some friends stayed for several days after i left, enjoying the capital's sights. their bus back to kenya had been just as packed as mine had been, and they boarded with careful attention to the seat numbers hand-written on their $15 tickets. my friend took her seat by the grimy window, another peace corps volunteer following to take the aisle seat next to hers. immediately after sitting down, though, he leapt up, complaining that the plush seat was soaking wet. my friend examined the seat and quickly concluded that the seat was indeed wet. with urine. upon complaining to the bus driver, the latter stated simply that the bus was full, making himself useful by collecting several of the vinyl headrest covers stretched over the top of each seat and laying them one on top of another over the ammonia-reeking puddle. it seemed there was precious little choice. thus my friend and her companion made the 10-hour trip back to kisumu with the smell of sun-warmed urine emanating from the very seats they were sitting in. needless to say, on arrival at the final destination, the driver peeled the stacked layers of headrest covers from the offending seat and carefully placed each one back on its rightful headrest without so much as wiping it off. welcome to transportation in kenya. snickering to myself at the memory, i cracked my eyes a bit to the chalky air whirling all around me in the bus. i could just make out the outline of my reflection in the plastic window between myself and the back of the driver's head, now still in the absence of the swahili gospel. the music had been replaced by the droning monotone of president mwai kibaki, who spoke endlessly and without conviction in english about the improvement of women's living conditions in kenya and the great leap in women's rights since he took office 5 years ago. my ass, i thought to myself, pulling my headphones from my bag and putting them in my ears in hopes of blocking out the government propaganda that was resounding through the bus's speakers. flipping through the music until i reached my favorite travel music mix, i yawned and shifted my gaze to the left side of the bus. we were approaching lake nakuru, still over 3 hours outside of nairobi. the undulating mass of a range of green hills dominated the scenery to my left. standing proudly along the top of the ridge was a line of rigid trees, a sight that was overwhelmingly reminiscent of tuscany. i recalled the 3-hour train ride from rome to florence, one that i made weekly when i was completing my italian studies in the former after moving to the latter. there was a specific point about an hour outside of rome that looked almost exactly like these kenyan hills and their green-topped trees. i closed my eyes and let the whine of a distorted guitar coming from the headphones drift through my mind. "catch that light/ it falls in subtle patterns/ crawls in and tells them when their time is up/ and when it's over." i remembered swaying to this song at a toadies concert in high school with my then-boyfriend...listening to it speeding through the dark heat of a summer night in florida, a lit cigarette in hand...dozing to it on an airplane flying across the pacific en route to samoa. so many layers of memories are bound up in something as simple as a song. my mind drifted back to italy, to summer nights in rome. every night working at the bar in a short skirt and sneakers, dark eye makeup and a row of stud earrings in either ear. my long hair tied up in a knot, taking shots and endlessly joking with my co-workers, each as optimistic and invincible as i was. laughing and smoking with meghan, the cynical dark-haired new jerseyan who brought levity to every situation and introduced the "hide the olive" game. one of us would cover our eyes at the bar while the other traipsed around the packed, dimly-lit establishment, flagrantly ignoring the irritated waves and "excuse me"s of customers wanting another round of drinks, searching for nooks and crannies which would serve as hiding spots for the three cocktail olives which the other of us would spend the following hour or so seeking out, a game created in a bid to minimize our efficiency as cocktail waitresses as much as possible. actual work was never really the point in that bar in rome's campo di fiori, an establishment which would have turned a healthy profit even if its customers, mostly american and british students and tourists, had been forced to pour and mix their drinks themselves. those humid, hazy nights. we'd sweep and mop the bar, bragging to one another about whatever euro bills we'd found dropped carelessly on the floor that night, gathering up our helmets and jackets as karma, our manager, shut off the lights and pulled down the iron grating in front of all the sheet glass windows. we'd wave each other goodnight and set off in steady paces to the different sections of the piazza where we were heading. i'd cross the short corner of the square to the same place i always parked the little yellow moped, pulling the matching helmet over my knotted hair as i glanced left and right down the alleys on either side before crouching down to unlock the small (also yellow) padlock on the bike's front wheel. cranking that ancient motorino for the chilly ride home through the abandoned streets of rome at 3 a.m., across the silently flowing tiber river, through the flourescently-lit tunnel by the vatican, down the long street leading to the massive basilico di san pietro, left at st. peter's square and through a traffic light that was perpetually red, glancing both ways as i made the final run to the foot of our apartment building. screeching up on the sidewalk and switching off the engine, hopping off the bike and making another vigilant side-to-side sweep in search of shady characters before bowing down again to lock the front wheel. through the huge, incredibly heavy wooden door of the building, up the 5 floors in the antique cage elevator, and to the elaborately-carved door to numero 8a. slipping the key silently in the door, stepping through into the smoke-tinged darkness, tiptoeing down the parquet-floored hall, and finally to our room. stepping inside with a smile of relief to the sound of soft breathing and a dim nightlight by the mattress that lay on the floor. i thought of all these things to myself as the bus roared along down the dilapidated kenyan highway, taking shallow breaths of the dust-thick air all around. the memories echoed so loudly through my brain that i cracked my eyes a bit to see if anyone had heard them. the faces around me maintained the same disillusioned, life-weary expressions as always. i glanced down at the newspaper clutched in the hands of the dozing man to my right. MUNGIKI TERROR, the front page shouted up at me. i sighed heavily, bowing my head slightly to get a better look at the two mug-style shots of the terror group's latest victims. the mungiki sect is a radical religious group born in the 1980's allegedly to combat the diffusion of western culture through kenya. they were known for attacking women wearing trousers or short skirts in rural and even semi-urban areas. nowadays, the group is little more than a mafia-style racket operating to extort "protection fees" from matatu drivers and conductors in central province. they've grabbed headlines lately by enacting several high-publicity beheadings and a grotesque torture incident with a matatu driver and conductor last week. since this latest occurrence, the kenyan police have been conducting full-throttle day and night raids of nairobi's mathare slum, where members of the group are alleged to be hiding out. an article on the raids last week grabbed my attention. 11 More Dead in the Hunt for Mungiki. huge numbers of police simply stormed into the slum in broad daylight, ordering thousands upon thousands of people out of their shanty homes. when they met some armed resistance, the true violence began. the cops ordered everyone under control to lie down and searched every single person, women and children not excepted. those found with any sort of firearm on their person, The Nation reported, "were not spared." as simple as that. extra-judicial executions. if you are reading this blog, i urge you to read this article: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/67338 79.stm . the next time you complain about the cops coming to break up your loud 4 a.m. party or giving you a ticket for speeding, think about this. even as i type now, i'm glancing up at the cut-out article i've got taped to my wall from a march 16, 2007 Nation, entitled A Farewell to Arms. the first line in the front-page story is as follows: "Owning an illegal firearm, or even a toy pistol, may soon become an offence punishable by death or life imprisonment [in Kenya]." evidently, based on the mathare raids of the last couple weeks, it already has. as always, this blog has been a smattering of thoughts over the course of several days as i find the time to pound them out on this sticky keyboard. the first lines were scratched into a notebook last friday, june 1, at a chinese restaurant in nairobi. today, june 12, i'm sitting in shorts and a tank top at my laptop in kakamega, munching on dried chickpeas and sipping on metallically tainted boiled water. this week, packed with orientation activities for a new group of interns, was insane, and hugely successful, and somewhat unnerving what with all this mungiki nonsense and yesterday's detonation of a bomb in downtown nairobi, where i spent half of last week. election years, like 2007, are typically characterized by a spike in violence and unrest across the nation. i must admit there's a part of me that's immensely relieved to be in kakamega, a far cry from the glamour and excitement of nairobi, but also lacking anything of interest to political groups and individuals looking to make a point. my home, nyumbani yangu, kakamega. strange to say, though, there's an end in sight. after more than 9 months in kenya, the first few of which seemed interminable, i'm realizing that my time here is drawing to a close. the way our adolescence, so tedious we worried it would last forever, evaporated. in september i'll leave kakamega to travel a bit with my family and then my brother, and then i'll fly from cape town, south africa, to delhi, india, where i'll spend the next couple months traveling around. ideally i'd like to find work there with an NGO like the one i work for now, probably the most rewarding and interesting job i've ever had. all of these layers upon layers of memories. i wonder where these moments, sitting cross-legged in the dull heat of my kakamega apartment, leaning into the bluish light of my laptop screen, will someday fall as i look back on them. pity we can't understand the value of memories while they're still experiences in the making. i've decided that i absolutely must be with my family for christmas this year. so here i am, 24 years old in a little over 2 weeks. trying to get it all together. doing the only thing any one of us can really do. keep on living.
]]> a pseudo-blog (this one's for you, alex) — London, United Kingdom http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1181494260/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1181494260/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1181494260/tpod.html Tue, 12 Jun 2007 13:41:39 +0000 12 months in east africa
London, United Kingdom

i dreamt i was in a concert hall. more of a concert pit than a hall, i suppose. it was outside in the darkness on a desert island, dimly lit by some ambiguous unseen source. all of my former colleagues were there, their instruments poised and ready. my harp stood waiting in its usual place, elegant and unassuming. i couldn't find my music. i flipped through one notebook after the other, skimming across hundreds of sheets of black and white, dots and lines composing some of the world's finest music, countless hours of the churning of brilliant minds stretched across hundreds of years of artistic evolution. but it was all useless. there was only one that was appropriate, like that final elusive puzzle piece. it was mikhail glinka's nocturne. in that dreamy nonsensical way, i was searching feverishly for a piece that wasn't even written to orchestral accompaniment - it's a harp solo. when i was 16 i spent hundreds of tedious hours perfecting this piece, along with two others, which would eventually earn me passage into the american harp society's national competition in los angeles. on stage in california, a sizable chunk of one of the competition pieces slipped from my mind, leaving me helpless and breathless in front of a panel of stony-faced judges and most of the other participants. i never attempted a national competition again. in my dream, though, the nocturne was an orchestral piece, and here i was with all of the musicians around me, known to me from years of playing in high school and college, staring at me blank-faced, their own parts to the piece carefully laid on the stands in front of them. somewhere off in the darkness i heard the plinking of an incongruous fiddle. panic drifted up my windpipe and clawed against the back of my throat. i suddenly dropped the music, spun abruptly on my heel, and there i was, awake. for the tenth time in one night, i flipped over in bed, squinted my eyes against the aching in the center of my forehead, and kicked off the top cover to let a thin slippery layer of sweat evaporate. i wondered if my blood cells weren't infested with malaria again. just as the thought began to penetrate the stubborn layer between the sleeping world of fantasy and the conscious world of reason, the tinny beats of my cell phone's alarm clock burst forth into the greyish light of the expanding dawn. i groaned, smashing the "off" button with slightly more force than necessary, and stared up at the clean white ring suspending the pyramid-shaped mosquito net around my bed. such a classic anxiety dream. the source of the imagery is easy enough to trace. the end of august found me in london, my first departure from the african continent in 8 months. i love when people talk about "reverse culture shock" like it's a bad thing. it's like getting drunk with some delicious, exotic liqueur. especially so in that it literally made me sick - by my second day in the UK my sinuses had closed shut and a rattling cough erupted from my lungs every few minutes. i could not have cared less ("even if i tried, which i most certainly will not" - brilliant, monica) soaking it all up with an eagerness bordering on fanaticism, the clean streets, the diverse people, the efficient public transport, the overwhelming availability of anything one could ever possibly desire. i was content to lie in a clean, soft bed for the entire first half of each day, knowing it was all out there, humming along audibly, evenly, efficiently as always, requiring of me no input whatsoever. my first couple days, i tested my surroundings, casting furtive glances here and there behind dark sunglasses to see if i was catching any exaggerated stares, my ears still trained to pick up on the slightest whisper of "mzungu". i was not disappointed. the deep satisfaction of anonymity filled me with a resounding pleasure unknown for the 8 months prior. the raison d'etre for the trip, the underlying purpose which allowed me to experience all of these intoxicating sensations, was an invitation from an acoustician friend of mine whose firm was drawing to a close its nearly 20 years of renovations on the royal festival hall, london's premier concert hall which looms imposingly on the banks of the thames. marvellous. the london philharmonic played the inaugurating hardhat (open to donors and friends) concert on a saturday night, an event that i absorbed slowly, carefully, after 8 months of oil lamps and pit latrines, overwhelmed by the surreal nature of my surroundings. the trip as a whole was characterized by good company, good food, and a general sense of well-being in spite of physical illness. i confess, with more than a little shame, that abandoning that stunning city to return to the dusty, trash-strewn streets of kakamega was among the more painful moves of my life. the 34-hour return trip by rail, air, through qatar, into nairobi, and finally onto a matatu that carried me across kenya certainly didn't help coax me out of the bitter membrane encasing my return home. the matatu stood idle at the stage in nairobi for 4 hours before departing, the driver waiting to fill every possible seat so as to maximize the profits for the 7-hour trip to kisumu. the last woman to board took the seat next to mine in the 10-seat vehicle, three children ranging in age from 2 to 6 in tow. naturally, she had bought a seat only for herself; she held the 2-year old on her lap and the other two hapless children stood crunched in front of her, stoic as they prepared for the all-day journey. i stared at her in disbelief. there must be some kind of child cruelty law preventing things of the sort, i thought to myself, and then quickly followed up that realization with the much more logical, like it would matter even if there were. at our first stop in nakuru following 3 miserable, sweat-drenched hours, the woman bought herself and her children a lunch of grease-saturated spicy masala french fries and a couple bottles of grape fanta, which she assisted even the 2-year old in consuming. i stared at them with pity, noticing that the 6-year-old's baby teeth were already browned and rotting out from years of this diet. well into the 8th hour of the trip (the driver must have been going 10 mph under the already-low speed limit the whole way), as we reached the worst stretch of road, more pothole than asphalt, the oldest girl, in a raggedy white lace dress, started to look a little green around the gills. no, no, no, i thought. i scarcely had time to move my backpack out of the way before she projectile-vomited purplish liquid all over me, the seat, and herself. i glowered at her mother, my pity for the children not quite equaling my irritation at the vomit spewed across my jeans. the smell of bile permeated the matatu. after another 2 hours which included a change of matatu and an extraordinarily aggressive exchange with a stoned tout, i finally arrived on the outskirts of kakamega around 8 at night, calling perpetually-drunk simon, the only taxi driver who's ever around at night, to come pick me up at the matatu stage. the 5-minute walk to my house from there isn't safe past dark. thus i began my re-integration into the developing world after that infinitely brief glimpse back into the western world. as always, though, within a few days of my return to kenya, i found myself completely re-inducted into the cacophony of sights, sounds, smells, and sensations which make up a life here. i realized this heading home about a week after my return, perched on the back of a bodaboda as i raced the rains, now a daily assault on the thirsty landscape of kakamega as the rainy season begins in earnest. as we coasted down the final hill to amalemba, the outlying quarter of town where i live, we passed the long line of shanties, rickety wooden and corrugated iron thrown together to make up small shops, hairdressers, mechanics, and hotels, which announce the beginning of amalemba. perpetually packed with people, i always view this particularly squalid strip with a strange combination of interest, emptiness, and anxiety as i pass. this day a very small child, barely walking, tottered out barefoot from between a narrow, putrid alley stretched between two of the makeshift buildings just as i flew by on the back of the bike. in his tiny, dirty hand he clutched a string, pulling in tow an elaborate miniature car composed of a pint carton (used here for yogurt), some metal bottle caps, and a few sticks holding it all together. his expression was of pure elation and extreme pride at his impressive toy. the sensation that welled up at this sight swallowed me whole. this is where i need to be right now.
]]> hell's gate, white water, and violence in the city — Jinja and kampala, Uganda http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1177323000/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1177323000/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1177323000/tpod.html Mon, 23 Apr 2007 10:25:12 +0000 12 months in east africa
Jinja and kampala, Uganda

"what do you want? a coke?" my grimy hand rested on my hip, clutching a greasy, dirt-battered 100 shilling note. ned glanced up from the bruised yellow banana he was carefully peeling, taking a thoughtful pause. "sprite." i nodded imperceptibly, turning away from the rickety wooden picnic table where the three interns were sitting, excitedly unpacking our meager lunch of bananas, peanuts, and cookies. my stomach growled impatiently as i stepped around the large central pillar of the small hut and out of sight of the picnic table. i looked up the small hill to the ranger stand, where they sold cold sodas in heavy glass bottles. we'd been biking and hiking all morning, and i was famished. as i took the first step down off the concrete floor onto the dirt, though, an immense grayish-brown form suddenly sprung up in front of me. i let out a stifled cry, dropping the note just as the enormous olive baboon swept past my right side, of a height nearly reaching my waist on all fours and mere inches from the mud-speckled leg of my pants. i wheeled around, watching in horror as it flew around the pillar towards the now-invisible picnic table. a string of incoherent warning babbles escaped from my throat. "eeaagh! guys! uggh! baboon! coming..table...look out! camera!", the last in this series of mangled communicative attempts intended to request that someone please remove my ridiculously expensive camera from the table i knew that beast was headed towards. i stood frozen for a second, unable to uproot my muddy hiking sneakers from where they seemed to be cemented to the floor of the hut. a wave of shocked cries reached me from around the corner. i bolted around the pillar to find mel, julianne, and ned all scattering, looking on with expressions of shock and terror as this gigantic primate, firmly planted in a looming position over the table, shuffled through the assortment of items thereupon, periodically baring his teeth and glancing about, and eventually knocking over an orange fanta in his excited search. the neon liquid trickled down unnoticed onto the ground as we all watched and waited with bated breath to see what he would do next. the baboon cast a wary leer around at all of us, his arms filled with his newfound prizes. he glanced back at the table to do a final once-over. he reached for my camera. my eyes widened to the size of saucers. he stopped. i took a breath. he picked up my purse. my eyes were now the size of dinner plates. all i could picture was my passport, blue and battered, tucked safely away into the inner secret pocket of the little brown shoulder bag. the brown strap still grasped firmly in one hand, the emboldened creature leapt from the table, taking the one corner exit out of the hut that wasn't blocked by one of us. not that we would have tried to stop him. his muscular form bounded off the concrete edge of the hut's foundation, mercifully releasing the purse as he presumably realized it was not edible. the shaggy brown figure lunged into the bushes and was gone from sight. the four of us stood there, blinking, shell-shocked. it slowly dawned on each one of us that the only items remaining on the table were not fit for human consumption, and none of us had eaten since 7 in the morning. i cast an embittered scowl out at the bushes that the beast had disappeared into, and took a few timid steps out into the sunlight. peering cautiously through the bushes, i detected some motion through the thick foliage. i squinted and let my eyes focus on the form of the satisfied animal, perched on a rock just over a deep gorge some thirty feet away via some impassable route, smugly tearing one banana after another off the bunch, inhaling them in one huge bite, and nonchalantly chucking the peels down the deep ravine. no sight of the peanuts. just as i sighed and conceded myself to hunger for the rest of the day, i looked down and saw the unopened package of dry cookies nestled deep in some dry grass. well, wasn't that considerate of him. we were spending the weekend at lake naivasha, an area well-known for its vast, sprawling greenhouses that produce some of the world's most beautiful flowers and employ kenyans from all over the nation. we, however, were there for the abundant wildlife. we'd spent the previous night in nakuru, a city between kakamega and our final destination, waking at 6 a.m. to continue our trip. as i awoke in the grimy little rooftop room at the mt. sinai hotel, blinking feebly, i could feel something was definitely not right with my face. "ned!" i snapped. ned, rubbing his eyes as he extracted himself regretfully from the twin bed across the room from mine, turned towards me. "is there something wrong with my eye?!" i demanded, turning for him to get a better look. an expression of horror swept across his face. "oh my god, yes!" he managed. i leapt out of bed, darting into the filthy little concrete bathroom, lunging in front of the small, broken mirror. the entire eyelid of my left eye was swollen to 3 or 4 times its normal size, pressing down over the orb of my eyeball in such a way that blocked the vision completely. two little red dots accented the puffy white skin. "i look like quasi modo!" i shrieked, attracting the attention of mel and julianne, who were just approaching our door with their bags ready. evidently my eyelid had been bitten by a spider or something in my sleep. what a way to start the trip. i evaluated the situation. the sun had yet to make its appearance on the horizon. i sighed deeply and took out my sunglasses, pressing them hard against my face, packed up my backpack, and looked around at my companions, all of whom were desperately seeking to mask their amusement. "well, let's go." over the course of the day, the swelling did subside with the help of liberal doses of benadryl. we arrived at lake naivasha around 10 in the morning, hiking 15 minutes up a steep hill to the very basic cabin that overlooked the lake, a mass of deep blue surrounded by the lush green of the surrounding landscape and the blinding white rectangles that represented the roofs of the enormous greenhouses that encircled the lake. that afternoon, we trooped back down the hill, crossing the relatively busy 2-lane highway to the lake side, and set out on an unnervingly rickety little boat with a miniature outboard motor perched precariously to the back. slightly appeased by the presence of bright orange life vests, we began the hour-long trip across the lake. i took a deep breath and looked out across the rich, clear scenery. suddenly the broad, bulky head of a hippopotamus lurched out of the water about 10 yards from the boat, making a loose arcing ascent and descent much like one would expect from a dolphin. i was somewhat baffled. seconds later, his tiny ears, like pieces of purplish cloth folded into little cups, popped up cautiously from the surface of the still-agitated water. their owner evidently unsatisfied with the safety situation above, the ears disappeared once again below the dark waves. i groped for my camera, hoping to catch a shot of the next gargantuan creature to show itself in the open, and looked on in disbelief as the accursed contraption blinked in protest and promptly turned itself off. 4 months living with no electricity or running water, 7 months in africa, and i still haven't learned how to charge a battery. my enthusiastic mood was only slightly dampened by my inability to function in a technologically advanced world as we approached the opposite bank, skirting along the edge of a densely-overgrown shoreline. the dark greens and browns that blurred together in a sheer wall of trees, bushes, and shrubs was broken every so often by the stark, regal, black and white form of a fish eagle scouring the water below for signs of lunch. as we came around a corner of the shoreline into a small inlet, the small forms of several children appeared on a very short cleared-out section of the bank. a few emaciated cows loitered sullenly behind them. catching sight of our approaching boat, the kids began skipping back and forth along the bank, shouting at each other and waving their arms. evidently this was our welcome party. our silent pilot deftly managed to lodge the boat between two thick clusters of the hyacinth which choked the bank, leaving us to our own devices to bridge the remaining 20-foot divide between our vessel and solid ground. the upshot of this arrangement was muddy shoes all around. life goes on. once ashore, we made our way across the sandy, narrow patch of cow pasture that was being manned by the small masai boys, entering almost immediately into a kind of tunnel bored out of tall, thick, spiny bushes. we followed the guide that we'd picked up on the opposite bank silently, our now-soaking feet sinking deep into the sandy path. after some time we emerged into a much more open area with tall, shady trees all around, finally passing through this area into yet another which was characterized by tall, yellow grasses and the odd scrubby-looking bush standing a few proud inches higher than his plant neighbors like the looming bully in a kindergarten class. as we stepped out into this final arena, we all stopped short, our lips curling up at the edges and our mouths slipping slightly ajar. here and there the greens and yellows were visually interrupted by a glaring assortment of black and white stripes, or a long strip of brown-and-yellow patches. the clearing was filled with zebras and masai giraffes, harmoniously partaking of a grass and leaves-based midday meal. how terribly delightful. everyone reached for their cameras, pantomiming to each other to ask that they have a picture of themselves taken with their own camera. i permitted myself one more little scowl as i kicked myself for forgetting the battery, then got over it. the zebras eyed us untrustingly, edging adeptly away when we got within 20 feet of them. the giraffes fixed us with unnerving stares but generally refused to be bothered to move, even as we approached with mock caution. a gangly baby, all legs and neck, busied himself in a flustered dance around his mother's feet. she glowered at us as she slurped up a clump of acacia leaves with her immense black tongue. we continued on along a narrow sandy path, passing a huge pack of skittish, black-striped thompson's gazelles on the right and an equally large group of impalas on the left, both of which bolted instantaneously as a single paranoid mass the second the first one caught wind of us. i guess that's what millions of evolution-heavy years dodging lions and cheetahs will do to you as a species. the large, awkward, long-faced figure of a cook's hardtebeest trotted past with a baby in tow. on every side of us, the landscape was vibrant with mammalian life, continuing on as always, more or less oblivious to the four boorish bipedal creatures tramping right through the center of their stomping ground. i took a deep breath and made a slow, 360-degree survey of my surroundings, the startling green of the rolling hills around crashing against the rich blue and stark white of the sky, all of it exploding with the type of life that you can actually resounding inside you, like a heavy, reassuring bass beat thumping in your chest cavity. for the millionth time since my arrival in africa, i was suddenly overwhelmed by an all-consuming gratitude for my presence here. how can anyone ever feel so alive? how can you ever doubt the eternal nature of the life cycle when you're floundering in it, gasping for breath as it threatens to sweep over you? how can we ever experience such delusions of self-importance when it is so utterly obvious that we're merely a part of the whole? the good and bad thing about these shards of heart-stopping revelation is that they only last a split-second. then you're being swept along once again, up a hill, down a valley, along the edge of a small round pool filled with thick, flamboyant flocks of flamingoes. the next time i really considered where i was, we were standing in the center of this lush ancient crater, examining the algae-thick edges of the so-called crater lake and stepping delicately around the bloody, feather-flecked bodies of the random fish eagle, brought down in the night by some unknown roaming carnivore. so the day passed. we retraced our steps back to the boat, still faithfully wedged between the obnoxious, self-satisfied colonies of hyacinth, and made the sunset trip back to the fisherman's camp. we stepped ever so carefully over the short electric fence, erected to discourage grazing hippos from storming the camp in the wee hours, and set off on in the darkening twilight up the steep hike back up to our cabin. i shivered the night through under a synthetic woven blanket, rented for 100 shillings from the campsite, and awoke to a blinding sun reflecting off the glassy lake naivasha far below us. we threw on some bicycle-friendly clothes and took off for hell's gate national park, picking up a few meager (simple, doughnut-like triangular pastries) and the very basic lunch of bananas, peanuts, and cookies which, unbeknownst to us, were fated to finish in the belly of a somewhat less advanced primate that afternoon. just outside the park, we rented a motley assortment of bicycles whose only commonality was a sadistically hard seat. most of us having not ridden (i should say ; we all take almost every day) a bicycle for a number of years, we spent the first 2 kilometers down the sandy, rocky road to the ranger stand regaining our bike legs and racing to keep up with one another. we ran into problems at the gate, where the ranger's deputy imposed an imaginary fee upon us for having rented our bicycles outside and not from the park itself. the 50-shilling penalty was posted nowhere on the extensive fees list. i argued till i was red in the face but, as always, nothing was gained by the waste of breath. in the end we allowed ourselves to be ripped off, padded the pockets of the shifty ranger's deputy, and set off on our cycle trip. who knows why hell's gate is called hell's gate. the landscape itself is of extraordinary beauty, with sheer red cliffs shooting straight out of flat green plains, the rich amber of the earth's interior dominating one's field of vision. troupes of zebras bow low to graze, and roaming warthogs storm through the high grasses, their bizarrely proportioned faces appearing unexpectedly every so often between breaks in the foliage. we cycled the 8 kilometers through thick sand down to 'the gorge,' a fascinating site best-known for its appearance in such major feature films as "out of africa" and "tomb raider" (the site's multiple hollywood cameos was a point of obvious pride for every local we met). at the gorge, we reluctantly leaned our bikes up against a low, tough-looking tree and set off on foot behind the masai man we'd paid 100 shillings to take us around. he led us with irritating haste down the steep, rocky path into the gorge, a deep riverbed carved profoundly into the rock after untold years of rainy seasons raging through the landscape. white, chalky walls loomed high on either side of the winding, narrow path, saturating the interior with cool shade and leaving one slightly uneasy at the prospect of a flash flood. needless to say, this particular place is only accessible during the dry season. patrick, as we soon learned our makeshift guide was called, led us along for an hour or so, under teetering boulders and up steep slick rock walls, through shallow cool creeks and under boiling hot spring waterfalls, occasionally interjecting the odd story glorifying his life as a masai warrior and the various rites of passage he'd endured to become a full-fledged member of his tribe. at one point he ripped open his shirt with dramatic flair, proudly displaying an immense, shiny scar stretching from his left shoulder across his breastbone to the bottom of his right pectoral muscle. he proceeded to launch into an animated explanatory monologue complete with animal sounds, the upshot of which was the assertion that he'd sustained the injury fighting a lion. we all smiled with the type of courtesy that is generally associated with humoring one who exaggerates uncontrollably. we made our final ascent up a steep rocky path to a broad, flat landing which afforded a breathtaking view over the entire valley. from there we continued along a sandy path, heavily strewn with shiny, smooth hunks of black volcanic glass that glinted in the increasingly pressing sunlight. patrick stopped suddenly. "look!" he hissed. a couple of baboons stirred in the bushes next to us. we shrugged as if to say, "yeah, they're baboons." he shook his head frustratedly, as at clueless children, and pointed to the sandy ground below. after a second's consternation, the obvious jumped out at me - a huge feline paw print was impressed into the ground, as clear as day and quite plainly left there not long before. "it's a leopard," he said after a profound effect-producing silence, going on to describe to all of us his sighting of this very leopard early the same morning, its belly bulging and with blood dripping out of its mouth. so maybe patrick was a little overzealous. but that paw print was certainly real. a few minutes later, we found ourselves back at the beginning of this particular tale, face-to-face with the rabid baboon that helped himself to our lunch. having nothing but the pack of cookies to eat, we finished quickly and began the cycle back to the park's entrance. at some point, we decided to stop, hide the bikes in the bushes, and take a little trek out into the grasslands. don't ask me whose idea this was. we set out across the crispy, rain-starved field, aiming for a patch of larger trees and shrubs which appeared to be clustered around some kind of waterhole. we could make out the forms of dozens of small gazelles or antelopes socializing around the area, and i in particular made a huge show of being mock-sneaky as we negotiated our way across a huge open field towards a group of animals who have evolved specifically to be able to detect and avoid large, lurching creatures such as ourselves advancing towards them. but we made a noble effort. surprisingly enough, it did not seem to be our presence which eventually sent the nimble little creatures scattering, but a sudden eruption of chill-inducing shrieks from the bushy area nearby. a pack of tiny warthogs came barreling out of some low, dense bushes, their mother charging frantically behind them. we all froze and watched the drama unfold. a pair of ill-intentioned-looking baboons slunk out from the brush, creeping across the bare area bordering the small patch of water. we weren't sure if they had managed to snag one of the tender little warthogs or not, but it was obvious that they were up to no good. we crept along behind our bush cover and continued on in our pursuit of the little gazelles and now a pack of teeny warthogs to boot. we found the latter trooping along through the high grasses like the single-file boxcars of a toy train. such cute little guys! sensing us, they stopped one by one, the leader of the pack halting abruptly at a break in the grasses, nearly causing a pile-up behind him. each turned suddenly in our direction, forming an offensive line of a dozen or so foot-high figures, their utterly comical little faces attempting intimidating stares from behind tiny, newly-sprouted nubs of tusks. each of us "awwww"-ed in turn, took a few photos, and made our way back out to the main road, where the sun was now beating down in earnest and thick clouds of dust were roiling up around us. we hopped on our bikes, pedaled back out to the miniscule kiosk where we'd rented the cycles, and caught the next matatu back to the camp. this was truly an excellent trip. the following weeks presented one exciting new development after another with the arrival of our newest group of four interns, 7 days of orientation, and my own trip back to nairobi to the airport with two of our three january interns. i was sorry to see them go - both were hard-working, highly-qualified, creative young women who managed to make a positive impact in kakamega in 12 short weeks. sometimes my own good fortune at being able to interact and work with all of these people of such varied backgrounds and experiences blows my mind. along those same lines, the third of our january interns, who is staying on for 5 months, was just approved for a grant which will allow him to conduct training sessions and assist the residents of the village in constructing smoke-reducing, energy-saving stoves. having spent the past 3 months as an intern at a rural health clinic, he is most interested in targeting improved women's health by installing these stoves which will route the thick smoke of a cooking fire out of a home's cooking hut via a simple chimney. this idea came to him through an analysis of incoming new patients at the clinic, of which he discovered 47% suffered from respiratory tract infections (another 48% complained of malaria, to give an idea of the primary health concerns in rural kenya). these stoves, which cost about $6 apiece to construct and use wholly local materials, will target three issues: health (as already outlined), environment (through the significant reduction of firewood, chopped from around the village, needed to cook in this mud-walled stove), and women's empowerment (two "burners" are constructed in the top of the stove, as opposed to the former open fire women have been using that allows them to cook with only one pot at a time; with the opportunity to cook two dishes at once, the amount of time required in the kitchen will be reduced, which, for women who are estimated to spend 3-7 hours daily cooking, will be a dramatic improvement). we are extremely excited that he was awarded the grant to implement this project, and i am confident that his work will have an impact in the village. it's an exciting time to be here. somehow i managed to get myself invited on a peace corps trip last weekend to uganda. given the heaps of work that had surreptitiously sneaked their way onto my desk, i was not at all sure that i was going to manage it. i spent the latter part of last week frantically catching up so as not to miss the opportunity, and, naturally, in the end i threw a few things in a backpack, locked up my house, and caught the next matatu to busia, the border town between kenya and uganda. there i met up with a canadian cartographer and tech volunteer who would be my only non-peace-corps companion for the trip. she proved to be a truly remarkable person, and over the course of the next couple days we formed a pretty solid friendship. we sat outside at a grimy little cafe' drinking beers and waiting for our peace corps hosts to show up. when the latter's bus from nairobi finally arrived, we stumbled on over to the surprisingly anticlimatic "gate to uganda," paying $30 US for visas, earning ourselves shifty glances from the customs guys, and took off for jinja, some 2 hours from the kenyan border. our bus got lost somewhere near the town where we'd be staying, negotiating its way down bumpy little dirt roads, making 3-point turns at the dead ends, kicking up a cloud of dust in the deepening twilight. i was pretty comfortable and in no particular hurry, although everyone was getting pretty hungry. we eventually located a single-lane, red clay road, surrounded on all sides by thick, jungly foliage, which for some reason seemed pretty promising. sure enough, it led us at last to the nile river explorers lodge, or rather hostel, at the gates of which was standing a crowd of ugandans, vendors working into the night, their meager wares of tomatoes and onions vaguely illuminated by small oil lamps. goldish slivers of angular faces jumped out at me in the now-total darkness, the fires playing startling patterns along their features. something was already enchanting about this place. the bus pulled in and we all piled out, some of us trooping down an impossibly long set of irregular concrete steps to a dark, dank-smelling section cut out of the woods where a rustic dorm-style cabin was located. we dropped all our things and climbed back up the stairs, my lungs heaving in protest as i mounted the final step, cursing myself for slipping out of shape. now, you'd think that any self-respecting person showing no explicit signs of mental incapacitation would make careful considerations before deciding to get completely plastered the night before embarking on a 6-hour white-water rafting trip down the nile river. alas, i was not so clever, not questioning the intelligence of liberal dosings of alcohol as late as 3 in the morning prior to said trip. seven o'clock the next morning found me squinting into the growing sunlight pouring into the cabin, pressing ******* my temples to still the throbbing in my head and seriously questioning whether i'd even remember how to swim if the need arose. i remembered, about 10 hours too late, why i all but quit drinking when i arrived in kenya. i literally rolled off the top bunk, my shaky legs barely catching me as my feet hit the cold concrete floor, my stomach doing a little mamba in my abdomen. all around me the others were chattering, pulling on their sandals and filing outside, happy to meet the bright sunny morning. never again, i said to myself for probably the 800,000th time in my life. a hazy image flashed in my mind. i suddenly recalled the treacherous descent down the concrete staircase late the night before, which had ended in my stepping right in a thick, writhing mass of winged, bluish insects which had congregated by the millions on a portion of the steps. my foot had shot out from me, banana-peel-cartoon-style, and i'd landed smack in the middle of that disgusting fly rave party. now, gingerly picking up the pair of jeans i'd left crumpled on the floor, i groaned in disgust as i noticed the giant, stinking smear of bug guts splattered across the entire right side of the pants' seat. suppressing a wave of nausea, i pulled on a different pair of pants, slipped into flip-flops, and barely made my way back up those hideous stairs in time to pile into the open bed of a giant truck which was to take us to breakfast (ugh) and eventually the section of the nile where we'd begin our trip. i was just of enough presence of mind to take a deep breath and admire the breathtaking view from where our cabin was situated, in the middle of the woods and seemingly perched atop a cliff above the huge section of the nile rushing past below. what a place. having never white-water rafted before, i was somewhat nervous as we boarded our bright red PVC raft. for some inexplicable reason, i had volunteered myself for the "hardcore" raft (depending on how much excitement you want, you can choose different routes down the same sections of rapids that are more or less violent), and now, in the front right-hand part of the boat, paddling feebly down the first calm section of the nile we'd begun on, i was doubting my decision more than a little. the occupants of my boat were as follows: my newfound canadian friend, a thin blonde; a medical student of half-english, half-iraqi descent with the most startling green-blue eyes i've ever seen, who'd been working at a hospital in tanzania; her companion, a muscular young english guy; two female peace corps volunteers; and our guide, a tall, well-built new zealander who had severely sun-damaged skin and was missing part of his right middle finger. at the first set of class-2 rapids (they go up to 6, although our guide said that even he doesn't raft the class 6 bits), i was fairly horrified. i checked and double-checked and triple-checked the buckles on my life vest and helmet. what if i slipped out of the vest? what if i hit my face on a rock? what if i swallowed the water and contracted bilharzia, the particularly grotesque waterborne parasite? what if a crocodile was on standby, peter-pan style, the second i went tumbling out into the water? as i fretted and attempted to suppress the growing nausea in my gut, uganda slipped by unimposingly on either side. deep, wet greens and rich earth browns composed the landscape all around, thick jungly trees and vines climbing steadily up abruptly rising hills. the occasional child was stationed on a jutting rock to wave his arms and yell to us in luganda and we paddled by on the immense, dark river. a huge african fish eagle eyed us from the top branch of a small-leafed tree growing on a small island in the center of the broad expanse of water. a pair of crested cranes, familiar to all of us from the ugandan flag, flapped overhead, their necks tucked down in that peculiar fashion which is unique to this bird. by the time we reached the first set of class-5 rapids, i'd forgotten all about my fears of death, bilharzia, loss of relevant body parts, etc. as it ended up, there wasn't really much time to think about it. suddenly you find yourself in this huge swirling mass of foamy water, unable to hear anything over the roar, looking up at a wall of water that is clearly about to suck up the entire boat with you inside. at the core of this first set of rapids, the "g-spot," as it has been so amusingly dubbed by these rafters, that's exactly what happened. the entire boat went under, and suddenly i found myself who knows how deep under this maelstrom, still clutching my paddle, reminding myself to just hold my breath and wait it out. not to panic. not to panic. not to panic. that part suddenly seemed particularly important. the roar filled my ears. i felt something against my leg. an eternity (read: probably less than 7 seconds) passed. at last my head popped up above the surface of the raging water. i sucked in as much air as i could, sputtering out the nile water pooling at the bottom of my lungs, and was pulled back under again for a few more seconds. this process was repeated a few times as i was shuttled down the course of the rapids until my helpless body finally arrived in an area of relative calm. i clutched the paddle as if it were the holy grail and kicked my legs feebly. i blinked like a just-tazed bunny. i looked around, shell-shocked. i started to laugh. an impressively muscular young ugandan man in a kayak paddled with all haste up to me, smiling. "grab on!" he instructed, and i paddled over to the tiny vessel and clung to the back. he paddled me over to the raft, where the others were slowly recuperating, coughing a little, and climbing back in. yeehah. over the course of the 6-hour trip, our boat flipped 6 times. i fell out an additional time, thinking the boat was flipping, only to open my eyes and find that everyone was still in the boat, speeding through the rapids, gracing me with their best "you moron" looks. mid-day, in a portion of the river that was relatively calm, we quit paddling and leapt out into the docile waters to drift lazily for a while, before being instructed to climb back in as we approached "croc country." we ate a lunch of impossibly sweet pineapples and cookies on the boats, laughing and chucking the husks at each other, eyeing the approaching lightning storm with mild discomfort. in the end, we did get a bit of rain, but the lightning kept its distance. i guess. mid-afternoon, we did reach a huge section of the nile that is classified as class-6, and included a sizable waterfall. we'd taken a couple waterfalls already, even in rocky areas, but this one was clearly incomparable to the 5 or 10-foot ones we'd already seen. we paddled frantically to the bank as we approached this beast, scuttling out onto the slippery, algae-coated rocks, barely manageable with our bare feet, and climbed out onto the red clay shore. our guides and the "safety kayakers," as they're called, carried the boats a half-kilometer or so to the next raftable section of the river. even from shore, you could barely hear the person next to you shouting. my stomach turned over even at the thought of trying to raft this section, much longer than the rapids we'd already seen and bone-crushingly violent. something about being caught in the power of even the class-5 rapids gives you a new respect for water. after the next class-5, we reached the end of our course, everyone pulling themselves up on shore with what little energy remained. there was a cooler of beers waiting at the top of the hill we scaled to reach the trucks. wow. most of the peace corps volunteers were going on to kampala, uganda's capital, for a few days. it was the end of the weekend, but i spoke to peter and decided that if i spent the night in the city, only an hours' drive from jinja, where we'd been rafting, and woke up at 5 to return to kenya, it wouldn't disrupt the heaps of work i had to get back to. as we were driving into the city, though, the main organizer of the trip and a close friend of mine, bryan, got a call on his cell phone. "what?!" he said in a tone a little too serious for my comfort. my ears perked up. he sat in the first row of grungy brown velvet seats bolted into the back of the matatu, nodding his head and inserting the occasional "uh-huh" into the one-sided conversation. outside, a small town composed mostly of fruit and vegetable kiosks and tired-looking women in brightly colored cloth drifted by. we waited. at last he hung up. we all looked at him expectantly. "soooo......there's riots in kampala." "what?!" it was my turn to be surprised. we all knew that there had been a fairly violent riot the week before, a protest of the clearing of a large portion of a nearby forest by a businessman of indian descent. it was to be turned into a sugar cane plantation. indians have a long and troubled history in uganda, not least of which included the exile of 8,000 indians from the country in 1972 by dictator idi amin. although they were invited to return a decade later, there is still some evident resentment towards this relatively small sub-population, particularly those who own successful businesses. the protest against the clearing of the forest the week before had ended in a number of acts of random violence towards indian bystanders, one of whom was beaten to death. evidently the violence had been re-spurred in the hours before we found ourselves cruising into the hot spot. great. bryan instructed our driver to circumnavigate the city, avoiding downtown to drop us at our hostel on the outskirts of the city rather than driving directly through it. our lodging was located a very safe distance from the violence, but a general sense of uneasiness hovered in the air. several people left in search of food, ATMs, etc. the canadian and i decided to do the same, unsuccessfully attempting to avoid having to do so with a large group that was leaving around the same time. we hung back from the others as we walked along a smallish street leading us to a small commercial area. three young ugandan men approached us. "'ey!" we kept walking. "do you come from india?!" oh my god. she and i looked at each other in alarm and disbelief at the question, both of us noting the fair complexion, light hair, green eyes, and freckled face of the other. we decided to definitively break off from the group of americans which surrounded us. we found a quiet upstairs patio to grab some food, and spent a few hours there, everything going well until i got up to use the restroom. immediately after i left, the bartender approached my friend, a serious, if not hostile, look on his face. "are you indians? are you from india?!" he demanded. she answered that we were not, but even after i returned, he was still eyeing us suspiciously and whispering in luganda with two of the other staff members, "india" and "canada" the only words i could make out. that was enough for us. we paid the bill and made a beeline back to the hostel. we got up at 5 the next morning and took the first bus back to kenya. sometimes we forget how complicated our surroundings are. it's so easy to get into a rhythm, a comfort zone, sink into a sense of security. how can you ever know how the people around you perceive you? how can you ever know how this might affect you? it's not just about uganda, or sub-saharan africa, or the world outside of north america. it's every day, for everyone. hatred and violence are always unpredictable, often illogical, and never beneficial. they are also alarmingly infectious amongst the fearful. after 9/11, violence against arab-americans skyrocketed. what must it be like to wake up one day and find all the world's hatred directed against you? to become a scapegoat for all evil overnight? it's what african-americans once experienced in the united states; what the jewish were subjected to in germany; what the tutsis suffered from in rwanda. and that's what indians are experiencing in uganda. aren't we all tired of that hearing "those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them?" so why can't we just start learning?
]]> work and work. and protozoa. — Kakamega town, Kenya http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1172751060/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1172751060/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1172751060/tpod.html Thu, 01 Mar 2007 12:16:40 +0000 12 months in east africa
Kakamega town, Kenya

120 SHILLINGS PER POUND. WE ARE THE CHEAPEST! the splintering wooden doors of the olympic butchery, carefully lettered in slanting red handwriting, were splayed open like the red-and-white marbled carcass hanging proudly in a hole in the shanty's facade which constituted a window. "tsss tss!" a man hissed at my back, somehow believing that, unlike every day for the past month, this tactic would work to get my attention on this particular sweltering morning. i carefully stepped around a knee-high mound of slick goat skins, freshly removed, piled one on top of another like so many folds of black, brown, and red satin under the merciless sun. each of several hundred flies stirred ever so slightly as i brushed past, hovering for one second before alighting once again on their carcass feast. "mzungu, owaYOO!" another man yelled from the doorstep of the next butchery, snickering to himself and his companion as i passed, expressionless. as the last of the butcheries slid by on my right, a row of rickety wooden kiosks sprung up to the left, running along parallel to the dilapidated highway. half a dozen middle-aged women suddenly straightened up and hawked their wares in harsh, dust-roughened voices, "madam! carroti, tomato, ndizi!" i smiled as i passed them and shook my head slightly. i crossed the dirt road and arrived finally at the hub for this area's bodabodas. i approached the least drunk-looking young man in a tattered maroon t-shirt, nodding my head slightly towards town and hopping on the back of the bike. he steadied himself and started pedaling, a wave of "mzungu!"s rushing up to meet me as we passed two dozen other drivers, bored and idle, lining the narrow footpath. into kakamega town, away from amalemba, my home. slipping around on the red vinyl seat as the driver sped along towards town, a slight chill shivered up my spine in spite of the pressing heat. i straightened the collar of my black, long-sleeved oxford and adjusted my black-and-white knee-length skirt to block the breeze. we lopped over a speed bump, haphazardly placed in a location that could not possibly serve any purpose. the jolt sent an electric shock through my left sinus and up behind my eyeball, the pressure swelling throughout the entire left side of my skull. where are these headaches coming from?, i asked myself, irritated. the driver took a sharp turn at barclay's bank, among the most opulent buildings in kakamega town with its mirrored windows and squat, regal-looking two-storied architecture. we sped along down an interminable hill, passing the town waterworks on the left and a muslim girls' school on the right. we rounded a corner at the hill's bottom and began climbing again up towards the small private nala hospital and the mobil gas station, my ultimate destination. i glanced at the hospital as we passed, remembering my visits there two weeks ago when my friend tessa was admitted with malaria. they had put her on an IV with glucose and quinine in it, and the heavy iron pole which suspended the drip bag wasn't equipped with wheels, requiring her to pick the whole thing up and walk with it every time she needed to use the restroom. i smiled a little bit as i rode past, remembering her sarcastic narration of the whole event. she had checked out a few days later and left to go on safari, only to be re-admitted at a hospital in nairobi a few days later. poor tessa. the driver puffed his way up the remaining 10 meters of the hill and rolled to a stop. i slid off the bike and dropped 15 shillings in his hand, looking right-left-right, waiting for a careening matatu to blow past in a cloud of dust and exhaust, and finally crossing the main highway to mumias. on my left appeared the blocky, cheerful blue supaloaf factory, the main production point for all of those thousands of loaves of bread ("never say bread, say supaloaf!", as every package proclaims) scattered throughout the supermarkets and dukas, tiny local shops, of kakamega district. i took a deep breath as i passed it, inhaling deeply the perfume of hundreds of pounds of baking bread which slipped weightlessly from the small, slatlike windows near the top of the edifice. clickclickclick along the ragged pavement in my low black heels. an old toothless mama sat on the dusty ground behind a grimy sheet spread with enormous purply-green avocadoes, their oily skins shining in the sun. at the next intersection, instead of turning left or right to follow the paved road along a row of shops, i continued straight down a narrow dirt path that dipped along a long, steep hill. a band of listless young men loitered at the corner, half-heartedly heckling me as i slipped past. the green plastic folder i gripped in my left hand was growing slick with the sweat of my palm. i was not cold any more. in fact, i was suddenly sweating profusely. i slowed my pace a little as i negotiated the slick hillside, damp with yesterday's heavy rain. the smell of raw sewage drifted up to turn my empty stomach. it was wednesday, and i'd been working from home for the past 2 days, feeling not quite well. i wasn't sick to my stomach exactly, but had been so nauseous that i hadn't been able to eat aside from a couple ladyfinger bananas and a slice of makeshift toast, charred over the open flame of my gas cooker with the use of two sharp knives as tongs. i'd been running a moderate fever on tuesday, and the left side of my head felt ready to blow out of my skull with the pressure from within. i still wasn't feeling exactly up to par, but i couldn't miss this meeting. i turned a gravelly corner in front of a little duka lazily strewn with promotional posters of various products... "MARA MOJA! headache cure."... "live on the COKE side of life" ... "celtel. making life better." a relatively young woman with countless rows of tiny braids fastened tightly to her skull gave me a cursory glance as i passed within 5 meters of the front of her dark little shop, looked back down at the counter, then did a double take. she whispered a few surprised-sounding words to an unseen person at the back of the shop. i continued to pick my way down this muddy little alley, passing row after row of corrugated metal shacks, goats and calfs with jutting bones grazing uselessly on the occasional sprigs of weeds. a few toddlers with bare feet and browning raggedy t-shirts appeared from behind a low, crumbling concrete wall, nearly tripping over themselves with shock at the sight of me, their eyes growing big as saucers. as soon as they were able to come to their senses, they squealed in unison, "mzungu owayoo!", not even waiting for a reply before repeating the question continuously. from the other side of the street a pair of tired-looking women eyed me shiftily from where they were sprawled out on the damp ground. just to their left rose a small mountain of garbage, spilling from between the shaky frames of two houses, three enormous white-chested crows hopping around seeking out a meal amidst the scraps of plastic bags, crumpled bits of paper, fruit skins, and clean-picked animal bones. a wave of heat rushed over me. again i slowed my pace, knowing that my goal, the community development organization that we work with, was just around the corner. its bright white and green hand-lettered sign sprang up to greet me as i made that final turn, relieved to have arrived. the meeting went well and as planned, aside from the beads of sweat which materialized behind my earlobes, in the pools of my collarbones, on the backs of my knees as i sat, smiling uncomfortably, reviewing some information with this organization's supervisor. a pair of wretched-looking yellow-and-black striped bees thumped futilely against the window pane, unaware that they would have been better off remaining in the honey-producing hives located in the organization's back room. witnessing their pathetically useless bid for escape suddenly captivated me, and i trailed off, losing whatever point i had been trying to make. i accepted this as a signal and cut the meeting short, shaking hands with the man and stumbling back out into the dust and sunshine. i had agreed to meet one of our interns for lunch and talk about a very interesting sewing project that she's organizing at her host organization. we were meeting at my favorite restaurant, kakamega dishes, a grimy little hole in the wall, evidently simply an extension of someone's house, where you can get beans and chapati for 40 shillings (60 cents). included with this price is not, evidently, the picking of the beans, which is a necessary pre-cooking process to remove the weevils that have found their way into the bean store. as we settled into conversation, me suddenly feeling chilly again as i struggled to focus on her across the wooden table, i picked up my spoon and began the ritual that begins every meal at kakamega dishes, which is to seek out the (now dead) weevils in the cooked beans and pick them out. i determine how well i've completed this process by how many beans i bite into in a single meal that taste distinctly like dirt (don't lie, you know you've tasted dirt before). these beans are invariably the ones that were previously housing unsuspecting weevils just before they were tossed into a pot of boiling water. the extra protein probably isn't so bad for me anyway. at any rate, this day was not the day for eating weevil beans. although i was certainly feeling better than the day before, my appetite was still not its usual self. i pushed the pile of swollen red beans around on the plate and took a few unenthusiastic bites. the intern eyed me suspiciously. "you should go get a blood test," she said, scooping up a greasy pile of scrambled egg with a scrap of chapati. well, that hardly seemed necessary. as many times as i'd parroted that same phrase at the interns when they weren't feeling well, it was obvious that this was just a little cold. or maybe a touch of food sickness from that sketchy egg curry i'd eaten on sunday night. to her credit, though, she was fairly convincing given that the clinic was literally one block away and the test only costs 260 shillings (about $4). i agreed that i'd go and we parted ways at the mama watoto supermarket, across the street from a line of sneering bodabodas and a few scattered mamas touting ladyfinger bananas from large, flat, woven baskets. standing at the counter of the rather elegant-looking lab, i was mesmerized by the striking resemblance of one of the large aquarium's fish to a tiny tiger shark. the medium-set woman behind the counter greeted me with an almost-imperceptible, tight little smile and began gathering my data as i was unable to tear my eyes from the silvery, large-finned fish. how distracted i was today! finally forcing myself to look away as she gently ordered me to take a seat along the low, uncomfortable wooden bench in the narrow waiting room, i shuffled around the corner and pulled the master and margarita out of my bag. how absurd, really. why am i here? i should just go home and rest. i looked across the white-tiled lobby to a small, black plastic wastebasket placed unsystematically a few feet from the door. the thin black plastic trash bag that should have been lining it slumped impotently in the basket, and several dozen lumps of bloodied cotton swabs were tossed carelessly on top. i grimaced a little at the thought of what those swabs of blood might contain. at last the unmistakable cry of "leeelian!" was heard from around the corner in the same low, smooth voice that had greeted me at the desk. lavinia, as i learned she was called, led me to a dingy, grey little room and ordered me to sit on a padded foam chair with shiny black vinyl lining that was cut and peeling up with age. settling in, i set down my bag and extended my right arm, which she tied off with an elastic cord mid-bicep. "so...like your job?" i said, my eyes turned toward the ceiling as she produced a small syringe accented with little baby-blue plastic parts. "oh, you know...it's pretty boring," she replied as she jabbed the needle into the soft white part of my inner elbow. "oh," i said, turning to watch, disappointed, as she failed to draw any blood with the first assault. further jabbing eventually produced a willing vein, the results of which she smeared carelessly along a thin strip of glass. she extracted the needle from my already-bruising flesh, slapped an alcohol-drenched cotton ball down on it, and ordered me to return to the waiting room. i obeyed with a sheepish smile, returning to the lobby and pulling out my book again, beginning a new chapter. just as pontius pilate was reclining on his patio chair and the tempest was about to break over jerusalem, i heard my name once more. "so, am i good to go?" i grinned, stepping up to the counter and pulling out my wallet to dish over the 260 shillings. "typhoid is negative. malaria is positive," she said summarily, scooting her new-looking mouse across the pad as she made some final adjustments on her computer. "what?" i said, baffled. "are you sure?" she looked up from the flat computer screen and threw me a glance as if to say, "are you suggesting i'm incapable of doing my job?" instead of waiting around for her to actually say these words, however, i smiled, taking the white envelope from her hand with my test results in it, and padded across the street in the light mist which was now falling to the nearest chemist's. there was a short line. i waited patiently. when at last my turn arrived and i found myself face-to-face with the grim-looking woman behind the barred counter window, i smiled as if i'd just won a prize and declared, "i have malaria! so, can you give me some metakelfin?" this was the medicine that peter had just instructed me, via telephone, to buy. she stared at me blankly for a second and then, turning, plucked an aluminum packet from a large box and slipped it into a nondescript little brown paper bag. "90 shillings," she said flatly, sliding the little pack across the counter to me. i felt like i was taking part in some kind of illicit deal. i retrieved the 90 shillings from my wallet and tucked the pack into my bag. "so...i mean, how am i supposed to take this?" blank stare. "meaning, should i take one today and one tomorrow, or what?" she stared for another 5 seconds or so before finally responding, "you take them both at once." "with or without food?" "after food," she spat out, clearly exasperated with this unnecessary little game the mzungu was insisting on playing with her, wasting her precious pharmacist's time. "so when will i be cured?", i couldn't help resist making this last little inquiry. she turned away from me and let the squat, caramel-colored little man standing next to her answer instead. "one hour," he said simply, peering at me from over a lopsided pair of reading glasses. "what?" "one hour," he repeated in the same tone of voice. "like, all the malaria parasites will be dead within one hour of me taking this medication?" "yes," he said, turning to the next customer. okay, whatever. i turned on my heel and stepped back out into the (once again) sweltering afternoon heat. i carefully followed these elaborate instructions last night, swallowing the two wide, flat tablets after managing an egg and a couple slices of bread. i woke up today feeling...pretty much the same. but not so bad. at any rate, i must admit i'm cheerful to have this whole malaria thing over with since it's occupied a not-insignificant chunk of my consciousness since my arrival in sub-saharan africa 6 months ago. in other news, i'm insanely busy. basically, that's it. there's an immense pile of work, and i'm happy to be doing it. we have some amazing volunteers here, and the organization itself is expanding in terms that amaze me in spite of having been told that it would be doing so this year. the uniform project at the primary school is chugging along (should be posting some photos with this blog) in spite of some major setbacks which i will be happy to elaborate on for those of you who have interests in this initiative. the next few weeks should be busy, busy, busy. in 5 days i'll have been here for 6 full months. halfway through, and my first brush with malaria. i must be doing okay.
]]> a gym, a slum, a beating — Kakamega, Kenya http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1171029840/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1171029840/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1171029840/tpod.html Wed, 14 Feb 2007 12:38:44 +0000 12 months in east africa
Kakamega, Kenya

sweat was barely beginning to creep through my pores, a flush sweeping through the flesh of my face. i took a deep breath. i jiggled the key again. the bolt didn't move. another flush, and i could feel that damp chill beginning to break out on my lower back. don't panic, i told myself. i jiggled the key while turning the handle, pushed on the door, pushed and jiggled, jiggled, pushed, and turned. that bolt wasn't going anywhere. evidently neither was i. i cast a glance around the small, dank room, the window at the far end overlooking the flat, brownish tops of kakamega's cluster of downtown buildings from a rare 4th-story view. the sight of that tarnished, crumbling town scattered haphazardly down below did nothing to assuage the prickling panic which was now beginning, from the nape of my neck, to spread through my veins. i jiggled the key again. the penetrating bass beat from the opposite side of the sprawling top floor of this building thumping through the wall, echoing my heartbeat. i started pounding on the door. it wasn't the time to question myself, bemused, how exactly i had come to be locked in the dilapidated bathroom of kakamega town's one and only gym, but i did so in spite of myself. who has this kind of luck? what was i doing in an african gym, anyway? how long would it take for the gym's one employee, through several walls and a blasting sound system, to hear my frantic pounding and come to my rescue? the answers turned out to be me, trapping myself in its bathroom, and 15 minutes, respectively. the day before, clad in a village-modest brown skirt and olive green linen shirt, i had trekked out several miles past shikokho, my former place of residence, to pay a visit to the health clinic of one of our emerging host organizations. the clinic, operating out of two rooms donated by a rural church, is staffed by one clinical officer and one community health worker. the organization seeks to provide basic health care, targeting the region's most common maladies including malaria and malnutrition, to those lacking the funds to pay for even government-subsidized healthcare in larger facilities. patients at this makeshift clinic are now being charged a 50-shilling (75 cent) consultation fee after the organization's directors realized that if it continued providing services and medicines completely free of charge it would no longer be able to operate. i took some photos, spoke with the clinic's staff for a few minutes, and began walking back along the 4-kilometer red dirt road back to the larger village where a matatu might pass. with me were two australian volunteers, in-country for about 6 weeks, who were working at the organization's main kakamega town office. my right sandal was broken, the thong strap between my first and second toes detached from the sole, forcing me to drag that leg along the ground behind me like some injured animal. sweat beaded on my forehead. it was evidently going to be a long walk. a sudden roar surged up behind us, and we all whirled around, all but stunned to see an ancient, rust-colored (or perhaps just rusted-out) matatu chortling its way down the bumpy dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust that obscured the rural landscape all around in a hazy red. it seemed bizarre to see a vehicle on a road this small and remote. i stuck out my thumb, suspiciously. the matatu creaked to a heavy, labored stop about 10 feet after it passed us. i imagined i heard some parts falling out of its underside as it did so. but it was a matatu nonetheless. it was one of those truck-style matatus, where the seats were a pair of wooden benches bolted into the bed, a camper over the top with a small metal door hinged into the back. the conductor swung it open, beckoning us in, the expression of elation on his face betraying his amazement at having landed not just one, but three sucker mzungu passengers in one fell swoop. the matatu's sole passenger was a small, age-wizened man, a permanent layer of dust etched into the deep creases slashing across his face. his diminutive, crumpled frame occupied an impossibly small space in the back corner of the truck bed. his milky eyes offered us a fleeting, disinterested glance as we boarded, hunched over not to bump our heads, and flopped down on the benches at the far end of the truck, closest to the cab up front. "tunaenda shibwe," ("we're going to shibwe"), i told the conductor, "ngapi?" ("how much?"). he thrust four dirt-caked fingers up in the air, assuming the overly firm, defensive posture characteristic of people who are about to attempt to rip you off. "fortybob." "fortybob?!" i exclaimed, with the feigned incredulous air of the to-be-ripped-off person who is about to start heavy negotiations. "thirtybob," he revised his answer, retracting one of the four fingers, still maintaining the same exact self-righteous demeanor he had displayed while declaring the original price. i was pretty sure the price had to be twentybob, but thirty actually did seem fair at the time. it was a long way. and my sandal was broken. i reached for my purse, but for good measure, i narrowed my eyes, clicking my tongue and shaking my head as if to say, "we know you're a crook, but we'll pay your ridiculous mzungu price." it's all part of the game. among the myriad aspects of kenyan life i have learned, rejected, and eventually embraced, in kenya there is no such thing as "the price." i cannot think of a single case in which the price is not negotiable. in fact, the only places you'll find price stickers are in the big, commercial supermarkets, and even there i feel pretty confident that you could bargain if you had the nerve to. so the three of us forked up our mzungu fare, dropping 30 shillings apiece into the dirty, outstretched hand of the maroon-clothed conductor, a smug smile now stretched across his dusty face. at the next relatively large town, the tiny old man disembarked, leaving the three of us alone with our caretaker, slightly amazed at our good fortune at having landed a matatu with so much space. clearly, something was awry. matatus are many things, but spacious is not among them. about 5 kilometers down this desolate, maize field-flanked road, the truck rolled to a stop. the bronchitic engine cut off, leaving a roaring silence in my ears as i watched with a sinking feeling as the conductor swung open the back door and hopped out. the driver did the same. each lit a cigarette and flopped down under the nearest shade-bearing tree. i knew it. three passengers were not enough to warrant making the ride down to the next town, and we would be waiting here until they managed to fill this one up. i squinted, peering out the camper's small dust-clouded window in front, seeking out the figure of a human anywhere along the long, narrow road ahead of us. i glanced back out the open door of the camper. there wasn't a soul in sight. bluish cigarette smoke drifted over into the truck and up my nostrils from where the two men were sprawled out on the grass, chatting idly. i spun around in my seat, narrowing my gaze on the conductor, who was plucking thin blades of grass from the ground and rolling them between the fingers of his free hand. "tsssss!" i hissed, in the kenyan style of getting someone's attention. "we! tunaenda lini?!" ("you! when are we going?"). his eyes drifted up to meet mine, a confident smile curling up the corners of his lips. he took a drag of his cigarette, slowly releasing the smoke in a thin, solid stream. he gave a deliberate pause, aware that he was in control here. "ngoja kidogo," ("wait a little"), he said, "tunangoja watu wingine" ("we're waiting on some other people"). following the norm of kenyan etiquette, i released a little snort, obliged to exhibit mild unhappiness, at the same time fully accepting of the fact that i not only had no control over the situation (we had already paid), but also that this type of thing was utterly normal. we did finally get going again, 25 minutes, 7 people, and about 1800 pounds later. evidently they'd been waiting for a gaggle of "big-boned" ladies who had been at a funeral around the corner. the large women were fairly chatty and were incredibly interested in the three mzungus, feverishly interrogating us on our activities so far out in the bush. the elderly lady crushed in beside me coughed up something in kibaluyha. across from me, a younger woman, squeezed into a very non-breathable-looking orange number, translated: "oh! she says that this boy" - she flicked her thumb at the australian sitting to her right -"looks like her grandson." we each cast an incredulous glance at the boy in question - a 19-year old melbourne native of chinese descent, he had more metal in his face than a whole classroom full of braces-fitted high schoolers. the kid has piercings in places that i didn't even know were possible - in his cheeks, under his chin, between his eyes, at the nape of his neck. silence engulfed the matatu. i cast a sideways glance at the mama beside me. somehow i doubted her credibility. we alighted in front of another health clinic, one of our host organizations, where i had to speak to the head nurse. having endured the lengthy ride at the hands of a particularly homicidal matatu driver, i was more than pleased to make the last 3 kilometers to malinya, the intersection leading to shikokho, on foot, broken sandal or no. i shuffled alongside my two australian counterparts, sweating openly under the equatorial sun and wishing for all the world for a bottle of water. arriving finally in malinya, i dragged myself over to the shop of a pseudo-friend, mary, who operates a kiosk selling salt, ugali flour, soap, sugar, tomatoes, and onions. she greeted me with a radiant smile, her round cheeks glowing and her thick arms jiggling as she clasped my hand, shaking vigorously. "my friend!" she exclaimed, laying her free hand down on my right, sun-scorched arm, "you are very fat! what are you eating in kakamega?" there are some traits of this culture that i will never grow accustomed to. although older people insist that telling a woman she's fat is a compliment, it's plain to see that the weight-obsessed western mentality is beginning to creep into kenya's modern generation, producing an ever-growing urban set of young, thin, jean-clad women. either way i was less than pleased with mary's observation. i released her hand, a cold little smile plastered to my chubby face. "anyway. i've got to get back to town. kwa heri!" okay, okay. so i've put on a few pounds. in a country where television ads tout "kimbo"-brand cooking fat as "the heart of every meal" and jogging in public solicits loud, aggressive heckling from every man, woman, and child within earshot, physical fitness is not a top priority. on the jostling matatu ride back to kakamega, having parted ways with the australians, i let my mind wander morosely. the acrid, biting smell of long-accumulated body odor leapt up from the larger woman beside me and hung in the back of my throat. a tall man in a threadbare, navy blue business suit, an aged brown leather briefcase between his feet, was crunched into the line of people across from me, whistling in low tones. next to him, a tiny, chubby baby in a ripped, peach-colored party dress two sizes too big for her round body was reclined on her mother's lap, clenching and unclenching her miniature hand around the blue-and-white knit sock pulled over her foot. a string of drool stretched from the corner of her mouth to the lace bodice of the dress, now stained with the dust and dirt of too many wearings. this small dress was almost certainly mutumba, consignment clothing, among the most common of products sold by small-scale vendors on the streets and in markets. donated clothes are shipped from western nations into africa in immense crates, bought at wholesale, and sold again to the poorest of kenya's citizens. mutumba is among the most popular trades for clients of local microfinance organizations, which will grant initial loans of $10-$20 for small business start-up, and with good reason - mutumba is an excellent product. it's not uncommon to see men and women in far-flung rural villages, sweating in the mid-day sun as they toil away in their gardens wearing tommy hilfiger jeans and diesel sneakers. if you bought it for $150 in the states and donated it to charity, someone in africa probably paid $1.50 for it a couple years later. most people in this area wear mutumba, and why not? letting my mind circle back around to mary's comment, i decided i needed to get back in shape. the next day found me at the savannah health club, an expansive fourth-story space containing 5 fitness machines, two posters of bodybuilding men closely resembling overstuffed armchairs, and no ventilation whatsoever. a young woman in a long blue dress, a black scarf, and a pair of thin, wire-framed glasses approached me, giggling, as i timidly stepped through the metal door. a few muscular men were scattered about the room, pumping away in spite of the heat. i noted with considerable embarrassment that, in spite of the fact that i was the only one present who hadn't recently been engaged in a physically demanding activity, i was the only one in the room sweating. batuli, as i came to know her, ignored this fact and welcomed me warmly, in spite of her inability to mask her amazement at seeing a white woman applying for gym membership. i paid $17 for a 6-month membership and shuffled off to the women's changing room, a small section of the larger room partitioned off with particle board, to get into my modest gym clothes. stuffing my low heels, black collared shirt, and black-and-white knee-length skirt back into the plastic shopping bag i'd carried my gym clothes in, i ducked out of the small room and followed a long, dimly-lit hall to the ladies' room, tucked in an obscure corner of the building, where i closed the door behind me, set down my bag, and turned the key to lock the deadbolt. oops. little did i know that this key would not be turning back the opposite way any time soon. batuli eventually did hear my desperate calls and increasingly panicked pounds on the door, and came to my rescue. i slid the key under the door. not surprisingly, the bolt slipped open with fluid ease when approached from the opposite side. as she turned the handle and liberated me, smiling with what i tried to convince myself was not condescension, my face was reddened equally from embarrassment as from the heat and my panic. this didn't bode well. either way, i am now a full-fledged member of kakamega's single gym, and it should be interesting if nothing else. the past few weeks have been somewhat of a blur, as evidenced by my lengthy blog silence. we picked up our new set of interns at the nairobi airport in late january, the gangly figures of giraffes flying by the windows on the taxi ride back to town with the 3 people we'll be spending the next 3 months with. since then the flurry of orientation activities and getting them settled into their new homes and internships has kept us beyond busy. i gather that it's going to be a very productive, very fruitful year for me and for the organization as a whole. in the meantime, i finally moved out of my rat-infested temporary house and into a very small flat across town. after looking at half a dozen houses, none of which was even remotely acceptable (see the saga of the house search from the last blog), i was utterly desperate. i was at lunch with peter one day, scooping up a bite of sagaa with the ripped corner of a chapati, when i got a text message from my friend joseph. "my boss is letting a 1-bdrm, 1-sittingroom/kitchen, furnished flat, ksh5000 month, what u think?" i looked at the apartment later that evening with godrick, the gentle, friendly man who joseph works under, and took it immediately. as you walk in the front door, you are greeted immediately with a small, baby-blue tile bathroom, equipped (unbelievably) with one of those electric shower heads that, in theory, produces hot water. i've since discovered that it doesn't actually work, but 5 months of taking bucket baths has kind of hardened me anyhow. the miniature sink is in the closet-sized foyer with a small mirror attached to the wall above it. to the left is the bedroom, furnished with a wardrobe, shelves, a full bed, and a small mirror/drawer set. to the right is the sitting room of equal size, home to 2 overstuffed red velvet chairs, smashed in so as not to allow the door to open fully, accompanied by a small green velvet couch, a table and chair, and a little plastic coffee table. along the left wall, adjacent to the door, is a narrow counter, just wide enough to squeeze in a gas cooker (when i finally buy one) with a sink installed, a row of shelved cabinets below for storing food. there are bars on the windows and the entire compound is ringed by a thick concrete wall, shards of broken glass jutting from the top as a deterrent to possible intruders. a guard stands at the compound gate 24 hours a day. the complex is kind of an oasis in the center of a garbage-strewn, corrugated-metal housing area that is more or less a slum. this is by far the nicest home i could have hoped to find in kakamega. for the first time since my arrival more than 5 months ago, i feel like i'm home. this is not to say that there aren't nice houses here. i was made painfully aware of the contrary just a couple weeks ago, having been invited to the house of a friend and volunteer in another organization operating in this area. he lives on a huge plot of land in a large house that can only be described as a resort, built by a kenyan man and his american wife who now live abroad. he rents it for a hundred dollars a month. i had taken a taxi out there with his girlfriend, a canadian volunteer, and the same australian girl from the outlying village. we had been at a guesthouse perched right at the edge of town, eating curry and chapatis, drinking tuskers, and carrying on a heavily anecdote-laden discussion on the ups and downs of life in kenya. we called a taxi to take us back to the boyfriend's house. swerving along the main strip of town, me frantically trying to buckle my faulty seatbelt, we questioned to each other in low voices whether or not jeremiah, our taxi driver, was completely plastered. suddenly he took a sharp turn and my door flew open, the asphalt now flying along just beside me. transport in kakamega. we weren't going far, and i clung for dear life to the seat itself, trying not to laugh in spite of myself. heading down the first big hill leading out of town, jeremiah's dim headlights picked up the dark, sleek form of one of the small new SUV's that the area police drive around. we approached quickly, me squinting as the form of a man standing beside the vehicle began to materialize. ten meters closer, i saw the other man, sprawled out on the ground, his arms crossed defensively over his face. as we passed, i saw the reason why - the man towering over him, a police officer, was holding a rubber whip raised in the air, about to bring it down again on the body lying below. who knows what the offense was. the passengers of our car grew completely silent. finally jeremiah piped up, "yes, the police are always trying to harass us. if they find you alone and you have no money, then they harass you." i couldn't help but remember having used the term "harass" a few hours earlier in conversation to describe the heckling and "mzungu" catcalling that foreigners receive in rural areas here. it hardly seemed an appropriate word to describe being assaulted with a rubber whip by a law enforcement officer. it's not uncommon to watch as 100- and 200-shilling notes slip from the hands of a matatu driver into that of a roadblock police officer, a necessary measure to overload the matatus and keep one's vehicle from being impounded. small-scale corruption is, of course, merely the tip of the iceberg, an indication of the much larger disease consuming the country's government at large. but there was something haunting in the image of that man, caught in the yellowish headlights, helpless under the lashing. extra-judicial executions, they call them. every day in the nation, among kenya's most popular newspapers, there will be at least one article dealing with this suspect or that who was shot by the police. usually they're small-scale thieves with no weapons to speak of. there is no pretense of self-defense on the part of the police; in fact, often the suspects aren't even running away. they'll be caught, laid down on the ground in front of a crowd of people, and shot in the head. some kenyans insist that this type of courtless justice sets an example for other potential criminals, a fact that is clearly contradicted by the soaring crime rates in this country. in truth, most thieves are lucky to be caught by the police, who will sometimes be merciful and take them to jail. mob justice, on the other hand, which is even more dominant than extra-judicial killings on the government's part, is generally much more brutal. those caught stealing on the streets are apprehended by an angry mob, whoever is standing around, and brought to swift and immediate justice. i was told of a man in kisumu a few weeks ago who had been caught stealing from a small shop; he was seized, a tire put around his neck, and set ablaze. others are stoned to death or slashed with pangas, machetes. in a country where people have so little, the price of taking even that little bit is stunningly high. this country still manages to surprise me almost every day.
]]> a new year, a tuktuk, a witch trial — Kisumu, Kenya http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1168008000/tpod.html http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1168008000/tpod.html#comment Travel Blogs http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lmlangf/kenya_2006/1168008000/tpod.html Thu, 18 Jan 2007 15:50:24 +0000 12 months in east africa
Kisumu, Kenya

Where I stayed
Kisumu Beach Resort
(Kisumu hotels)


"do i have the strength to make it through another year?" the thought simply appeared, crisp and defined, each word falling distinctly like a drop against the stillness of my mind. the murky beige waters of lake victoria lapped insistently at my feet, agitated by the wind, seemingly growing calmer and smoother as they stretched out away from me, fiery under the sun, past the horizon, towards uganda to the west and tanzania to the south. i tore my gaze from that endless stretch of water, that horizon full of promise, and glanced down at the opaque water which now churned inches below me. a severed chicken's head bobbed hurriedly past, only to become entangled in an impenetrable clutch of purple-flowered water lilies that choked the shoreline. a few unidentifiable clumps of flotsam clung to the dilapidated edges of an oversized wooden canoe, evidently half-sunken for many years, a flourishing patch of aquatic plants springing from inside the arcing vessel. a breath of cool air slipped past my bare arm, drawing out a few scattered goosebumps from the sun-warmed skin. about 50 meters away swayed a large, cumbersome fishing boat, scantily clad in a thin layer of flaking blue paint, exhausted by the years spent semi-submerged in these filthy waters under the murderous pressing of the equatorial sun. KINGFISHER was shakily hand-lettered across the back in grimy white paint, a title that seemed almost purposely reinforced by the two dark-feathered kingfishers, themselves stout little birds with pointy, long beaks, which were perched along the boat's gently sloping anchor line. i looked past them across the wide inlet to the opposite bank, where the blocky, self-consciously unattractive skyline of kisumu lay partially obscured by the cloud of yellowy smog that embraced it. my gaze shifted down to my feet, almost naked in thin flip-flops, dusty and scuffed from the previous night's meanderings. just beyond the tips of my toes ran a raw-looking metal vein of the pier which stood faithfully between those feet and the bilharzia-infested waters of the lake. stretching about 25 hesitant meters from the swampy bank out into the lake and 30 inches wide at most, the catwalk was a motley quilt of sheet metal, welded together by a shaky hand and stabbed down into the water to leave an uncomfortably thin margin of air between water and steel. a drop of the fitful water jumped up and splashed against my ankle. for a brief instant i worried vaguely about the possibility of contracting bilharzia. nah. i took a deep breath, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. a quietness that bordered on eerie filled my ears and spread through my mind. the elegant, white-headed form of an african fish eagle skated across the blue above. some strange calmness had found me standing there and consumed me. as if waking, i suddenly wondered how long i'd been hovering at the end of this pier, staring. 5 minutes, a half hour? i rotated my body carefully on my narrow perch, turning back towards the shore. i jumped a little, startled. three feet away, staring up at me, was a small, very dark-skinned boy, squatting down against the hot metal with bare feet. for a few seconds we stared at each other, devoid of reaction. how long had he been there? how could i have not heard him approaching, felt the tremors of his light steps reverberating through the rickety dock? at last i released a little smile, muttering, "excuse me," and squeezed past his diminutive frame to reach the shore. i was conscious of him following right behind me through the tall, damp grass, finally disappearing only as i approached the little shade hut where a few of the others were still sitting, sipping on milky coffee and gazing out at the sun-brightened lake. i announced my intention to get out of there, take care of some things in the city, and get back to kakamega. like the irritating buzz of a mosquito in the ear, a few strained thumps of a d.j.'s p.a. system drifted across the compound and hovered around me. yeah, it was time to go. it was new year's day, i was at the kisumu beach resort (a name which i should really encapsulate in quotes as "kisumu" is really the only accurate component of the claim) with some friends from the forest, and for some unfathomable reason the indian-born owner of the "resort" had hired an amateur d.j. to blast us all out of our peaceful reveries with an over-amplified series of uncoordinated dance hits and his own frequent, obnoxious commentary. smugly nestled on a clump of water-logged land on the outskirts of kisumu, the resort was actually a sprinkling of small huts and covered concrete platforms where guests could sleep in beds or camp out, respectively. a fleet of mangy, aggressive-looking watchdogs had greeted us suspiciously late the previous afternoon as the six of us arrived in two sputtering tuk-tuks, little metal pods built around moped motors that could comfortably ferry 3 people around town for a fraction of the price of a regular taxi. after some discussion we had checked in, four of us in one double room and one couple in another. i was happy. a real new year's celebration was not something i'd been counting on, but i'd run into a friend of a friend at the internet cafe in kakamega 3 days prior and gotten invited on this festive little adventure. i'd checked with keziah and made sure she had another family member who could come stay at the orphanage for the night, packed a backpack, and hopped on a matatu for kisumu. we unlocked the door to hut #5, the flimsy handle swinging limply as it opened. i took a mental note not to leave anything valuable in there when we went out for the night. it was surprising how nice (a relative term, as always) the place was; there were two twin beds which had been considerately pushed together to form a ghetto king-sized, two dingy chairs, a small table with an electric fan, and a small wooden piece of furniture by the bed whose function seemed to be limited to holding the plastic stand for three foil-wrapped condoms. well, that was a nice thought. at least they're encouraging responsibility. i brushed past my friend, who was digging through her bag for something slightly less "woodsy" to wear (she was clad in a pair of faded jeans, a loose-fitting long-sleeved t-shirt, and a pair of hiking sneakers), to take a look at the indoor bathroom (a luxury in and of itself). skirting past the too-narrow shower curtain that had been hung in lieu of a door, i smiled at the flushing toilet, running sink, and shower which greeted me in the little nook of a bathroom. unable to resist, i pushed back the second shower curtain and looked inside, overwhelmed with happiness by the sight of the electric shower head affixed to the pipe, a guarantee for a rare, coveted hot shower (if it was working). i looked down at the floor. a used condom lay in a dejected, crumpled pile at the corner. my enthusiasm regarding the shower now significantly deflated, i let the curtain fall and went back out into the room. at least we still had a flush toilet. having dropped our things, we negotiated our way back through the muddy woods towards the shore, where the dated, giraffe-print-painted bar lay in wait. sipping on a tusker, i was surprised at the sight of a large flock of mzungus which came into view by the shore. we later learned that they were peace corps volunteers, gathered from a large sphere of sites in the surrounding regions, like us, to celebrate the new year. i noted with interest that several of them were in the deaf education sector, signing to each other as they spoke out of respect for a deaf colleague who stood nearby carrying on a conversation with someone else. it was a strange sensation, finding myself planted in the middle of so many americans, at 20 or so by far the largest group of westerners i'd seen in 4 months. it was relaxing, in a way, and exhausting in another. after several more drinks, the exchange of a handful of parasitic anecdotes, and a fair amount of confusion regarding transportation, my group of 6 finally left the PCVs behind and piled into the resort owner's van (it was too far out of the way to walk) to head to the city. he dropped us off at the mon ami, a little restaurant wedged into a large shopping center on kisumu's main strip. amidst the chaos of young, chic kenyans (kisumu, with its masses of women in jeans and sleeveless tops, is a haven of racy fashion in comparison to the conservative rural areas of kenya's western region), we grabbed the last plastic table in the place, ordering another round of drinks and a euphoric dinner of pizzas, burgers (veggie- and non-), and fries. a couple of white women across the room with dangerously low-slung necklines and jeans with straining seams chatted and gazed coyly from under mascara-plumped eyelashes at the young kenyans who approached them. the conversation at our table flew from mouth to mouth in a curious mix of american, german, and danish accents. i laughed until i cried. the german girl was demonstrating what she referred to as the "sandwich dance." around 11 we pushed our way through the growing throng of people around the bar and stumbled out into the street, flagging down the first tuk-tuk that came buzzing past. looking around at the near empty streets, not another tuk-tuk in sight, piling 6 people in the back of this buggy suddenly seemed like a very feasible idea. the driver, himself sharing a one-person seat with another bony man of unknown purpose, wore a skeptical look as the second layer of us began filing in, perching on the knees of the lower layer. in the end, though, he simply ensured that we were paying him enough, and took off towards the dance club, located on the main a-1 highway on the outskirts of town, indicated by the other american girl. after a long ride that was magically transformed from uncomfortable to amusing by the heavy application of alcohol prior to embarking on it, we arrived at the poorly-lit entrance to a large, two-story building, around the entrance to which swarmed a large, jostling group of people. a sort of violent tension gripped the air. we were already eliciting a few incredulous stares from the people surrounding the tuk-tuk. it was quickly agreed that this may not be the ideal place for the 6 of us to pile out and commence merrymaking. we tapped charles (as we had learned our serene, possibly drunk driver was named) on the shoulder and asked him to take us back to another outdoor bar in town. he looked thoughtful. "you will add me money?" we assured him we would. he negotiated a miniature 3-point turn in the tuk-tuk and motored us out of the dusty lot, heading back into the city. upon arrival at the now-fenced-off parking lot of the other bar, we were given the routine, inflated mzungu price and quickly admitted into the large crowd which was enthusiastically bouncing and gyrating to the stylings of a dreadlocked, self-satisfied d.j. (incidentally, the same one who would rouse me from my peaceful state of being the following morning at the "beach resort"). laughing, drinking, and dancing ensued. we had a good time. at midnight the d.j. duly performed a countdown, at 0 blasting the ultimate blowout 2007 song he had carefully selected to incite the multitude of young revelers at the first second of the new year. we looked at each other in dismay. the kenyans went wild, jumping in the air and amplifying their gyrations. my ears filled with the stunningly inane beats of "who let the dogs out." i looked at the german girl. "i didn't know this song was so popular here." she shrugged and kept dancing. at 4 a.m. we shuffled out into the parking lot and called charles. his yellow tuk-tuk came hacking around the corner just as a growing band of teenaged street kids was gathering around us. we repeated our multi-layered piling in from earlier in the evening. halfway along the 20-minute ride back to the lakeside resort, charles (still with his faithful, bony sidekick smushed in beside him) stopped to get gas. the other american girl, snickering loudly, stumbled off the lap of the german guy composing the outer edge of the lower layer and out onto the flourescently-lit asphalt. now almost hysterical with happiness, she climbed in the front and made several sloppy attempts to start the motorbike which propelled the tuk-tuk. she informed us she was driving us home as she made one unsuccessful try after another to start the engine. charles walked over and gave her a tired look, very tolerably climbing in while allowing her to stay up front with him and pretend to drive. everyone in the back was grateful that the engine had a safety device for starting it which involved a joint hand- and foot-controlled procedure that was far too complicated for a girl with the type of very limited capacity that is generally found at 4 a.m. on new year's. we were greeted at the resort by the same snarling pack of dogs that had so charmed us earlier in the evening. the american girl stooped down and picked up a particularly diseased-looking brown puppy, cradling it in her arms like a baby. an involuntary grimace of disgust contorted my face. i promised to tell her the story about the chigger (see blog from 2 weeks ago) the following day. at exactly 7.30 the next morning, my cell phone, stupidly placed mere inches from my left ear, shrieked with the obnoxious jazzy tune that i can't seem to bring myself to change. am i dreaming? who calls at 7.30 on new year's day? scowling, barely able to open my leaden eyes, i looked at the display. charles? i suddenly regretted having called him from my own cell phone the night before. "hallo?" i muttered into the receiver. "yes. may i come pick you?" "charles. it's 7.30 in the morning. if we want you to come pick us up, we'll call you." "okay. call me. don't call anyone else. call me, i will come." "sawa." i hung up. a snicker erupted from one of the 3 bodies sleeping in the bed next to me. "well, you have to admire his loyalty. do you think he even slept last night?" so the day played out. we ate a nice breakfast of naan bread and omelettes, i found that curious place of calm by the banks of lake victoria, and i gathered up my things and found that 3 of my 5 companions were ready to go as well. we tried calling charles. no response. not a bodaboda or a tuk-tuk in sight. we started walking in the blazing noontime sun down the industrial, near-deserted road that would, eventually, lead us back into the city. not a single tree shaded the sidewalk, a narrow stretch of cracking cement which was flanked on one side by tall, rubbish-strewn grass and on the other by a cement canal, about 3 feet across and equally deep, which contained about 6 inches of a stagnant, fetid green substance which was clearly alive. the road stretched on for miles. prospects looked bleak. i could feel the flesh of my arms already burning under the influence of the doxycycline i take to prevent malaria. loudly expressing discontent, the german guy was dragging along behind the other 3 of us, verbalizing all of our silent wishes that we had some way of getting back to town. the hum of an engine could be heard approaching from behind. the german stepped out into the steaming street and stuck out his thumb. just as i started to roll my eyes, the shiny white BMW pulled to a halt. a man's stern face craned around out the right-hand side driver's seat window. he examined us. we examined him. he waved us in. i looked at the others, and down the infinitely long road into the city. we got in, gratefully sliding across beige leather seats into the cool rush of the ridiculously luxurious vehicle's air conditioner. douglas, as we soon learned our savior was called, smiled at us. "so, where to?" as we chatted along the ride to the main strip, we discovered douglas was a long-time resident of houston, texas, and was in the process of obtaining his ph.d. in business management. very friendly. we attracted a few overly curious stares, four greasy-looking white kids tumbling out of this kenyan man's conspicuously sumptuous vehicle onto the packed main stretch of kisumu's downtown. i finally got back to kakamega around 6, banging on the orphanage's gate just as a few plump drops of frigid rain began to fall from the swollen blue clouds above. dadi and valerie rushed to the door, happy to see me if only because i'd promised them that we'd bake a cake for new year's day. we did. it was delicious. the next afternoon, i went to pull the tin-foil-covered pan from the oven, where i had placed it overnight to protect it from bugs and other scavenging night creatures. one edge of the foil was peeled up. "keziah!" i exclaimed, at first believing that the kids had gotten into it in the morning, since she had caught them eating leftover rice right out of the bowl when she woke up. she came wheeling around the corner wearing a look of interest. "look at this!" she joined me at the oven, peering into the pan as i removed the breached layer of foil. oops. this didn't look so much like damage implemented by the wandering fingers of a pair of children. the corner of the freshly-cut cake was crumbling, only slightly disturbed. along the outer edge of the fluffy, sprinkle-strewn chocolate frosting was lain a telltale trail of tiny footprints. those damn mice! we spent the next 5 minutes on our knees, craning our necks uselessly in attempts to discover some hole inside the oven through which mice could have entered. although for several days i'd been seeing these little streaks of grey whizzing past my feet from the corner of my eye, i hardly expected them to be so clever. we had spent over 2 hours on that cake. keziah and i gave each other a look that indicated that we both knew what had to be done. we carefully cut away the section bearing any evidence of footprints, tossing it out in the compost pile in the shamba, and ate the remainder after dinner. c'est la vie. the following day i sat sweating, fussily trying to keep my linen outfit from wrinkling, sighing heavily in a stationary matatu bound for shikokho. the driver was waiting to fill the vehicle before departing, thus maximizing his profit. i had been unlucky, just missing the last departing vehicle, noting with dismay that i was the first person seated on the 20-person bus. it would be over an hour before we would leave. i picked a semi-shaded seat by the window and occupied myself by examining the rap-star bumper stickers that decorated the inside of the bus's shell. GOD IS ABLE was carefully stenciled across the front windows beside a fading photo sticker of a thuggish young man in a wifebeater. a newspaper vendor, still duly clad in his daily nation red jacket despite the sweltering heat, approached the window and held up the day's issue. Somalia leader meets Kibaki over crisis. a color photo of the kenyan president locked in a handshake with president abdullahi yusuf dominated the front page. i handed over 35 shillings and skimmed across the other front-page items. Private schools involved in KCPE irregularities; Experts to join war on fever; Fake sales scandal unearthed at Sony Sugar Company. at the very bottom, in the left-hand corner, a small headline jumped out at me. 140 suspected sorcerers killed in last one year. "More than 140 people have been killed in Kilifi [near mombasa, on the coast] on suspicion of being either witches or wizards. The high number has alarmed the police as many were killed by relatives. Most of the victims were aged 50 and above, said district police officer Shariff Abdallah." that night at dinner, i looked up from my steaming plate of rice and ndengu (lentils), remembering, and said to keziah, "do you know what i read today?" she looked at me inquiringly. dadi and valerie noisily slurped up bits of rice from their plates. "i read in the paper that over 140 people have been killed in kilifi by people who thought they were witches!" i said, the pitch of my voice rising towards the end of the sentence to indicate my incredulity. she looked at me interestedly, wide-eyed, shaking her head. "can you believe that?!" i said. "no," she said, swallowing, "so many people." there was a moment of silence as i took another bite. "you know," she said, looking up, "we had one in my village, but it was lucky that he already died." i stopped chewing. "keziah." she continued, eager to tell me about the local sorcerer, "he had two snakes that he trained to swim in water. one wore a necktie and the other wore necklaces. he kept them in a bush by the river." "keziah." "when you bought things from him, your change would disappear. you would put it in your pocket and take it home, but then you would never find it again." "keziah!" finally she stopped. "did you actually see all these things happening?" she looked at me earnestly. "i saw the snakes swimming in the river one day." my curiosity got the better of me. "how did the necklaces even stay on the snake? didn't they just slide off?" she shrugged, seemingly surrendering any logistical doubts to the presence of black magic. "who told you he was a sorcerer?" "the other villagers did when my family moved there." there was a long pause as we looked at each other. "have you ever heard of the salem witch trials?" she hadn't. i realized that she was as right to herself as i was to myself. i was infinitely glad that this old man had died of natural causes before mob of incited villagers had beat down his door in the night with machetes, which is what happened to many of those 140 in kilifi. i changed the subject. 2007. a new year, new responsibilities, new joys, new terrors. as i settle into my work and find comfort in my now-familiar surroundings, i have constantly to remind myself not to forget the turmoil which lingers all around. corruption in private schools has enraged the nation as unfair tactics during national exams are exposed; the somalian border churns with the influx of ousted islamist soldiers seeking refuge in kenya; over 50 people have so far died from the rift valley fever tearing across the north eastern and coast provinces following the unrelenting floods which have plagued the nation over the past months. probably better not to get too comfortable. strange that this place is beginning to feel like a home, of sorts.
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