Kenya Diary - Part Four

Thursday, June 8, 2006

Classes proceeded normally today, except for a section entitled “Pastoral Reflection” at the end of the day. The title was somewhat misleading, but the activity itself was quite informative. Two of the course sections were charged with giving short skits illustrating problems in Kenyan society today.

The first presented a couple with a new baby in a hospital. First, some younger friends come to visit, and are told that the baby has been named “Alexander.” They compliment the name, wish the couple well and depart after a time. Next, the grandparents and another elder visit and are very upset that they were not consulted about the name, which should be taken from their lineage after consideration and an opportunity for the Ancestors to make known which name the child should have. Ultimately, they insist that the child’s name must be changed, and they depart. The couple is then left with a difficult problem, as the child has already been given the name Alexander in official records, and the father prefers that name.

Naming patterns are extremely important in traditional African societies, for it is by the means of naming that Ancestors are able to continue their existence (nominal reincarnation). In East Africa, most have been also given European Christian names at the time of their baptism, generally with the instruction that they must take the name of a saint when they are baptized (and in extreme cases, baptism may be withheld until they agree). For some generations now, these names have been added to the traditional practices, so that there are Western Christian names represented in multiple generations of a lineage, but there is definitely controversy as to whether or not these Western names should be dropped in a return to purely African practice. Conversely, some Africans still wish to identify with the West with respect to perceptions of wealth and material success, and choose to abandon their traditional names, often to the great frustration and sorrow of their families. While no real consensus was reached on the question of which is the superior path, it was generally agreed that both systems could work together, with Western names grafted on to traditional naming formulas, but that individuals should be able to decide what is best for their situation.

The second skit presented the issue of land rights, which is an extremely sensitive subject. The British Colonial Administration in Kenya moved peoples off ancestral land, appropriated vast tracts, and devoted many areas to the growing of cash crops. When the British left, in many cases, large estates were simply turned over to the leaders of the independence movement, who never returned or redistributed it. Thus, there is the perception that the Kenyan government leaders are no better than the Colonial Administration, and are, in fact, simply operating on the same principles.

Specifically, the skit presented a rich British man (title and all) coming into a tribal chief’s office and offering a large sum of money for a tract of land (one that he wished to fence off for a private ranch, saying “… and I don’t want the natives running around on my property”). The chief was very compliant, but said that he had to talk to the tribal elders, and that some more money would help to “mobilize” them. When a price was agreed, the chief went to the elders, presented the land deal in the most positive light. On a split vote the elders decided against the sale.

Immediately, the chief informed the British aristocrat that the sale was approved, and that he should meet with the elders. Only those who agreed with the sale came to the meeting, and while the deal was being finalized, the other elders angrily burst into the chief’s office (end of skit).

The matter of land rights is thorny, to say the least. In Kenya, at least some of the land is held as communal land for the Maasai, but in other areas, especially Central Province where the British carved up much of the territory, historical wrongs continue to go unaddressed, with very large tracts of land owned by somebody (usually a crony of a powerful politician), but not under cultivation and cut off from use by those who had occupied it ancestrally.

Land tenure is a powder keg in Kenya. Eventually, somebody will light the fuse, and if this happens, it will be a serious, and probably bloody, mess. The government should, if for no other reason than its own self-preservation, begin the process of dealing with the issue immediately in a manner that avoids favoritism toward certain ethnic groups (e.g. Kikuyu, Kalenjin) over others who have been marginalized (e.g., Luo). Unfortunately, one of the most enduring lessons of the wazungu (white people) is that of greed and the desire for personal gain at the expense of the community.

Following the skits, we broke up into four randomly-selected groups for discussion, and then returned for designed spokespeople to give reports from the groups. The currents of the conversations in the four groups must have been remarkably similar, considering the content of the brief reports. I came away from this session earnestly wishing that the Kenyans in the MIASMU program were running the government here. Perhaps, one day, some of them will.

The conversations, especially about land rights, continued on the school bus back to town, and the ride was longer than usual owing some inexplicable traffic jams along the route, forcing the driver to take back streets (the bumps were pretty intense). There is even a sense that revolution is possible if the problem persists long enough, and the issue of food security and supply is, in some ways, tied up with the matter of land rights as well. Certainly, depriving people of food and the means to make even a subsistence living can, and has, motivated peoples to revolt in the past.

Corruption at all levels of government siphons off precious funds in an economy that cannot spare them. Indeed, if the money allocated for various projects actually went into completing them, Kenya’s infrastructure and economy would be in a far better condition. Sadly, many politicians and officials see access to government resources as a way to line their own pockets, and they have become fat feeding at this trough. Clearly, temptation will always cause some to falter, but the proportion of those skimming funds here is almost unimaginable in the West. Some of this stems from prior regimes’ use of imprisonment of political opponents, and even torture. The people have become convinced that one cannot oppose the government, but that will change if the conversations of young Kenyans I’ve heard are any indication.

Corruption and waste are also major impediments to raising funds to assist African countries. There is a pervasive view in the West that funds sent to African simply disappear into the pockets of corrupt politicians, and never arrive at their designated projects or sites. This is not entirely true, but it can easily happen if one is not careful about how money is transferred and to whom. Simply throwing money at Africa without any follow-up or accounting will actually only make the problem worse. However, providing resources for leaders who have proven their credibility and organizations who keep overhead to a minimum and devote most of their funds to actual aid activity can make a significant different in people’s lives here.

Ultimately, if the West is to help Africa, it must get to know Africa. We cannot simply remain unengaged and uninterested, occasionally sending aid to countries or donating to charities and trusting that they will “take care of it.” This will not suffice. Unless Western nations forge closer ties with African countries, hold them to account financially, and demand that oppression and violations of human rights be addressed in order to receive aid, the situation will continue. Giving money to assuage a vague sense of guilt for our affluence is both intellectually lazy and utterly pointless.

I am not suggesting that the West should lament its affluence. Indeed, guilt is a terrible motivation for doing anything, and it is a poor substitute for genuine interest and caring. Westerners have, in many respects, earned their affluence, and it has come at a price. However, with affluence comes responsibility. I am emphatically not talking about the so-called “white man’s burden.” Color, in fact, has nothing to do with it. American conservatives are fond of stating that the United States is a “Christian nation.” While this may be debated, if this is their view, then as Christians they should seek to use their resources to assist those in the international community that are less fortunate. This is not a matter of superiority (as some cultures have tried to make it), but rather it is an aspect of community. If we are to coexist on this planet in a community of nations, we must value all members of that community, and we must assist all who wish to live peacefully together to succeed.

(7:39 p.m.)


Wednesday, June 14, 2006

I have much catching up to do on this diary! First, I must relate the saga of journeying to the tiny village of Nyatuoro in the North Kadem area of South Nyanza – Maurice’s home. The trip proved more challenging than I had imagined. First, we left Flora Hostel at 5:30 p.m. on Friday evening, June 9th. We got on a matatu headed for the city center, and immediately were stuck in a traffic jam. So, we decided to get out and walk. 45 min. later, we were at the location where the “public” busses stop in central Nairobi.

A word of explanation: There are two kinds of long-range bus in Kenya. The more expensive (usually) kind, requiring advance tickets is called Akamba. These tend to go on smoother routes when possible. The other kind is simply called a “public bus” which can be of more or less any size, from 14 passengers to 60. These stop at a street corner in the eastern part of downtown that is not marked – you just have to know where it is, and they simply put out signs with their destinations. You purchase a ticket, which may vary in price according to demand, and then you go whenever the bus is full or nearly full. This latter kind was the type Maurice and I were to take.

By this time it was 6:15 p.m., and the “normal” time for departure, Maurice said, was about 7:00 p.m. However, as we waited, no busses with the destination “Karungu Bay” appeared. We saw one for Homa Bay, which was an unattractive 2nd option that would add about 3 total hours to the journey, and many for places even less helpful (especially Oyugis). Time passed, and as we walked up and down the dirt stretch of street, occasionally men would approach us to either try to sell us tickets for somewhere we didn’t want to go, or else just to ask why a white man was in this part of town after dark (I was beginning to wonder that myself). This uneasy situation continued for some time, until finally Maurice made the decision that we would go to Homa Bay if a bus arrived with that destination first. A bit before 8:30 p.m., one finally did, and we boarded (not a particularly orderly affair) and paid the much higher-than-average KSh 700 each for tickets (Maurice was convinced that this was part of a plan to jack up prices, which might well be the case).

We sat on the bus for what seemed like an eternity (probably some 35 min.) while hawkers rapped on the windows of the bus trying to sell bottled water, watches, radios, flashlights, snacks, handkerchiefs, and all manner of other small items, while yet other hawkers boarded the bus itself and squeezed themselves up and down the impossibly small aisle. After they were cleared from the bus (and this was not done hurriedly), we left the “depot” and headed into the city center.

At this point, I thought we were on our way. I was mistaken. After driving around and being caught in a traffic jam for a few minutes, the driver abruptly turned around and drove back to a service bay we had passed, and the bus had the oil changed while we were on it (well, some people got off). The air filter was also cleaned (they apparently don’t change them if they can help it, but blow compressed air through the filter making it semi-clean), and then there was some trouble starting the bus – cold oil does not help a diesel engine start. So, the bus was pushed back and then forward and the clutch popped to try to start it – about 7 times. Finally, it was running, and those outside boarded. We were on our way!

Almost. On the way out of Nairobi, we stopped again at a filling station. But, as fate would have it, it was closed, so we exited, turned back toward Nairobi, stopped at an open station, and they filled up with diesel. By now it was after 10:00 p.m. After this, we were finally headed out of Nairobi.

To say that the roads were bad would be the most ridiculous understatement. Particularly horrible was the stretch in the Great Rift Valley between Narok and Bomet. It was dark, and therefore impossible to see the road conditions, but one can only imagine. There were several occasions where the bus bounced so violently that I flew up in the air and was jerked back down by the lap belt I was (thankfully) wearing. Needless to say, there was very little opportunity to sleep. From Bomet, things got a bit better through Sotik and Kisii, over to Rongo, but the road from Rongo to Homa Bay was again quite rough.

We arrived in Homa Bay about 6:00 a.m. and hand to take a matatu from there to Karungu Bay, some 48 km to the south (where we would have gone directly had a bus been available). This took until about 7:30 a.m. (and included retracing part of the bad road to Rongo). At Karungu Bay, we stopped for a bit, bought some fresh fish (which would come to haunt me) and sugar for Maurice’s mother. I took some photographs fo the village and the beautiful bay on Lake Victoria.

From Karungu Bay, we then took a car (shared taxi on a fixed route – basically a matatu in car form) to a small crossroads called Onger (no signs), where the car turned right, but we needed to go left. At this point, the next step down in transportation available to us was the “boda boda.” These bicycle taxis got their name for making the run across the “border” from Kenya to Uganda, but are actually called “nguare” in the local language of Luo. We hired three of these (one of the bags and one for each of us) and were off.

It was about another 4 km to Nyatuoro. Of course one only rides on a “boda boda” downhill or on the level. When a significant uphill stretch is reached, the driver calls out “pole, pole” (“sorry, sorry” in Kiswahili) and you walk. We had three such “pole, pole” incidents before reaching Maurice’s tiny home village of Nyatuoro, the center of which consisted of some seven buildings and a well. There is no electricity around for kilometers, nor running water in any homes in this region.

The countryside is quite beautiful – almost entirely undeveloped. Nyanza is the poorest of the Kenyan provinces, and though it manages to elect political leaders that could wield some power and influence, for some reason they have always failed them. Life is astoundingly difficult for the people here, with most eking out a living through subsistence farming and raising of livestock. There is no industry, no infrastructure, marginal access to education, and not much hope for better prospects for the rural people. Paradoxically, there is GSM mobile phone service, but I do not know who, apart from visitors, would have phones (or a place to charge them).

Maurice’s family home, just past the main village, consists of his father’s house, what remains of his elder brother’s house (recently destroyed by fire), his house, and his younger brother’s house, plus a partially-completed workshop building, a metal machine shed that houses a presently inoperative diesel milling machine, and a small tin outhouse (squatting only). In truth, this is a fairly extensive compound in this area, on good land with an excellent view of the surrounding countryside. Maurice’s father chose a fine spot when he moved the family here from nearer the lake in Maurice’s youth. The buildings are generally wooden frame with mud plaster filling and finish, painted, with tin roofs. The tin has slowly replaced thatch as roofing for its waterproof quality, but it is inferior to thatch in repelling the heat in a climate measurably hotter than Nairobi.

Upon arrival, we rested at Maurice’s house. I was extremely tired, but greeted all the family members (father, mother, elder brother, sister, various nieces and nephews, and Maurice’s wife, Martina, who had come from the district where she teaches to meet us the day before). While resting, I was a bit alarmed by two very large black wasps flying around, but was assured that these were not dangerous (they looked dangerous to me, but I did my best to disregard them). At one point, Maurice’s older brother looked up where one of the walls met the ceiling and said something in Luo, fetched a glass of paraffin oil (used for lamps), moved a couch, and then splashed the oil at the junction of wall and roof. Immediately a thin, orangey snake fled across the top of the wall and down into another crevasse. The general agreement was that the oil would eventually kill it, so no need to chase it further. “That one is not dangerous – the black ones, THEY are dangerous.”

Upon Maurice’s arrival, there was a more or less constant procession of relatives giving him the latest news, seeking his opinion, and generally complaining about things. As the only child to be educated, and the only one attempting to find work in Nairobi, Maurice has assumed a role beyond that traditionally held by a younger son. He is expected to fix various things and make right what goes wrong in his absence – a difficult task when one has limited means, six children of his own and a wife, plus his own expenses for a modest place in Nairobi.

I interviewed Maurice’s father, Pius Opiyo, about his memory of traditional music and his experiences of music in the church, as well as the various missionaries in the region and their differing levels of tolerance of traditional forms of expression in worship. He proved a fascinating subject, and seemed eager to relate his memories and perceptions. As he does not speak English, Maurice translanted.

At 3pm, we had a late lunch of fried and boiled fish, rice, ugali and potatoes. I ate a bit of the ugali, rice and fried fish. This, I believe, was my undoing, but more about that later. In this rather traditional setting (entertaining the ‘honored guest’), the men are seated and served by the women, who do not eat with them. I found that a bit strange culturally. The food was tasty, and the only annoyance of eating outside was the congregation of animals (chickens, cats, dog, goats) constantly attempting to edge in for a scrap. The men of the family had no hesitation in smacking them quite hard with a stick if they came too close.

Following this lunch, we borrowed a car (the only one in the village) to visit a nearby archaeological site I had read about – Thimlich Ohinga. It was described as a 15th-century stone enclosure that mimics a traditional Luo homestead, but on a larger scale. The scale, actually, is vast. The main enclosure is some 300m across, with many smaller houses within it, as well as livestock pens, a forge for smelting iron, and even what is surmised to be a form of athletic playing field. I was amazed that this place was not presented as a national treasure, with a paved road providing access and a small western-style tourist hotel provided for accommodation. This single monument clearly refutes the notion that there were no builders of great buildings in Sub-Saharan African before colonization. Seriously, this thing should be on the 1,000 shilling bank note instead of Jomo Kenyatta.

That night, my stomach began to become unstable, so that by dinner time (8:30 p.m.), I was able only to eat half of a small boiled potato. I soon retired for the night in a bed (with an actual frame) they had fashioned for me in the sitting room of the house of Maurice’s younger brother (he and his wife and two children slept in the other room). Although there was no pillow, they had set out a mattress with sheets and a blanket, and had also set up a mosquito net. Given the challenges of the surroundings, it was clear that they had gone to some significant trouble to make me comfortable – including bringing a basin of warm water at bed time so that I could wash outside (complete with wooden folding chair – I had brought soap and towel). I settled in to sleep, thoroughly exhausted, setting my watch alarm for 5:00 a.m.

I awoke at 5:00 a.m. to the alarm, went outside (still quite dark with a full moon on the horizon), and shaved, washed my face, and brushed my teeth using the remainder of my bottled water. After dressing and repacking my things, I thanked Maurice’s brother for his hospitality, and he walked me back to Maurice’s house. By this time it was nearly 6:00 a.m., and the “village car” was to come at 6:15. The owner had sent his son to give us a ride to Karungu Bay in exchange for fuel money.

The ride to Karungu Bay was not bad. The matatu ride to Homa Bay was more problematic – slow, very bumpy, and before arriving, the driver abruptly stopped at a crossroads and told us all to get off! No explanation was given (perhaps his license was invalid, making a trip into town risky?). So, from there, we had to find another small matatu, and this one had its own problems, including getting stopped and cited by the police (in spite of an attempted charade of being out of fuel with the overload passengers jumping off to push). After getting into Homa Bay, it was a 3-person (carrying 5) 3-wheel taxi to the cathedral.

At the Mass in Homa Bay, I saw the same vibrancy observed in Nairobi at Holy Family Basilica. In fact, the were using the same Kiswahili Mass parts (Gloria, Sanctus, etc.). The service presented a mixture of Luo, Kiswahili, and even a bit of English in the sermon. At the offertory, a group of girls performed a dance in traditional Luo costume (skirts of long dried plant fibers, dyed purple at the ends). The Mass itself lasted nearly two hours. I was honestly amazed by the quality of the singing by the choir of about 30 (half the normal number, I was told) - strong, resonant, well-blended. Drums and other percussion (including tambourine) were incorporated, and the music was clearly connecting with the congregation most effectively. From my perspective as a foreigner, I would never have expected such wonderful sounds and such care in vocal training and fine singing in such a remote place.

Following the Mass, I interviewed the two co-choirmasters about their techniques and backgrounds, as well as their working relationship with the clergy. They revealed that only they read music, and thus teach every part to the choir by rote, working from song books. In teaching each phrase one at a time, they are able to address production issues, vowel formation, and the overall tone of each section's sound, which contributes greatly to the choir's beautiful, unified singing.

Following my interview of the choirmasters, Martina got a taxi for us, as I was feeling increasingly sick, and we went to the “Tourist Hotel” on the lake shore – an adequate place by Western standards – for refreshment. It was here that my digestive system completely rebelled, beginning with diarrhea, with vomiting soon following that – it was fortunate that I was sitting outdoors when that happened. We stayed a bit longer than intended, but I managed to get myself settled down enough to travel a bit, thinking the worst was over.

Considering my stomach, Maurice and Martina decided to keep the taxi to transport us to where she lives with the children – on the grounds of the school where she teaches, not too far from Homa Bay. We arrived there about 4:00 p.m., and I met Maurice’s children, plus those that are staying with his wife (not unusual for nieces/nephews whose parents cannot care for them, etc.). The houses at the school were similar to the ones of Maurice’s homestead – very basic accommodations. Maurice and Martina have beautiful children, and I wish that I had been feeling better and spent more time with them.

Maurice then took me to the home of the parish priest, Fr. Charles, who put me up in his guest room. This was an absolute mercy, because by that time, I was deeply in the throes of food poisoning, with fever, chills, and severe gastric disturbance. I was resting in the guest room by 4:30 p.m., and awoke about 7:00 p.m. to ask for the mosquito net that was earlier being washed. My perception of time was wildly off, and when somebody woke me to check on my in what I thought was the middle of the night, it was about 8:00 p.m. I then checked my temperature, and was disturbed to read 102.9 F. I took some naproxen sodium tablets (Aleve) and brought the fever down. I am very fortunate to have taken those with me!

There was fortunately a bathroom off the guest room, of which I made frequent use in the night. At one point, there was a very heavy thunderstorm, and I realized that the window I slept next to had no “window,” but only a metal grate and a shade, which blew in with the wind and rain fell over me. I was too exhausted to do much about it, and chose to ignore it. I woke up about every two hours, and checked my temperature, which remained controlled.

At 4:30 a.m. I got up, washed, brushed my teeth, and got dressed. I packed my bag and sat out in the living room, where Fr. Charles appeared momentarily, asking if I had been waiting long. He asked how I felt, and I said (lying) a bit better. I had just taken 3 naproxen and my remaining 2 immodium hoping to survive the trip back to Nairobi. The priest had a 4WD truck which got us out of his extremely muddy road, to the main road where Maurice was waiting about 5:50 a.m. We then went to Kendu Bay, but the bus we were to take had already left, so after taking fuel, we went on to Oyugis, where we caught the bus. The road back was not as bad (or as long) as the ride out, but the stretch between Nakuru and Naivasha is still very bad. All of this was amplified by my very bad stomach and sore system generally. In spite of the heat, I still occasionally had chills. It was a very special form of torture.

We arrived in Nairobi about 4:30 p.m., and took at taxi to Flora (I strongly suggested this to Maurice), arriving there about 4:45. I crawled into bed, continuing to fight fever, which went to 103.8 F that night at one point before I got it back down again, and more chills.

Tuesday morning (June 13), Maurice called, and I agreed that I should see the doctor. We went to Dr. Rajan Kaushal in Westlands (about 15 min. by taxi), who has a good relationship with Tangaza. He saw me about 12:30 p.m., and by 1:00 p.m. I was taking the first doses of Immodium (again), Buscopan, and Tetracycline. I slept most of the day and evening, but was by dinner able to have some soup and a few small potatoes.

Wednesday morning (June 14) looked much better, and I ate more for breakfast. I was able to attend class with no major difficulties, and so today seemed relatively uneventful as we began the final week of class. My only great concern is that I am now far behind on my paper, but I will work hard tonight to catch up on this. All in all, this weekend was perhaps more of an adventure than anticipated. Even with the food poisoning, there was much to remember and treasure about the visit to Nyanza.

(9:04 p.m.)