Hangzhao – Escape from Shanghai

Saturday morning, I joined a colleague from Boston on an impromptu daytrip out to Hangzhao, a pretty city on a lake about 1.5 hours on the high speed train outside Shanghai. Getting down to the hotel lobby 20 minutes after his text, we raced to Shanghai South station. At the station, we faced a ridiculous line that made sure we missed our train. Given the options of the 12:10 PM slow train (standing only) and the 1 PM fast train, we made the somewhat dubious call of taking the earlier train. This ensured that we would spend the next three hours in stolen seats (we found two after being kicked out of multiple pre-reserved ones) watching the countryside go by at various speeds (read: sat in one place for an hour) and snacking on random Chinese junk food – peanuts, dried plum things, and squash seeds.

Finally arriving in Hangzhao, we picked up our guide for the day, a recent college grad teaching English there who my colleague had met on the plane ride over (having gone to the same college as my sister, he said he’d heard of her – Baby B., what HAVE you been up to?). The city is quite large (6M people) and under construction – the ride in from the city was full of half complete skyscrapers. Having had our fill of big buildings in Shanghai, we decided to head straight for the lake and the Buddhist temples surrounding it.

Masses of people and closed roads foiled our easy getaway. Apparently it was festival weekend in Hangzhao. The city had bought a ton of fireworks for the 60^th anniversary, but had been forced to move the display date after the government decreed only Beijing could have a fireworks display on China's birthday. As a result, the normally bucolic lake setting – a truly beautiful, misty expanse with the city on one side stretching out to green, temple-dotted mountains, was thronged with holidaying Chinese. Our attempts to get out to the island in the middle of the lake came to naught, as did our attempts to climb a hill for a great photo-op. Instead, we wandered through back alleys, munching on street corn-on-the-cob and enjoying the feeling of being out of the city and the ex-pat bubble.

After we had our fill of strolling past street meat sellers and secluded stone villas, we hopped on the last bus up to Linyin (sp?) temple, a pretty oasis of paved paths, temple buildings, and souvenoir shops up in the mountain. Of course, like everything else in Hangzhao that day, it closed early, so we only had time to snap the obligatory shot outside the closing gate (literally). Still, it was beautiful and zen (yes, I know, wrong religion) to walk among the quiet trees and laugh at the ridiculous Chinglish of the signs (Reak of the Far Away Place was one highlight).

Given our difficullty in getting around, our host had the foresight to arrange a “guy with a van” to pick us up and drive us to Green Tea House, a rambling, half-outdoors restaurant complex with some of the best food I’ve had here to date. We feasted on barbequed, cumin-dusted mutton and chicken, salted greens and chili potatoes, washed down with lemonade and cold beer, and followed by peanut butter ice cream. Then back into our van to take a super-secret James Bond-esque path through the backroads to get close to the lake for some spectacular fireworks.

Full confession – I am not a huge fireworks fan. It’s all very pretty, but its kinda like Ballet for me – I don’t know enough to appreciate the technicality and I get bored if there are no words in a story. Still, the experience of running through thousands of Chinese, getting tickets to the special viewing area (randomly, for free) and watching millions worth of fireworks blow up into smiley faces, hearts and all sorts of colored sparks, was a pretty serious reminder of how cool unplanned travel can be.

Pretending to be chic in Shanghai

In terms of fun experiences, my week in Brussels was kind of a bust. The first few days we struggled to find decent food that didn’t involve too much time wandering on wet cobblestone. With the exception of one notable meal of moules frites, the city wasn’t living up to its culinary reputation. And then, my weekend of not feeling my best, in which the worse things that I could possibly eat were fried things (frites) sweet things ( waffles and chocolate) and alcohol (beer), effectively prevented me from taking advantage of the city. Although I did bring lots of chocolate with me to live in my hotel mini bar…

Shanghai has been completely different, and way too much fun for work (don’t tell PD). We’ve been working hard and getting a lot done, but have had lots of time to explore. I’m staying in the Westin on the Bund, the very western area on the banks of the river in Puxi, and working in Xintiandi, an even more Western area of the city, filled with office buildings and malls and artificial lakes. Having a quick lunch of paninis from a French bakery on a marble patio at a table we commandeered from the Starbucks…not very Chinese.

Quick sandwiches aside, the food has been very good. I’m loving Din Tai Fung, the upscale Taiwanese dim sum chain that specializes in soup dumplings, as well as all the other random Chinese places where we order by pointing – stand outs have been all the fresh fish and stir-fried veggies, and this cool kumquat tea (the tea in general is super yummy and MUCH better than the coffee).

The city itself has a great feel – it’s like New York but 1.5x the size and scale. The skyscrapers tower over the pristine white stone of the business and tourist districts. The skyline, seen from the bar at the Park Hyatt on the 91^st floor of one of the tallest buildings in the world, or from the roof deck of THE expat bar, Bar Rouge, is one of the most breathtaking I’ve ever seen – overlooking the river, it’s as if New York, Paris, Chicago and Disneyworld had a baby that is now twice the size of it’s parents and stays up past its bedtime (and mine!).

Shanghai is also very easy to navigate, even without any knowledge of Chinese beyond “ni hao” and “xiexie.” The cabs are super cheap, and you just give the cabbies a piece of paper with your desired address in characters, or call the “magic number”, a call center set up to translate between drivers and passengers in advance of Expo 2010. According to some folks we met, the magic number also helps with things as varied as dry cleaning and bar recommendations…

It’s also a great place to be an expat – prices are not as cheap as expected if you go to the more western places (food/cabs on par with Nairobi, and drinks on par with Boston), but being foreign here guarantees you automatic admission to the club. You’re twice as cool here as you would be where you are from, so at least you feel really chic while paying $10 for a cocktail.

This weekend we got a chance to explore the city, going to Chabad Friday night and then out to a jazz club in the French Concession and a dance club on the Bund. Saturday we went wandering through an art district, in and out of little shops selling everything from communist propaganda to eco-friendly home goods. The highlight of this was a three story “Art supermarket” with tons of small artist studios selling work ranging from the faux-impressionist to the genuinely interesting. Saturday night was the expat bar scene…If New York men wear “hunting blazers” and Boston bros party in “stripey shirts,” the Shanghai signature look is the extra unbuttoned button on the shirt…eeek.

Sunday was the fabric market and the dizzying array of custom-made clothes (getting a blazer and a shirt, think I’m going to add 1-2 coats, a suit, and more shirts). More online research will need to be done here – all the cashmere and wool starts to feel the same after awhile. Then massages to round out a tiring weekend and get us ready for the work week ahead…

Blogging from Brussels...

I stopped blogging about two weeks before I left Kenya, somewhat out of laziness and somewhat out of fatigue. I left out the descriptions of “Gucci” camping in the Mara, lazy beach walks and tribal cats in Lamu and field visits to farmers and processing plants (complete with white coats and lunch lady hats). The past month, I’ve found adjusting back to life in the US surprisingly harder than I expected – the big, crowded US with loud masses can be quite jarring after the dirt sidewalks, low buildings and relatively empty malls of Nairobi. Standing under the big board at the LIRR terminal in Penn Station, it was clear I wasn’t in Africa any more.

But I have enjoyed seeing my friends and family, settling back into my apartment and my big new room, and doing all my favorite fall in New England activities. Cheese at Formaggio, walking up and down Newbury street, dancing at Phoenix landing - all things I missed.

So of course, having settled back into a routine, I jumped at the chance to leave again (apparently I like jet lag?). Today finds me in Brussels, already well aware of the perks of working for the Firm versus the NGO (Lufthansa lounge showers in Frankfurt – lifesaving). Hopefully I’ll get to explore beyond the cab and client this weekend – we’re off to a good start on the list of amusing travel stories, since my cab got stuck beyond a parade of tractors protesting something this morning. Disadvantages of being the capital of Europe…

Itinerary

I am super-behind on blog posts and will get around to writing up our weekend spent "Gucci Camping" in the Mara very very soon. In the meantime, my ridiculous itinerary for the next month

8/21-8/24 - Lamu
8/24-8/26 - Nairobbery
8/27-8/30 - Pdubs
8/31 - 9/2 (ish) - Boston
9/3 -9/7 (ish)- Southold
9/8 onwards - Real Life

Meet the Parents

I have a history of interesting settings for parental introductions (see: Sophomore Summer roommate, JTA, 78 Comm, etc). This past Friday night, however, probably took the prize as the most unique “meet the parents” experience I’ve ever had.

S., the former Italian BA and wannabe race car driver (judging by his ability to navigate the streets of Nairobi) of last weekend’s adventures, is here working for a Kenyan-run energy start-up. His boss, J., a Kenyan, American-educated entrepreneur, had invited Stefano and his friends to dinner at his parents' homestead in Juja, about an hour outside Nairobi on the Thika Road.

S. and I were the only ones game enough to make it, so we obligingly piled into S.’s rented SUV for the drive out. We took a number of backroads to avoid traffic, driving through Gigiri, home to the UN and a bunch of embassies. It is very pretty and hilly up there, and quite secure. We also drove by the US Embassy, a somewhat eerie thing to do to on Aug 7, the anniversary of the 1998 bombing. Gradually, the road gave way to the flat rolling landscape of the area outside Nairobi and to seas of coffee trees swaying gently as we whizzed down the well-paved road.

Our first inkling that we had gotten ourselves into more than just dinner came as J. piped up from the back seat with two warnings: 1) When his parents entertain, they go all out and 2) There would be a heavy mix of religion and tradition. S. and I shrugged our shoulders and went back to planning the transformation of the Thika road into a Napa Valley for coffee. In retrospect, we should have asked exactly what those warnings might entail.

J.’s parents lived in a “university town” near Jomo Kenyatta University (not to be confused with Kenyatta University) in a complex with animals, gardens, and a sprawling stone house. We entered the stone house to find a huge living room filled with chairs and people. The décor was interesting – primarily photos of the sons of the house in their graduation robes interspersed with Christian iconography. We made the rounds of the room, introducing ourselves and shaking hands all around. Then it was girls to one side and boys to the other, as we made small talk with the laughing inhabitants of the room, thoroughly amused by these mzungos eagerly asking questions.

Next, we were summoned out to see the pigs and cows in the fading twilight – big, hulking animals whose sale J. said had helped his parents, both teachers, pay for him to go to America for school. After this we were taken to see the goat being slaughtered – a pronouncement at which the survivors of the great Masai Mara goat roast exchanged looks of “not again”. Mercifully, however, the butchering was complete and it was just a matter of shaking hands with the cooks.

When we got back to the house, the living room was almost full – probably 30-40 people – and S. and I squeezed into plastic lawn chairs against the wall. At the front of the room, the dining room table had been transformed into an altar, complete with communion cup, wafers, and be-robed priest. J.’s warning that there would be religion translated as a full Kikuyu mass!

Now, S. is an Italian living in CA, which means his Catholicism is somewhat lapsed, and I’m
used to Friday night services in another incomprehensible language. We were both quite nervous about what our participation would entail – my Religion major hadn’t covered who is and isn’t expected to take communion when at a home service in Africa. However, our hosts were entirely gracious, expecting nothing more from us than an appreciation of the beauty of the worship and enthusiastic clapping during the hymns. And the service was beautiful, and heartfelt. We couldn’t understand anything that was said, but it was easy to decipher the tone behind everything – the priest’s joking sermon, the hopeful words of the hymns, and the prayers for the well-being of the youth of the community (okay, the last ones were in English). Even the melodies were familiar – about halfway through the service, I found myself substituting Hebrew for Kikuyu in my head. I had to resist saying “Shabbat Shalom” to the peoplewho kept wishing me peace and blessings at the end of the service.

We then segued into the traditional part of the evening, with a classic Kenyan meal of starch, starch, some vegetables, and more starch. The goat was nowhere to be seen, which should have been a warning. We were contentedly finishing up our first plates when J. summoned us to chairs in the middle of the room for the ritual presentation of the meat. Out came a huge metal platter containing a leg, a liver, some sausage, the small intestine and a stuffed stomach. The gentleman responsible for the ceremony brandished a hunting knife and explained the meaning of each part. The stomach had been stuffed with a bit of meat from each part of the goat, and then roasted, to represent that no one part of the animal – or one person – could work alone. He had S. cut into the stomach and give him a large piece, and then cut a smaller piece for me.

I have a relatively strong stomach and an adventurous appetite, but had been somewhat traumatized by the smell and taste of the poor goat killed in front of us in the Mara. Furthermore, while I enthusiastically scarf down foie gras and sweetbreads, when eating offal I like to know what exactly I am putting in my stomach. Still, I managed to get down a bit of the roast mess – Kenyan Haggis – if you will, and was mercifully spared goat liver (I got to eat sausage instead). Then it was our job to distribute the choice bits of goat to a laughing, amused crowd who were clearly having fun at the expense of these slightly blindsided American guests (did I mention that the ENTIRE evening was video-taped and that there will be a DVD available apparently?).

The festivities did not end there. Next out came a huge calabash filled with local beer – a potent concoction of sugar, honey, water and pineapple. The men’s drink, it fell to S. to distribute glasses of the stuff, which the brewers carefully tasted for purity (comforting) before sharing. I got away with a small taste – it was pretty darn potent.

But lest you think I got off easy, the women then brought out a calabash of porridge – a mix of flour, maize, millet and some other stuff that is fermented and served with sugar – sometimes. I got to shake it as the women yelped and then pour it into the ceremonial gourd for serving. I was informed that not only did I need to offer some to my partner (apparently men and women can’t just be friends, as the entire room assumed S. and I were a couple – not so.), but I had to kneel while doing so. This last commandment caused me a moment of knee jerk feminist ire – S. and I both work for the Firm at the same level. However, the German Nun from the local orphanage (Yes. This story includes nuns) urged me to do it for laughs. Somewhere on a camera in Kenya is a picture of me on bended knee laughing as I offer porridge to a bright red former BA.

The night wound down after that, notable only for some traditional kikuyu dancing (don’t worry – OF COURSE I got pulled into this and yes there are probably pictures) and some good conversation with younger cousins of the household about the differences between Kenya and the US.

Finally, well after my bedtime, the party was still going strong but it was time to race back into Nairobi. We somewhat laughingly informed our host in the car back that he could have warned us about what we would be facing. His excuse? “I invited you to dinner with my parents, and in Africa, my entire village raised me, so they are all my parents. So that’s why it was 40 people and all the ceremony.”

I buy that explanation. It was a wonderful and unique experience, and for all my embarrassment, I was made genuinely welcome by everyone involved. Probably the most real dinner I’ve had here, and a story that I will treasure – and tell at cocktail parties – for years to come.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I had to serve goat innards to a room full of Kenyan schoolteachers…”

School Daze

Service professions are service professions, regardless if they’re for the lucrative pay of the for-profit world or the more modest returns of the NGO space. One of the defining characteristics of a service role is that you are, at the end of the day, at the mercy of your clients. Given that fact, it is not a surprise that my life in Nairobi was all shook up when a main client shifted a major project deadline, throwing my work and travel schedules into disarray. I suddenly found myself with more time to do things like go into the field and sit in cafes writing blog posts instead of grad school applications (Believe it or not, the cafe:plug ratio is better here than in Boston).

Thursday morning, the temporarily unoccupied proposal team tagged along on a school visit with the Young Women in Enterprise program we had accompanied to the slums a couple weeks ago. Our destination was the outskirts of Nairobi, in a semi-rural area called Kikuyu that was home to many schools, but also had many pupils from the Kawangare slum. We were going to speak at a secondary school closing to recruit girls for the enterprise club starting the next term.

The school itself was behind gates up a long grassy road. As we drove in, we passed crowds of Form 1-4 (Grade 9-12) children loitering in grey pullovers, grey wool skirts and slacks, knee socks, and various uniform customizations. There were even a few headbands – Gossip Girl meets Nairobi (We recently purchased seasons 1 and 2 on pirated DVDs, so there may be references in future posts). The school itself was a number of low, cement buildings – no hallways with lockers, just manicured green areas between the strip mall-like layout of the school.

Our first stop was the principal’s office, usually the home of many student nightmares. Instead, we were met by a smiling, caring woman with amazing wedding cake curls for hair. She told us with great pride about the strides her school had made – improved academic performance, victories in national chorale contests (the girls choir had come in 4th in all of Kenya that morning) – and was enthusiastic about YWE’s role in the school next term. We also had a brief discussion about her trip to Delaware – she was most impressed by the roads and suspension bridges (strengthening my suspicion that it all comes down to infrastructure).

Next, we met members of the PTA who had come to school to prepare an end of term lunch for the teachers. They graciously invited us to partake as well after the closing ceremonies, but unfortunately (or not, since it was Nyoma Choma) we had to rush back to the office. We made small talk with them while we waited for the teachers to finish their report cards and assembly to begin.

Assembly took place in a big grassy space in front of a small podium. It began with a number of prayer songs and chants (NB: Mouthing the word “watermelon” silently is a great way to fake that you actually know the words to the Lord’s Prayer). Then came a presentation of end-of-term awards to the top students in each classes – a similar ritual the whole world round. The need for programs such as YWE was brought home by the ratio of girls receiving prizes to the boys, probably 1:4.

Finally, it was time for our presentation, as the two dynamic young men responsible for the program got up and rallied the kids in a mix of Swahili and English. There was a lot of enthusiasm for the program, and hopefully many students will join next term.

Our final stop before going back to the office was YWE’s Kawangare office to pick up some forms. Kawangare is a bit different from Mathere, the slum where we were last week. For starters, it is much less densely packed, and we were able to drive out car in. Secondly, it seemed a bit clearer – less sewage in the streets and less trash. We were only there for 5 minutes, but it was fascinating to see another version of the intense poverty that is common here – and the community that arises out of it.

Manhattan vs. Nairobi

Friend who shall not be named at 5:30 AM over bb gchat: Oh man I got a WASP cabbie. This is what happens when u walk the streets of manhattan at night. And he took a wrong turn

JFB: In Nairobi, if you get a cab at 5:30 AM, you better darn well know the driver and being going to the airport, otherwise a wrong turn is the least of your worries

Look! I’m a flamingo!

Our second lake of the weekend was Lake Bogoria, renowned for its birdlife and hot springs. We got there along the same road, turning off just below the town of Marigot. For a few hundred ksh we were able to enter the park without a map or guide. We didn’t see that much before stumbling onto the lake, a gorgeous blue expanse surrounded by mountains and dotted with flocks of pink flamingos. There was much debate in the first few KM about whether we’d be able to drive down to the lake itself and get out of the car, but we decided to keep on going to the hot springs and stop on the way back.

This turned out to be the right call, as we reached the hot springs and found many little turn off points where one could jump across rivulets of boiling water and run at the flamingos at the lake shore. I had changed into closed toed shoes by the point, which I promptly covered with mud jumping around. Still, the setting was breathtaking, as was the climate – cool wind from the lake being met by hot air from the springs (people were boiling eggs in the water). A modest lake in size, but quite alluring in terms of the bird life (we also got super close to some ostriches) and unique in the hot springs and mountains. Although our visit was short, it was definitely a step up in coolness from Baringo.

It started to rain as we danced around the pelicans, so we ran to the car to avoid muddy roads on the way back. We hit a bit of a storm, but still made it back to Nakuru by 6 PM. We did stop to buy honey on the road – a funny spectacle of 7 Masaai women swarming the car and pushing whiskey bottles full quite good and smoky, and makes a nice breakfast change from PB&J with yogurt or cereal.

We thought we would gamble when we reached Nakuru and see if we could buy 24 hour tickets to the game park and do an evening drive. Unfortunately, the tickets were only good for 24 continuous hours, so as our hotel was in the town, no dice. Furthermore, we had to buy our tickets before the morning game drive, meaning we would be at the mercy of the ticket window for our sunrise drive.

Instead of evening drive, we went for a tour around Nakuru as S. figured out how to park the car (an operation involving a hotel security guard, 2 rickshaw drives and the two of us not in the vehicle) in front of our serviceable hotel. Dinner was mediocre Chinese food (our hotel had a Chinese restaurant and was full of Asian tourists) before early to bed for our morning drive.

Sunday morning dawned too early, as we were at the park before 6. Of course, the ticket window person didn’t show up, so we watched the sunrise from the park gates (actually not horrible as we had a nice view of the sky and lake) before the KWS took pity on us with temporary passes. The upside of this was that we got to pay resident prices with our special passes, no questions asked.

Nakuru is famous for the vast numbers of flamingos that flock to its shores, but we managed to spend our first 3 hours in the park away from the shore. We drove our little car as far into the park as we could go, past waterbuck, wounded rhinos and de-submerged hippos. The highlight of this part was the grove of giraffes literally next to the road, including many tiny babies. We turned around at the completely bone dry falls at the edge of the park, and promptly lost ourselves on a windy but boring back road up on the bluffs overlooking the park. The payoff for this was two look out spots and lots of fearless explorer photos.

Finally, we made it down to the lake, and were able to park on the mud flats and get out of the car. We pioneered a number of great poses for the photos –the one-legged arm raise flamingo, the arms extended kikoy-flared bird in flight, the look at me jump – and thoroughly scared the bird life and the other tourists. Then it was back by the rhinos, through a grove of Baboons (they attacked the car and followed us out) and past a lion munching on a fresh kill, and out of the park.
Thanks to S.’s awesome driving, we were back in Nairobi in time to go to the market and buy Masaai blankets for our cold apartments, and engage in some fruitless bargaining (we refused to overpay). It was a nice end to a great weekend – from the wilds of Baringo to the wilds of the YaYa center.

3 BAs hit a speed bump

This weekend we attempted to get a bit off the beaten path and see some of Kenya’s cool natural wonders - without a safari van. Naturally, this meant a road trip. S., a former BA from the Firm’s Italian office and current b-school devotee, was up for driving all the way up to Lake Baringo and then back through Lakes Bogoria and Nakuru. Of course, L. and I were along for the ride.

Our adventure began Saturday morning at 6:15 AM, when S. showed up at our apartment in a little Toyota sedan. From Nairobi, with no traffic on the road, it was a straight shot to Lake Naivaisha, which we drove right past, and on to Nakuru. The one stop we made on the way was at a rusty sign on the side of the road, next to a big speed bump (the first of many that we hit). The sign declared that we were on the equator, which necessitated a stop, a quick photo session, and a mad dash back to the car when we were surrounded by local women trying to sell us tchotckes.

In Nakuru, a bustling little city, we stopped for much needed coffee, samosas and ndazi (the biscuits we’d been eating since 6 didn’t count as our morning meal). Then it was onwards in pursuit of water. There was some initial hesitation and map checking, but we quickly determined that we were safely on B4 and bound for the lakes. Once we reached the small town of Mogotio, we passed by the local police three times as we tried to decide whether to take the dirt road to Bogoria (our guide book warned us not to) or go up to Baringo on paved terrain. Baringo won, and after a couple fights with the omnipresent speed bumps, it was us and the honey sellers all the way there.

Baringo is a beautiful, secluded fresh water lake renowned for its hippos, fish eagles and crocodiles. There is one little town on the shore where everyone enters, and is primarily a bunch of kiosks, camps, and boat rental places. We stopped at Robert’s camp, probably one of the most well-known of the places on the lake, to leave the car and book a boat ride. The rides are best at sunrise, when the hippos get into the water, but it was a hot day and we were looking forward to spending some time on the water. The big debate for the boat ride was to do 1 hour or 2 – 1 hour was not enough to get you to one of the islands on the lake and to see the fish eagles. We were a bit concerned about time, but decided to get lunch to go and take it on the 2 hour ride.

Unfortunately, none of us quite investigated what the island visit meant, so we gamely set out in our flip flops, and in my case, long shorts and a sleeveless top Our first intimation that this was not quite the right attire came as we were climbing over rocks and huge thorns started puncturing the foam soles of our 100ksh ‘flops. Our guide assured us that we could “use traditional remedies – aloe vera” which we would find on the island, to treat the pain. I also used the non-traditional remedy of purell to kill nasty African tree germs.

Once out on the water, it really was beautiful. Our little boat meandered along the shore, surprising hippos in the reeds and catching crocodiles as they slipped into the lake in pursuit of tilapia. The children playing on the cliffs kept jumping into the water around the boat and splashing us. Birds of all colors and varieties kept swooping around the rocks as we steamed full speed ahead to the islands in the middle of the lake.

There are two islands in the middle of Baringo – a large, lush one with luxury camps and a village, and a small barren rocky one inhabited by 1 man, 5 wives, 20+ children and some goats. We were destined for a walk on the latter. At first, the rocky island was kinda cool – I got Aloe for my multiple thorn wounds and was doing okay scrambling up the rocks. Then our guides started turning over the rocks in front of us – in search of scorpions. Don’t worry, they assured us – the scorpions just hurt - the snakes, those are a problem.

Now, while I’m quite cautious by nature, I’m not a huge scaredy-cat (see: impetuous decision to come to Nairobbery, white water rafting, tiny plane, etc.). But there is one thing that really bugs me, and that is getting injected with poison by natural critters. Bees, scorpions, jellyfish, snakes – not my cup of tea (did I mention I’m a big Indiana Jones fan?). So far, I’ve been able to ignore the fact that these things are common over here through long pants, closed toed shoes, and blithe obliviousness. In my flip flops and shorts, however, all I wanted to do was get the HELL off that island (especially after they found a scorpion) and back into the boat. Luckily, both L. and S. were less than thrilled by the barren rocks, so that goal was easily accomplished.

The final leg of our boat ride involved a futile attempt to feed the fish eagles. We had purchased two fish buoyed by balsa wood from a masai fisherman earlier, and our guides tried multiple times to attract the birds (whistle, hurl fish into air, have mzungos train cameras on fish, retrieve fish, repeat). All the morning boat rides had tried the same trick, so the fish eagles weren’t biting. Our valiant guides kept trying, but by that point we were more excited about floating over herds of hippos (the little ones jump to the surface) and getting back to shore for a cold soda. After the aforementioned drink, it was bye bye Baringo and back towards Bogoria and Nakuru.

A moment of humor in Mathare

It's always interesting to see how the weirdest pieces of American pop culture infiltrate the world beyond our shores.

Case in point: After he hoisted a couple of them, the children in Mathare decided that my bearded co-worker was Chuck Norris, and proceeded to address him as such for the rest of the visit. Apparently they've been syndicating Walker, Texas Ranger in Kenya...

Field work in Mathere

Mommy B, sorry about this one. You may want to skip it, since it required a judgment call you may not love, but which was work related.

One of my major reasons for coming out to Africa was to get the chance to do some fieldwork and experience firsthand what development work could be like. Given that we had a lull in my project for a day or two, it was time to find a way to get out into the field. I had wanted to go do ag work, but that team was going to be gone 4 days, much too long for my busy schedule. Luckily, our Young Women in Enterprise program was looking for volunteers to help them recruit young girls in the Nairobi slums for their business training classes. Before I could turn around, I – banana republic attire, heels and all– was bound for Mathere, a shanty town just outside the city center.

While Nairobi is notorious for its slums, it is possible to be here and never see them, as most major roads bypass them. Going in with an NGO team is probably the safest way to see what its like.

About two weeks prior to my slum excursion, I had attended a screening of a film called The Kibera Kid, about life in Nairobi’s worst and biggest slum. It was made by an organization called Hot Sun, which was trying to jumpstart a homegrown Nairobi film industry by training kids in the slum. The big takeaway from the film was the permanency of these areas – Kibera is divided into villages, each with its own governance and community, and in some cases, rudimentary infrastructure. The film demystified the slums to some extent, but they still seemed like a no-mans land.

Our day in Mathere started with the team – about 15 Kenyans and 3 Americans – meeting up in a small church and nursery school for a debrief of previous recruitment efforts, an overview of the day, and a prayer for success. Then it was off to the far edge of the slums. The plan for the day was simple – in groups of 2-4, wearing huge logoed t-shirts, we would hand out flyers, collect information, and advertise the program’s information sessions later this week. We would do this in a mix of Swahili and English – most of the girls we were targeting had some education, and many of things we mentioned had no Swahili equivalent.

We entered the slums across from the army base, down a big dirt road. Small kiosks lined the “street” as did small one or two room houses made of corrugated metal. The residents sat outside their houses, preparing food or tending children. My presence attracted stares and little children, who cried “mzungo” (Swahili for foreigner) and greeted me with “Hi! How are you?” Initially, the girls we were trying to recruit were less welcoming. Somewhat blank stares met my stilted English with a little Swahili explanations of “business training, mukatani Thursday na Friday, na ni to secumi, Why Not Grounds.” Soon, however, an elder of slums found us a table, and the girls started to swarm (it probably helped that my partner in this effort was an animated young Kenyan guy). A number of mothers and fathers followed the girls, registering their daughters for the information session as well.

Our path through the village was easier after that, as two of the girls decided to play tour guide, and walk with us, becoming full fledged recruiters by the end of the walk. For the most part, being there was less uncomfortable than I expected – I had my Kenyan partner and our local girl guides with us the entire time, and the white skin and NGO t shirt also helped. A couple of times requests for information became requests for bread and money, which was awkward and not something I could oblige (I had brought nothing with me but a hidden pocket of cash and phone). We spent about 4 hours recruiting before heading back for a debrief and lunch.

The three biggest reminders that this was a slum and not only a friendly, vibrant community were the crowds, the trash, and the children. While the main road we were walking on was quite wide, the alleys between the houses were narrow, and the area densely densely populated given the area’s proximity to the city center. While there was some limited electricity and relatively freely running water, there were also the characteristic streams of sewage and piles of trash everywhere. Flies swarmed everywhere, especially around the kids. While the children were adorable, when you took a second look you realized that this one had a sore or that one was playing with rust nails or a third was being carried by a girl my little sister’s age. This was the big reminder of how stark the poverty was here, and how important our work – giving girls a chance at something more – could be.

Safari like its my birthday

Last year, my birthday involved a case of Prosecco (thanks Mommy and Daddy B), 20 friends, and late night trips to Cleary’s and CityBar. This year, my birthday also involved sparkling wine (thank you, VolCons!) but in a very different setting.

Saturday morning, that important day, dawned at 5:15, as we sleepily packed and piled into the safari van at 6 to stop at Nakumatt and stock up on safari essentials such as biscuits, cashews, water, chocolate and shillings (this is a cash economy, btdubs). Then it was 5 hours of napping on a bumpy dirt road, the worst part of which was outside a cement factory. Ahh, the irony of Kenyan infrastructure.

Our destination was Amboseli national park, a beautiful panorama of savannah, desert and swamp rolled into one on Kenya’s southern border with Tanzania. It is renowned as a game park both for the landscape (and the animals it attracts) as well as the clear view of Mt. Kilimanjaro that it affords when the cloud cover drifts away. We got to the park around lunchtime, and spent an hour arguing with the Kenya Wildlife Service for various discounts. Unfortunately, we got the ONLY government employee in Kenya who followed the rules and couldn’t be reasoned with, so nothing came out of it except some very terse interactions with the Maasai women who swarmed the car trying to sell us cheap baubles.

Finally, it was into the park, for a breakneck drive past elephants taking baths and giraffes eating from the Acacia trees. We had to make lunch at our pretty little tented camp, with its neat and clean cabins and bathrooms. We barely made the decent buffet lunch in an open air dining hall filled with tourist groups. Then a brief tanning session by the pool in the middle of the savannah, and back into the van for our evening game drive.

Unlike the Mara, which is huge expanses of land inhabited by herd animals, punctuated with spottings of the big 5, Amboseli is a number of microcosms, each with its own particular creature mix. Because the park is smaller, the concentrations of animals were higher. It was also incredibly dusty, which was a bummer for our clothes but awesome for taking otherworldly photos of giraffes silhouetted against the trees. Amboseli also has a fantastic concentration of elephants, which was definitely the highlight. Big ones, little ones, bathing elephants, elephant herds – AWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Saturday night birthday dinner was lovely, except for the fact we all almost passed out at the table and were all asleep by 9:30 to make our morning wake up call at 6. We missed the sunrise in the park, but were able to grab some great photos of Mt Kilimanjaro and the sky changing colors over our camp. The morning game drives were most remarkable for our mad dash through the desert at the edge of the park – eat my dust, indeed! Standing up in a pop top safari van as you dodge the dust devils and leave a trail of clouds while racing through the sand is a pretty exhilarating ride.

After inhaling enough dust to turn us into dust bunnies, we arrived back in Nairobi to long long hot showers (potentially with our clothes on to get rid of the dirt). Then it was off to Nairobi’s only Lebanese restaurant with a sushi bar, which was surprisingly good, All in all, a satisfying birthday – but I’ll still have to throw birthday 2008 redux party when I’m back stateside in September.

The Accidental (Cultural) Tourist

After a long day of game drives at the Mara, it was back to the campsite for dinner. We were all sitting enjoying our copld tuskers on the stone porch of the main dining area, when our guide came by to tell us to grab our beers and migrate to a clearing, we could could watch dinner being prepared.

Therein followed one of the weirder meals I've had in a while. I;m not sure who asked for this or whether it was part of the package our guide thought we wanted. It had been intimated that dinner would involve a bonfire and goat meat, but none of us realized quite what this would entail.


We all dutifully trotted out with our folding chairs to a pretty clearing where waiting for us were two Masai warriors and a white and brown goat. Disbelievingly, we arranged our chairs in a semi-circle as the Masai prepared the goat for its death. Gently, they tied it up and lay it on a bed of clean branches that would serve as executioner's platformm and butchers block. I didnt watch the kill, but I heard one horrible bleat - and it was over. After we all go over out shock, there was much discussion of why mass-produced meat didn't bother us as the Masai broke down the animal, putting the traditional cuts on fresh spits for roasting over the flame and reserving the rest of the cuts for themselves. At least almost none of the animal went to waste.


We all sat down to dinner after sunset by the fire, ready to try the nyoma choma, or roasted goat. The worst part of the affair was that none of us could stomach the meat - it was tough, chewy, gamey, and came with too much baggage. I think our guide had anticipated this reaction, as there was plenty of other food. After dinner, we let the fire wind down as the hyenas howled in the darkness. Our cousins in carnivory, I guess


***


Sunday morning, the group split with one set of us goingv back into the park to track lion cubs and the other half going to a nearby Masai village to see the cows leaving and watch the sunrise over the hills.


The trip started innocently enough - we spilled out of the van in front of a circle of mud and dung huts in time to see the last cows straggle out of the thorn bush gate. One of the young men of the village came out to talk to use as we stared about wide eyed as the sky started to turn. We asked him questions, and he asked us if we had our cameras - the first intimation that something fishy was going on. Our conversation was interrupted by a cry of "elephant," and we all went running across the middle of the village, dodging cow patties (it also served as the cows' night pasture). In the distance was a herd of dark shapes, and we felt very happy with our decision to forgo the game drive - we still got pachyderms! A few sunrise photos followed.


Our village guide then informed us that our entrance fee to the village allowed us to see inside a hut, to watch a warrior's dance, a woman's dance, and a fire starting demonstration, and visit the gift shop. Startled looks were exchanged - we thought this was just cows and maybe a few blankets for sale.


The inside of the house was pretty interesting - past the baby cow's room to sit by the warm firm and interrupt a family having tea, the little children pouring the hot liquid back and forth between mugs to cool it. Then back outside into the chilly air. The young men started dancing and jumping in a way that suggested total boredom before physically pulling us into photos with them. I was absolutely mortified and the pictures show it. I don;t want people paying to see me dance, but it would almost have been rude to demure, since our guide had paid our fee.

The women followed the men, looking even less enthusiastic about their performance, and I turned even redder for that photo. Finally, a short fire-making demonstration anda quick turn around the village store, and it was mercifully time to go.

We had been warned that a village vist could be touristy, and it was really too bad to find it as farcical as we did. We would have been content just to see the village and talk to people there - no need for the show.

The one cavaet to the village debacle is that Masai do actually live in a traditional way, as evidenced by the number of other villages and people in traditional garb wandering around as we drove out of the vastness of the reserve and back toward semi-civilization (No offense to Nairobi)

Little plane, big view

In Out of Africa, Baroness Blixen speaks of being able to fly over Africa as one of the benefits of being friends with Denys Finch-Hatton (she’s too discreet to mention some of the other perks). In West with the Night, Beryl Markham writes of taking off from the airport in Nairobi as an amazing experience. Having taken off from or landed at Jomo Kenyatta, the spraling, semi-modern airport most memorable for delays and the resulting Tuskers, I respectfully disagree. However, having now had the chance to depart from little Nairobi Wilson airport (at least the AirKenya “terminal” has a roof), I’m coming around to the memoirists’ way of thinking.

This weekend was the group’s trip up to Masai Mara, the biggest game reserve in Kenya and world famous for the wildebeest migration every summer. The plan was to travel up by safai on Friday and drive back on Sunday after 2 days of game drives. I had to make the last minute call to fly up Friday afternoon instead, which turned out to be a great, albeit pricey, decision

Warning: Mommy B, you may want to skip the next paragraph or two. Graphic descriptions of a small plane follows.

AirKenya flies 3 times a day to the various airstrips of the Mara (read: strips of dirt with a fence and a sign) in a little twin otter – 20 seats and no autopilot. After the obligatory mad dash to the airport – Friday traffic in Nairobi is quite unpredictable - I had time aplenty to watch them fuel up the plane from a hose and charge the plane’s battery. Really comforting. At least they gave us water and mints to make it feel somewhat like a real flight.

I was lucky to snag a window seat, which meant I got to spend the next hour staring out at the wide expanse of Kenya. At home, I fly twice a week, and have long since gotten over looking out the window – aisle seats let you get off the plane faster. At 12,000 feet, however, below the clouds, on a sunny July afternoon, it would be criminal not to take advantage of the view.

We took off over Nairobi, then passed over Karen and Langata. The suburbs from the plane seemed a checkerboard of palatial McMansions and country clubs and tin-roofed shanty towns. It was a stark airbourne reminder of the very big divides in this country. Then it was onto the dark red soil of the Rift Valley and the semi-regular pattern of small holder farmers in this lush region. Finally, it was over the savannah, with only the dirt roads breaking the pattern of the tall, dun-colored grass. The clouds cast fascinating shapes below the plane – Chinese dragons, sinous snakes, fluffy pompoms.

As we descended to the first of our four landing strips, trees started to dot the landscape, and underneath them you could see shimmery, shiny patches of light that, to my unbelieving eyes, turned out to be herds of antelope. Coming back out up from the first airstrip, I found myself gripping both sides of the window as we soared over herds of zebras and passed right over a group of elephants – my first animal spotting of the Safari!

After three more stops on my matatu of a plane, I finally landed at Keerokok to be met by two vans full of wonderful, patient people. Then it was off to the park for an evening game drive – elephants, lions, and all the herd beasts our hearts could desire. One pretty sunset over the valley later, it was rattling down the bad park roads and up the dirt trail to our tented camp, for warm food, hot showers and cozy Masai blankets to snuggle under until our 5 AM wake up the next day. The animals are most active at sunrise, which means the visitors must be too!

Today's Moment of Kenyan TV Zen

Another dubbed Filipino soap opera

Father: "Have you met my best friend"

Boyfriend: "What?"

Father: (pulls out a gun) "Have you met the big boss?"

Boyfriend: "Uhh"

Father: "I understand you knocked up my daughter Daphne and you won;t take responsibility. That won't work. Do you understand?"

Today's Moment of Kenyan TV Zen

Quote from dubbed Filipino soap opera:

"Mother, I know I said I'd never go back to cock fighting, but Adrian needs the money for his operation"

Even better when uttered by a jeans-clad teenage girl sitting on her mother's tombstone..

The Ends of the Earth

The fourth of July is an incredibly American holiday. I can never really remember too well from one year to the next how I celebrate it. I know that in general, it includes good friends, good food, time spent outside, a few drinks, and sleepiness. Despite being across the world, the gang here made darn sure that our very African Fourth felt just like home.

Friday afternoon, we all ran out of work early to get to the airport in order to make our flight…which was 2 hours late (on time for this particular airline). When I start my own low cost African airline, it will send you text messages with delays (L. and I spent some time today at work fleshing out the business plan for this venture). However, as a result, the 9 of us were able to have our Tuskers and bad airport samosas before we boarded. I’m becoming quite a connoisseur of fried dough wrapped around potatoes and peas. (It is also worth noting that my version of Word speaks Yiddish but not Hindi – it suggested shamuses as a replacement for samosas).

Our flight got us safely to Mombasa, where a van from the hotel picked us up. It was time to play the Kenyan version of “are we there yet” – sit in city traffic for over an hour and then drive down bumpy roads for two more. It was actually kind of a cool drive – the sun set as we were going, and the trees on the road morphed into these dark squat shapes that vaguely resembled huge sleeping animals. Tree-spotting – the Kenyan version of cloud-watching.

Our driver had promised food when we arrived at the hotel – soup and grilled fish – but none of us had high hopes. Given our usual success in feeding ourselves while traveling, any food sounded good. But we got reallllllly lucky. Che Shale, the boutique hotel we stayed at, and Kijame, the beach bandas adjacent to it, is an amazing place – all sustainable local materials woven into a breath-taking hotel complex. It’s run by Justin, a third generation Kenyan who has turned the complex – one main lodge, 5 super lux cottages, 5 basic bandas – into a real destination, and Kenya’s first Kite Surfing school.

When we arrived, we collapsed onto the couches in the main building and were whisked away to our respective accommodations. Somehow, I wound up at the budget end of things, Kijame, a perfectly nice tree house (read: hut on sticks) a short walk up the beach. Because this was the budget option, showers and bathrooms were detached and communal, but the comfy beds more than made up for the need to take a lantern to the shower. After settling in, it was time for dinner in our semi private dining room – beautifully laid table, flower center piece, freshly baked bread and chili jam. Dinner was a really nice vegetable soup and freshly prepared local salefish (like flounder). After stuffing our tired faces, we got distracted enroute to the beach bonfire by a platform above the main dining room filled with cushions and cool breezes. After a cocktail in this nest, it was time for bed.
Saturday dawned not too early over a leisurely breakfast of fresh fruit, eggs, toast and coffee. This was followed by a mid day activity of jumping off sand dunes and reading on the big swing on the beach. The only thing interrupting the absolute bliss was the occasional rain showers, which merely meant we moved up to our nest until the showers passed.

The highlight of Saturday was our Happy Birthday USA celebration for the three proud Americans in the gang. Someone stealth organized a birthday cake (with 3 candles) and champagne, and we all sang. I then promptly fell asleep in the nest. All that lazing about had made me tired!

Sunday was distinguished from Saturday only by the lack of papaya on our fruit plates and our mad dash to the airport. Despite the sand roads and being stuck behind a donkey cart pulling logs, we got to tiny Malindi airport just as our plane did, and had just enough time to walk through the tin waiting hut onto the flight and back to Nairobi. As hard as it was to leave paradise, it was nice to be home, and to have hot showers!

Working for the weekend

Work is kicking my tush right now, but it has been pointed out to me by my roommate that I haven't updated in a while(we have a long night ahead of us and are still in procrastination mode). I will write a long, wryly funny post full of observations and in-jokes later, but for now a short report.

Nothing too blogworthy over the week, but the weekend was the closest to paradise I've seen in a while. Take a deserted beach on the Kenyan coast, a super-eco-chic boutique hotel, a tree house for a hotel room, and a birthday cake for America and "Moet" on the fourth of July, and you don't need fireworks. Sun, sand, too many Ian Rankin novels, mojitos, and good friends - ideal!

And we almost missed our flight because we got stuck behind a donkey pulling logs. TIA.