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.