They say that no news is better than bad news, but having no news at all amidst this chaotic and violent time in Kenya touches on my most primordial fears. There is a total live-media blackout, something unimaginable to me previously. The silence is more ominous than the snippets of killings we continue to hear about.
I have been trying to leave Meru, Kenya for Nairobi for four days now. I have never felt so trapped and helpless in my life. After elections on the 27th, there was a period of waiting. Streets were empty as everyone remained glued to their television sets watching a very close presidential race. At first it looked like the opposition, Raila Odinga won, but slowly the incumbent, Mwai Kibaki gained for votes.
Like any election coverage the TV ran constantly but not divulging anything new. Still, it never faded into background noise. As the day after elections turned to night, no decisions had been announced. This pattern continued for the next few days. Votes were missing from certain areas that were Kibaki strong-holds. Meru was one of them. Accusations of vote rigging and fraud flew through the air like mosquitoes around a stagnant lake.
I could not get to Nairobi because matatu drivers were hiding their cars in anticipation for violence the first day. The next day I almost got on one but was told that they were not being allowed into the city center of Nairobi so at the last minute I changed my mind. Later, I found out that matatus from Meru were being attacked when they reached Nairobi because of the delayed vote from our area Odinga supporters were accusing Meru people of fraud.
The country retained vice-like attention to the news, everyone hoping for the best but fearing violence. There was massive looting in Kisumu, where Odinga is from. People were carrying away stoves, trying on shoes and running with TVs, it was a complete free-for-all. People burned houses just because they could.
The Nairobi streets were empty albeit a strong military presence. There were sporadic riots and road closures. Even if I had made it to Nairobi the third day, the road to Uganda was closed so I would have been stuck amidst the riots.
The Electoral Commission of Kenya, which was monitoring and running the elections held press briefings that turned so chaotic that they would pause to pray in the middle before resuming their bickering and skirmishes.
The people I live with continued to get text messages from people all over the country starting prayer chains; a request to all pray together at a certain time.
Then last night, the night of the 30th, Kibaki was sworn in as the president, following the closest race in Kenyan history. From our trusty TV sets, we saw him being sworn in the it cut to Odinga saying that the vote was rigged and he was president, then all of the sudden a broadcaster came on and told us that the government is suspending all live media broadcasts. On came a comedy show followed by ER as Kenya tried to piece together what just happened.
The streets of Meru erupted in jubilation. Horns were being honked under the starlight as people filled the dusty streets with cheers and bonfires. This continued far into the night mingled with the barking of our guard dogs. I wondered what was happening in Nairobi and was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the government had just shut off the media.
Text messages flooded in from friends and family in Nairobi. People could not buy credit for their phones, the grocery stores were running out of food as everyone stalked up, people were afraid to leave their homes, there were riots in the streets and buildings were burning, soldiers were being deployed throughout the city.
“I think the government turned off the news because they are sending out soldiers who will have to beat the rioters and they don’t want that shown on TV,” Karumbu speculated.
Then there was nothing. Phone networks were congested or down and we stopped receiving any news. We remained frozen in front of the TV, hoping for some information, not having access to the internet. Around midnight, CNN came on recapping stories from 2007. Across the TV on their news banner we saw the following: “Kenyans re-elect Mwai Kibaki for president.” “Riots break out throughout the country.” “Police kill 5 in Nairobi.”
It seemed like Karumbu’s guess was pretty accurate. I sat there with the only bit of news we could find, learning about the country I am living in with reports from a foreign news outlet. As phones began to work little by little and messages slipped through the cracks in the network congestion, it seemed clear that people were bracing for the possibility of civil war.
This morning, determined to get to Nairobi for New Years, ready to walk if I had to, I found that transportation to Nairobi was still suspended and people were still rioting and expecting things to get worse. So much for walking, that could be suicidal.
Odinga had announced that he is the true president of Kenya and will hold his own swearing-in ceremony today. Police were gathering around central Nairobi to prevent this from happening.
I remain frustrated because all our information is gleaned from text messages, but it appears things could just be getting fired up.
Even if Odinga behaves himself and stops inciting violence, the parliament is overwhelmingly ODM (his political party). They will likely do their best to make the country ungovernable for Kibaki, and submit a vote of no confidence to get him out of office. I fear for the future of Kenya.
Politics is just the battleground for a deep-seeded rivalry between two major ethnic groups in Kenya. Kibaki is part of the majority Kikuyu group who is accused of holding too much of the country’s wealth and influence. Odinga is part of the Luo group which is accused of being violent as well as lazy workers. The country does seem like it could be on the brink of a very serious situation, no matter what the outcome of the next few days are. Tribalism and violence are surfacing prevalently in Kenya right now. We are all praying that the riots and killings are not the beginning of something bigger.
The majority of Kenyans just want peace. I pray for this beside them, while at the same time praying that maybe tomorrow I will not be so trapped. Hopefully Kenya will not continue to greet the New Year with violence.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Trapped!
They say that no news is better than bad news, but having no news at all amidst this chaotic and violent time in Kenya touches on my most primordial fears. There is a total live-media blackout, something unimaginable to me previously. The silence is more ominous than the snippets of killings we continue to hear about.
I have been trying to leave Meru, Kenya for Nairobi for four days now. I have never felt so trapped and helpless in my life. After elections on the 27th, there was a period of waiting. Streets were empty as everyone remained glued to their television sets watching a very close presidential race. At first it looked like the opposition, Raila Odinga won, but slowly the incumbent, Mwai Kibaki gained for votes.
Like any election coverage the TV ran constantly but not divulging anything new. Still, it never faded into background noise. As the day after elections turned to night, no decisions had been announced. This pattern continued for the next few days. Votes were missing from certain areas that were Kibaki strong-holds. Meru was one of them. Accusations of vote rigging and fraud flew through the air like mosquitoes around a stagnant lake.
I could not get to Nairobi because matatu drivers were hiding their cars in anticipation for violence the first day. The next day I almost got on one but was told that they were not being allowed into the city center of Nairobi so at the last minute I changed my mind. Later, I found out that matatus from Meru were being attacked when they reached Nairobi because of the delayed vote from our area Odinga supporters were accusing Meru people of fraud.
The country retained vice-like attention to the news, everyone hoping for the best but fearing violence. There was massive looting in Kisumu, where Odinga is from. People were carrying away stoves, trying on shoes and running with TVs, it was a complete free-for-all. People burned houses just because they could.
The Nairobi streets were empty albeit a strong military presence. There were sporadic riots and road closures. Even if I had made it to Nairobi the third day, the road to Uganda was closed so I would have been stuck amidst the riots.
The Electoral Commission of Kenya, which was monitoring and running the elections held press briefings that turned so chaotic that they would pause to pray in the middle before resuming their bickering and skirmishes.
The people I live with continued to get text messages from people all over the country starting prayer chains; a request to all pray together at a certain time.
Then last night, the night of the 30th, Kibaki was sworn in as the president, following the closest race in Kenyan history. From our trusty TV sets, we saw him being sworn in the it cut to Odinga saying that the vote was rigged and he was president, then all of the sudden a broadcaster came on and told us that the government is suspending all live media broadcasts. On came a comedy show followed by ER as Kenya tried to piece together what just happened.
The streets of Meru erupted in jubilation. Horns were being honked under the starlight as people filled the dusty streets with cheers and bonfires. This continued far into the night mingled with the barking of our guard dogs. I wondered what was happening in Nairobi and was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the government had just shut off the media.
Text messages flooded in from friends and family in Nairobi. People could not buy credit for their phones, the grocery stores were running out of food as everyone stalked up, people were afraid to leave their homes, there were riots in the streets and buildings were burning, soldiers were being deployed throughout the city.
“I think the government turned off the news because they are sending out soldiers who will have to beat the rioters and they don’t want that shown on TV,” Karumbu speculated.
Then there was nothing. Phone networks were congested or down and we stopped receiving any news. We remained frozen in front of the TV, hoping for some information, not having access to the internet. Around midnight, CNN came on recapping stories from 2007. Across the TV on their news banner we saw the following: “Kenyans re-elect Mwai Kibaki for president.” “Riots break out throughout the country.” “Police kill 5 in Nairobi.”
It seemed like Karumbu’s guess was pretty accurate. I sat there with the only bit of news we could find, learning about the country I am living in with reports from a foreign news outlet. As phones began to work little by little and messages slipped through the cracks in the network congestion, it seemed clear that people were bracing for the possibility of civil war.
This morning, determined to get to Nairobi for New Years, ready to walk if I had to, I found that transportation to Nairobi was still suspended and people were still rioting and expecting things to get worse. So much for walking, that could be suicidal.
Odinga had announced that he is the true president of Kenya and will hold his own swearing-in ceremony today. Police were gathering around central Nairobi to prevent this from happening.
I remain frustrated because all our information is gleaned from text messages, but it appears things could just be getting fired up.
Even if Odinga behaves himself and stops inciting violence, the parliament is overwhelmingly ODM (his political party). They will likely do their best to make the country ungovernable for Kibaki, and submit a vote of no confidence to get him out of office. I fear for the future of Kenya.
Politics is just the battleground for a deep-seeded rivalry between two major ethnic groups in Kenya. Kibaki is part of the majority Kikuyu group who is accused of holding too much of the country’s wealth and influence. Odinga is part of the Luo group which is accused of being violent as well as lazy workers. The country does seem like it could be on the brink of a very serious situation, no matter what the outcome of the next few days are. Tribalism and violence are surfacing prevalently in Kenya right now. We are all praying that the riots and killings are not the beginning of something bigger.
The majority of Kenyans just want peace. I pray for this beside them, while at the same time praying that maybe tomorrow I will not be so trapped. Hopefully Kenya will not continue to greet the New Year with violence.
I have been trying to leave Meru, Kenya for Nairobi for four days now. I have never felt so trapped and helpless in my life. After elections on the 27th, there was a period of waiting. Streets were empty as everyone remained glued to their television sets watching a very close presidential race. At first it looked like the opposition, Raila Odinga won, but slowly the incumbent, Mwai Kibaki gained for votes.
Like any election coverage the TV ran constantly but not divulging anything new. Still, it never faded into background noise. As the day after elections turned to night, no decisions had been announced. This pattern continued for the next few days. Votes were missing from certain areas that were Kibaki strong-holds. Meru was one of them. Accusations of vote rigging and fraud flew through the air like mosquitoes around a stagnant lake.
I could not get to Nairobi because matatu drivers were hiding their cars in anticipation for violence the first day. The next day I almost got on one but was told that they were not being allowed into the city center of Nairobi so at the last minute I changed my mind. Later, I found out that matatus from Meru were being attacked when they reached Nairobi because of the delayed vote from our area Odinga supporters were accusing Meru people of fraud.
The country retained vice-like attention to the news, everyone hoping for the best but fearing violence. There was massive looting in Kisumu, where Odinga is from. People were carrying away stoves, trying on shoes and running with TVs, it was a complete free-for-all. People burned houses just because they could.
The Nairobi streets were empty albeit a strong military presence. There were sporadic riots and road closures. Even if I had made it to Nairobi the third day, the road to Uganda was closed so I would have been stuck amidst the riots.
The Electoral Commission of Kenya, which was monitoring and running the elections held press briefings that turned so chaotic that they would pause to pray in the middle before resuming their bickering and skirmishes.
The people I live with continued to get text messages from people all over the country starting prayer chains; a request to all pray together at a certain time.
Then last night, the night of the 30th, Kibaki was sworn in as the president, following the closest race in Kenyan history. From our trusty TV sets, we saw him being sworn in the it cut to Odinga saying that the vote was rigged and he was president, then all of the sudden a broadcaster came on and told us that the government is suspending all live media broadcasts. On came a comedy show followed by ER as Kenya tried to piece together what just happened.
The streets of Meru erupted in jubilation. Horns were being honked under the starlight as people filled the dusty streets with cheers and bonfires. This continued far into the night mingled with the barking of our guard dogs. I wondered what was happening in Nairobi and was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the government had just shut off the media.
Text messages flooded in from friends and family in Nairobi. People could not buy credit for their phones, the grocery stores were running out of food as everyone stalked up, people were afraid to leave their homes, there were riots in the streets and buildings were burning, soldiers were being deployed throughout the city.
“I think the government turned off the news because they are sending out soldiers who will have to beat the rioters and they don’t want that shown on TV,” Karumbu speculated.
Then there was nothing. Phone networks were congested or down and we stopped receiving any news. We remained frozen in front of the TV, hoping for some information, not having access to the internet. Around midnight, CNN came on recapping stories from 2007. Across the TV on their news banner we saw the following: “Kenyans re-elect Mwai Kibaki for president.” “Riots break out throughout the country.” “Police kill 5 in Nairobi.”
It seemed like Karumbu’s guess was pretty accurate. I sat there with the only bit of news we could find, learning about the country I am living in with reports from a foreign news outlet. As phones began to work little by little and messages slipped through the cracks in the network congestion, it seemed clear that people were bracing for the possibility of civil war.
This morning, determined to get to Nairobi for New Years, ready to walk if I had to, I found that transportation to Nairobi was still suspended and people were still rioting and expecting things to get worse. So much for walking, that could be suicidal.
Odinga had announced that he is the true president of Kenya and will hold his own swearing-in ceremony today. Police were gathering around central Nairobi to prevent this from happening.
I remain frustrated because all our information is gleaned from text messages, but it appears things could just be getting fired up.
Even if Odinga behaves himself and stops inciting violence, the parliament is overwhelmingly ODM (his political party). They will likely do their best to make the country ungovernable for Kibaki, and submit a vote of no confidence to get him out of office. I fear for the future of Kenya.
Politics is just the battleground for a deep-seeded rivalry between two major ethnic groups in Kenya. Kibaki is part of the majority Kikuyu group who is accused of holding too much of the country’s wealth and influence. Odinga is part of the Luo group which is accused of being violent as well as lazy workers. The country does seem like it could be on the brink of a very serious situation, no matter what the outcome of the next few days are. Tribalism and violence are surfacing prevalently in Kenya right now. We are all praying that the riots and killings are not the beginning of something bigger.
The majority of Kenyans just want peace. I pray for this beside them, while at the same time praying that maybe tomorrow I will not be so trapped. Hopefully Kenya will not continue to greet the New Year with violence.
E-Day
Christmas never has excitement it did when I was younger. I remember the magic of it all when I was little, putting out carrots for my favorite reindeer, Christmas carols, the Nutcracker, parties and listening for sleigh bells. This year there was no Christmas, it was simply two days before elections.
But, on the night before elections, some of that Christmas anticipation did return. Instead of listening for sleigh bells it was listening to news bulletins of the 7 Administrative Police that had been killed and the few and isolated riots that were taking place across the country in anticipation of rigging. Instead of putting out carrots there was the organizing of papers for agents who would observe the elections. Instead of Christmas carols there was Karumbu’s rap song. I was loving it.
We woke up with about 3 hours of sleep and left the house at 4am. It was a rainy day and there was a strange redness behind the clouds as I got up in the soft obscurity. I felt safe in the car with the headlights shining through the rain, our bubble cutting through the darkness.
Each candidate has two agents at each of the poles. There were 158 poles, and 16 parliamentary candidates alone, not to mention people running for lower offices. That made for a lot of people needing to be mobilized. The agents are responsible for watching the voting take place and preventing any sort of fraud.
We drove from station to station making sure everything was ready and observing the whole voting process. As we bounced over the dirt roads to more polling stations through the rain the sky turned a science fiction purple.
At most of the polling stations I was mistaken for one of the UN or EU monitors. A few times I even was chastised for not being inside the building. Maybe someday. . . It was incredibly interesting to see how elections are conducted in Kenya, and to be trusted to watch for corruption. It was an extremely slow process with only one person voting at a time, lines were long but people remained patient.
Throughout the day we changed cars 5 times for security reasons, but all seemed quiet. We handled problems as they arose. The main complaint was that the incumbent was buying people’s votes. In one instance the voters themselves chased off the guys who were doing it. The police dealt with them in other places.
At another location they were using a different form to mislead people by misrepresenting the candidate’s symbols. We had some minor problems with documents as well.
The big ordeal of the day was our campaign coordinator in one area getting arrested. They would not tell us why he was arrested for hours. Luckily Karumbu’s brother is a police officer so he was finally able to force them to say something and they said he didn’t have the right paperwork. They continued to push back the time that they said they would charge him so we could bail him out, then changed the charges and said he was buying votes. This was a blatant lie and we laughed for a minute and asked, “With what money?”
There was no money left to buy votes with. We drove all around town trying to lodge a formal complaint but weren’t being called back, went to the ECK (Electoral Commission of Kenya) main office and they weren’t there, went to the police station and still could not get any help. Eventually we talked to the presiding officer of the elections who told us that if this man was arrested, the arresting officer was supposed to call him and inform him of the situation but he didn’t. It was all very sketchy.
We realized it was some sort of campaign sabotage. The arresting officer must have been paid off and it was either to disrupt our campaign or to make it look like it was not just the incumbent who had been buying votes.
After a long day, we were in for an even longer night. We went to the elementary school where all the polling centers were supposed to bring their vote tallies. I was able to stay for a few hours but was kicked out around midnight for not having the right paperwork.
When Raila came to Meru, after the riot/rally, he was quoted in the newspaper as saying, “When I win Meru will be crying.”
I woke up to the pounding of rain beyond my blue mosquito net and past the cave-like walls of my room and took it to be a bad sign. I walked over to the main house where a few early-risers already had the news blaring. As of now, Raila has the lead and the rain in Meru really is like the whole area is weeping. It is too early to tell for sure, but it looks like Karumbu came in third, the incumbent came in second. Raila has a decent lead but there are many more votes left to count.
It has been interesting to see how campaigns are conducted in Kenya. It is also a staunch reminder that it is difficult for democracy to function when people are illiterate and poverty stricken, worried about feeding themselves. These circumstances make it much more difficult for people to discuss issues and relegate the dialogue that is necessary for an informed democracy to the elite, the ones that are not working in the fields all day. It makes the elections in Kenya and how smoothly they have gone seem even more impressive.
Fortunately, the violence that was feared for this election was mostly absent. It will be interesting to see what happens to a country where there has been such a radical change in government, especially towards one that has been feared to have a tendency towards violence. I also hope that the elected MP for North Imenti does as good of a job as I know Karumbu would have done.
It’s been a long ride on this campaign. It is something that I never could have predicted I would have done in my life, which is comforting, the possibilities that are out there even though we are not even aware that they exist
But, on the night before elections, some of that Christmas anticipation did return. Instead of listening for sleigh bells it was listening to news bulletins of the 7 Administrative Police that had been killed and the few and isolated riots that were taking place across the country in anticipation of rigging. Instead of putting out carrots there was the organizing of papers for agents who would observe the elections. Instead of Christmas carols there was Karumbu’s rap song. I was loving it.
We woke up with about 3 hours of sleep and left the house at 4am. It was a rainy day and there was a strange redness behind the clouds as I got up in the soft obscurity. I felt safe in the car with the headlights shining through the rain, our bubble cutting through the darkness.
Each candidate has two agents at each of the poles. There were 158 poles, and 16 parliamentary candidates alone, not to mention people running for lower offices. That made for a lot of people needing to be mobilized. The agents are responsible for watching the voting take place and preventing any sort of fraud.
We drove from station to station making sure everything was ready and observing the whole voting process. As we bounced over the dirt roads to more polling stations through the rain the sky turned a science fiction purple.
At most of the polling stations I was mistaken for one of the UN or EU monitors. A few times I even was chastised for not being inside the building. Maybe someday. . . It was incredibly interesting to see how elections are conducted in Kenya, and to be trusted to watch for corruption. It was an extremely slow process with only one person voting at a time, lines were long but people remained patient.
Throughout the day we changed cars 5 times for security reasons, but all seemed quiet. We handled problems as they arose. The main complaint was that the incumbent was buying people’s votes. In one instance the voters themselves chased off the guys who were doing it. The police dealt with them in other places.
At another location they were using a different form to mislead people by misrepresenting the candidate’s symbols. We had some minor problems with documents as well.
The big ordeal of the day was our campaign coordinator in one area getting arrested. They would not tell us why he was arrested for hours. Luckily Karumbu’s brother is a police officer so he was finally able to force them to say something and they said he didn’t have the right paperwork. They continued to push back the time that they said they would charge him so we could bail him out, then changed the charges and said he was buying votes. This was a blatant lie and we laughed for a minute and asked, “With what money?”
There was no money left to buy votes with. We drove all around town trying to lodge a formal complaint but weren’t being called back, went to the ECK (Electoral Commission of Kenya) main office and they weren’t there, went to the police station and still could not get any help. Eventually we talked to the presiding officer of the elections who told us that if this man was arrested, the arresting officer was supposed to call him and inform him of the situation but he didn’t. It was all very sketchy.
We realized it was some sort of campaign sabotage. The arresting officer must have been paid off and it was either to disrupt our campaign or to make it look like it was not just the incumbent who had been buying votes.
After a long day, we were in for an even longer night. We went to the elementary school where all the polling centers were supposed to bring their vote tallies. I was able to stay for a few hours but was kicked out around midnight for not having the right paperwork.
When Raila came to Meru, after the riot/rally, he was quoted in the newspaper as saying, “When I win Meru will be crying.”
I woke up to the pounding of rain beyond my blue mosquito net and past the cave-like walls of my room and took it to be a bad sign. I walked over to the main house where a few early-risers already had the news blaring. As of now, Raila has the lead and the rain in Meru really is like the whole area is weeping. It is too early to tell for sure, but it looks like Karumbu came in third, the incumbent came in second. Raila has a decent lead but there are many more votes left to count.
It has been interesting to see how campaigns are conducted in Kenya. It is also a staunch reminder that it is difficult for democracy to function when people are illiterate and poverty stricken, worried about feeding themselves. These circumstances make it much more difficult for people to discuss issues and relegate the dialogue that is necessary for an informed democracy to the elite, the ones that are not working in the fields all day. It makes the elections in Kenya and how smoothly they have gone seem even more impressive.
Fortunately, the violence that was feared for this election was mostly absent. It will be interesting to see what happens to a country where there has been such a radical change in government, especially towards one that has been feared to have a tendency towards violence. I also hope that the elected MP for North Imenti does as good of a job as I know Karumbu would have done.
It’s been a long ride on this campaign. It is something that I never could have predicted I would have done in my life, which is comforting, the possibilities that are out there even though we are not even aware that they exist
Thursday, December 20, 2007
A Typical Kenyan Campaign Day
Today we had more of a typical campaign for someone running for parliament in Kenya. The first meeting consisted of a group of committee leaders who had wrangled together some friends to come with us on our campaign. The extra truck loads of people add to the excitement of our stops and makes it look like we have more support. In exchange we pay them at the end of the day.
After a brief meeting with a women’s group in a surreal cornfield jungle, green light cutting in between cracks in the cornstalks, we headed out for the day. Traveling down roads that some die-hard four-wheeling junkies would hesitate before driving on, we were a parade for the locals. There were three trucks with people spilling out of the beds and a lead truck with a loud-speaker blaring Karumub’s hip hop song. “Kula for Karumbu. Karumbu. Karumbu. Ah North Imenti, kula for Karumbu,” is now being sung by children in the farthest regions of difficult roads. Whether there were people around or not the gaggle of men in the car hollered into the microphone nonstop, the feedback and scratchiness filtering their voices as they were carried off through the jungle.
It is strange how the African-ness of Africa is so easily assimilated into the scope of my world. No longer do I crane my neck to look at the women carrying impossible loads on their heads. Goats and chickens wandering through our campaign stage are unnoticed. Shepherds with their cattle and oxen as well as donkey carts on the road are more common than any vehicle. Mud huts and stick homes, grass roofs and tin shacks are etched into the landscapes of my most available cognitions. I think a real house with electricity and running water would jolt me more. If the majority of people didn’t stare at me and the children didn’t constantly wave and yell, “muzungu,” something would seem amiss.
The constant crowds of people filling the streets at any hour, the little kiosks that sell everything and nothing making 8-9 stops for a typical grocery trip necessary, piles of garbage with baboons picking through it, bicycles piled with milk jugs and tin, women bent at the waist from carrying impossibly heavy loads of firewood and men sauntering with their machetes have replaced the cars, buildings and stores I see at home. The thought of cement, pavement, brick and streetlamps are a distant memory, cold and imposing, nagging that I will return to them someday. But for now, constant cowbells and car horns are the sounds of North Imenti. Children walking barefoot in their school uniforms, women wearing more colors than are in a box of Crayolas with scarves on their heads carrying tin jugs of milk and men in suits with dust woven between every fiber holding sticks are what I see when I look out the window.
Our parade drew applause, dancing and singing from the people we passed as we wound our way up the volcano. The more the jungle closed in on the dirt road, the less likely I thought there would be a crowd at this meeting spot. But, as usual, people seem to come from nowhere in Kenya, when I feel we are at the most remote regions of the earth, there is a huge group of people waiting to hear Karumbu speak.
The valley between the volcanoes was no exception. It could have been a green valley in Switzerland, but it was just one of the many landscapes of Kenya. A group of people were waiting for us, all the men in their suits on one side, the women with their knitting and colorful skirts and head-scarves on the other, as usual. The singing began when we pulled up. All the people I have met in Kenya, no matter what their age, seem to have the gift of rhythm and music. They have a musical culture and will sing while driving, sing while waiting, sing when people arrive. It is beautiful, what you hear at the end or beginning of an African movie as the camera pans out over the sweeping grass landscapes. This has become the soundtrack to my life. Well, the beautiful music as well as Karumbu’s hip hop song and the feedback of the microphone.
The meeting seemed to go well, though I never really know not being able to understand anything. We do have an addition to our campaign crew, a girl who is sponsored for her university fees by Karumbu. She only speaks Kiswahili instead of Kemeru and my Kiswahili is at the point now where I can understand what she is speaking about in general which is nice.
After the speakers, myself included and I still get nervous every single time I speak in front of a crowd, some of the locals got up to talk. I watched a tiny old woman, who I later found out was 103, eek her way up to the microphone. She looked twiggy and birdlike, surrounded by skin with a glorious taunt brownness, an elegance and kindness of old age that only people with dark skin seem to be able to pull off, looking 30 years younger than they actually are. As she began to speak, her dependency on her cane lifted. She began to bob the cane in the air, at the crowd, jabbing as she became more animated. The first row of people dodged the cane or scooted back out of her reach.
After speeches we all piled back into the trucks and continued on to the next meeting place, picking people up as they grabbed onto the trucks along the way. In Africa there is always room for one more. We stopped at the meeting point and jumped out again. Our volunteers also act as sensors, feeling out the crowd for us, mingling with the others. They quickly gave us the sign that we should go and go fast. This group of people had been paid off by a competitor to cause trouble. With the threat of violence we sped off to the next group. This is a common game in politics here.
The next stop was uneventful, they asked for money as usual. As usual, Karumbu asked them, “Would you rather have 20 shillings now each or have the road fixed?” The psychology of campaigns here makes it difficult for her. People have the mentality that they take money from the politicians. Then when the politicians are in office, they paid the constituents for their vote so they don’t owe them anything. Government money somehow disappears and nothing improves for the people. 5 years later the constituency still has horrendous roads, no drinking water and kids cannot afford an education. Karumbu is trying to partner with people in their projects, give them advice and help them when they take initiative. She wants them to hold their leaders accountable for the money they have, they should be spending it to improve the lives of their constituents. If Karumbu does not win, it is because people do not understand this mentality. They simply want the money now and cannot understand why Karumbu does not dish it out like other politicians. In a constituency with such a low literacy rate and education this might be a difficult shift for some people to grasp. We will see soon enough.
Driving further towards Isiolo to the next place, once again it was like being in a movie. This is the Africa that you see in Hollywood. The silhouettes of the classic African trees set against the green grass and globe ocean blue of the mountains in the distance makes the imagination fill in the missing lions and zebras that are now in game parks. Kenya is unparalleled for beauty and variety of landscape, as well as for the nicest weather I have ever experienced.
Our meeting was under a roof of these trees. Volcanic rocks tossed out over the red dirt made a seat for me when I was not filming. Shepherds brought their animals with them to listen to the speech and behind Karumbu while she spoke two bulls locked horns and pushed each other back and forth in a battle of strength.
The daylight was disappearing and my energy was waning as we drove to the last meeting point. The guys in the truck ahead of us were still singing and dancing as much as their squished bodies would allow. A group of people ahead of us tried to make us pull over. They were professional constituents- people who wait all day by the roadside to listen to any aspirant that passes because they will then give them money. They were drunk and angry when we refused to stop, waving machetes in the air, banging sticks and their fists against the trucks as they yelled. There was no way we were stopping there.
At the last meeting spot, Karumbu spoke in a field of grass up to my waist as the sun set in the mountains behind us. The stars slowly emerged from behind the black blanket of the sky like a gas lantern slowly being turned up and a softness blanketed the surrounding cornfield and open grasses.
As placid as the meeting began, it ended with roughness. People almost always demand money so we have learned to sprint for the trucks as quickly as possible when the meeting ends so we can get out of there in case people become violent. This time, one of the trucks wouldn’t start. People pressed against the glass yelling and some began throwing rocks at the car. Luckily it spurted to life and they were able to drive away.
We returned to our first meeting place and paid the people who came with us. We bumped back home 12 hours after we began. I realized this was much shorter than a typical Kenyan campaign day but I felt finished for sure. When I told Karumbu this she said, “It makes sense because you are not Kenyan.”
After a brief meeting with a women’s group in a surreal cornfield jungle, green light cutting in between cracks in the cornstalks, we headed out for the day. Traveling down roads that some die-hard four-wheeling junkies would hesitate before driving on, we were a parade for the locals. There were three trucks with people spilling out of the beds and a lead truck with a loud-speaker blaring Karumub’s hip hop song. “Kula for Karumbu. Karumbu. Karumbu. Ah North Imenti, kula for Karumbu,” is now being sung by children in the farthest regions of difficult roads. Whether there were people around or not the gaggle of men in the car hollered into the microphone nonstop, the feedback and scratchiness filtering their voices as they were carried off through the jungle.
It is strange how the African-ness of Africa is so easily assimilated into the scope of my world. No longer do I crane my neck to look at the women carrying impossible loads on their heads. Goats and chickens wandering through our campaign stage are unnoticed. Shepherds with their cattle and oxen as well as donkey carts on the road are more common than any vehicle. Mud huts and stick homes, grass roofs and tin shacks are etched into the landscapes of my most available cognitions. I think a real house with electricity and running water would jolt me more. If the majority of people didn’t stare at me and the children didn’t constantly wave and yell, “muzungu,” something would seem amiss.
The constant crowds of people filling the streets at any hour, the little kiosks that sell everything and nothing making 8-9 stops for a typical grocery trip necessary, piles of garbage with baboons picking through it, bicycles piled with milk jugs and tin, women bent at the waist from carrying impossibly heavy loads of firewood and men sauntering with their machetes have replaced the cars, buildings and stores I see at home. The thought of cement, pavement, brick and streetlamps are a distant memory, cold and imposing, nagging that I will return to them someday. But for now, constant cowbells and car horns are the sounds of North Imenti. Children walking barefoot in their school uniforms, women wearing more colors than are in a box of Crayolas with scarves on their heads carrying tin jugs of milk and men in suits with dust woven between every fiber holding sticks are what I see when I look out the window.
Our parade drew applause, dancing and singing from the people we passed as we wound our way up the volcano. The more the jungle closed in on the dirt road, the less likely I thought there would be a crowd at this meeting spot. But, as usual, people seem to come from nowhere in Kenya, when I feel we are at the most remote regions of the earth, there is a huge group of people waiting to hear Karumbu speak.
The valley between the volcanoes was no exception. It could have been a green valley in Switzerland, but it was just one of the many landscapes of Kenya. A group of people were waiting for us, all the men in their suits on one side, the women with their knitting and colorful skirts and head-scarves on the other, as usual. The singing began when we pulled up. All the people I have met in Kenya, no matter what their age, seem to have the gift of rhythm and music. They have a musical culture and will sing while driving, sing while waiting, sing when people arrive. It is beautiful, what you hear at the end or beginning of an African movie as the camera pans out over the sweeping grass landscapes. This has become the soundtrack to my life. Well, the beautiful music as well as Karumbu’s hip hop song and the feedback of the microphone.
The meeting seemed to go well, though I never really know not being able to understand anything. We do have an addition to our campaign crew, a girl who is sponsored for her university fees by Karumbu. She only speaks Kiswahili instead of Kemeru and my Kiswahili is at the point now where I can understand what she is speaking about in general which is nice.
After the speakers, myself included and I still get nervous every single time I speak in front of a crowd, some of the locals got up to talk. I watched a tiny old woman, who I later found out was 103, eek her way up to the microphone. She looked twiggy and birdlike, surrounded by skin with a glorious taunt brownness, an elegance and kindness of old age that only people with dark skin seem to be able to pull off, looking 30 years younger than they actually are. As she began to speak, her dependency on her cane lifted. She began to bob the cane in the air, at the crowd, jabbing as she became more animated. The first row of people dodged the cane or scooted back out of her reach.
After speeches we all piled back into the trucks and continued on to the next meeting place, picking people up as they grabbed onto the trucks along the way. In Africa there is always room for one more. We stopped at the meeting point and jumped out again. Our volunteers also act as sensors, feeling out the crowd for us, mingling with the others. They quickly gave us the sign that we should go and go fast. This group of people had been paid off by a competitor to cause trouble. With the threat of violence we sped off to the next group. This is a common game in politics here.
The next stop was uneventful, they asked for money as usual. As usual, Karumbu asked them, “Would you rather have 20 shillings now each or have the road fixed?” The psychology of campaigns here makes it difficult for her. People have the mentality that they take money from the politicians. Then when the politicians are in office, they paid the constituents for their vote so they don’t owe them anything. Government money somehow disappears and nothing improves for the people. 5 years later the constituency still has horrendous roads, no drinking water and kids cannot afford an education. Karumbu is trying to partner with people in their projects, give them advice and help them when they take initiative. She wants them to hold their leaders accountable for the money they have, they should be spending it to improve the lives of their constituents. If Karumbu does not win, it is because people do not understand this mentality. They simply want the money now and cannot understand why Karumbu does not dish it out like other politicians. In a constituency with such a low literacy rate and education this might be a difficult shift for some people to grasp. We will see soon enough.
Driving further towards Isiolo to the next place, once again it was like being in a movie. This is the Africa that you see in Hollywood. The silhouettes of the classic African trees set against the green grass and globe ocean blue of the mountains in the distance makes the imagination fill in the missing lions and zebras that are now in game parks. Kenya is unparalleled for beauty and variety of landscape, as well as for the nicest weather I have ever experienced.
Our meeting was under a roof of these trees. Volcanic rocks tossed out over the red dirt made a seat for me when I was not filming. Shepherds brought their animals with them to listen to the speech and behind Karumbu while she spoke two bulls locked horns and pushed each other back and forth in a battle of strength.
The daylight was disappearing and my energy was waning as we drove to the last meeting point. The guys in the truck ahead of us were still singing and dancing as much as their squished bodies would allow. A group of people ahead of us tried to make us pull over. They were professional constituents- people who wait all day by the roadside to listen to any aspirant that passes because they will then give them money. They were drunk and angry when we refused to stop, waving machetes in the air, banging sticks and their fists against the trucks as they yelled. There was no way we were stopping there.
At the last meeting spot, Karumbu spoke in a field of grass up to my waist as the sun set in the mountains behind us. The stars slowly emerged from behind the black blanket of the sky like a gas lantern slowly being turned up and a softness blanketed the surrounding cornfield and open grasses.
As placid as the meeting began, it ended with roughness. People almost always demand money so we have learned to sprint for the trucks as quickly as possible when the meeting ends so we can get out of there in case people become violent. This time, one of the trucks wouldn’t start. People pressed against the glass yelling and some began throwing rocks at the car. Luckily it spurted to life and they were able to drive away.
We returned to our first meeting place and paid the people who came with us. We bumped back home 12 hours after we began. I realized this was much shorter than a typical Kenyan campaign day but I felt finished for sure. When I told Karumbu this she said, “It makes sense because you are not Kenyan.”
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Breeding Superlatives (Egypt)
I had the most guttural of "holy crap" moments in Egypt. Now, "holy crap" moments do occur fairly frequently when I travel with my eyes open, but the one in Egypt stands out in particular.
I was walking through a forest of pillars in Karnak Temple, Luxor. There was colossal pillar after colossal pillar and I was dwarfed by them- an ant in a Walmart. I realized that this was one of the very places that I had studied since elementary school. To me, Egypt held such mystery that it became some sort of mecca in my 7 year-old mind. After moving to Colorado, I'd go to the Denver Museum of Natural History and lose myself in the mummy room. I was fascinated.
Being here today, amongst these unmistakable landmarks, the pyramids in Cairo and the seated stony faces of Abu Simbel before held a special type of accomplishment and significance for me. But at the same time, actually being here and really feeling it in the fragility of the moment has a complete entity in my life held a sense of bittersweet tenderness.
It is funny to glance back across the landscapes of my life to that 7 year-old girl with her mummy book and try to convince her that yes, she would get go Egypt and me traveling the world at 24 and doing it alone. I don't think she would have believed me!
Life pulls us down strange paths and I've learned, for better or worse, nothing feels as it's supposed to so expectations are just a confining waste of time.
Egypt is truly the land of superlatives. Oldest, edgiest, bluntest, prettiest, dustiest, finest, biggest, craziest, harshest, noblest, muckiest, zippiest, busiest, brashest, most, amplest, fullest, grandest, the list goes on. Egypt breeds superlatives in every corner of the country.
Most people told me I was insane to go to Egypt as a woman alone; that I would be hassled and grabbed and hate it. Most people told me they would never go back to Egypt.
I loved it the moment I breathed in the salty sand dune desert air. I loved the humidity that engulfed me when I stepped on the tarmac. I was excited from the first glimpse of the green snake of the Nile interrupting the leather of the desert from the airplane.
I thrived on the chaos of Cairo (which says a lot for someone like me who doesn't like big cities)- trying to negotiate the most erratic torrents of traffic. The urgency and craziness of traffic in Cairo can not be overstated. I was bounced off a bus and a car in my first hour there, but luckily not hurt!
Something strange happened to me in Cairo. The busyness people hate became a dust devil of amusement to me. The harassment of men became easy for me to ignore, I think people who complain of harassment in Egypt haven't been to the rest of Africa because I had no problem just ignoring and being rude back to the blatantly inappropriate and lewd comments of men here while the "hello"s and "how are you"s because I stand out as a white person in other parts of Africa warrant a polite response and become exhaustive and wearing. The rude people in the streets became helpful and pointed me in the right direction. The people out to cheat were friends and kind and offered me free drinks. I left Cairo on the night train to Aswan feeling like I had been to a different city than the one everyone had told me about.
Getting to smaller and less touristed towns only reinforced the appeal of Egypt for me. Here is a place out of an epic novel that matches a cheap postcard at the same time. It is scenically the most beautiful place I've ever been. The countryside is ribboned with fields of startling green tended by men in tunics and turbans with their camels and donkeys. The greenery is spliced with an imaginative desert that ranges from soft sand to hardened rock dunes.
Antiquity is a the forefront of the present- ruins splatter along the Nile. Villages still are made in the traditional square mud walls where words like quaint, historic, functional, sparse, mysterious, simple and beautiful collide. The curvature of mosques breaks the angular continuity of villages like this.
Larger cities like Luxor and Aswan have narrow allies that wind through the yellow adobe buildings to spotlight the Nile which is the vein of life in this desert. There are endless stone allies that twist through cities lined by markets with a sky of strings of colorful flags leftover from Ramdan flapping and glittering in the humid air.
Men bump into me down these cobblestone streets as they carry huge trays stacked with round Egyptian bread. Counters with fruits, sweets and baklava compete with endless shops marching down the way with all the same pseudo-authentic kitschy tourist treasures.
Tunics float past with turbaned head in them. Incense spirals so thick that it looks like smoke and adds to the mystical quality reinforced by bottles of perfume and baskets brimming with spices I never knew existed.
On busier streets donkey carts battle for road space with cars and huge tour buses. Tourists jump out of the Egypt-world bubble of their tour bus and snap as many photos as possible, dressed in appalling clothes for a Muslim country and lumber back into their plastic Egypt with hundreds of photos before they have seen anything.
For the first time I viscerally feel the adage, "Visit a country before it is ruined by tourism." In the touristy Egypt I find what was promised to me. There is the constant hassle and a culture that thrives on cheating everyone as much as possible.
I prefer to escape to the countryside where the greetings are genuine and smiles aren't leering. Here men sit and drink tea and smoke shisha, the 2 national pastimes, on every corner. Wherever I go, I see men riding donkeys and that always has a slapstick humor to it. No matter how dignified one can look in a well-wrapped turban, this is lost by the cartoonish quality of riding a donkey. They are just too short for riding and everyone bounces along with their legs frogged spastically out and comically close to the ground.
The attention of the men is wearing. It is constant and unrelenting and the one thing that made me hate the country at times. Even girls who are plain like me are bombarded with every step. Covering all my skin did nothing to help. I had to escape. I went for a 2 night felucca trip down the Nile.
Floating the Nile is the definition of chilling. Everything moves in slow motion as you pass by the lackadaisical churning of life on the banks of the Nile. One morning I found myself sitting in a small rowboat with the felucca captain, a local fisherman and his son. Typical Egyptian hospitality, the fisherman was making us food and tea that somehow continued to appear out of the sparseness of the splintered rowboat. Even the ever present shisha manifested itself. With the felucca captain translating, the fisherman offered me 1,000 camels and 1,000 horses for me to be his wife. I am told this is quite the dazzling offer. He even said that he would promote me to the status of his first wife. It was tempting, but I am sure his other wives would not be happy with the arrangement.
Touristy sites are impossible to avoid. That is where I began to get tired of Egypt. Cheating is a way of life. All the men, every single one that I met no matter the circumstances, without exception, are sleazy. the historical sites that I would love to spend all day enchanted by quickly lost their appeal as I bounced off huge groups of tourists. It is rare to see Muslim women out of the house and when you do they are shrouded in black, turning a woman into a dark ghost. This is fitting for her place in Egyptian society; even in restaurants women sit in their own section with smaller tables.
Police with machine guns follow tourists everywhere after recent attacks on foreigners. They are hyper-vigalent yet seemingly incompetent. We have to travel in police convoys and I swear they would turn on the sirens just for fun. Endless passport checks prevent any type of sleep on long drives. As for any sort of public transport I have taken, every single driver I have had has been certifiably crazy. Evidence includes the constant and thorough making of sound effects (by more than one driver) and swerving to hit a biker whom he did not feel should be on the road.
Despite warnings of terrorists and bandits, I made my way to a small city on the Sinai, Dahab. I am finding it impossible to leave this place. It has the sparkle of the Red Sea and Saudi Arabia taunts me from across the water, playing on my inability to see a place and not be allowed to go with the harsh reality that I cannot get a visa.
The pouring-honey pace of Egypt slows even further here and I feel I am in a black hole where nothing gets done but chilling. This place is known for travelers that come with the intention of staying a few days and they end up here for over a year. If I didn't have a commitment in Kenya I could guarantee I would be one of them. I even have a few jobs lined up as if I needed more of an excuse to stay.
Despite the difficulty with the men and tourist areas, Egypt is the closest to that perfect place I keep searching for. But those scars make it far less than perfect, often bordering on intolerable. Still there is the intrigue- the camels, incense, perfume, spices, turbans, tombs and temples I have read about since I could read, the ocean that folds into the sky with out a dividing line and the deserts that pull me towards their variety and brutal peace. All of it is deliciously compelling. Egypt- I think that says it all.
I was walking through a forest of pillars in Karnak Temple, Luxor. There was colossal pillar after colossal pillar and I was dwarfed by them- an ant in a Walmart. I realized that this was one of the very places that I had studied since elementary school. To me, Egypt held such mystery that it became some sort of mecca in my 7 year-old mind. After moving to Colorado, I'd go to the Denver Museum of Natural History and lose myself in the mummy room. I was fascinated.
Being here today, amongst these unmistakable landmarks, the pyramids in Cairo and the seated stony faces of Abu Simbel before held a special type of accomplishment and significance for me. But at the same time, actually being here and really feeling it in the fragility of the moment has a complete entity in my life held a sense of bittersweet tenderness.
It is funny to glance back across the landscapes of my life to that 7 year-old girl with her mummy book and try to convince her that yes, she would get go Egypt and me traveling the world at 24 and doing it alone. I don't think she would have believed me!
Life pulls us down strange paths and I've learned, for better or worse, nothing feels as it's supposed to so expectations are just a confining waste of time.
Egypt is truly the land of superlatives. Oldest, edgiest, bluntest, prettiest, dustiest, finest, biggest, craziest, harshest, noblest, muckiest, zippiest, busiest, brashest, most, amplest, fullest, grandest, the list goes on. Egypt breeds superlatives in every corner of the country.
Most people told me I was insane to go to Egypt as a woman alone; that I would be hassled and grabbed and hate it. Most people told me they would never go back to Egypt.
I loved it the moment I breathed in the salty sand dune desert air. I loved the humidity that engulfed me when I stepped on the tarmac. I was excited from the first glimpse of the green snake of the Nile interrupting the leather of the desert from the airplane.
I thrived on the chaos of Cairo (which says a lot for someone like me who doesn't like big cities)- trying to negotiate the most erratic torrents of traffic. The urgency and craziness of traffic in Cairo can not be overstated. I was bounced off a bus and a car in my first hour there, but luckily not hurt!
Something strange happened to me in Cairo. The busyness people hate became a dust devil of amusement to me. The harassment of men became easy for me to ignore, I think people who complain of harassment in Egypt haven't been to the rest of Africa because I had no problem just ignoring and being rude back to the blatantly inappropriate and lewd comments of men here while the "hello"s and "how are you"s because I stand out as a white person in other parts of Africa warrant a polite response and become exhaustive and wearing. The rude people in the streets became helpful and pointed me in the right direction. The people out to cheat were friends and kind and offered me free drinks. I left Cairo on the night train to Aswan feeling like I had been to a different city than the one everyone had told me about.
Getting to smaller and less touristed towns only reinforced the appeal of Egypt for me. Here is a place out of an epic novel that matches a cheap postcard at the same time. It is scenically the most beautiful place I've ever been. The countryside is ribboned with fields of startling green tended by men in tunics and turbans with their camels and donkeys. The greenery is spliced with an imaginative desert that ranges from soft sand to hardened rock dunes.
Antiquity is a the forefront of the present- ruins splatter along the Nile. Villages still are made in the traditional square mud walls where words like quaint, historic, functional, sparse, mysterious, simple and beautiful collide. The curvature of mosques breaks the angular continuity of villages like this.
Larger cities like Luxor and Aswan have narrow allies that wind through the yellow adobe buildings to spotlight the Nile which is the vein of life in this desert. There are endless stone allies that twist through cities lined by markets with a sky of strings of colorful flags leftover from Ramdan flapping and glittering in the humid air.
Men bump into me down these cobblestone streets as they carry huge trays stacked with round Egyptian bread. Counters with fruits, sweets and baklava compete with endless shops marching down the way with all the same pseudo-authentic kitschy tourist treasures.
Tunics float past with turbaned head in them. Incense spirals so thick that it looks like smoke and adds to the mystical quality reinforced by bottles of perfume and baskets brimming with spices I never knew existed.
On busier streets donkey carts battle for road space with cars and huge tour buses. Tourists jump out of the Egypt-world bubble of their tour bus and snap as many photos as possible, dressed in appalling clothes for a Muslim country and lumber back into their plastic Egypt with hundreds of photos before they have seen anything.
For the first time I viscerally feel the adage, "Visit a country before it is ruined by tourism." In the touristy Egypt I find what was promised to me. There is the constant hassle and a culture that thrives on cheating everyone as much as possible.
I prefer to escape to the countryside where the greetings are genuine and smiles aren't leering. Here men sit and drink tea and smoke shisha, the 2 national pastimes, on every corner. Wherever I go, I see men riding donkeys and that always has a slapstick humor to it. No matter how dignified one can look in a well-wrapped turban, this is lost by the cartoonish quality of riding a donkey. They are just too short for riding and everyone bounces along with their legs frogged spastically out and comically close to the ground.
The attention of the men is wearing. It is constant and unrelenting and the one thing that made me hate the country at times. Even girls who are plain like me are bombarded with every step. Covering all my skin did nothing to help. I had to escape. I went for a 2 night felucca trip down the Nile.
Floating the Nile is the definition of chilling. Everything moves in slow motion as you pass by the lackadaisical churning of life on the banks of the Nile. One morning I found myself sitting in a small rowboat with the felucca captain, a local fisherman and his son. Typical Egyptian hospitality, the fisherman was making us food and tea that somehow continued to appear out of the sparseness of the splintered rowboat. Even the ever present shisha manifested itself. With the felucca captain translating, the fisherman offered me 1,000 camels and 1,000 horses for me to be his wife. I am told this is quite the dazzling offer. He even said that he would promote me to the status of his first wife. It was tempting, but I am sure his other wives would not be happy with the arrangement.
Touristy sites are impossible to avoid. That is where I began to get tired of Egypt. Cheating is a way of life. All the men, every single one that I met no matter the circumstances, without exception, are sleazy. the historical sites that I would love to spend all day enchanted by quickly lost their appeal as I bounced off huge groups of tourists. It is rare to see Muslim women out of the house and when you do they are shrouded in black, turning a woman into a dark ghost. This is fitting for her place in Egyptian society; even in restaurants women sit in their own section with smaller tables.
Police with machine guns follow tourists everywhere after recent attacks on foreigners. They are hyper-vigalent yet seemingly incompetent. We have to travel in police convoys and I swear they would turn on the sirens just for fun. Endless passport checks prevent any type of sleep on long drives. As for any sort of public transport I have taken, every single driver I have had has been certifiably crazy. Evidence includes the constant and thorough making of sound effects (by more than one driver) and swerving to hit a biker whom he did not feel should be on the road.
Despite warnings of terrorists and bandits, I made my way to a small city on the Sinai, Dahab. I am finding it impossible to leave this place. It has the sparkle of the Red Sea and Saudi Arabia taunts me from across the water, playing on my inability to see a place and not be allowed to go with the harsh reality that I cannot get a visa.
The pouring-honey pace of Egypt slows even further here and I feel I am in a black hole where nothing gets done but chilling. This place is known for travelers that come with the intention of staying a few days and they end up here for over a year. If I didn't have a commitment in Kenya I could guarantee I would be one of them. I even have a few jobs lined up as if I needed more of an excuse to stay.
Despite the difficulty with the men and tourist areas, Egypt is the closest to that perfect place I keep searching for. But those scars make it far less than perfect, often bordering on intolerable. Still there is the intrigue- the camels, incense, perfume, spices, turbans, tombs and temples I have read about since I could read, the ocean that folds into the sky with out a dividing line and the deserts that pull me towards their variety and brutal peace. All of it is deliciously compelling. Egypt- I think that says it all.
My Time in Sudan
I was severely disappointed that I was denied a visa into Sudan where I was planning on taking a bike trip from Khartoum to Egypt. I had come back to Addis Ababa early to apply for my visa as well as by a random chance (I missed a hitch hike ride which landed me on the couch of an amazing couple from Belgium which led to me helping with a conference for journalists in Ethiopia on children's rights in the media in Addis) –yes, I know my life might be the most random ever I was thinking as I was bullshitting my way through a speech in front of all these journalists.
But anyways, visa to Sudan denied, I was sitting on the plane on the way to Egypt with a layover in Khartoum disappointed to be so close but so far, questioning if I should have left Ethiopia to begin with, with this impending war with Eritrea, it could be newsworthy, but I lacked the contacts I needed for a story so after 2 near-misses, I decided to try to get off in Sudan anyways. This failed, but I did meet some interesting people along the way.
I got to talk to diplomats from all over and was envious of their fascinating lives. It is frustrating to see people in jobs I want so much and have no idea how to get there, to be in places full of stories and have no idea how to get them. I spoke for a few hours with a man who used to be in the French Special Services (comparable to the CIA in the U.S.). Now he is in Sudan to act as sort of an auditor about the money going into Sudan. It is interesting, there is public outcry about why we aren't doing anything to stop the atrocities in Darfur. The reality is, we are doing things, they just aren't working. According to this man, Al Bashir refuses to let people that aren't African into the country to help up until now. The runway of the airport is lined with shiny new helicopters donated by Canada and the U.S. that can't be used because of this reason. Millions of dollars are wasted. Also, there is the issue of the money we donate mysteriously disappearing. Lots of money and food comes into the country but it is never give to the people who need it. The auditor explained that we donate a lot, but we expect results in our European ways. But this is Africa. Much of the money goes to bakshish. Much of it disappears. It might not be that we aren't helping, but that we are not allowed to help. To set the record straight, I do want to state that this is not me advocating that we stop helping in every way that we possibly can, not at all, just that we should maybe look for additional ways to help and with a less European/U.S. view for a completely different continent like Africa.
The way things are done in Africa is completely different. I have encountered this with the NGOs I have helped with and the journalists I have met. From my cultural bias it frustrates me because it appears to be incompetence, poor time-management and lack of initiative. But I must remind myself that I am the outsider and have no right to judge or want to change things. I must constantly remember that this is Africa.
This is Africa where there is this wildness, where there is so much culture and family and beauty, but also so much darkness and violence. It takes days to accomplish what would take hours or less in the U.S. Money disappears, bakshish is always necessary. A small group of people have huge houses while other starve and live in the streets because for the powerful there is a big business in perpetuating conflict. There are people here who have never known what it is like not to live in fear.
I feel Africa is explosive. Things may move at a snail's pace, but they can also change drastically from one day to the next. One diplomat I met was in Sierra Leone a few years ago. They met with a faction of the government and shared a lobster lunch with them, relations were good. Overnight, things changed, they came back and shot the diplomat's friend.
The auditor was telling me of missions diving through rivers to evacuate French citizens on the Ivory Coast when things turned sour unexpectedly. He told me that in 1991, I believe, he was in charge of guarding the French ambassador to the CAF. Rebels came in suddenly and were shaking the walls of the embassy to get in. He fired about 200 bullets each warding them off that night keeping only enough bullets, at the request of the French ambassador to use to kill him, his wife and their 2 daughters in case the rebels got in because he didn't want to spend the last hours of their lives at the hands of these rebels. The auditor kept a bullet for himself as well. After a long night they succeeded in keeping the rebels out.
But things like that happen in Africa. It is so unpredictable. I am learning to try and keep my wits about me. There is a great sense of adventure about it. There is a very different Africa as well, a well-touristed Africa where many people do go. But as for me, where is the fun in that?
A bit about Khartoum- the runway is full of military equipment including rocket launchers that look ready to be fired up at the plane as it lands, not the most welcoming sight! When we landed the pilot received cheers and applause from people in the cabin. One passenger yelled, "Welcome to Khartoum, the greatest city on earth!"
The city is more modern than I expected. It's huge with large buildings and orderly paved streets. One strange thing is that all the neighborhoods are walled in as blocks.
In the rural areas whole towns are walled in. There are nice roads, but the yare almost completely empty. It's dry and brown without much green. I got to see the northern desert where camels cross into Egypt and lakes of blue water float on the brown sand. The desert fades from white rocks to reddish dunes. Sand dunes harden into rock. It is beautiful and barren with the lonely feeling conjured only by deserts.
That's all I can say sadly for now. Hopefully I will be able to return and see more later as a journalist with backing for a story or as a diplomat of sorts. I can dream. Starting a career is proving difficult and if anyone has any suggestions as to how to get there, please do let me know!
But anyways, visa to Sudan denied, I was sitting on the plane on the way to Egypt with a layover in Khartoum disappointed to be so close but so far, questioning if I should have left Ethiopia to begin with, with this impending war with Eritrea, it could be newsworthy, but I lacked the contacts I needed for a story so after 2 near-misses, I decided to try to get off in Sudan anyways. This failed, but I did meet some interesting people along the way.
I got to talk to diplomats from all over and was envious of their fascinating lives. It is frustrating to see people in jobs I want so much and have no idea how to get there, to be in places full of stories and have no idea how to get them. I spoke for a few hours with a man who used to be in the French Special Services (comparable to the CIA in the U.S.). Now he is in Sudan to act as sort of an auditor about the money going into Sudan. It is interesting, there is public outcry about why we aren't doing anything to stop the atrocities in Darfur. The reality is, we are doing things, they just aren't working. According to this man, Al Bashir refuses to let people that aren't African into the country to help up until now. The runway of the airport is lined with shiny new helicopters donated by Canada and the U.S. that can't be used because of this reason. Millions of dollars are wasted. Also, there is the issue of the money we donate mysteriously disappearing. Lots of money and food comes into the country but it is never give to the people who need it. The auditor explained that we donate a lot, but we expect results in our European ways. But this is Africa. Much of the money goes to bakshish. Much of it disappears. It might not be that we aren't helping, but that we are not allowed to help. To set the record straight, I do want to state that this is not me advocating that we stop helping in every way that we possibly can, not at all, just that we should maybe look for additional ways to help and with a less European/U.S. view for a completely different continent like Africa.
The way things are done in Africa is completely different. I have encountered this with the NGOs I have helped with and the journalists I have met. From my cultural bias it frustrates me because it appears to be incompetence, poor time-management and lack of initiative. But I must remind myself that I am the outsider and have no right to judge or want to change things. I must constantly remember that this is Africa.
This is Africa where there is this wildness, where there is so much culture and family and beauty, but also so much darkness and violence. It takes days to accomplish what would take hours or less in the U.S. Money disappears, bakshish is always necessary. A small group of people have huge houses while other starve and live in the streets because for the powerful there is a big business in perpetuating conflict. There are people here who have never known what it is like not to live in fear.
I feel Africa is explosive. Things may move at a snail's pace, but they can also change drastically from one day to the next. One diplomat I met was in Sierra Leone a few years ago. They met with a faction of the government and shared a lobster lunch with them, relations were good. Overnight, things changed, they came back and shot the diplomat's friend.
The auditor was telling me of missions diving through rivers to evacuate French citizens on the Ivory Coast when things turned sour unexpectedly. He told me that in 1991, I believe, he was in charge of guarding the French ambassador to the CAF. Rebels came in suddenly and were shaking the walls of the embassy to get in. He fired about 200 bullets each warding them off that night keeping only enough bullets, at the request of the French ambassador to use to kill him, his wife and their 2 daughters in case the rebels got in because he didn't want to spend the last hours of their lives at the hands of these rebels. The auditor kept a bullet for himself as well. After a long night they succeeded in keeping the rebels out.
But things like that happen in Africa. It is so unpredictable. I am learning to try and keep my wits about me. There is a great sense of adventure about it. There is a very different Africa as well, a well-touristed Africa where many people do go. But as for me, where is the fun in that?
A bit about Khartoum- the runway is full of military equipment including rocket launchers that look ready to be fired up at the plane as it lands, not the most welcoming sight! When we landed the pilot received cheers and applause from people in the cabin. One passenger yelled, "Welcome to Khartoum, the greatest city on earth!"
The city is more modern than I expected. It's huge with large buildings and orderly paved streets. One strange thing is that all the neighborhoods are walled in as blocks.
In the rural areas whole towns are walled in. There are nice roads, but the yare almost completely empty. It's dry and brown without much green. I got to see the northern desert where camels cross into Egypt and lakes of blue water float on the brown sand. The desert fades from white rocks to reddish dunes. Sand dunes harden into rock. It is beautiful and barren with the lonely feeling conjured only by deserts.
That's all I can say sadly for now. Hopefully I will be able to return and see more later as a journalist with backing for a story or as a diplomat of sorts. I can dream. Starting a career is proving difficult and if anyone has any suggestions as to how to get there, please do let me know!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Angels in Ethiopia
Ethiopia is a truly unique country. It was one of only 2 countries in Africa that wasn’t colonized. They have their own way of telling time (6 hours ahead of what every other country in their time zone says). They even have their own calendar and just celebrated the millennium this year, which is actually fitting. And I could be crazy, but I swear that sometimes they drive on the right side of the road and sometimes on the left.
It’s stomach-curdling cliché to say that I both love and hate Ethiopia, so instead I will say that the country is difficult to travel in, but it’s redeeming quality is the local people I met.
Getting around in Ethiopia is not easy. I thought I was prepared but I was constantly tested. I feel only Burma and parts of Honduras are comparable to the difficulty that I have faced so far in my travels. Luckily for me, the locals were like guardian angels for me that helped me to navigate through a country with such minimal tourist infrastructure.
Let me start with the buses. They are stupid. I am sure there are much more eloquent words than stupid, but stupid is what sticks in my mind. First of all, boarding a bus in Ethiopia is a full-contact sport. Next time I’m bringing a helmet. The buses all leave at 5am, so by 4am, there is a scrum-like queue outside the gate. When the gate is opened it is a free-for-all in the dark; pulling hair, pushing, jostling. Everyone runs to the buses as I’m left hopeless, trying to read the Amharic that all the bus destinations are written in. Everyone rushes to get on the buses at 5, but they don’t leave until at least 7, so you just sit there in the dark as light begins to creak through the splintered windows until then. It makes all the fighting for a seat seem very anticlimactic.
My fist bus ride was only 13 hours. They had one cassette tape of Ethiopian music that was played over and over. It will forever haunt my dreams. Even worse; the Ethiopians seem to have this irrational phobia of fresh-air. Any time me, or the one Ethiopian that didn’t share this phobia with his fellow countrymen, tried to open the sweaty hot vacuum of the bus with a little fresh air from the window we were forcefully rebuked.
We broke down twice, the first time was just 5 minutes from the bus station. Then we finally got moving only to stop for breakfast 10 minutes from the station.
My last bus ride was from the North to Addis. We broke down 3 times. The smell of rotting eggs, manure, animals and old milk was quickly replaced by that of the vomit from the woman sitting directly behind me. The soundtrack was a consistent and well-choreographed crying from one of the 3 babies on board. They had synchronized so that when one baby tired of wailing, another would take over.
We drove until every muscle in my body was screaming at me to abandon the hard board seat and walk. The most stupid part of the whole ride was the fact that buses in Ethiopia aren’t allowed to drive in the dark. But we drove 18 hours the first day, 3 ½ of them were definitely in the dark. We stopped at a hotel where there was another scrum to get a room, luckily a university student girl had sat next to me and we shared a room, otherwise I wouldn’t have had a prayer, especially with the language barrier. She was just one of the many guardian angels I met. We slept for 4 hours, then got back on the but at 3am to drive to Addis. So much for not driving in the dark. But apparently, that darkness doesn’t count.
To top off all the stupidity, just before we arrived in Addis, we all had to get out of the bus into the cold morning to be searched for guns. They searched our bodies but not once did they look at any of our bags or anything on the bus. One could leave their Kalashnikov in their bag or simply on their seat and be fine.
I thought I was a hardened bus traveler. I have survived 20 and 27 hour bus rides, especially in Laos where I had lost the will to live by the 12th hour, but as far as buses in Ethiopia go, I hope to say never again. I may like to travel cheaply, but even I am not that much of a masochist.
Addis is a strange mix of some almost modern places and many more dusty, junky looking places. Wherever I went I would see men peeing in the street. Even business men in suits had no problem just peeing right there in the open.
Most people would yell “Farengie!” (foreigner) when they saw me. Even more would say, “Hello mister,” when I walked by which at first I took personally, but then realized that is what they say to all white people, regardless of sex. A great deal of people had a disconcerting habit of clapping when I approached.
I could not walk 5 steps without someone saying hello, asking how I was or if I would like to come have coffee with them. I know that some were probably scams, but the majority were just nice, curious people.
Drinking coffee, by the way, is a national pastime in Ethiopia. There is a beautiful traditional coffee ceremony involving pine needles and incense where they roast the beans in front of you. It is a very important part of their culture and something that the caffeine addict in me loved.
As for the restaurants, almost none of them had menus. People would look at me like I was crazy when I asked for one. It sounds like not a big deal, but imagine that for a second: you are in a place where you have no idea what any food is or what is it is called, the most popular dish is raw meat that you see hanging in the window covered in flies and you need to figure out how to order something they miraculously have with no words to say it. I bought a lot of bread on the street.
Another shock regarding food for me is feeding each other. It is common to feed one’s friends or guests. Food is all eaten with the fingers, rolled in injera, so large bites are stuffed into your mouth, one at a time by your neighbor’s hands, sometimes for the entire meal. It would be rude to refuse. It happens quickly when you least expect it, and from strangers too. You could be looking one way, minding your business and turn back to your meal and bam! A hand is cramming a huge bite into your mouth. People at nearby tables would do it as well.
Something that evaded my understanding the whole time I was there: all the university classes are taught in English, but the majority of students I met could hardly speak or understand English. Sometimes I would affect an English accent and have better understanding, but as a whole, it is just not understood. I am not sure how that works, a student has to learn a subject in a language they don’t understand and in a language that even the teachers teaching in it don’t really speak.
But like I said before, the best part of Ethiopia was the people. The ones that worked in the tourism industry themselves drove me crazy. They would follow me all day and I couldn’t get rid of them, they would get commission for everything I bought just by standing there in the distance. The price of everything would triple for me. If I stopped for even a moment I would be surrounded by 10 or 12 guys. But the locals were incredible. If I would ask someone for directions, they would get off at my stop and walk me to the place I was looking for. This happened time and time again. If I was walking they would take my hand and lead me to where I was going.
I had a problem with my credit card and was taking a taxi, I had enough money to pay him but not much else. He refused to take my money and insisted that instead he give me his address and I send him a Christmas card some year. (I did by the way force him to take some money and I look forward to sending him some cool package when I get home.) All over people were genuine, friendly, welcoming and good-hearted. Because the locals were so outgoing and friendly it was easy for me to meet them and get a real flavor for the country. From the business people with their cell-phones and satellite TV to the rural shepherds who still wear traditional clothes (blankets draped over their shoulders, carrying a long stick and wearing itty bitty shorts, yes, really) and walk barefoot through the fields to the Muslims and Orthodox to the tribes that decorate their horses with tassels like I would see in photos of Mongolia and the tribes that tattoo women’s faces and have huge holes in their ears to the monks at Lake Tana who invited me to drink beer with them outside the monastery to the men pushing their way through the Blue Nile on a papyrus canoe, because of the warmth of them all, I felt I was able to understand Ethiopia just a bit more.
It’s stomach-curdling cliché to say that I both love and hate Ethiopia, so instead I will say that the country is difficult to travel in, but it’s redeeming quality is the local people I met.
Getting around in Ethiopia is not easy. I thought I was prepared but I was constantly tested. I feel only Burma and parts of Honduras are comparable to the difficulty that I have faced so far in my travels. Luckily for me, the locals were like guardian angels for me that helped me to navigate through a country with such minimal tourist infrastructure.
Let me start with the buses. They are stupid. I am sure there are much more eloquent words than stupid, but stupid is what sticks in my mind. First of all, boarding a bus in Ethiopia is a full-contact sport. Next time I’m bringing a helmet. The buses all leave at 5am, so by 4am, there is a scrum-like queue outside the gate. When the gate is opened it is a free-for-all in the dark; pulling hair, pushing, jostling. Everyone runs to the buses as I’m left hopeless, trying to read the Amharic that all the bus destinations are written in. Everyone rushes to get on the buses at 5, but they don’t leave until at least 7, so you just sit there in the dark as light begins to creak through the splintered windows until then. It makes all the fighting for a seat seem very anticlimactic.
My fist bus ride was only 13 hours. They had one cassette tape of Ethiopian music that was played over and over. It will forever haunt my dreams. Even worse; the Ethiopians seem to have this irrational phobia of fresh-air. Any time me, or the one Ethiopian that didn’t share this phobia with his fellow countrymen, tried to open the sweaty hot vacuum of the bus with a little fresh air from the window we were forcefully rebuked.
We broke down twice, the first time was just 5 minutes from the bus station. Then we finally got moving only to stop for breakfast 10 minutes from the station.
My last bus ride was from the North to Addis. We broke down 3 times. The smell of rotting eggs, manure, animals and old milk was quickly replaced by that of the vomit from the woman sitting directly behind me. The soundtrack was a consistent and well-choreographed crying from one of the 3 babies on board. They had synchronized so that when one baby tired of wailing, another would take over.
We drove until every muscle in my body was screaming at me to abandon the hard board seat and walk. The most stupid part of the whole ride was the fact that buses in Ethiopia aren’t allowed to drive in the dark. But we drove 18 hours the first day, 3 ½ of them were definitely in the dark. We stopped at a hotel where there was another scrum to get a room, luckily a university student girl had sat next to me and we shared a room, otherwise I wouldn’t have had a prayer, especially with the language barrier. She was just one of the many guardian angels I met. We slept for 4 hours, then got back on the but at 3am to drive to Addis. So much for not driving in the dark. But apparently, that darkness doesn’t count.
To top off all the stupidity, just before we arrived in Addis, we all had to get out of the bus into the cold morning to be searched for guns. They searched our bodies but not once did they look at any of our bags or anything on the bus. One could leave their Kalashnikov in their bag or simply on their seat and be fine.
I thought I was a hardened bus traveler. I have survived 20 and 27 hour bus rides, especially in Laos where I had lost the will to live by the 12th hour, but as far as buses in Ethiopia go, I hope to say never again. I may like to travel cheaply, but even I am not that much of a masochist.
Addis is a strange mix of some almost modern places and many more dusty, junky looking places. Wherever I went I would see men peeing in the street. Even business men in suits had no problem just peeing right there in the open.
Most people would yell “Farengie!” (foreigner) when they saw me. Even more would say, “Hello mister,” when I walked by which at first I took personally, but then realized that is what they say to all white people, regardless of sex. A great deal of people had a disconcerting habit of clapping when I approached.
I could not walk 5 steps without someone saying hello, asking how I was or if I would like to come have coffee with them. I know that some were probably scams, but the majority were just nice, curious people.
Drinking coffee, by the way, is a national pastime in Ethiopia. There is a beautiful traditional coffee ceremony involving pine needles and incense where they roast the beans in front of you. It is a very important part of their culture and something that the caffeine addict in me loved.
As for the restaurants, almost none of them had menus. People would look at me like I was crazy when I asked for one. It sounds like not a big deal, but imagine that for a second: you are in a place where you have no idea what any food is or what is it is called, the most popular dish is raw meat that you see hanging in the window covered in flies and you need to figure out how to order something they miraculously have with no words to say it. I bought a lot of bread on the street.
Another shock regarding food for me is feeding each other. It is common to feed one’s friends or guests. Food is all eaten with the fingers, rolled in injera, so large bites are stuffed into your mouth, one at a time by your neighbor’s hands, sometimes for the entire meal. It would be rude to refuse. It happens quickly when you least expect it, and from strangers too. You could be looking one way, minding your business and turn back to your meal and bam! A hand is cramming a huge bite into your mouth. People at nearby tables would do it as well.
Something that evaded my understanding the whole time I was there: all the university classes are taught in English, but the majority of students I met could hardly speak or understand English. Sometimes I would affect an English accent and have better understanding, but as a whole, it is just not understood. I am not sure how that works, a student has to learn a subject in a language they don’t understand and in a language that even the teachers teaching in it don’t really speak.
But like I said before, the best part of Ethiopia was the people. The ones that worked in the tourism industry themselves drove me crazy. They would follow me all day and I couldn’t get rid of them, they would get commission for everything I bought just by standing there in the distance. The price of everything would triple for me. If I stopped for even a moment I would be surrounded by 10 or 12 guys. But the locals were incredible. If I would ask someone for directions, they would get off at my stop and walk me to the place I was looking for. This happened time and time again. If I was walking they would take my hand and lead me to where I was going.
I had a problem with my credit card and was taking a taxi, I had enough money to pay him but not much else. He refused to take my money and insisted that instead he give me his address and I send him a Christmas card some year. (I did by the way force him to take some money and I look forward to sending him some cool package when I get home.) All over people were genuine, friendly, welcoming and good-hearted. Because the locals were so outgoing and friendly it was easy for me to meet them and get a real flavor for the country. From the business people with their cell-phones and satellite TV to the rural shepherds who still wear traditional clothes (blankets draped over their shoulders, carrying a long stick and wearing itty bitty shorts, yes, really) and walk barefoot through the fields to the Muslims and Orthodox to the tribes that decorate their horses with tassels like I would see in photos of Mongolia and the tribes that tattoo women’s faces and have huge holes in their ears to the monks at Lake Tana who invited me to drink beer with them outside the monastery to the men pushing their way through the Blue Nile on a papyrus canoe, because of the warmth of them all, I felt I was able to understand Ethiopia just a bit more.
A Beautiful Darkness (Ethiopia)
Ethiopia. The name holds as much excitement and mystery as I felt in the country itself. Ethiopia. Addis Ababa; words that sound so foreign on my tongue. I can't believe I'm really here.
Starting at the beginning. I made my way to Nairobi, talked some politics with the locals, there which never ceases to amuse me, bought "The Nation", which is the local paper that I love to devour, and headed for the airport. I’m sitting in the terminal and I flip to the international section. Front page of that is an article about how Ethiopia and Eritrea are expected to be at war in the next couple of weeks. I immediately decided to change my itinerary so I could head up north and see if I could be of use covering the story.
Just being in the airport had an air of excitement to me. These places in Africa feel like the big leagues. I sat by the line of people boarding flights to Khartoum and imagined what they would be doing there, searching their faces for answers. Once the flight boarded I returned to my gate destined for Addis Ababa. I met some interesting people on the way. I had a beer with a mercenary from Belgium. I befriended a man from the U.K., an ex-military turned private security officer. I felt a wave of awe mixed with jealousy as I listened to the cavalier way he described his recent assignments in Indonesia, Pakistan, Iraq, Sudan and Afghanistan. He was on his way to Somalia. He looked shocked when I told him I didn’t have syringes in my medical kit and was kind enough to make me up a kit when we landed so that if I ever need medical attention I have my own needles and all.
We chatted in the line at customs as I asked question after question about his incredible life and all his travels. When we left, this private security contractor who has been to all the hells that exist in our world turned to me and said, “You know, I really admire you. You are extremely brave to be doing what you are doing and if I were you, I don’t think I would have the guts to go to these places alone.” I am not sure if that is a compliment or something to worry about!
Getting my luggage I saw people from the African Union and I met the senior state department official in charge of peacekeeping in Africa. I was beside myself, that is celebrity status for me. Between the likes of the people I met in the airport and all the NGO/UN vehicles I saw in the country, I have this overwhelming sense of excitement and ambition. This feels like the center of the world, the place to be. All the people I met were journalists, aid workers, diplomats, security, WFP, CARE, etc. It is like my version of Hollywood! I encountered a few travelers, but almost all were years older having been to the far corners of the world, the most hardened of travelers. They were definitely the most hard-core travelers I met. I hope to someday return as a journalist or with one of those organizations. I watched with jealously as the journalists compared notes. I peered into the UN Landcruisers and wondered what it would be like to be inside.
I spent a good deal of time with a precious gem dealer from Nigeria. He explained to me how the illegal system works. I asked if he was afraid he’d get caught. He laughed at me and said, “This is Africa!”
Here in Ethiopia, I have found this sense of lawlessness. I both fear it and am captivated by it. I imagine myself one day returning as a professional. This is the wild Africa, more of what I expected than I found in the more touristed country of Kenya. (Though Meru is not touristy).
I feel like everything here lies in a precarious balance. It’s like a spider-web; the delicate strings could be broken with enough force, but it is stronger than it appears and can just as easily be reinforced and rebuilt. I feel the lawlessness and chaos, but also an incredible depth of culture and history. Most of all in this strange kind of beauty, I see strength and potential, a deepness and wildness I haven’t found anywhere else that keeps me infatuated with the wildness that encompasses the dark Africa.
I feel myself captivated and drawn in by this type of darkness. I think I will be back because it feels like under the surface things are happening here.
Starting at the beginning. I made my way to Nairobi, talked some politics with the locals, there which never ceases to amuse me, bought "The Nation", which is the local paper that I love to devour, and headed for the airport. I’m sitting in the terminal and I flip to the international section. Front page of that is an article about how Ethiopia and Eritrea are expected to be at war in the next couple of weeks. I immediately decided to change my itinerary so I could head up north and see if I could be of use covering the story.
Just being in the airport had an air of excitement to me. These places in Africa feel like the big leagues. I sat by the line of people boarding flights to Khartoum and imagined what they would be doing there, searching their faces for answers. Once the flight boarded I returned to my gate destined for Addis Ababa. I met some interesting people on the way. I had a beer with a mercenary from Belgium. I befriended a man from the U.K., an ex-military turned private security officer. I felt a wave of awe mixed with jealousy as I listened to the cavalier way he described his recent assignments in Indonesia, Pakistan, Iraq, Sudan and Afghanistan. He was on his way to Somalia. He looked shocked when I told him I didn’t have syringes in my medical kit and was kind enough to make me up a kit when we landed so that if I ever need medical attention I have my own needles and all.
We chatted in the line at customs as I asked question after question about his incredible life and all his travels. When we left, this private security contractor who has been to all the hells that exist in our world turned to me and said, “You know, I really admire you. You are extremely brave to be doing what you are doing and if I were you, I don’t think I would have the guts to go to these places alone.” I am not sure if that is a compliment or something to worry about!
Getting my luggage I saw people from the African Union and I met the senior state department official in charge of peacekeeping in Africa. I was beside myself, that is celebrity status for me. Between the likes of the people I met in the airport and all the NGO/UN vehicles I saw in the country, I have this overwhelming sense of excitement and ambition. This feels like the center of the world, the place to be. All the people I met were journalists, aid workers, diplomats, security, WFP, CARE, etc. It is like my version of Hollywood! I encountered a few travelers, but almost all were years older having been to the far corners of the world, the most hardened of travelers. They were definitely the most hard-core travelers I met. I hope to someday return as a journalist or with one of those organizations. I watched with jealously as the journalists compared notes. I peered into the UN Landcruisers and wondered what it would be like to be inside.
I spent a good deal of time with a precious gem dealer from Nigeria. He explained to me how the illegal system works. I asked if he was afraid he’d get caught. He laughed at me and said, “This is Africa!”
Here in Ethiopia, I have found this sense of lawlessness. I both fear it and am captivated by it. I imagine myself one day returning as a professional. This is the wild Africa, more of what I expected than I found in the more touristed country of Kenya. (Though Meru is not touristy).
I feel like everything here lies in a precarious balance. It’s like a spider-web; the delicate strings could be broken with enough force, but it is stronger than it appears and can just as easily be reinforced and rebuilt. I feel the lawlessness and chaos, but also an incredible depth of culture and history. Most of all in this strange kind of beauty, I see strength and potential, a deepness and wildness I haven’t found anywhere else that keeps me infatuated with the wildness that encompasses the dark Africa.
I feel myself captivated and drawn in by this type of darkness. I think I will be back because it feels like under the surface things are happening here.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
The biggest adrenaline rush ever (Kenya)
Picture this: It was incredible, the moment I knew was worth sneaking out of the house and into the alleged danger-zone for. I lifted my camera and pointed at the huge cloud of tear gas that was erupting over the crowd of around 600 as they all began to run. The cloud loomed above the people, beckoning to be photographed. This was the moment I have been waiting for my whole trip. Triumphant, I pushed the button and my camera closed on me, out of batteries.
I reached into my purse and took out my two spare batteries. I quickly tried to shove them into my camera, but by that time the people had reached where I was standing. I was caught up as hundreds of people sprinted past and over and around me. Jostled, the batteries fell into the dirt. At this point, I had no choice to but to run or to be trampled by the crowd of tear-gassed demonstrators. Some journalist I turned out to be.
Raila, the ODM presidential hopeful, who is challenging the PNU incumbent came to Meru. This was very brave of him as Meru is a PNU stronghold. People in Meru are terrified of Raila winning the election because they fear he would cause a civil war. The day before the election, news spread that some people from Meru had been murdered in Raila’s hometown. This news turned out to be nothing but a rumor, common once campaigns get rowdy in Kenya, but we did not find this out until after the rally. Raila had a stage set up just off of the main road in Meru. He did not come until around 4pm, but the streets were bursting with people by 7am.
When I arrived and took my place between layers of people on the sidewalk, I could feel the air ready to explode. People would scream “PNU, PNU!” Every time a car drove past. The sidewalks were lined with people dressed in PNU blue as far as I could see. The blue faded with the road as it twisted out of town. People were yelling and cheering and dancing The police had sent in for reinforcements and were dressed in full riot-gear and military clothes as they walked up and down the road with their clubs.
There were whispers and rumors that “killings will happen.” I started to get nervous. I wasn’t supposed to be here and I quite obviously stood out. One guy next to me looked at me curiously and said, “Even you want to see this.”
I was far to intimidated to take any photos and was starting to feel uneasy enough to want to leave, the tension was almost unbearable. The muggy heat under the dark sky felt pregnant with violence. Then I saw a smiling face. A man made his way over to me. “I’ve heard about you, you are the muzungu who knows more about Kenya’s politics than most Kenyan’s. It’s dangerous here.”
I told him I was aware but I had heard there might be chaos and I have this desire to go where the chaos is (sorry mom, but you already know that). Fortunately for me, this man, Titus, took me under his wing. I felt secure enough to stay and to take some photos.
We heard Raila before we saw him. A wave of “PNU, PNU!” Swept through the street, coming from around the bend where all disappeared. The air was electric. I knew something big was going to happen. People started making their move. There was commotion all around me. Raila drove up in his convoy, dressed in a shocking orange, the color for ODM. Rocks began raining on him.
There were too many people to see what was happening, I was caught in a spiral of chaos and movement, charging, rushing, spinning, trampling. “Run!” Titus yelled at me. We plowed through the madness to the side of the street where a ditch filled with water separated the concrete with a steep grassy embankment. Titus threw me over the water, a man on the other side grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “You are very small, you could get stepped on.” The man understated sagely. I thought to myself that an elephant could get trampled amidst this crowd.
From the incline of the embankment we were able to watch the movement of those below us. I saw police grab several people and beat them with their clubs. People screamed and threw more rocks. There was too much activity for my brain to organize into any sort of sense, it was just a sea of people and crashing movement. Another man bolted towards a police officer with a huge crowd following him. He tried to fit between the policeman and his clear riot shield. Titus explained to me that he knew the man was an ODM supporter and he was afraid for his life and wanted the policeman to escort him to the rally.
There was more running and dizziness. Whenever a crowd rushed towards us we ran too, fearing whatever unknown assailant was behind them. Then the tear gas began. I saw the clouds rise up above the biggest groups of people. The spray puckered in my lungs and mixed with my already sore-throat from being sick. My contacts shielded my eyes only for a moment, then the pungent stinging began.
Seconds later the sounds of gunshots peppered through the noise of the crowd. Actually, peppered is not the right word, I can guarantee that when you hear multiple gunshots, you do not describe the sound as peppered or sprinkled. But it was something like that, and we ran as if our lives depended on it. I couldn’t tell if the gunshots were warning shots being fired in the air or shots sent through the crowd itself. I assumed they would just be warning shots, but I have learned in my short time here that this is Africa and in Africa, you cannot afford to assume anything. We tumbled around the mob running and slipping in the mud. We took refuge in the nearby police station, ducking through the barbed wire.
Things began to settle down a bit as the rally got underway. Raila could not even be heard on his scratchy microphone over the sounds of “PNU!” drowning him out. The next day Raila was quoted in the newspaper as saying, “Meru will be crying when I am president.”
I knew more violence was apt to take place after the rally and I had no desire to stand out so much when things really started getting insane so I said my goodbyes to Titus and prepared to head back home. As I was leaving, Titus asked me if this is what presidential campaign rallies are like in the U.S.
“Not exactly,” I said as I tried to sneak back through the crowd unnoticed. I walked away feeling so inspired with the most incredible adrenaline rush I have ever felt in my life and a desire to find a way to cover stories like this around the world. There are so many stories that must be told to help make people aware of violence in order to end it. There are so many ways of being in this world as well and as we tell stories about other ways of existing it makes the world just a little smaller. Bearing witness to what I often see in my travels, and from moments like this, I know something changes deep inside of me. I think for me, covering international news could be my way to make a difference. That is if I ever get my act as a journalist together, but everyone has to start somewhere, right?!
Mass Graves of Meru (Kenya)
Walking by the hospital in Meru, Kenya the plants along the road are so brilliant that no word to describe the color green gives them justice. The ethereal color of the plants is made even more stunning by the splattering of purple, yellow and red flowers. The road is dirt and plenty of homes are sprinkled along the way. The laundry hanging on the lines contrasts with the brown walls of the wooden shacks. Off in the distance, through the haze rest the mountains, sloping at jagged at the same time. Birds that you only see in pet shops flit around in the air in brilliant streaks of red, yellow, turquoise and pink.
It right by a colorful group of laundry-drying houses that you begin to smell it. Death. Rotting. It is an unmistakable scent. Right across from the morgue which is behind the hospital, not 10 feet from the collection of homes, is a mass graveyard.
The mortuary workers take all the bodies that haven’t been claimed and every three weeks or so dumps them in a shallow grave across the street. There are two grave sites that are alternated between, allowing some time for the bodies to decompose before more are added on top.
The graves are so shallow that local dogs tend to get into them. When one mass grave is dug, up with the dirt comes clothes and bones from a previous burial. All of this is out for display as one walks along the road.
Next to the blazing yellow flowers and hidden in the green vitality are shattered skulls and human bones as well as scraps of clothes the bodies were wearing when laid to rest.
Many Kenyan’s cannot afford burial fees for their dead so they have no choice but to leave them in the mortuary. The mass graves are looked at as just another part of life in Kenya, albeit annoying for those who do not live close enough to grow used to the smell.
Campaigns in Kenya
Over three weeks have passed and I can say that I am acclimating to Meru, Kenya and life on the campaign trail for a Member of Parliament aspirant. I am struck by moments of awe- sitting under the toasting African sun as the winds comb through grasses in the open field where the large rally is being held as my eardrums sting with wavelengths emitting from the loud-speaker in Kehmeru after being spun around by colorful traditional dancers, old women with their toothless smiles cracking up to their ears as they twirl me through open arms.
I am also embarrassed to admit that I have moments of frustration and boredom as well- my legs numb from the board jabbing into them as I sit, ready to collapse from the heat of the African sun as it relentlessly bores down on my freshly burning skin lacking the pigment of protection like my neighbors, ready to faint from the heat and lack of water (I can’t drink water because going to the bathroom is just not an option!) as I sit trapped, dead front-center stage, exposed to a crowd of hundreds of eyes as someone yells in Kehmeru through the feedback quaffering (yes, I made up a word but doesn’t that just sound right?) through the microphone, often gesturing to me, but I am bound by my lack of language and am left to scan thoughts and memories as they are pulled up in my head out of sheer boredom.
It is my own ignorance of the language that I am finding so oppressive. I know that there are countless opportunities to find stories but I can’t find people to interview and I just don’t know what is going on, ever. I bumble about following Karumbu throughout her day and never know where we are or what we are doing. From the most simple phone call that would just be nice to know how our plans have changed, to the message in the platform itself, I never know what is happening. I am trying to learn, but it is difficult. Kiswahili is spoken far more widely than Kehmeru which is only spoken in this area. I have decided to lean Kiswahili which makes more sense, but most of the rallies are done in the latter. Everyone speaks Kiswahili though so it is somewhat helpful but it doesn’t allow me to pick up words in speeches or feel immersed in the language.
I have rabidly set myself on a mission to learn Kiswahili, buying children’s books and primary textbooks, studying 2 hours a day. I wander around the house like a 2-year-old, pointing at objects and saying the words in Kiswahili. The grandmother laughs so hard when I do this, I think it reminds her of her children, but the yard man seems baffled by this display, not really sure how to react to me and unsure what my level of intelligence really is.
The people here, for their part are extremely encouraging. I speak at every rally and Karumbu translates for me. I simply used to say hello in Kehmeru and the crowd erupts with applause and surprised laughter. I decided to see what would happen if I introduced myself and told a little about myself in Kiswahili and I thought the field would be trampled down with the crowd’s feet as they went crazy. It doesn’t take much to generate a huge response here!
The FOREPA (Forum for Republican Party) slogan and gesture is ingrained in my head and one of the canvassers laughs that I know so few words in Kehmeru but wimbe and niaugh are among them (razorblade and cut) because they are in the slogan. I don’t know whether to clap or not after the speeches I don’t understand and when I do, I flash back to learning about mob mentality in social psych, especially since I am clapping for something that I have no idea what it is about but I am just trying to be polite and follow the crowd. But for the most part I tend to feel a bit like a sheep joining in for the applause and repeating the slogan over and over because I feel I have to sitting in front of everyone!
I will catch up on some of the events we have attended:
We speak at all sorts of group meetings everywhere you could imagine from little wooden sheds to nice hotels. We went to Nairobi and met with university students there. We spoke in a structure made of boards with the gaps filled in with plastic bags for insulation as goats wandered in to see what we were up to. We went to a rural school for Karumbu’s school incentives program to give backpacks to the students that are the best in their class. The whole school was stopped and they held a school-wide rally. There was a sea of green sweaters (all the students are in uniform here) with the crashing of applause as we made our way through the students under the sprawling tree around which they had all gathered.
Wherever we go the students and children all seem to rush out of their classrooms and mob me. They all want to see and touch the “muzungu” (white person). I have been nervous that I would be bowled over and washed away by the enthusiastic kids, their eager and searching eyes and rubbing hands all over my arms. Even when we drive, I tend to always feel like I am in a parade, albeit a quickly moving one, as children spot me and wave with huge smiles or yell out, “muzungu!” prompting me to represent all muzingus and wave back with an equally large smile.
We have been to church services and prayed with the best of them and asked them to pray and vote for Karumbu as well. We went to the ghetto of Meru to a Muslim community to eat with them for the breaking of the fast, I, dressed in my Muslim best thought that maybe for once I could blend in until they looked at my eyes. It seemed to be working until I was talking to a boy about my age who said he could tell I was American from far away because I walk with a bounce in my step attributed only to us. After dinner we stood in the ankle-deep mud by the shacks with no electricity, the poverty impossible to ignore, and talked to all the people a politician has never cared enough to visit and listened to their concerns and hopes and shook every single person’s hand.
We have spent days on a “Meet the People Tour” and I have gotten to see all over the area. We saw irrigation ditches that communities have worked together to make, women dying of AIDS given to them by their cheating husbands, would-be school children who are eager to learn but cannot afford school fees, dilapidated family homes, coffee plantations, children recovering from surgery, forests and deserts, jungles and plains, cows and goats clogging the roads, rivers, and villages. We stop all along the way and talk to the people and get to hear their side of things. It kills me to not understand what they are saying because the area is ripe with stories that are begging to be told.
On one of the “Meet the People” days we had a detour through Leywa Nature Reserve. As we minded our business and drove along the road I looked out the window and 20 feet away from us was an elephant, next to it a giraffe, and crossing the road so close we could touch them, zebras! The best part was that we weren’t even looking for the animals like on a safari, they were just there. Most of those couple hours are blank to me except the zebras, giraffes, elephant, gazelles, warthog and ostriches, but people in the car later said that I could not stop saying, “oh my god, oh my god!” The animals they have seen, but me seeing the animal for the first time, they have not. It was crazy to look out the windows and see the animals right there, especially the giraffes which look like a prehistoric cartoon from a distance. Then, as we were leaving the park on the way back, one of the men in the car said that if we are really lucky sometimes you can see rhinos, but there are only 16 of them in the whole park and they are rare to see. Five seconds later I am screaming for them to stop the car and a rhino is right there! Apparently luck was with us that day, but I digress.
We went into the offices and chatted with the people working at Leywa. It is a well manicured, well maintained place with classically manufactured fake mud buildings. The people were pleasant and enlightened us about all the programs they have to help the surrounding villages- they have a mobile clinic, cars people can rent to go to hospitals and help fund schools. We left excited to partner with such a well-organized institution. We continued on to the village that we were supposed to speak at.
We pulled through the thick jungle full of fiery red and blazing purple flowers. It was one of the most fertile, green and beautiful areas I have ever seen. As we neared the village children started running along with our car. This is not unusual but in a country of thin people, how strikingly emaciated the children were was. We saw farmers dousing their crops with insecticide just feet away from the river that feeds into the villages’ drinking water. When we got to the village, I could tell it was one of the poorest I have ever seen. People all lived in one-room huts made of sticks with dirt floors. The children were thin and dirty. Even the cows were thin. The chief spoke and Karumbu later translated their story to me. Apparently, Lewya is owned by one person, a member of the royal family in England. It is a big tourist destination and all the profits go out of the country. When he bought the land, the people in all these villages were forced out. They were forced into villages reminiscent of the villigization process during the Mao Mao revolution. The people squatted on the land because they had nowhere else to go, but eventually bought the land but only a very small area of it, chock full of many people. They are now literally fenced and caged in. The owners of Lewya, they claim, are trying to starve them out. They aren’t allowed to work at Lewya, foreigners and people from other parts of Kenya are brought in. Many women have died during childbirth because they cannot get to hospitals. Sick people die as well because Lewya charges more than anyone in the village ever could afford to take people to the hospitals in their mobile clinic, even in emergency situations. Though this situation is illustrative of but one of many repressive situations here, something about this village has haunted me. It is one of a multitude of world-wide examples reminiscent of colonialism and something that I want desperately to help with but don’t know how. How often the footprints and repercussions of colonialism are forgotten after it has initially ended. As we drove away through the gate, I thought of the children caged into their village like the animals on the reserve and felt the power of colonialism, long after its formal ties have ended.
One striking aspect of the campaign worthy of mention is the warmth of all the people I meet. Everyone seems to treat me like an honored guest. I always feel at home and welcome. Rallies are usually accompanied by an array of traditional dance and music. Anyone who has been out to the bars with me knows that I don’t really dance, I bounce, and when I do I get so excited that I can’t seem to stop bouncing. Well, I happen to have found a tribe in Kenya that does just what I do but with huge drums and furry things around their legs and headdresses. When I started bouncing with them I heard the crowd all yelling and thought they were just singing along, it was only after I sat down that the person next to me said that they were all just excited that I was dancing! The rallies also involve a lot of prayer. It is contrary to the U.S where we try to have a separation between church and state (though I view this separation as increasingly diminishing which is in my opinion staggeringly worrisome). We pray before the rally, after the rally and several times during the rally. For not being an extremely religious person I sure do find myself praying a lot in Africa!
As the campaign is picking up we are having more and more rallies. We have them in fields in the sun all day. We have them in fields in the rain all day. We have them with huge crowds yelling and cheering and singing. We have them with few people because others are out planting. Old women sing, people dance. After the rallies security closes in around me just ahead of the mobs of people. I literally feel like I am in water, being swept away. But someone always finds me and grabs my hand and scuttles me safely into the car which moves slowly as it is covered in people, draping themselves over it and trying to stick their fingers into the cracks in the windows to ask for money despite the development aspect of the campaign, it is as though nobody listened to Karumbu’s speech at all.
The most surprising aspect of all of this for me is my prevalence in the campaign. I came in expecting to be where I am much more comfortable, in the background. I pictured myself hiding in the back, helping things to run in any way I could, maybe running errands and doing grunt work. I never pictured myself right next to Karumbu, speaking to these crowds of people. It is strange because I am told that having me there adds a lot of credibility and merit to the campaign. I symbolize a lot of backing and prestige. I never thought that I would add prestige to anyone! It is a strange situation to be adding prestige only because I am white. I don’t know anything, but because of my skin color I am moved up to the front. When Karumbu’s campaigners speak they tell the people that no other candidate has brought them “a white person to see with their very own eyes.” I didn’t really consider that campaigning in this area as a white person is really quite revolutionary. In fact, one of Karumbu’s fellow aspirants, one who has been copying her every move (he literally shows up to places the day after we were there) tried to bring white people into his campaign but it didn’t work out as well. It is sort of creepy to think that people are talking about it. I don’t see my being here as a big deal and I don’t do anything, but just for being there, not for any merit on my own, it’s unprecedented and causes a big stir. There is a lot of excitement for the locals in it and it has become a focal point in the campaign. It is a strange place to be in. I want people to respect me because I have earned it and have something to say, not because I am white. I feel like an imposter sometimes sitting up there not even understanding what is being said.
That has been my experience so far. We are waiting for the president to dissolve parliament, then campaigns can officially begin, though we still won’t know the election date and it feels like my life and many other people’s is on hold until we do. After parliament has dissolved and campaigns officially start security beefs up and the madness begins. Bring it on. I’m ready for some adventure!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Kenyan Politics
After an extensive amount of research into Kenyan politics (by extensive I mean I have read 4 books about them and I read the current newspaper every day- hey, I do what I can with limited resources here), I can safely conclude that I have no idea what is going on with politics in this country.
Let me give an example: Kibaki is the current president. It is up to him to pick a time that he thinks is convenient to dissolve parliament. It is not until he does this that the date for elections can be set. He could do it tomorrow, he could do it the day after Christmas. Really, the election date could be anywhere between now and New Years Eve. Life is in this constant limbo, especially for us trying to plan a campaign because we do not know how long funds need to last for.
A brief bit of history: (Skip ahead to the break if you don’t care about this) It is likely that humans originated in Kenya by Lake Turkana and Tugen Hills. (Yes, I said brief I know, but I want to emphasize that Kenya might be home to all of us.) From the very beginning, Kenya has been divided on different tribal fronts. There are many tribes in Kenya with different cultures all competing for land and power. This remains to be a huge problem even today. Kenya won independence from Britain after the Mau Mau rebellion, a bloody ordeal costing the lives of anywhere from 50,000 to 100,000 Kenyans, depending on who you believe. The rebellion started in 1952. The government’s senior most African official, Chief Waruhiu wa Kungu was murdered in broad daylight in Nairobi. A state of emergency was called. Thousands of British troops entered Kenya to squelch massive uprisings and violence from the Mau Mau, a group of anti-government insurgents. It is important to note that the insurgents never called themselves the Mau Mau and nobody is sure of the origins of this name, they referred to themselves as the Land and Freedom Army (LFA). The British declared special areas upon which anyone who failed to stop when asked would be shot on the spot, and prohibited areas where any black person would be shot on site. By 1954, Nairobi was under military control. At the end of that same year an estimated 77,000 Kenyans were in British concentration camps. People were forced behind wire fences around their villages in a process called villagization. The rebellion was considered over when the LFA leader was executed in 1956. The ordeal was enough to convince Britain that they no longer wanted Kenya. The first elections were held in 1961, parties were mostly tribal. Kenyatta became the first prime minister. On December 12, 1963, control of foreign affairs were handed over and Kenya became formally independent.
Kenyatta had to deal with issues in land reform. He emphasized harambee which means “pulling together” in Kiswahili. It became a way of fundraising where the rich were supposed to help support the country, self help, the idea worked well at first until it became a show of status-seeking. To move this along, there were many parties that separated under different leadership and new parties were formed. Moi, who was vice president, assumed power when Kenyatta died in 1978. He was from a tribal minority. At first he appeared promising to the country, but that quickly faded. There was an attempted military coup in 1982 which failed. Moi tried to crush any sort of opposition. He became extremely oppressive, hundreds of people were arrested for showing any sort of threat to him and their lawyers were mysteriously arrested as well. In 1987, Amnesty International condemned Kenya’s human right’s record with many people being held in jail in Nairobi and tortured. The government came down hard on journalists, censoring them as well. No more than 5 people were allowed to meet for political reasons without the government’s approval. Despite international pressure, Moi refused to allow a multi-party system until the Paris Group aid was suspended, he finally announced that there would be free elections and a multi-party democracy.
In 1992 Moi won the elections with blatant fraud. The economy of Kenya was collapsing. There were strikes and mass demonstrations. Opposition parties banded together to promote a single candidate for the 1997 elections, Kibaki. Moi still managed to win amidst violence and tribalism. In 1998 the American embassy was bombed. Throughout the whole term parties were being dissolved and manipulated. Odinga was a major player, but Kibaki won the 2002 elections. Kibaki founded his campaign on a new constitution (which has yet to be seen), educational reform (free education for all), and fighting corruption. The press is much more free than under Moi.
History lesson over. Now we are in the 2007 elections and the two main players are, once again, Odinga and Kibaki. I sit here in Meru awaiting for Kibaki to finally call for the elections. The political campaign I am working on is on the side of Kibaki. Most people I speak with fear Odinga in the way I feared Bush, but even worse. They fear that he will cause a civil war. He is violent and tribalistic. He is known for bringing his whole entourage to dinners and walking out without paying. The people in the constituency that I am working for say that Odinga knows that they are Kibaki supporters so if he wins he will shut them out and they will become even more poor. The only arguments against Kibaki I have heard so far is that he is too old and that he had not improved things enough in his first term.
I don’t know much about the presidential hopefuls, but one thing I do know from the bottom of my heart: Dr. Karumbu Ringera, the Member of Parliament aspirant that I am working for would be an incredible breath of fresh air for this country. She is a truly honest politician. It makes the campaign much more difficult in fact! She is running under the party Forum for Republican Party (FOREPA). Her goals are education, enterprise and empowerment. She really cares about the people. Her slogan is, “I am because you are,” which signifies her belief that we are all one. The goal is to help people to help themselves.
Politics in Kenya are extremely different from in the U.S. There is not party loyalty, only loyalty to individuals. So one person moves from party to party on a whim it almost seems. The main thing I struggle with is that politics are not issue based, they are personality based. There are basically no platforms from any of the candidates. People don’t vote because of what the politicians want to do, but rather for the personality they like the most.
It is common to buy people’s votes. MP campaigners are bombarded with people asking for money. Ringera is virtually revolutionizing the process by having a development based campaign. People ask for money, she gives them advice on how they can improve their situation long-term. Whether or not she wins, she has made a huge difference already and really helped improve the lives of people in poverty in the North Imenti area.
People seem to be taking to this new idea and Ringera has already implemented so many grassroots programs that her development record is stunning. She has used her NGO, International Peace Initiatives to empower women and the disadvantaged. Her programs that I have had to honor to help with include a fund for AIDS orphans and disadvantaged children to go to school. They are building a community house for orphans, powered by the community to keep kids in school and off the streets. They have a bead-making program for women with AIDS to earn an income. They have a bee-hive project as well.
Among other things, Ringera has started an educational initiative program to reward teachers who produce the best students in a subject as well as the students who come in first in their class. I fundraised in Boulder before I left and anybody who donated, I took that money and bought backpacks for the children who were first in their class as their prizes. It was really exciting to see these programs implemented (and now you know where your money went to anyone who donated, thank you so much!)
People are noticing Ringera. Everywhere we go, the incumbent, who is considered her biggest competition seems to follow. Other competitors have been using Ringera’s name to get people to come to their meetings, saying she will speak, but then they speak instead! Still, it is difficult when some people don’t understand the appeal of a development-based campaign and want money instead. Money talks for sure, even the allegedly free press here only covers candidates if they pay them to do it. Despite how newsworthy Ringera’s revolutionary campaign is, she receives virtually no media attention. She is at a huge monetary disadvantage, but at the same time her development is working and making a name for herself. On her campaign trail she has been to many places that other MP aspirants have never gone to.
It is a lot of traveling around and talking to people. It is frustrating to me because I am learning Kiswahili because that is just more practical, but in this area people speak Kehmeru more, so I have no idea what is going on. A typical day for me involves bumbling around, following Ringera, never having a clue what we are doing or where we are. Everyone seems to want money which tires her, and I don’t understand what is going on which tires me. But it is worth it to see Ringera give people advice that I know will help them when they come to her. Her advice will last them much longer than the little bit of money other politicians dish out. I really believe in what she is doing and it is such a great opportunity to be around her and learning from her.
The campaign itself is just heating up. Certain security measures have to be taken. We are living in a secure place, out of the way of where people think we are. There are guard dogs and a huge gate and guards on watch all the time. We avoid going anywhere at night and when we have to we duck down in the car. There was one other woman that was running for MP in the area and the week I arrived she was severely beaten up. I stay on my guard since I am associated with the campaign, but don’t live in fear by any means.
What is a white girl who doesn’t speak the language doing here? I ask myself that quite a bit. Apparently just having an American on the campaign with Ringera adds a decent amount of prestige to her campaign. That cracks me up because I never thought I would add prestige to anyone! When she campaigns I speak at the beginning. I think I am getting over my stage-fright a bit, the first few times I had to talk did not go so smoothly and I would prefer to forget them. People are extremely polite, they speak in English the first sentence or two, treat me as an honored guest and there is a copious amount of handshaking everywhere we go. Apart from just being there, I am writing Ringera’s campaign notes for her website. I do all sorts of odds and ends, read campaign books and summarize, summarize SWOT analyses and do whatever needs to be done. I am working for IPI doing some grant writing, budgeting, strategic development, creating forms and doing a lot of organizing and streamlining. I am also working with the education fund doing home visits and sorting through endless paperwork. I get to sit in on meetings and give input. It is an incredible learning experience to say the least.
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