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.”