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.

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.

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!