Mirraa, miraa on the floor
The effects are two …
The most common response to a cheek full of well-chewed miraa, or khat, is absolute silence. The chewer gets kinda introspective and seems incapable of saying much – or anything at all - for a few hours at least. The imbiber sits still, with a slightly surprised look spread across his face – a look that South Africans would likely call that of "thinking too much".
The second response (thankfully, less common) is that the chewer becomes an instant and irrepressible 'story-teller' and waxes non-stop, for hours on end, about his life, its general condition and then, perhaps inevitably, about the inevitability of Kenyan politics.
The two responses are, of course, highly complimentary, with one large group sitting hakuna story, listening (feigning a deaf-mute condition), while one or two of their number rambles on in solo mode, stopping only to pop another ground-nut-accompaniment, or piece of sweet Big-G chewing gum into his mouth. These, to alleviate the khat’s bitter flavour.
In downtown Nairobi there is no shortage of miraa sellers (and certainly no shortage of consumers). Every few doors, the full length and breadth of the downtown streets, there is a ‘duka la miraa’ (miraa shop) that usually moonlights also as a general ‘kiosk’ (selling sodas, sigara, maji and mandazi) or a ‘wine and spirit’ merchant, selling lots of Kenya Cane or Kenya King (hard-core white spirits, alternatively called cane and gin, but probably closer to a neutral ‘witblitz’ or 'moonshine' than anything else).
Particularly on a Friday afternoon, one will see literally hundreds of one-kilo packets of miraa, fresh from Meru, and wrapped neatly in fresh banana leaves, being unloaded from any number of trailers or one-ton pick-ups. And the number of buyers well-exceeds the number of packs being unfurled. Chewing miraa is more than a national pastime among the workers of Kenya – it amounts to an obsession (or perhaps a national addiction!).
Competition is stiff between the various miraa shops and their daily custom is dependent, obviously, on the quality of product being sold. Generally the product sells fast, and only here and there you will see an unhappy customer complaining about the low grade of the narcotic being sold, or perhaps moaning that the kilo seems to have mysteriously lost some of its volume! For the rest, it’s a matter of buying one’s stash and then finding a decent place to chew. For many, chewing will start on a Friday afternoon and might end a day-and-a-half later, on Sunday morning. Abstinence from Sunday morning onwards is somewhat forced - or else the chewer is unlikely to get any sleep before work starts on Monday. Miraa is often referred to as ‘African Cocaine’ and it shares many of the properties of its Andean counterpart.
While there are lots of miraa ‘dukas’ (shops), there are far fewer 'chewing taverns', if I may call them that. I mention this because, while miraa chewing is not particularly unacceptable as a social pastime (notably among the working classes), it is also not condoned as an activity that can be indulged anywhere or everywhere. Interestingly, in Tanzania, miraa is a strongly prohibited substance, while the smoking of marijuana tends to be tolerated. In Kenya, on the other hand, miraa is completely legal and marijuana smoking tends to be indulged in for fear of death (well, almost). Anyway, if you buy miraa, you cannot simply stop at any spot to indulge your narcotic fancy. Rather, you have to find a pub or club that allows such, or you have to buy from a shop where there is also place to chew.
Not always though …
One particularly popular downtown miraa seller is on Duruma Road, in the area called "Coast Bus" - the terminus for the luxury buses that ply the route to and from Mombasa and Malindi. Recently, the miraa sold at this duka has tended to be 'halele', comprising long stalks of soft, almost-leafless miraa that is chewed right up to the short, hard piece at halele's-end. Unlike the miraa seller over the road, which sports a chewing ‘space’ - not much more than a simple, rough-hewn corridor - this particular duka la miraa is merely a one-meter-wide sidewalk shop-front.
Having a very popular 'brand', the plentiful patrons have, of late, been lining the sidewalk, sitting on stairs and shop window ledges, chewing pretty much everywhere on the street. This style of chewing would not be tolerated in uptown areas but the patrons can get away with it here. The result is that the sidewalk has, of late, become a carpet of the short end-pieces.
A new friend of mine – an ex-‘Coastarian’ Swahili, devout Muslim and permanent downtown hotel resident - Hakim, tells me the following story:
Coming back from prayers last Friday night at the Jamia Mosque - a rather beautiful building at the centre of Nairobi - he wanted to cross the street to avoid the throng of miraa junkies… Looking right (or was it left?) before stepping off the sidewalk, he failed to notice the thick pile of stalks that were about to be felt (briefly) under his feet. These short, hard sticks of miraa can act somewhat like little ball-bearings …
The next moment, Hakim had his right foot in the street while his left was still on the sidewalk, three steps up (downtown sidewalks vary in their height off street level).
Uncomfortable as his stretched tendons now were, he regained his composure (despite his embarrassment and rage) and stormed to the little wire-fronted window where the miraa was being sold. Here he found a sheepish Somali sitting with a puffy cheekful, a shiny face, and a handful of Hundred Shilling notes in his hand.
Hakim vented his justifiable anger and told the shiny Somali fella that the habits of his halele patrons were particularly uncool and, if the stalk-throwing were to persist, Hakim was going to call the local constabulary to put an end to it all. The Somali was evidently suitably contrite and promised to put a stop to the offensive behaviour of his patrons, by whatever means he could.
The last time I passed this duka, on my way uptown the other night, I saw that the patrons have each been issued with a little cardboard box and it’s now these cartons that litter the sidewalk, rather than the stalks of miraa. Hakim tells me that the patrons have also been issued with strict instructions to use the boxes and there should be “no more miraa on the floor".
Being lighter, and not so easy to throw into the boxes, it is now only the red and yellow Big-G wrappers that litter the sidewalk on a Friday night!
And they are many.
Una enda wapi? (you are going to where?)
Downtown Nairobi is the ‘original’ Nairobi, built between the turn of the last century and the end of the Deco era. The buildings that line the river (that same river that once had Nairobi named ‘place of clear waters’) feature an amazing array of architectural styles, from Arabic, through Hindu, to Colonial and classic Deco, in a hodge-podge of aan-mekaar structures. But it’s the small ‘kiosks’ and variety of dukas that catch ones attention initially and you have to look just a little skyward to get a glimpse of what the former glory of a bygone era might have been. Quite stunning, actually.
But the best part of Bus Station (as it is sometimes called) comprises those features for which it gains its informal name:
The intersection between Accra Road and Duruma Road is known as ‘Coast Bus’ and is the terminus for coaches going (mainly) to Mombasa. Luxury buses, in various states of repair, line the streets. Some of the transport services have buses that leave every hour, on the hour, ten hours a day. Many of the buses are at least partly filled by Muslims, at various levels of fundamentalism, making their pilgrimage back to Mombasa. Some of the pilgrims are dressed entirely in the black abaya (often replete with burka) while others are dressed in long floral dresses, with only the scarf betraying their religious affiliation. Lately - now approaching the European summer - one is seeing more and more backpack-bearing mZungu couples, notable for the slightly dazed – or is it amazed – looks on their faces. (Last week there was a particularly successful music festival at the coast – the first of its kind in Mombasa – which accounted for at least some of the waZungu(pl.)).
The buses are filled quickly by ‘touts’ who are intent on recruiting anyone who happens to be traversing the streets. As you pass by – and particularly if you’re white - you are likely to be asked a very simple question, in a slightly plaintive tone: “Mombasa?”
I got used to supplying a simple reply (in Swahili, to avoid any further harassment):
“Si leo, asante” (not today, thanks),
to which the reply is often:
“Sawa, kesho” (OK, tomorrow).
(Caucasian advisory: In uptown Nairobi, if you’re white, you have to avoid looking regular taxi-cab drivers in the eye or else you’ll spend your day saying “no thanks” to the incessant plea of “Taxi…?”. The Toyota Corollas and Coronas stand everywhere with their drivers predating on your wandering gaze. And, by the way, Nairobi probably has as many Toyotas as Tokyo. In all seriousness, I would hazard a guess that four out of every five vehicles in Nairobi is a Toyota and, incidentally, they are a LOT better made than the ones I have encountered back home).
Just down the road from 'Coast Bus' is the area devoted to journeys to-and-from ‘Kamba-land’, somewhere between the coast and the capitol. And just down the road from this, again, is an area given to buses that ply the route past the Kenyan mountains, via Eldoret, to the lake-side Luo haven of Kisumu, and then on to Kampala.
The energy in this area – night and day – is quite astounding and if ever there’s a hint that the area is ‘dangerous’ to walk at night, this is quickly negated by the fact that there’s so much action on the streets that a mugging will generally be hard to come by. The range and speed of the frenetic to-ing-and-fro-ing gives one the feeling of a perpetual African market. During the day, the only real danger you face is the possibility of being nudged by a matatu. But even that is very rare ... and certainly not a mortal threat.
The restaurants, diners and lay eating houses that line the sidewalks of Coast Bus (mainly) are all strictly halaal and serve mild yellow curries in the Malaysian style. Biryanis and other mild curries are served from impeccably clean kitchens, with plates piled high with pilau or pishoti (basmati) rice and topped with pieces of chicken or beef (perhaps with a chapatti on the side). The prices are very reasonable (being ‘downtown’ Nairobi as opposed to ‘tourist’ Nairobi) and a substantial plate of food will cost you between 150 and 250 Shillings (R17 – R30) - which is very cheap by Nairobi standards.
In these restaurants, before you start eating, you are brought a plastic basin over which you will wash and a waiter will pour water steadily over your hands as you soap and rinse. Taarab music (the music of ‘Coast’ that doesn’t seem to feature anything but an endless verse), and more fundamentally Muslim sounds, come at you gently through the sound system. The place is full of Muslims in a variety of styles. And at 1pm, many of them will be seen rising from their tables to join the throng of worshippers in the makeshift mosque out back,
But there are also Christians and members of the general Kenya populace in hungry attendance, all wanting a full meal for half the price of what they’re used to paying uptown. “Malindi Dishes”, just off River Road, is particularly good, by the way.
Accra Road, running down from the Kenya National Archive to the river, is lined with matatus that do regular long-haul shuttle services. Fares range from Ksh140 (R160) to Ksh280 (R320) for most trips ‘up-country’. These matatus carry both overnight visitors and day trippers into town on a very regular basis. And there are plenty of commuters who travel something like 160km, or more, a day, just to get to their place of work! The more expensive transportation comprises matatus that have been customized to take less than the allotted 14 passengers. They might carry 7 or 10 passengers, with slightly wider seats in fewer rows. These vehicles usually feature the most hideous heavy, over-adorned Arabic-style curtains, perhaps reminiscent of an old tea-room cinema that didn’t change its décor since the 1940’s.
In this part of Nairobi, just about everyone seems to be going somewhere in a hurry, except perhaps the policemen, with their AK47’s, who always seem to be going nowhere slowly. What is really amazing is the mix of people and cultures that one sees down this end of town. Nairobi Muslims, wearing pillar-box hats vie for sidewalk space with women in the latest chic hairstyle, who vie with somewhat belligerent trailer-pushers in broken sneakers and torn jeans, who vie again with abaya-clad women from Coast.
Recently, coming back from visiting Hakim, I was heading uptown again when I was faced with a sight that came straight out of a re-run of Laurence of Arabia:
There were six guys in all. They were heavily laden with traditional-looking backpack-type things and had equipment of various descriptions hanging from every pouch, pocket and Velcro-clasped loop in sight. The two at the back were carrying between them what seemed to be tent poles, narrowly avoiding passing pedestrians - but causing mayhem among the Nairobians that always seem blithely to be crossing ones path.
The truly striking feature of the troupe was the heavy turbans they were all wearing. In a range of beautiful pastel colours, the turbans extended almost beyond the width of their shoulders (almost). A handsome bunch of guys, their facial features and tone of skin showing they were clearly from up-North somewhere. Were they looking for a bus to the Ugandan border, from where they might catch another bus to the Sudan, Niger or Mali? Or perhaps they were going somewhere towards the centre of the Sahara?
I could only guess from their appearance they were Tuareg nomads of some sort, looking for some friendly place to pitch a tent, to cook a meal or perhaps to smoke a shisha (a traditional pipe for smoking tobacco and/or hashish)!
It was a truly wonderful sight to see on a crowded, downtown Nairobi street. And no-one seemed really to notice them at all. They just walked-on-by, with the occasional Nairobian stopping just short of decapitation as he tried a forty-five-degree foray between the two at the back. (In Nairobi you walk as you drive – with a particular eye out for the random, unpredictable movement of the one in front).
But such is the cross-cultural melting pot of Nairobi that the Tuaregs attracted no particular attention! Everyone was just going about their daily business with not much of a thought for the nomads among them.
An extended ninety minutes
I was traveling out of Nairobi along Ngong Road recently when I witnessed a football match in progress, on a particularly lush green field. The standing rules of football had been stretched somewhat and there were easily twenty players, of both genders (as seems to be something of a norm in Kenya), on each side. The field was full, kabisa, with yellow and green jerseys. The game was lively, with a lot of screaming and shouting going on.
I was going to a meeting a few kilometers up from the field, in an area called “Racecourse” (not surprisingly, because that is where Nairobi’s equestrian racecourse is found). My meeting didn’t last very long and quite soon I was on my way back down Ngong Road - back towards town. I thought the football match quite a sight and as I passed, I looked again towards the field where it was being played.
The game had mysteriously stopped … the sidelines were peppered with players, sitting in various groups, talking to each other. Here and there I could see some players sitting on their own, heads bowed in solitary silence. The joviality of the previous scene of the soccer was clearly absent. From the little I could see the mood was definitely disconsolate.
Why the sudden halt? Why the sullen looks of misery on the faces I could see?
I scoured the landscape for clues as to possible causes …
And then I saw ‘it’.
At the far end of the field, some distance away, I made out the red clothed figure of a Maasai herdsman leaning on his staff. All around him were the brown and black shapes of perhaps twenty cows that seemed intent at reducing the lush, long grass to little more than stubble.
For the herder, the situation was one of relaxed ease. He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry and neither were his languid ruminants. He was chilled in the extreme, leaning his chin on his staff and looking on. For the now-semi-retired football players the mood was not quite the same. Relative to the herder there was an almost palpable being severely pissed off.
But in Ngong it’s the “Maasai Rules” that govern most things, not just the conduct of football. And if it be that the cows are hungry for lush green grass and they find your pitch, you have simply no choice but to suspend play until the cows are done with their temporary role as groundsmen.
In Nairobi, goats are seen to wander around almost any place in their slightly skittish mode. But cows – they’re another thing completely.
I was just passing by, so I didn’t see, but I would venture a guess that it may have been quite some time before play in this particular game got to resume.
End piece
It’s the range of people, doing different things, and the cross of cultures from all over East Africa, that gives Nairobi a very particular flavour. From the Maasai couple I saw the other day, fully adorned from head to toe in beadwork, headdresses, necklaces, and earrings - set against red-and-purple swathes of Maasai blanketry (with their child dressed in jeans and t-shirt) - to the Tuareg nomads I have described above, Nairobi is very definitely the cultural melting pot of East Africa.
People are passing through Nairobi at an amazing rate, with amazing frequency; some just staying long enough to walk from the Kampala bus terminus to a ‘Coast Bus’; others perhaps staying long enough to try and find their fortune in this notably ‘hard’ and unforgiving city. The refugees; they are many, and growing. Those from the Sudan and Somalia seem to be finding their place here, while others might be struggling to do the same.
People pass through and people stay; each with his or her particular ‘mission’, undisclosed to the next person. You just have to sit in a ‘local’, downtown restaurant (one with street frontage) for a half hour to witness the sheer range and magnitude of visitation to this exciting city … It is ‘cosmopolitan’, in an African sense, beyond anything you will see elsewhere. And, for me at least, it’s an ongoing case of “watch. And learn”.
As ALWAYS, brothers and sisters, peace and love to you all.
Amani na mapenzi,
B-)
Showing posts with label Ngong. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ngong. Show all posts
Tale of Two Cities (and then another one...)
Kampala, Uganda: Sunday, 1st March to Wednesday, 4th March 2009>
Before you get to Lake Victoria, the distinct bank of clouds lining land’s end warns you that you’re about to encounter ‘weather’. The jet moves from equatorial summer to rainforest-rain in a matter of seconds and suddenly starts to dip and drop. But as quickly as it started, it ends. Then it starts briefly again. And so on, for the 600 plus kilometers from Nairobi, across the greatest lake, to Kampala. The seatbelt bell goes ‘ping’ and ‘pong’ as the plane encounters repeated patches of equatorial squall.
Flying across Lake Victoria, I was awed by the sheer size and volume. It is HUGE and even from the plane – at 32 000 feet - one has some difficulty seeing the one end from the other! What are obviously large fishing vessels appear as pinpricks.
A massive murky grey-green lakescape below. Polluted to hell I hear, replete with festering water-hyacinth.
Descending to ‘lake-level’, about to land at Entebbe was very beautiful though. With a little skrik (fright), it reminded me of landing at JFK, with the water’s edge just shy of the runway’s end. Except that here it’s the equatorial jungle and not a concrete jungle that borders on the runway. Again, as with Dar es Salaam, the tall palms are everywhere, but the vegetation is a lot more dense, and obviously wetter.
Our Boeing 737-300 had landed next to a very long, bright-white plane with the letters UN painted in sans-serif blue on the side. There were lots of people on the runway as we entered the airport building and I stopped to see Ban Ki-Moon come down the stairs with his entourage (fresh from a trip to Rwanda and moving on to Tanzania), being greeted by senior officials of the Ugandan government. Security seemed quite lax.
The sign at Entebbe airport says “Welcome to the Pearl of Africa”, the moniker given to Uganda by Winston Churchill. Entebbe used to be the capitol city of Uganda and remains the home of President Museveni, with State House (recently renovated and painted) sitting white-and-brightly proud on the hill as you leave the small, beautiful ‘town’ of Entebbe .
It is 42 kms from Entebbe to Kampala and you travel down a well tarred road running past hundreds of little stalls (many of them MTN “Yello” and many of them Zain mauve), with what seem like thousands of Indian and Chinese motorcycles plying the road in both directions. I was to find that the motorcycle, or “bora-bora”, is the favoured form of transport for those wanting to get from one end of Kampala to the other - through increasingly congested streets.
Traffic on the streets of Kampala is nearing what one has to endure in Nairobi. But unlike in Nairobi, the matatus here (what Ugandans call ‘tatus’) are very well behaved. They are uniformly painted white, with blue chevrons around the midline, and are markedly more roadworthy than those in Nairobi. And, what’s more, you don’t get threatened with a view of the vanishing road when you pull out alongside them. They actually pull to the side and let you pass! Vehicles are right-hand drive as in Nairobi and South Africa.
As you near Kampala you see the first of the high-rise buildings, between two hills. With the country having experienced between 6% and 7% growth, year-on-year, for the last ten years, many of the buildings are quite new and often feature striking modern architecture. My cab driver, a Muslim in a predominantly Christian (and strongly Catholic) country, tells me it is a city built on seven hills. Jaime says Kampala should be twin to Lisbon, the original City of Seven Hills. Both cities are surely beautiful.
Driving in a regulation-white heavy Toyota sedan, we approached Kampala quite fast. As we caught sight of the two most prominent hills of the city, I could see outlines of modern buildings through a thick haze. The cab driver remarked casually that it was raining in the city but by the time we got there, just a few minutes later, the rain had already stopped! It had obviously been a torrent because the roads were absolutely flooded (as in 8 inches of water)! I was surprised to see that everyone had been caught a little unawares.
I asked about the rainy season (on the Equator you don’t ask about winter or summer, you just ask whether there is one or two rainy seasons) and the driver simply said,
“It’s changed! It’s changed!”
By February, Kampala is usually entering its driest spell. But these days it rains throughout the “dry season” and there’s something of a drought through the “rainy season”. This is just one of the problems that the local farmers face in the absence of accurate equipment with which to predict weather! They have been planting at the wrong time. Be that as it may, their crops of coffee and (to a lesser extent) tea have not suffered substantially and Uganda remains responsible for a substantial drop in Kenya’s international coffee business. Uganda prides itself on a strong dark coffee that I suspect is often used as filler for more ‘refined’ brands and blends.
Still in the taxi, I ask the driver the inevitable question about personal safety in Kampala. He tells me that you can walk anywhere in Kampala, any time of night or day, and you will be safe. It didn’t take long for this to be demonstrated as I watched the entire day-shift of the Imperial Royale’s waitresses start their walk home from the hotel in the dark. And after going to the nearby Garden City Mall twice (to get a replacement SIM for the iPhone I had stolen in Nairobi on Saturday) I had still not seen a single policeman! In Uganda, law and order is very much in evidence, without the intrusion of a machine-gun-toting force (more on this subject much later). Quite literally, the only policemen and women I saw in Kampala were those directing traffic!
The hotel was ultra-modern and very competent in its delivery of ‘conference facilities’. The trade mission of which I was part contained a good measure of heavyweight German industrialists looking for investments in East Africa. Their reception was likewise ‘heavyweight’ on both days, with EU representatives, ministers, investment boards and industrialists sharing lengthy round table discussions.
After some introductory presentations from the World Bank and IMF, I had the honour of meeting grandson-of-Jah, Tigist/Michael Selassie, who, while working for the World Bank in Uganda, still considers Ethiopia to be very much his home. Michael is big, and certainly ‘regal’, but he looks far less like his diminutive Ethiopian grandfather than one would expect! He’s more like a big Kenyan Luo than anyone I have seen from Ethiopia. He is TALL and carries nothing of the accent one usually hears among Ethiopians. By contrast, his colleague, also from Ethiopia, is heavily accented with the “ghghghghgh’s” and slightly Italianesque sounds that characterize the Ethiopian accent.
Sessions, more sessions, and questions and answers ensued in each day’s programme. Much of the content was not of great benefit to me in terms of me seeking existing companies to work with. However, through some fancy footwork with local commerce bodies, I managed to meet the right businesspeople and will soon be able to reach most of the organizations that are doing either social or market research in Uganda.
After Monday’s sessions, and after a cocktail party held in our honor at the EU residence, I went to check out the local club scene in Kampala (what did you think I would do?). Being Monday night, most of the clubs were closed. But on Kampala Road I saw a place that was very much open, with large, big-ass four-wheel-drive vehicles lining the street and parked on the island that divides the two sides of the road.
The club, The High Table, was full to the brim with a lot of ‘hip-and-happening’ youths, wearing the perfunctory hip-hop pants, baseball-styled caps and large baggy shirts bearing various rap and hip-hop legends, slogans and phrases. At around 10pm, the DJ stopped doing his thing and in the silence, from the veranda, I could see something of a gathering forming inside.
What I didn’t know was that this was ‘Performance Night’ and I was about to have the honour of seeing all the most popular Ugandan rap, hip-hop and dancehall performers in full swing (in a protracted three hour session!). My conversation-mate got me to come inside and led me to the edge of the dancefloor / stage area, whereupon we were both brought seats, in a VIP kinda way. I was a little embarrassed being the only white cat in the place and being treated so ‘exceptionally’.
Anyway, the performance started, and for the next hour those artists considered ‘stars’ in Uganda were pointed out to me as they performed. The rap, hip-hop, and dancehall crew all performed to back-tracks in various stages of completion. Some of crew mimed their songs, while others sang the vocal lines without their own backing. There were quite a few (Tanzanian) Bongo Flava songs in the mix but the lyrics were done largely in Buganda (the local lingo). Many of the artists were surprisingly good. But I must say that I still think Swahili is far better suited to rap and hip-hop – even dancehall. In Uganda, Swahili is only really spoken in the east, where the country meets Kenya. While there was a smattering of Swahili in the lyrics on Monday night, these lyrics seemed mainly to be in ‘lip service’ to the (Tanzanian) rhythmic and melodic origins of many of the songs.
Being the only mzungu in attendance at The High Table, I quickly struck up conversation with many of the locals, all very interested in where I was from and what I was doing there. The vibe was generally very ‘cool’ with something of an American-flavoured male fashion show parading before me. There are obviously some serious fashion shops in Kampala that have cornered the couture culture of these youths, but the ‘moves’ and general behaviour of the youngsters were really quite conservative.
Notably, there were few couples dancing together at the club. The scene reminded me of the dancehall sessions I used to attend in Gugulethu, Cape Town, where the Rasta sistas and the bruthas would dance in two distinct groups. Then, as now … there, as here … I guess it is largely an African ‘cultural’ thing that endures. But the whole picture was surprisingly conservative relative to what I am used to seeing in Nairobi. Thankfully, the night was entirely free of the usual attempts at hitting on me (sexually and financially) that I usually experience in Nairobi.
The apparent moral rectitude of the country – and Kampala in particular - is different from Nairobi to the point that Brenda proclaims:
“You can’t even tell the shermutos (prostitutes) from the clubbers in Kampala!”
Whoever I spoke to, whenever I mentioned I was from South Africa, there was huge interest. But when I added that I was based in Nairobi, I would get a slightly disdainful look. The view that Kampala youths have of Kenya, and Nairobi specifically, is rather dim. I gather from my conversations with many that Kenya is perceived to lack a degree of moral and ethical backbone. This view, if I am to judge from what I saw of Kampala, is probably justified…
Ugandans are proud of the lack of crime in Kampala, and the essential honesty of their brothers. For example, each time I called a cab from the hotel reception, I asked the reception staff what I should expect to pay for the trip. I rode in numerous cabs and not once was I asked to pay any more than that which was quoted! (The Ugandan Shilling is such that you are quoted large numbers like 10 000 or 20 000 for a trip – so I suppose it IS easier to arrive at fare-equity/parity, but still). Contrast this to Nairobi where the cab drivers will make a particular effort to get (ridiculously) more from mzungu passengers - all of whom are initially seen to be tourists and primed for ‘the take’!
Despite the huge currency numbers one is dealing in, the cost of using meter-taxis in Uganda is cheap enough to warrant one not buying a car! And the traffic jams – bad, but not as bad as Nairobi – is another motivation to keep you from having a car of your own. You can at least do some work in a cab.
On the streets of Kampala, there are thousands of Indian- (mainly) and Chinese-manufactured motorcycles that act as taxis to the working public. They take the public of Kampala home, weaving efficiently through the traffic. One regularly sees women being carried side-saddle, with neither driver nor passenger wearing a helmet. The 'bora-boras' are not regulated at all. But the motorbike has obviously evolved into a relatively safe and effective means of getting Kampala’s working public home. I didn’t see any accidents and the bikes do not ride at all fast.
Early Monday evening we attended a cocktail party in our honour at the home of the European Union’s Head of Delegation to Uganda, at 7 Hill Lane, on the Kololo hill. Kololo is home to Kampala’s grand Embassy residences. The properties are huge. By contrast to others, the EU residence is quite plain (50’s architecture), but is similarly large. With a large grassed ‘patio’ area, elevated forty feet or so above the already elevated Hill Lane on which it stands, the property looks onto one of Kampala’s seven main hills in the middle distance. The environment is really very beautiful - and this beauty is repeated all across the hilly surrounds of Kampala!
The roads are very good in the city, the downtown markets are obviously thriving, the streets are congested, the clothes cost about half of what they do in Nairobi, the infrastructure and architecture are both highly modern and seemingly effective, and the Ugandan people have a sweet semi-Colonial sing-song when speaking English.
And whereas it requires numerous licenses to open a business in Kenya, in Uganda it essentially requires none! One of my 'conversants' at the club told me that you simply open the business by moving in to your premises. Somewhere along the line, a license is legally obtained. Small businesses are not required to pay tax for seven whole years! And this, folks, must have a LOT to do with the fantastic economic growth that Uganda has witnessed over the last decade! As is the African style, the ‘dual-economy’ thrives in Uganda. Here, the rich are getting richer but the poor seem to be doing OK, actually.
Business is booming in Kampala’s mainstream consumer market. Long deco-style balconies festoon the air above the pavement and there is no shortage of thriving businesses serving the needs of Kampala’s public.
And, very fortunately, as one of my fellow missionaries commented:
“You can only starve in Uganda if you’re allergic to bananas”. They are everywhere.
I took a cab 15 kms, from Kampala to the edge of the Lake. The wind was strong and gusty. There were defunct barges rotting in the water and small fishing boats plying the water’s edge. Things were predictably slow. Everyone was just hanging out. Men were fixing fishing nets and chatting while their women were looking at an usual catch from the last trip on the water ...
Interestingly, there are a lot of Ugandans who share surnames and skin tones with the Luo who live across the lake in Kenya. For example, Brenda shares her surname with one of the senior members of the Ugandan Investment Authority! (and they share their considerable height too). The similarity, and the sharing of names, evidently stems from cross-border travel in pre-Colonial times, many, many years ago. But the ‘exotic’, Nilotic eyes of the Luo are less in evidence here (but there are Nilotic people in Uganda).
The more diversity I experience in these parts of the world, the more I sense that cultural differences are contained more in the eyes than anywhere else. The soul of a people is in their eyes. So what would this blog be if I didn’t comment on the Ugandan women? And their eyes.
The first point to make is that the Ugandan people, generally, are a lot heavier than Kenyans. Their legs are bigger, but among women certainly, their hands are often similarly small. As I have hinted above, the defining feature of Ugandan women lies in their eyes. Ugandan women’s eyes tend to be much larger, rounder, and are slightly ‘protruding’ and heavy-lidded in many instances. The ‘look’ is unusual and not immediately as attractive (to me, at least) as the centuries of cross-African-Arabia that characterizes many Kenyan women.
Can I risk saying that the Ugandan ‘look’ grew on me quite quickly, however. Many of the women in Uganda are distinctly ‘big-boned’, and large breasted, in an attractive, African way! Frankie is a Ugandan woman who was home for a short visit from the UK, where she works as a high-care nurse. She’s a bit derisive of Uganda’s post-Colonial, Catholic conservatism and had a laugh at the stares we got as we danced.
Driving out to Entebbe again, after conferencing for three days in Kampala, it was again raining, but lightly this time. Everyone in Entebbe was still going about his or her business, riding up and down on 125cc Bajaj motorcycles. It started to rain quite hard as we boarded our plane.
Kigali, Rwanda: Wednesday, 4th March to Saturday, 7th March 2009
The flight from Kampala to Kigali normally takes 50 minutes or so, unless you are flying in a LITTLE jet with two Rolls Royce engines both the size of those found on a BIG jet! In this case the flight takes 25 minutes! And what a rush it was flying in the manner of the rich and famous!
I have always enjoyed flying in jet aircraft, but I doubt I will get another ride like this anytime soon. The plane had been brought on board because there were only 28 of us on the flight to Kigali, and even with the anticipated high speed, this plane was going to cost Rwandair a fraction of what a 737 would. Gleaming in the rain on the runway, the plane reminded me of a huge phallus with enlarged testicles.
Just being aboard this luxury strato-cruiseliner was thrilling enough but as you’d know it’s the take off that really does it for jet-freaks like me. The pilot had not even lined the phallus up with the lines on the runway before he was giving it his all to achieve eventual escape velocity. Yipppeeee!
Turning directly onto runway 2, the engines were already full thrust and the pilot let the brakes go as we straightened out … Sucked into your seat, the planes nose flips up and the city shrinks quickly below. Wooosh!
What a flight it was: clear skies, no turbulence, and a view of the jungle that stretched to the horizon… All this, plus a pilot who obviously enjoyed the maneuverability and sheer tempo of his zippy charge. I’ll leave out the thrilling detail but for the landing at Kigali:
The pilot put the jet into a steep right turn that sucked you into your seat so you couldn’t sit upright. I could see the runway clearly, looking down to my right. He then seemed to slur, or ‘twist’, the plane onto the runway and came in at a speed I have encountered only once before (excruciatingly, when I was an unwilling participant in an ‘auto-pilot’ test, aboard a brand new airbus A320, landing at Cape Town International in ‘96).
But even at the speed we were going, the touchdown was ‘padded’ and the reverse thrust of the engines was another rush, again. Eish.
Kigali airport is small, neat, and impeccably clean. The staff manning their points at customs and immigration are efficient and friendly. Signage is in French and Rwandese with little English in sight.
As our pilot came past, after we had checked through immigration, I thanked him for an immensely enjoyable experience on his plane. He smiled warmly, and said in an incredibly slow, thick French-African accent:
“When there are no police around, I like to drive a leeeetle dangereuse”, laughing heartily.
I laughed too, thinking that there might be some weird compensation thing going on between his slow verbal drawl and the sheer gusto of his flight…
We bussed to the five-star Serena Hotel, in sparkling Kigali (by now in darkness).
Rwanda has done everything it can possibly do to make this country something of an African paragon of honesty and good governance. Its President, Paul Kagame, is about as ‘hands-on’, and reputably ‘clean’, as one can get. Recently, as part of the widespread attempt to clean up the inner city, he took his own vehicle and drove himself around town to locate the centres of noise and disturbance that inner city dwellers had recently complained about. After locating the problem places, he went at 2am to wake both his Chief of Police, as well as his Minister of Justice. He brought them to his home and proceeded to question them as to what was to be done. I presume they had a plan because within two days the problem spots were gone!
Similarly there has been a drive to remove from the inner city slum dwellings that were perceived to be scarring Kigali’s main hill. There are huge tracts of neatly fenced prime land that have been cleared of their shanty dwellers. Cleared, yes, but not before their residents had been extensively polled as to where they would like to be settled. The clearing of shanty towns then went ahead without incident as the people moved willingly to better places of residence. The result of such an approach is that there is no sign of poverty or urban decay in the city. There are no beggars and there’s absolutely no crime to speak of.
Paul Kagame also went recently on a trip to the rural areas, across what is Africa’s most densely populated country – between 9 and 11 million people spread over a jungle smaller than Swaziland. He met the rank and file of Rwanda in one-on-one meetings with anyone who wanted to have a say. One old lady evidently spoke to him about the problems she was having with the local chief and that this had been a problem for her for many years. She had been promised various concessions and none of these had materialized. Evidently, right there and then, the chief was called to respond directly to the woman’s issues, in the company of the president. The chief evidently had nothing to say and by Presidential Decree was unceremoniously removed from his post there and then to thunderous applause.
There is a ban on bicycles in Kigali city, not because they are not wanted per se, but because the government wants to avoid any problems stemming from bicycles being used as taxis. Rather, Kigali has a well regulated ‘bora-bora’ business where motorbike riders are equipped with helmets for themselves and their passengers and they wear colour coded jackets with their ‘zone’ emblazoned on the front and back. There are thousands of these ‘bora-boras’, driving well, and in disciplined fashion, all over the city (driving on the Franco-right-hand-side). You cannot take a street photograph without getting at least one of the ‘bora-boras’ in the picture. You are also not allowed to walk barefoot in town. This I believe is to discourage recent Rwandan immigrants to Kigali from buying a few beers rather than a pair of shoes when they come to town!
Having met a few of Rwanda’s government ministers I am amazed at how young and progressive they are. Clearly a bright bunch of guys, they are strongly and ardently in support of their leader’s straight and direct legislative line. Yet despite the slightly propagandistic stance of the ministers and their deputies about the modern appeal of Kigali as a business hub, I am told there are serious problems with the bureaucracy and that new business start-ups battle to overcome the inertia that besets the civil service. Business takes a lot longer to establish in Rwanda than is claimed, perhaps. And someone I met at our sponsored supper, who heads an agency in Rwanda, is a lot less optimistic about things turning out as everyone hopes …
Rwanda’s stated objective is to make the country an African I.T. hub. I wasn’t able to get a strong justification for this end from anyone I spoke to, and I certainly had enough problems with the hotel Internet service for this objective to seem slightly whimsical right now. But perhaps if the Rwandans achieve their aim of putting a laptop into every schoolchild’s hands, we may yet see something noteworthy coming from Rwanda in the African-IT rush. The influence of French culture in Rwandan society is certainly evident and I would venture to say that the Rwandese will have gained certain intellectual benefits from the prior use of the tongue (the official language is now English of course).
There certainly is a clear and present ‘class’ to the more affluent Rwandese I saw at the hotel. I did not see many Rwandese of this ilk and I have a feeling that the affluent stick to themselves and don’t flash their wealth around town much. But evidence of wealth there is. Lots of Mercedes. And Kigali is expensive, even compared to Nairobi.
I initially thought there was something of a gentle-ness among the Rwandan people. I guessed it could only have something to do with the Hutu-Tutsi genocide of 1994. I reflected on the fact that while I was standing in a long queue, getting ready to vote for freedom, people were being mercilessly butchered by their own compatriots in this small jungle nation.
And it took me another two full days to ponder if the Rwandan people might not be suffering from a post-traumatic stress disorder (of the ‘societal’ kind) …
On Friday I took my perfunctory ‘walkabout’ and rode around town on the back of a Rwandan ‘bora-bora’ We passed the high bridge from which Tutsi parents were forced by their Hutu fellows to drop their infant children into the water below … I didn’t take a photo. I passed “Hotel Rwanda” on the hill, nondescript and unidentified for its place in the nation’s recent history.
What is it with us humans that we can turn on our fellow nationals with rampant, unfettered violence? On a somewhat smaller scale, but potentially the same, the same happened in Kenya just over a year ago. It happened, kabisa (thoroughly), in Rwanda 15 years ago. And the scars of Rwanda are evident in the people. If there is a gentleness among the people, it can only be for fear of starting something like that again but, if truth be told, it looks to me like the people are suffering the effects of shock.
I had a drink with a Rwandan woman at the Kigali Serena on Tuesday night. She lost every single member of her family in the genocide. She says she was lucky. Then, after a few seconds, she says maybe she wasn’t so lucky for the pain and hardship she went through afterwards.
Then she adds, looking at the ground, with the shimmer of a tear in her eye:
“I still have dreams about my baby … ”
If not just the shock of experiencing genocide, what of the survivor-guilt that many Rwandese must surely carry?
Ernest, a Rwandan in Rwanda - but only as part of the German mission – and now resident in Hamburg, tells me that if I were to ask around about the entire destruction of families, just among those who work at the hotel, I would go into shock myself!
But somehow, I wasn’t really shocked.
I am not going to repeat the atrocities that Ernest told me about. While he talked, an image of Marlon Brando came to me, from Apocalypse Now, saying:
“The Horror … The Horror”
There is no ready smiling in Rwanda. Don’t get me wrong, the Rwandese are friendly, but there is some ‘juice’ missing behind the smile. I have already waxed lyrical about the ‘vibe’ of the Kenyan people, but this type of ‘vibe’ is entirely absent here in Kigali. When I checked out the hotel I flirted with the receptionist who was fixedly working at her monitor. At the end of my obviously-flirtatious promise to come back to fetch her, I got a wan smile. And Christine told me, in absolute earnest:
“If you ever come back to Rwanda I will be here and waiting for you”
Ernest surprised me with the revelation that the Hutu/Tutsi thing was not based on a history of tribal roots at all, but one of class structures only. Hutus and Tutsis are not members of different tribes, or language or religious groups! There are no differences in language or culture between the so-called Tutsis and the Hutus. Rather, the classification of Tutsi means “high class” and nothing else. In 1959 or so (why then, I don’t know), if you owned 10 or more cattle you were classified “Tutsi” and automatically became a member of the ruling class. If you owned fewer cows than that, you were a Hutu.
This situation persisted peacefully for some time until the Tutsis started taking the class thing a little too far. They started to create their own schools, hospitals and other institutions, all of which were closed to anyone but their own (and with the usual, inevitable social problems that followed). Eventually the more “oppressed” class, the Hutus, got a bit pissed off and a few among them started agitating for change. The rest, as they say, was hysteria …
Ernest shakes his head and says, wisely:
“In Africa it doesn’t take much to start a fire ... The spark that ignites may be small, but the fire rages quickly.”
We spoke quite a bit about factors that might impede the realization of Rwanda’s goals.
(An article I read in the weekly East African newspaper said that Tutsis and Hutus were peacefully living side-by-side in the ‘new’ Rwanda. Now I can see how this can be.)
I guess my impressions of Kigali, at least, are somehow encapsulated in what I didn’t see, rather than what I did see.
The one thing you don’t see is the city’s main graveyard …
With the headstone-uniformity that one would expect from a war - or perhaps, genocide - it stretches over an area that is far larger than a football field! My ‘bora-bora’ driver couldn’t tell me what was being planned for the graveyard but plans are obviously afoot to remove the memory! The sight of it was frankly chilling, especially because it lies behind a shiny metal fascia of galvanized corrugate, shielding it from view.
I found the holocaust memorial more moving than I care to talk about.
If we ignore the potential effects of a post traumatic ‘problem’ among the people and pretend it’s not there … The potential for overregulation of Rwandan society is obvious. Thus far it is unfolding as a relatively benign means of social control - in what may well be classed as a ‘benign dictatorship’.
My worry is that this control may ultimately lead to the society never being able to experience a positive outflow of energy – an energy that may heal - an outflow that the society seems to sorely need. There seem to be very deep scars that the people carry. The scars I talk of are evidenced in the complete lack of “joie de vivre”. To me at least, it looks as if there’s something bubbling underneath and something that political measures should not really seek to control.
The Rwandese are certainly friendly, but to this I cannot add the usual rejoinder of ‘warm’. The only time I saw real laughter - ‘from the heart’ - was among young taxi drivers only (who would have been just too young to remember). At the hotel I heard only quiet conversation and wooden postures.
The Rwandese certainly cannot be blamed for their state of mind and the stress of their past is clearly somewhere there, beneath the cloak of relative material comfort and amidst the strident attempts to instill a ‘super-normality’ on the whole society. But really how normal can a society be where entire families have been wiped out in a matter of days and months, by people who were erstwhile friends and neighbours…?
Kenya, there’s a lesson for you in Rwanda ...
We flew out of Kigali International Airport in a brand new Kenya Airways Boeing 737-800 replete with TV screens and Pixar-like animations of emergency flight instructions (in Swahili and English). Once we had crossed the lake, we flew directly over the extremely dry Tanzanian part of the Maasai Mara, as we headed directly to Nairobi, Kenya.
We landed at Kenyatta Airport and I was smiling, happy to be back on Kenyan soil.
Kuwa na amani (peace be with you), everyone.
B-)
While I was out …
On Wednesday, while in Rwanda, two Kenyan activists were assassinated in broad daylight, shot through the window of the car they were sharing on the trip back to the office. A bystander, and eyewitness to the scene, was shot through the leg. He was the only person who might positively identify the uniformed men who wielded the weapons. He was taken by the police to a ‘nearby hospital’. I haven’t heard any news of the witness since then.
The dual assassination led to student riots on Thursday, through the streets of Nairobi.
One of the students got shot dead. The riot was quelled with tear gas and a few live rounds. From the next day, through Sunday, police in Land Rovers were stationed at the single exit that marks the main street of student residences in the city. The vice-chancellors of both Kenyatta and Moi universities threatened students with expulsion if they continued to riot. Prime Minister Raila Odinga was later played widely on radio with an announcement – addressed to both the students and vice-chancellors - to the effect that "nothing of the sort" would happen. Silence from the Kibaki camp.
Is there just a glimmer of recognition from government that the Kenyan people – most notably the youth - are very deeply unhappy and frustrated?
Strategically, if you recognize the anger and frustration of the youth, it’s useful to let them blow off a little steam every now and then. Let them make just enough noise to keeps them quiet. Is this what happened? Was this the idea?
But let’s backtrack just a little, to the reason for the assassination …
The killing of the activists had something to do with their providing evidence to Prof Philip Alston, the EU’s Special Investigator who visited Kenya week before last. His mission was to investigate – among other things – the ‘extra-judicial killing’ of members of the ‘Mungiki’ gang … And the slain activists had been talking to him about these killings.
Background: Like there’s this ‘gang’ in Kenya – what Brenda calls ‘a sect’ – called the Mungiki. Their precise origin is not known but they rose during the Moi era. They are not to be confused with the Mau-Mau. The Mau were freedom fighters and heroes of the Kenyan people for their role in Kenyan liberation. By contrast, the Mungiki are just a sect of bloodthirsty (quite literally, I have heard) thugs who are behind the more rampant aspects of crime in Kenya. They have also been suspected of working for the Kenyan government during ‘special operations’ (like last year’s stolen-election-insurrection) and senior Mungiki leaders are even rumoured to work in government itself.
When the ‘post-election violence’ erupted in Kenya last year, Mungiki were charged with the task of identifying the regime’s opponents … a regime that was very intent on holding on to power, and still is. Mungiki inquisitors painted crosses on the gates of the primary suspects while Mungiki foot soldiers came round later and beat or killed occupants of the branded households. A black cross or a red one.
(Brenda’s family home was branded with a red cross, as opposed to the black one on most fences. But the family – nay, the whole of Ngong Town – was saved by the Maasai, within whose territory Ngong lies. In this case, the Maasai told the Mungiki in no uncertain terms that this was Maasai land, to the effect that ‘those who live on this land are guests of the Maasai. If you have a problem with a guest, you have a problem with the Maasai') ... Ahem ...
Needless to say, the Mungiki declined to take the matter any further and Ngong was spared the attentions of the Mungiki. But they’re around and enjoy quite mythical status in Nairobi. Mungiki members are believed to pay 1 Shilling a day into the Mungiki ‘state coffers’. Authoritative word says Mungiki has 2 million members. You do the math ...
Mungiki do act as guns for hire – armed, aiding and abetting anyone – but they are, on the whole, a self-serving bunch of gangsters who sometimes wear khaki shorts, animal hide and Bata Safari Boots. They wear scarves with Kenya colours but for the fact that the white stripe is removed. They are seldom seen in public, ‘dressed’. This, because the police have an open license to shoot Mungiki on sight.
A month or two ago (before I really knew who they were), we saw them walking downtown, fully dressed and looking the picture of scrawny wickedness. I only noticed them in the rearview mirror, and this only after Brenda and Erica had almost jumped under the dashboard and back seat respectively, exclaiming:
“Heh-Heyyyeeee, …. Mungiki … kabi-sssssss-aaaaaaa!” (Mungiki … fu-llll-yyyy)
Mungiki are often replete with dreadlocks, which maybe answers my query (in an earlier blog) about reasons for the youth not wearing dreads in Kenya. It probably also accounts for some local confusion between Mungiki and Mau-Mau - who also wore locks. In this society you don’t want to wear locks for fear of being seen as Mungiki ...! You could get easily shot if somehow you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any combination thereof.
My biggest shock, as I became aware of Kenyan realpolitik – and which I haven’t really blogged before – is the lack of rule-of-law. I have skirted around the issue in these blogs but it really is the cornerstone of oppression in Kenya society. When you can get easily shot, under any pretext, you are not about to stand up too quickly. When I see the ‘Mungiki pretext’ as an excuse for state-sponsired murder, I get an entirely different - and far more harsh - view than that I held before. It’s a scenario all-too-familiar to South Africans. But the so-called ‘extra-judicial killings’ are much easier to commit here because of the clear and present danger posed by Mungiki.
When I first arrived in Kenya, there were daily reports of these so-called ‘extra-judicial killings’. There is less news of it now but time was, very recently, when every day there would be a report of “police gunning down suspected thugs”. I asked about it of someone whose views I respect. I was shocked and dismayed at the ‘suspected’ part of what I was hearing. All she could add, with a resigned shrug, was the fact that “you’re not sure which ones are the thugs”. Today, I think I’m beginning to understand what she meant and this is why it has taken me so long to deal with it in words.
In a recent chat I had with a guest speaker at the East Africa Association – a serious government opponent, and author of a tome on Kenyan corruption - I reflected on the role of the youth in the SA revolution and asked him about ‘youth-initiatives’ in Kenya. He said there were many, growing in number and size. I said I hadn’t heard of many – almost any – but then I’m not ‘on the ground’ in the Kenyan underground. He said we should talk further. There was a crowd around. I got his mobile number but we have yet to speak since I returned from Rwanda. And there is little chance he didn’t speak with Alston as well …
Meantime, Prime Minister Raila Odinga, basically the only opposition-member in Kibaki’s ruling regime, is a lone voice in a barren wilderness of public dissent. Go Raila!, but ultimately I fear for your life (although many are saying you have been co-opted, kabisa).
If given the chance, all I would ask Kenyans, of each and every description – in ‘opposition’, in government, in the police and at the heart of civil society itself – is the following:
Is this the Kenya you want for your children?
Are corruption and oppression, and lessons on how to thieve from your brothers and sisters the values you want to instill in your children? Answer this question, Kenya, and you may have a basis for unifying all sides against the issues you face…
Rejoinder
Amidst all of this I want to finally, finally attest to the indomitable spirit of the Kenyan people…
There are up to ten million people in Kenya’s northern regions that are facing the prospect of starvation. This, as a result of drought plus government ineptitude and corruption (there was a recent – as yet unresolved - ‘maize scandal’ involving multi-millions).
Since yesterday 6am, till today 6am there has been a charity drive to collect food for starving Kenyans. I was at the Uchumi supermarket at Sarit Centre yesterday evening and couldn’t believe the trolley loads of maize-meal that were being bought by individuals and being taken directly to the collection point. I was a bit skaam (embarassed) with my five kilos of maize-meal. I added the unga (maize flour) to the one-or-two-hundred trolleys of food already standing there! And while some were buying food to donate (and many of those at the supermarket were there for that reason only), other Kenyans were taking the trouble to go out and donate money to a fund through Safaricom’s mPesa (money-transfer) service. By midnight, Kshs2.5 million had already been raised and over three hundred metric tons of food has been collected!
South Africa, if only you were as warm-hearted and giving as the Kenya people!
Again I have to say, despite the troubles the Kenyan people face, they have a spirit of love and forgiveness that is HUGE. I care what happens among these lovely people but I worry (kabisa) about what’s happening in that country I call home.
Peace and love,
B-)
Before you get to Lake Victoria, the distinct bank of clouds lining land’s end warns you that you’re about to encounter ‘weather’. The jet moves from equatorial summer to rainforest-rain in a matter of seconds and suddenly starts to dip and drop. But as quickly as it started, it ends. Then it starts briefly again. And so on, for the 600 plus kilometers from Nairobi, across the greatest lake, to Kampala. The seatbelt bell goes ‘ping’ and ‘pong’ as the plane encounters repeated patches of equatorial squall.Flying across Lake Victoria, I was awed by the sheer size and volume. It is HUGE and even from the plane – at 32 000 feet - one has some difficulty seeing the one end from the other! What are obviously large fishing vessels appear as pinpricks.
A massive murky grey-green lakescape below. Polluted to hell I hear, replete with festering water-hyacinth.
Descending to ‘lake-level’, about to land at Entebbe was very beautiful though. With a little skrik (fright), it reminded me of landing at JFK, with the water’s edge just shy of the runway’s end. Except that here it’s the equatorial jungle and not a concrete jungle that borders on the runway. Again, as with Dar es Salaam, the tall palms are everywhere, but the vegetation is a lot more dense, and obviously wetter.
Our Boeing 737-300 had landed next to a very long, bright-white plane with the letters UN painted in sans-serif blue on the side. There were lots of people on the runway as we entered the airport building and I stopped to see Ban Ki-Moon come down the stairs with his entourage (fresh from a trip to Rwanda and moving on to Tanzania), being greeted by senior officials of the Ugandan government. Security seemed quite lax.
The sign at Entebbe airport says “Welcome to the Pearl of Africa”, the moniker given to Uganda by Winston Churchill. Entebbe used to be the capitol city of Uganda and remains the home of President Museveni, with State House (recently renovated and painted) sitting white-and-brightly proud on the hill as you leave the small, beautiful ‘town’ of Entebbe .
It is 42 kms from Entebbe to Kampala and you travel down a well tarred road running past hundreds of little stalls (many of them MTN “Yello” and many of them Zain mauve), with what seem like thousands of Indian and Chinese motorcycles plying the road in both directions. I was to find that the motorcycle, or “bora-bora”, is the favoured form of transport for those wanting to get from one end of Kampala to the other - through increasingly congested streets.Traffic on the streets of Kampala is nearing what one has to endure in Nairobi. But unlike in Nairobi, the matatus here (what Ugandans call ‘tatus’) are very well behaved. They are uniformly painted white, with blue chevrons around the midline, and are markedly more roadworthy than those in Nairobi. And, what’s more, you don’t get threatened with a view of the vanishing road when you pull out alongside them. They actually pull to the side and let you pass! Vehicles are right-hand drive as in Nairobi and South Africa.
As you near Kampala you see the first of the high-rise buildings, between two hills. With the country having experienced between 6% and 7% growth, year-on-year, for the last ten years, many of the buildings are quite new and often feature striking modern architecture. My cab driver, a Muslim in a predominantly Christian (and strongly Catholic) country, tells me it is a city built on seven hills. Jaime says Kampala should be twin to Lisbon, the original City of Seven Hills. Both cities are surely beautiful.
Driving in a regulation-white heavy Toyota sedan, we approached Kampala quite fast. As we caught sight of the two most prominent hills of the city, I could see outlines of modern buildings through a thick haze. The cab driver remarked casually that it was raining in the city but by the time we got there, just a few minutes later, the rain had already stopped! It had obviously been a torrent because the roads were absolutely flooded (as in 8 inches of water)! I was surprised to see that everyone had been caught a little unawares.
I asked about the rainy season (on the Equator you don’t ask about winter or summer, you just ask whether there is one or two rainy seasons) and the driver simply said,
“It’s changed! It’s changed!”
By February, Kampala is usually entering its driest spell. But these days it rains throughout the “dry season” and there’s something of a drought through the “rainy season”. This is just one of the problems that the local farmers face in the absence of accurate equipment with which to predict weather! They have been planting at the wrong time. Be that as it may, their crops of coffee and (to a lesser extent) tea have not suffered substantially and Uganda remains responsible for a substantial drop in Kenya’s international coffee business. Uganda prides itself on a strong dark coffee that I suspect is often used as filler for more ‘refined’ brands and blends.Still in the taxi, I ask the driver the inevitable question about personal safety in Kampala. He tells me that you can walk anywhere in Kampala, any time of night or day, and you will be safe. It didn’t take long for this to be demonstrated as I watched the entire day-shift of the Imperial Royale’s waitresses start their walk home from the hotel in the dark. And after going to the nearby Garden City Mall twice (to get a replacement SIM for the iPhone I had stolen in Nairobi on Saturday) I had still not seen a single policeman! In Uganda, law and order is very much in evidence, without the intrusion of a machine-gun-toting force (more on this subject much later). Quite literally, the only policemen and women I saw in Kampala were those directing traffic!
The hotel was ultra-modern and very competent in its delivery of ‘conference facilities’. The trade mission of which I was part contained a good measure of heavyweight German industrialists looking for investments in East Africa. Their reception was likewise ‘heavyweight’ on both days, with EU representatives, ministers, investment boards and industrialists sharing lengthy round table discussions.
After some introductory presentations from the World Bank and IMF, I had the honour of meeting grandson-of-Jah, Tigist/Michael Selassie, who, while working for the World Bank in Uganda, still considers Ethiopia to be very much his home. Michael is big, and certainly ‘regal’, but he looks far less like his diminutive Ethiopian grandfather than one would expect! He’s more like a big Kenyan Luo than anyone I have seen from Ethiopia. He is TALL and carries nothing of the accent one usually hears among Ethiopians. By contrast, his colleague, also from Ethiopia, is heavily accented with the “ghghghghgh’s” and slightly Italianesque sounds that characterize the Ethiopian accent.
Sessions, more sessions, and questions and answers ensued in each day’s programme. Much of the content was not of great benefit to me in terms of me seeking existing companies to work with. However, through some fancy footwork with local commerce bodies, I managed to meet the right businesspeople and will soon be able to reach most of the organizations that are doing either social or market research in Uganda.
After Monday’s sessions, and after a cocktail party held in our honor at the EU residence, I went to check out the local club scene in Kampala (what did you think I would do?). Being Monday night, most of the clubs were closed. But on Kampala Road I saw a place that was very much open, with large, big-ass four-wheel-drive vehicles lining the street and parked on the island that divides the two sides of the road.
The club, The High Table, was full to the brim with a lot of ‘hip-and-happening’ youths, wearing the perfunctory hip-hop pants, baseball-styled caps and large baggy shirts bearing various rap and hip-hop legends, slogans and phrases. At around 10pm, the DJ stopped doing his thing and in the silence, from the veranda, I could see something of a gathering forming inside.
What I didn’t know was that this was ‘Performance Night’ and I was about to have the honour of seeing all the most popular Ugandan rap, hip-hop and dancehall performers in full swing (in a protracted three hour session!). My conversation-mate got me to come inside and led me to the edge of the dancefloor / stage area, whereupon we were both brought seats, in a VIP kinda way. I was a little embarrassed being the only white cat in the place and being treated so ‘exceptionally’.
Anyway, the performance started, and for the next hour those artists considered ‘stars’ in Uganda were pointed out to me as they performed. The rap, hip-hop, and dancehall crew all performed to back-tracks in various stages of completion. Some of crew mimed their songs, while others sang the vocal lines without their own backing. There were quite a few (Tanzanian) Bongo Flava songs in the mix but the lyrics were done largely in Buganda (the local lingo). Many of the artists were surprisingly good. But I must say that I still think Swahili is far better suited to rap and hip-hop – even dancehall. In Uganda, Swahili is only really spoken in the east, where the country meets Kenya. While there was a smattering of Swahili in the lyrics on Monday night, these lyrics seemed mainly to be in ‘lip service’ to the (Tanzanian) rhythmic and melodic origins of many of the songs.Being the only mzungu in attendance at The High Table, I quickly struck up conversation with many of the locals, all very interested in where I was from and what I was doing there. The vibe was generally very ‘cool’ with something of an American-flavoured male fashion show parading before me. There are obviously some serious fashion shops in Kampala that have cornered the couture culture of these youths, but the ‘moves’ and general behaviour of the youngsters were really quite conservative.
Notably, there were few couples dancing together at the club. The scene reminded me of the dancehall sessions I used to attend in Gugulethu, Cape Town, where the Rasta sistas and the bruthas would dance in two distinct groups. Then, as now … there, as here … I guess it is largely an African ‘cultural’ thing that endures. But the whole picture was surprisingly conservative relative to what I am used to seeing in Nairobi. Thankfully, the night was entirely free of the usual attempts at hitting on me (sexually and financially) that I usually experience in Nairobi.
The apparent moral rectitude of the country – and Kampala in particular - is different from Nairobi to the point that Brenda proclaims:
“You can’t even tell the shermutos (prostitutes) from the clubbers in Kampala!”
Whoever I spoke to, whenever I mentioned I was from South Africa, there was huge interest. But when I added that I was based in Nairobi, I would get a slightly disdainful look. The view that Kampala youths have of Kenya, and Nairobi specifically, is rather dim. I gather from my conversations with many that Kenya is perceived to lack a degree of moral and ethical backbone. This view, if I am to judge from what I saw of Kampala, is probably justified…
Ugandans are proud of the lack of crime in Kampala, and the essential honesty of their brothers. For example, each time I called a cab from the hotel reception, I asked the reception staff what I should expect to pay for the trip. I rode in numerous cabs and not once was I asked to pay any more than that which was quoted! (The Ugandan Shilling is such that you are quoted large numbers like 10 000 or 20 000 for a trip – so I suppose it IS easier to arrive at fare-equity/parity, but still). Contrast this to Nairobi where the cab drivers will make a particular effort to get (ridiculously) more from mzungu passengers - all of whom are initially seen to be tourists and primed for ‘the take’! Despite the huge currency numbers one is dealing in, the cost of using meter-taxis in Uganda is cheap enough to warrant one not buying a car! And the traffic jams – bad, but not as bad as Nairobi – is another motivation to keep you from having a car of your own. You can at least do some work in a cab.
On the streets of Kampala, there are thousands of Indian- (mainly) and Chinese-manufactured motorcycles that act as taxis to the working public. They take the public of Kampala home, weaving efficiently through the traffic. One regularly sees women being carried side-saddle, with neither driver nor passenger wearing a helmet. The 'bora-boras' are not regulated at all. But the motorbike has obviously evolved into a relatively safe and effective means of getting Kampala’s working public home. I didn’t see any accidents and the bikes do not ride at all fast.
Early Monday evening we attended a cocktail party in our honour at the home of the European Union’s Head of Delegation to Uganda, at 7 Hill Lane, on the Kololo hill. Kololo is home to Kampala’s grand Embassy residences. The properties are huge. By contrast to others, the EU residence is quite plain (50’s architecture), but is similarly large. With a large grassed ‘patio’ area, elevated forty feet or so above the already elevated Hill Lane on which it stands, the property looks onto one of Kampala’s seven main hills in the middle distance. The environment is really very beautiful - and this beauty is repeated all across the hilly surrounds of Kampala!
The roads are very good in the city, the downtown markets are obviously thriving, the streets are congested, the clothes cost about half of what they do in Nairobi, the infrastructure and architecture are both highly modern and seemingly effective, and the Ugandan people have a sweet semi-Colonial sing-song when speaking English. And whereas it requires numerous licenses to open a business in Kenya, in Uganda it essentially requires none! One of my 'conversants' at the club told me that you simply open the business by moving in to your premises. Somewhere along the line, a license is legally obtained. Small businesses are not required to pay tax for seven whole years! And this, folks, must have a LOT to do with the fantastic economic growth that Uganda has witnessed over the last decade! As is the African style, the ‘dual-economy’ thrives in Uganda. Here, the rich are getting richer but the poor seem to be doing OK, actually.
Business is booming in Kampala’s mainstream consumer market. Long deco-style balconies festoon the air above the pavement and there is no shortage of thriving businesses serving the needs of Kampala’s public.
And, very fortunately, as one of my fellow missionaries commented:
“You can only starve in Uganda if you’re allergic to bananas”. They are everywhere.
I took a cab 15 kms, from Kampala to the edge of the Lake. The wind was strong and gusty. There were defunct barges rotting in the water and small fishing boats plying the water’s edge. Things were predictably slow. Everyone was just hanging out. Men were fixing fishing nets and chatting while their women were looking at an usual catch from the last trip on the water ...Interestingly, there are a lot of Ugandans who share surnames and skin tones with the Luo who live across the lake in Kenya. For example, Brenda shares her surname with one of the senior members of the Ugandan Investment Authority! (and they share their considerable height too). The similarity, and the sharing of names, evidently stems from cross-border travel in pre-Colonial times, many, many years ago. But the ‘exotic’, Nilotic eyes of the Luo are less in evidence here (but there are Nilotic people in Uganda).
The more diversity I experience in these parts of the world, the more I sense that cultural differences are contained more in the eyes than anywhere else. The soul of a people is in their eyes. So what would this blog be if I didn’t comment on the Ugandan women? And their eyes.
The first point to make is that the Ugandan people, generally, are a lot heavier than Kenyans. Their legs are bigger, but among women certainly, their hands are often similarly small. As I have hinted above, the defining feature of Ugandan women lies in their eyes. Ugandan women’s eyes tend to be much larger, rounder, and are slightly ‘protruding’ and heavy-lidded in many instances. The ‘look’ is unusual and not immediately as attractive (to me, at least) as the centuries of cross-African-Arabia that characterizes many Kenyan women.
Can I risk saying that the Ugandan ‘look’ grew on me quite quickly, however. Many of the women in Uganda are distinctly ‘big-boned’, and large breasted, in an attractive, African way! Frankie is a Ugandan woman who was home for a short visit from the UK, where she works as a high-care nurse. She’s a bit derisive of Uganda’s post-Colonial, Catholic conservatism and had a laugh at the stares we got as we danced.
Driving out to Entebbe again, after conferencing for three days in Kampala, it was again raining, but lightly this time. Everyone in Entebbe was still going about his or her business, riding up and down on 125cc Bajaj motorcycles. It started to rain quite hard as we boarded our plane.
Kigali, Rwanda: Wednesday, 4th March to Saturday, 7th March 2009
The flight from Kampala to Kigali normally takes 50 minutes or so, unless you are flying in a LITTLE jet with two Rolls Royce engines both the size of those found on a BIG jet! In this case the flight takes 25 minutes! And what a rush it was flying in the manner of the rich and famous! I have always enjoyed flying in jet aircraft, but I doubt I will get another ride like this anytime soon. The plane had been brought on board because there were only 28 of us on the flight to Kigali, and even with the anticipated high speed, this plane was going to cost Rwandair a fraction of what a 737 would. Gleaming in the rain on the runway, the plane reminded me of a huge phallus with enlarged testicles.
Just being aboard this luxury strato-cruiseliner was thrilling enough but as you’d know it’s the take off that really does it for jet-freaks like me. The pilot had not even lined the phallus up with the lines on the runway before he was giving it his all to achieve eventual escape velocity. Yipppeeee!
Turning directly onto runway 2, the engines were already full thrust and the pilot let the brakes go as we straightened out … Sucked into your seat, the planes nose flips up and the city shrinks quickly below. Wooosh!
What a flight it was: clear skies, no turbulence, and a view of the jungle that stretched to the horizon… All this, plus a pilot who obviously enjoyed the maneuverability and sheer tempo of his zippy charge. I’ll leave out the thrilling detail but for the landing at Kigali:
The pilot put the jet into a steep right turn that sucked you into your seat so you couldn’t sit upright. I could see the runway clearly, looking down to my right. He then seemed to slur, or ‘twist’, the plane onto the runway and came in at a speed I have encountered only once before (excruciatingly, when I was an unwilling participant in an ‘auto-pilot’ test, aboard a brand new airbus A320, landing at Cape Town International in ‘96).
But even at the speed we were going, the touchdown was ‘padded’ and the reverse thrust of the engines was another rush, again. Eish.
Kigali airport is small, neat, and impeccably clean. The staff manning their points at customs and immigration are efficient and friendly. Signage is in French and Rwandese with little English in sight.
As our pilot came past, after we had checked through immigration, I thanked him for an immensely enjoyable experience on his plane. He smiled warmly, and said in an incredibly slow, thick French-African accent:
“When there are no police around, I like to drive a leeeetle dangereuse”, laughing heartily.
I laughed too, thinking that there might be some weird compensation thing going on between his slow verbal drawl and the sheer gusto of his flight…
We bussed to the five-star Serena Hotel, in sparkling Kigali (by now in darkness).
Rwanda has done everything it can possibly do to make this country something of an African paragon of honesty and good governance. Its President, Paul Kagame, is about as ‘hands-on’, and reputably ‘clean’, as one can get. Recently, as part of the widespread attempt to clean up the inner city, he took his own vehicle and drove himself around town to locate the centres of noise and disturbance that inner city dwellers had recently complained about. After locating the problem places, he went at 2am to wake both his Chief of Police, as well as his Minister of Justice. He brought them to his home and proceeded to question them as to what was to be done. I presume they had a plan because within two days the problem spots were gone!
Similarly there has been a drive to remove from the inner city slum dwellings that were perceived to be scarring Kigali’s main hill. There are huge tracts of neatly fenced prime land that have been cleared of their shanty dwellers. Cleared, yes, but not before their residents had been extensively polled as to where they would like to be settled. The clearing of shanty towns then went ahead without incident as the people moved willingly to better places of residence. The result of such an approach is that there is no sign of poverty or urban decay in the city. There are no beggars and there’s absolutely no crime to speak of. Paul Kagame also went recently on a trip to the rural areas, across what is Africa’s most densely populated country – between 9 and 11 million people spread over a jungle smaller than Swaziland. He met the rank and file of Rwanda in one-on-one meetings with anyone who wanted to have a say. One old lady evidently spoke to him about the problems she was having with the local chief and that this had been a problem for her for many years. She had been promised various concessions and none of these had materialized. Evidently, right there and then, the chief was called to respond directly to the woman’s issues, in the company of the president. The chief evidently had nothing to say and by Presidential Decree was unceremoniously removed from his post there and then to thunderous applause.
There is a ban on bicycles in Kigali city, not because they are not wanted per se, but because the government wants to avoid any problems stemming from bicycles being used as taxis. Rather, Kigali has a well regulated ‘bora-bora’ business where motorbike riders are equipped with helmets for themselves and their passengers and they wear colour coded jackets with their ‘zone’ emblazoned on the front and back. There are thousands of these ‘bora-boras’, driving well, and in disciplined fashion, all over the city (driving on the Franco-right-hand-side). You cannot take a street photograph without getting at least one of the ‘bora-boras’ in the picture. You are also not allowed to walk barefoot in town. This I believe is to discourage recent Rwandan immigrants to Kigali from buying a few beers rather than a pair of shoes when they come to town!
Having met a few of Rwanda’s government ministers I am amazed at how young and progressive they are. Clearly a bright bunch of guys, they are strongly and ardently in support of their leader’s straight and direct legislative line. Yet despite the slightly propagandistic stance of the ministers and their deputies about the modern appeal of Kigali as a business hub, I am told there are serious problems with the bureaucracy and that new business start-ups battle to overcome the inertia that besets the civil service. Business takes a lot longer to establish in Rwanda than is claimed, perhaps. And someone I met at our sponsored supper, who heads an agency in Rwanda, is a lot less optimistic about things turning out as everyone hopes …
Rwanda’s stated objective is to make the country an African I.T. hub. I wasn’t able to get a strong justification for this end from anyone I spoke to, and I certainly had enough problems with the hotel Internet service for this objective to seem slightly whimsical right now. But perhaps if the Rwandans achieve their aim of putting a laptop into every schoolchild’s hands, we may yet see something noteworthy coming from Rwanda in the African-IT rush. The influence of French culture in Rwandan society is certainly evident and I would venture to say that the Rwandese will have gained certain intellectual benefits from the prior use of the tongue (the official language is now English of course).There certainly is a clear and present ‘class’ to the more affluent Rwandese I saw at the hotel. I did not see many Rwandese of this ilk and I have a feeling that the affluent stick to themselves and don’t flash their wealth around town much. But evidence of wealth there is. Lots of Mercedes. And Kigali is expensive, even compared to Nairobi.
I initially thought there was something of a gentle-ness among the Rwandan people. I guessed it could only have something to do with the Hutu-Tutsi genocide of 1994. I reflected on the fact that while I was standing in a long queue, getting ready to vote for freedom, people were being mercilessly butchered by their own compatriots in this small jungle nation.
And it took me another two full days to ponder if the Rwandan people might not be suffering from a post-traumatic stress disorder (of the ‘societal’ kind) …
On Friday I took my perfunctory ‘walkabout’ and rode around town on the back of a Rwandan ‘bora-bora’ We passed the high bridge from which Tutsi parents were forced by their Hutu fellows to drop their infant children into the water below … I didn’t take a photo. I passed “Hotel Rwanda” on the hill, nondescript and unidentified for its place in the nation’s recent history.
What is it with us humans that we can turn on our fellow nationals with rampant, unfettered violence? On a somewhat smaller scale, but potentially the same, the same happened in Kenya just over a year ago. It happened, kabisa (thoroughly), in Rwanda 15 years ago. And the scars of Rwanda are evident in the people. If there is a gentleness among the people, it can only be for fear of starting something like that again but, if truth be told, it looks to me like the people are suffering the effects of shock.
I had a drink with a Rwandan woman at the Kigali Serena on Tuesday night. She lost every single member of her family in the genocide. She says she was lucky. Then, after a few seconds, she says maybe she wasn’t so lucky for the pain and hardship she went through afterwards.
Then she adds, looking at the ground, with the shimmer of a tear in her eye:
“I still have dreams about my baby … ”
If not just the shock of experiencing genocide, what of the survivor-guilt that many Rwandese must surely carry?
Ernest, a Rwandan in Rwanda - but only as part of the German mission – and now resident in Hamburg, tells me that if I were to ask around about the entire destruction of families, just among those who work at the hotel, I would go into shock myself!
But somehow, I wasn’t really shocked.
I am not going to repeat the atrocities that Ernest told me about. While he talked, an image of Marlon Brando came to me, from Apocalypse Now, saying:
“The Horror … The Horror”
There is no ready smiling in Rwanda. Don’t get me wrong, the Rwandese are friendly, but there is some ‘juice’ missing behind the smile. I have already waxed lyrical about the ‘vibe’ of the Kenyan people, but this type of ‘vibe’ is entirely absent here in Kigali. When I checked out the hotel I flirted with the receptionist who was fixedly working at her monitor. At the end of my obviously-flirtatious promise to come back to fetch her, I got a wan smile. And Christine told me, in absolute earnest:“If you ever come back to Rwanda I will be here and waiting for you”
Ernest surprised me with the revelation that the Hutu/Tutsi thing was not based on a history of tribal roots at all, but one of class structures only. Hutus and Tutsis are not members of different tribes, or language or religious groups! There are no differences in language or culture between the so-called Tutsis and the Hutus. Rather, the classification of Tutsi means “high class” and nothing else. In 1959 or so (why then, I don’t know), if you owned 10 or more cattle you were classified “Tutsi” and automatically became a member of the ruling class. If you owned fewer cows than that, you were a Hutu.
This situation persisted peacefully for some time until the Tutsis started taking the class thing a little too far. They started to create their own schools, hospitals and other institutions, all of which were closed to anyone but their own (and with the usual, inevitable social problems that followed). Eventually the more “oppressed” class, the Hutus, got a bit pissed off and a few among them started agitating for change. The rest, as they say, was hysteria …
Ernest shakes his head and says, wisely:
“In Africa it doesn’t take much to start a fire ... The spark that ignites may be small, but the fire rages quickly.”
We spoke quite a bit about factors that might impede the realization of Rwanda’s goals.
(An article I read in the weekly East African newspaper said that Tutsis and Hutus were peacefully living side-by-side in the ‘new’ Rwanda. Now I can see how this can be.) I guess my impressions of Kigali, at least, are somehow encapsulated in what I didn’t see, rather than what I did see.
The one thing you don’t see is the city’s main graveyard …
With the headstone-uniformity that one would expect from a war - or perhaps, genocide - it stretches over an area that is far larger than a football field! My ‘bora-bora’ driver couldn’t tell me what was being planned for the graveyard but plans are obviously afoot to remove the memory! The sight of it was frankly chilling, especially because it lies behind a shiny metal fascia of galvanized corrugate, shielding it from view.
I found the holocaust memorial more moving than I care to talk about.
If we ignore the potential effects of a post traumatic ‘problem’ among the people and pretend it’s not there … The potential for overregulation of Rwandan society is obvious. Thus far it is unfolding as a relatively benign means of social control - in what may well be classed as a ‘benign dictatorship’.
My worry is that this control may ultimately lead to the society never being able to experience a positive outflow of energy – an energy that may heal - an outflow that the society seems to sorely need. There seem to be very deep scars that the people carry. The scars I talk of are evidenced in the complete lack of “joie de vivre”. To me at least, it looks as if there’s something bubbling underneath and something that political measures should not really seek to control.
The Rwandese are certainly friendly, but to this I cannot add the usual rejoinder of ‘warm’. The only time I saw real laughter - ‘from the heart’ - was among young taxi drivers only (who would have been just too young to remember). At the hotel I heard only quiet conversation and wooden postures. The Rwandese certainly cannot be blamed for their state of mind and the stress of their past is clearly somewhere there, beneath the cloak of relative material comfort and amidst the strident attempts to instill a ‘super-normality’ on the whole society. But really how normal can a society be where entire families have been wiped out in a matter of days and months, by people who were erstwhile friends and neighbours…?
Kenya, there’s a lesson for you in Rwanda ...
We flew out of Kigali International Airport in a brand new Kenya Airways Boeing 737-800 replete with TV screens and Pixar-like animations of emergency flight instructions (in Swahili and English). Once we had crossed the lake, we flew directly over the extremely dry Tanzanian part of the Maasai Mara, as we headed directly to Nairobi, Kenya.
We landed at Kenyatta Airport and I was smiling, happy to be back on Kenyan soil.
Kuwa na amani (peace be with you), everyone.
B-)
While I was out …
On Wednesday, while in Rwanda, two Kenyan activists were assassinated in broad daylight, shot through the window of the car they were sharing on the trip back to the office. A bystander, and eyewitness to the scene, was shot through the leg. He was the only person who might positively identify the uniformed men who wielded the weapons. He was taken by the police to a ‘nearby hospital’. I haven’t heard any news of the witness since then.
The dual assassination led to student riots on Thursday, through the streets of Nairobi.
One of the students got shot dead. The riot was quelled with tear gas and a few live rounds. From the next day, through Sunday, police in Land Rovers were stationed at the single exit that marks the main street of student residences in the city. The vice-chancellors of both Kenyatta and Moi universities threatened students with expulsion if they continued to riot. Prime Minister Raila Odinga was later played widely on radio with an announcement – addressed to both the students and vice-chancellors - to the effect that "nothing of the sort" would happen. Silence from the Kibaki camp.
Is there just a glimmer of recognition from government that the Kenyan people – most notably the youth - are very deeply unhappy and frustrated?
Strategically, if you recognize the anger and frustration of the youth, it’s useful to let them blow off a little steam every now and then. Let them make just enough noise to keeps them quiet. Is this what happened? Was this the idea?
But let’s backtrack just a little, to the reason for the assassination …
The killing of the activists had something to do with their providing evidence to Prof Philip Alston, the EU’s Special Investigator who visited Kenya week before last. His mission was to investigate – among other things – the ‘extra-judicial killing’ of members of the ‘Mungiki’ gang … And the slain activists had been talking to him about these killings.
Background: Like there’s this ‘gang’ in Kenya – what Brenda calls ‘a sect’ – called the Mungiki. Their precise origin is not known but they rose during the Moi era. They are not to be confused with the Mau-Mau. The Mau were freedom fighters and heroes of the Kenyan people for their role in Kenyan liberation. By contrast, the Mungiki are just a sect of bloodthirsty (quite literally, I have heard) thugs who are behind the more rampant aspects of crime in Kenya. They have also been suspected of working for the Kenyan government during ‘special operations’ (like last year’s stolen-election-insurrection) and senior Mungiki leaders are even rumoured to work in government itself.
When the ‘post-election violence’ erupted in Kenya last year, Mungiki were charged with the task of identifying the regime’s opponents … a regime that was very intent on holding on to power, and still is. Mungiki inquisitors painted crosses on the gates of the primary suspects while Mungiki foot soldiers came round later and beat or killed occupants of the branded households. A black cross or a red one.
(Brenda’s family home was branded with a red cross, as opposed to the black one on most fences. But the family – nay, the whole of Ngong Town – was saved by the Maasai, within whose territory Ngong lies. In this case, the Maasai told the Mungiki in no uncertain terms that this was Maasai land, to the effect that ‘those who live on this land are guests of the Maasai. If you have a problem with a guest, you have a problem with the Maasai') ... Ahem ...
Needless to say, the Mungiki declined to take the matter any further and Ngong was spared the attentions of the Mungiki. But they’re around and enjoy quite mythical status in Nairobi. Mungiki members are believed to pay 1 Shilling a day into the Mungiki ‘state coffers’. Authoritative word says Mungiki has 2 million members. You do the math ...
Mungiki do act as guns for hire – armed, aiding and abetting anyone – but they are, on the whole, a self-serving bunch of gangsters who sometimes wear khaki shorts, animal hide and Bata Safari Boots. They wear scarves with Kenya colours but for the fact that the white stripe is removed. They are seldom seen in public, ‘dressed’. This, because the police have an open license to shoot Mungiki on sight.
A month or two ago (before I really knew who they were), we saw them walking downtown, fully dressed and looking the picture of scrawny wickedness. I only noticed them in the rearview mirror, and this only after Brenda and Erica had almost jumped under the dashboard and back seat respectively, exclaiming:
“Heh-Heyyyeeee, …. Mungiki … kabi-sssssss-aaaaaaa!” (Mungiki … fu-llll-yyyy)
Mungiki are often replete with dreadlocks, which maybe answers my query (in an earlier blog) about reasons for the youth not wearing dreads in Kenya. It probably also accounts for some local confusion between Mungiki and Mau-Mau - who also wore locks. In this society you don’t want to wear locks for fear of being seen as Mungiki ...! You could get easily shot if somehow you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any combination thereof.
My biggest shock, as I became aware of Kenyan realpolitik – and which I haven’t really blogged before – is the lack of rule-of-law. I have skirted around the issue in these blogs but it really is the cornerstone of oppression in Kenya society. When you can get easily shot, under any pretext, you are not about to stand up too quickly. When I see the ‘Mungiki pretext’ as an excuse for state-sponsired murder, I get an entirely different - and far more harsh - view than that I held before. It’s a scenario all-too-familiar to South Africans. But the so-called ‘extra-judicial killings’ are much easier to commit here because of the clear and present danger posed by Mungiki.
When I first arrived in Kenya, there were daily reports of these so-called ‘extra-judicial killings’. There is less news of it now but time was, very recently, when every day there would be a report of “police gunning down suspected thugs”. I asked about it of someone whose views I respect. I was shocked and dismayed at the ‘suspected’ part of what I was hearing. All she could add, with a resigned shrug, was the fact that “you’re not sure which ones are the thugs”. Today, I think I’m beginning to understand what she meant and this is why it has taken me so long to deal with it in words.
In a recent chat I had with a guest speaker at the East Africa Association – a serious government opponent, and author of a tome on Kenyan corruption - I reflected on the role of the youth in the SA revolution and asked him about ‘youth-initiatives’ in Kenya. He said there were many, growing in number and size. I said I hadn’t heard of many – almost any – but then I’m not ‘on the ground’ in the Kenyan underground. He said we should talk further. There was a crowd around. I got his mobile number but we have yet to speak since I returned from Rwanda. And there is little chance he didn’t speak with Alston as well …
Meantime, Prime Minister Raila Odinga, basically the only opposition-member in Kibaki’s ruling regime, is a lone voice in a barren wilderness of public dissent. Go Raila!, but ultimately I fear for your life (although many are saying you have been co-opted, kabisa).
If given the chance, all I would ask Kenyans, of each and every description – in ‘opposition’, in government, in the police and at the heart of civil society itself – is the following:
Is this the Kenya you want for your children?
Are corruption and oppression, and lessons on how to thieve from your brothers and sisters the values you want to instill in your children? Answer this question, Kenya, and you may have a basis for unifying all sides against the issues you face…
Rejoinder
Amidst all of this I want to finally, finally attest to the indomitable spirit of the Kenyan people…
There are up to ten million people in Kenya’s northern regions that are facing the prospect of starvation. This, as a result of drought plus government ineptitude and corruption (there was a recent – as yet unresolved - ‘maize scandal’ involving multi-millions).
Since yesterday 6am, till today 6am there has been a charity drive to collect food for starving Kenyans. I was at the Uchumi supermarket at Sarit Centre yesterday evening and couldn’t believe the trolley loads of maize-meal that were being bought by individuals and being taken directly to the collection point. I was a bit skaam (embarassed) with my five kilos of maize-meal. I added the unga (maize flour) to the one-or-two-hundred trolleys of food already standing there! And while some were buying food to donate (and many of those at the supermarket were there for that reason only), other Kenyans were taking the trouble to go out and donate money to a fund through Safaricom’s mPesa (money-transfer) service. By midnight, Kshs2.5 million had already been raised and over three hundred metric tons of food has been collected!
South Africa, if only you were as warm-hearted and giving as the Kenya people!
Again I have to say, despite the troubles the Kenyan people face, they have a spirit of love and forgiveness that is HUGE. I care what happens among these lovely people but I worry (kabisa) about what’s happening in that country I call home.
Peace and love,
B-)
Friends ... Indeed
Wednesday, 28th January 2009
For the last two days I have been bothered by an e-mail I received from a close and loyal friend of mine, my ex-bass player, Nick. Nick has done a lot of work for ad agencies in Uganda and travels to this part of the world quite regularly. He accused me of being a little too glib in my criticism of Kenya, considering where South Africa had gone of late, and particularly seeing as I was a “newcomer to Kenya”. Kenya deserved more respect, he said.
I reacted harshly at first. Then I re-read some of my writing. The potential of being ‘read’ like this has bothered me from the start of my political diatribes. And I can see now that Nick was completely rational in seeing some of my later ranting (this year) as instructions to Kenya from a more ‘enlightened being’. Obviously, these pieces were never meant like that… Kenya, I am sorry for sounding in any way arrogant and bettter informed ... or whatever.
If truth be told, in my writing I have had to constantly downplay my adoration of this country and what I feel for its people (within such a short space of time!). This, for fear of being seen as some kinda weird sycophant. Kenya is an indescribably amazing country with blessedly beautiful people. I am secretly SO jealous of what Kenyans have got here (and you know, Kenyans, that I’m not alone in this ‘expat love’ of your country).
Your nation is very special. And this is before you close the gap between what is and what could be! Let me keep quiet about what could and should be. You can sort that out without the help of me. Kenyans, your spirit is so huge that somehow you triumph over your State-domination. How? I really can’t exclude my weird-freaky-ass-mystical take on it and say there’s just a multiplex “vibe” in Kenya. A vibe that, to me at least, can’t be denied. So much more than a “Hakuna Whatsitsface” attitude …
Closing advert: To become free, a lot of South Africans, of every description, put a lot of energy into hastening the end of Apartheid (in my case, through music and live performance). My children enjoy the fruits of a free (albeit violent) country today. That’s important to me. Kenya, if you are to become free, don’t leave it too long. The time really is NOW. Like it’s never been before. (And my view is vindicated by what I hear and read - increasingly - every day).
Kenyans, if there is no change, what legacy are you going to leave for your kids? You have to secure your basic freedoms now.
With a single stone, an ‘avalanche’ will start. Right here, right now.
Amani na Mapenzi
B-)
6.15am, Thursday 29th January 2009
I have been waking up very early of late. Never before have I survived on such little sleep. I’m making it through a pretty hectic day with about 5Hrs sleep on average. The UN Environmental Programme’s esteemed Jenny Clover (she of the TV set in her car) says it’s because I’m happy. I think she’s right. But at least some of the reason for my early waking this is the big sound of bird calls coming from the miniature forest that flourishes over the road from the apartment block. I can hear they are small birds, but the range of different calls is absolutely amazing and in the early morning light their music echoes across the small valley, in the absence of vehicle noise. The sound is really quite beautiful so early in the day.
At least some of the reason for my early rise is also the fact that I have to get to work at about 7.30 today to change the costing of a proposal we wrote yesterday, and send it to client before 9am…
I think there’s a spider in my bed somewhere. I have woken up with huge welts all over my body! I wake up to the sound of Kiss FM, having taken to sleeping with the radio on, playing ‘black’ R&B through the night. I like the music so much more than the white rock thing I’m used to from SA.
It’s now just past 6am and Thika Road is ALREADY jum-pucked according to Caroline Mutoko on Kiss FM. They have what they call ‘butterfly’ cameras on all the main routes and give the radio-listening Nairobi public regular traffic updates during the hilarious drive-time show. The Chinese have been widening and resurfacing Mombasa Road. Usually they stop work at 6am but today it seems they are working a bit later and causing a serious jum. Can you believe that already there are enough Nairobese on the roads – trying to avoid the later jum – to create a trufeek jum at a quarter past six on a Thursday!
Yesterday there was a serious fire at the Nakumatt Downtown. I saw the smoke from 10kms away while at the office. Many thousand Nairobese crowded the scene to watch the (much too late) attempts to extinguish the fire – the fire department, just around the corner, took over an hour to respond to the fire call, evidently. The TV footage showed the public having to be dispersed with tear gas as they crowded the scene and flooded all over the entrance to the Stanley (as in Livingstone) Hotel. (A hotel with prints of the most stunning woordcuts and paintings all over the walls).
Kenya's teachers are on strike. I just heard that the average teachers salary is Ksh7000 before tax. They clear Ksh5800 after tax. That’s less than R800 folks (and, as I have said before, Nairobi ain’t cheap!). No wonder they have gone on strike. A few have been arrested and are currently languishing in Nairobi jails. The rest are simply refusing to work. Government says there’s no more money in the fiscus for their needs. One of Kenya's MP’s is, meantime, effecting renovations to his house to the tune of a few million Shillings. And, believe it or not, most parents are fully in support of the strike. They say they would rather pay a bit more in school fees and know that their kids are getting a good education!
Yesterday Kiss took a microphone and tape recorder onto the streets and interviewed some kids, about the State President. The first kid interviewed said “President Kibaki is a bud mun…”, the next said “President Kibaki has to get everything for free…” I guess that gives you some idea of popular (even young) sentiment here!
Caroline has just bought the latest copy of True Love (that same magazine that is published in SA). She is raving on air about the magazine and tells us that there’s an article in the magazine about bachelors who can’t be read. I'm not quite sure what she means. The bachelors are illegible, according to Caroline. I wonder if they are also eligible to find a partner soon, while still eluding one’s ability to read them?
Sunday, 1st February 2009
It has been an event-filled few weeks since I last wrote.
The first bit of news is that I found a house to rent in the greenbelt suburb of Spring Valley (on Spring Hill, really). Less a house than some sort of mansion, the place has an enormous living area, four bedrooms inside and two cottages outside (yet to be ‘done-up’). Entering the place for the first time (following a tip-off from the Maasai 'askari' - security guard - at our offices), I knew I wanted to live here immediately. It is really beautiful. Expensive, yes, but I have found three house-mates who allow me to pay a fairly normal rental on the place. Unfortunately it doesn’t have a pool but the garden makes up for that on its own. And the pair of black kites that are seen continually circling the sky above our roof just add a little extra something. From the sounds of things there are monkeys living close by too.
Spring Valley is home to a lot of those big-ass four-wheel-drive vehicles I have talked about, with red UN, RC and CD (Corps Diplomatique) number plates. The other day, going to work, I also had the big black Mercedes (replete with Kenyan flag) of our neighbour, a Minister of Parliament (ministry unknown), driving behind me. And coming home the other night, I gave a lift to a late-for-duty policeman (replete with Uzzi sub-machine gun) to the road in which said minister lives. Spring Valley Road has security-controlled access, so I guess it is quite safe living here. I certainly feel safe because I have not yet closed the French doors that lead from the ‘master’ bedroom onto the garden. Anyway, as is the style of large Nairobi homes, we have employed our own security in the form of genuine Samburu Maasai ‘warrior’ (those from northern Kenya who look quite a lot like Somalis) who loves listening to reggae on Radio Metro.
And talking of Somalis, I had the honour the other night of meeting Mima – a member of the Somali royal family – and her husband Jon, a Norwegian who is so into, and knowledgable about, alternative technology it’s frightening. Clearly a genius in his own right, Jon has so much to offer Africa … And he’s about to participate in a sort-of Kyoto Protocol meeting being held here in Nairobi from Monday and featuring the environmental heads of 166 countries, or their emissaries (and his company is called Kyoto!). This meeting is being organized by Jaime’s (my fellow research director) girlfriend, Melissa. She promises to send me a summary of proceedings. I’ll try write more about the new global environment agenda as soon as I get the summary from Melli.
Monday, 23rd February 2009.
It’s been nearly a month since I have written. Work has kept me from it.
I am due to fly to Entebbbe, Uganda, this Sunday as part of a week-long Trade Mission to Kampala and Kigali, Rwanda. Through the East Africa Association, I have set up a number of meetings with people who might be interested in research in their part of the world. I will likely be most enthused when I return and promise to write furiously. Can’t wait.
Moving into this house has been an amazing experience. It has given me a sense of real belonging here and has made me feel that much more comfortable than before (if it’s possible for me to feel more comfortable). Sign of this, perhaps, is that I have got me a lovely ‘girlfriend’. I won’t breach her confidence here, but suffice it to say that Brenda is an amazing woman who I would never have imagined to meet in Kenya. Whatever her soon-to-start contract in Dubai might bring, we have had more fun in a short while than either of us has had in years. She is a part-time model and a rather gifted artist and stylist. She is also a born mimic who has me in stitches with her take on local politicians (and also a few friends of ours). She is really quite special and I suspect (Dubai aside) that we will be together for a while still.
Returning swiftly to my new resident status in Kenya (while still waiting for my permanent resident permit)…
I am increasingly asked, by intrigued Kenyans, about how long I have been here. I am now myself amazed by the fact that I have been here for a mere eleven weeks! I feel like it’s been years already! I feel like I somehow came home and that I am meant to be here. I have numerous local, Kenyan, friends – many of them through Brenda - yet I still get amazed on a daily basis at what I find here. I love this place. It just has SO much going for it.
What is REALLY amazing to me is the fact that I am understanding a great deal of Swahili in daily use. My researchers rattle something off to me and somehow I get the gist of it … They laugh.
Meantime, what other news of Kenya (habari ya Kenya)?
… so much is news that it’s hard to cover it. Brief notes follow:
Shopping in Eastleigh, among thousands of Somalis, Ethiopians and Sudanese. Nothing you can't get for quarter the price you'll pay in town. Every woman wearing a head scarf. Burkas, burkas everywhere, and not a face to see. Brenda warning me that if I take a picture I will get stoned. "But I'm stoned already, baby..." The road through Eastleigh is not a road but a pitted and potholed passageway where busses vie with hand drawn 'trailers' for command of the space.
Going out to Brenda's half-completed house (next to another, very opulent house) in the distant Ngong Hills ... Buying furniture (hand made queen size bed, in mahogany: R800) along Ngong Road on our return. Having supper at Brenda's aunt - owner of a modelling agency - in Kileleshwa. Recognising the differences between Maasai taxi drivers (in regular clothes) versus Kamba drivers versus Luos ... etc. I'm getting to 'see' the differences very clearly. Much laughter in assent when I ask the ethnic question... Buying a puppy - that looks Shepherd but isn't - on Peponi Road. The puppy's name is Moshoeshoe (after the King of the Basotho people) and she lives (of her own choice) under the elephant ear plants in the garden. (And talking of elephants ... a hilarious correction to my earlier assumption about elephants and Nakumatt... Nakumatt is actually derived from "Nakuru Mattress Company" and has absolutely nothing to do with elephants! Thanks, Kairu).
I have recently seen a few live bands that have been pretty good. On Sunday night at Black Diamond I saw a singer who has a voice that would fool the most ardent Marley fan. On the Wednesday before I saw a band at Club Afrique that would scare most pro bands in South Africa (yet they have one gig per week and play to small audiences).
So much more I could talk about ... Later.
Regarding the house mates: Rachel: she of dinner party and South Sudan technology consulting. Sheetal: an Asian Kenyan woman who consults in North Sudan on behalf of her principals in Italy. Then there’s Bob, a well-rounded and informed American with experience in drug and alcohol rehabilitation who is looking for work at an AIDS orphanage or similar (as an unpaid intern if necessary, he says).
Currently, Rachel is in the Sudan. Sheetal is about to embark on the same trade mission as I, and which I mentioned above. And Bob is in Kisumu, having some sort of assessment as a manager for a ‘home’ on the coastal border between Kenya and Tanzania, on Lake Victoria. Brenda and I have just been hanging out at home. I have been going to work and working hard - through lunch and into the night. Hence, so little time to write!
There is so much I want to tell you esteemed readers. But I guess, for now, this will have to do. Back to reviewing some proposals, writing some e-mails, and generally making myself worth Jane’s while…
In closing, here’s a poem I wrote a little while ago:
CAN YOU IMAGINE
Just like the tears of freedom
shed with Madiba,
Wembley Stadium, 1990
I’d still like to be here
(and cry)
when again
I can be a part of Afrika
that proudly says:
“Free at last, we’re Free at last”
KENYA,
CAN YOU
IMAGINE...
Africa!
the world
will shake!
Mapenzi sana
(Lots of love)
B-)
For the last two days I have been bothered by an e-mail I received from a close and loyal friend of mine, my ex-bass player, Nick. Nick has done a lot of work for ad agencies in Uganda and travels to this part of the world quite regularly. He accused me of being a little too glib in my criticism of Kenya, considering where South Africa had gone of late, and particularly seeing as I was a “newcomer to Kenya”. Kenya deserved more respect, he said.
I reacted harshly at first. Then I re-read some of my writing. The potential of being ‘read’ like this has bothered me from the start of my political diatribes. And I can see now that Nick was completely rational in seeing some of my later ranting (this year) as instructions to Kenya from a more ‘enlightened being’. Obviously, these pieces were never meant like that… Kenya, I am sorry for sounding in any way arrogant and bettter informed ... or whatever.
If truth be told, in my writing I have had to constantly downplay my adoration of this country and what I feel for its people (within such a short space of time!). This, for fear of being seen as some kinda weird sycophant. Kenya is an indescribably amazing country with blessedly beautiful people. I am secretly SO jealous of what Kenyans have got here (and you know, Kenyans, that I’m not alone in this ‘expat love’ of your country).
Your nation is very special. And this is before you close the gap between what is and what could be! Let me keep quiet about what could and should be. You can sort that out without the help of me. Kenyans, your spirit is so huge that somehow you triumph over your State-domination. How? I really can’t exclude my weird-freaky-ass-mystical take on it and say there’s just a multiplex “vibe” in Kenya. A vibe that, to me at least, can’t be denied. So much more than a “Hakuna Whatsitsface” attitude …
Closing advert: To become free, a lot of South Africans, of every description, put a lot of energy into hastening the end of Apartheid (in my case, through music and live performance). My children enjoy the fruits of a free (albeit violent) country today. That’s important to me. Kenya, if you are to become free, don’t leave it too long. The time really is NOW. Like it’s never been before. (And my view is vindicated by what I hear and read - increasingly - every day).
Kenyans, if there is no change, what legacy are you going to leave for your kids? You have to secure your basic freedoms now.
With a single stone, an ‘avalanche’ will start. Right here, right now.
Amani na Mapenzi
B-)
6.15am, Thursday 29th January 2009
I have been waking up very early of late. Never before have I survived on such little sleep. I’m making it through a pretty hectic day with about 5Hrs sleep on average. The UN Environmental Programme’s esteemed Jenny Clover (she of the TV set in her car) says it’s because I’m happy. I think she’s right. But at least some of the reason for my early waking this is the big sound of bird calls coming from the miniature forest that flourishes over the road from the apartment block. I can hear they are small birds, but the range of different calls is absolutely amazing and in the early morning light their music echoes across the small valley, in the absence of vehicle noise. The sound is really quite beautiful so early in the day.
At least some of the reason for my early rise is also the fact that I have to get to work at about 7.30 today to change the costing of a proposal we wrote yesterday, and send it to client before 9am…
I think there’s a spider in my bed somewhere. I have woken up with huge welts all over my body! I wake up to the sound of Kiss FM, having taken to sleeping with the radio on, playing ‘black’ R&B through the night. I like the music so much more than the white rock thing I’m used to from SA.
It’s now just past 6am and Thika Road is ALREADY jum-pucked according to Caroline Mutoko on Kiss FM. They have what they call ‘butterfly’ cameras on all the main routes and give the radio-listening Nairobi public regular traffic updates during the hilarious drive-time show. The Chinese have been widening and resurfacing Mombasa Road. Usually they stop work at 6am but today it seems they are working a bit later and causing a serious jum. Can you believe that already there are enough Nairobese on the roads – trying to avoid the later jum – to create a trufeek jum at a quarter past six on a Thursday!
Yesterday there was a serious fire at the Nakumatt Downtown. I saw the smoke from 10kms away while at the office. Many thousand Nairobese crowded the scene to watch the (much too late) attempts to extinguish the fire – the fire department, just around the corner, took over an hour to respond to the fire call, evidently. The TV footage showed the public having to be dispersed with tear gas as they crowded the scene and flooded all over the entrance to the Stanley (as in Livingstone) Hotel. (A hotel with prints of the most stunning woordcuts and paintings all over the walls).
Kenya's teachers are on strike. I just heard that the average teachers salary is Ksh7000 before tax. They clear Ksh5800 after tax. That’s less than R800 folks (and, as I have said before, Nairobi ain’t cheap!). No wonder they have gone on strike. A few have been arrested and are currently languishing in Nairobi jails. The rest are simply refusing to work. Government says there’s no more money in the fiscus for their needs. One of Kenya's MP’s is, meantime, effecting renovations to his house to the tune of a few million Shillings. And, believe it or not, most parents are fully in support of the strike. They say they would rather pay a bit more in school fees and know that their kids are getting a good education!
Yesterday Kiss took a microphone and tape recorder onto the streets and interviewed some kids, about the State President. The first kid interviewed said “President Kibaki is a bud mun…”, the next said “President Kibaki has to get everything for free…” I guess that gives you some idea of popular (even young) sentiment here!
Caroline has just bought the latest copy of True Love (that same magazine that is published in SA). She is raving on air about the magazine and tells us that there’s an article in the magazine about bachelors who can’t be read. I'm not quite sure what she means. The bachelors are illegible, according to Caroline. I wonder if they are also eligible to find a partner soon, while still eluding one’s ability to read them?
Sunday, 1st February 2009
It has been an event-filled few weeks since I last wrote.
The first bit of news is that I found a house to rent in the greenbelt suburb of Spring Valley (on Spring Hill, really). Less a house than some sort of mansion, the place has an enormous living area, four bedrooms inside and two cottages outside (yet to be ‘done-up’). Entering the place for the first time (following a tip-off from the Maasai 'askari' - security guard - at our offices), I knew I wanted to live here immediately. It is really beautiful. Expensive, yes, but I have found three house-mates who allow me to pay a fairly normal rental on the place. Unfortunately it doesn’t have a pool but the garden makes up for that on its own. And the pair of black kites that are seen continually circling the sky above our roof just add a little extra something. From the sounds of things there are monkeys living close by too.
Spring Valley is home to a lot of those big-ass four-wheel-drive vehicles I have talked about, with red UN, RC and CD (Corps Diplomatique) number plates. The other day, going to work, I also had the big black Mercedes (replete with Kenyan flag) of our neighbour, a Minister of Parliament (ministry unknown), driving behind me. And coming home the other night, I gave a lift to a late-for-duty policeman (replete with Uzzi sub-machine gun) to the road in which said minister lives. Spring Valley Road has security-controlled access, so I guess it is quite safe living here. I certainly feel safe because I have not yet closed the French doors that lead from the ‘master’ bedroom onto the garden. Anyway, as is the style of large Nairobi homes, we have employed our own security in the form of genuine Samburu Maasai ‘warrior’ (those from northern Kenya who look quite a lot like Somalis) who loves listening to reggae on Radio Metro.
And talking of Somalis, I had the honour the other night of meeting Mima – a member of the Somali royal family – and her husband Jon, a Norwegian who is so into, and knowledgable about, alternative technology it’s frightening. Clearly a genius in his own right, Jon has so much to offer Africa … And he’s about to participate in a sort-of Kyoto Protocol meeting being held here in Nairobi from Monday and featuring the environmental heads of 166 countries, or their emissaries (and his company is called Kyoto!). This meeting is being organized by Jaime’s (my fellow research director) girlfriend, Melissa. She promises to send me a summary of proceedings. I’ll try write more about the new global environment agenda as soon as I get the summary from Melli.
Monday, 23rd February 2009.
It’s been nearly a month since I have written. Work has kept me from it.
I am due to fly to Entebbbe, Uganda, this Sunday as part of a week-long Trade Mission to Kampala and Kigali, Rwanda. Through the East Africa Association, I have set up a number of meetings with people who might be interested in research in their part of the world. I will likely be most enthused when I return and promise to write furiously. Can’t wait.
Moving into this house has been an amazing experience. It has given me a sense of real belonging here and has made me feel that much more comfortable than before (if it’s possible for me to feel more comfortable). Sign of this, perhaps, is that I have got me a lovely ‘girlfriend’. I won’t breach her confidence here, but suffice it to say that Brenda is an amazing woman who I would never have imagined to meet in Kenya. Whatever her soon-to-start contract in Dubai might bring, we have had more fun in a short while than either of us has had in years. She is a part-time model and a rather gifted artist and stylist. She is also a born mimic who has me in stitches with her take on local politicians (and also a few friends of ours). She is really quite special and I suspect (Dubai aside) that we will be together for a while still.
Returning swiftly to my new resident status in Kenya (while still waiting for my permanent resident permit)…
I am increasingly asked, by intrigued Kenyans, about how long I have been here. I am now myself amazed by the fact that I have been here for a mere eleven weeks! I feel like it’s been years already! I feel like I somehow came home and that I am meant to be here. I have numerous local, Kenyan, friends – many of them through Brenda - yet I still get amazed on a daily basis at what I find here. I love this place. It just has SO much going for it.
What is REALLY amazing to me is the fact that I am understanding a great deal of Swahili in daily use. My researchers rattle something off to me and somehow I get the gist of it … They laugh.
Meantime, what other news of Kenya (habari ya Kenya)?
… so much is news that it’s hard to cover it. Brief notes follow:
Shopping in Eastleigh, among thousands of Somalis, Ethiopians and Sudanese. Nothing you can't get for quarter the price you'll pay in town. Every woman wearing a head scarf. Burkas, burkas everywhere, and not a face to see. Brenda warning me that if I take a picture I will get stoned. "But I'm stoned already, baby..." The road through Eastleigh is not a road but a pitted and potholed passageway where busses vie with hand drawn 'trailers' for command of the space.
Going out to Brenda's half-completed house (next to another, very opulent house) in the distant Ngong Hills ... Buying furniture (hand made queen size bed, in mahogany: R800) along Ngong Road on our return. Having supper at Brenda's aunt - owner of a modelling agency - in Kileleshwa. Recognising the differences between Maasai taxi drivers (in regular clothes) versus Kamba drivers versus Luos ... etc. I'm getting to 'see' the differences very clearly. Much laughter in assent when I ask the ethnic question... Buying a puppy - that looks Shepherd but isn't - on Peponi Road. The puppy's name is Moshoeshoe (after the King of the Basotho people) and she lives (of her own choice) under the elephant ear plants in the garden. (And talking of elephants ... a hilarious correction to my earlier assumption about elephants and Nakumatt... Nakumatt is actually derived from "Nakuru Mattress Company" and has absolutely nothing to do with elephants! Thanks, Kairu).
I have recently seen a few live bands that have been pretty good. On Sunday night at Black Diamond I saw a singer who has a voice that would fool the most ardent Marley fan. On the Wednesday before I saw a band at Club Afrique that would scare most pro bands in South Africa (yet they have one gig per week and play to small audiences).
So much more I could talk about ... Later.
Regarding the house mates: Rachel: she of dinner party and South Sudan technology consulting. Sheetal: an Asian Kenyan woman who consults in North Sudan on behalf of her principals in Italy. Then there’s Bob, a well-rounded and informed American with experience in drug and alcohol rehabilitation who is looking for work at an AIDS orphanage or similar (as an unpaid intern if necessary, he says).
Currently, Rachel is in the Sudan. Sheetal is about to embark on the same trade mission as I, and which I mentioned above. And Bob is in Kisumu, having some sort of assessment as a manager for a ‘home’ on the coastal border between Kenya and Tanzania, on Lake Victoria. Brenda and I have just been hanging out at home. I have been going to work and working hard - through lunch and into the night. Hence, so little time to write!
There is so much I want to tell you esteemed readers. But I guess, for now, this will have to do. Back to reviewing some proposals, writing some e-mails, and generally making myself worth Jane’s while…
In closing, here’s a poem I wrote a little while ago:
CAN YOU IMAGINE
Just like the tears of freedom
shed with Madiba,
Wembley Stadium, 1990
I’d still like to be here
(and cry)
when again
I can be a part of Afrika
that proudly says:
“Free at last, we’re Free at last”
KENYA,
CAN YOU
IMAGINE...
Africa!
the world
will shake!
Mapenzi sana
(Lots of love)
B-)
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