Clean Water Exhaustion

Like much of Africa, Kenya has been experiencing severe drought. In areas to the north, like Garissa near the Somali border, and the regions of Samburu and Lake Turkana, even the camels have been dying from dehydration! The recent ‘short rains’ have relieved some of the pressure, but the drought is by no means broken.

In Nairobi, the effect of the drought has been the introduction of water rationing on a well-regulated, now-you-have-it-now-you-don’t basis. One minute you hear water gurgling through the pipes … next minute you’re carrying a bucket of water to flush the loo. Plastics companies have made a fortune through the manufacture and sale of storage tanks that stand everywhere in peoples’ houses. And when it’s been a-gurgling there’s a massive rush for everyone to fill up their tanks. One wonders if the rationing has any effect at all with the amounts that are drawn when there IS water.

Be that as it may, the rationing has heralded some quite discomfiting times. There have been days when some areas have been devoid of the sacred maji for more than two days at a stretch! And water needs treatment with Water Guard to prevent bacterial outbreaks while it stands stagnant in the house. Thankfully, PSI (Population Services International) from the US, sponsors much of the cost of the water treatment and it can be obtained for 20 bob a bottle at most small outlets.

Of course, many Kenyans can’t afford even the 20 bob and have had to suffer as a result. Several (thankfully, small) outbreaks of cholera have been experienced. Maybe 100 people have died. Many of them have been children.

Until recently, the outbreaks have been quite mystifying, affecting only small parts of a particular community or perhaps just one small residential area. But, after a while, the source of these isolated occurrences became clearer.

Let me explain as best I can …

There are three main types of tanker trucks seen in Nairobi. The first is the common-garden petrol tanker that takes petrol, paraffin and other flammable, petro-chemical products from Mombasa all the way through to the Ugandan capitol of Kampala or even Kigali, in Rwanda. Using what are sometimes extremely bad roads, these tankers are prone to capsize. Kenyans are incinerated quite regularly when the liquid cargo catches alight as scores of villagers busily fill their buckets from the tanker’s prostrate hull.

Now, because of the drought, it has become common to see ‘water tankers’ on the roads. These blue-painted behemoths bear the legend ‘Clean Water’, emblazoned in white on their sides. They are charged with delivering maji to houses, hotels, commercial areas and residential ‘estates’. And along Ngong Road, there is something of a Tanker-Stop where 20 or more of these tankers can be seen at any one time, waiting for the call to action.

Then there is the third type of tanker: the ‘exhaust tanker’. Because water-borne sewage systems are uncommon in Nairobi, septic tanks require emptying, and residential estates (what the US calls ‘projects’) have to rely on ‘exhaust tankers’ to come and relieve the build-up of human waste and effluents. Also along Ngong Road, one sees these exhaust tankers parked in their plenty too. Many of them carry the charming legend of ‘Honey Sucker’ emblazoned on the side. These tankers are painted … you guessed it … brown.

But, lo-and-behold, there has been the recent, anomalous emergence of a new style of tanker: ‘the hybrid’. This style of tanker is two-tone. It has a freshly painted blue tank that says, like all the others, ‘Clean Water’. However, the tank itself stands on a chassis and frame that is suspiciously BROWN …!

You work it out!

Ever-keen to make a buck where possible, it seems that many of the tanker owners have resorted to what Kenyans are wont to call ‘unscrupulous’ business practices. It’s amazing what a bucket of blue paint can do for an erstwhile Honey Sucker’s business!

I’m just glad that it wasn’t my child that fell victim to the stuff of the two-tone tanker!

With love.

B-)

Here ... There ... Everywhere

Resistance is mounting. Pimples of dissent are breaking out everywhere.

Last week one-or-other Kenyan women’s group mounted a campaign of denial of conjugal rights to their married men-folk (I kid you not). On the face of it, this was in an attempt to bring pressure to bear on the government and to have the men, now charged with pent-up energy, to demand change, if only in order to regain paradise lost. The call was, of course, the talking point of every radio station, cabbie and street vendor in town. The question on everyone’s lips was whether this applied to unmarried men – or were they allowed to carry on regardless. Talk shows were inundated with voices of indignation, with few, if any, of the callers seriously questioning the logic behind the call.

I wondered about the logic of the call for some time, until I met a serious feminist earlier this week – who was so well-informed she clearly had something to do with the call itself – and who told me quite plainly that there was no serious intent behind the call except to conscientise the men of Kenya that there are gender issues that need consideration too … Essentially she said “How can men have automatic conjugal rights that violate basic human rights”. And I guess she was right.

This place never ceases to amaze me with some of the people I encounter.

Two weeks or so ago, the residents of a few Nairobi ghettos started taking the law into their own hands and resorted to lynching a few (9, I think) Mungiki members who were known extortionists and racketeers in the midst of various ghetto communities. After the lynching, it took a week for Mungiki to react. They reacted true to form and took their usual “two for one”, massacring no less than 20 innocent people. The people were drawn, in the dead of night, to a fire started those same Mungiki members charged with exacting revenge for killings of their own. The events were followed by the usual hue and cry over Mungiki’s actions in Kenya and highlighted the tiredness of the people in having to deal with the Mungiki threat – but to no avail and a conspicuous lack of comment from government.

And last week some time, the State President and some senior MP’s had to flee a stone-throwing mob at a recent political talk-a-thon. They failed to appear at their next gig, obviously expecting the same, and were most likely to have got the same. The pictures of the ‘mob’ in the papers were of a very angry bunch of young people. Yes, kind sirs, the people are pissed off!

Raila Odinga, widely acknowledged – nay, almost universally acknowledged – to have won the last election by a vast majority (but having had it ‘stolen’ by the Kibaki camp) called for a snap election. He was simply put in his place by a government announcement – a government he is supposedly part of – and widespread news coverage to the effect that snap elections are not catered for in the constitution and therefore could not happen.

Funnily enough, corruption and stealing from the electorate are also not covered by the constitution but seem to be very much a part of the current government’s mandate. Raila tries, but his opposition - within the self-same government - is much too smart and wily for him. It’s exactly the same scenario as Mugabe-Morgan. Morgan got himself thoroughly Raila’d! (That is, given a position with title but with little effect!)

Raila also said that because his party dominated the legislature – which it does quite substantially – he should be appointed the Speaker of Parliament to properly handle the business of each day. He was talked down from this position too. He was even talked down from attending a certain inauguration in SA today – even though he was going to do this in his private capacity.

I have said it before – gladly – and I say it again … The days of this particular Kenyan government are coming to an end. Reform is on the political agenda but it seems likely it will take a few years to get from the menu to the table.

Kenyan politics is so fraught with platitudes and assertions of rectitude and justice in all its affairs that it beats me how the Kenyan people continue to stomach it all with relatively straight faces. But talk of significant change there is. Perhaps it will never amount to anything more than talk. For the next few years, the Kenyan people might just be dragged along in the ever-distant hope of a new political order…

Just a quick note about the extent of government corruption and the effect it has had (and still has) on the Kenyan economy …

I blogged a while ago about the fact that Kenyan coffee was amongst the best in the world and that coffee was once Kenya’s single largest foreign income earner. It turns out that it was not just Uganda’s aggressive marketing that lost Kenya its place in world coffee markets. It had much more to do with the fact that the State was paying so little to the growers that many chose to turn their land over to vegetables for local consumption instead! And when the coffee market started to fail, the government wanted to invest enough to resuscitate it, only to find that BILLIONS of Shillings had simply ‘disappeared’ from the coffee co-op’s coffers! And the coffee industry has never, ever recovered. The cost of this to the Kenyan people is inestimable.

There is a ‘culture of expectation’ in Kenya that is something of a sickness here. I have only slowly become aware of it. It is known as “halafu” – or “what do you have for me?” There is an expectation here that if you are earning well – or are simply perceived as such – you should ‘give’. Because you are in a better position than someone else means that you are supposed to give beyond the cost of services rendered, if any …

Don’t get me wrong. I am the first to support charity where charity might well be due. But what of people who are actually earning on a daily basis but who just want ‘more’ simply because you are perceived to have more. I can’t really support that. I say, Kenyans, call on your government to create minimum wage laws and to create jobs for you, the people. Don’t expect other, regular people to make up for the blatant shortcomings of your rulers!

Kenya’s Colonial history clearly has something to do with it. Colonialism meant that the rich were seriously rich and the rest were subjugated under the economic yoke. When uhuru (freedom) came, the new black ‘masters’ simply continued in the same vein, perpetuating the self-same order of subjugation and subservience. Today, still, what the ‘average’ Kenyan gets paid is a crime and, in Nairobi, is nothing less than a crime against humanity.

Moving swiftly on: Last week I moved out of the ‘mansion’ in Spring Valley, to share a place in the leafy Nairobi suburb of Gigiri, home to the UN and the US Embassy (now under very serious armed guard and protection since the terrorist attack ten years ago). Jenny said that if I blog her again she WILL kill me, so I can’t say at whose place I am staying!

Spring Valley was just too expensive, given that I had non-deposit-paying tenants and massive electricity bills to foot. I am quite honestly relieved as I sit and view the Karura Forest and the monkeys prancing on the roof next door. The forest is huge and quite spectacular, completely surrounding Gigiri and all its inroads.

Martin, a driver from the office, assisted me with the move, bringing two of his friends and a large diesel pick-up for the task. We had just arrived at the Gigiri house of ‘my friend’ when Martin alerted me to the song playing on the Kikuyu radio station he was tuned to. It was the song that Mungiki sing. Perhaps because of the association alone, the song was nothing less than chilling.

The forest is a favourite spot for the unmarked graves of political dissidents. On Thursday morning I was sitting on the porch doing some work when I heard a lone, high velocity gunshot coming from just a few miles away. I wonder …

I had not seen that day’s Daily Nation but it seems that the gunshot coincided with the publication of 21 photographs and mention of people who have simply ‘disappeared’ over the last few months. The state mechanisms of silent but ruthless oppression ARE in evidence. Dominic, a cab driver I have become well-acquainted with since last week, tells me that those who ARE found bear simple, single-wound bullet holes in the front of the head. There are obviously some experienced executioners around. Enough on that. I have said it … Change is coming and let’s just hope it’s not too slow.

Aside from the absolutely fantastic road that leads from town to Gigiri (paid for by the UN), there’s a lot of road re-surfacing going on in and around Nairobi. And how welcome it is. I have commented on the roads just a little already but it seems that budgets have now been released into the public works fund to do what should have been done a few years ago. The Uhuru highway has been resurfaced from Mombasa Road in the south to just short of Westlands (which is ostensibly in the west, but is kinda in the north). While the tarring is done it creates absolute havoc but what a relief when the road opens the next day! Far fewer small, Japanese compact cars are disappearing, unexplained, on the highway these days!

Living in Gigiri for this short time now has given me one or two insights that cause me to retract at least some of what I have said earlier about Asian (lack of) integration …

I was sitting at the Village Market food court last week, simply watching the crowd, sipping on a cappuccino from Dorman's (“The Coffee Experts”). It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was ‘jum-pucked’. There’s this water feature that surrounds the food court.

Standing next to the meandering water was a lanky Kenyan girl bearing obvious signs of adolescent self-consciousness. Standing next to her was her overweight mzungu friend (who was not the least bit self-conscious). The two were waiting for ‘something to happen’. It was about ten minutes later when something indeed happened. The ‘girls’ were joined by the ‘guys’ …

There were three … The first, a suave Kenyan Asian, sporting a suitably ‘gelled’ hair-aberrant coiffure. The second, a black Kenyan wearing a Dolce & Gabanna T-shirt. The third, an mzungu blondie who was probably the most sloppily dressed individual I have yet to see in Kenya!

Much laughter and fun jostling ensued between them. What was interesting was that the mzungu was flirting with the black chick; the Asian was flirting with the mzungu chick - threatening to throw her into the water - while the black guy just surveyed the crowd looking for something interesting. The latter was doing the right thing in that his good looks meant he could be a little selective. The table of young girls next to me was quite abuzz with the prospect of being noticed.

So, yes folks, there is indeed hope for a more racially integrated Kenya in future. And if it is to be seen anywhere it has to be in Gigiri where the elite and future-King Kenyans are to be found … It was really good to see.

I suppose, in a lot of ways, the honeymoon phase of my Kenya experience is over. I am more aware of the shortfalls of the country, of the problems that abound and of the changes that need to come. But it leaves me no less enamoured with the place. It IS an extremely beautiful country with lovely people – people I feel far closer to than many of the violent, negligent, gun-toting individuals back home …

There are 42 distinct ‘tribes’ spread across Kenya’s wide plains and there has been very little mixing over the years. So far, I have blogged a few details pertaining to a few of the tribes. Not long ago, I blogged about the Maasai and their ‘loan’ of land in Ngong to fellow Kenyans (but not to Mungiki).

I heard very recently that Nairobi is actually a Maa word meaning “place of clear waters” and that Nairobi is actually also Maasai land. This accounts for the fact that Martin and I nearly crashed into a cow crossing the road in Hurlingham the other day. This lone, leading cow was followed shortly by a great many others, and also by a Maasai herder that was taking them walkabout for a bit of grazing.

The Maasai have free grazing rights throughout Nairobi. Some years back, when the government of the day (Moi’s era, I think) tried to limit these grazing rights, the Maasai stated quite baldly that if the State wanted to limit their grazing, the State could quite simply give the Maasai land back! Did I hear the word “Whoa” emanating from Parliament Avenue?

And today, evidently, it is not uncommon for an informal, aspiring Keith Kirsten to lose all his potted stock to a Maasai herder’s hungry husbandry! Vooi tog!

One other bit of local lore ... I said before that the Kamba people are reputed to have ‘magic’. They are also reputed to be ‘lazy’, which is evidently why many Kamba men are gardeners and choose to loll around in the sun, in someone’s back yard! But as far as the magic goes, there is this story about the Kamba wife who was ‘fooling around’ a bit. She had this lover over one night (no doubt while hubby was riding his bicycle around town in the dead of night). They were kinda done with the throes of passion when the errant lover found that he could not ‘disengage’ … He was unable to ‘remove himself’ from his trespass! In time, the impish, round-headed Kamba husband returned home and scrutinized the scene to his satisfaction, issuing what were no doubt sufficient warnings to both parties. Once he was done with his diatribe he removed a cigarette lighter from his pocket and simply clicked it on … and the trespasser was freed of his bondage.

This story is so much a part of local legend that I have heard it separately from a few people already. Legend has it too that Kamba people don’t need to lock their doors at night. No-one dare enter their houses without permission!

You know it’s the rainy season in Kenya when there is constant advertising on radio for free mosquito nets and when all the supermarkets feature prominent promotions for anti-malarial potions and treatments. But the rainy season is truly beautiful, even if a little inconvenient at times … If you are walking in areas where there are no pavements (which are plenty) you have to slush around in the mud and have to beware each and every passing car and truck for fear of getting drenched in mud.

You know it’s rainy season in Kenya when one of your Meru staff gets constant calls from his Dad, imploring him to give up on the academic stuff and come help with the miraa farm. I told said researcher it might not be a bad idea considering the number of people I see chewing miraa (khat) these days! He declined.

I am toying with the idea of developing a ‘Kenya IQ’ test. Here are the first three questions …

Kikuyu is to money as Luo is to…

a) miraa
b) mosquito
c) mirror

Kikuyu is to money as Meru is to...

a) miraa
b) mosquito
c) mirror

Kikuyu is to money as Turkana is to...

a) miraa
b) mosquito
c) mirror

(Correct answers are c, a, b)

I suppose some indication of a country’s ‘spirit’ has to be drawn from the words one learns at the very start of one’s experience in the foreign land. In Kenya it has to do with the words themselves but also with the WAY in which these words are spoken. I have mentioned it before and give it brief mention here again: The Kenyan people speak beautifully, whether in their native tongue – Swahili mainly – or in English. There is music to their speak that is indescribably beautiful. So I won’t try to describe it … Just know it to be true.

The first word you learn in Kenya, because you hear it so often, is “Karibu” (you are welcome) or “Karibu sana” (you are very welcome). Then, quite quickly, you learn to say the appropriate “Thank you” (asante) or asante sana. Early on, you also hear “pole sana” (pronounced pour-lair), meaning “I am sorry” (for you and/or your experience) and the seemingly similar (yet quite distinct) “pole-pole” meaning “slowly”.

The personal pronouns of “you” (wewe) or “me” (mimi) follow quite quickly, as do …

Wapi? Where?
Nini? What?
Lini? When?
Nani? Who?
Gani? Which (type)?
Yakho You (different context to ‘wewe’)
Uko You (another context)
Hapa Here
Hapo There
Aenda I go
Twende We go
Mingi Big
Kubwa Huge
Kidogo Small
Kwa With
Kutoka kwa From
Na And/with/have (and a few other meanings)
Nzuri Good, fine
Poa(poh-ah) Very good, Beautiful, Pretty

Etcetera, etcetera.

And I absolutely love the use of the term “ni-nini” meaning a “what-what” - or what South Africans would call a ‘dingis’. Another expression that I love is “si ndyo?”, meaning “not so?”. Many a statement, on just about any subject, is followed by “si ndyo?” – “wouldn’t you say so, isn’t it true?” It is beautifully self-affirming and a statement to the effect that the orator is certainly being truthful in what he or she is saying.

I was fascinated by how the term “mumbo jumbo” got into English, realising it must indeed have come somewhere from Swahili. Both “Jambo” and “Mambo” are terms of greeting in Swahili, with the latter being the more informal. Eventually I think I have worked it out: I can only assume that the Colonials, being greeted, but not knowing what was being said to them, adopted the term to denote stuff they couldn’t understand …

Pole sana! (I am very sorry for you)

In case you’re interested, a typical start-up conversation in Swahili will go as follows:

“Mambo?” (an informal greeting that, formally, means “what’s news?” but is used as in “Howzit?”)

Your reply might be:

“Poa!” or “poa sana!” or even “poa-poa sana!” (if you are feeling exceptional)

Alternatively, you might reply that you are “not bad”:

“Si mbaye”

Or “bad”:

“mbaye” (although very seldom used!)

On Fridays, particularly, you will be prone to reply:

“Salaama” (at peace) or “Salaama kabisa” (entirely peaceful).

If it is good looking, as it walks away you might want to comment:

“Mrembo sana!” (you’re HOT) and then, possibly, you might add:

“Uko na matako kubwa poa sana” (your ass is huge and quite beautiful!)

(A particularly African compliment of the highest order)

The later comment might be more appropriate if “it” is female …

Needless to say, I love the language. It is quite beautiful, being infused with Arabic that gives it a softness that is quite distinct from the Zulu or Xhosa languages that derive from the same root, Bantu tongue.

The number of words in common usage that derive from Swahili is quite startling. Just three:

Safari Journey/travel
Maluumi Special person
Simba Lion (as in Simba chips)

(there are many more I have come across but can't exactly remember now!)

I have a Swahili dictionary but because I am learning more ‘street’ Swahili (‘Sheng’) from friends, a great many of the words I know are either not in the dictionary are in entirely different usage.

In the dictionary, the word “mrembo” is said to mean ‘a well-dressed person’. On the street it means “HOT” (in the personal sense - as opposed to “moto” (pronounced more-tor) which means ‘warm/hot/fire’ in a slightly less personal way).

Enough Swahili linguistic didactics.

On the weekend after SA’s general Zumalection the SA High Commission hosted a “South Meets East” concert at the Kenya National Museum grounds. The only SA artist on the bill was Lira and she was supported by two Kenyan artists, Eric Wainana and Valerie.

Eric was very good, performing a few tracks in Luo. Brenda came with me and she translated the Luo lyrics - all suitably tongue-in-cheek and infused with political innuendo. But I think Eric should probably stick to Swahili because from people I have spoken to it seems that a lot of Kenyans don’t “get” what he is saying ... The Luo double meanings tend to be understood at face value.

Valerie was OK and I would venture to say that there are a great many Kenyan acts that should rather have been on the bill.

But as for Lira … She was absolutely GREAT. She started the set with a slow, sultry jazz piece and opened her singing with the greeting:

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmbbbo?”

The crowd went absolutely WILD.

Her band was phenomenal and the drummer was so alive and funky he couldn’t stay in his seat. I had seen him in the gathering crowd earlier in the evening, with what looks like his brother (who plays keyboard and sax with the band). They were both dressed in Bosmont Hip-Hop Chic and memories of my friend, and fellow drummer, Ian Herman (ex Tananas, and now playing for Sting I believe), came to mind.

Lira finished her set with the award-winning “iXesha”. After she mentioned the title I was amazed to hear, all around me, Kenyans attempting the Xhosa back-of-the-tongue ‘click’ in the word (and largely failing). Kenyans REALLY LOVE the Xhosa clicking – at least some of the reason for Brenda Fassie’s popularity here.

Lira gave the song its introduction:

“iXesha means Time in Xhosa. And the title of this song really means …

Honey, baby, sweetheart, darling, honey-bunch, gorgeous ……

YOUR TIME IS UP!”

The response from the women in the crowd was nothing short of deafening and Lira had to wait a while before actually starting the song. What eventually followed was fantastic and I must admit to being just a little moved by her swaying, sassy performance (which I have on video).

At the end of the night I think Brenda was a little stunned by what she had seen. All she could say was:

“Wow, you South Africans have some GREAT performers!”

I’ll say.

I am specially fond of the old guy with the understated dance who wears the funky shirts. But I’m not so keen on the guy with the bipolar skull who is getting some kind of special place in SA society today.

Amani na mapenzi brothers and sisters.

B-)

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-)

Traffic, Trafficking and an Unhappy State of the Nation

So, me dears, I’m getting to do a lot of my shopping at the new, luxury Westgate Mall. It’s something like Sandton City times two, but because space here is hardly a problem, there is a lot more room to move. And, surprisingly there are a lot of speciality brand shops. There’s a dedicated Levis store, a Converse store, a Swatch store, and more. A lot of the products in the supermarkets are the same as in SA. This, particularly as far as the multinational brands are concerned. Both Lever Brothers’ brands and Colgate brands have a very strong presence on the household products and toiletries shelves. But it’s not Baker’s, but Proctor & Gamble’s, biscuits that are big, and there are very few biscuit brands here that I know. Kelloggs is huge and there is every brand of cereal we know (and a few we don’t know). But there is very little to be found by way of muesli and so-called ‘health’ cereals. I have searched a few times now but have been unable to find any kind of fish-paste and no Black Cat. Damn. Where I can’t find OMO, I can always rely on Toss (!), the detergent that’s gentle on the hands. Dairy products are, naturally, produced locally. And I mean naturally. A lot of the local natural products are organic and there is an organic market here somewhere that I haven’t got to yet. There’s a lot of pride in local dairy and because of the multicultural tones of Nairobi, there are Indian speciality cheeses, English cheeses, Italian cheeses and other types of cheese whose names I can’t begin to spell or pronounce. Similarly, in the meat deli sections of the supermarkets, there’s an amazingly wide variety of cold cuts. These products all seem to be produced in the vicinity and my current cheesy favourite is called Seriously Cheddar and there’s Bulgarian (of all places!) salami that is kick-ass.

I won’t go into great detail about this, but I had to take a young lady home this morning, to the southern district of Nairobi CBD. Her name is Shamim and she is studying for a commerce degree in Travel and Tourism at Nairobi University. She stays in an apartment block just off campus, on the south side of Nairobi. Getting her there was easy, with her suburb lying just on the outskirts of the city. But, without her guidance, coming back wasn’t as easy. The South (actual name of the suburb) apartment blocks obscure a view of the city buildings and so I took a wrong turn somewhere, finding myself suddenly on a single lane, one-way road to hell. Jammed in by matatus of every shape and size, driving like the proverbial bats outa hell, I was forced to just go with the flow, as it were. As soon as I had a chance to stop and turn, I did so, only to take another wrong turn. Quite quickly, and without any warning, I found myself in the district of Ngara. Now, for those of you who know me reasonably well, you will know that I spent some time in Gugulethu, as well as Khayalitsha, in my not-too-distant past. For a white South African, staying in a ‘black’ township can be a bit unsettling at first, but fine, actually. But let me just say that those two SA townships are heaven in comparison to what I saw in Ngara. To give you some idea, Ngara is one of the townships in Nairobi where the UN does a lot of its work. The people are desperately poor and there is NO drainage or water facilities. That is, there is no running water in Ngara and there are no toilets. Need I say more? And the road I found myself on was near-impassable, being rutted and potholed to the extent of needing to drive slower than walking pace. A little apprehensive maybe, but I didn’t feel scared or threatened. I drove with the window open and was greeted quite frequently, even if a little quizzically, by local folk, with a smile, and a “Jambo mZungu” (get the similarity to our own mLungu). But, despite the pitiful state of our ‘informal’ townships – our shack settlements - we don’t know this level of destitution and desperation. But, again, the people seem happy as they can possibly be and there’s a helluva lot going on in the streets. One thing IS for sure, if I had a guide, this would be the place I would look to buy local goods – particularly kikois. And incidentally, the most popular fabric design – although not strictly a kikoi – features the face of the US President Elect, along with the legend Hongera (Congrats) Barack Obama. With a smile I noted that a few of these fabrics feature the additional legend, in smaller type, Product of Kenya. The Kenyans are very obviously, very proud that the most-powerful-man-in-the-world-to-be is a local boy!

After my little sojourn into Ngara, I eventually found my way onto Moi Avenue and then onto Haile Selassi Drive, starting up the Uhuru Highway that takes one out to Westlands, where I work and presently reside. In the same way that, as a kid on the Durban Beachfront, I used to love the Dodgem cars, hell, I just love driving here. It’s a hoot, if you’ll excuse the pun. Total free-for-all. As I have said before, it’s not for the faint hearted. But then I’ve never exactly been faint hearted myself. But beware, you DO need to drive well. It really is K-R-Azey. But fun. Anyway, there I was screaming up the Uhuru highway and suddenly before me there is this traffic hold-up ahead. From 100kph to 0 in a matter of 3 seconds, traffic converging like uncooked spaghetti going down the hole in the zinc. Screeeeeeech on all sides. Twenty five minutes later, as my ankle is starting to really cramp up from incessant working of the clutch, I arrive at a sign saying Road Works Ahead. Then, in a matter of a few seconds we’re all hell-bent on destruction again, heading up the steep, tropical tree-lined highway. But not before passing through the eye of a needle, in what would normally be the emergency lane (but which is treated like any other unmarked lane in Nairobi) as road workers desperately try and fill a pothole the size of a compact car (but only half as deep). But seriously, I have hit this pothole a few times already this weekend as Shamim and I got to see a bit of the city lights on Thursday and Friday night. At night, when there isn’t the usual traffic jam (or, as Shamim puts it, trufeek jum), you don’t see the hole until it’s too late. So too, for most of the huge potholes in the roads here. Normally, in daytime, you see the matatus’ brake lights (if they have any) to warn you of what they alone know lies ahead. Normally, (if you’re half-way concentrating, that is) you get to brake in time. When not, it seems that you’ve just dropped the entire suspension into the hole. But, again, I have to say, I love driving here. If only for the rush.

Note: A few things you need to know on the roads: If a matatu – or anyone else for that matter - flashes his lights at you, it usually means he’s going to turn directly in front of you. If there’s a hoot from behind it usually means another lane is going to be spontaneously created next to you (when there is clearly only space for one lane!). If a hand is raised in the sky, from a vehicle in a side road, it means “coming through, whatever happens”! Yeah, well, you get used to it quite quickly. You have to.

Another thing: the informal street vendors are very quick to pick up on a trufeek jum. Within minutes of a hold-up, whether by accident or intent, they’re out there with their goods – ranging from a bunch of bananas for 60Kshs (80c) to copies of the latest National Geographic (would you believe!) – at the normal list price of a few dollars.

Yesterday’s goings-on in Nairobi were illuminating, to say the very least. Yesterday (Friday 12th December) was a public holiday – Jamhuri Day – marking Kenya’s 45th year of independence from Colonial rule. A large rally was held in the local stadium (whose name I don’t know) where State President Kibaki held forth on the future of the country. Shamim was flicking through the DStv channels and suddenly stopped. I looked up from my struggles with my new company Blackberry phone (browser?) to see live coverage of the stadium, where five or six security policemen in suits, were battling to extract a man, also dressed in a suit and armed with a bundle of loose papers (with the uniformed policemen behind the securities armed with AK’s - at the ready). The guy they were extricating was shouting something that we couldn’t hear, while the security guys were trying to hustle him out. One of the securities was battling in vain to cover his mouth as he shouted. The camera switched to a picture of the President, wearing a faint, unamused smile, looking on. Then, as the camera tracked around the stadium it was an obvious sight of clear disillusionment and bitterness among the people. It became apparent after a very short while that this was no celebration of festivity and joyous freedom. These people were mainly attending to express their dissatisfaction at the state of the nation. The President started his speech with a question in Swahili (and translated by Shamim) to the effect of “What are we going to do?” Maybe he was referring to the guy being forcibly removed. I’m not sure. But quite quickly the camera focused on a member of the audience with a pink T-Shirt on, advertising a new cellphone tariff structure called Vuka! (Go!) and he was repeatedly flicking at the Vuka logo. Quite quickly, everyone around him started shouting the same… “Vuka…Vuka…Vuka…!” (By way of an aside, the Vuka cellphone tariff is 8 Kenyan Shillings – Kshs – per minute across all networks. Guys, that’s less than 1c a minute!). But back to politics…! The stadium scene presented clear echoes of a time back home where this type of demonstration would not have been out-of-place. And there are two features of the recent political landscape here that underline the bitterness we were seeing on the screen. First is the passage of a recent bill through parliament that allows the State to close any media operator, by decree, for not towing the accepted line. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? The second concerns a debate as to whether MP’s should pay tax or not. Obviously, the rank and file population want MP’s to pay tax. MP’s are refusing and are defying a judicial ruling in this regard….. And there are a few journalists languishing in jail this weekend (denied bail for the bail-able offence of Incitement to Public Disorder at the stadium).

The Po-Lease here, by the way, are very much apparatniks and are quite feared. It’s not uncommon to see reports in the press (a very good press, by the way) of suspected robbers being gunned down after having been followed for an hour or two (no actual evidence led!). Jane tells me that it’s often in dispute as to who the robbers actually are – the guys in uniform, or the other guys – and evidence is often planted after the event, so to speak. Don’t fuck widdem ‘cos the Po-Lease carry machine guns! But, don’t get me wrong, there is not a sense of living in a Po-Lease State.

As I’ve been writing this, I have, for some reason unknown even to myself, had the local Kenyan TV station showing on the box (maybe it’s been on this station since we watched the stadium mess yesterday). I obviously haven’t been actually watching but the sound has been quite easy on the ear, featuring music videos of the East African praise music. The last video – watched as I made a cup of coffee – was actually quite hilarious. As is usually the case, the videos feature a bunch of guys – and then, separately, girls – shot on low-band (probably VHS), dancing in someone’s garden, dressed in fancy suits that are probably worn in church, but, more probably, commissioned specifically for the video. This particular one featured this self-same dancing but then it suddenly stops as an intercut appears – from an old black-and-white bible film – showing Jesus being seriously hammered onto the cross. Then the music starts again – and I wish I could say, without missing a beat. But it’s at least a full bar gets lost in the intercut. How the standards of music videos can be said to differ between cultures and musical interests!

And also yesterday, just before seeing the Kibaki debacle on this same station, I watched a short doccie on the rehabilitation of orphaned gorilla babies in Rwanda (a sure sign, I’d say, that I must get to the chimp orphanage in Uganda and the gorilla orphanage in Rwanda when I get to the two countries in March). The doccie had some very graphic footage of what poachers get to do to the parent gorillas (a la Sigourney Weaver/Dianne Fossey’s "Gorillas in the Mist"). It is absolutely brutal and tragic what happens in the jungle but when I saw the babies in their rehabilitation camp, I laughed and cried at the same time. They are SO like human babies it is uncanny. Wearing Pampers in the smallest size, two of the baby gorillas were playing with each other on the arm of one of the camp ‘wardens’. They were pulling each other’s hair and then ducking behind the back of the keeper. Like human babies, as soon as the one was invisible to the other, it was as if he/she didn’t ever exist. Then suddenly they stopped playing the game, looked at each other, leant forward, touching their foreheads together and then, I swear, they kissed and smiled! Priceless charm. I have to get there and play with them a bit – and human contact early on is encouraged! Only later, when they are taught to beat their chests and have a shot at (usually male) dominance, do the keepers start to remove them from the human realm.

My younger son, Ben, asked me for an idea of what it looks like here ‘cos he couldn’t picture where I was… If you know the Natal midlands or areas like Kloof in Kwazulu, you’ll have a good idea. Thick vegetation is everywhere (there’s a forest just next door here), mainly of subtropical varieties. Around every second corner is some or other guy selling potted plants of every shape and size. The climate is such that one doesn’t have to water the plants much. Nairobi is in the ‘highlands’, meaning that you don’t get equatorial heat and humidity but get a morning dew, and a freshness from Mount Kenya, about 100kms away. The days are warm, not particularly hot, but the evenings get pretty cool. Main streets are tarred (with potholes that keep everyone veering from side to side!) but just as you get off the main road, there is often a dirt road of orange soil. Little roads wind up, down and around hillocks, lined by banana palms, ferns and papaya trees. It really is quite beautiful.

I’ve been seeing a lot of coverage on Al Jazeera of Zim, the cholera epidemic and the mounting calls for Mugabe to vuka. Morgan’s on the box now, hiding out in Botswana and obviously denying Mugabe’s claim that there is NO cholera in Zimbabwe. I’m grateful for the coverage here of the Southern African Scene. I’m loving it here, but let’s face it, home is always home and it’s good to be kept in touch (any other news to tell me, guys?)

The really bad news here is that human trafficking – for the sex trade – has been on the rapid increase in Mombasa and numerous girls have already disappeared from Nairobi over the last few weeks (and it happens all the time). As I told you all last time, I’m not being allowed to drive to Mombasa (by the boss, Jane). But I do plan to get there soon – by hook or crook, but probably by train - when the railway line re-opens (when, nobody knows). But from all accounts, with the city dating from no less than the 1100’s it’s got to be a great place to see.

One last bit of news. Shamim and I took the opportunity, amid the relative traffic-ease of the holiday, to have a look at a few of the suburbs nearby, to try find me a place to live. Just around the corner and up the hill is an area, high up, overlooking the city, that is absolutely stunning. Narrow dirt roads and jungle are everywhere, with old colonial houses tucked away behind old fences. The relative isolation of some of the houses necessitates full-time security (Nairobi is also known as Nai-robbery) but I am told, this security luxury comes at a very affordable price – about one US$ a day! I will call some of the agents on Monday to try find a place I can afford. And having driven around a lot over the last few days I realize I must go for an unfurnished place (furnished can cost more than US$1000 a month!). Unfurnished, because there are so many carpenters working on the side of the road, selling beds for $20 or less, and cupboards for much the same (noting that there’s also no shortage of wood around the local jungles). Of course, these guys also make chairs, tables, and pretty much whatever else you might need to furnish a house….

So, that’s all for now.

In the meantime guys, Peace and Love (Amani na Mapenzi) from the land of the incessant trufeek jum!

(Just went to the local (24 Hr!) Nakumatt supermarket to buy some cheap smokes (yes, I’m still smoking – but not at work in the day!). The local hip-hop/R&B station – Kiss FM - was still on the radio. This, after Shamim tuned off the reggae station this morning (she’s strictly a Beyonce type gal). Kiss were playing a set of Swahili hip-hop. The language is so damn poetic it just WORKS for hip hop and rap. I stopped to write the words of the chorus down (for one very well produced song) that sound something like this (with all due apologies to Swahili speaking people, wherever they may be):

Kasawa sasa sena
Mzuri mapenga sana

Fuck it, I don’t know what it means (yet) - and my translator is spending the day studying for a supp of an exam she flunked - but isn’t it just bootiful?)

Once again, peace and love brothers and sisters!

PS, one for the guys: The women here generally have absolutely GREAT legs, and they know it. Need I say any more about the fashions that follow this knowledge of theirs? Guess not. (and may the foot-fetishists know that the pedicure business does well here too – as does the nail varnish business and the Italian high-heeled stiletto business!)The hairstyles are, of course, quite sophisticated too. When I commented to Shamim on one set of extensions she disdainfully told me that they were “not extensions but pretensions”. Anyway, I at least thought the big hair looked pretty cool…. And I told her that jealousy is unbecoming for a lady of her class… Reply: “Hmmmph”

Later!

B