Ima Put It Down

Ludacris's sideburns (online image)

In the car again. Traffic was horrendous. Backed up for ages. I was pretty sure my co-worker Stephen was talking to me, but it was an uphill battle just to keep my eyelids peeled a crack and I was steady losing; jetlag was no joke. This did not seem to bother him. When I finally came to (no clue where the conversation had gone or hadn’t), we were a good ways from the city, groups of goats being herded across the street and fruit and vegetable stands popping up left and right. Clouds of dust and exhaust fumes created giant puffs of colored smoke as bus after bus passed by. At first I thought I was going crazy when I spotted Ludacris’s head on a roadside sign. But, nope. There was Chris Brown. I’m pretty sure that was Bow Wow. And I’m positive that was Alicia Keys. It seemed that though it perplexed some of my colleagues and countless others upon learning that no, I was not in fact Kenyan, and yes, there were plenty of Black Americans who looked a lot like me, or them, or us, it was nevertheless perfectly acceptable that major music icons in America were Black. Nevermind that there were maaaaaaybe a handful of Black people around in the States to listen to their music :P I made a mental note to keep learning Swahili and how to say, Black Americans exist who don't make music or become presidents, and contented myself with giggling and trying to get a good shot whenever a sign advertised stenciled sideburns like Luda’s. (I might have also imagined hearing “Luuda!” every time a man left the barber with that cut.)

Kinyozi (online image)

Ugali with chicken (online image)

For lunch, we grabbed plates of ugali (bland cornmeal rolled into balls between the thumb and forefingers) and chicken kebab (not to be confused with meat chunks on a stick, but rather ground meat rolled into a potato-consistency roll) and continued out into the villages about 45 minutes outside of Thika town. We carried myself and Stephen and one of our product representatives in tow. As the car dove off-road and up into farmland, rows and rows of sprouting greenery sprang up out of the earth. Our rep explained that these were pineapple farms owned by Del Monte and had I ever heard of Del Monte? I thought back to slurping the sugary pineapple juice from the bottom of fruit cups as a kid and assured her I had. Our driver, Joseph (what is with all the J names, really??) pointed beneath the plants to plastic pipes that steadily pumped water up and down the rows. That explained why they were so much more lush and verdant than pretty much everything else we saw. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had gone into designing and laying those pipes, he told us. How much do the farmers make? I asked. He just shook his head and smiled.

Demonstration

The small village was modest- a few low-sitting homes, some with plastic roofs, metal roofs, wooden roofs. A lucky few made of brick or mortar and cement. But the turnout was overwhelmingly warm, a nicely patterned clean tablecloth stretched over a wooden table, wooden benches for the community members, and sturdy plastic chairs for the guests, all beneath a green gazebo, vines intertwining above our heads. A jug of water and three glasses were placed out for each of us as the demonstration began. I stood and introduced myself, slowly in English. Our rep repeated in the local tongue (a dialect of Swahili), pausing for effect at the wide eyes when she mentioned I was American and spoke no Swahili. Everyone nodded as she asked if they knew about solar energy. Smiled as she brought forth the products, and clucked their tongues as she pointed out the immense monthly and annual savings over kerosene and the shocking fact that nearly a quarter of their income annually was literally going up in smoke. Just as she erected the little demo dark box to show proof of how the models worked, an all too familiar sound started, crescendoing after a moment. For a second, I grabbed my pocket thinking I had left that abysmal ringer on when I realized it wasn’t coming from me.

Women investigate the solar simulation dark box

Grimacing, embarrassed, Stephen tried to silence the device in his pockets, then in his hands, fruitlessly as he had borrowed the driver’s phone to take pictures of the demonstration and didn't know how to properly work it. Brandy and Chris Brown's voices echoed through the gazebo and beyond. Baby if you put it down, right like the way I want it, maybe we can fall in love. Over and over and over again. I grabbed the phone and started jamming the keys, trying to unlock it and silence the stupid thing. Baby if you put it put it, maybe we can fall in love. Ima put it down, you can  fall in love. Ima put it down down, you can fall in love. Eventually whoever it was gave up ringing and we shoved the thing deep into his backpack. Before long, we wrapped up, promising to return with several models and continued on to the next. 

Way to make an impression ;)

Mai Chai Mzungu

I stared at the phone screen. No reply to my SMS. Sighing, I leaned back against the white-washed corrugated metal door of the youth center. I was standing on a dusty corner, partially down an alley that led to the field site I was visiting for the day. John and the taxi were long gone, the trail of dust no longer visible where the tires had screeched away. I squinted a little at an armed guard pacing in the not distant-enough distance. Nervous, I glanced at my watch. 9:13am. I fidgeted, rang the number again, fingers crossed this time. It just rang. John T., co-worker and day’s guide, was running late. Finally, he picked up. Any minute now he assured me. Ten at most. Where are you standing? Nowhere special, I shrugged to myself. Just on a random dusty corner next to Nairobi’s second largest slum. Great. Perfect. Exactly where I meant to be.

After a few tense moments (pretty sure I was still breathing, not certain, but pretty sure), I got a brilliant idea. Like something out of a bad spy movie, I shrank to the ground in a deep squat, hidden just beyond a staircase. (If I can’t see anyone, then no one can see me…right? Right?) I slipped my notebook from my back pocket and pretended to busy myself as the beads of sweat started to collect on my brow. Several young boys passed by laughing and jabbing one another in the ribs. Startled, I lost my balance and fell over (still not sure how, but I did.) I righted myself, praising British Airways for losing my luggage and leaving me in three day-old now-dusty clothes I wasn’t too positive didn’t reek. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the guard’s shadow moving towards me along the wall. I crouched lower as he spoke to me in rapid Swahili. After a moment, he paused and repeated himself in English. I sighed. Disguise fail.  

As I stood up, he beckoned me to follow, saying he knew where the youth center's office was and this was nowhere for a lady to be standing alone. The phone rang again. Two minutes, John swore. He was nearly there. Two minutes and not a second more. I smiled at the guard and backed away as a group of schoolgirls passed. Sawa, sawa (okay, okay), he laughed, shaking his head and retreating. A cloud of dust erupted as the car pulled up and John T. hopped out. He looked around for a few moments, confused, and stopped not far away, staring at me. You’re not a mzungu? I paused for a second, searching for the word. No, no I’m not a white person. We both laughed. Well, you had me worried, he added as we headed inside.

Kibera slums (online image)

The rest of the day went by in a blur. John showed me around the youth center and took me to a partner organization where we wandered about, meeting and greeting with staff and a few beneficiaries of their joint program. Shortly after midday, we locked our things in his car and ventured into Muthare slum, second only to the far too well-known Kibera slum. Low squat structures, most with corrugated sheet metal roofs and patched walls lined up one after the other in ziz-zagging rows that stretched on for miles. There was a small place labeled kinyozi (barber) in one spot next to an even smaller place with chicken necks on a wooden slab out front. A vendor's blanket was stretched out with shoes stacked neatly in lines and hats and jackets in a mound beside them. Men, women, and children sat on makeshift stoops watching as others passed by carrying bundles, bags, stacks of wood, piles of scrap metal, rubber, you name it. We danced around piles of trash and odds and ends as children in rubber soled shoes and cloth slippers skipped past. No one watched as we passed. No one stirred or looked after us. 

As we walked, I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket about a split second before the ringer sounded. John T. threw me a warning glance and I silenced it through my jacket pocket, careful not to look around. No phones he had said. No jewelry. No watches. Nothing. And no talking at least not with that accent he'd added with a wink. We came to a clearing where a group of people stood, fanned out and silent with a teenage girl slowly gathering her things from the ground and crying soundlessly. Some shook their heads in silent disapproval, but no one spoke. All eyes were trained on the girl except ours as we continued on. Rattled, I tried not to look back as John T. pressed on. We can’t meddle. Even if it looks bad. You don’t want anyone to know you’re an outsider. I waited until we had climbed the large hill that led back to the main road out of Muthare. Do people actually think I’m Kenyan? I asked, incredulously. Of course. You look just like us and you’re definitely no mzungu, except when you talk, he laughed. I stopped for a second and looked around. He was right. It was the first time I could remember being overseas and not being the odd woman out. Everywhere else it was always so obvious I didn’t belong. In a way, this was comforting. As we crossed the street, I made a mental note to start devouring the Swahili books tucked away in my bags somewhere.

Muthare Slums (online image)

Later, as we drove past, I couldn’t help but stare at the squat structures flying by with their sheet metal roofs glinting in the fading evening sun. I’d been a lot of places, but this was not quite like what I’d seen before. John pointed. Those homes? In the slums? They cost about $10 per month. These houses? He lifted a finger to a row of slightly shabby, but sturdier two story brick homes on the opposite side of the street. $100 per month. It’s no wonder people don’t leave the slums.

*Mai chai (Thai meaning not, negation) Mzungu (Swahili meaning white person, white foreigner)

Service You Can Trust

Downtown Nairobi (online image)

At 7:30 my alarm went off, a grating, blaring wail to the tune of something islandy and thoroughly annoying. With a mental note to chuck the phone or change the ringer later, I squinted to get a better look at my wristwatch. It was 12:30 at home and just about the time to be climbing in rather than out of bed. I reached to press snooze or reset the wake up, thought better of hearing the wail again, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. After a five second pep talk in which I promised myself two episodes of Scandal (a recent addiction) and a stowed away Snickers bar later, I coaxed myself out of the bed, through the morning routine and out the door.

Barclays (online image)

First stop, John took me to Barclays bank to extract the funny-colored currency he would accept as payment (no fees at Barclays in any country with Bank of America accounts!). I hopped out and jogged up to the booth. The guard and a young woman stood chatting. They watched me walk in, attempt to insert my card to no avail, and return. No money they said, almost in unison. No money? How does a bank have no money? I got back in the car and John confirmed, Ah yes. No money. We will try another. The second bank had cash alright. It also had two very heavily armed guards and a security booth at the entrance to the car park which gave out a small chit for ticketed payment upon return. The guards smiled as I approached, semi-automatic (or maybe automatic?) rifles resting on their laps, one hand on the handle. Between the bars, gates, and armed guards, it was no wonder the city had acquired the moniker "Nairobbery." :)

Matatu (online image)

Painting matatu like Lil Wayne (online image)

I asked John how often banks were robbed. That's what the guards are for to protect from, he replied matter-of-factly. We continued on to the office, the address told to me as "off such and such road," (no street number or physical address) a few meters down from the police station but before the main junction. Fortunately, John drove it nearly every day and knew exactly where to go. I tried not to wince as the car wove narrowly in and out of the stream of traffic, within inches of passing vehicles and people crossing at random. Matatus (minibuses) squeezed by with colorful painted phrases like “God is Good,” “Kanye West,” and my personal favorite “Service You Can Trust” from the minibus that slammed on brakes and horn as it barely missed knocking a passel of students to kingdom come. I summoned all my memories of flying down the highway in grand taxis in Morocco, weaving in and out of pedestrians in Vietnam, and zipping through densely-packed traffic on motos in Indonesia; nothing to it, right? When we arrived without losing a single side mirror or striking a pedestrian, I was impressed to say the least! :D

These Four Walls

Gated community (online image)

Clang. Snap. Bang. Click. I listened again. Clang. Snap. Bang. Click. Those were some of the first sounds I heard as we exited Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya. They echoed in chorus throughout the dark city as we made our way across snaking lanes of traffic and ill-lit highway overpasses, bumping down dusty alleys and back streets. Clang. Snap. Bang. Click. Clang as the metal gates flew open. Snap as guards clicked heels on pavement, investigating newcomers and casual passersby. Bang as doors slid shut after passing. Click on the padlocks, cog wheels tightening. From what I could tell in those first few hours and even subsequently, Nairobi was a fortress. Every house, business, and shopping center on lock down- bars on windows, gates at doors. Like marshal order, but self-imposed and justifiably so with break-ins and petty theft all too common in the absence of such precautions.

The Everywhere Security Guard (online image)

We bounced our way down a pitch black side street, emerging just before the entrance to the villa. Barbed wire fences coiled atop rigid iron bars, a shiny dark paint finish washed over it all. The guard nodded, smiled at the taxi driver he knew well and slid back the gate with a forcible metallic swoosh. I must have stared slack-jawed long enough before the driver, John, chuckled aloud. The imposing iron fortress belied a near tropical interior with giant jacaranda trees dipping low branches over tiled roofs and fragrant flowers stretching eagerly through the gates that encircled each villa. Villa was exactly the right word for the picturesque white and wood homes, almost gleaming even in the darkness. 

Kenyan Villa (online image)

House sitting? This was where I was house sitting? John passed me a heavy set of keys and walked me through the entrance and exiting process. A driveway gate with deadbolt latch. Front door gate with a long silver key that looked more like it belonged in Gulliver’s Travels than in my upturned palm. A near identical one for the actual front door. A second set for the entrance to the living quarters and another for my room itself. Would I be okay for the night? Did I feel safe? he asked. My eyes still soaking in what they could in the lighted corridor,—cool tiled floors, gorgeous wood stairs, plush sofas, and a six-windowed kitchen—I grinned and nodded yes. Welcome to Nairobi.  

From Noodles to Plantains...

Karibu!

Plantains (online image)

Many of you have known this blog as "Fried Chicken and Noodles" from my two year sojourn through Southeast Asia. As I turn now to a summer in East Africa, I open a new chapter- "Fried Chicken and Plantains." Over the next few months as I move through and between Tanzania and Kenya, I hope to impart first impressions, lasting memories, and personal reflection on my fledgling venture into East African development working for an international social enterprise literally spreading light (through solar energy) around the globe. As always, feel free (and please do!), comment, ask questions, tell me what you like and don’t like, and perhaps most of all- enjoy the pictures! 

Ndizi ya na nyama

I’ll do my best to entertain ;)

Asante sana. Thank you for perusing my thoughts…