What do you want to be when you grow up, little boy?

I did some laundry, washed the floor, answered some mail and listened to some music. I didn’t go to the school today. I met with Mwololo and we discussed the cost and dimensions of a closet for the classrooms to store the supplies sent by IHM. A “fundy” or day laborer will build it for about 10,000 shillings ($125) It costs more since there is no soft wood in the town and will have to be made using better grade lumber. I feel like I am spending a lot of money these days and the funds are low. But the money does no one any good sitting in a bank. More will come, I pray. Tomorrow I head to Nairobi for school supplies and to pick up MS OFFICE from a friend. Mwololo’s computer got a nasty virus. All the letters of every page of anything are strange symbols or wingdings. I had to reinstall Windows and we lost OFFICE. So anyway, today I had some time to think. It also rained hard, which helps me think and adds to my melancholy. It always comes down to my thinking about what I am learning. As these three quick months have now passed, what has God been trying to teach me? There have been times when things were more obvious. I am still convinced that God realizes I am not that smart and things need to be made simple for me to “get”. I find consolation in Jesus’ choices of apostles, not the “sharpest tools in the shed” I am guessing, The disciples would get His point and then loose it, see what Jesus was doing and teaching and then ask questions that proved they missed the point. I can be like that. So what did I learn? One thing I learned is that there are degrees of poverty. When you feel you’ve met some truly poor people, there are those who are poorer. I thought initially that the children with AIDS in the Children’s Home in Karen were the poorest of the poor, Then I went to the Village in Kitui and thought these children who were brought from nothing were worse off. I spent time in Kibera and saw the mud and muck and wondered how people could live like this. Then I met the Masai in Athi, with their houses made of cow dung, their hygiene deplorable and water undrinkable, Then I traveled to the north – to Turkana, where people are naked and starving silently and no one knows or seems to cares. There are places I have never seen in Kenya, places in other countries like Sudan and Somalia where there is no doubt more sickness, and more violence and paralizing fear. I know these places are there. In Africa I have been able to go deeper and deeper into the pain of the world. But even in these places of pain and fear, there is somehow life and there is love. I have gotten accustomed to not having the THINGS, those nice things that make life easier. But with or without them, life is about more than the stuff. Like we already knew, life is about the relationships. Life is about Mary and Naomi, Rachel, Benerd, Daniel, Chris and Fred, Jonah, Benson, Diane and Gladys, Judy and Zach and Lomori, Joseph 1,2 and 3. It is about Erin, Mickie, Spence, my mom, Mwololo, George, Paul and Pascal, Moses, Moris, Eunice, Mwendwa, Pastor, Kathy, Karen and John and Ngumbu. It is about all the people I know and love and have let just pass by. That is what I learned and what I know and what I live on each day. These relationships are important - like food. I need them to survive and without them, I am not alive. Without them I am not human. I took/take them for granted. If you do also – stop it. And so I come to the end of another segment of my African adventure. There is sadness in leaving these people again, but yet a sense that I will return and that these relationships, that have been such a gift to me, will live on and on. My family increases, not bound by age, language, nationalities or class. They are a part of me now and when they are in pain, I am in pain. Maybe it is called the Body of Christ.

I have learned more about death. There seemed more deaths this year – at home and around me in Kenya. It happens and will happen to me – sooner than later. I better be about living these days and let go of anything that sucks the life from me.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, little boy?”

“Alive.”

8 Days and Counting Sadly

With so few days left in Kenya, I am trying to get things settled and taken care of before I go. We hired another teacher to act as model for the two already in the ECDE Centre. I am trying to leave their pay along with money for other upcoming expenses with Mwololo. I want to avoid wiring the money later from the states. On Saturday night, Fred and I walked to the manyatta, about an hour or so on foot if you go off the dirt road and use short cuts. We spent time surveying the cattle, goats and sheep. We took some good video I hope and got Fred on tape talking about the July trip the men take. We also visited the hole where the women and children dig for drinking water although it is muddy and salty. I felt more at home this time in the manyatta. The women and children knew me but this visit, the men had seen me and talked with me me at the funeral and they were more talkative this trip – welcoming me to their houses. They invited me to the July meat-a-thon. I was also able to talk to the father of the child burned by hot milk and visit a newborn baby, recently born in the manyatta, Sadly, another mother miscarried two days ago, probably from poor nutrition and lack of prenatal care. This happens often and the baby is buried in the center of the cattle pen – a Masai tradition, although no one can tell me the reasoning. On this particular night, Fred’s father was visiting at Fred’s mother’s house (one of the three or four wives) and therefore Fred (and I) cannot stay at his house. We “slept” at the home of someone I never met but the house was identical to Fred’s. They are all the same. Inside the house, the woman living here built a large fire for milk and evening porridge. Within the hour my head was throbbing from the smoke and the headache lasted through the next day. Not much sleep. The mosquitoes were worse than last time, although we put up a net over the “bed” and the hyenas were louder and closer than before. At about 5:30 a.m. as the woman began stoking the fire for morning tea, I went outside with a blanket on and sat, like an old man, against the house and breathed freely as the sun rose. I had planned to stay for church but Fred and I decided to call a motorbike for me and I headed home to sleep. Fred is a good guy – and we joke that he may be married off by the time I get back to Kenya – if his father’s arrangements work out! The rest of Sunday I slept and ate little, since there was little in the house – some oatmeal and some tomatoes. I also washed my masai blanket, mosquito net and backpack since they all smelled so strongly of smoke.

Today, Monday I finished my laundry and met with Mwololo and Pastor. We took a trip into Athi River to buy some food and some supplies for the classrooms – chalk, a clock and a bell! The rest of the time I tried to organize my pictures on the laptop and backup my videos on DVDs. I also began organizing my things to go home. Many of my shoes and clothes I have already given away so my load should be lighter going home. My returning to this particular house (room) is not clear so I will need to leave only the most important and heaviest items: bed, coffee table, shelf and gas cylinder. I’ll also leave some pots and pans and other cooking supplies in hopes of using them again when I return.

Death and Life

Tuesday May 19, 2009

As I might have mentioned earlier, the Pastor (a Masai preacher who lives in the manyatta close to me) has become a good friend. Although his English is worse than most, we have been able to communicate fairly well. He is a “pastor” and holds church services each Sunday, but he is also a boda boda, a motorbike taxi driver. I call him quite often for a ride here or there. Pastor’s father was killed recently. 88 years old, he was struck by a car on Thicka Road while moving his cattle across. He was taken to Kenyatta Hospital (hell hole) and died some days later. One of the interesting realities here in Kenya is that the hospital will not release the dead body until the bill is paid. This goes for the mortuary fees as well. For some, this means the body is never released. For Pastor, they collected money from friends and relatives for 11 days before the funeral. The bill was 80,000ksh or about $1,000. Then the body could be picked up (by pick up truck) from the mortuary located conveniently next to the hospital. So on Tuesday I was invited to attend the funeral in the rural home of pastor’s father. At about 10 a.m. a pickup truck came to the nearby manyatta. I joined 21 other Masai in the back of the truck and we started the long journey to Kiserian and beyond. The women sang and chanted along the way. The men talked endlessly to me about life, the states and explaining what Masai do. Some were relatives of Fred. They all took good care of me. I was warned not to drink any water and not to eat the food which will always be served at funerals. When we reached Kiserian town, the truck with the body of Pastor’s father was waiting on the side of the road. We joined a small convoy and traveled deeper into Ngong Hills, a beautiful area of Kenya known for wild animals in the high hills – lions, leopards, cheetah and big elephants. We passed only zebra and assorted antelope. Once at the home of Pastor’s family, the coffin was taken to the elders, the top opened and each son from the oldest to the youngest was given the difficult task of rubbing milk and oil into the body. I’ll spare you the details. Then the 8 sons carried the coffin to the top of a hill where the service began. Preaching, singing and the reading of a eulogy. As was read to us in Kimaasai, pastor’s father was born in 1920, circumcised in 1945. (Interesting that fact is included in the eulogy). He married the first wife in 1954, the second wife in 1966 and the third in 1977. His youngest child looked to be around three years old! After the formal funeral rites and the body being lowered into the ground, Fred and I sat on a beautiful hillside eating cookies and water I had brought. The food was cooked and served. Men served men. Women served women. Meat, chapatti, potatoes and rice. I ate chapatti. We then crammed back into the back of the truck and headed to Nairobi, via Kiserian town. But, as often happens, we had a puncture. The tire was changed and we repaired it in Kiserian. The ride was long, dusty and cold. We huddled together in the back of the truck, wearing the colorful clothes around our heads to keep warm and avoid the dust. Fred was to be dropped off where he stay when attending school near Nairobi but because it was dark and too dangerous to be out alone, he spent the night at my place and headed to school early the next morning. Come to find out, there was another stabbing that night – a student was stabbed, robbed of 20,000ksh school fees and sent to Kenyatta Hospital (hell hole). The trip with the crew to the funeral was good in a number of ways. I learned so much about the culture, gender issues, funeral rites but I also made an impact on the males of the manyatta. It was the most time I have been able to spend with the adult males, who are usually looking after the herds. I think they are more comfortable with me around the manyatta and I feel closer to them all after spending a long day and evening with them.

The next morning Fred headed for school and I headed to the Village in Kitui to meet little Benerd, my friend who was to be operated on at Kitui Hospital. He has had a growth of some sort behind his ear and finally there was enough concern to have it removed. I went to the hospital and waited. Eventually Ben called a few times but the last call was saying that he was not coming and the surgery was delayed. He wanted me to come to the village where he had cleaned and prepared his room for me to spend the night. I did. It worked out fine. Although Ben’s surgery was postponed, I was able to tell him goodbye and spend some quality time with him and his grandmother and extended family.

On Thursday morning I took a motorbike to the main road and headed for Kitengela to see my friend George and his cousin Paul. I have not been able to spend as much time with George as I had hoped this trip so we shared a couple beers and some food and were able to say goodbye. I’ll call him later from the airport on June 2nd. George is always my last call when heading back to states.

On Friday we met with the teachers at the ECDE (preschool) and discussed a new HIV/AIDS curriculum. Mwololo developed it and it is basically good moral values that should be modeled and taught to the kids. In turn, this is a beginning step to understanding and combating HIV and AIDS. For example, one of the values and related activities is “patience”. Standing in line for porridge and to use the latrine shows patience and is a trait that will be needed in the future to postpone sexual activity. We start learning patience at a young age. There are other values to be taught, twenty of them so far. Each one, in the long term will help with AIDS related issues. Respect, love, discipline etc. all will pay off in the future.

Fred came home from school and spent the night at my place again. He is majoring in social work. Tonight I am planning on sleeping in the manyatta and saying my goodbyes to the Masai who I will miss while I am in the states. We talked last night about going out with the men in July. I’ll miss this big Masai event but it goes like this. 11 men go into the bush country where there are lions, cheetah and leopards. They will spend one month there doing nothing but eating meat. They will eat 11 animals, a mix of goats and cows. They will get very big. July is a cold month and they need the weight to stay warm and it will take the next 11 months to loose it as they begin the hard life again. July is a month of rest for the Masai men. It is not so much of a rest for the women. The men move out to the bush so as not to have to share the meet with the women or their children. There are parts of the cow designated to feed women, parts for children, parts for girls. It they go out into the bush country, they need not share it. Strange eh? Anyway, Fred was hoping I could go out with them for a while but the timing is wrong.

There have been a series of deaths and injuries lately. In Kajaido, the rural home of these Masai, a young boy was killed with a javelin while preparing for some games. A fourteen year old threw it and it pierced another young man killing him. Another young girl from our ECDE Center is in the hospital after being burned by boiled milk. There is death and hardship everywhere. It is a part of life here.

Kibera After Turkana

You would think that all poverty is one. Poverty is poverty but there is a difference, at least emotionally. The week in the dry lands of Turkana vs. the cold, wet, muddy urban poverty of Kibera – I am not sure if one is worse than the other – but they are not the same. Ben stays in Kibera. All in all, the place isn’t that bad or not as bad as other parts of Kibera. We got off the bus at Olympic, the center/business area of Kibera with its little kiosks, blaring stereos and wet sewage smells. We walked through the muddy streets passed multitudes of people coming home from work or somewhere. We head done the street to the place where Ben stays. We have to climb down a muddy, broken up ladder to a group of houses and a latrine. There are metal roofs everywhere and houses made of beat up metal drums. The train tracks are about 50 yards from the place. We will hear the trains later in the night. We enter the house, arrange our gear and get undressed to wade outside through the mud to a pit latrine/shower. Ben heated some water for us with an electric coil. The rain makes everything worse, instead of making everything fresh. We “bucket shower” in the darkness, laugh hysterically and head back into the rain to the house and off to bed. Don’t drink the water. There is no food. The rain pounds the tin roof. I feel like I am in a camp or fort I built as a boy. The train wakes me throughout the night, shaking everything. It sounds like it is coming through the door. In the morning I clean up inside the house using a bucket, not wanting to call attention to my white self. Last night I had the cover of darkness but not in the morning. We get cleaned up, pack up and head for Karen and the Children’s Orphanage of Nyumbani. We are packing up some sale items to send home. The profit will help both the slum program of Nyumbani and our Masai Project in Athi. The box we are sending weights 23KGs and will cost about $170 to send home by regular mail. After packing the box and dropping it at the Post Office in Karen (They made me put the 13,640ksh worth of stamps on the box. The stamps covered the whole side.) we traveled with Pascal to Kenyatta Hospital and then on to town for some food. We say goodbye to Pascal and head by Matatu back to Athi River. Ben will spend the weekend with me, glad to be away from Kibera, glad to be home from Turkana. It was a good trip.

Turkana Trip - In Reverse

Turkana Part 4

We walked through Lodwar town, looking for the bus station to book for the long ride to Nairobi the next day. We looked for the Guest House that had been recommended. We looked for food. But we also stopped by a bank where one of Benson’s old friends worked. We greeted him and agreed he would stop by the lodge after work. We then walked to the Bus Station, bought two tickets for the next day and headed for the lodge. It was a nice place, owned by Ethiopians. We got one room for 1300 ksh. That’s about $16.00 which was splurging for us but it was to include breakfast. (Later we found out it included breakfast for only one of us!) But the room had a shower, toilet and a ceiling fan. I bargained with the manager to allow us to stay in the room the next day until 4pm. Our bus was to leave around 7pm (TIA 8pm) and we would have had to find a place to stay/sit with our bags if we couldn't’t stay in our room. It cost us an additional 500 shillings but worth it. We met Ben’s friend for dinner. We had asked the cook to buy chicken and chips for us to eat. You order food and they go and buy and cook. It was a nice visit. The local vendors of Turkana memorabilia also visited us. It was annoying but interesting that this little town was trying to promote Turkana traditions and items. I bought a wooden pot covered with goatskin and I was given as a gift, a large chin “plug” used to adorn Turkana women’s mouths. We slept well under the ceiling fan and net. We slept in late, got our one free breakfast and went back to sleep. Ben prays periodically throughout the day. He just takes ten-twenty minutes of silent time three or four times throughout the day and evening. I ended up doing the same. I asked him what he prays for and how he prays. He says he mainly recounts the day, what he is grateful for and how he could have been more compassionate and kind. He also says some rote prayers at times, makes some up. At night as we lay in bed, he prays out loud, grateful for the day.

Our bus arrived late and we began the long journey home around 8:30pm. It was a slow but non-eventful journey home. I dozed sometimes, although it is difficult to get comfortable. We traveled with Somalis who had unbelievable loud voices. Their conversations sounded as if they were shouting. At times we were stopped for hours at a time for road construction (use term loosely) We arrived in Nairobi at around 4:00pm the next day. We looked for a bank for cash and for some food. We went to my favorite African-style restaurant, Ronalos. You order things like fried meat, ugali, chapatti etc. All eaten without utensils. After eating we looked for a bus to Kibera, the slum where I would spend the night with Benson. There was a transportation problem. There were no buses to Kibera coming so we headed toward Yaya and took a matatu to the slum. It had been dark for an hour or so – not a good thing for this white guy. It was also raining and muddy, making Kibera even worse.

Turkana Part 3

The next morning we inquired about a ride back to Lodwar. Our hope was to go to Lodwar, catch a matatu to Kalokol a town on Lake Turkana. After some discussion and bargaining we found a ride to Lodwar in an old matatu. We left town about 10:30 a.m. arriving in Lodwar by 1:00 p.m. From Lodwar we did some asking around and found a ride on a jammed matatu and headed for Kalokol. It was a long journey. We found a place in Lodwar serving chips (fries) and soda. We have been eating very little or eating junk for days now. At Kalokol we found a little Guesthouse and rested, talking to the manager. The costs of these places vary but average around 600-700ksh per night for one room for Ben and me. That is about $7.50 per night. The proprietor discouraged us from eating in town. The town had no electricity and therefore clean storage of food was a problem. Instead, he offered to cook for us if we paid for the food. We gave him some money and he prepared green grams (lentils), rice and beans. It was very good and there was plenty. He also purchased 4 liters of clean drinking water for me. We walked around the town and then settled in for the night. The next morning we were to make the long walk to Lake Turkana – about 6 km from the town. So we walked and walked, finally meeting an old man who walked with us giving us the lowdown on the local scams. The lake was unimpressive but we passed some interesting Turkana villages. Passing one homestead, similar to Ben’s home, we saw a frail old woman seated on the ground, facing the door to a tiny hut. Ben’s face fell. He said she was seated there waiting to die. She was starving, unable to eat or unable to find food. There was nothing the family could do. It reminded him of his own grandmother’s agonizing death. She knew she was dying. The family knew she was dying. There was nothing to be done but to wait. After death, the body is simply placed in a hole in the ground by the hut. Nothing more. Turkana fear death and dead bodies. This is what was done with the child who died next door to Ben’s moms hut. Anyway, back to the old woman. Ben took some little money and went to the hut of the old woman’s family. He gave her some money for the old woman, who he discovered was blind. We walked away and for some distance in silence.

We continued to the lake, which was unimpressive, but for the fact that it was water in a barren land. In the states we are used to beautiful, picturesque lakes for recreation and sport. This place was for fishing and was dying, receding at a fast rate due to drought. The old man took us back to town by a shorter route, through small village after village. Once back in town we got a soda with some locals and booked a matatu to Lodwar. It was to pick us at the Guesthouse. Three hours later, it came, jammed with people. You open the sliding door and look in, doubting if another body can be jammed into the van. But, as they say, “A matatu is never full.” So we jammed in, not to be the last ones entering though.. We picked up others. At one point we picked up a high school boy who flagged us down. There was really no more room and he climbed on the roof. After ten minutes we pulled into a secondary school, picked up a mattress and a metal box filled with his belongings. All were loaded onto the roof, with the boy. We took off down this horrible road at speeds that scared me. At one point, we were passed by a group of soldiers in a truck. They made us stop, told the boy to get inside the matatu. He climbed in the back window (which was missing the glass.)

After about an hour of traveling we came near the town of Lodwar. We had watched dark clouds and lightning in the distant hills but had not gotten any rain ourselves. We came upon a small cement section/bridge of road that crossed the Turkwel River. It was flooded and water was waste deep as people struggled to get across on foot. The water was powerful and I prayed the matatu would not try to drive across. I had watched those videos of cars and people being swept away in rushing currents because they did not know the depth or did not have respect for the power of the water. The matatu would not cross – thank God. But we were stuck. If we did not cross into Lodwar, we would have to sleep on the ground along the river. Groups of people banded together and walked across through the rushing water. A pregnant woman needing to get to the hospital was escorted through the water by a group of teenage men. One young girl, a small infant strapped to her back and another 3 or 4-year-old boy in hand tried to make it across. I couldn’t watch. Their footing was weak. Thankfully a young man came from the other side of the river, hoisted the young boy on his shoulders and led the young girl and baby to safety. But we were still stuck. Benson fears the water and cannot swim. He won’t walk across. Finally the truck filled with soldiers we had come across earlier, decided to actually do something and were going to try to drive across the flooded river. As they began to move, we ran to them and asked to jump in the back. They motioned to move quickly and we jumped in the back and sat on their automatic rifles and pop bottles. I pulled out the video camera to capture whatever was to come. We entered the water at full speed and you could feel the water pull the truck from right to left. A man on the other side was motioning the driver to steer towards the right. We made it across to the cheers of the crown and to our relief. I didn’t like these soldiers. They sat while the pregnant woman crossed. They sat while the young girls and babies crossed. But I liked them a little more when we were traveling across the river with them and even more when they did not ask for some “appreciation” when we were safely on the other side.

Turkana Part 2

From the village of Benson’s mom we headed to the sites of a number of refugee camps. These sites, monitored and assisted by many NGOs and the United Nations High Commission on Refugees, were homes to Sudanese, Somali, Ethiopian and Congolese refugees. They have been here for many years and I am told the inhabitants numbered around 95,000 people. The site was slum like, not the rows of white tents I had imagined. Ben took me past a very wide dry river, where Turkana women were digging in the sand to find water. In some places, young boys were skinny-dipping in the 2 x 2 hole they had dug. Some animals were drinking from the holes and you could also see men using some of the holes as a latrine. We climbed to the top of a high hill that overlooked the refugee camps. Even some of the various nations were subdivided because of tribal differences. We walked through the narrow streets but I got really dehydrated and we headed back to town, quite a distance.

We met various acquaintances of Ben, one a young boy who called Ben days earlier. He had been sent home from school because he did not have shoes. He had called to see if Ben could give him his black school shoes. His name, which I forget, means “wind.” We gave him 1000 shillings, $12.00 and he was off to buy shoes for school – so happy. He also used the cold shower outside the guesthouse, a luxury.

The night was uneventful but hot. We slept under a net, a little hungry since food was scarce in the town. The management was also having difficulties in the place where we were staying and money to buy food for the restaurant was not flowing. We ate some spaghetti noodles for lunch/dinner. The place did have an outdoor latrine and shower. Noise echoed throughout the night, coming from the bar adjacent to our room. The generator broke around 10pm gratefully and things quieted down. We did manage a walk around the outskirts of the town. Lighted only by the moon, the land was quiet and dark but for some campfires. My white body must have been somewhat visible in the night because I would hear the call to me “mazungu”!

The next morning we headed back to the village. This time, Ben’s brother was there. His name is Lomori (Lomo for short). Ben did not greet him or acknowledge his brother or anyone else but headed to the little hut where we sat waiting to be welcomed. Eventually his brother came in and talked non-stop for quite some time. Ben just listened. I know it was a story of how difficult life had been in the village and wishing Ben had not gone away. Later, Ben;s mom came in and there was a discussion on what to give me upon my departure. Lomo lamented their situation, embarrassed that they had no food to give me or goat to slaughter, as was their tradition. When we had visited for quite some time, we decided to leave and walk to a far mountain for a view of the camps and the town. We took some video and family pictures, said farewell to mom and headed off. Lomo and Ben’s sister accompanied us on the walk. His sister left us to fetch water at the river and we continued on but decided I looked unable to make the trip up the mountain and we headed for the town. My old boot sole came apart and we looked for someone to mend it. It made a sound like a flat tire as I walked through town, calling even more attention to myself. We found a group of men seated, all watching the shoemaker work. They made me sit down, removed my shoes, gave me flip-flops to wear and began mending my shoe. I was the center of attention and a small crowd gathered. Men tried to hook me up with local women, one tried to argue the employment situation with me, another asked me to speak to him in French as he warned me this was a dangerous group to be around. He insisted that we finish our business and get back to the guesthouse. We did, once the boot was not only glued but stitched.

(Click to enlarge. This is a picture of Ben's brother. Scarring and branding is common among the Turkana. It is a sign of beauty. These hundreds of scars were made with a fish hook pulling the skin up and then slicing with a razor blade. Ben has scars a well - dots in symmetrical shaped made from burning holes in the skin with reeds or hard grass.)
We met up with Ben’s brother again at the guesthouse where he had a gift for me. The Turkana men carry a stool around with them. It is small with a handle attached to carry. He had made it from one solid piece of log and was happy if I would accept it as a gift from the family. We ate a simple lunch (still a food shortage) of spaghetti noodles and Coke. Later that night we walked around the town, visited some friends before settling in for the night.

Turkana Trip - Part 1

Well I was expecting a long journey to the land of the Turkana. It was. Benson Lotiang’a is a friend I met in the kitui village a year or so ago and we had always planned to head to his homeland in the north at some point. His mother has been sick from a number of ailments, the major one, epilepsy. It is difficult to get medications and control the problem here in Kenya. Of course, as you might expect, the tribe often thought of her as possessed or carrying a demon because of the condition and her convulsions, etc. And so Ben and I decided on some dates and mode of transportation. To fly would cost the two of us about $750 total. And so we opted for the long bus ride from Nairobi to Kakoma at a cost of about $100 total. The bus was scheduled to leave at 7 am on Thursday morning (we know that actually means 9am) and so we decided to stay the night near the bus “station” in Eastleigh. We stayed in the Somali section of town in a Somali Guest House. It reminded me of movies I’d seen of Istanbul. Long cement hallways, dark figures passing silently, and the room was simple but with a toilet and hole in the floor for a shower. There was an electric heater attached to the showerhead but it sparked when Benson turned it on. We took cold showers, not wanting to be electrocuted. We boarded the bus in the morning and departed at about 9:00 a.m. It was a long journey over good roads until Eldorett. We passed IDP camps of people who were burned out of their homes during the post-election violence and were still stranded in white tents off the main roads. We made periodic stops through the night and bought cookies and soda etc. I was afraid to eat most foods although I took a mandazi and some tea at some places.

We finally reached Lodwar, in the north of Kenya, a large town in comparison. We were to head to Kakoma from there but word was out there had been violence there overnight and we should not travel at night. We stayed on the bus in Lodwar until daybreak and at about 8:30am, we headed to Kakoma. We had been traveling in a convoy of three buses for safety. There were marauders and thieves along the way. We were not too far from the borders of Ethiopia, Uganda and Sudan. Gunrunners and bandits often stopped buses and travelers at night in the lonely hills and mountainous areas. And so we left at daylight. We were told that the soldiers in Kakoma had shot and killed two protesters the night before and people were angry in the streets. The people were protesting jobs given out to outsiders from Nairobi etc instead of to locals. The demonstration had gotten violent and shots were fired. There are no warning shots; the soldiers aim to kill. And so they did. When our bus arrived, we were greeted by large crowds pounding on the side of our bus and yelling at us. I hid my white face. The UN people and those NGOs who hired out of towners were white and I didn’t want to be mistaken for a UN manager. The bus picked up pace and headed to the police station where we were taken off the bus. We got a bicycle ride to a guesthouse on the other side of town and tried to get the full story of the security in the area. Eventually we heard that things calmed, protest activities delayed until an MP came to speak to the crowds and until the funerals amped up the crowd again. We would be gone by then, thankfully. Still, I was warned to do any business in town quickly and get back to the lodge so as not to be mistaken for UN. I had people approach me in the streets to argue about hiring issues. I realized they thought I was from an NGO or the UN.

The next morning we began our walk to the Turkana village of Ben’s mom, brother and sister. Already the heat was oppressive. Along the way Ben was greeted by old friends. We passed bare-chested women carrying branches or water jugs on their heads. We passed Turkana warriors wearing only a blanket around their shoulders and carrying a carved walking stick and small stool to sit on. All were friendly enough and nodded or spoke a Turkana greeting “Ajuka”. Clothes are optional in the village. Traditionally the women and the men were uncovered and the tradition continued. One becomes used to it. When we arrived at the small plot where Ben’s mom lived, there were no adults around. We stuck our heads in the four small huts in the area. Ben’s sister appeared and finally his mother. We greeted her quickly and then went to be seated in one of the other huts to be welcomed by her. There was no affection or emotion shown. It was like we were salesmen coming to present our products. Ben’s mom was sick. She has been sick for most of Ben’s life and she was bitter and wanted to die. “Why should I live this way?” Her face was badly burned from falling into the fire during an epileptic fit. She was unaware that her face was being burned as well as her hands and legs. She suffered too from malaria and some other diseases. She was thin and week and looked to be close to death in both appearance and emotions. As Ben talked to her about her health etc. we heard wailing and screaming in the hut next to Ben’s moms. The neighbor woman’s child had just died and the woman was hysterical at the death. It was not uncommon. People die in this area from diseases and from starvation. Ben had watched his grandmother starve to death. He also, as a child himself, found a boy by the river who had died of starvation. He told me stories of people eating grass like cattle and boiling water to have something in their stomachs. There are no latrines and human feces can be seen and smelled everywhere. The drought had taken its toll on both humans and animals.

Back to our visit. I was greeted by Ben’s mom but I knew she was unhappy. Eventually Ben translated that his mom was upset. The tradition of the Turkana is such that when a special guest comes, like a white man, it is a blessing. In good days they would have slaughtered a goat or given me a goat, something to show that I was welcomed. But they had nothing to give me, nothing to share. I tried to make Ben see and translate that this experience, their welcoming me into their house was the gift and that in America, it was the visitor that brought a housewarming gift. I had brought nothing. Eventually she asked if I could take tea. Ben had told her I could take anything like water or rice for fear of typhoid or other diseases. I had brought a bottle of water. I told her I would be grateful for tea so it was made with powdered milk they found. The visit continued and I took some photos and we left to walk to the refugee camps along the river. We promised to return the next morning, hoping to see Ben’s brother.

Some background – Ben’s father died when Ben was young. His mom could do little to care for him because of her illness. The uncle and other relatives were abusive and Ben left for the streets at an early age. He was convinced that he could do better on his own, even running guns or selling drugs. Thankfully he was taken into an orphanage by some Irish sisters and lived there, begging for food and school fees. He also lived in a home for street boys as he got older and it was there that his academic education began. His mom never knew that he went to school. She never bought him anything like a pencil or trousers. She could not care for him and he remembers that fact. So he sits, sad at her lack of mothering. She sits, sad at the departure of a son that should be caring for a dying mother. They are both caught, both correct. We left for the refugee camps, talking to his sister on how we could help out both his sister and his dying mother. (More to come but here is some history, etc.)

Some Turkana History

So recapping, a 26 hour trek to the land of the Turkana in northern Kenya. Here is a some background on the history of the area and the tribe. Around 2 million–3 million years ago, the lake was larger and the area more fertile, making it a centre for early hominins. Richard Leakey has led numerous anthropological digs in the area which have led to many important discoveries of hominin remains. The two-million-year-old Skull 1470 was found in 1972. It was originally thought to be Homo habilis, but the scientific name Homo rudolfensis derived from the old name of the Lake Rudolf, was proposed in 1986 by V. P. Alexeev. In 1984, the Turkana Boy, a nearly complete skeleton of a Homo erectus boy was discovered by Kamoya Kimeu. More recently, Meave Leakey discovered a 3,500,000-year-old skull there, named Kenyanthropus platyops, which means "The Flat-Faced Man of Kenya".

The population of the Turkana tribe ranges around 350,000, and they are a part of the larger Nilotic group of tribes (along with the Samburu and the Masai). They are a very traditional tribe; with most of their people still living rural lives as they have for generations. You can find the Turkana territory near the shores of Lake Turkana in the very dry regions of northwest Kenya. They rely heavily on the rainy seasons and the 2 rivers that run through their land for water. Water can be very scarce. The harsh environment creates a great deal of tension between tribes, making the Turkana tribe a very fierce and aggressive people. Their language is called Turkana, and has a separate dialect for the northern and southern regions of their territory.

Turkana History.

Around 400 years ago, the Turkana tribes migrated into Kenya from north-eastern Uganda. During the colonial period and even after Kenyan independence, the Turkana have mostly been left alone. They are largely untouched by the influence of missionaries or other aspects of western civilization. And so their history is not marked by many modern events, and they are still the same as they have always been.

Turkana Culture and Family

Livestock are the center of Turkana economics, representing both a food supply and wealth. Camels, cows and goats are the favored animals, along with some donkeys and sheep.
As a nomadic people, the social structure is very loose and flexible. This is necessary, given the constant movement of families as they search for better grazing land and water. Each family is a self-contained social unit, with 4 or 5 families sometimes grazing together. Families can get quite large as married sons (and their wives and children) will stay with their father's family. Initiation into adulthood is a somewhat subdued affair with minor rituals marking the event for boys every 4 years. Girls are considered adults once they are married. Unlike most other tribes, there is no circumcision among the Turkana. Age sets exist but are not particularly important.
Turkana men can take as many wives as they have cattle to buy them with. A woman can cost dozens of cows, goats, camels or sheep. Men without enough livestock sometimes resort to "stealing" a bride, though it’s mainly symbolic with both sides agreeing to the theft. A marriage is only considered to be finalized after the first child has begun to walk, usually around 3 years after the initial ceremony.

Turkana Religion

Most of Kenya's native people have had their religious ways pushed aside by Christianity. The Turkana tribe is an exception, with most people still keeping to their traditional beliefs. Their god is called Akuj, who is prayed to directly or through the spirits of ancestors. He is not part of everyday life for the Turkana and is usually only turned to when rain is needed. Animal sacrifices are common during drought periods, to please Akuj.

Turkana Tribe of Kenya

Turkana tribe is the second largest pastoral community in Kenya. This nomadic community moved to Kenya from Karamojong in eastern Uganda. The Turkana tribe occupies the semi Desert Turkana District in the Rift valley province of Kenya. Like the Maasai and tribes, Turkana people keeps herds of cattle, goats and Camel. Livestock is a very important part of the Turkana people. Their animals are the main source of income and food. However, recurring drought in Turkana district adversely affect the nomadic livelihood.

Like the Maasai and Samburu, the Turkana people are very colorful. Turkana people adorn themselves with colorful necklace and bracelets. Their decorations are made of red, yellow and brown colored beads. Cattle's rustling is common in Turkana district and round its border with Uganda, Sudan and Ethiopia. Tribes inhabiting this area are often involved in tribal fights for livestock and water. Cattle's rustling has been a common phenomenon for many decades and appears to be a sort of cultural game for the nomadic communities living in parts of the Rift valley and its surroundings. With the proliferation of small arms, cattle's rustling has become more dangerous and the Kenyan government has intervened in solving the problem.

More to come regarding Ed and Ben's adventure.

A Long Walk

Sunday May 3, 2009 - Some interesting Masai cultural items came clear to me these past days. I spent some quality time with Mwololo and Fred, the Masai. We walked from 9 a.m. Saturday morning until about 4 p.m. We went up and down hills and rocky terrain, climbing to the top of some rocks called “the tooth” in Kimasai language. My legs are dead! But again, the time spent in conversations, learning about the culture was well worth it.

We began by Fred talking to me about coming to stay in the manyatta once again. We had a great time a week ago, because of or despite the torrential rains that fell while I was there. Fred says that if I stayed there tonight, we can’t sleep in the same house. His father (age - mid to late 80s) is staying at his house now. You need the full picture to understand this aspect of Masai culture. Fred’s dad has 4 wives. One of the wives is Fred’s mother. His father’s wives were “booked” by Fred’s grandfather. In other words, the marriages (Fred’s mother included) were arranged and timed for an additional wife every couple of years. The wives live in adjacent houses and the husband visits one of the four each night or for a period of nights. Now when Fred’s father visits the house of Fred’s mother, Fred sleeps with his brother Jackson at his house. Jackson is married but his wife is pregnant and when she is pregnant, she sleeps with her mother. Jackson sleeps with Fred. It’s musical beds almost every night. They are so used to it. So last night, Fred slept at my house. He laughed, a Masai sleeping in a house of luxury. Well, the electricity was out and the water has not run in five days. Not much luxury except for my iPod, which he loves. And so again, as it did the last time I slept at Fred’s – it rained hippos and elephants all night long. In fact the motorbikes weren’t running to take him home this morning. He had to walk a long way.

We talked about the possibility of Fred’s marriage being “arranged”. It is possible. Fred’s father has not yet “booked” Fred’s marriage(s) because Fred wants to finish school. If Fred’s father dies (a possibility) before the marriage has been arranged, it will not happen and Fred will choose his own mate. If Fred’s father arranges the marriage, Fred will abide by the decision, as did Fred’s many brothers. Fred estimates that he has about 18 brothers and sisters (many of them step)

We walked and talked some more and came upon a herd of giraffe, about a dozen zebra, some wildebeest and antelopes. It always amazes me to see these animals roaming free.

This is Fred’s fourth day of walking. Last Thursday he was summoned to an area called Thicka to help drive 300 head of family cattle back to Athi River, now that the rains have begun. That means he stays with the cattle all day and night, sleeping under the stars. Fred said that they woke up at about 5:30a.m. to see two leopards about 20 yards away, watching the cows. No cows died. In other news, when Fred was out with the cattle, he got a call from the Athi River manyatta to tell him that his cow was killed last night by a hyena. We had just heard the hyenas a few nights before. They waited until the men had gone for the cattle and then attacked. The hyenas do not fear women. The animals got some of the intestines but some of the folks from the manyatta were able to salvage some of the remaining parts to eat.

Some other bad news. The father of the pastor (preacher) who sometimes drives me on his motorbike was hit by a vehicle while crossing the road with cattle. He is in a coma and has some broken bones. He is in Kenyatta Hospital in Nairobi, not the best place in the world. (No lie – sometimes you are not alone in your hospital bed at Kenyatta. They double up there too!)

Tomorrow I hope to book a bus ticket to Turkana with “tall” Ben. I’ll let you know when I am going. Go ahead and Google “Turkana”. It may be the origin of our species. I can’t wait.