Grace's Student Project African Adventure

The prodigal blogger returns

I like milestones so I figured a good day to return to this blog would be the 3-month anniversary of the day I set foot back on US soil, stood under my piping hot shower, drank out of the faucet just because (as gross as I remembered it), and ate one mean chopped salad without having to worry about water parasites.

While in Africa, my blogs stretched in a Gumby-like fashion into the length of short novellas and a lot of friends have enjoyed Pokey-ing (yes, I did) fun at my penchant for rambling since my return. So, as a 1st domestic blog resolution, I’m going to try my hardest from here on out to be more concise. That means keeping it within a one Word page limit as opposed to the 4 pages I averaged previously. I’m cramming for the GRE, which has a large essay component, so this effort – and making a sincere attempt to proofread – will assist me in my studies. I’m always up for a challenge.

My “target audience” will still be prospective volunteers and like-minded individuals invested in various African-related causes.  But the greatest appeal about blogs is the enormous potential to pique the interest of people who might not even have Africa or sustainable development or eco-friendly community initiatives or international volunteerism on their radar. I’ve always been a very open person and I don’t have any reservations about maintaining that trait online championing what I’ve come to care about so passionately.

During my last phone conversation with Kai, I told him that very soon I would try and dissect the complex process of adjusting to life back home, as I’ve experienced it, on this blog. Coming back is not a piece of cake for anyone although circumstances will differ and naturally some people cope with stress better than others. I do think it’s beneficial for future volunteers to know that though some feelings maybe very foreign they aren’t alone in experiencing them. In all likelihood it will take a lot longer than whatever approximation was made while still abroad to feel “at home” again. Laughably, I said two weeks! It’s been 3 months and only lately have I started to feel as though I’m getting my bearings straight.

This blog will continue to serve as a forum to chronicle the progress of the Nina Agricultural Initiative recording the trials and triumphs encountered during efforts to provide continued support to a Grassroots partner from a different continent. I communicate with the Nina Initiative’s president, Milka, by email on a weekly basis. I’ve also corresponded with Morokoshi’s founder Steve and SpanAfrica staff keep one another in the loop through list-servs, forwards, and lots and lots of ccing. I feel as kept up to date as one can feel interfacing with a group of people who follow an entirely different set of cultural standards and have limited access to (or familiarity with) technology.

The stories won’t be as full of adventure (or imprudent decisions) and the pictures won’t be as exotic – well, actually I’ve got boatloads of pictures left to post from Kenya and old journal entries that I intended to transcribe online - but my goal is that, no matter who might be reading this, there will be something new to chew on that can be taken from each [comparatively lean] post.

August 7, 2009

I’m writing this from a hotel in Kampala which costs $12/night. Within its complex are a steam room (very sterile), sauna (shockingly nice), and a really good masseuse (head to toe for an hour). The combined fees for those services set me back a whopping ten bucks. I love Kampala and an exchange rate that’s excessively in my favor.

Kampala is lush, green, and gorgeous. The city is made up of 7 rolling covered in jungle vegetation that surround city center and all around the earth is brick red. It’s an urban layout unlike any I’ve ever seen. The traffic is infinitely better than in Nairobi and I’ve even seen * gasp * cars obey traffic lights and stop at crosswalks! There are banana trees and people selling bananas everywhere. I’ve also seen a lot of eggplant (which isn’t in Kenya) and noticed that many more adult women keep their hair cut close to the scalp. The people are a little, I don’t want to say less friendly, but less conversational. In Kenya everyone tries to strike up a conversation with you all the time but here I’ve been left alone a lot more – which is kind of a nice reprieve. They have an even harder time than Kenyans understanding my accent. And I don’t know what restaurant etiquette Ugandans observes but however I’m ordering chai and bananas or asking for the check is not the right way to do it. I’ve yet to have a smooth transaction with any waitress. Those are kind of random observations.

I’m here for a summit of sorts because Uganda Red Cross’s HIV program is considered one of the best in the world. Next week I will be joined by members from the Mombasa branch of the Kenya Red Cross branch and delegates from Sudan Red Cross (!) There was some miscommunication and I actually got here a few days early and am going to have to stay a few days longer than I had planned because we are going into the bush until Thursday. This means I’ll only have 4 days to say goodbye to my Nakuru family before I leave… which makes me sad but by staying here longer, I get to visit the refugee camps in Northern Uganda that were established during the country’s civil war- a chance I doubt I’ll ever get again. I don’t know a whole lot of Ugandan history so I’m really excited for my introduction to take place on the ground and be taught by those who lived through it. It’s also probably better that I’m not wallowing in Nakuru ticking off the days till my departure and noting the last time I do/see/hear/smell/eat/visit something/someone before I go. I’m really, really bad with goodbyes. They make me so sad. But I’ve already got plans to come back in the works so I just keep telling myself these goodbyes are not forever.

My trip here was pretty amusing in yet another utterly ridiculous African bus experience kind of way. I got on the bus and found an unattended toddler in my seat and another infant in the seat across the aisle. So I stood for about ten minutes until the mother showed up and just stared at me when I pointed to her baby and told her that was my assigned seat. The bus was full, mind you, otherwise obviously I would have moved. After a few moments of awkward silence she picked up her kid and I slid into my seat. Then she turned around and picked up the other kid and sat down next to me with both of them precariously balanced on her lap. Deep down I was hoping there was another negligent mother who just plopped her newborn on a bus seat and left, but no, my companions for the next ten hours were two kids, one soaked in urine, the other tossing muffin crumbs all over me and the bus driver (we had the seats right behind him), and their indifferent mother. It was one of those situations you find yourself thinking ‘alright, who put you up to this? where’s the video camera?’

While I was trying to look anywhere but at the spectacle sitting next to me, I spotted a sign posted at the head of the bus saying “Do Not Get Drugged Today” with a list of bullet pointed tips on how to avoid getting drugged and robbed by your fellow bus passenger: don’t take food from strangers, don’t drink from opened bottles, don’t inhale any suspicious fumes, etc. I’m not quoting accurately enough and I didn’t get a picture because my camera was stowed away, but I’m sure the bus line posts these warnings on all the buses, so I’ll be sure to get one on the way back. The fact that they have to post them at all blows my mind.

As luck would have it, the woman got off at Kisumu – but not before dumping a dirty diaper on the floor, which I didn’t even notice until the bus driver saw it and started shooting accusatory glances my way. A Chinese woman wearing a mask boarded the bus and took her place. All the Chinese tourists wear masks, a habit they bring from their homeland, which boasts some of the worst pollution statistics and thus cancer rates in the world. Last year I heard a crazy NPR report on a small town near a coal plant in China where the vast majority of the village population suffered from various types of cancer.

The roads on the Uganda side of the highway are ten times better than the Kenya side. Sitting behind the bus driver sucks because you basically drive with him the whole time- stomach lurching, chest pounding, as he just misses sideswiping a motorbike or turning a pedestrian into a pancake and speeds around blind curves. Typical stuff. I self-medicated by taking a bunch Benadryl, though I would have preferred a handful of Valium, and was able to sleep a little on the ride to Kampala.

What was really fun about this bus trip was meeting 3 other bapackers, 2 Canadians and a Russian, who were doing HIV outreach in a small village outside of Kisumu. They were traveling through Uganda to Rwanda to conduct a survey for the University of British Columbia in a Rwandan pygmy colony (!). I was sort of winging it and traveling to Uganda without a guide book or a solid place to stay once I arrived -another backer friend of mine had texted me a phone number that didn’t work – but I knew I’d figure something out. The other backpackers wanted to catch a bus and drive straight through to Rwanda that night, but the next bus didn’t leave until 9am, so we split a room at a decent (running water, electricity, no bugs) very cheap hotel outside of their bus station. Then we went out for phenomenal Indian food (it’s my favorite kind of ethnic cuisine, thanks Lonely Planet for that author recommendation) and, like most conversations you’ll have with development oriented, wandering kindred spirits you bump into while traveling, had some wonderful dinner discourse. Jennya (probably not spelling that right) moved from Russia to Canada four years ago. She works in finance at a firm lax enough to allow her to take an extended unpaid leave of absence to come to Africa. Erika owns a green roof design company based in Canada. I’d never heard of green roof urban planning solutions for pollution reduction before but it’s a really, really cool concept and, to Mayor Daly’s credit (one of his only saving graces), apparently Chicago is one of the leading cities in the world building and endorsing them. She gave me a list to go check out when I get home. James worked in a genetic coding lab before coming to Kenya to work on HIV programs in the village. This is his second trip working on the project. We talked politics, development, development politics, commiserated over mzungu pricing, bargaining, poor Kenyan infrastructure, etc., etc., etc.

Backpacking is a tremendous sub-culture. I’m not sure there is any other way to meet such a fascinating and incredibly diverse assortment of people. This especially pertains to those who are adventurous enough to do it in Africa. Some are life-long backpackers. They get a job, work for two years, backpack for a year, and do it all over again. Forget following the Dead – or in my case, an adolescent stint following Phish and festival hopping – that’s a true hippie. Just think of all the boarding passes those ticket stubs could’ve paid for. I’ve been thinking of everything in terms of flight cost fractions.

Last night was really fun and every time I hang out with backpackers here, it makes me wish I had more time (and resources) to steal away with Rory and navigate the entire continent strapped down and fully loaded…for a couple weeks, at least. Any longer and I’d grow weary of unadulterated tourism and want to get back to addressing some of the obstacles that inhibit the incredible potential that becomes so evident while traveling throughout Africa. Though I don’t pretend that my contribution is anything significant… but maybe one day J

I’m certainly not complaining about exploratory opportunities afforded to me during the past 6 months by any means. Red Cross has chauffeured me around East Africa to places that no backpackers, and few outsiders in general, get to go. I’m actually getting a private Red Cross vehicle which is going to tour me around the sights of Kampala tomorrow (so this is what celebrity feels like The backpacking culture is just fun to step into for a little while. There is a famous hostel in Kampala that I booked for the weekend, should be interesting.

And it has been! I’m posting this from the hostel where I’ve been mingling with UN peacekeepers on leave from the DRC (so, so , so, so cool to get insight from someone who works on the ground in a war zone like Congo), backpackers, students, volunteers development professionals- it’s been so much fun! And guess how we all plan on keeping in touch? Youuu guessed it: Facebook!

Yesterday wasn’t fun because I spent the first half of the morning going to the bus stage trying to see if anyone had turned in a notebook- a mini moleskin completely worthless to anyone else, but invaluable to me because it contains what more or less amounts to 6 months of notes from the field, interviews, and various related research. I just never got around to transcribing all of its content. I’m devastated. The bus company supervisor is from Kenya and was excited that I knew some Kiswahili. He seemed like he really wanted to help so I think if the notebook book turns up, he will call. Nick found my notebook, THANK GOD, I never go anywhere without it so it didn’t occur to me that I might have left it in Nakuru until a little while ago

It’s not raining like crazy here I think I remember getting a lot of emails about torrential downpour in various regions of the US last February . It hasn’t rained a drop in 3 weeks and it’s very dusty. The rainy season is supposed to start at the end of March. too bad that never happened The climate is perfect: cool in the mornings and evenings, a little chilly at night and, in my opinion, never gets too hot during the day. I’ve been slathering on the sunscreen and haven’t got burnt yet!

Supposedly it gets “cold” during the rain season which I was not aware of so I will have to buy some sweaters which won’t be hard considering the town is flooded with fabric. It seems like every single street vendor sells used clothes or piles of worn shoes. I inquired as to where they are getting all these clothes and someone said they suspected at least some of the sources are foreign donations. It’s a huge industry in Kenya, the vendors buy used clothes by the bale in Nairobi, and transport them all over the country. Usually each vendor ‘specializes’ by selling a designated article of clothing: women’s jeans, ill-fitted men’s suit jackets, worn belts, etc. As it turns out most, not some, of the clothes are foreign donations. One person was telling me they have big bins in London for apparel donation to Africa. I don’t think most people realize their donations will then be sold on the street, sometimes at inflated prices, to the less needy of the African population (or thrift store junkies like me) – but still, it contributes to the economy, creates jobs, and makes a basic resource readily available for a comparably low cost…just not for free like donors are led to believe.

That is a decent first update and it is far more than anyone else hasgotten. so obviously I was writing this as an email update, maybe it was even a personal email… see I started out with good intentions! I am up in the middle of the night trying to use Skype which allows free Internet to Internet calls or really cheap internet to phone-line calls. I even went all out and purchased a Skype endorsed headset before I left. Anything beats the $1.38/minute cell phone rate I have right now.

I had to give up on Skype because all the connections were so slow… although I wonder if it would work at Guava, the phenomenal mzungu magnet café with free wireless which I frequent with such regularity that I’ve become good friends with the staff and serves as my office when I’m in Nakuru (they make fun of me for all the time I spend in there). Anyway I gave up on Skype and settled for: 1) Telekom calling cards -the rates aren’t that bad, about $7 for 50 minutes 2) A whole lot o’ SMS – Safaricom charges10 shillings (13 cents) per int’l texts, the only catch being that the person on the opposite end has to have an international texting plan and domestic companies charge upwards of 50 cents per text…which is absurd, but hey, it helped me maintain a healthy functional relationship long-distance – it can be done! (all of the above is really only useful to future volunteers based in Nakuru)

Wow. I just cannot get over how fast 6 months have flown by. It’s going to come as a big shock that the western world has continued to turn in my absence.

Subtitle: Just because I’m an idiot doesn’t mean you’re going to get abducted

July 23, 2009

I posted a blog a few days ago from Liboi, a small village that lies on the border between Kenya and Somalia. The morning after my post, the food distribution team leader, Ismael, received a call from his branch coordinator insisting that we vacate the premises immediately and I be taken to a secure location because three aid workers, including one American, were abducted further north (about 600km) a few days prior.

Hmm… Rebecca says she spends a lot of time addressing potential volunteers’ concerns over the possibility of being abducted. Sooooo before I continue, I can assure you that anywhere else in the country you probably have a .05% of that happening. Just don’t be obtuse and traipse on down to the Somali border just because you feel like it. Well, really it was just because I had the opportunity to go. In fact, 99% of people who do volunteer work in Kenya never get the opportunity to go that close to the border, the only place where they might be at risk for abduction, unless it’s with a NGO or government body who, due issues of liability, probably wouldn’t take them anyway. Kenya Red Cross knew I was in Northeastern province but no one had sanctioned that I go all the way to Liboi. Most Somalian border communities do not welcome westerners, particularly Americans, and witnessing thousands of impoverished people living in the middle of the desert isn’t exactly what most tourists consider a fun sightseeing excursion. Plus, the only way a volunteer can get there on their own is by bus and you don’t want to travel on that bus alone. The overall odds of a volunteer getting abducted in Kenya are anorexically slim. The fact that nothing happened to me even though I did put myself in an extremely vulnerable position only supports this contention further.

Now, here’s my little secret: I sorta knew about these abductions because I received an email from home linking to the story. But I didn’t open it because I was in a hurry and I assumed the abductions were on the Sudanese border where the last abductions (nuns no less) took place….except the last abductions weren’t on the border with Sudan, they were also perpetrated by Somalian gangs. Maybe my subconscious intentionally mis-remembered, who knows, but I wanted to go to the border, and since no one in Kenya had said anything to me about the abductions, I kept quiet, adopting the naïve assumption that they had taken place far, far away from where I was going.

In my defense, I’ve gotten a number of emails asking if I am ok throughout my stay here, sometimes because of negative reports originating from OTHER African countries. Contrary to popular belief, not all of Africa is a warzone, but almost all of the news that comes out of Africa makes it sound like it is. “If it bleeds it leads,” right? This isn’t the first email of its kind that I didn’t open. I know people are only checking in and have the best of intentions but still…

Back to my Somalian misadventure. I told Ismael I wanted to go to Somalia. Why? Because I really wanted to go to Somalia. Why? Because when else am I ever going to get to go to Somalia? Somalia achieving stability anytime within the next decade doesn’t look too promising. Even if it did miraculously transform, there’s a good chance it would be into another militant Islamic state, and then I wouldn’t be allowed to go there, just like I’m not allowed to go to Sudan (but I got to anyway, :p al-Bashir). So Ismael, being a congenial chaperone oblivious to the recent abductions, complied with my wishes and took me to Liboi.

We decided to stay the night in Liboi because it was closer to the Kulon FDP we were working at the following day than the UN compound in Dadaab. Ismael also has close friends who own the hotel we were to stay at and his wife’s family all reside in the village. Anthony, the Garissa branch coordinator, said he didn’t sleep after he found out I was staying in Liboi overnight. As he told me when I got back, “You’re a direct target, especially being American.” (Thanks Dubya) The PACT-Kenya staff who picked me up the next morning referred to me as being in “mortal danger.” When I told people in the UN compound where I had stayed, their short gasps, widening eyes, and elongated “oooo”s spoke for themselves. Basically, I was a sitting duck waiting to become another Al-Shabab hostage that entire night…. which would’ve really ruined the pleasant memories I have of sleeping in a room festooned with sparkly decorations twirling in the moonlight.

More than being an American; more than spending the night on the border; more than it being only 4 days after the abductions; more than Al-Shabab recently declaring Kenya an enemy to the Muslim world because of its many western alliances (in my defense, I didn’t know about that either); what really made me a sitting duck was that we didn’t come by private vehicle which, had all the Garissa land cruisers not been scheduled for maintenance at the same time, we normally would have. I’ve actually never had to use public transportation to get to a Red Cross site before.

You have to realize that Kenya Red Cross is the only aid organization that travels in such an unstable region without requiring that every vehicle have an armed escort. All the UN agencies and most NGOs require that their employees be accompanied by armed guards at all times – and in some places, sure, it makes sense, but for the most part it’s a complete waste of financial resources (in you ask me, which of course no one did). KRCS can travel without escorts because it makes sure all of its staff are well integrated into the beneficiary community and have strong relationships with local leaders. Red Cross staff, oh I don’t know, actually engage in conversation with the residents. Many of the other agencies just barge in and out of municipal headquarters, an entourage of white people fringed by men with automatic weapons, and then run back to Dadaab (or wherever else their sealed-off compound is).

That I’ve traveled throughout the majority of Kenya, receiving warm welcomes everywhere I went just because I was wearing the Kenya Red Cross emblem, attests to the level of respect and high regard communities countrywide have for KRCS. That’s why I’m wandering around bumblf@#$ Africa, feeling bulletproof and full of bravado: because for the past 5 months I’ve had no reason to feel otherwise. And even in Liboi, I was still ignorant to any hostility. Ismael has been working with that community through various organizations since 1998. Everyone knows him. Everyone loves him. And by virtue of being in his company, everyone reached out to shake my hand.

I’ve only fully come to realize the seriousness of the situation after we got whisked away to the UN compound in Dadaab and after some revelations Ismael made that explained his strange behavior the previous night. Ismael was taking precautionary measures by putting me in someone else’s room on the hotel grounds and then, later that night, moving me to another person’s room on the owner’s homestead… just in case anyone was paying attention to where I was sleeping. That he felt it necessary to take these precautions before he learned about the abductions is what disturbs me. It’s also why he wasn’t being very clear about the rationale behind playing musical chairs with hotel rooms – he didn’t want to scare me- which I found frustrating because, at the time, it really did make very little sense. Had the militias been alerted that an American working with Red Cross was staying in Liboi without an armed escort and without a private vehicle, it would’ve been hard for any opportunistic terrorist to say no to temptation…and I wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of getting away.

Rory said he’s ready for me to come home so he can stopy worrying about me wandering around remote regions of Kenya “acting like I have a death wish.” After this, I’m about ready too… Sorry, love.

Lesson learned.

Postscript: My penchant for melodrama is on full parade throughout the theatrically narrated account of my little dance with abduction. In deference to the hostages, I want call attention to the real drama inherent in the selfless sacrifice that so many aid workers make throughout their careers. They volunteer to put themselves in much worse jeopardy, day in and day out, in Sudanese and Palestinian refugee camps or on the borders of Pakistan, Afghanistan, Somalia, Korea, Myanmar, etc., etc., etc. There are thousands of unsung heroes throughout the world selflessly sticking their necks out as far as they can go, every single day, to assist hundreds of thousands of people in desperate circumstances. With hat off and head bowed, I take a [rare] moment of silence for all that they do.

Morbid musings in a Somalian sandbox

I didn’t think I’d have Internet access but lo and behold Safaricom has towers posted along all the food distribution points we’ve stopped at so far. Small windmill generators standing next to them run the towers. So I can post away if I can find electricity to charge my computer

I’m 18 km east of the border of Somalia in Liboi. We’re going further east tomorrow where I’ll get to step foot on Somalian soil but I won’t be able to take any pictures because there’s a big Kenyan military presence there. In general you aren’t allowed to take pictures of the army, police, gov’t establishments, bridges, etc. in Kenya. Prior to being corrected, I’ve been referring to it as the Somali border, but “Somali” refers to the tribe after which the country is named, while “Somalian” indicates national origin. I stand corrected. But all the Somalians living on this side are Somalis anyway making it a Somali and Somalian border…so there

Tomorrow we go to Kulon, a food distribution point next to Ifo, a refugee camp which houses 100,000 people. We drove by it today and what first struck me was the absence of white UNHCR tents which have been replaced with hundreds of mud-walled huts. Many of the more permanent refugee camps are like this. I’m used to seeing IDP “transitional camps” in the Rift with tents that aren’t supposed to still be sitting there a year and a half later. I guess it’s good to know that a refugee camp established in the ‘90s managed to provide its inhabitants with suitable shelters, well, not that suitable, but it’s all relative. I saw some structures covered with exterior panels made out of flattened USAID oil cans- a first and very inventive, I think- and plenty of roofs covered in shredded plastic. This camp was established soon after the fall of the Somalian government around the time of the infamous Black Hawk Down incident. As Ismael pointed out, many of Ifo’s inhabitants were born there, grew up there, and now may even have jobs there… or hopefully somewhere else.

I’m eating my words from the other night – these are not accommodations I am used to. . I’ve just officially used the most ramshackle shower on the planet, anything less and you’re just standing outside in plain sight pouring water onto yourself out of a bucket. I’m at a “hotel” but I’m staying in someone else’s room and though I’ve asked multiple times if I could rent my own, but they insist on giving me the room of some relation to the owner (I can’t figure out who because I can’t seem to understand the Somalian accent). This is out of genuine hospitality but I hate when my hosts make things unnecessarily difficult in a failed attempt to make me feel more comfortable. And it happens a lot, especially in the bush.

However, I’m not complaining because the roof is a burlap quilt made out of an international summit of WFP maize bags with labels reminding me that my shelter is a: “Gift of UK,” “Gift of Belgium,” “Gift of Saudi Arabia, “Gift from the Government of Kenya,” and last but certainly not least, “Gift from the American people.” Thanks guys! How thoughtful! The desert can get a little chilly at night. But the best part about this room is that it looks like it was decorated by my 8th grade semi-formal committee! I can’t really describe the hanging decorations, I don’t even know the name of the material they are made out of, so you’ll just have to see the pictures whenever they go up. My surroundings are so ludicrous right now. I love it.

The drive here was hellish . I believe a text I sent out said something along the lines of: “I’m on a coach bus barreling down on what resembles a sandbox more than a road. I’m wishing I believed in God. I’m so scared it’s not even funny. Black ice ain’t go nothing on this.” Barreling is a great word for what I spent 6 hours of my day doing. Barreling and fishtailing. The loose sand on the road was inches deep and it wasn’t like there was any pavement under it. This meant no tire traction what.so.ever. The bus itself was VERY top-heavy due to the massive amounts of luggage and human cargo (at least 8 people) sitting on top of it. Add careening around corners of desert ditches at high speeds and you’ve pretty much got a Rachel Ray 30 minute recipe for disaster called “All passengers killed except the driver” bus accident. But I betcha can’t find that in her cookbook.

I spent the good majority of my day pondering whether the death of one American in a vehicle accident in Kenya’s Northeastern Province would bring international media attention. I concluded, probably not… and then thought that if I were to die out here it should at least be by a stray bullet. Too bad there’s no fighting to be had in the area. It’s also too bad all the Red Cross vehicles are in Nairobi for servicing at the same time and we won’t get one out here for another day or two. So tomorrow it’s back on the bus.

After the past two days of travel, I am over lurching around corners at high speeds, while experiencing vertigo so severe it makes me absolutely positive the bus I’m on is about to tip over. Over. It.

I’m traveling in the company a food distribution team leader, Ismael, who is simply a pleasure to be around. He has this high pitched “he, he, he, he” laugh which he produces at every given opportunity and we’ve had some really great conversation stimulated by his very astute remarks. For dinner we had pasta and other Kenyans have already told me that Somalians love pasta, which seemed a bit random to me, so I asked Ismael why. It would make a good Jeopardy question because the answer seems obvious after you hear it: Italians colonized Somalia. Then I wondered aloud if Somalians could make their own pasta, which of course they don’t, they import it, so their staple food is another drain on a barely existent economy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if their former masters somehow still profited from that. Ahh, the legacies of colonialism.

Ismael said Somalia used to export large quantities of bananas and when I asked why they stopped he shrugged his shoulders and said, “No government.” It kind of bowls you over when you realize the implications implicit in such a statement. NO government for almost 20 years. Then there was a brief lull in the conversation before he blurted out, “You know that’s bullshit, how can they destroy their own assets?” First of all, that’s the first time I’ve EVER heard a Red Cross employee swear. I rarely hear any Kenyan swear period- which is unfortunate since I have a sailor’s mouth and am always catching people off guard with my vulgarity. Second, seriously, how do you justify wreaking havoc upon your own infrastructure (let alone killing everyone that stands in your way)?

I cannot imagine being Somalian and trying to rationalize the unprecedented wanton destruction your country has inflicted upon itself for two decades.

Being here makes me want to take a history of Somalia course one day, not that many universities, if any, would offer such a course (there wouldn’t exactly be a waiting list). Ismael said earlier in the day, “It’s the 2000s, we have computers, we have the Internet, but Somalia still doesn’t have a government.” I asked him what he thought about Mogadishu’s new President and he said, “I don’t really know, I’m not good to talk to about Somalia politics [pregnant pause]: Same culture. Same religion. Same massacres.” I was floored by his poignancy.

Ismael has a wife and two year-old son who live in Minneapolis. Considering he keeps referring to 85 degrees as winter in Northeastern, I would imagine his wife is utterly miserable in Minnesota- probably even more miserable than me, which is saying a lot given how much I like to feel sorry for myself come mid- January, trudging home in the dead of Chicago’s winter, wondering if death by icicle would be a quick way to go… this blog is getting a little morbid. .

Ismael has not been able to see either of them since his son was 6 months old when his wife obtained legal refugee status to come to the United States. She is a Somalia-born Somalian who fled the fighting. He is a Kenya-born Somalian who has been distributing food with various aid organizations like CARE and Red Cross since 1999. They met in a camp where she was one of his food relief beneficiaries. Now that’s a modern-day Somalian love story.

Ismael cannot get a visa to visit his family because the US government doesn’t trust Ismael, or any other Kenyan male between their early teens and late 40s, to come back, so they’re all blacklisted from obtaining visas. All the Red Cross volunteers in Nakuru complain to me about this and think there is something I can do about it. I’ve gotten to where I can sense this question coming from 15 minutes away and am adept at steering the conversation toward another topic. Even a 50 year-old driver for the UN I once spoke to had trouble getting a visa to go visit his daughter in Pennsylvania. It was funny, he was dumbfounded by how well-marked our highway system is, and what he had most to say about his visit to Boston was how impressed he was with the MassPike toll system and its wide variety of rest-stop restaurants – I am very familiar with both after so many drives from Pennsylvania to Wellesley while in boarding school. But I digress….

All the clients at World Relief, the refugee resettlement agency I volunteered with before I left, are basically Ismael’s wife. So I told him that I would look into what processes she might be able to initiate from her end since I know a few families whose relatives joined them in Chicago later. The brother of the two Burmese girls I tutored (and adored) for 6 months came a few months after the girls arrived. As a farewell gift before I came to Kenya, we took them to Disney on Ice which they LOVED. I dragged Rory along because I didn’t want to get in a fender bender on the way to the Southside’s United Center (he’s an expert city driver and, after multiple car accidents and a hit and run, I never want to drive period). Rory was a really good sport, the girls liked him of course, and I even think he was a little entertained (thanks, love ☺) Next up: camping trip the girls made me promise I’d take them on when I get back! And I digress once more…

Anyway, I doubt there will be much I can do for Ismael and his wife, but I figure it’s worth a shot and it’ll at least be an interesting process to learn about since I spent all my time at World Relief assisting in the classroom. I’m looking forward to going back and speaking Swahili with Bartazaro, a teenage Burundian refugee who lost both of his feet to a land mine, and seeing the progress of the three Burmese women in their 60s who I worked with closely on literacy skills. Afterwards I’ll get to bugging overburdened social workers for immigration information then try to communicate with Ismael’s wife. Maybe I’ll even take a trip up to Minneapolis to meet her since Kaaaaaaatie Pivec also lives there.

Going to bed. I’ve got a bad headache and a tickle in my throat. It would be ironic if I got a cold in the desert. It would also suck. Especially if turns out not to be a cold…

Running list of random things I realize I won’t miss about life in Africa while writing blogs :

- combing through my mental inventory of obscure tropical diseases every time I experience a minor symptom
- madmen at the helm of the wheel
– rough roads/sand roads/off-roading
- dirty feet

Little Somalia

July 18, 2009

I’m sitting on a coach bus waiting for it to depart to Garissa, the provincial headquarters of Northeastern Province. When a Kenyan hears the mention of Northeastern, the typical reaction is a grimace and then a remark about how dry/hot/remote/Muslim/dangerous it is. The bus stage is located in a Nairobi neighborhood called Eastlands but locals simply call it Little Somalia. I have just taken tea with one of my KRCS supervisors at a spacious and modern cafeteria-style restaurant. It had a section walled off with frosted glass: the designated space for women who must eat separately from men in accordance with some Muslim practices. It made me think of Rosa Parks and the US before the Civil Rights Act. I think it’s ironic the glass makes it so that you can just see the silhouettes of the women- a little seductive in itself. It’s probably so their husbands can keep an eye on them. I received dirty looks from most of the men in the restaurant the whole time we were there. It might go in the top ten most uncomfortable situations I’ve ever found myself in, harmless, but extremely uncomfortable. Allan tells me this is what many places in Garissa are like. I knew enough about the area that I bought a long black skirt and brought long-sleeved shirts in preparation. But I had no idea that there were restaurants like that in predominately Christian Kenya. I also thought such mandates belonged to the more radical interpretations of the Koran not something so common that they’d construct a decorative divider in a Nairobi restaurant.

July 19, 2009

I got in at around 2am last night thanking God for sparing my life. The drive to Garissa was quite the voyage. At some points the coach bus was literally off-roading. Coach buses, mind you, are not designed to go off the road and into the bush but the bus driver, with his 6-tone car horn KEYPAD at his right, didn’t seem to think so. It’s never good sign when a bus ride reminds you more of one of those rickety wooden rollercoasters than a road trip. There was no sleeping on the bus because of all violent jostling but there was also no watching the road because it got my adrenaline pumping so hard that I’d start to sweat profusely. Kinda like Con’s anxiety attacks when he goes to Wal-Mart (he he he, doubt he’ll ever see this). So I just closed my eyes and listened to cinematic compositions by Patrick Watson who, among other non-instruments, likes to play the bicycle. He also writes original scores which, once you hear his other music, makes a lot of sense. I already sort of felt like I was in a David Lynch film for a number of nonsensical reasons so it was a fitting soundtrack for the drive. But I digress…

The Garissa branch coordinator, Anthony, met me at his home. He and his roommate, Isaac, live in relative luxury compared to Yusuf and Otulo in East Pokot. The house is larger; the windows have glass; there’s a tiled kitchen; an interior bathroom with a toilet seat; and most importantly: electricity! Every inch of the house is covered in thin coat of dust, the consequence of living in a dry arid area. There is no keeping living quarters spic and span, you just have to embrace perpetually dirty feet due to sandy concrete floors. One thing I won’t miss about Kenya is washing my feet ten times a day. I really hate dirty feet, eh, I’m not such a fan of feet in general.

I slept on the floor on a real mattress (better quality than the one I sleep on at home in Nakuru). There was a nice breeze all night. I woke up this morning and scoured my body for evidence of any mosquito bites – there are a lot of them here but so far so good. Having given up on 100% DEET after it caused chemical burns on my arm and removed all my toenail polish (never a good sign), I bathed my self in picardin last night which apparently serves its purpose. The 100% DEET came at my father’s suggestion because “nothing else works.” I think I’d rather take my chances with malaria than spread cancerous poison that breaks the skin open, burns like hell, and has difficulty scabbing over.

I took a shower which was not only running out of a decent shower head but also had some semblance to water pressure – though the water was not hot of course. Now I’m writing this. It’s a Sunday so there won’t be any food distribution but Anthony is taking me down to the branch to show me around. Last night he mentioned that there were problems with the pipeline, which is what Red Cross staff call the food supply channel. Problems mean the supplies haven’t arrived on time for scheduled distribution for which there can be a host of reasons, usually summed up to either incompetency, inefficiency, bad roads, or in one case that I personally observed, port officials waiting on a bribe. I told him we also had numerous problems with our pipeline to Nakuru and he sardonically replied, “Yeah, well it’s WFP,” so I know I’m going to like him already.

Garissa is larger than I expected especially since Lonely Planet didn’t find it worthy of mention. It isn’t even on any of their area maps – there are just arrows indicating the direction of the town with underlying text ‘Garissa (100 km)’ at the edge. Garissa is the last major municipality in Kenya’s eastern region before you hit the Somali border. The border is actually hundreds of kilometers away. I didn’t realize this until I came here because all the Kenyans I know told me Garissa is on the border of Somalia and, because the area in between the town and the border is inhabited almost exclusively by Somalis, it might as well be Somalia. 50 km outside of Garissa are the refugee camps. Tens of thousands of Somalis have fled here because of the attacks on the government of Somalia’s new President (a moderate) by militant Islamic rebels in Mogadishu. UNHCR runs most of these camps while Red Cross operates mostly outside within the host communities that surround them. This is going to be a fascinating field experience.

Garissa itself has a hint of the US southwest and, once again, I wouldn’t be surprised if a tumbleweed blew across the road. The streets are wide, just sand and dust, and lined with one-story buildings. But it’s by no means desolate. The town sprawls out, two of the major roads are paved, and there is a bustling town center. The majority of the population is Somali, so most women have their heads covered, some dressed in all black and some in bright colors. I’ve been told there have been skirmishes between clans on the outskirts the past few days which has caused some tension within the town itself. So far though, I feel perfectly safe.

As I’m looking around the room I am sitting in, I still find it incredible how accustomed I’ve become to such accommodations in the past 5 months. Truthfully, I like them, even prefer them, given the kinds of incredible people and encounters that come with staying in a place like this. I’d take a floor mattress in a dusty room in Africa over the Four Seasons any day. When it comes to journeys, I like to truly explore my destination I . I’m a travel snob in that I try to settle for nothing less than the most culturally authentic experience possible. I like to learn as much about a place- what it is like to actually live there- as possible. It’s hard for me to shuffle around a day here, a day there, because I’m always thinking, “Well, I’ll just do that when I come back” or “I’ll go there when I come back,” but of course it’s rare anyone is able to return to most of the places they visit. It doesn’t help that I also have a thing about not going to the same place twice – just because there is so much to see in the world… but I’m learning to relent on that a bit. Rory and I definitely want to go back to Cairo and join the throngs of people standing around coffee stands along the Nile at midnight or sit at a hookah bar in Giza watching the sunset over the pyramids. I found the cosmopolitan and exotically electric atmosphere in Cairo so alluring.

Today is exactly one month until I leave. A milestone I come upon with some trepidation. On one hand, some Morokoshi related events that have transpired over the past week have made me realize that I’m about ready to go home. On the other, it’s the end of an incredibly transformative period in my life. I’ll never again get to live in the home of a Kenyan family for 6 months or any family for that matter. I’m determined that, since according to Mama Vicky I am her “daughter” and Rory is her “son-in law,” one day she will meet our kids and hopefully spend sometime in the city where her hometown hero (sort of) got his political start. I also believe I’ll see some of my Red Cross co-workers again, but still, it won’t be under the same conditions.

However, I did make a pact with myself that when my emotional resistance begins to break down in the face of the extreme poverty I constantly see, it’s time to go home. You’re not good to anyone if you’re a hysterical train wreck.

The second morning I spent with Kai at Morokoshi, I brought the IDP girl who is in pictures on the Morokoshi FB page (drinking porridge) up into the library tower and gave her some crayons. She sat on my lap astounded by the lime green color that came from her touch to the page. It was obvious she had never seen one before. She was caked in dirt and mud, her clothes were full of holes and filthy, and a putrid odor rose up from her body in waves. As much as I hate to make the comparison, I had one of those pitiful commercials sitting right there on my lap and, no matter how I tried to fight it, my eyes began to well-up.

Steve’s wife brought us a plate of lunch piled high with rice, potatoes, and vegetables. I gave the little girl a big chunk of potato which she smashed greedily into her mouth along with the soggy paper napkin I had put it on. Another tear escaped. After she had done some more veggie-to-mouth smashing, she energetically joined the rest of the students for recess. I’d lost my appetite and went to find her brother, who has just started attending the school, to finish my plate. This 5-year-old acted even more ravenous than his sister as he shoveled rice into his mouth, eyes darting from side to side as if someone was going to take the dish right out from under him. I couldn’t keep the tears at bay. Luckily he scarfed down the meal then ran out before I completely lost it. As his footsteps pounded down the stairs, I leaned against the wall and then just gave in – sinking down to the floor while sobbing in heaves.

This is the first time in 5 months that I’ve let it get to me to such an extent. I think that’s pretty commendable given my propensity for choking up EVERY time I read some heart-wrenching story in the news or listen to those well-crafted stories on NPR. I’ve actually been very surprised by my own reactions to the kinds of things I’ve seen. I really had no idea how I would handle it but decompensating was not out of the question.

I’ve had certain things I’ve told myself that have gotten me through the IDP camps and orphans begging to be put on the food registries. Mostly it has been Morokoshi; that I was contributing my time, effort, and yes, a significant part of my savings to a needy community; that somewhere I was making a difference. So when I saw these two children, two of my Morokoshi kids so hungry, combined with the fact that other students –whose figures I’ve gotten to know so well while making that little video- have lost weight since the pictures were taken, my safety net just got ripped out from under me. You can’t function optimally under a lot of strain of any kind and I think it’s important to know your limit.

Yesterday Kai and I were talking about our initial gut reactions when we first came here. It made me feel better to know that for a brief moment he too thought, “I just can’t do this. I want to go home.” I make this disclosure in case there are potential volunteers who might be worried about their own reactions to the hardships and poverty they will witness firsthand. I think it’s a pretty natural to want to turn away. Life here appears to be so fundamentally different that at first it’s hard to get your head around until you realize that life here is also so fundamentally the same.

July 6, 2009 was actually posted last Monday but the post vanished (twice) sooo let’s try this again

I chose to visit the little nursery school I’d heard so much about from other SpanAfrica members on a day off from my internship. The students’ eager greetings, beaming faces, advanced academic progress, and inexhaustible enthusiasm exceeded what I believed were already fairly high expectations for an entirely grassroots establishment that is almost entirely supported by the proceeds from a small local juice stand.

As impressed as I was by the school’s achievements, during lunchtime I noticed something was amiss. Instead of joining the rest of the class outside to eat, more than 20 of the 40 plus students present opted to stay inside, surrounding me at my desk, and insisting that I check and re-check their class work instead. After school I asked the teachers why so many kids skipped lunch and they told me the same story I’d already been hearing through my work with the Red Cross: the short rains had not fallen enough in the previous growing season; the aid organizations had stopped food distribution in the area; and the parents were escorting their children to Morokoshi’s gate with tears in their eyes, crying to the teachers that they had no food to give their kids for lunch that day, nor had there been any for dinner the previous night.

Before I continue I ask that you dispel the iconic images of filthy children standing amidst garbage piles with distended bellies and flies gathering on crusty mucus. Banish any notion of institutionalized pity prompted by organizations like the Christian Children’s fund with those Sally Struthers commercials many of us grew up with. Such a stereotype has been perpetuated in Africa for far too long. One of the most incredible things I’ve discovered during my time here is the resilience and strength of its people – qualities which evidently manifest themselves as early as age 3.

Yes, I incorporate Sally Struthers in my sales pitch but only facetiously. I reject the current methodology that plagues charitable organizations directed toward children in poor countries. Call me crazy, but I don’t think it’s mandatory requirement to depict dirty kids in desperate situations in order to motivate the general public to address their needs.

A desire to help doesn’t have to be inspired by pity. A desire to help can also be inspired by hope- and if the students of Morokoshi are the embodiment of anything, they are the embodiment of hope. These children are survivors. They have faced disease, poverty, the death of their parents, and now acute hunger- and yet they endure with a smile on their face and an earnest desire to excel in their studies. How did they choose to ignore a rumbling in their stomachs the first day I visited the school? By asking me for more assignments and eagerly awaiting a grade. Yes, the students are malnourished but they still join in a chorus of laughter at the unusual sight of a person wearing sunglasses, or excitedly circulate an adult’s hat giving everyone a chance to try it on, and they get all the answers right on their assignments.

(and I’ve got proof ☺ )

Turn the traditional gut reaction on its head and reexamine their story: it’s one of resilience and hope, where a little can be made to go a long way, and where a noble neighbor rode in on his valiant steed of altruism and whisked these children off the street and into a classroom. It’s an African fairytale; a story with many happy endings; an ongoing narrative that always has room for new protagonists who can stand proud with the knowledge that their efforts contribute to even happier endings and greater hopes for these children. Anyone can become a champion for Morokoshi.

Take a look at the photos posted on Morokoshi’s Facebook page. They are a far cry from Sally’s world of indigence. The little nursery school that could has only moved in a positive direction and will only continue to do so.

How do you respond after staring in the smiling face of starvation?

You get to the root of the problem instead of just providing a temporary solution.

In response to the needs articulated by Morokoshi community members, a collective decision was made to create a sustainable food program in the form of a farming cooperative we’ve come to call the Morokoshi Majalewa Project. The initial steps of the program are already underway: 1 acre of land has been rented; tractors hired to plow; fertilizer and seed purchased; and the community has completed planting. It has not rained as much as we would’ve liked but we believe it will be enough for a small yield. Plans for a micro- irrigation system are also in the works. I’m up to my ears in all things irrigation related as I research how to prevent the possibility for crop failure next season. I funded the preliminary shamba overhead as well as some of the infant porridge being given to the students during the interim between planting and the harvest. Not looking for a pat on the back – I mention this so that you know I’m not just asking for money, I am also an invested sponsor (pardon the pun;)

Sustainability & Accountability

All of Morokoshi Nursery School’s projects are created with the intention of becoming self-sustainable. We don’t want to keep asking our donors for more money to pour into the same project or create a dependent situation where, if financial contributions decline, the organization or project will collapse. (yes I just copied and pasted from a description of our development philosopy posted on Facebook– kudos to you if you noticed ☺)

In keeping with SpanAfrica’s policies and our own, we promise full transparency of all our operations. One of the primary reasons I personally have extended my stay in Kenya is to oversee this project until the first bean harvest in August (rain permitting). Because every donation is directed through SpanAfrica, a registered non-profit, it is all tax deductible. SpanAfrica completes all the legal processing and will provide donors with any necessary paperwork.

If you wish like to donate, feel free to specify what project speaks to you the most or what you would like to see done with your contribution. Community consultation is of the utmost importance when planning and implementing any Morkoshi project. We consider out donors an integral part of our close-knit community and their input is always welcome.

Connect with me at morokoshinusery@gmail.com or find Morokoshi on Facebook

To donate through SpanAfrica’s secure website, please click here

To go to Morokoshi’s Facebook Page, please click here

To read more about our current projects, please click here

A Fresh Perspective for a 1st Generation Facebooker
I did write this that Monday and had every intention of posting it but I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off completing last minute errands in Nakuru and Nairobi all day before Rory and his family’s arrival; then the network was so slow I couldn’t even load the html version of gmail; so I, being the only person able to take advantage of the Norfolk Hotel’s accommodations because the rest of my party’s plane arrived so late, alternated between a private steam room and sauna for nice chunk of Monday evening- priorities, priorities The ‘launch’ of Morokoshi’s Facebook page wound up being delayed until – well, today – which as I’ve already said, I think worked out for the best although I was more than a little frustrated by all the hang-ups but all that’s water under the bridge because it’s up! Check it out ☺ the Morokoshi Nursery School Facebook Page

Monday June 15, 2009

Due to completely unforeseen circumstances, my house didn’t have power for 2 days and most of Nakuru didn’t have power on Saturday. This meant the Internet was down at all the cafes and my computer was dead so I couldn’t use my handy dandy broadband modem- which is so addictingly convenient I might have to get one stateside.

I have to postpone publishing the Facebook page until later in the week, probably when we get back from Amboseli (announcement met with a resounding “boo” from those waiting in nail-biting anticipation the world over). I know, I know, I’m sorry. Also, I haven’t been able to write another blog about East Pokot, but I think I’ll be able to en route to one of these luxury safari destinations we’re taxiing to by private plane or vehicle and maybe I’ll throw some really tactless descriptions of our lavish accommodations for comparison into the mix.

Didn’t even come close to happening, our travel schedule was borderline grueling. Those transfers either became the perfect time to get some much needed shut eye or made it impossible to do anything but keep your eyes glued to the window and the spectacular views of the African horizon and landscape. In general we were busy every second of the day and the better part of the night. It’s still hard to believe how much ground we covered in such a short period of time, flying (not the biggest fan, especially in small planes) everywhere except the breathtaking drive through the Rift Valley I insisted we take to Nakuru: Nairobi – Amboseli – Nairobi – Nakuru – Masai Mara – Lake Victoria (day trip on a 6-seater with the pilot we fondly refer to as Sexy Rexy)– Masai Mara – Nairobi – Lamu – Nairobi- Khartoum (just a brief stop off but considering as an American it’s virtually impossible to get into Sudan right now, I was pretty excited) – Cairo – Luxor down the Nile to Aswan and all the temples in between- Abu Simbal (day trip) – Aswan – Cairo – Khartoum – Nairobi. Bonkers.

The good news is that this means when Rory gets in from his 17 hour flight tonight, the first thing he gets to do is help me with something I can’t figure out how to do on iMovie, so the little video I made will have a soundtrack – score! This video clip has definitely been the highlight of this whole process. I’m SO excited about it ☺ Also, I should clarify that this doesn’t end with Facebook. All the composite programs will turn into REAL website pages, not just stay in Facebook wooden-puppet Pinocchio form. Kai, the first SpanAfrica board member I will get the privilege to meet this July when he comes to build Morkoshi a latrine (now that’s a dedicated donor), will be taking all this content and putting it on the newly renovated SpanAfrica website which is set to be launched soon. soon as in tomorrow ☺ and the video is done! : Hello Facebook!

There are some new developments within the Nina Agricultural Initiative. I’m so excited to have Dani and her mom on board, who are waiting for the green light to start their own recruitment, and am looking forwarding to adding some tweeting into the mix I had a meeting with Steve yesterday and we got the ball rolling on the tomato IGA. The seed should get into the ground this week, and for the people who’ve seen the rough drafts, you’ll notice I added that information in on the FB page. Actually I made a lot of changes over the past few days, the result being an exhaustingly thorough breakdown of each program’s finances that I doubt many people will read in its entirety but I’m sticking to my overall objective for this project and changing the way Sally does business.

I’m going to wait on the still yet to be named because Steve wants it in french, cow IGA fundraiser (any suggestions?)– I think it would make a good announcement to spam out in a few weeks time. “Moo-la for Milk Money Facebookathon” is such a ridiculous subject title that I think ppl might open it even if they ignored “Your own Personal Sally Struthers.” I’m not particularly looking forward to spamming inboxes of ALL of my “friends”-a good 700 ppl I don’t know that well and a few I just really don’t like, but alas, I do it for the cause. Such sacrifice.

I’m first generation Facebook, from waaay back in the day when it stayed true to its name and was just for college kids. We’ll be telling our grandkids the Facebook version of walking to school uphill both ways: “When I was your age you had to wait months for your friend’s schools to get added to the network.”

Now, you walk into a cyber café in small-town Africa and more than half of the 25 computers have the familiar blue and white format glowing from the screen. Now, you might find yourself in a heated debate over what constitutes as “natural” accessibility to private life. I’ve accepted the change and really, since I’ve been here, you could even say I’ve embraced it.

Facebook and other social media used with the right motives are invaluable “networking tools” (who else thinks that term is obnoxious?). Facebook used with the wrong motives is invasive and just gets ugly. It does feel unnatural, and I’ve even heard it described as unfair to have this readily available portal into someone else’s life to which you would otherwise be completely closed off from. But society’s definition of what is natural must evolve along with modern technology. The advent of the telephone was once felt to be very unnatural. These sites are not going anywhere which is why I think everyone should engage in dialogue about the considerable and sometimes serious implications they have upon personal relationships instead of pretending to ignore them.

I told that to the only other half of a past relationship that I don’t keep in touch with after his picture made a surprise guest appearance in my inbox. I think we’re all in agreement that when it comes to social media, the ex-territory is the most treacherous of them all. Luckily, the rest of them I communicate with every so often via email, and otherwise keep up with them on, yep you guessed it, Facebook.

The key word at the end of the 2nd to last paragraph being pretend because you should be canonized if you’re a frequent user and you really and truly have never, ever gone on someone’s page you had no business being on; not even when you were younger; not even before you knew better; not even once. Pretty much everyone’s guilty of doing it once… but nothing justifies stalking. (I’d had some bad experiences in the past and stopped logging on to any sites for the better part of the year.) Some of the drama is avoidable with privacy settings. But even though it’s easy to extol the virtues of Facebook’s intricate system (which is far superior to the rest) and even though it gets much better as you get older, it’s impossible to make your profile completely impervious to the melodramatic sensitivities of others.

But whatever, just tell them to get over it.

No, tell them there are more important things to worry about – like how to promote agricultural productivity the face of hunger, poverty, and new challenges arising from the effects of climate change in Africa … and send them to the Morokoshi Facebook Page

And that brings me to my point (yes, I do have one). I’ve been intentionally marketing myself on Facebook for the past 4 months in preparation for a Morkoshi campaign, shall we call it? Oh me and my wily ways. I opened up most of my profile, made it entirely available to my networks, made a point of logging on frequently, made my pictures from Africa available to “everyone” (that’s been the big one), accepted all requests (at times that’s been tough), commented, tagged, and “like”ed away on other people’s profiles. I’ve received plenty of inquiries into my trip and how to get involved just from my pictures alone and the generous blog feedback has made me blush. I’ve made a more consistent attempt in general to keep up with friends scattered all over the place and this has its own rewards, far beyond my little scheme, of course. The Internet just makes it so gosh darn easy.

Almost every time I log onto Facebook I have a message waiting from someone who is a friend of a friend or someone I haven’t talked to in years or someone I barely know. I’ve really, really enjoyed this aspect to Facebook and it has given me a fresh perspective to the benefits of social networking sites.

This promotional strategy has definitely worked in terms of exposure. I get gchat confessions from self-proclaimed Facebook “stalkers.” Now we just have to see if it will pay off, literally, and translate into donations. I’ve made my profile amply available for it- stalk away… and then visit the the Morokoshi Page

Well, I’ve just lost a good 45 minutes to this. Whoops, at least it’s only 7. Early bird catches the worm, writes a blog about it, and then continues on with its day.

And just in case you missed the 3 other hyperlink plugs here is the link itself:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Morokoshi-Nursery-School/97869479897

And this is the link to the Youtube video:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=apohchbUJOQ

“Empire style” is how Bob (Rory’s father) described the manner in which we (Rory, his brother Kevin, Bob, and a family friend Tiffany) traveled the last 2 and a half weeks. Our whirlwind adventure through Kenya and Egypt included private planes and automobiles (alas, no trains), the creme de la creme of luxury hotels, tour guide coddling, a nile cruise, a too close for comfort encounter with a senile elephant, spending my golden birthday (25 on the 25th) beneath the shadows of the golden pyramids, and massive amounts of gourmet western cuisine.

It was a far cry from the simple lifestyle I have become accustomed to in Africa and I fear I suffered from some warped form of culture shock. I’m a hostel-hopping, backpack toting, nose stuck in a guide book, DIY traveling kind of girl. I’ll take developing over developed any day. It’s how I was raised Not that I’m complaining by any means. Empire style, particularly the food, was a welcomed change after 4 months of hard field work and bread and butter sandwiches. Still, I’m happy to be back at my little local coffee shop in Nakuru nestled in the corner couch, abusing the free wireless… not so happy about the 150 odd emails I am trying to sort through. Or the fact that I was unable to get the Morokoshi Facebook page up before I left. Or that I wasn’t able to get a head start planning my final 6 weeks in Kenya which will be comprised of a tour of various Red Cross branches throughout the country and possibly Uganda. Nakuru’s power outages the week prior to my departure made tying up a number of loose ends impossible before I left (which included a farewell blog and the stinking Facebook site).

Empire style in its truest form is apparently done sans Internet. While we stayed in “tents” (sure, there was canvas but each marble floored bathroom also had a bidet) at the same camp Hemingway and his contemporaries used for a hunting base, we were so remote the entire camp was lit by gas lanterns. They only kept the generator on for 4 hours a day so patrons could charge their camera batteries and not even Safaricom had service in that part of the Mara. Certainly there was internet access periodically on our trip, but said access would coincide with getting in late, succumbing to physical exhaustion as the soft linen lined down comforter beckoned, and having to be packed and ready for take off on a private plane 6 hours later (a waste of a perfectly good hotel room if you ask me – I’m a pillow person, at home I sleep with 5, in Nakuru I sleep with 1 that reminds me of a lumpy pancake… it was very, very hard for me to part with the bedding at the Cairo Four Seasons). Or access coincided with the night of my birthday which concluded in a cloud of shisha smoke at a local (legit) hookah bar after the Pyramid’s sound and light show instead of in front of my laptop (can you blame me?) or the cruise ship’s maliciously timed modem malfunctions. It’s just funny because while I could have champagne and caviar at the snap of a finger, I couldn’t have Internet when and where I wanted it.

Anyway that’s where I’ve been and why I’ve been MIA. I promised at least 10 posts before I left, I never promised weekly posts because I’ve always been fully aware of the potential for technology blackouts… I guess it’s good the Morokoshi Facebook site didn’t go up after all because I couldn’t have kept up with it anyway…and I’m rambling. The best way to talk about the trip is through pictures and probably the best forum for further descriptions will be Facebook notes on my personal profile (since my trip is not applicable to any SpanAfrica related activities whatsoever). I’m about to embark on another adventure of an entirely different nature in the next 6 weeks and the tsunami of productivity that will ensue won’t leave any room for massive amounts of picture posting until after I get back to the US.

TANGENT: Wow, it’s hard to believe I will be going home so soon – one word comes to mind: LOLA. LOLAAAAAA!!!!! That’s my black little snorting blob of an excuse for a dog around whom my sun rises and sets for those of you who don’t know… it’s gotten so bad that, in her absence, I’ve adopted two chickens I nursed back to health after they were almost mauled to death by the Gamba’s guard dogs. Their names are Scarface (because of a wound across the side of its face) and Tony Montana (suggested by Kevin who met them when we all had dinner at the Gamba’s). My chicks come to the sound of my voice and eat on my lap. I’m nervous to see how big they have gotten while I’ve been away. Chicks are adorable little fuzzballs. Chickens are kind of creepy and I don’t know how I’ll feel about full grown beaks pecking at my thighs.

Bob sent some emails to members of his family about the trip’s progress on his Blackberry throughout and he forwarded me one of them which I am pasting below. If he sends me the rest, I’ll put those up or email them out since I prefer his descriptions to my own. Hopefully that will tide everyone over until we can get the pictures up. Rory surprised me with a fabulous Nikon D-series for my birthday and then brought a second one to boot. I feel a photo trigger callous emerging on my index finger. It sounded like a modeling shoot was taking place in our safari vehicle at all times (even when there seemed to be nothing of interest to photograph). We have well over 10,000 pictures to go through – a good week-long process. That’s when the of the luxury of the digital age and film developing impunity comes to bite you in the ass.

Bob’s email :

Personally, I had a great Fathers Day with the Middleton Company ( as we now call ourselves) here in Kenya along with communications from home and news of Dad. All via my handheld blacberry about the size of a very narrow billfold. What a wonderous world!

We assembled pre-dawn at the launch site to be briefed on our balloon flight west over the Mara (meaning spotted land). We watched as the balloon was filled and climbed into our designated station once the heated balloon lifted the large rectangular basket off its side. Tiff and I shared one segmented corner with the pilot’s wife. Kev, Rory and Grace were behind us. The other two corners were filled with three persons each: a young Japanese couple, an Irish couple and a young lady aid worker from New York City. She was travelling with a fellow balloon pilot and old friend of our pilot, Markham. He is a globe trotting petroleum engineer who lived in Chicago for several years working for Amoco stationed among the fuel tanks in Northern Indiana.

Markham and his co-pilot took separate positions in the middle of the basket while a ground crew of maybe 10 Africans held the basket in place until the lift of hot air became overpowering. We were up, up and away as the sun rose over the vast Mara grasslands.

Floating in a basket suspended from a hot air balloon is nothing less than a pure delight. At times we drifted just abovethe tree tops – looking into eagle’s nests as if we were kin. Then we lowered to one or two feet off the ground brushing the top of the wild grass like a farmer caressing his young wheat crop under the sun. We went to elevation for an expansive view over the Mara, the Serenghetti and across to Tanzania.

After an hour we landed at fifteen knots (fast), smashing into a giant termite hill and being dragged sideways through the grass – Markham, his wife and his co-pilot laughing heartily throughout.The chase team had judged the landing, set up an elaborate field service and we had champagne and breakfast as new members of the survivors club. Of course we were all happy comrades and we enjoyed ourselves this morning gathered deep onto the open grasslands of the Mara. That was how my Fathers Day began.

East Pokot continued, bet you didn’t think I’d make the one-week deadline, did you

May 22

I woke up this morning to take a shower. I was not looking forward to standing in a 2×4 ft. stall adjacent to your typical Kenyan toilet- a hole in the ground; not to mention, last night they found a bag of clothes in the stall which solicited Yusuf’s snide remark,” Ah, it looks as though someone has made this his home.” I was understandably concerned about stumbling in upon a sleeping bum. The house is located at the top of a small hill and the outhouse lies at the foot. I skidded down the gravel to reach the stall with the sun already beating down at 6:45. Ever the gracious host, Yusuf boiled some water before I woke up, so at least it was a warm ‘shower’ which consisted of dipping a pitcher into a bucket and pouring water over myself. Luckily I had the foresight to bring my own washcloth which came in handy when drying off. The neighborhood children, two of whom I met yesterday, Isaac and Hifi, came out to watch me. I was also a little concerned about the lack of a latch because I wouldn’t put it past curious toddlers to try and take a peek at a naked mzungu.

Last night Yusuf and Akhim were telling me that the community is not shy whatsoever about nudity and that for a few weeks, an old man would come to wash next to their outhouse while the children gathered around to hear him tell stories as he bathed until finally their neighbor’s patience wore thin and she told him, “You have to stop that.” They tell me that out in the field many beneficiaries arrive wrapped in traditional cloth that they will open wide, fully exposing themselves without any hesitation, in order to adjust. I haven’t seen much nudity out in the field so far, but it’s not something I would be surprised or appalled by; however, it is very unacceptable to my housemates. After being out with them for a few days, it became apparent that some Red Cross East Pokot staff are in need of some good old fashion lessons in cultural political correctness – no pointing or guffawing allowed.

This region is the epitome of desert beauty. It is incredible how you can drive a mere 4 hours and find yourself in an entirely different universe. The contrast in colors are all deliciously intoxicating- from the caramel sand, to the chocolate mud, to the bright green cactus, to the blue-gray silhouette of the outlying hills; or a white cloud’s brilliance flanked by a murky storm cloud. I came here 2 months ago and it was like Cormac McCarthy’s nuclear wasteland – swells of dust rising in columns, dismally hot, dead-brown flora, animal carcasses, all that was missing were the cannibals. But the long rains have ignited East Pokot’s beauty -such is the magic of Africa.

World Food Program (WFP) is conducting a post-distribution monitoring assessment (PDM) at the different distribution points in the area. I’ve gone on a few of these before, most notably in Mwingo, the IDP camp with over 14,000 people living on 55 acres in tents. Ooops I’m sorry, that camp, by the way, isn’t an IDP camp; it’s a “transit camp.” These are found in rural areas out of public view (out of sight, out of mind) where the government relocated the IDPs for the ‘transition’ back to their homes. In doing so, the government can claim that 90% of the IDPs have returned home because they are no longer in the original camps first set up during PEV. This was the deceptive statistic Raila boasted during his speech at the opening of Parliament, which had Red Cross staff fuming over the proverbial water cooler the next morning.

Tangent Alert:

A few days ago (Friday, June 5), I was pleasantly surprised to find that the day’s BBC Global News Podcast featured a story about the continued plight of Kenya’s IDPs. I also laud whoever decided not to marginalize the story by broadcasting it only on the BBC Africa Today podcast; not that I’m criticizing that podcast, I love it, but I think the rest of their news podcasts conspicuously lack Africa-related content (unless the Somalis are living up to their hard-earned reputation) because of it.

The story opened with a woman still living in a camp outside Eldoret who put what I’ve seen quite succinctly when she told the reporter: “We are suffering, we don’t have shelter, the tents are torn, we don’t have blankets, no water, nothing.” Later the BBC interviewed Kenya’s Special Programs Minister, Naomi Shabom, and I transcribed some of what she said below (and put in my expletive laden two cents in italics):

“We had over 182 main camps all over the country following post-election, but as it is now, the only main camp which is remaining is the Eldoret camp, but the others are in different stages… quite a number of [IDPs] who have gone back to their farms, but in the farms because their houses have been torched down, they are in what we call transit camps, within their farms, and they can be able to access their farms (whoopdedo, they’re still living in shredded tents and have been neglected by the government for months, especially in the Rift after the cancellation of EMOP-PEV)

… Not everybody has received their money (referring to the 25,000 shillings promised to victims that only a handful I’ve met, and I’ve met a lot, have received. But most of them have received at least the first trunch of the money (bullsh**)… the 2^nd trunch of the money which we were supposed to have given them, they were supposed to be able to buy materials to start doing their shelters, but most of them used the money for other purposes [like seeking safety in numbers by pooling funds to purchase communal plots of land for group settlements- which also makes them sitting ducks come the next outbreak of ethnic violence, but that’s another issue]. So what as a government we’ve decided to do is to make sure that we are able to give them the materials for shelter or able to put up physical shelters for them

…In this budget which is going to be presented the next week, there should be money for internally displaced persons (we’ll see about that, the joint coalition says IDPs don’t exist remember?) and we are going to embark on 2^nd phase of payments towards internally displaced persons (but you got no where near finishing the first)… This issue is not as simple as people think it is. It is very, very complicated (yeah, corruption’s a bitch). It is complicated in the sense that you come in today with the people you have registered, tomorrow the numbers have increased, so it’s a matter of looking at it and knowing who are the genuine IDPs and who are not genuine IDPs…

[reporter asks question about those people who are exploiting IDP status]In any crisis opportunists usually take advantage of a situation (like the endemically corrupt Kenyan government), the longer these people stay, the longer we have other people declaring themselves to be IDPs (those “other people,” Kenya’s masked IDP impersonating villains, have been propagandized by the gov’t to serve as scapegoats for gov’t failure to implement policies and follow through on promises made after the PEV. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they exist, but when we were in the camps, the IDPs trying to get added to the registries were orphaned teenagers taking care of their 5 siblings, not conmen] and at the end we are now just dealing with the registered IDPs and I’m sure we will be able to deal with the problem and realize our goal. (you might also want to mention other “problems” that arise out of prolonged residence in camps like: high rates of infant mortality, spread of disease, rape, assault, theft, restricted education, water contamination, etc) And our goal was, actually by now we should have cleared with the camps completely (18 months later -no sh**, Sherlock), and people should have been going on with their basic livelihoods

This is my favorite part, and transcription cannot do justice to her slapstick, knee-jerk recital of party line that echoes a jack-in-the-box in audio

…[reporter: “Is the government able to ensure the safety of all IDPs]”Ooooo (I’m not making this up, she actually began with “oooo”) the security has been beefed up, in fact that is not a problem at all, at all. (because that second “at all” really puts to rest any doubts I might have had about your professional competence after you disregarded the gravity of the question with your excited “oooo,” but the rest of the answer puts no doubt in my mind that your mental stability should come under serious scrutiny) The gov’t has put in a lot of its resources to make sure that security has been beefed up (is that really the only phrase you can come up with to describe a system in complete disarray that is supposed to be responsible for thousands of lives?). In most of those areas, the ones which were most volatile, we’ve done 38 police stations and they’ve got personnel (well it’s good to know Kenya is staffing their police force- phew) and all those people (trails off) … actually there’s no problem with security, that one I can say without fear or favor.” What the **** does that even mean?, and if there is no problem with security why are there militias in Molo? Why are host-communities in Njoro extorting relief food out of Red Cross by threatening reprisals on nearby transit camp inhabitants?

End o’ Tirade

Today I tagged along with the team conducting the community PDM, which involves gathering a group of about 30-40 community members for a group survey to obtain baseline information on the severity of various strategies related to food access. We spent a couple of hours prior to this at a training session teaching the food monitoring staff how to use the new Windows Mobile program version of the standard PDM survey. This was tedious to say the least and I think WFP is opening itself up for a lot of statistical error by introducing this technology. The paper surveys were never that long to begin with (1 page, 2-sided) and time sacrificed for subsequent data entry might be worth avoiding incomplete or inaccurate information, buuut I’m not sure how much WFP pays attention to these surveys to begin with. I’m trying really hard right now to restrain myself from going off on a tirade about WFP.

So the person who conducts the survey presents a coping strategy and then the members being interviewed must come to a consensus, ranking the frequency of use on a scale from 1-5; 1= do it every year, 3 =do it some years when there is hardship, 5 = never do it, etc. Sometimes it can take a while for everyone present to come to an agreement. Examples of coping strategies in the face of food shortage on the survey are: household migration, abandonment of children or elderly, consumption of seed stock, withdrawing children from school.

Some notes I took during this interview that might be of interest:

-Community frequently resorts to cooking poisonous fruits which they boil for 6 -12 hours depending on the size of the fruit, ostensibly to kill the poison.

– Group got hung up on coping strategy described in survey as “begging or engaging in degrading jobs.” Community definition of degrading jobs included: man taking care of an infant, digging latrines, doing someone’s laundry, burying dead for a nearby hospital – this last one was interesting because it turns out that this community is petrified of cadavers and holds absolutely no burial ceremony for the deceased, bodies are taken out of village boundaries and left to rot… guess that’s one way to skin a cat.

- All answers within similar range to community interviewed the previous day except for “feed working members at expense of non-working members” which this group said they do every year, prioritizing herders walking livestock long distances to graze above everyone else, the group from the day before said they never do it.

Monthly Rations (in kilos/person):

Maize: 10.35

CSB (corn soy blend): 1.2 (reduced from 1.8)

Pulses (vegetables, usually peas): 1

Oil: .4L (reduced from .6L)

Because my podcast tangent took up a lot of space, I’m going to partition this trip into 3 posts, so more to come from East Pokot within the week (because it has to get done before next Monday because that is when the Middletons arrive and we go on safari and then to Egypt!)

Photos:

paired with this blog, Desert Beauty: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2129676&id=2805922&l=303e2ca30c

Under African Skies: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2129071&id=2805922&l=56222dc2e5

Mtoto on My Back: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2128864&id=2805922&l=20823b1c9b

Mombasa: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2128719&id=2805922&l=ac13e230ee

Red Cross Nakuru Charity Walk: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2127083&id=2805922&l=6bd03006a4

On the Road: Kenya: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2126305&id=2805922&l=1757d59e2d

A Day in the Life of a Food Monitor: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2126228&id=2805922&l=0eda38fbbe

Elephant Orphanage: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2126227&id=2805922&l=c08e5ac73e