Kenya Exposure

I went to Kenya two weeks ago to visit Ester's family and see the Masai Mara. Here's what happened...

Binti, Baba & Sandrin ~ Daughter, Daddy & Sandrin

Two weeks into living in Uganda, I was standing next to the dining table one afternoon when Ester walked up to me and simply handed me a picture of a young girl. I said, “She is cute. Who is she?” Ester said it was her daughter. I exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were a mommy! What’s her name?” “Her name is Asher,” she replied smiling. I didn’t realize until the day before Ester and I left for Kenya to pick up her daughter that Asher was the girl’s last name. Her first is Natalie.

Because there was no one to watch Natalie after school when she lived in Uganda a couple of years before, she had gone to live with Ester’s sister, Harriet, in Mumias, Kenya. Now that Natalie is older and her schooling lasts all day, Ester wanted to bring her back to Uganda where the education is better and, of course, so she could be closer to her daughter.

Ester and I arrived in Mumias in the late afternoon on Monday, the 20th. We walked through the outdoor market in the fading light and bought a few bags of groceries for Harriet, who has two little ones of her own, Sandrin and Lawrence. I asked Ester if I could put the bags in the kitchen. She said, “No, just set them here.” We sat in the front room furnished with a couch, coffee table, a couple of chairs, and a cabinet. After some time, I realized that the entrance to the rest of the home on the far side of the room that had a white woven cloth for a door, lead only to a bedroom where the parents and three children slept on mattresses on the floor. Their bathroom was the big rocks on the side of building, or the wooden outhouse in the courtyard. The kitchen was a small, portable charcoal stove used outside weather permitting, otherwise lit inside choking the house with grey smoke. The dishes were done in a pot behind the chair. I had been aware of the Balaza’s relative wealth to other Africans, but the vague became tangible that evening in the airless room.

The sitting room was decorated like most I’ve seen in Africa. From the off-white paint walls soiled with dirt smudges, insect remains and greasy hand prints hung outdated calendars and religious pictures and prints. Harriet’s wall had something a little unique: a photograph of two children sitting facing each other above the words, “kindness is loving someone more than they deserve.”

The kids were excited to have visitors, especially to have a mzungu in the home. Sandrin and Natalie looked and acted like twins; speaking to each other in hushed murmurs; exchanging quick, understanding looks; giggling suddenly over a secret joke. Lawrence is known as Baba, which is appropriate because he thinks himself a daddy. So little and so animated, I would laugh at him despite not knowing what he was saying. He would swagger and stomp, talking aloud to the room, shaking his finger and throwing comical glances. Once when stopped from doing something by his parents, he started teasing “I’m gonna make you cry. I’m gonna make you cry. I am getting my cane.” In the car the next day, he was leaning into the front seats and his sister told him to quit. He starting exclaiming in Swahili, “Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?” Over and over and over. He’s just two and a half.

The following morning I hired a private driver who took all of us to the Kakamega Forest Reserve about an hour away from their home. As I mentioned in a previous blog, most Africans can’t afford to attend their parks and reserves, and the only thing more rewarding to me than trekking through a deserted virgin forest was watching Harriet and the kids’ delight. Through the mass of green leaves and vines we watched three different kinds of monkeys play in the branches above our heads.

We also picnicked in the clearing in the front of the park, and walked through a small educational building and saw preserved snakes and butterflies. From morning till night the kids thrilled in doing the unusual: eating an egg for breakfast, riding in a car, drinking mango juice, looking at pictures in my camera.

That evening, and the one before, Ester and I slept in the hotel on the other side of Harriet’s courtyard. It cost the equivalent of $3 a night. At the end of the small hall outside our perfunctory room was a shared sink. On the concrete wall above it were the sloppily painted words Toilet-Shower and an arrow to an adjacent room the size of a broom closet. The sign was quite literal. In the ground was a non-flushing toilet. Above was a shower head. It smelled, well, like a toilet, but the bathing water was steaming hot.

Akuna Mazuri ~ There Is No Good

Early the following morning Ester, Little Natalie and I left for the Masai Mara, Kenya’s premier safari destination with sweeping savannas, abundant wildlife and the famed indigenous tribe, the Masai. Studying the map, the Mara appeared about 90 direct kilometers from Mumias, maybe 150 driving kilometers. We reasoned it would take about 6 hours using African roads taking African public transportation. We miscalculated by about 10 hours. The trip to the Mara proved to be as memorable as the safari drives we took the following three days.

The staging area for the Mara, Naruk, is on the eastern side, but we approached from the west. We realized en route that we would have to travel an additional 100 kilometers to the opposite of the Mara and then double back. We also inadvertently took a more circuitous course by traveling via matatus (Kenyan term for taxi minivans) from Mumias to Kisimu to Kisii to Naruk. The stop in Kisii was unnecessary and added 3 hours onto our trip.

The positive in all of the road travel is being to say that I have seen virtually all of Western Kenya, which actually isn’t such a great thing to be able to say. The landscape varies little; maize field after maize field; little town after little town. At one point we dropped down through a series of rocky hills to climb again to an elevation that left the land desolate, wind-blown and spotted with tall, twisting cactus. The people walked in fleeces and shawls amidst the visibly blown dust; reminding me vaguely of a scene from the Southwest U.S. From there we dropped again into the flat plains of the Mara and continued for another hour onto Naruk. When we finally arrived tired and irritated in the late afternoon, the buses had already left for the day, forcing us to hire a taxi. The drivers assured us they knew how to get to the town in the middle of the Mara, Talek.

After veering off the paved road it became apparent that a four wheel drive would have been a better choice over a small car. We rattled, bounced, lurched and stumbled along the dust and rubble, then, BANG! - a large rock flying up against the underside metal as if trying to shoot through the floor. “These guys are professionals,” I assured myself. Smiling. Still hopeful.

Now it was completely dark. The kind of darkness that envelopes you; the kind you never experience living in or near a city. The only perceivable light radiated from a myriad of overhead stars, the occasional Masai flashlights flickering to our sides, and pairs of animal eyes darting along the road ahead. Gazelles. Zebras. And WHOAH a giraffe! We were told the trip from Naruk to Talek took 2 hours and it had already been that long. Surely we were close.

The dusty path then gave way to a mud, which overcame our tires as easily as melted wax. While helping us past our first mud trap, the Masai ranger said we were only about 40 minutes away. Twenty minutes later we stopped for almost an hour as the driver walked and studied a series of mud hills and streams in our direct path. After traversing over this and worse for another 2 hours, we were finally, completely, impenetrably stuck. From the darkness emerged the Masai to assist. Ester, Mini Me and I sat in the car as 11 of them tried pulling, pushing and lifting the car out of a patch of mud that went on for 70 yards. They left us to return with a vehicle that they claimed could clear the road. As they disappeared back into the night, we finally convinced the operator of our campsite, Peter, to pick us up. He arrived in a proper safari vehicle apologizing for our long journey, but annoyed that the cabbie had taken a different road than instructed on the phone; a road that he described as “the worst in the whole Mara.”

Akuna Matata ~ There Is No Terrible

The next day was one of the greatest of my life. We awoke early despite going to bed late for our first ever safari game drive. We were visiting the Mara during the rainy season, which meant we were the only people at our campsite; therefore, the only guests that the staff had to wait on and the only passengers in our safari jeep with Peter, also the campsite’s safari guide. The morning light shined clearly on the gently sloping green hills and the animals that covered them. All of the savannah wildlife I had seen in National Geographic, on the Discovery Channel, and at the zoo was there, grazing, napping, playing, hunting and… copulating.

After driving past herds of zebra, gazelles, topi and some wart hogs in our first few moments on the reserve, I asked Peter the likelihood of seeing lions. Not 15 minutes later we saw two mating in the tall grass.

It would be the first of several times we would come across lions over the next three days, and the first of two times I would see them copulating. Their love-making is quite a sight. It lasts for maybe 30 seconds and usually the female roars at the male upon completion because, if not done properly, his removal is painful. I joked with the Peter that I hoped she at least got dinner out of it, but apparently she doesn’t get that either. When mating, lions will not do anything for a week besides copulate a few to several times an hour.

The only way to describe our three days on the Mara is as absolute bliss. Not only was the entire campsite and staff at our disposal, the reserve was virtually deserted of tourists. Alone rolling over the grassland, we saw every animal on the Mara except for the elusive leopards and white rhinos. A highlight was watching brother cheetahs lazily lounge next to some shrubs, then attempt to hunt a jackal, only to be run off by a herd of elephants.

Even Peter, a Masai having lived on the Mara his whole life, described it as “amazing.” We also saw a number of baby elephants slowly amble and graze with their mothers and aunts, cousins and sisters. I’ve decided there is nothing cuter in the world than a young elephant. They play with their trunks; whirling them in the air, over their heads, curling them tightly, launching them quickly. This one is giving me a good luck pose!

Our morning walk through the reserve on the second day was also memorable. We told Peter that we were interested in walking rather than driving, so he drove us into the park entrance and gave us a pep talk before sending us off:

Peter: So you know. There is no, like, animal insurance. If you get stepped on by an elephant, that’s it (clapping hands hard). Now if an elephant charges you, run down a slope. And get out of the wind. They smell you from far away. They don’t like crossing water, so try and run across a river. If a hippo charges, they are fast. Run straight ahead then make a sharp turn in one direction. If a water buffalo charges, go up a tree.

(Big Natalie and Ester looking at each ot

her wide-eyed and laughing. We also know there are not many trees or rivers.)

BN: Do you still want to do this?

Ester: Yes. (laughing)

BN: Do you still want to take her? (pointing to Little Natalie)

Ester: Yes. (laughing) This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

Peter: If you come across a lion, DON’T RUN. Try and look big.

BN: I have a whistle. Should I use that?

Peter: Yes.

BN: Can I use that on all of the animals?

Peter: Yes

BN: Shoot. I forgot my pepper spray in the tent.

Peter: I don’t think you will have a problem (slowly, gazing past us at the land)

Yeah, a whistle against a lion. Anyone willing to take that bet?

We weren’t alone though. Accompanying us was Daniel, a very funny Masai who the day before, without being asked, told Ester he was too young to get married. For the rest of the trip we privately referred to him as Ester’s future husband.

Ester’s finance entertained us with stories about the Masai as we strolled through the reserve for the next 4 hours. He told us that the Masai send their teenage sons into the wilderness for a week of hunting training where they only eat meat, blood and milk. They must kill several types of animals with their spears, including an elephant. If they run away, the others will spear them.

I asked him if the Masai ever used guns. Ester often had to translate into and out of Swahili since his English was poor. He would talk, she would start laughing, then pause, and retell me. He claimed that the Masai were too hot-headed to own guns because whenever neighbors quarrel they spear each other. He also said there was deadly poison at the end of his spear. Later that afternoon Peter told us that the poison was found only on the arrow tips, not on the spears. Daniel lost quite a bit of credibility with me with that one, but whether real or creative, his stories were fascinating nonetheless.

Through talking with Daniel, we also learned that the Masai were allowed to take their herds of cattle onto certain parts of the reserve at specific times. The indigenous animals, particularly the carnivores, move to the other side of the park because they are afraid of the Masai. Peter obviously had us walk through the area with the cows and few wild animals, although he didn’t make that clear in advance. This is quite common I’ve noticed with Africans; they do not fully, directly explain themselves like Americans, which can be frustrating for me at times.

We walked past zebras, gazelles and a large family of giraffe, but no elephants, hippos, water buffalo, or lions. Gesturing wildly, Daniel proclaimed that two weeks prior he and his brother had killed an adult male lion that had slaughtered their cattle. He also proudly offered that the animals run when they see the Masai’s inconspicuous, vibrant clothing. Ester and I felt more secure after learning this, even as we passed along a grassy clearing strewn with bones. Daniel looked at the remains and said, “Lions eat here.”

Tukutuku Kenya ~Rough Kenya

Walking through Mumias on the first evening I sensed a difference from Uganda; a subtle underlying disturbance. The people did not smile and greet me as I passed; they eyed me studiously and distantly. When we disembarked from matatus during our trip to the Mara, people would flood toward me, harassing me, asking me where I was going, pleading and cajoling, occasionally just sticking their hand in my face for money. I now understand why Ugandans describe Kenyans as “rough.”

Kenyan culture is distinct from Uganda, as is their land. Western Kenya is the country’s agricultural basket, but its fertility can’t hold a mango branch to Uganda. The only crops I saw sail by my matatu window kilometer after kilometer were maize and sugar cane. At market maybe one person sold overripe bananas and a couple of vendors offered mangos. Ester, who is Ugandan, but spent most of her life in Mumias, tells me that Kenyans import their fresh produce from Uganda.

Ester also explained Mumias life to me. It is a small city home to a large sugar company that attracts people looking for work from tribes all over Kenya. One night after dinner in the Mara Ester said:

“It’s all mixed up. The Masai are in Mumias too. They come. They come from all over [Kenya] to get work. Most people just get up in the morning and go to town. They sit all day. Try to get a few shillings. So many people are idle.

Maybe they can afford to go to school, but not food. They don’t take breakfast. At lunch they go home for sugarcane. You see them. You see them walking with just sugarcane. Maybe they take dinner at night. A lot don’t go to school…

So many people are idle. They come and they live in horrible conditions. They pay rent, but the place is no good.”

I asked her why the people who never found work in Mumias didn’t return home. She shook her head and said, “They don’t have money. They can’t save the money for the ticket. They just die there and are buried there. ”

This is not simply a Mumias story, but an African one. I watched a documentary on suffering in urban South Africa the other night and shook my head. It revealed a situation that I now understand; that I have now witnessed: people languishing in cities and towns with nothing to do.

An article in BBC Focus on Africa described African urbanization rates rivaling that of China and India, which surprised me. The following statement, that African economic development fell far behind, did not. Countless impoverished rural Africans move to cities attracted by the prospect of jobs, services and infrastructure not available in villages and small towns. Some move and do find work. Maybe some are able to educate their children. Others might have running water. But many suffer in slums with no jobs, no education, no clean water, no food, no money, no opportunities. So many people are idle.

Rest of Kenya pictures here.