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...to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) thatcrazycajun, beloved companion, loving partner and dear friend, with deep affection, across too many miles. Today, especially, I miss you. I wish I could deliver birthday hugs in person... Be happy, mo chara. Celebrate yourself and the unique gift you are, and know that you are - always - loved.
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Lilith (one of my two calico cats) has developed a peculiar method for getting my attention.
She "hunts" my shoes and carries them upstairs to me, calling in a particularly strident tone. This continues until she finds me (in either office or bedroom) and drops the shoe at my feet. Delivery accomplished, she leaps up onto my lap, the loudness of her purr clear evidence of how pleased she is with herself.
A variation of the game gets played at about 3am, when any shoes I have been unwise enough to leave accessible will be dragged to my bedroom door, accompanied by the same insistent call. If shoes are unavailable, towels from the hall bath will do; once she dragged the kitchen rug upstairs.
Apparently, since both my mother and partner are 8,000+ miles away, Lily has decided it's her job to nag me about putting things away....
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Opposition MP Mugabe Were was shot and killed at the gate of his home in Nairobi late Monday night. The police "aren't ruling anything out", and there's widespread belief among opposition supporters that this was an assassination.
In response, violence flared again across the country; police report that 22 more people were killed today.
This afternoon Kofi Annan formally opened negotiations between President Mwai Kibaki and the opposition leader, Raila Odinga. The two leaders observed a moment of silence for those killed in the post-election violence, and issued calls for peace that were broadcast live, nation-wide.
"Unless we here resolve to act quickly to save our nation, we will have no nation to save," said Odinga.
"I urge all our leaders to go to their regions and urge wananchi (citizens) to pursue peace," Kibaki said.
However, their positions regarding the outcome of the election remain far apart . Kibaki has made it clear that he will not step down. Odinga insists that only a re-run election will be acceptable.
Annan has stated that he thinks the "immediate political issues" can be resolved in 4 weeks, and that it will probably take a year to address the damage done in this past month. Sadly, this seems overly optimistic to me...I hope I'm wrong.
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Happy birthday hugs and scritches to autographedcat, dear friend and all-around great guy. Your friendship was one of the best things to come out of my time in Atlanta. I miss you.
And a belated happy birthday to starmalachitewhose decision to get married on her birthday offers her sweetie future opportunities to forget two important occasions simultaneously. (Not that he would...) A bouquet of hugs to you, my dear; you were my first friend in filk, and the kindest of guides.
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Hugs and the very warmest of wedding congratulations to starmalachiteand stevemb! (I'm so sorry that I couldn't be there. I tried to delay my transfer, but you know how the USG can be...)
I hope it was wonderful - and that some kind soul will be posting pictures.
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Some of you may have heard the reports of an explosion in downtown Nairobi, caused by what may have been a suicide bomber. Here's one of the many news stories:
http://uk.reuters.com/article/worldNews/idUKL1153359220070611?pageNumber=1
It could have been worse, but it's still pretty shocking to have this happen here. Understandably, people are concerned, although it's too soon to be sure what really happened; the Kenyan police are investigating, and our Regional Security Office is keeping a close eye on developments. The incident has not as yet been tied to any organization.
This happened miles away from my home and office - I'm perfectly safe. Tomorrow I leave for 9 days in Kigali, Rwanda, and the PEPFAR HIV/AIDS Implementers' Meeting, where I expect to have little to no internet access. By the time I return, the dust should have settled and the security issues will be clearer.
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Another Embassy employee was the victim of a carjacking Saturday evening, but was not injured. He was driving alone when an oncoming vehicle blocked his path; four men, at least one of who had a gun, robbed him of cell phon, cash and other items. They then drove him around for a while before releasing him and his vehicle, unharmed. While driving around, they saw hos creit cards and asked for the PINS; he was able to persuade them that because he did all his banking at the Embassy, the cards had no PINs. He also successfully talked them out of going to his home.
This was relatively early in the evening, in what would generally be considered a safe neighborhood. Fortunately, the driver was not injured, but once again the community is disturbed by how random these events are.
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I'm glad I'm not dependent on local transport...
We've had some ugly incidents in Kenya recently, involving a violent gang (the Mungiki) that has been shaking down matatu drivers in a mafia-style protection racket. Drivers are charged a fee to travel their routes; those who refused to pay have been abducted and beaten. A few have disappeared and are feared dead.
On Tuesday and Wednesday, matatu operators on several major routes went on strike, in protest of these extortionate practices and the ineffective action of authorities. Hundreds of passengers were stranded. There were outbreaks of violence, as groups of matatu drivers burned several homes belonging to suspected gang members. The police went in and established order, with over 53 arrests made, and matatu service resumed Thursday. However, tensions remain.
On Thursday, the government has announced the formation of an elite police unit tasked with tracking down the Mungiki and ending their predatory activities. They also have the difficult task of identifying police officers who, it is believed, have colluded with the gang. Matatu drivers have been advised not to take matters into their own hands, but many are skeptical of the ability of the police to protect them. An association of matatu drivers and operators has reaffirmed their determination to go after the gang in order to protect themselves and their livelihoods.
Sadly, more violence seems likely, especially if the new task force fails to deliver...
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How are we to respond to the poor? Assuming that we do not simply look away, what response do justice and mercy demand?
These are not academic questions.
Just a few kilometers from where I am writing this, about 1.5 million people live in the notorious Kibera and Mathare slums. Half of them are under the age of 20.
Kibera, one of Africa's largest slums, sprawls across the valley below my office. From that vantage point, one sees a patchwork of rusting corrugated metal roofs, clustered so closely together that the lanes between buildings are barely visible. Each roof shelters a 10 x 10 foot shack made of corrugated metal, which may house up to a dozen people. There are no services: no electricity, no streetlights, no running water, no sanitary facilities, no waste disposal. When you go down into Kibera, the first thing you see is heaps of trash. The smell, an indescribable mix of rotting garbage and raw sewage, makes your eyes water.
The slum filling Mathare Valley is similar, but suffers even more environmental degradation due to its proximity to the Industrial Area, as industrial waste is dumped in or near the river. Higher up the valley, overcrowded and crumbling concrete apartment blocks look out over the the metal shacks. Near the river, the most desperate construct shacks of cardboard and tar paper.
There are markets, lively with street vendors and little kiosks selling food, clothing, shoes, handicrafts...music and dance bursting forth in unexpected places...energetic children playing in open spaces...but the fierce vitality doesn't hide the reality of dying infants, abused women, and exhausted and despairing parents.
Both Kibera and Mathare, like similar slums worldwide, are places where human dignity is constantly under assault. Due to the lack of toilets, residents relieve themselves in black plastic sacks and then toss them onto their neighbors' rooftops. (Locals call these "flying toilets.") There are a few blocks of pit toilets scattered around the community, but many are unusable due to overflowing filth. They may also be dangerous. Mathare girls tell horror stories about the "mambo kotto toilets " - a block of toilets behind a local primary school. The name comes from the gang that hangs around the toilets; a girl who doesn't run fast enough risks being dragged into a stinking toilet, stripped and repeatedly raped. "Flying toilets" become the only safe option, although you can imagine the public health implications of their disposal.
Many residents live in what the UN calls extreme poverty, subsisting on less than a dollar (about 72 shillings) a day. While few have formal sector employment (what you and I think of as jobs), nearly everyone engages in informal employment. They carry water from the water-sellers, pick through trash for recyclable metal or glass, sell cooked or uncooked food...even young children work, coming home from school to fetch water or serve as house-girls. Some residents earn money selling drugs or illegally brewed liquor, or themselves. Earning a dollar a day is hard, and it's not enough to meet basic needs: it costs 21 dollars a month to rent a metal shack, and over 10 dollars a month for five liters of clean water a day. Add to that the cost of food, firewood or kerosene for cooking, clothing, shoes, medical care (when available)...
Their poverty is compounded by crime, domestic violence, addiction, gender inequality, inadequate education, and disease. In Mathare, 27% of the population is HIV+, the highest seropositivity rate in all of Kenya. One in seven children born in a Kenyan slum will die before reaching his or her fifth birthday. (Among rural children, the death rate is one in nine.) Most die of diarrheal disease or influenza. Schools are unbelievably crowded, with as many as 120 children crowding into classrooms built for 30. Young girls often bring younger siblings to school, because there is no one else to care for them. Out of school, they may be forced into prostitution to raise money for their families. Children of both sexes who don't bring home enough money to their parents may be beaten, or thrown out of the house. Street children, many orphaned by HIV, prowl the streets at night, forming associations that later mature into gangs.
All of this is sobering. Add to it the knowledge that what I see in these two settlements is a tiny fraction of the problem. Nearly a billion people across the world struggle to survive under similar - or even worse - conditions. A billion. I can't seem to get my mind around it. That's about three times the entire US population.
What does one do in response to such knowledge?
In my mind's eye I look out over Kibera and see my brothers and sisters struggling just to survive. I don't want to forget, to fly back to Atlanta and my comfortable life, to shrug and say "what can I do after all?"
Once, living in blighted East Germantown, Philadelphia, I thought I had come to understand something about poverty. For over twenty-four years I worshiped and worked with a faith community that followed St. Vincent de Paul's dedication to the poor, not as charity , but as the work of justice. It was that charism that led me into public health, and, eventually here.
Now, I wrestle anew with the question: what does it mean to stand in solidarity with the poor?
I'm no saint. I like my creature comforts as much as anyone. I doubt I'd be willing, as once I was in Germantown, to live side by side with my poorer neighbors in Kibera. And I never know how to respond when someone says "I couldn't do what you do", when I feel that I don't do much at all, measured against the enormity of the world's need. I'm here for such a short time; even if I get the two-year posting I'm considering, this place could absorb all I could do for several lifetimes. I do what I can, but I will always wish it were more.
So, my friends...
If I were a gifted enough writer, I would bring the slums of Nairobi to life for you, in all their mingled vitality and anguish, but I fear my words are hopelessly inadequate. All I can do is tell you some of what I have come to know, and ask you again the questions with which I opened:
How are we to respond to the poor? Assuming that we do not simply look away, what response do justice and mercy demand?
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Program Evaluation is the Obsession du Jour at CDC-Kenya.
This litte ditty has been circulating around the office, courtesy of friends at the World Bank - "The Output, Outcome Downstream Impact Blues" written by Terry Smutylo. It's an entertaining look at a thorny problem. http://www.idrc.ca/uploads/user-S/10960530301karaoke.swf
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Yesterday my flatmate Gehmelle and I went out to Karen, a small town outside of Nairobi. We visited the Karen Blixen Museum - the house used in the filming of Out of Africa. At one time, the estate included a large coffee plantation that stretched to the base of the Ngong Hills and employed, at its peak of operation, 700 people. The town is named after her. It's very much an ex-pat and white Kenyan haven, with big gated housing estates, a golf course, and upscale shops, as well as several schools favored by ex-pats and wealthy Kenyans. It's also much quieter than my Nairobi neighborhood - you can hear an amazing variety of bird calls.
The Blixen house itself is interesting, and you can also view the remains of the coffee factory a short distance away. The museum exhibits include much of the original furniture, as well as some artifacts from the film; particularly intriguing are Blixen's paintings of local people, and the stories attached to them. One is a striking painting of a young Kikuyu woman, who is reputed to have warranted the highest bride price of any woman on the estate. An edition of Zipporah, Wife of Moses that I saw at a local bookshop features cover art that strongly resembles the painting. Another painting depicts a young Somali boy, the nephew of the house steward; Blixen saw to his schooling and he became the first Somali judge in Kenya.
From the museum we went to the Kazuri Beads and Pottery Workshop, built on land that was once part of the coffee plantation. "Kazuri" means small and beautiful in Swahili - an apt description for both the beads and the business. About 120 women, most of them single mothers, are employed in the workshop, where they make ceramic beads by hand. It's fascinating to walk through the factory and talk to the women; they are proud of the beautiful work they do, and are generous in explaining how they make the different designs. They seem happily employed; the factory is filled with ther chatter and laughter. I'll post photos when I can; I also promised I'd send copies to the shop steward. (Kenyans seem to love it when you use digital cameras and then show them the resulting photograph on the display; these women were no different, and many asked if they could have copies.)
Kazuri Beads was established by Lady Susan Wood, whose jewelry-making hobby morphed in 1975 into a workshop when she became aware of the great need for employment among women. Most of the women here are single mothers, although some have been here so long that they are now grandmothers. (I met one of the early employees, a Luo woman who spoke little English, but was clearly the matriarch of her working circle. ) Because unemployment is so high, a single worker at the factory may be the only wage earner in an extended family of a dozen or more individuals.
Of course I bought some of their work. (It's fabulous! Check out some sample designs here, from an American outlet: http://www.kazuriwest.com/kwcat/#) I tend to do early holiday shopping when I travel, and my female relatives at home are more likely to wear Kazuri beads than Maasai bangles. Kazuri beads are sold all over the world, often at about $60 for an 18-inch necklace; the same necklace sells here for about half that price.
(Hmmn, maybe I should consider becoming a licensed dealer.)
So we came, we saw, we did a little shopping, we learned a few more words in Ki-Swahili...not a bad way to spend a Saturday.
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In my last post I mentioned the ongoing matatu crisis.
For the uninitiated, a matatu is the most common form of public transport in Kenya. Minibuses as alternative mass transit are common in many developing countries; bus routes run limited routes and schedules, and taxis (when available) are too expensive for most people. Minibuses offer both alternative transport and economic opportunity for their owner-operators. In Kenya, however, matatus became more than simple transport; they entered into folklore.
I saw many of them on my last visit to Kenya, twelve years ago. They were rolling street art: painted in bright colors, with lettering and designs reminiscent of the most exuberant subway graffiti. Dozens would gather at matatu stands, each blaring out a different type of music, while touts vied for customers, shoving as many as 30 people into a 14-passenger vehicle. They were also the most dangerous thing in Kenya; matatu accidents killed thousands every year. No wonder many bore names like "Sudden Death" and "Fast Track to Heaven."
We would see them up-country, stuffed full of passengers, roof-top tarps covering a pile of bundles three feet high, madly careening at 100 KPH along rutted dirt roads. We saw more than one wreck, and the newspapers in Nairobi featured daily headlines along the lines of "Matatu Horror at Langata: 4 dead, 15 in hospital."
Fast forward a bit to 2003, when the Kenyan government banned matatus outright unless they submitted to regulation. Matatus could carry no more than 14 passengers, were required to bear a yellow stripe clearly identifying the route, and had to be equipped with seat belts and speed governors; the latter are designed to prevent acceleration beyond 80 KPH. Matatu owners swiftly complied, and the death toll on Kenyan roads dropped significantly. Many of the more flamboyant matatus disappeared from the roads around Nairobi, replaced by white Nissan minibuses; while most still bear names (MAnU passes my apartment building at 7:30, followed shortly by Amazing Grace), they have lost their distinctive character. (I'm told that old-style matatus still flourish in Mombasa.)
Unfortunately, in the last few years, it's become apparent that the matatu drivers aren't quite playing by the rules. Many disable the speed governors; since a driver's income depends on the number of trips he can make ina day, there's an economic incentive to speed, and to drive even when exhausted. Passengers are lax about seat belt use, and drivers only demand passengers buckle up when approaching a police checkpoint. The vehicles are also generally poorly maintained, and are driven erratically. As a Kenyan friend pointed out, it's usually easier and cheaper to pay the police bribes than to spend money on maintenance.
(This isn't entirely a problem for some of the police, who frankly rely on bribes to make ends meet. I've been stopped at a few checkpoints myself; the officers seemed quite disappointed to find us all wearing seat belts.)
A few weeks ago, just before the start of school, the government began a systemic inspection of all matatus in Nairobi, impounding any they deemed unroadworthy. (This is to extend nation-wide.) As a result, many matatu drivers stopped driving into the city, leaving their passengers stranded at the city limits. The papers were full of complaints about the unfair tactics of the government, the greed and carelessness of matatu drivers, and so on. There's still service in Nairobi, but I have seen fewer of the older matatus on the road; the local wisdom is that the government wants to put all matatus out of business, in order to force people to use the city bus system. The government of course is insisting that this is about public safety.
This is likely to be a long battle...
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Here in Kenya, it's just another Monday; the big news stories are the continuing matatu crisis and the emergence of a new political party. Unless I turn on CNN or the BBC news, I am very far away from what I gather has been a veritable onslaught of press coverage, commemorations, documentaries, dramatizations, interviews, analyses and Reflections on What We Lost.
That's just as well - the few moments of BBC coverage that I stumbled across on Sunday were enough to stir memories that are all too painful. And I wouldn't expect Kenyans to be absorbed with our tragedy..
Nevertheless, it has seemed odd to move through this day with the anniversary unmentioned. It's probaby the time when I've felt most acutely alone in a strange land.
No matter the distance, I remember...
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I should say this at the beginning, and get it out of the way: I am generally so shy that on bad days I can barely manage to ring a stranger on the telephone. (Perhaps some readers can relate.) As I begin this journal, I find myself struggling with that shyness; it feels a bit like speaking into a darkened room, unsure if I am addressing friends, strangers, or the empty air. Add in the power I ascribe to the written word - passing thoughts captured, for good or for ill - and my hands nearly freeze on the keyboard.
Despite the cajoling of friends and partner, it has taken me a long time to enter this community; entering a space full of invisible participants, for some exhilarating, was terrifying to me.
So what's changed? Why would I decide, after so many months, to begin this journal after all?
For the last month, I have been living and working in Nairobi, Kenya. During these weeks, I have been reminded of what I had learned years before as a solo traveler: talking to strangers is an absolute requirement if the journey is to be fully experienced. Those we meet along the way help open the world to us, and us to the world; each encounter offers an opportunity to discover a friend, learn something new, understand just a bit more deeply...
Half a world away from home, I am learning to speak to strangers: the drivers who explain tribal customs and local politics, and teach me bits of Ki-Swahili; the white Kenyans who talk of politics and change and their love of this land; the relief workers from Sudan who share stories of lives far more dangerous than mine, which they wouldn't give up for a minute; the young women from a local church who describe how women's lives are changing - and how they're not changing fast enough; the young Maasai warrior who waited for a plane with me and described local marriage customs, and how the lure of urbanization is changing his culture; the Kiwi entomologist here studying mosquito-eating spiders; the medical anthropologist met by chance in the waiting area of a local restaurant...
It's not always been easy, but I find that stepping outside of my comfort zone has made for a richer experience. And it's getting easier. (In fact, I shocked a friend visiting from Atlanta when I walked up to a perfect stranger in the airport and asked about the book he was reading - that was my introduction to the Kiwi professor.)
All of this is a round-about way of saying that, if it works in Kenya - if I can walk up to perfect strangers and start a conversation - perhaps it can work here.
I won't promise Great Insights; perhaps random musings will do for a start?
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good
anxious
shocked
pensive
melancholy