September 28, 2005

The following day, instead of attending the conference, Dawn tours TICH, meets the people and checks out the library. She is impressed with the school’s curriculum, the medical books in the library and with the education and experience of staff members. “Seeing TICH and meeting the people is worth the trip to Kisumu,” Dawn says.

As we walk home after work, we pass Dr. Sokwala a block from my house. She’s walking with her cousin who is a self-described ambassador the Neem tree. Every part of the Neem tree, bark and leaves and seeds, are used for such diverse things as candle wax and tummy soothers and to cure for malaria and skin rashes. This is the first time I’ve seen Dr. Sokwala since missing our lunch date and I tell her why I was thinking about leaving Kisumu. I want to tell her I’ve made the deicison to return to the U.S., but do not feel the roadside is the right place to deliver the news.

When I tell her about the robbery, she immediately says, “1994. It’s 10:00am and two men burst into my office. They have guns and force me onto the floor. One sits on my chest and chokes me until I pass out. When I wake up hours later, they’ve stolen money and drugs.”
“How horrible,” I say. Then she tells me how her, her husband and a female neighbor were walking in this neighborhood recently, taking a stroll as many people do on Sunday afternoons. Her husband commented on three guys walking toward them. Dr. Sokwala didn’t notice anything unusual about the men but listened to her husband. The three of them stopped in the driveway of a large house, as though they were about to enter. They waited for the three guys to pass and then decided to return home, not wanting to risk being robbed. As they walked home, Dr. Sokwala said they heard footsteps pounding toward them and turned to see the men raising large rocks overhead, to bash them. But the doctor and her husband and friend were able to fight them off.

When we reach my house, I tell Dawn this is how it’s been since I began telling people what happened. I hear at least two stories from each person about how they were robbed. Even Grace, the Ruprah’s housekeeper, was robbed. She told her story in Kiswahili with Raju translating. She was in her home in Nyalenda with two other female relatives when more than 20 men burst in with knives. One man grabbed Grace from behind and held a knife to her throat, demanding money. Grace told them she had no money but suggested they take her TV, which they did. Grace does not have a lot of money. She lives in a mud house in the slums, though she does have electricity. Maybe that’s why they think she has money. Also, she works for an Asian family, so they think she has access to lots of cash. Grace, like many other Luo’s I talk to, was robbed by her own people in her own neighborhood.

Tonny has lived in Nyalenda most of his life and because he’s completed college and has a good job at TICH, he’s improved his home, adding piped water and electricity. He says he is robbed regularly. He constantly hears doors being knocked in and robberies taking place. But he refuses to move away. He wants to stay and act as a role model for the children, so they can see that he is successful because he works hard. When they see him walk through the slums each morning, pushing his mountain bike while wearing dress slacks and a long-sleeved dress shirt, they’ll see that just because they live in Nyalenda doesn’t mean they can’t excel.

The more I talk to people about crime, the more I’m convinced living in Kisumu is much riskier than I was told. Even VSO doesn’t have a clear picture of the crime in the area.

Because I haven’t heard back from Chris at VSO about the date of my flight home, I haven’t said anything to the Ruprah’s about leaving. The rent has been paid for the entire month of October, though I’ll only be here half that time. It will be hard to tell Mrs. Ruprah, so I wait for the flight info from Chris in Nairobi.

September 27, 2005

The next day, I drop the resignation off for Dan. Throughout the day, I talk with people and tell them about my decision to leave. Even though news of my resignation will spread fast, there are certain people I want to tell myself.

When I see Kikoli, a student from the Congo, I tell him I’ll be leaving and he is sad. Kikoli is such a kind man and an earnest student. I admire how hard he works to learn English and can appreciate the difficulty of having to do his thesis research and writing in a language he hasn’t yet mastered. We’re in the library on the second floor, exhanging email addresses so we can stay in touch, and Kikoli says, “You made the right decision.” I’m rather surprised by his attitude until he tells me his story. He shares an apartment in a 13 unit building in Nyalenda. In July, Kikoli and his two other Congolese roommates were in their living room at 9:00pm one night when 17 thugs busted through their front door. The men had guns and knives and took just about everything of value.

“We are Congolese and because we live in Kenya to go to school, they think we have money,” Kikoli tells me.

I hadn’t heard his story until now. Each new person I tell, I hear their personal experiences with crime, whether it happened to them or their family member or friend. It’s apparent crime in Kisumu is much worse than I and VSO had realized. And it’s much worse mainly because people consider these incidences normal and do not report them to the police and do not tell people in warning. If I had heard some of these stories before, perhaps I would have been more cautious and better prepared when I was robbed. In Kisumu, being a victim of crime is something people try to prevent but know it could easily happen to them anyway. That is not the way I want to live.

After work, I walk to the end of Tom Mboya Road, the road I live on, and meet Dawn, a fellow VSO volunteer, at the Tom Mboya Labor College. Dawn is African-Amerian, from Texas, and she’s serving as a volunteer in Kitui, a village southeast of Nairobi. Dawn is in Kisumu to attend a nurse’s conference this l week, but she’s not impressed with the conference content and is especially worn down by the long and fruitless speeches given today by important Kenyans. We walk to Ned’s house in Nyalenda to get her gear, then go to my house, where Dawn will stay through Saturday. She’s shocked to hear about the robbery and that I’ll be leaving Kisumu, but she understands.

September 26, 2005

Arriving on campus Monday morning, I find Dan is out of the office today and tomorrow. I talk to Sister Masheti instead, telling her the story of the robbery and my anguished decision to return to the U.S., explaining how difficult the decision was to make and letting her know I plan to give Dan a two week notice. Sister Masheti is my line manager and she’s come to my office to say hello. We talk about my robbery, crime and life in Kisumu for nearly an hour.

“Cindi,” says Sister Masheti in her forthright way, “I support your decision. You must decide what’s best for you and not worry about others. TICH is an institution and it will continue without you and without me and without others. But your safety and peace of mind is of utmost importance now.”

I’m taken aback by her level of understanding and am grateful to Sister Masheti for realizing how hard this has been. She says my perspective is unique, for I come from another culture, and while everyone here may think it’s normal to be expected to be robbed, I don’t have to live like that if it’s an issue. Then she tells me about Dan’s Christmas Eve party in 2004, an incident that happened only three months before I arrived in Kenya.

Dan had 30 guests from around the world and they were all dancing in his living room. Fred, the guard at TICH’s gate, was working the gate at Dan’s house that night. The gate was chained and locked, but thugs cut the chain and were in the gate before Fred knew it. One guy hit Fred on the head with a gun, knocking him to the ground and dazing him. They then took Fred to the front door and pushed him ahead of them into the living room. Sister Masheti was across the room when she saw Fred stumbling through the door. She thought someone was drunk and giving Fred a hard time. When Sister Masheti stood up to go to him, that’s when the men shot their guns over everyone’s head. Sister Masheti tells me a bullet went right over her head and stuck in the wall. They were all told to get down on the floor and were systematically robbed.
Sometime in 2003, Dan was awakened in the night by men holding AK-47s in his face. They robbed his house. “Every year for the last six years,” Sister tells me, “Dan has been robbed. So I can’t tell you something like that won’t happen to you.”

When I talk to Walter Mukwana, he’s also understanding. He tells me how his next door neighbor was carjacked last week while pulling into his own gate. Walter also tells me how the ad salesman from the Nation, who Walter talked to this morning, was shot by thugs a month ago. They were trying to steal a car and when the Nation rep realized what was happening and tried to run away, they shot him in the leg.

It seems everyone I talk to has a very recent crime story to share, sometimes two recent stories. Some of them say it’s just the way things are and I must accept the risks. Others say I’m doing the right thing by going home. It seems clear-cut. And I’ve made my decision. But I’m torn.

September 21, 2005

I write my resignation letter to Dan, which I’ll turn in next Monday morning with a two-week notice. Walter Odede comes to the gate. He’s heard about my mugging from Tonny and he’s upset. He thinks it might be Victor, the guy who was stalking me after I first arrived, but I tell Walter it was just a random thief. Walter is asking me not to go back to the U.S. because of this, but I break the news that I’ve decided to leave.

He drops his head into his hands and makes a tisking sound. To brighten him up, I discuss ways I can continue working with Pambazuko from Atlanta. He told me a few days ago that the five orphans in Nyalenda sponsored by the Canadian medical students had school fees due and they couldn’t attend school until the fees were paid. So I go into my house and get 4,000 shillings, about $50 USD. It’s a good bit of money and it’s the last money I’ll give Walter, for I’ve been disappointed in his management of Pambazuko lately. Now is not the time to discuss with him, however, because there is so much going on related to my departure. But I will communicate my misgivings about Walter to him. Unless we clear up some of these things, I may not be supporting Pambazuko in the future.

The sun is bright, as usual, and the neighbors have tied their two sheep across the street, so they can nibble grass. But one sheep is standing in the road where cars are constantly passing. Walter unties the animal and secures him where he won’t be able to reach the road. I’ll miss Walter, I think, as he tends to the sheep. And I’ll miss animals on the streets, one thing I thought I’d never get used to.

In the afternoon, on her way home from work, Dina stops by to check on me. She’s with Pam, who parks her car across the street. They’re in a hurry and don’t have time to come in, so we stand in the Ruprah’s driveway and talk. Dina knows I’m thinking about going back to the U.S., but I don’t say anything in front of Pam. As we’re talking, Reverend Obondi drives by and parks behind Pam. He crosses the street and I’m very happy to see him, since he’s been away from campus all week. Reverend Obondi has heard what happened and he says what everyone else has said, “Pole sana, pole sana,” (Very sorry, Cindi, very sorry).

The Reverend is also in a hurry, saying he’s on his way to his niece’s house. It seems some thugs have been terrorizing her. Earlier in the week, they broke into her home while she was at work and held a knife to the nanny’s throat, demanding money. They were convinced there was money in the house and they took everything apart looking for it, even went into the light fixtures in the ceiling. This morning, they came into her compound and were hiding in the back, waiting for her to leave her house. But she saw them and called her co-workers, who came to get her. Funny she didn’t call the police.

“Why has no one told me to go to the police to report the robbery?” I ask the three of them. Their faces are blank and Dina says, “Why waste your time?” and Pam says, “They won’t do anything. Well, they’ll probably laugh at you.”

“I don’t expect them to find the guy and get my stuff back,” I say. But it seems the police would want an accurate picture of the crime in Kisumu. If people report crimes, then the police will know the types of crimes being committed, the victims, what’s taken, where it happens, time of day, etc. That would help them develop crime prevention programs.” They all just look at me like I’m crazy.

In Kenya and other African countries, there’s a thing called “mob justice.” It happens because the police are corrupt and won’t come to the scene of a crime when called. They’ll fill out reports and will investigate crimes if the victims pay them bribes. That’s why the Reverend’s niece called her co-workers instead of the police.

Residents across Africa have taken criminals in hand by passing out mob justice. If a thief is caught in public, the crowd will beat him or burn him, usually until he is dead. People do not want criminals in their neighborhoods, so they catch them and kill them. Just this week, one thief was shot in Nyalenda by an off-duty security guard after the crowd caught him stealing. Another guy stole a 15 cent toothbrush from a vendor’s shack in Nyalenda and they beat him to death. When these guys go to the hospital and the medical staff finds out they’re thieves, the staff give them very little care and attention.

It seems citizens use mob justice if the victim is Kenya. Too bad if the victim is white or Asian. The Indian ladies in town had been telling me no one assisted them in car accidents or muggings. Again, people with light skin are thought to be wealthy so the crime against them is considered to be victimless. Generally, uneducated Kenyans think crimes against whites are victimless because white people can, supposedly, easily replace anything that’s stolen from them. Except their sense of security and peace of mind.

This evening, as we stand in the driveway and talk, the Reverend is anxious to get to his niece’s house and move her to another place where, hopefully, the thugs won’t bother her. Amelia, his niece, is 25-years-old and has an adopted baby girl. Amelia, a college graduate working for an NGO, recently had visitors from the UK in her home. The thugs saw white people at her house, decided Amelia must have money and began their campaign of terror.

“Okay, now I’m getting scared,” Pam says. “I’m not going out tonight, I’m going straight home.”

Reverend Obondi, Pam and Dina leave. It’ll be dark in about 30 minutes. I walk back through the gate and Samuel shuts it, securing the padlock through the heavy chain. I feel somewhat safe. But if someone robs the Ruprahs and Samuel is harmed is any way, just because I live there, I'd never ever heal from the guilt.

September 20, 2005

Today, I psyche myself up to take a boda boda into town, asking him to drop me at Dr. Sokwala’s office. Inside, a couple of medical sales guys wait to see the doctor, so I go right in. Dr. Sokwala sits behind her desk and I tell her I’m struggling with the decision to stay in Kisumu or return to the U.S. It’s weighing on me and I’d like to talk with someone.

“Do you provide couseling?” I ask.

“I do, but not during regular hours. This office is not the right environment. I usually like to go to lunch or dinner, and then talk in a relaxed environment, as friends.”

So we decide to meet at 12:30pm for lunch.

“I try to leave here at 12:30,” she says, “but sometimes it’s hard and I don’t get out until 1pm.”

I don’t tell Dr. Sokwala why I’m thinking of leaving Kenya. That can come later. But she senses the stress it is causing me and she says, “That’s a wonderful problem to have, isn’t it?”
I look confused, so she says, “Good things will happen whichever decision you make. If you decide to stay, you and I will get to see each other more and if you decide to go, you’ll be with your family or friends.” I was so grateful to her for framing the situation in the positive.

“See you at 12:30,” I tell her.

With two hours to spend, I go to the internet café. There’s one very important email that must go today, so I spend time crafting it carefully and discover, upon trying to send it, that the net is down. I look around and notice the owner at the front desk on his cell phone. They always call the service provider, which has its office in this shopping complex. Turns out the problem isn’t the service provider but the phone line. Soon, two men from the phone company show up saying a bill hasn’t been paid. This seems highly unlikely because the café’s business is dependent on phone lines. Why would someone who has a business dependent on phones not pay their bills?
People are leaving the shop because the internet is down. I have no way of saving the email so I’m desperate to get it sent. The phone company men argue with the owner as we all watch. If he paid the bill, then all he has to do is produce proof the payment went through the phone company’s account. He can do this by faxing the proof with a form. Good God!! This stupid bureaucratic bullshit. It’ll take him hours to produce the proof and fax it over.

I’m frustrated, not being able to send the note after spending so much time on it and not being able to save it, unless I want to save it onto a hard drive accessible by lots of people. I must leave to meet Dr. Sokwala, so I tell myself to take a deep breath. To let it go. The note will reach its recipient for I’ll try to send it later. These glitches occur regularly in Kisumu. Either the electricity is out or the phone lines are down. We must learn to be flexible.

Still slightly frustrated, I rush through the busy streets to Dr. Sokwala’s office, only to see the door closed and padlocked. My heart drops. A guy strapping vegetables to the back of his bike says, “She just left.” I must be late but can’t believe she’d leave me. Tears are working their way up as I cross the street in the bright sunshine. I feel like I’ve thrown my lifeline out and it wasn’t caught. But then I remember six months before when I left Dr. Sokwala’s office. She told me then not to be a victim. My head goes up. I’m not a victim. I wanted to speak with her, to get an objective perspective about my decision to either stay or leave Kenya. Because everyone else has a stake in what I do, I thought she could provide a neutral opinion. But deep down, don’t I already know what my decision is? Don’t I truly want to go back to the U.S. where I’ll feel safer and will be able to pursue other options, including continuing to promote TICH using reliable technology?

Yes, I already had my answer, I was afraid to bring it out into the light, for fear it’d look like I was running away. I now admit this truth and feel lighter. I go to another internet café and email Chris at VSO in Nairobi, saying I’ve made up my mind and I’ll be returning to Atlanta.
Walking through Kisumu on my way home, I’m not happy. I’m not thrilled. It feels like things are unfinished here. The hardest part about leaving will be telling the Ruprahs and my co-workers at TICH. It makes my stomach hurt to think about telling them I’ll be leaving Kenya.
At the top of Oginga Odinga Street, the main thoroughfare through Kisumu that ends at Lake Victoria’s edge, police are moving street vendors from the sidewalks. There is arguing and chaos as the vendors are packing up their wares. Boda Bodas, too, have been forbidden to congregate on the street where they normally wait to pick up passengers. Kisumu is cleaning up its image because a conference is coming to town and with it come top executives from sugar companies all over Kenya as well as ministers of parliament from several East African countries.

They’re painting the curb of Ogina Odinga and the curbs on the roundabouts in town. They’re sweeeping the street clean and are spraying for mosquitoes in all parts of town where the MPs might go during their two week conference. Milimani, the neighborhood I live in, is the nicest residential area, so they spray for bugs. I notice immediately there are no mosquitoes in my house, where before I had to burn a repellant coil just to be able to sit in my living room and sew or read without being bitten. Or I had to climb under the net to read free of bites. On average, while living in Kisumu, I’m bitten by mosquitoes about 10 times a day. But suddenly, there are no mosquitoes.

However, when Ed visits, I ask if he’s noticed fewer bugs.

“No,” Ed says, “as a matter of fact, there have been many more bugs lately. When they sprayed Kisumu, all the mosquitoes went to Nyalenda. The slums are two blocks behind our house. Typically, few people in Milimani get Malaria. People in Nyalenda are infected regularly. Because they’re infected, mosquitoes also become infected. It’s a nasty cycle, one that could be broken by residents of Nyalenda taking anti-malarials. Ed tells me two female volunteers from Holland arrived to work at his organization, Pandipiere, and both of them contracted Malaria within their first two weeks of being in Kisumu. That’s because Pandipiere serves Nyalenda, the slum area, and they insist on their volunteers living in the slums while volunteering. Being in Nyalenda puts them at greater risk of Malaria and Typhoid. Funny that the risk is so much greater in Nyalenda, a place separated from Milimani by two residential blocks.

As I watch the improvements taking place in town, to impress our very important visitors, I wonder why Kisumu doesn’t sweep the main street free of vendors and boda bodas all the time. Why don’t they clean the streets and paint curbs as a matter of city maintenance? It seems the appearance of being well-managed is more important to city leaders than actually manging the city well. They create illusions of city planning and an idealic place to live. When Priscah, the mayor of Kisumu, visited the TICH campus to pass out certificates at the end of the entrepreneur workshop, she gave a short speech on how great Kisumu is and how safe it is. She wouldn’t allow anyone to suggest things in Kisumu are less than perfect.

There are advantages to being positive about your work, but not if it means sweeping the true situation under the rug. And Priscah was sweeping Kisumu’s less palatable features out of sight. Like the unreliable city water plant that supposedly distributes safe drinking water but which no one drinks without boiling or filtering. And city water isn’t even piped into Nyalenda, where it is needed most to combat disease and other health hazards. And then there’s the issue of city sanitation. Street vendors sell food that is not monitored by food safety officials. Cars and trucks emit masses of pollutants. Street boys are beaten by the police. Everyone, individuals and businesses, are afraid of being robbed by “thugs.”

As I walk home from town with the sad knowledge I’ll be leaving Kisumu, the boda boda drivers call out to me, “We go, White Lady?” I just shake my head “no” and keep walking, wondering what it’ll be like to drive through town for the last time, headed for the Kisumu airport and London and Atlanta.

September 19, 2005

Stress mounts. I send Chris an email to the VSO office, telling him what has happened, informing him the robbery is causing me to rethink my purpose for being in Kenya. I also tell him I want to work through the trauma of the robbery without losing time at work, but the stress is getting to me and I need to talk to someone. Chris tries to get through the one phone line at TICH without success and finally he calls me on the fax machine in Walter's office. He suggests the VSO counselor, but she’s in Nairobi and I absolutely do not have the strength to ride on a bus for six hours then switch to a taxi to find this woman’s office. Visiting VSO’s counselor would require a night’s stay in Nairobi and because of the high crime rate in Nairobi, I can’t imagine even being in the hectic city.

For the last few days, I’ve just wanted to be behind the gate at home or the gate at TICH. When I step outside those gates, even on a sunny day, I don’t want to see people on the street. Don’t want to look them in the eye. Don’t want them speaking to me. I resent them. They only want to take from me. They won’t help me. I can’t face them.

“What about Dr. Sokwala?” Chris asks.

“That’s perfect,” I say, having forgotten about her. “I’ll talk to her. She won’t let me get away with any bullshit.”

We agree I should take the rest of the week off to talk to Dr. Sokwala and heal. Chris is aware I’m thinking about leaving Kenya, but he wears two hats in his role as program manager for VSO. The first is to take care of me as his volunteer, to make sure I am mentally and emotionally well. His second role is as guardian of the VSO/TICH partnership, which I will put in jeopardy by leaving. But I mustn’t think about these things as I make my decision. Everyone has a personal stake in me staying, or going, so I can’t view things from their perspectives, I must do what comes from my head and heart. Toward this end, I decide not to tell any of my family or friends in the U.S. what has happened, until I make a decision.

It’s only fair that Dan, director of TICH, know where my head is these days so I go to talk with him. He listens while I tell about the robbery and my thoughts of going home, of needing to speak to a professional and take time to heal. He agrees graciously that I should take the next three days off. He keeps shaking his head and saying, “terrible, terrible.”

Wednesday morning, my first day off, I’m not strong enough to go into town. It would require walking or taking a boda boda, and being out among a lot of people and noise and traffic, which I can’t bear right now, so I plan to go the next day. This will be a free day and I’ll stay inside and sew and licks my wounds.

“Sandy!” Mrs. Ruprah sings through the open windows of my house. “Sandy, are you okay?” It always makes me smile to hear my name pronounced as “Sandy.”

“Yes,” I say and open the door.

“I’m going to my friend’s house. You come! It’s not far, we’ll walk and we won’t stay long.” She’s pointing toward the gate, toward the street. I’m scared.

“It’s not far?”

“No,” she says. “Come!”

“We’ll walk?” I ask, unsure.

“Yes, it’s very close.”

She’s so authoritative, I agree to go.

We walk about two city blocks and enter the drive of the house with the huge “B” painted on the front. I’ve seen this house many times and wondered about the people who would paint their initial on their home. Inside, three Kenyans tend to the yard, the gate and the poodles running around. Only Sikhs have pets in Kisumu. No one else can afford to feed pets they’re not going to sell or eat themselves. The poodles have tiny poodle puppies rolling over each other on the green lawn and they make me smile. I walk closely to Mrs. Ruprah as we go to the back of the house. It looks like a hotel with a deep verandah full of cushioned furniture. The kitchen is open to the backyard, too, and two young ladies whom I’ve never met are wearing jeans and t-shirts, with their dark hair in pony tails, as they tend to boiling pots. It’s a lovely surprise to see the elder Sikh priest here. Oh, and the younger priest, Lucky, is here, too. They’re going to read scripture over lunch.

I’m still feeling a bit raw. A bit open. I just want to melt into the background and watch the ladies interact. Mrs. Ruprah, however, immediately tells them about the robbery and they respond with logic rather than compassion. That’s okay. They tell me what I should have done differently. That’s okay, too. Mrs. Ruprah is talking and talking until a lady next to me says Mrs. Ruprah is worried that I will shut myself away in my house and become depressed and will want to go back to the U.S. She is partly right, this very smart, very caring lady.

They serve us sodas and snacks, handmade crackers which are delicious. When I comment on the tasty crackers, an older woman tells me cooking is the first thing a Sikh woman learns for her husband. The older women sit and visit while the younger woman, daugthers and daughters-in-law, serve us.

One young woman has sewn a gorgeous red silk jewelry case with white trim. It’s quite elaborate with a zippered pocket and a tube for holding rings. We admire her handiwork and Mrs. Ruprah wants to duplicate it, so they put the silk case in a zippered bag. It feels strange to sit under this lovely pavilion, with ladies serving us while Kenyans walk about the yard, carrying water, tending to the plants, unloading groceries from a truck. Five families live in this house. On the back wall hangs the usual giant picture of the original Sikh guru.

When it’s time to go, another visitor offers to drive us. Instead of going home, however, we drive to another house that looks like a hotel belonging to the Sokhi’s. Their name is on the gate and the garage. Inside, just beyond the open kitchen (where several ladies are busy cooking chappati), is a huge living room with a wide circular staircase. Three families live here and there are two small children, though the staircase has no hand rails. It’s just suspended pieces of lovely, dark wood steps. The living room is divided into six seating areas. Six! Like a hotel lobby, each seating area contains three couches facing in, a center table and a rug. Down the center of the room, large ceramic pots hold green plants.

Mrs. Sokhi sells fabrics sent by her Mother and sister from India. We look at the fabrics and everyone talks. Mrs. Ruprah tells them about the robbery. They tell me what I should have done differently. I’m starting to feel less sensitive about it, to let things roll off.

We return home and as I enter my house, Mrs. Ruprah says, “Come. Come. Help me make lunch. I’m going to a friend’s later. You come.”

“Okay,” I say and smile. “I’ll come.”

In Mrs. Ruprah’s large kitchen, with Grace washing dishes in a big plastic tub outside the window, she places a metal bowl in front of me. Opening a bag of meal, she tells me how to mix the chappati dough. I sprinkle water and knead. More water, more kneading until the consistecy makes the bones in my right hand work. Mrs. Ruprah is busy cooking rice and heating up stuffed peppers. I’m totally concentrating on mixing the dough, enjoying the process, noticing how content it is to be in the kitchen preparing food. Just like sick days as a little girl and staying home from school with Mama. I watch Mrs. Ruprah prepare the pans for cooking chappati and marvel at her ability to have three dishes going at once. Her goal is to have lunch on the table at 1pm when Mr. Ruprah and Raju arrive home from the workshop. Food is spooned into bowls and I carry them to the table. Grace has set out plates and small bowls for dahl and drinking glasses.

Mr. Ruprah arrives promptly at 1:00pm and sits next to the back door. Raju drives home in his own car and sits at the other end of the table. Food is passed and placed on plates. Chappati is torn to scoop up dahl and mixed vegetables of varying spiceiness. No one talks. By 1:15pm, Mr. Ruprah rises, takes two steps to the sink on the wall and washes his hands and leaves, returning to the workshop. After every meal, I try to clear the dishes, at least to carry them to the back patio where Grace will wash them, but Mama always yells, “no!,” even though she doesn’t speak English. It doesn’t feel right eating their food and not contributing in some way.

That afternoon, we visit Sikh friends who live only two blocks away. Nonni is very pretty and seems much younger than her husband. She came from India 14 years ago to marry in Kisumu. Their house is large, the living room immense with shelves containing wooden African sculptures, elephant figurines and photos of their children. Each chair and sofa section is covered by an embroidered doily, as are the chair arms. Very neat. Our hostess makes tea and brings in homemade crackers. She serves each of us one at a time, passing over the cup and saucer and offering up the crackers. They exhange cake recipes and talk in Punjabi. I enjoy the tea and crackers and imagine what life trapped inside this house would feel like. Not a good sensation.
It is often hard to watch the Sikh women in their daily roles. Their schedule is set around their husband’s work schedule. Rarely do the women work outside the home. They keep house, entertain guests, cook food, work on handicrafts and attend temple, where they cook for the entire group in the temple’s kitchen.

I went to temple with Mrs. Ruprah a few weeks ago. The building is square, taking up a city block. Mr. Ruprah’s father was one of seven men who laid the first stone during constrution of the temple, so his name is on a plaque as we enter. A flight of stairs leads to the temple itself. I must keep my head covered inside the sacred room. Mrs. Ruprah has loaned me a black and brown scarf for this purpose. At the top of the stairs, we stop at two sinks to wash our hands before entering the shrine. The elder priest sits in an altar setting, surrounded by candles and artificial floral arrangements, singing the prayers from the sacred book. The floor is covered in a soft matting, so we remove our shoes and walk to the preist, where Mrs. Ruprah signals for me to kneel, touching my forehead to the floor and placing 20 shillings in the offering plate. I follow and mimic her. She moves to the back of the room, against the wall, and sits with several women. They whisper for a few minutes while I check out the room. There are only perhaps five women at the back. No men. Suddenly, she says, “Let’s go,” and we rise and leave the room, replacing our shoes and washing our hands again, for we’re now going to the kitchen to help prepare chappati.

There are several workstationsin the temple’s kitchen. One group mixes the dough and smooths them into balls. The second group rolls the balls out into perfectly round and flat chappatis. The raw dough is then transferred to a large metal griddle where a gas fire is burning. Two Kenyan men stand next to the griddle, flipping the chappati and removing them. The final station is another large gas fire with an open grill on top. Ladies sitting in chairs place the chappati over open flames, until their slightly browned, then they take a pound square of butter in their fist and run it over each surface of the chappti. The round bread then goes into a large metal container lined with cotton cloth. There are hundreds of chappatis being made through this process.

Mrs. Ruprah and I first visit the rolling table, but it’s clear I can’t roll out a perfectly shaped chappati, and no one is laughing with me at my failed attempts, so I’m moved to stand between the rolling table and the griddle, picking up raw chappatis, flipping them between palms as I swivel to plop them on to the black, hot griddle surface. That’s all, just flip, swivel and plop the bread into an open space without overlapping chappati and without have them fold on themselves. With six women churning out rolled chappatis, I had a time keeping them moving onto the griddle surface. I dropped one once and got looks of disapproval when I giggled. Even the black men were serious about their duties and they didn’t smile or laugh. The food was excellent and plentiful, but it wasn’t a joyful place to be.

Many of the ladies bring a large, empty containers to temple, which they fill with dahl and vegetables, etc., to take home and feed their families for two or three days. Mrs. Ruprah always brings food home for lunch the next day.

Some of the ladies drive, but most are dependent on others to take them places. Their primary concern each day is feeding their husbands and children. Very few seek higher education or build careers. These women often do not fulfill any of their talents, skills or interests. Society is much the poorer from this lack of self-actualization. Expanding our view to include other cultures where women are not able to venture beyond their roles as wives and mothers and we see a large percentage of women the world over who could be contributing to research, business, medicine, the arts and many other areas of knowledge. But they don’t. Aren’t able to. In the U.S. in the 50s, it was called the feminine mystique, this strange ailment from which women suffered, this urge and desire to do more with themselves. They felt trapped and miserable, useless and depressed, and didn’t understand why. This is the life of a Sikh Indian woman in Kenya today. And the life of women in countries the world over.

Mrs. Ruprah cries often. She recently sat next to me on her couch as I ate the lunch she prepared. She was crocheting a black scarf for her daughter in London and she said, “I’ll make one for you. What color do you like?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I know how much work it is to make one of those. But I really like white!” I smile and she laughs.

“Would you really make one for me?,” I ask, still not believing how generous she is.
She says, “You are like my daughter,” and her eyes tear up and soon her whole face is red and wet.

“Ah,” I say and touch her shoulder. She puts the scarf and crochet hook in front of her face and cries. Then she removes my hand and says, “Eat! Eat!” She uses the ball of her hands to dry the tears. Every time I’ve seen her cry, she puts both hands to her face and strokes downward from her red eyes. It tugs at my heart.

Mrs. Ruprah is lonely.

September 18, 2005

Should I stay or should I go?

It’s a question that wears me down. I go to work on Monday morning and end up fighting with Charles in accounting because we have two men waiting to be paid for work they’ve completed, work I’ve approved, and Charles wants to see more paperwork. I’m yelling, which is something I rarely do. And I’m yelling in front of others.

“Don’t you care, Charles, that these men are here to collect the money owed to them, money that’s been approved for payment?

“Yes, Cindi,” Charles says calmly, “I care, but we also a process here.”

“Well,” I shout, “it’s wonderful that you can hide behind your processes, Charles, while people aren’t paid and things aren’t completed.”

Walter stands next to me the whole time, speaking softly, interjecting reason between each of my angry statements. I walk out and leave him to deal with the situation. I realize the stress of dealing with the robbery, of not facing the deep decision of staying in Kenya, where I feel increasingly less safe, or going home, is getting to me. I have no desire to hear about issues related to IT and I feel incapable of managing the decision process.

I stop into Dan, the director’s, office to tell him what I’ve been feeling and thinking. He’s at his desk, but apparently busy with two people behind me also waiting to meet with Dan. I tell him I’ll stop in to talk with him tomorrow.

September 17, 2005

8am and we’re in class, scanning the school for chairs for the students. I try to push away thoughts of the robbery, to set aside thoughts of leaving TICH, of leaving Kisumu, of getting on a plane and flying away, watching Lake Victoria recede into the background. How nice it’d be to see the London airport filled with white people with soft hair, or Schipol airport in Amsterdam, knowing with one more leg of the journey I’d be riding up the escalator at Atlanta’s airport, looking for my children’s waiting faces. But I love this school, these students, the work we’re doing and the thought of leaving because I’m scared saddens me. And tires me.

I tell no one what happened the day before. I’m still processing it. But class goes smoothly. We have several exercises where the students prepare short speeches and present. We go over pointers for preparing and delivering great presentations and speeches. We talk about how they communicate in their jobs and in the families, how their communicaiton can be improved using the techniques we’re discussing. The students are open and responsive and we make it through the day. I’m honored to have been a tiny part of the journey toward their degree and toward their career of making a difference for the many Kenyans living in rural poverty. I tell them this. I wonder if I’ll leave and not see them progress through their cirriculum. Mustn’t think about that, just get home and chill with no one making demands.

September 16, 2005

8am and we’re in class. The students have helped me move about the school to locate enough chairs. Though we have only 12 students in class this morning, there are two workshops also running this morning and our chairs have been taken by those attendees. Dina is in class this morning, as is Elias, who is on our IT team and currently reports to me. Half of the students in class work for the CDC-Kemry (Keya Medical Research), so they have experience working on programs to assist rural populations. I give them an overview of communication as a field of study and we work throughout the day to narrow the focus down to rhetoric, or persuasion. In their work with rural communities, when our students are teaching new methods of farming or educating about health issues, they’ll need to understand how to communicate their ideas and gain compliance from their partners in the communities. That’s my job for today and tomorrow.

At 4pm, we end the day’s class and I take a boda boda to town to buy groceries. Being gone for two weeks, there is no food in the house. Once in town, I check emails and call Jaime from the internet café. Calls are 15 shillings per minute, about 20 cents, so Jaime and I can talk for 30 minutes at a cost of $5 USD. She sounds wonderful, though I wake her up. Hearing her voice makes me homesick and I worry she and her brother, James, may need me for things I’m not able to provide from Africa. It’s a recurring theme in our conversations…

“Are you okay, Sweetie,” I ask. “Do you have everything you need? Have you been well? If there’s anything you need, please tell me. There are ways I can do stuff for you, even from Africa.”

Jaime always reassures me she’s fine, James is fine and Frankie the cat is fine. My footsteps seem to spring after I’ve talked to my children. Because I want to be home before dark, I walk to Nakumatt quickly. On the sidewalk outside the store, I see Ned and two women approaching. I haven’t seen Ned in a few weeks and I smile and wave. He waves back. The women are very tall, much taller than Ned. I slow as they approach, turning to stop and talk. But Ned walks on, simply saying, “Hello, Cindi, How are you?” The women look at me suspiciously and they all saunter on. How strange that he didn’t stop and introduce me to his friends, who are surely Dutch volunteers working for a short period at Pandipiere. The Catholic center cycles through lots of young volunteers who come to Kisumu, live in the slums and work at the center for about three or five months. Ned gets to meet new volunteers constantly, mostly women, so that’s a nice social outlet for him. But I’m a little hurt he didn’t stop and introduce me to his new friends.

After rushing through the store, I decide to walk home instead of taking a boda boda. I need the exercise and there’s still plenty of daylight. I walk away from town, on a busy road recommended as the safest route. There’s a tiny, burgundy pocket of a purse with its strap over my left shoulder and the purse tucked under my arm. I approach an intersection and notice three boys coming from the left. There’s something unusual about them, making them stand out. Kenyans are usually very quiet and composed in public. These three young men are laughing very loudly and actually shouting. I calculate their pace and wonder if they’ll end up ahead of me or behind me. I try to slow so they’ll be ahead, but they stop at a tiny store. I walk straight, hoping they go another way. When I walk, I always look around, to make sure there are other people on the road. Today there are many people walking about, mostly men walking alone or in pair on both sides of the road heading in both directions. Plus, there are boda bodas passing regularly. I feel safe.

Normally when in town, I put my purse in the grocery sack, to avoid tempting anyone. Today, because there are plenty of people around and it’s still daylight, I walk quickly with my head up, the purse tucked, practically hidden, under my arm. With only three blocks to go, I look around to make sure there are other people on the road. Yes, many. And I don’t see the three boisterous young men. I’ll be home in time to clean up, cook dinner and prepare exercises for tomorrow’s class, which beings at 8:00a.m.

My thoughts disappear as I hear footsteps pounding behind me. This happens often, people running on the street to catch up to me, to talk. When I began living in Kisumu, people would run to catch up to me. At first, I told myself not to worry, that the streets are safe and people often run to catch up with me and talk. They want to be friends and most people are very kind. But a tiny part of my mind makes me stiffen when hearing running foostops, to prepare myself. For what? Not sure. Even if children we’re running up behind me, I’d think, ‘they’re not coming after me, they’re not coming after me” and usually that was true. If they were coming after me, they meant no harm.

As the footsteps pound harder, I begin to turn to the left, clamping my arm down over my purse, when I’m hit with such force, it knocks me off balance. The guy grabs the purse strap from behind but my arm is clamped so tight, it doesn’t budge. I’m still reeling from being hit and he’s pulling me further around, grasping the strap. My right hand swings out with the grocery sack, trying to keep my balance. I’m yelling, to alert people on the street. He hits me on the shoulders and chest, then grabs me by the arms and throws me to the ground, to the left. I tumble into a ditch and land on my head, my feet in the air. I’m still trying to keep the groceries from hitting the ground, though I don’t really realize that’s what I’m doing. My feet stay over my head for what seems like minutes. He bends over me, grabbing at the purse, and then I hear a rip. He has won.

It takes a few seconds to re-orient which way is up. I climb out of the ditch, still holding the groceries aloft, and looking around at the men on the street. The stand and look back.
“Help me,” I yell to them as I run. There are men behind me and men on the opposite side of the street. They all just stand, starring, as they stood and starred while the guy knocked me around in the ditch. My hair, clamped up high on my head, is now falling with the clip banging into my shoulder as I run. The theif wears a white t-shirt and he’s only 30 feet ahead of me. I’m running, wearing Chaco sandals and a denim sundress. And I’m yelling all the way down the street.

“Stop him!” I cry. “He stole my purse!!!” I’m yelling at the boda boda driver who has pulled up next to me and who’s peddling at the same rate of my run. He just stares at me as I run and yell. He can understand English. They all understand English. But they do not speak. Then another boda boda pulls up next to him and stares. I turn my sights on this new guy and plead, “Please stop the guy in the white shirt, he stole my purse!!” The guy speeds up and heads toward the thief. Can he catch him? Please, please, please, I say in my head.

When he gets next to the guy, he slows and the thief leaps mid-stride onto the back of the boda boda and they fly toward Nyalenda, the slums. I stop running and look around at all the men on the street, feeling very alone in the world. Then a gate opens and a Kenyan, about 35 years old and pushing his boda boda, comes out saying, “What has happened?”

“That guy in the white t-shirt on the boda boda stole my purse.”

The man immediately pulls his bike onto the road and says, “Twende, Twende!!,” which means, “let’s go!”

Not trusting boda bodas now, I say dejectedly, “You really think we can catch them?” And he’s says, “let’s try,” so I hop on, not really wanting to be chasing theives and preferring to be in my living room, listening to the BBC and quilting.

“They don’t normally rob people this early. It’s still daylight.”

“Yes,” I say, holding the groceries in my lap, trying not to think about everything that was in my purse. He’s flying, though, really putting effort into pedaling fast and we pass people on the street as he rings his tinny bell. I look at each boda boda, at each passenger, but as we near Nyalenda, the streets and sidewalks begin to fill with people. There are too many to see. When the road deadends into Ring Road, and the tiny shacks of Nyalenda spread out in front of us, stretching for miles in either direction, I feel overwhelmed. Night is beginning to fall. Dusk.

Embers light up from charcoal stoves where ladies are roasting corn on the sidewalk. A large fire burns next to the sidewalk. Vendors light kerosene lamps and place them next to their goods.
Points of warm light glow all over Nyalenda, but there’s no way we’ll find the two theieves. He turns right onto Ring Road, headed toward Pandipiere. As we roll past, I hear a woman scream and look behind the sidewalk, behind the hundreds of people walking in the street, and see a man grabbing a woman. He has her by the shoulders and she’s trying to break free. She screams but no one does anything. The guy hits her across the face and works to get a better grip as she continues to struggle, screaming, and people walk past without looking at her.

Fire leaps from lamp wicks and roasting corn embers while the woman yells and I think, ‘I’m in hell.’

“Please take me home.” I ask the man from my seat on the back of his bike, knowing we’ll never find the theives and feeling unable to protect myself, much less the woman being beaten by the man. I want to be home and will not feel safe until behind the locked gates with Samuel. My keys were in the purse, so I’m hoping the Ruprah’s have an extra key to the padlock on my front door.

“I want to give you something for helping me out,” I tell the driver. “However, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get into my house. Do you mind waiting a few minutes to see if I can get in and get some money for you?”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “But you don’t have to pay me. If you have the money, that’s fine. If you don’t, I’ll think of it as doing volunteer work.”

I smile in the lowing light behind his back. Volunteer work.

Inside the gate, Samuel tells me the Ruprahs are at temple, but Raju is home. He comes out and they’re dismayed to hear what happened. Samuel keeps shaking his head and tisking and saying, “So sorry this happened, very sorry. Pole sana.” Raju doesn’t know if there’s an extra key, but he gives me 20 shillings to give the boda boda driver. I return to the gate and thank him for helping me. Samuel thanks him, too, and shakes his hand. The driver gives me a copy of his ID card, complete with his photo. His name is Erick Otieno and I think he’s a good man.
Because I can’t get into my house, Raju invites me to sit with him and Mama, his grandmother. He tells her in Punjabi what happened and she’s visibly saddened, shaking her head and saying things I don’t understand. Her knee is bothering her so she doesn’t get up. Raju brings me a cup of tea, which is very thoughtful, and asks if I’d like sugar. I notice my knee is hurting and lift my skirt to find my knees raw and bleeding. Mama’s face scrunches up when she sees my knees and she calls to Raju. Soon, he’s bringing me cotton and disinfect. They take such good care of me as we wait for Raju’s mom, Mrs. Ruprah. Raju will pick her up from the temple at 9pm. It’s now just past 7pm, so they encourage me to sit back and watch TV. It’s on an Indian station and a soap opera-type show is playing. There is so much over-acting, I don’t really need to understand the words.

I get lost for minutes in the show, then I return to my reality in Kenya. I’m in Kisumu. I’ve been robbed. I’m sitting with the Ruprahs, the closest thing to family I have here. Tears flow and I turn so Mama won’t see. They took my cell phone, which I’ve had for less than a month. My blood pressure medicine was in the purse. Keys to the house and my office at TICH. About 1,700 shillings, or $21 USD, which is a lot of money to me. Most painful to think about is the memory stick, which held lots of precious documents and pictures. With the memory stick, I would write emails and blog posts at home and then spend less time in the internet café sending the messages and posting to the blog. But I don’t want to think about that right now and focus instead on the silly actors.

After a while, Mama starts talking to me in Punjabi and Kiswahili, which I don’t understand, but I know what she’s saying. She’s trying to comfort me. Raju comfirms this. Looking at my knee, it occurs to me I want to be back in the U.S. before it heals. I just want to run away, get out of Kenya, go to where it’s safe and there are people who love me, who would want to smash the faces of the stupid guys who robbed me. But I’m not in the U.S., I’m in Kisumu and I can’t even get into my house. When Raju does return with Mrs. Ruprah, she’s upset and anxious to make sure I’m okay. She looks in every cabinet and drawer in the house and we make several trips to my front door, trying various keys in the lock. No luck.

Well, she says, we’ll have to wait for Mr. Ruprah. He’ll be home around 11:30pm, she says. Mrs. Ruprah encourages me to take the lounge chair in front of the TV, in case I want to sleep before he arrives. I take the lounge chair and sit back against the cushions, trying not to get my dirty sandals on her furniture. Where’s Mr. Ruprah, I wonder. Oh, probably out drinking.

An Indian movie is on and it’s quite good, though I have no idea what they’re saying. There’s a strong, silent Muslim-type who wins the heart of a beautiful girl who has been used by men. They borrow a man’s car and none of them are aware someone has planted a bomb in the car. We watch, wondering when the bomb will go off and will they be in the car? He’s in the doorway of a jewery store where he’s selected a gorgeous necklace for the woman (did I mention he’s also rich and handsome?). He’s trying to entice her out of the car with the necklace and it works. But as she closes the car door, her long, gorgeous scarf gets caught and before she can free her scarf, the car blows up, annhilating her in the process. So for the rest of the movie, the strong, silent Muslim type lives with a Hindu family, where he has a contentious relationship with the wife and mother of the family, while he seeks revenge against the men who killed his girlfriend. And he does get revenge, but he dies in the last scene of the movie and by this time, the Hindu wife/mother has grown to love and appreciate him and she mourns and wails the loudest over his dying body.

The handsome, rich, silent Muslim type takes my mind off things for two hours. Then Mr. Ruprah arrives, bringing reality with him. I just want to be in my house, safe, where it’s quiet and I can think. Mr. Ruprah is drunk. He doesn’t have a spare key and has nothing strong enough to break the lock, so he decides to unscrew the padlock base, allowing us into the house.
So here we are on the patio at my front door; Mr. Ruprah, me, Samuel the guard and Mrs. Ruprah with Raju floating in and out of the scene. Mr. Rurprah can’t see well enough to handle the screwdriver, even with the candle Samuel is holding up for him. He needs another screwdriver, so he sends Mrs. Ruprah to the trunk of his tan Mercedes, instructing her to pull out a tool kit. It’s dark and she’s having trouble locating the kit.

“It’s on the left,” he yells across the compound. “Stupid woman! You can’t do anything right!”
“Hey, hey, hey,” I practically whisper while touching his arm. “She’s a good woman and a good wife. Don’t say those things to her.”

She finds the tool and brings it, but Mr. Ruprah is too drunk to operate the screwdriver and he doesn’t trust Samuel to do it correctly, so he hands the tool to me. Getting to the screws is difficult because the padlock is in the way. It takes pressure and concentration to turn the screw even the tiniest distance. Mr. Ruprah holds the candle so I can see, but he holds it directly over my hand so hot wax drips on it and I yell and push his hand back, telling him not to burn me. He’s saying, “Turn it, that’s it, unscrew it. Just unscrew it.”

“Okay,” I answer. But he continus to repeat it and the hot wax continues to drip on my hand. Mrs. Ruprah has a large knife with a wide blade. She thinks that if she can slide the knifeblade behind the padlock base, it’ll come out of the door faster. But first I must get the screws loosened and it takes awhile. I move from screw to screw while Mr. Ruprah tells me to “just unscrew them,” and Mrs. Ruprah occasionally sticks the knife behind the base.

“Don’t,” he yells at her, pushing the knife away and nearly burning me with the candle. I Unscrew some more while gritting my teeth. Samuel is behind us the whole time repeating what Mr. Ruprah says. Mrs. Ruprah inserts the knife, Mr. Ruprah yells and pushes it away and I try to keep from being burned by the candle.

“How long as these screws?” I ask in desperation.

“About two inches,” Mr. Ruprahs says.

Christ, they’re only out about an inch. Mrs. Ruprah slides the knife into place and twists it, to leverage the plate off the door. Mr. Ruprah barks, “Don’t do that,” and he grabs the knife from her, in front of my face, and throws it to the cement floor with all his might, just behind his right leg. The knife hits and the wooden handle immediately pops off. Mrs. Ruprah retrieves the pieces and takes them into the house. I just try to concentrate on the screws, knowing as soon as the door is open I’ll have a little peace andquiet. No locks. No security. But peace.

Finally, the screws will turn between my thumb and forefinger. The plate is loosened; the padlocked is off the building! They tell me the lock will be cut off the next day and replaced.

Goodnight.

It’s 12:15am. I shower and am in bed by 1am.

I don’t sleep, but instead think about the hot wax and Mr. Ruprah breaking the knife and how much I want to be in Atlanta before my skinned knees heal.

September 15, 2005

I’m up before light breaks fully, completing the packing and wondering what time it is. I go downstairs to the reception area to look at the clock above the desk. The mattress is gone from the floor and the front doors are open. Electricity is back on and a small light reveals the time: 5:00am. The taxi is already here.

My flight is at 7:30. When we pull up in front of the airport, a line of white people and their luggage extends to the roadside. Kenya Airways and East African Safari Airways each have a flight leaving this morning. When I check in, the guy says 12 passengers have been bumped from the overbooked flight to Nairobi, including me, and we’ll be traveling to Dar es Salaam, then onto Nairobi. His manager comes over and explains the process, apologizing. A sharply dressed young man, the manager handles my ticketing and baggage himself. Since my flight from Nairobi to Kisumu isn’t until 5:30pm, I don’t mind the re-routing. When I approach the immigration desk, on the way to the departure lounge, the officer tells me there is a $25 fee to exit Tanzania. Crap. I didn’t know about an exit fee. I was in Tanzania last December and didn’t pay an exit fee.

“Well,” I say to the guy as I pull out my wallet, “I don’t have $25 and my flight leaves in 30 minutes.”

The big guy next to him says, “Borrow it from a fellow traveler.”

“I’m traveling alone and I wouldn’t ask a stanger for money,” I say.

I pull out the 1,300 Kenya Shillings. “This is all I have.”

They point me to the exchange desk and say I may be able to use my bank card to get more money. I go to the exchange window, which is only five steps away, and a large, disagreeble man with 5 o’clock shadow at 5:00 am says the Kenyan money is worth $19 USD and he can’t get money from my bank card. He points out of the airport and says the bank opens at 8:30am.
Jeezus, will they keep me in the country because I don’t have the money?

I find the helpful East African Safari manager and tell him I don’t have the money to get out of the country. He walks over and talks with the immigration officer, then returns to me and tells me to give the officer the Kenyan shillings, which I do. He places a clearance stamp on my boarding pass and stamps my exit visa. I’m free to leave Zanzibar!!

Our plane holds exactly 12 people. We take two steps from the tarmac into the plane and I’m on the back row, by myself. Just in front of me sit a young couple, perhaps Scottish, and the woman has been in a wheelchair all morning with her head propped up as through she feels horrible. Now, she has her head on his shoulder. I snap pictures of the island and the shoreline as we ascend. The view is perfect and I have access to both sides of the narrow plane. It takes 20 minutes to arrive at the Dar airport. The airport is rather large. As we enter the doors, a man and a woman from East African Safari meet our group. The man takes our passports and gets our boarding passes for the flight to Nairobi. There are three Arab men and a couple from Australia on their way to Mauritia, but they must go through Nairobi first. I tell the airline employee there is another couple with our group and the woman is in a wheelchair. The couple rolls around the corner so the airline employee gets their passports, too.

We all sit and wait and talk, getting to know each other. None of us ask about the woman’s health, though we’re very curious. Could be a water borne disease or malaria. When the man returns with our boarding passes, he escorts us to our gate, where boarding starts immediately. We’re all impressed with the efficiency of the Dar airport and are soon on our way to Nairobi. Unfortunately, clouds cover much of Kili this morning so we see only a tiny portion of the ancient volcano’s brownish peak.

Once at Nairobi’s airport, sitting in the departure lounge, I’m excited about being home. I text message Vitalis, the driver, about a ride from the Kisumu airport. My flight gets in at 6:30pm. He texts John, the other driver, and they assure me someone will be there to pick me up. After being away from Kisumu for two weeks, I’m anxious to get home and to settle in. I’m teaching class tomorrow. Beginning at 8am, I’ll be instructing students in communication and public speaking.

It is raining when we land in Kisumu and as I stand under the edge of ariport’s roof, waiting for the guys to pull the luggage cart out, John runs through the rain and stands next to me. How wonderful to see a familiar face. There’s TICH’s brown van in the first (and only) parking row. I’m very grateful to John for picking me up and dropping me home in the nighttime rain.

It’s good to be home.

September 14, 2005

At breakfast, we talk with a German man who has brought his grown daughter on vacation. A bright, spunky and very tall German guy updates us on his plans for the day. He’s backpacking across Africa and arrived with his girlfriend, who was with him when we first met them at the Annex Malindi. She had to go home, though, to return to work, and he’s continuing on the adventure alone. But always with a smile on his face. Over the last two days, this tall, happy man has easily made friends with everyone at all three resorts. After breakfast, I pack and go to the office, to meet the shuttle that’s due at 10am. A Swiss couple also climb on board and they’re anxious to make it back to Stone Town by Noon, before the bank closes. Otherwise, they have no way to get or exchange money for their trip.

We stop at the adjacent resort and onboarding passengers fill every seat. Everyone speaks English though they’re from all over the world. I feel very lucky that English is so widely spoken. We’re all friends by the time we reach Stone Town and the couple does make it to the bank on time. When I return to Annex Malindi, pulling my suitcase through the rocky doorway, Tanika accepts my offer of 8,000 shillings for the night. Yippee! Now I have enough money to buy water and a snack this afternoon and dinner at the barbecue this evening.

Once settled in and rested, I decide to walk through Stone Town, taking different routes and photographing the architecture. I stroll, really examining the buildings from every angle. A cemetary catches my attention. Though it’s behind walls, glimpses of tombstones peer through holes and breaks in the wall. As I look and ponder certain shots, three pre-teen boys surround me. Not wanting to appear afraid, I smile at them. One boy holds his hand out and says something. Though I don’t know what he’s said, I do know he’s asking for money. I shake my head “no” and walk on. I don’t have any money on me, so I say, “hapana pesa.”

The boy then asks me to photograph him. I don’t really like to photograph locals because they often ask for money. I hesitate. He then insists, so I snap his picture. Again, his hand comes out and again I say, “Pole sana, hapana pesa.” This translates in English to “I’m very sorry but I have no money.” This angers him. The boys walk a few yards away and pick up rocks, which they begin throwing at me while shouting, “Fuck You!” “Fuck You.” They’re pronunciation isn’t perfect, but I understand clearly what they’re saying. Unnerved, but trying to remain clam, I spot a view of the cemetary wall and Indian Ocean I’d like to shoot. Just as I get ready to snap it, the boy sticks his head around the corner to shout at me again. He is accidentally caught in the picture. “Nooooooo,” he screams angrily.

I turn toward a busy interior road, to get away from the boys, when three teenage boys approach me on the path. They’re walking with their shoulders back, kicking trash in their path, trying to appear big and important. I take no notice of them, just hoping they’ll pass without incident, when the first guy kicks a box that hits my right shin. They bend over laughing and the second boy kicks a glass soda bottle, which knicks my ankle.

They move away, in the direction the younger boys had walked, still laughing and still trying to look big and important. This outward hostility is interesting to me. I wonder if it’s the way all Zanzibaris feel toward tourist, but only the children have the courage to demonstrate their animosity. Most locals are not kind or warm or respectful. They’re attentive when trying to sell something, but otherwise we get the cold shoulder, as though we’re not wanted. Yet, Zanzibar is the richest, nicest place I’ve visited in Africa and tourist dollars pouring in with every planeload of white people has brought this prosperity to the island.

Michelle and I were wrong to think we could come here and let our guard down. In fact, being on the island been much more stressful than living in Kisumu. I’m really looking forward to going “home.”

Back at Annex Malindi, after showering and packing for tomorrow’s flight, I hear Suzuki’s happy voice ringing up the stairway and reverberating in the center courtyard. He finds me in my old room. “Ah, you made it back. Excellent,” he says.

“Yes, and you’re still here,” I say.

He spent Monday and Monday night at an archaealogical dig on the island, meeting with scientists and then having beers with them at a shack bar. He’s excited about the dig and tells me if he had seen the dig a year or two before, he would have become an archaeaologist instead of an Indian Ocean Trade Historian. We go to Freddy Mercury’s bar to watch the sunset. Suzuki reveals his boyhood dream during the 70s was to be a wrestler, like Dusty Roads. He watched wrestlers from the U.S. on TV, imitated their moves and dreamed of traveling the world where he’d wrestle in exotic locales, like Zanziba. But then, one day, Hideaki realized his height was a hindrance. He doesn’t need wrestling, though, for he is like an anthropologist, the way he’s interested in cultural practices. I tell him about the Luo tribe live in the Lake Victoria region. I tell him about the Luo customs that increase the rate of HIV/AIDS.

“Like what?” he asks, leaning in over his beer.

“Like wife inheritance, where a widow is ‘inherited’ by a male member of her dead husband’s family. But before she can take the new husband, she must be cleansed by having sex with someone from outside the family. And usually the guy from outside the family is HIV positive, which means she becomes infected, too, if she was’nt already infected by her husband.”

“Oh,” says Suzuki.

“And….” I say, studying his face to see if he can handle what I’m about to say, “if the woman happens to die before she’s been cleansed, then someone has to sleep with her body before she’s buried.”

“What?!!!” Suzuki jumps in his seat. “You can’t be serious.”

“Listen,” I tell him. “I heard about that practice and didn’t believe it until I asked a very close friend, who is Luo. I trust him. He said some Luo still follow this custom of sleeping with the dead, but only those who are in remote rural areas, who haven’t been exposed to other cultures.”

“But, how?” Suzuki is just as stumped as I was when I first heard of this.

“Okay,” I say to Suzuki. “My friend said he knew of a woman who died and her family wanted her to be cleansed. She actually lived in Nyalenda, the slums of Kisumu, which is how my friend knew her. He lives in Nyalenda. So they asked around and could find no one to do it. Then, they talked to a guy who wasn’t quite right in the head. He was easily convinced to do the deed. But my friend said that afterward, the poor guy was never the same again.”

“How did they know it was done,” Suzuki asks.

“That’s exactly what I asked my friend. I mean, the guy could spend the nighttime with the body then simply say it was completed. But, no, they put two other men in the room with him, to watch.” Suzuki’s face says it all. His nose is curled up like he’s just smelled something rancid.

“Tragically,” I tell him, “the guy who performed the custom was practically ostracized by community members and his life went downhill from there. Though he wasn’t quite right before the deed, he definitely declined mentally afterward. At least that’s what my friend said.”

Because Suzuki is interested in cultural practices, I tell him about the Luo fishing culture in Lake Victoria. There are no large, commercial fishing fleets in Kenya’s part of the lake. Fish are caught by men using poles or nets. These men will wade out into the lake and stand on rocks, casting their lines. A typical fisherman can handle four lines in the water at a time. But really good fishermen can mange up to six poles at once. They hang a plastic bucket around their neck filled with bait. The line strung with their catch floats off a belt loop.

Soemtimes, three or four men will crew a wooden boat, about 18 feet long, and they’ll go out early, early in the morning, before the sun comes up, and they’ll return with a boatload of fish. But these men who fish do not take the fish to market. That’s a woman’s job. And the woman gets a supply of fish because she is on the fisherman’s “list.” He has a list of women who have sex with him regularly. Those are the women who get the fish to take to market. If someone new comes into the fishing community, whether it’s a man or woman, they are assigned to a mentor of the opposite sex. This person indoctrinates them into the fishing business and becomes their sex partner. Many of these men fish early and have all day to lounge around, drinking. This practice amongst the fishing community spreads HIV at a rapid rate.

Polygamy also spreads HIV because a husband can spread it to all his wives. I tell Suzuki many of the men also have girlfriends in addition to their wives. And most women, even if they’re married, also have boyfriends. Plural. More than one girlfriend or boyfriend. And they are usually sexually active with each partner. For Kenyans, having multiply sexual partners is an engrained part of the culture. Even education on the spread of HIV isn’t powerful enough to fight these cultural norms. If all of these people are having unprotected sex, then the likelihood they are transmitting HIV is very, very high, especially in Western Kenya, especially in Kisumu, where the rate jumps to double the national average and sometimes to eight times the national average.

Funny, for a culture that’s so sexual, you’d never know it by watching them on the street. People dress conservatively. The men hardly ever wear shorts. It is uncommon to see a woman wearing tight pants. In public, men and women do not touch. Even those who are married do not hold hands. Men hold hands in public. It’s quite common and quite natural for men to show each other affection by walking down the street while holding hands. But men and women do not show affection in any form while in public. Behind the scenes, however, sex rules much of what the Luo do. Of course, it’s not just the Luo with these practices. Most tribes practice polygamy and have sex outside of marriage. That’s not to say everyone in those tribes do these things. Many people exposed to other cultures often cease such practices, such as selling their daughters into marriage by demanding a dowry from the groom’s family. Others are even standing up against wife inheritance. There have been changes. And there will be changes, but certainly not fast changes.

Suzuki finds Kenyan culture fascinating. Of course, he’s interested in cultural exchanges across the Indian Ocean between East Africa and India and Arab countries. Naturally, Suzuki wants to learn about cultures inland. Not just indigenous tribes but sub-cultures like the Sikh Indian community in Kisumu and other Kenyan cities. But the sun has set and we leave Freddy’s to walk through the seafood stalls, selecting barracuda, shark, white snapper and chips (fries) for dinner. Afterward, we stroll by the merchant stalls and talk to a friend of Suzuki’s, Jumas. He has a rack of shawls (pareos) and printed kangas, the two large squares of cloth women wear wrapped around their upper and lower body. Suzuki is interested in buying kangas. He negotiated with Jumas earlier this week and I was able to buy two brown and block kangas for 2,000 shillings, or about $2 USD, before my funds began to run too low. I plan to use the brown and black kangas as the backing for the pinwheel quilt top I’m currently sewing.

Tonight, Suzuki is shopping for kangas to take back to Japan. Jumas models the pieces for us, wrapping his very skinny frame in a black-and-white patterned kanga. Then Jumas wraps Suzuki in a black and turquois set. They look very smart (and totally adorable, eschewing concerns of looking manly in this ancient patriarchal culture). Suzuki buys both sets.

The shawls are gorgeous and feel silky, though they’re woven of cotton. Of course, I’ve spent all my money on dinner, with reserve for the ride to the airport tucked in my room. I also have 1,300 Kenyan shillings in my wallet, about $19 USD, but I didn’t convert it to Tanzania shillings because I’ll need some Kenyan currency when I re-enter the country. Suzuki says, “Pick a shawl for you, Cindi. I’d like to buy one for you.”

I’m touched by Suzuki’s generosity because I really do want a shawl to take to Kisumu. Of course, I protest. He insists, earnestly, and we look at the shawls, stroking them and inspecting the color of their weaves. Suzuki has a genuine interest in all things, including people, and I so enjoy being with him and watching him interact with the Zanzibaris, speaking Kiswahili flawlessly. When he walks me back to Annex Malindi, I’m rather sad our time together on the island is over. We exchange email addresses, so we’ll be in touch. I leave tomorrow morning and Suzuki will leave in a week’s time to do more research in Oman. Then he’ll travel to Bangkok for a week’s vacation (I tease him about the “research” he’ll be doing in Thailand) and finally return home to Tokyo.

When I enter the building, the electricity is off. Candles illuminate the reception room where the young man on duty has placed a mattress in the center of the floor, complete with a sheet and a pillow. He jumps up to welcome me and hands me a candle, leading the way up the stairs. His English isn’t very good, but somehow we always manage to communicate. He has placed a candle at the top of the stairs and it brightens the entire central courtyard area. I leave it burning on the stone step after he’s returned downstairs.

There’s a mosquito in my net, biting me regularly, and I have difficulty locating and killing him. The taxi will be here at 5:30am and I have no alarm clock, so I sleep lightly.

September 13 2005

We’re back at the restaurant anticipating breakfast. They bring us five slices of bread about two-inches square. Butter and jam are on the table, so I slather both of these on thickly. They also serve unlimited coffee and offer eggs cooked to order. It’s not a huge breakfast, but it holds us over.

Michelle finds a spot in the sun with a book and I take a hammock under the eave of the restaurant. It’s so comfortable and in the cool shade. Music is always playing here, like James Taylor. Soothing. I read a book called “Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World” by Niall Ferguson, with a special interest in Britain’s colonization of East Africa. Not light summer reading, but perfect for this trip.We are surrounded by Swedes, Germans, Italians, Dutch, Aussies and Brits. The come and go, perching on rope chairs and lathering on sunscreens. Groups of them come to the water’s edge and climb into boats, on their way to snorkle or dive or parasail. I enjoy the minor sway of the hammack and often drop the book to my chest, enjoying the view of the blue sky melting into blue water sitting against white, white sand.

A Rasta dude comes up, gives me his hand and says his name is Wiseman. He has a boat tour if I’m interested. I’m not, I tell him. We talk about the island and I tell him I live in Kenya. He has lots of questions and begins to tell me how hard it is to drum up business. Also, his favorite soap opera is about to start so he needs to head home to watch. He doesn’t like missing a single episode.

“Wow,” I say, “You have a TV.”

“Sure,” he says. Wiseman must be doing well.

Mid-afternoon, I risk losing the hammack by rising and taking a walk down the beach, past the next ultra-fancy resort. It’s about a mile and a half walk and I’m not far into it when a young man walks up and strolls next to me. He asks the usual questions: What’s your name; where are you from; when did you arrive; how long will you be here; do you want to visit my shop and look at souvenirs? His name is King Soloman and he walks the entire way with me. He talks the entire way. I answer his questions but don’t ask a lot back, though I learn he used to live here but now lives in Dar. King Soloman travels around Tanzania buying handmade crafts and sells them throughout Tanzania, including Zanzibar. He tells me I’m African, he can tell, because I have a quiet confidence about me. I leave him at the spot where he first joined me and find a hammock unoccupied.

Ahhh, shade, James Taylor and a good book. No lunch, but that’s okay. Not hungry.

At dinner, Michelle orders the Flounder dish and a glass of wine. I order the soup again, poatoe and leeks. It’s served with pompado, a thin Indian bread that’s usually spicy. When the soup comes, again the bowl is barely half-filled and the pom is only two small pieces. I don’t want Michelle to know my funds are limited because she would then feel obligated to loan me money. And I don’t need it really. Breakfast tomorrow will be free. I’ll be back in Stone Town tomorrow evening. I’m sure if I ask Tanika, the receptionist at Annex Malindi, she’ll give me a room rate of 8,000 instead of the usual 10,000, which will give me an extra 2,000 ($2USD) to eat dinner with.

After dinner, Michelle and I tuck under our mosquito nets and try to fall asleep with a music war going on between our restaurant and the next door restaurant. Somehow, falling asleep comes quickly.

September 12, 2005

Michelle and I are up, not wanting to miss the shuttle to Nungwe. We’re told by the guest house staff that someone will come for us. And they do. We follow them back through the narrow streets to the main road, where we climb into the van. The trip to Nungwe, we’re told, will take about two hours. A dalla dalla could take us as well, but they stop frequently and the travel is lengthened. By hiring this van for 3,000 Tanzanian shillings (approximately $3 USD), we’ll be taken to the village itself to look at lodging options. If we decide we don’t want to stay in the village, the van will then take us about 5 km futher north to a resort called Kendwa Rocks.

The road leading from Stone Town is paved but soon turns to dirt. We travel on the dirt for quite awhile and then turn off into scrub bush, eventually entering a village with mud houses on the perimeter. We pass through the center of the village and exit on the other side where we see, as if by magic, brick and steel buildings, even shops with glass doors and signs that say “Yes, We’re Open” in the windows. What a contrast to the red mud huts just behind us. The beach is about 500 paces away.

Michelle and I check out the rooms but the lowest rate is $15 per night and that’s way more than we had budgeted for. We hop back into the van, the only remaining passengers, and take a very bumpy ride through what seems like nowhere until we pull up to a gate. When the doors are swung open by the guard inside, we see the little “resort.” The office building is tiny. We speak to a large woman through a tiny window and she hands several keys to a guy, instructing him to show us the dorm and the bandas. We pass the bath house, which has four combination shower/toilet rooms. They’re unisex. The sink area is out in the open with one mirror and one deep sink for all resort guests. The dorm room is large and priced at $10 per night. At least 15 people can fit into the room. The banda is a small room with a deep, thatched roof and a small porch with two chairs and a table. Two beds with nets make up the furnishings. This is $12 per night, a little more than we had expected, but it’s better than being in the dorm when we don’t know how many other folks will be there (the dorm is also unisex).

Other bandas and little cottages sit on tiers leading down to the sand and beach. A restaurant made of wood and thatch serves Kendwa Rocks guests. We’ll eat our free breakfast there each morning.

Michelle goes down to lie out in the sun. I pull out my money and count. I take away the $24 for the banda for two nights. I set aside 10,000 shillings for a room back at Annex Malindi in Stone Town. I then remove 5,000 shillings for the return van trip to Stone Town. That leaves me 5,000 shillings for the next three days. I have about a pint of water and determine to make it last. Water must be bought in bottles, not taken from taps, so I set aside 450 shillings for buying water in Stone Town. With approximately 4,500 shillings ($4.50) for food, I’m grateful breakfasts are free. That only leaves lunch and dinner to buy. I rest for awhile then walk down to the beach.

Most of Zanzibar is untouched by development. Local ladies patrol the beach, wrapped from head to toe in their kangas (rectangular pieces of cloth printed in colorful patterns. One piece wraps the top part of the body and the other wraps around the waist as a skirt cover), asking female guests if they’d like a massage or henna paintings. Local men also walk up and down the beach, visiting the three resorts in this area, offering to take people on dhow rides to Nungwe village or on fishing trips. Guys also walk by selling everything from toasted cashews to neckties. I play in the water and walk as far as possible both ways. Soon they’ll be serving dinner so we head to the banda for a shower.

Because the bath area is unisex, I again take my swimsuit with me to the shower, using shampoo as soap, and walk back to the room wearing my bathing suit with shorts. At the restaurant, a blackboard announces entrees. The food sounds wonderful. Red snapper with garlic sauce and Flounder with white wine sauce and rice. But each dish costs 6,000 shillings. That’s only about $6 USD, but I only have 5,000 shillings for the next three days. The cheapest item on the menu is soup at 1,500, so I order the soup, crème spinach, served with chappati, flat bread adopted by Africans from Indians. I am heartened to see chappati served with the soup because it is filling.

However, when our dishes arrive, the soup bowl is filled only a little more than halfway and next to the bowl sits two small triangles of chappati. Normally, when chappati is served in Kenya, we get the entire round chappati, which is about the size of a Mexican tortilla. Two tiny triangles!! My appetite hasn’t really returned since being sick so the soup is plenty and enables me to take another dose of antibiotic.

Museum Mama

Zanzibar Island
September 11, 2005

Monday morning. Michelle and I decide to walk through the narrow streets of Stone Town, to explore the city and photograph its architecture. We enter a part of town constructed specifically for wealthy tourists. It's a bit of a mindplay to see Italian and French restaurants and hotels on the water's edge furnished with beautiful, antique furniture. We walk through hotel lobbies with our jaw's dropping, following tapestry carpets to the seaside patrestaurantsnts, wondering what it's like to stay at such a luxurious place. Though these families are spending between $150 to $200 or more per night, we're spending only $10 each night. Along these same streets are tourist shops complete with huge, glass counters of Tanzanite jewelry, shelves of African shawls and materials and racks and racks of clothes. There is air conditioning. It is like being in a U.S. mall and the store is packed with both men and women and children, all looking for the perfect souvenirs. We recognize many of the people from the spice tour or from Freddy's sunset crowd. It feels strange to be in a tourist spot when we're actually residents of African countries.

Michelle and I decide to lunch at the China Plate restaurant, where we're seated on the top floor with a view of Stone Town harbor and the busy streets below. We're the only customers besides a single, Asian man across the terrace. For 3,000 shillings (approximately $4 USD) we choose from amongst four entrees, meat or fish served with rice and a ginger dressing salad. It's truly delicious. After lunch, Michelle goes to the beach to read and I go the national museum in the House of Wonders building. The center of the building is opened up through all three stories, though a roof has been added in modern times where one did not exist when the building was constructed. This place is huge. Lots of space not used efficiently. Dark wood stairs, about 20 feet wide, lead from floor to floor. One feels like a member of a royal family ascending and descending such massive fliMaritimeMartitime history is displayed on the ground level and artifacts from the Swahili culture are displayed on the second level. As I walk and read, two men also visit the exhibits. We pass, stepping out of each other's way, until I finally say, "There doesn't seem to be a logical system for displaying these items." The older man of the two, who has dreadlocks and a beard and appears to be in his early 50s, says, "You expected to find logical displays?"

"Yes," I say, "at least organized by locale where the objects were found or by dated periods. These things are from all periods and all locations, jumbled together."

They eventually agree and for the next hour the three of us stand in one spot and talk. And talk, without pause and without awkward silences. The older man, Bill, is a retired doctor from the U.S. He's of average height and build and seems very normal, except for his rasta hair. The younger man, Toby, is his son who's living in Southern Tanzania for three months to study a tribe of wood carvers for his bachelor's thesis. Toby is at least 6' 4" with bright red hair and a large, football player build. Bill is visiting Toby for three weeks and they've just spent time in Dar es salaam, which they affectionately and hiply call "Dar." I'm curious what Bill's assessment of Africa is. In the past, he tells me, he donated his medical services for short periods of time in third world countries. He understands the health needs of rural people. Bill has seen the health needs of Africans on this trip. He remains optimistic about healthcare access increasing in Africa and other developing countries, but says he couldn't live in the third world for any length of time. Handing me his card, I notice Bill is now a dance caller.

"Like calling a square dance?" I ask.

"Yes, precisely," he says.

A couple passes us, led by a guide and we half listen to what the guide is saying about the ceremonial dress display. Soon, Bill, Toby and I realize we must complete the tour, so we part with a handshake. As we amble through the rest of the exhibit, Bill and I pass. He comes close to me and says, "You do not know how much I've enjoyed our conversation. It's been a delight to meet you," and his eyes show his thirst for stimulating conversation in one's own language. I understand this need exactly, for I've felt the lack of intellectual stimulation while in a developing country, where everyone who speaks English does it brokenly or with thick accents. And where books of modern thought are practically non-existent. Where museums may have hand-written notices next to displays.

Bill then leans in and hugs me tightly and I hug him back, grateful, as he is, for a mind and heart connection in a foreign land.

The third floor of the museum is empty, though it supposedly contains a library. Some books on mathematics and engineering are stacked willy nilly in a wall niche, reaching from the floor to well above my head. But there is no library. The floor does open out to a deep, covered porch that wraps around the entire, massive building. So I spend time just watching the people in the square, on nearby streets, the boats in the harbor. There's a single, plastic chair in one corner of the railing. If I'm not sitting, I walk around the entire perimeter and take photos from every angle. For more than an hour, I'm on the third floor, studying Stone Town from a bird's eye view. With reluctance, I leave the museum and go back to Annex Malindi.

We spend sunset at Freddy's, watching the men play soccer and the boys practice gymnastics in the stand. They do handstands and handsprings and run up the wall and flip back onto their feet. It's quite amazing to see such dedicated athleticism from boys wearing torn and dirtied clothes. At the next table, two women and one man also watch the soccer game. Because they refer to the game as soccer instead of football signals to Michelle that they're from North America. She narrows it down to Canada and them must find out, so she asks and they are from Canada, from Toronto. They've just arrived in Zanzibar after climbing Kili. Michelle must get the skinny on the climb from them since she plans to scale the mountain in two week's time.

When people ask me how the climb is, I'm careful not to make light of it. While it's not a technical climb using ropes andespeciallyrnesses, it is physically challenging, epescially because of the risk of high-altitude sickness and the extreme cold. When on a mountain in 10 degree weather, there is no running into the hotel or the lodge, getting warmed by the fire, then going back into the elements. On Kili, climbers are in the elements 24 hours a day. It isn't easy to get warm in a sleeping bag in a tent. This is what I tell people who ask. If you can simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other, which means someone else is preparing your food and setting up your toilet, then you have a great chance of making it. Bring along lots of warm clothes (especially a face cover and gloves), drink lots of liquids and be sure to take Diamoxx to ward off altitude sickness. But I would never encourage someone to do it unless they truly want to.

It seems Zanzibar is where most folks go to relax when their climb is over. Or on safari. Or both. We meet people from all over the world who have just come down from Kili, then went on safari at Ngorongoro Crater or the Serengeti. Michelle is gathering more and more info about Kili from the people we're meeting, so she's feeling a little more secure about the climb.

We walk our usual route through the harbor barbecue and stop at the table where Suzuki has done such a great job of negotiating the price down. As we insist on the same prices with the crew, I hear someone calling my name. Looking back at the rickety picnic table, I see Bill and Toby. We join them, though they're just about finished, and I introduce them to Michelle. We also see the Japanese volunteer from Ethiopia.

A young, British couple sit at the table with us. They are very attractive and kind and appear to be newly-weds. A local walks up and kneels next to the young man. The local has a kerchief tied around his head and he says, "My name is Tupac and I'm going to kill you." We're all caught by surprise, especially when we realize Tupac is not quite right in the head. But the young man is frightened by the words "kill you" and he freezes, as does his wife. Those of us who are older just ignore the guy, which seems to be the best method. But he's not kneeling, peering into our faces, telling us he's going to kill us. Michelle is upset about the young man being frightened. She calls over a guy from the food crew, asking him to make the guy leave. It's apparent, however, that the food guy is scared of Tupac. He won't talk to him.

Tupac sings a little song and repeats his name over and over, which is frightening. The young man turns his face towards us all and says, "I'm afraid." His eyes are pleading. So we all stand, since we're done, and prepare to leave the table, thinking if we act normal and destroy Tupac's audience, he'll move on. He does, thank goodness.

We walk the harbor and run into Suzuki. I tell him Michelle and I are taking a van to Nungwe tomorrow morning. Nungwe is the village at the northern most tip of the island and Suzuki has been there before. Michelle is staying on in Nungwe indefinitely, but I'm returning to Stone Town on Thursday to fly back to Kisumu on Friday. Suzuki says he'll stop by the Annex Malindi on Thursday evening to find me, in case I stay there again.

Toby, who thinks he's running a fever, drinks three large glasses of sugar cane juice. Bill, Michelle and I laugh at his method of self-medicating when he has a real doctor for a father. As we stand and tease Toby, a man comes up to him and asks for money. He speaks to the guy in Kiswahili for a few minutes and finally the guy leaves. Then another man comes up to Toby with his hand out. Strange that they fixate on Toby and none of us. Perhaps because of his size. Even though Toby is large and often awkward, he's a very sweet guy with a soft heart. Maybe that's what the beggars sense.

Once the second guy leaves him alone, a teenager comes running, screaming, from the crowd, brushing past us followed by Tupac, who's fast and catches the guy, tackling him from behind. They tumble, rolling on the grass under a tree, then the guy is up and running away. Tupac stands and begins running after another teenagers who's just lingering in the park. Though there are hundreds of people in the park area, Tupac screams like a predator and chases men through the crowd. But there's something about his face as he gets up from tackling a guy. He seems perfectly lucid. He's there, in his eyes,frightenede strange void in his eyes when he was kneeling as Tupac next to the frigthened guy.

"I don't think he's really crazy," I tell the other. "His eyes just showed his true character coming through and they didn't look possessed."

"I saw that, too," Bill said.

So it's all an act. To entertain? To instill fear so he can get away with taking money from folks? Who knows, really? The guy himself probably doesn't understand what drives him. One thing is for sure, though. He really does look like Tupac.

Spice Tour

September 10, 2005

Zanzibar was the oceanic portal through which an estimated two million slaves from East Africa moved on their way to the Middle East. Arab slave traders traveled inland and bought slaves from warring tribes, bringing them to the African coast, then to Zanzibar, where they would be sold at open markets and loaded onto ships. But Zanzibar is also called Spice Island, because after the slave trade was abolished, spices supported the economy. Monday morning, following a night of deep sleep, Michelle and I join a spice tour starting at 10:00am and scheduled to return to town at 4:00pm. While we are waiting in the spice tour office with the Muslim men who run the company, we meet Heidika Suzuki, a young man from Japan who’s in Zanzibar to research his dissertation. For eight weeks, Suzuki works every day, researching at the local library, pulling, photocopying and studying old slave trading documents. His weekends are spent going to beaches on other parts of the island. Today, he’s taking the spice tour.

Our spice tour group fills two white vans and we drive out of Stone Town, visiting small houses and large groves of various spices to see the plants up close. Ginger, cloves, nutmeg, coriander, cumin, vanilla, black pepper, cocoa, coffee, jackfruit. We learn about the uses of the spices and fruit and the part they played in Zanzibar’s history. Many of the roads we travel are unpaved. All along our routes, tables line the road and are heaped with small, colorful packets of spices. Everyone in our group is white, except for one young man who wears a Kenya t-shirt. He looks to be around 30 years old. I finally ask him if he’s from Kenya and he says, "Yes, and I’m proud of Kenya. That’s why I’m wearing this shirt!" I ask where he’s from and he says, "Kisumu."

"I live in Kisumu," I say to him.

"Oh, so you speak Luo," he asks and laughs.

"Hericamano," I say (which means "thank you") and we both laugh.

His name is Seba and he is from Kondele, an area of Kisumu near the provincial hospital. We talk about Kisumu because he now lives in Tanzania and hasn't been home in a year. Seba is accompanying an older German woman on the tour. She looks to be at least 65 years old and is very nice. It is apparent Seba is her date for this trip to Zanzibar. Over lunch, they tell us they have spent time in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania's capital city on the coast. She’ll soon go home to Germany, but will return again, to visit Seba. This is her second trip to Tanzania. Older European men and women spending time with young, attractive Africans happens quite a bit on the coast of Kenya and Tanzania. She seems a bit timid, but her shyness may be because her English is not so good. The two of them sometimes hold hands on the tour.

When we’ve visited a location where lemon grass grows, which is our last stop on the tour, our guide gives us the option of going to the beach or going back to town. For those going to the beach, we’ll stop at a slave-holding cave on the way. More people chose to go back to town than to the beach. We take a wide dirt road lined by tiny houses and pine and coconut trees. Along the way, trucks pass us and their large beds are filled with locals dressed in bright green and yellow t-shirts. The national election is coming up next month and campaigning is in full swing. The truckloads of young people, dressed in green and yellow and shouting slogans, are seen all over the island. As in Ethiopia and other African countries, elections are times of instability. While we’re in Zanzibar, it is the beginning of low season, simply because the upcoming elections make it risky for tourists to be on the island.

In addition to campaign trucks, we are surrounded by dalla dalla on the dirt road leading to the beach. At times, there are three lanes of cars, trucks and our van heading in the same direction. We raise quite a bit of dry, red earth as we race toward the coastline. I notice the clouds of tiny dust particles settling on people in their yards, leaving a mask of dirt on the banana trees and other vegetation. The dirt floats easily into their homes and coats their furnishings. They breathe it in most of their lives. I can’t help but recall a health news item that ran on BBC World last week, saying people who smoke only four or five cigarettes a day have a higher chance of heart disease than do those who smoke two or more packs a day. The study also found patients who breathed in particulates from their environment were also more likely to die of heart disease than those who smoked regularly.

Africa is dusty, mainly because very few roads are paved. Roads, both paved and unpaved, are traversed by vehicles operating free of emission testing. These vehicles are old and rattling and falling apart, spewing clouds of black exhaust. Even in Kisumu, most cars are older and most trucks are poorly maintained, which means they do not operate efficiently. On the contrary, every matatu, transfer truck and even most family cars would not pass a standard U.S. emissions test. Of course, it’s so expensive to own a vehicle in Africa resulting in fewer cars and trucks on their roads. Cars and trucks, not surprisingly, do not last long because most of the roads are not roads at all put dirt paths full of ruts, grooves and rocks that jolt a car to death over a short period. Even in town, many highly-traveled roads are unpaved.

Only major roads between cities and within cities are paved. Hit the outskirts of town and red dirt roads are everywhere. The amount of daily dust and exhaust assaulting Africans is a crime. But dust is a minor annoyance when compared with their daily quest to find water, make the water safe for consumption, and locate food for their children. It doesn’t occur to them that the dirt kicked up by wind and cars is detrimental to their health. They have more pressing matters to think about.

So we fly down the wood-lined road and I regret the amount of dirt sailing into the homes we pass. Our guide closes all the windows and turns on the air conditioner. Sometimes the dust kicked up by the flying dalla dalla is so thick, we can’t see the kids in the back of the truck that’s four feet away.

We race down this dirt road for nearly 30 minutes before we turn right. It’s not a road, really, but a dirt path with two tire tracks and a line of grass down the center. We pull up to a fence and park next to three other vans. This is the slave cave. The structure is not a natural cave but two rooms dug into the ground, perhaps 15 feet deep. These to chambers are topped by a shell/cement roof that protrudes from the ground about two feet. A single stairway in the center is the only entrance and exit. The stairs are deep and narrow with nothing to hold as we descend. It’s a little scary just climbing into the hole on a bright day. Hard to imagine the terror of being herded into the darkness in a rush.

A sheltered placard tells the story of this locale, how slaves were brought here in the dark of night when slavery became illegal. Men were crammed into one room and women into the other. They were not fed or cared for and many died in the sunken caves. This, the slavetraders believed, was a way to weed out the weak, leaving only the strongest for trading. The exposed shell roof is only about 200 feet from the Indian Ocean. We walk the path the slaves took, though we are free while they were shackled around their necks, wrists and ankles. The path leads through the throny shrubs and onto a narrow peaking mound from which a drop of several yards ends in the rocky ocean’s edge. Again, it’s hard to imagine being led to the water through the darkness. Access to the beach made it easy for the slaves to be put into boats and paddled out to awaiting ships.

From here, we go back to the racing dirt road and follow it to a clearing in the coconut trees. There are two other vehicles parked under shade trees and we back into a spot. It’s not a real parking lot, just a sandy, open space at the end of the road. It feels very much like the wooded spots next to rivers and lakes in South Georgia where we swam as children; a place discovered by kids but not yet known to adults. A short walk through the bush and we’re all catching our breath at the sight of the turquoise Indian Ocean and ancient, black volcanic cliffs. A few people are already in the water so we venture to the shade of a cliff and select our spots on the rocky ledge. A guy sits on a cooler and I point and say, "Smart guy!" He smiles.

"Is that yours or are selling those?" I ask.

"I’m selling," he says and stands to open the lid. Inside, nestled in pieces of large ice, are glass bottles of Coca-Cola, Sprite, Fanta Orange, and Tusker beer. It’s so hot, I get a Coke and relax, watching Suzuki and Michelle buy their beers and sip the cold beverage in the African heat.
But we must swim before it’s time to return to town, so we all stand and begin stripping our clothes, to reveal our swim suits. Everyone who had been in the water when we arrived is now on shore, soaking in the sun. So we enter the water and bob around, enjoying the rhythm of the waves and the cooling effect of the water. Michelle and I bob next to each other while Suzuki dives nearby wearing goggles, looking for fish.

"Seba is very attactive," she says. "Men in Ethiopia do not look like that."

"Michelle," I say, as though tormented, "all the young men in Kisumu look like him. They have beautiful builds and handsome faces."

"Gee, I’m jealous," she says, "All I see are tiny Ethiopian men and you get to look at this all time." We’re both facing the shore and watching Seba as he talks to his girlfriend. Then he stands and removes his Kenya t-shirt. Michelle and I look at each other.

"Oh, dear," I say as he begins to unbutton his pants. While I find Kenyans beautiful to look at, especially when their builds are as perfect as Seba’s, I am not attracted to them. Perhaps my lack of "drive" toward Kenyans comes from knowing AIDS is so prevalent, especially in the Kisumu region. Perhaps my lack of "drive" comes from the cultural differences that make it almost impossible to communicate without misunderstandings and misinterpretations. Which is why I find it interesting that Europeans don’t mind coming over here and having "relationships" with Kenyans. Of course, I’m determined to remain celibate because of the high HIV infection rate, so it’s relatively easy to not be enticed by handsome Kenyan men. Michelle feels much the same way, but this doesn’t stop us from watching Seba step out of his pants. He is now only wearing a boxer-like swimsuit that shows off his six-pack and his long, muscular thighs. His shoulders aren’t bad either, we both agree before turning away and staring out to sea.

Soon, Seba is amongst us, wearing Suzuki’s goggles and looking at fish just below the surface. I float away from the group slightly, not wanting to be alone with Seba. But he follows and asks me where I’m from in the U.S. I tell him and he says, "Will you take me to the U.S. with you?" I laugh, but I’m thinking, ‘no freakin’ way, Dude, you’re pimping yourself to an old German woman.’ Well, that’s not the only reason I wouldn’t be interested in Seba. But he seems confident of his charm and never once appears embarrassed to be with an older woman. Every few minutes, as we all bob and enjoy the feel of the sun baking the tops of our heads, he calls my name and asks me questions. Nothing to do with Kisumu, everything to do with the U.S.
We climb out of the water, Michelle, Suzuki and me, and sit on the sand a few hundred yards down the beach. Somehow, Suzuki and Michelle produce dry cigarettes and a lighter. They enjoy a smoke, Michelle sharing a cigarette from Ethiopia and Suzuki sharing a cigarette from Japan.

Zanzibar.

Turquoise water with pure white caps. Scenes from travel brochure everywhere we look.

Ahhhhh.

Then our guide begins rounding people up, saying it’s time to return to town, and that’s just what we do. Wet, but wearing dry clothes, our van speeds through the dust clouds, air conditioner blasting. We’re dropped in town around the corner from our guest house and Suzuki says he’ll come by to get us later.

We shower, rest and eventually hear Suzuki in the lobby, talking Kiswahili and laughing with the staff, making his way up the narrow stairway to our floor. He brings the bright sun with him and we all venture out, wondering where we should watch the sun set this evening. It becomes routine, walking toward Stone Town’s harbor around 5:30 each evening to watch the sunset. On any stretch of beach, there are locals dividing up into two teams, playing soccer in the angled sunbeams. Tonight, we choose Freddy Mercury’s bar. Freddy was born in Zanzibar but later he moved to England before becoming well-known as the lead singer for Queen.

Freddy’s bar/restaurant is always busy and a magnet for white people. We never eat here for the food is expensive by Tanzanian standards, but we sit at tables on the deck's edge and talk and drink beer or soda, waiting for the sun to be gone completely before we walk the two remaining blocks to the nightly barbecue, where we can feast on the freshest of seafood for very little money. Before we go to the barbecue, while Suzuki is on his third large beer and Michelle isn’t far behind, Suzuki tells us about his research on the history of the East African trade routes. Then he mentions Sir Captain Richard Burton, how Burton was the first European to set foot in Harar, in Ethiopia. A slave-trading town, Harar was a walled city protected by its Muslim inhabitants. Any white man who ever entered the walled city never left it alive. But then came Burton, who spoke Amharic and Arabic flawlessly and who appeared Arab when he let his dark hair grow long. By the time Burton arrived in Harar, he had already penetrated Mecca, disguised as a Pathan, where he participated in the sacred annual ritual with Muslim "pilgrims" of circling the stone three times. Burton's lingusitic abilities were extensive and he learned to speak more than 30 languages and dialects fluently.

Oh, dear, what it must look like when an energetic Japanese man and an excitable American woman discover they worship the same idol! We talked non-stop about Burton and Lamu and Lake Tanginyka (which Burton "discovered") and the Mountains of the Moon. Poor Michelle. Our revelations about Burton were directed at her, as though Suzuki and I HAD to inform her about this great man or we’d fail as fans. Poor Michelle. She was interested in the part about Harar in Ethiopia since she lives near there, but her attention soon drifted and Suzuki and I didn’t notice because our enthusiasm nudged us on. "Oh," I shout, "Did you know he visited Salt Lake City in the U.S. and interviewed Brigham Young to learn more about the Mormon’s practice of polygamy?"

"No!" Suzuki says, so I must tell him about my hobby of studying Mormonism, how I wrote my master’s thesis on the Book of Mormon, and when I found Burton’s book, which intersected two of my favorite subjects in the world, I simply floated around Georgia State Univeristy for several days. "And I own the book now!" I exclaim. "I have many of his books, reprints of course, including his books on swords."

"Is it good?" Suzuki asks.

"I don’t know," I reply, "I haven’t read it. But I will, because I’ve packed away all of Burton’s book until I return home."

"I have many of his books, too," Suzuki tells me. We just grin at each other across the blue and white tablecloth, in the golden colors of the sunset. We just grin like happy idiots.

I was elated in Lamu to learn Burton had been through there, on his trek for the source of the Nile, and to know screens from the movie, "Mountains of the Moon," had been filmed in Lamu. But meeting Suzuki and hearing about his research and discussing Burton with him was an unexpected joy. Two fans meeting in Zanzibar and discussing our hero over beers at Freddy Mercury’s bar. I could have talked all night. Eventually, however, Suzuki and I reigned in our enthusiasm and changed the subject, hoping to bring the shine back to Michelle’s eyes.

In the harbor square, we strolled the path between tables of seafood and Michelle and I watched Suzuko charm the food crews. They all knew him for he’s been here most nights for the last few weeks. He talks them down to a ridiculously low price and then we move to the next table, eventually making our way around the entire complex before returning back to the first table, where he normally buys his food. While they grill our selections, we move behind the seafood and sit at a rickety picnic table, next to the harbor wall that holds back the ocean. Across the table sits a guy who also looks Japanese. We speak to him and learn he’s a volunteer who lives in a remote village in Northern Ethiopia. He’s in Zanzibar, as Michelle and I are, for a little rest and relaxation and access to good food and a few of the luxuries unavailable in Ethiopia.

After dinner, we stroll the harbor park with the two men from Japan and talk about development issues and volunteering and the Swahili culture. It’s hard to say goodnight, but we do.