The Show Must Go On!
TICH will have an exhibit at the Regional Agricultural Show in Kisumu the first week in August. As marketing manager, I’ve taken on the task of getting the building ready for the show. This means hiring carpenters, painters, masons, electricians, etc., to make repairs to the existing building we’re renting.
At TICH, we have two vehicles with drivers, available to take folks on work-related business when needed. To get a vehicle, one must fill out a vehicle requisition form and have it signed by the department head, then turned into the guys at the gate. But just because I fill out a form and say I want to leave at 4pm doesn’t mean we’ll leave exactly at 4pm. Sometimes other folks requisition a vehicle at a nearby time and so we’ll sit and wait for the others, to combine trips.
Anyone specializing in a skill, like painting, carpentry or repairing bodas boads, is called a “fundi,” an expert. No fundi in Kisumu has his own transportation. And very few have their own tools. So when we hire someone to paint or landscape, we usually have to transport them to the showgrounds. We also have to buy all the supplies. So I’ve spent many a morning and afternoon running from the accounts offices with a purchase requisition form in hand, carrying it to be signed by the department head, then the Reverend, head of HR. If I’m lucky, I’ll run into Director Dan, who has power to authorize anything TICH-related, and if he signs, then no other signature is needed. Most days, I’m running around to get money for turpentine or paint or sand paper or ballast so our fundis can do their work, while at the same time running around getting signatures for the vehicle so we can get the fundi to the site. Even if our fundi shows up promptly at 8am, it may be 10 am before we reach the showgrounds, because of last minute notices about supplies needed or transport not available. This is Kenya. Things take time. One must take lots of deep breathes. Hakuna Matata: NO WORRIES, they’re always saying. And they mean it!!
Every day, without fail, when we pull up to our building on the showgrounds, people flock to us. As we drive through the gates and through the acres of roads leading to our exhibit, groups of men and women lounging under trees rise, as though we’re dispensing money, and follow. They come into our yard and come into our building, uninvited, so we can’t hold private conversations with our hired help. “Excuse me, Madam, I’m a graphic artist,” “Madam, may I speak to you? I’m a carpenter…a mason…an electrician.” Sometimes it’s so overwhelming I could scream. And I do, ashamedly.
We arrive one morning to hire two ladies to clean the floor, to prep it for painting, and when we invite them in to discuss their tasks and payment, people walk in and others block the doorway. Frustrated, I turn to ask them to step outside, so we can talk privately. But instead of saying anything, I lift my left hand and wave it toward them, in a shooing motion, and am instantly ashamed. I’m also instantly surprised to see their eyes widen as they jump with the movement of my hand. They jump back and spin and almost run away. God, I feel like the white colonialist commanding people. It’s a horrible feeling. Never do I want to treat them as a group, as a lump. Always I want to relate to Kenyans individually, as the valued humans they are. And here they are, en masse, appealing to me for jobs, for work, just so they can prepare dinner for their families. Sometimes the weight of this too much, especially when I’m feeling the pressure to the get the work done on time. Especially when I’m feeling the pressure to hire someone who is reliable and skilled. How can one tell who’s reliable and qualified when there are fifty men and women standing and staring, waiting to be chosen?
When I lift my hand and shoo them, and they turn and scatter back behind the ragged picket fence at our property edge, I feel less of a person inside. I close the door and turn to Ruth and Esther, the two women we want to hire, and find ten faces peering into the window. And ten other faces peering into the next window. There is no such thing as privacy in Kenya.
We hire a guy to cut (slash) the grass. Lucas speaks to him in Luo and Kiswahili. I’ve turned the negotiations over the Lucas since the grass-cutter doesn’t seem to understand me, even though he shakes his head as if he does. There are very few lawnmowers in Kenya. People here use a long blade, called a slasher, which they swipe over the grass, slicing it at the appropriate level. Gangs of prisoners work all over the showgrounds, slashing grass and making hay. We explain to our grass-cutter that we want the grass shortened. We also want him to remove the dirt and grass that have settled over the paved walkways to our two front doors (there’s a door for entering and a door for leaving, creating a one-way traffic flow through our exhibit). When I return the next morning without Lucas, I’m dismayed to see the entire yard ploughed. Not one blade of grass remains, only dark, ploughed soil. And the walkways, made of 2-foot x 2-foot slabs of cement, have been uprooted and many of them broken in the uprooting.
Then Vitalis, our driver, tells me he was given a tip by one of the other workers that this young man, our grass-cutter, is not quite right in the head. Vitalis was given this tip the day before but didn’t tell me or Lucas. He told his boss, George, who manages our guards and janitors and drivers. But George didn’t pass the info on and now we have a freshly ploughed yard where we want a nicely manicured lawn. Hmmmmmm. Now we’ll have to landscape and possibly cover it with ballast.
The show is one and a half weeks away. Our extremely reliable painter, Peter, has shown up every day on time. He’s worked hard to paint all interior walls, the floor, the trim on the outside and he’s starting on the exterior walls. It’s an extremely rough surface and will require lots of paint. I go to town and buy 2-20 litres containers of third quality white paint (we want our building to be bright. As you can see from the photo, the building is currently a muddy brown color-not so easy to cover with white). Peter doesn’t own a sprayer. He’s using a 6-inch brush. He’ll probably go through many 6-inch brushes because the surface is so rough. He uses TICH’s ladder, homemade from tree branches. He’s the hardest working man I’ve seen in Kenya, this Peter.
I take quotes from three artists to paint our name across the front eave and to paint our logo on the building. Their charges are wildly disparate. I’m finding it hard to tell the ones who are not selected that they’re not selected. It’s a joy to tell the men and women they have the job. Often, they smile really big and sometimes even jump up and down while shaking my hand and sealing the deal. Kenyans do not show joy a lot. They laugh and smile, but when it comes to work and making a living, they’re often very serious. Unemployment is high, high and jobs are scarce. I like it when they smile and jump.
So every day I’m making two or three trips to the show grounds, dropping off fundis, hiring others, checking on the work completed. And every time our truck pulls up, there are more and more people asking for jobs. If I don’t mentally prepare myself and tell the driver how I’m/we’re going to handle certain tasks before we get there, it’s very easy to be swamped and swayed and irritated by so many pleading, serious faces. The drivers are wonderful and understanding and help me communicate with compassion. When I worry about our fundis not eating, they help me figure out how we can get food to them. Every day I’m reminded how caring Kenyans are, the ones with money and the ones without. Even though there’s competition for jobs, they’re all very respectful to each other, because they’re all in the same boat.
I wish we could hire them all. I wish I could go there and be open-hearted and never irritated. I don’t want to shame them or myself. Who knew preparing a building for a show would be a lesson in dealing with the effects of poverty and scarcity and hope?
At TICH, we have two vehicles with drivers, available to take folks on work-related business when needed. To get a vehicle, one must fill out a vehicle requisition form and have it signed by the department head, then turned into the guys at the gate. But just because I fill out a form and say I want to leave at 4pm doesn’t mean we’ll leave exactly at 4pm. Sometimes other folks requisition a vehicle at a nearby time and so we’ll sit and wait for the others, to combine trips.
Anyone specializing in a skill, like painting, carpentry or repairing bodas boads, is called a “fundi,” an expert. No fundi in Kisumu has his own transportation. And very few have their own tools. So when we hire someone to paint or landscape, we usually have to transport them to the showgrounds. We also have to buy all the supplies. So I’ve spent many a morning and afternoon running from the accounts offices with a purchase requisition form in hand, carrying it to be signed by the department head, then the Reverend, head of HR. If I’m lucky, I’ll run into Director Dan, who has power to authorize anything TICH-related, and if he signs, then no other signature is needed. Most days, I’m running around to get money for turpentine or paint or sand paper or ballast so our fundis can do their work, while at the same time running around getting signatures for the vehicle so we can get the fundi to the site. Even if our fundi shows up promptly at 8am, it may be 10 am before we reach the showgrounds, because of last minute notices about supplies needed or transport not available. This is Kenya. Things take time. One must take lots of deep breathes. Hakuna Matata: NO WORRIES, they’re always saying. And they mean it!!
Every day, without fail, when we pull up to our building on the showgrounds, people flock to us. As we drive through the gates and through the acres of roads leading to our exhibit, groups of men and women lounging under trees rise, as though we’re dispensing money, and follow. They come into our yard and come into our building, uninvited, so we can’t hold private conversations with our hired help. “Excuse me, Madam, I’m a graphic artist,” “Madam, may I speak to you? I’m a carpenter…a mason…an electrician.” Sometimes it’s so overwhelming I could scream. And I do, ashamedly.
We arrive one morning to hire two ladies to clean the floor, to prep it for painting, and when we invite them in to discuss their tasks and payment, people walk in and others block the doorway. Frustrated, I turn to ask them to step outside, so we can talk privately. But instead of saying anything, I lift my left hand and wave it toward them, in a shooing motion, and am instantly ashamed. I’m also instantly surprised to see their eyes widen as they jump with the movement of my hand. They jump back and spin and almost run away. God, I feel like the white colonialist commanding people. It’s a horrible feeling. Never do I want to treat them as a group, as a lump. Always I want to relate to Kenyans individually, as the valued humans they are. And here they are, en masse, appealing to me for jobs, for work, just so they can prepare dinner for their families. Sometimes the weight of this too much, especially when I’m feeling the pressure to the get the work done on time. Especially when I’m feeling the pressure to hire someone who is reliable and skilled. How can one tell who’s reliable and qualified when there are fifty men and women standing and staring, waiting to be chosen?
When I lift my hand and shoo them, and they turn and scatter back behind the ragged picket fence at our property edge, I feel less of a person inside. I close the door and turn to Ruth and Esther, the two women we want to hire, and find ten faces peering into the window. And ten other faces peering into the next window. There is no such thing as privacy in Kenya.
We hire a guy to cut (slash) the grass. Lucas speaks to him in Luo and Kiswahili. I’ve turned the negotiations over the Lucas since the grass-cutter doesn’t seem to understand me, even though he shakes his head as if he does. There are very few lawnmowers in Kenya. People here use a long blade, called a slasher, which they swipe over the grass, slicing it at the appropriate level. Gangs of prisoners work all over the showgrounds, slashing grass and making hay. We explain to our grass-cutter that we want the grass shortened. We also want him to remove the dirt and grass that have settled over the paved walkways to our two front doors (there’s a door for entering and a door for leaving, creating a one-way traffic flow through our exhibit). When I return the next morning without Lucas, I’m dismayed to see the entire yard ploughed. Not one blade of grass remains, only dark, ploughed soil. And the walkways, made of 2-foot x 2-foot slabs of cement, have been uprooted and many of them broken in the uprooting.
Then Vitalis, our driver, tells me he was given a tip by one of the other workers that this young man, our grass-cutter, is not quite right in the head. Vitalis was given this tip the day before but didn’t tell me or Lucas. He told his boss, George, who manages our guards and janitors and drivers. But George didn’t pass the info on and now we have a freshly ploughed yard where we want a nicely manicured lawn. Hmmmmmm. Now we’ll have to landscape and possibly cover it with ballast.
The show is one and a half weeks away. Our extremely reliable painter, Peter, has shown up every day on time. He’s worked hard to paint all interior walls, the floor, the trim on the outside and he’s starting on the exterior walls. It’s an extremely rough surface and will require lots of paint. I go to town and buy 2-20 litres containers of third quality white paint (we want our building to be bright. As you can see from the photo, the building is currently a muddy brown color-not so easy to cover with white). Peter doesn’t own a sprayer. He’s using a 6-inch brush. He’ll probably go through many 6-inch brushes because the surface is so rough. He uses TICH’s ladder, homemade from tree branches. He’s the hardest working man I’ve seen in Kenya, this Peter.
I take quotes from three artists to paint our name across the front eave and to paint our logo on the building. Their charges are wildly disparate. I’m finding it hard to tell the ones who are not selected that they’re not selected. It’s a joy to tell the men and women they have the job. Often, they smile really big and sometimes even jump up and down while shaking my hand and sealing the deal. Kenyans do not show joy a lot. They laugh and smile, but when it comes to work and making a living, they’re often very serious. Unemployment is high, high and jobs are scarce. I like it when they smile and jump.
So every day I’m making two or three trips to the show grounds, dropping off fundis, hiring others, checking on the work completed. And every time our truck pulls up, there are more and more people asking for jobs. If I don’t mentally prepare myself and tell the driver how I’m/we’re going to handle certain tasks before we get there, it’s very easy to be swamped and swayed and irritated by so many pleading, serious faces. The drivers are wonderful and understanding and help me communicate with compassion. When I worry about our fundis not eating, they help me figure out how we can get food to them. Every day I’m reminded how caring Kenyans are, the ones with money and the ones without. Even though there’s competition for jobs, they’re all very respectful to each other, because they’re all in the same boat.
I wish we could hire them all. I wish I could go there and be open-hearted and never irritated. I don’t want to shame them or myself. Who knew preparing a building for a show would be a lesson in dealing with the effects of poverty and scarcity and hope?
posted by Cindi at 6:58 AM
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