Show Time
Today, it’s me, Vitalis and Peter the painter. And Peter’s ladder. Well, TICH’s ladder which we’re hauling in the van. The ladder is typical of Kenyan ladders, made of long, strong, roughly hewn tree branches. The rungs are nailed and tied on. The ladder starts at the back window and ends next to my head. We’re rolling, after taking a while to collect final items and answer questions from everyone at TICH who just today take an interest in the show and want to make suggestions. But we’re rolling, approaching the police stop near the showgrounds, confident we have plenty of time to complete the stand, confident we have Peter the Painter and his trusty ladder.
The policeman pulls us over. What’s he saying to Vitalis while pointing at our windshield? He looks mean, so I sit quietly. Vitalis gets out of the vehicle saying, “He says our vehicle license is missing.” We search for papers in the car but can’t find any. Vitalis walks to the back of the van with the officer and calls George, our security guy who handles the vehicle registrations. I sit quietly contemplating how far the walk would be for me and Peter and ladder. Too far, damn it. In anticipation of reaching the gate, I have a 1000 shilling note in my left hand and fold it up and hide it in my palm, lest the officer thinks I’m offering a bribe.
A face fills the open window to my left and a young, large officer says, “Good Morning, Madam, how are you?” His hand is massive, warm and his smile is cocked, his eyes mischievous. He looks like a chocolate Elvis. “I could be better,” I say and indicate Vitalis standing behind us on the road. Vitalis is farther away and I turn to make sure Peter is still with me. “We’re on our way to the show grounds, to work on our booth,” I say. The officer releases my hand and runs his finger up my bare arm while staring at my chest. I’m confused and move away from the window. He pins my arm down.
“I’m looking for an mzungu wife,” he says, all smiles. “My sister married an mzungu and is now living in the UK.”
“What would you do with an mzungu wife?” I ask.
“We’d move to your country and start a family,” he says.
I laugh. “How old are you?”
“24.”
“Ah,” I say. “So young.”
“How old are you?”
“42!”
“That’s okay,” he says still focusing on my chest. Then he sees my 1000 note and picks it from my hand. It disappears easily in his large grasp. “Give it back,” I say, tired of him caressing my arm and massaging my chest with his eyes and leaning into my window so I have to lean into the driver’s side. I look back at Peter, who’s a slim, small man. He sits erect, staring straight ahead with an artificial smile on his face. At least he’s still there!
“I’ll give you 500 shillings, how about that?” Officer greedy says. Is he honestly asking for a bribe? I can’t tell, so I reach for the money but he pulls back. Again with the eyes on the chest and his wiley grin. Again, I reach for the money and he allows me to take it back while he laughs. Then he takes a pen and writes his name, “Nicolas Murrey” and his phone number and tells me to call him so we can go on a date. I’m mad with Vitalis for leaving me exposed, which is just plain silly. He has his hands full dealing with the mean, short and muscular officer by the road.
Vitalis is back in the driver’s seat and we’re headed toward the gate. I ask him what happened. Why were we allowed to drive on when we didn’t have the license? Did it really just “fall” from the windshield? Vitalis is vague so I know there must have been some sort of bribe offered and accepted. At the grounds, one of the two gate men is at the front gate today. When he sees us, he flags us down and climbs into the van next to me. He’s going to get us into the back gate. We drive around back, fight the crowds, wait for a clear entry. The big guy comes and tells us we’ll have to pay, so I hand him the 1000 shillings and he moves inside the gate. Meanwhile, our passenger climbs out, slams the door and puts his face next mine. His expression is mournful as he whispers, “Please, Madam, 100 bob for my troubles.” That’s a lot of money for doing nothing. “I just gave all our money to the big guy,” I tell him. He accepts this and moves on to his next mark.
We get through the gate and go straight to George, the manager. He gives me the free passes that come with our stand rental. I stop by the show’s accounts office to pay for judging. I give them 1500 shillings so we can be judged in the category of “Best Institute of Higher Education.” But the blue and green satin fabric for decorating is in the vehicle, not placed in the stand yet. And we don’t have our literature printed. Tonny is printing it all today to bring tomorrow, the first day of the show. As I pass the 1500 to the accountant, they tell me judging will take place this morning. I almost pull the money back but remember how keen the director was on being judged. ‘Well,’ I think, ‘we’ll enter but there’s no chance we’ll be ready when the judges visit.’
Peter is painting the floor red where we had to repair pot holes. He paints the potted plant containers white, he touches up the well out front and puts a second coat on the exterior. We hire two women to assist. Ruth is “slashing” the grass in the back and Grace is mopping the floor and front walkways. She’s also cleaning the paint off the window panes with a razorblade. Meanwhile, I begin creating blue satin table skirts. A no-sew version using tacks. A stand across the street has hip-hop music blaring. Outkast and Beyonce mingle with local music. The bass is driving and deep and helps us work more efficiently.
I bought crisp, white, white cotton for the tops of the display tables. I’ve spread the white cloth down 16 feet of table when Peter and Michael (he just delivered our partnership map) decide to remove a piece of roofing from the ceiling beams. I had asked Peter to move the piece two weeks ago. It’s very heavy and the two of them struggle to reach up and support it while they lower it from the ceiling. What no one thinks about is the layer of red, fine dust sitting atop the piece. The dirt shifts and plops down in pyramidal piles onto my white, white cloth. “Shit!” I say. Kenyans are always impressed with my reserved eloquence. So I have to pull Grace from scrapping the windows and ask her to clean the cloth and the floor. Everything is covered in red dirt.
The judges arrive.
The head judge is a gentleman and he’s somewhat perturbed we’re not ready. He asks when we’ll be ready. I want to say “Who knows?” but don’t. “Will you be ready by 2:00,” he asks. “Yes,” I say. Either we won’t be ready by 2pm, or the judges will run late.
When Ruth finishes slashing, she moves inside and helps Vitalis set out TICH’s marketing items and books. The two of them hang giant vinyl posters advertising TICH’s principles and academic programs. I hang the handmade TICH clock, built from wood. Slowly, things fall into place. We hide extraneous stuff under the table skirts.
The judges enter.
The judges are two women and they immediately acknowledge our stand is not ready. They’d like to see our literature. So would I. I tell them to picture a projector on this satin-covered table. Slides/photos will be flashing onto this wall. Luckily, Michael hung the map of Nyanza Province we’d commissioned, so at least the judges can look at the map, at TICH’s partnership sites in five districts. I explain how TICH students and staff conduct primary research in these rural communities. It’s a major part of the curriculum, in addition to the rigorous academic schedule student’s are put through. Our community work makes TICH unique as an institute. The judges are very interested and ask lots of questions for 30 minutes. After they leave, I look at our TICH mugs on display and tell Vitalis, “Dang, I should have given them a mug, then maybe we’d have a chance of at least placing!”
My thumbs are incredibly sore from pushing brass tacks into the tables. Vitalis is upset that no one else from TICH came out to help assemble the stand. So are the two ladies we’ve hired, who step in and help us get everything in place. I take pictures, inside and out, for the TICH website. This will be the last time I see the stand since we’re leave for the Congo tomorrow. We’re all tired after a long day of moving furniture and balancing on tippy toes on stools to hang posters. I’m tired from hunching over fabric, ironing a smooth edge and tired from being asked for money and my hand in marriage.
We load up and lock up and pull away from the stand. I can’t say I’ll miss it. After the chaos of entering and the madness brought about by poor management, I feel badly putting the exhibit’s day to day management on Tonny’s shoulders. But I don’t feel badly enough because…
Congo Here I Come!
The policeman pulls us over. What’s he saying to Vitalis while pointing at our windshield? He looks mean, so I sit quietly. Vitalis gets out of the vehicle saying, “He says our vehicle license is missing.” We search for papers in the car but can’t find any. Vitalis walks to the back of the van with the officer and calls George, our security guy who handles the vehicle registrations. I sit quietly contemplating how far the walk would be for me and Peter and ladder. Too far, damn it. In anticipation of reaching the gate, I have a 1000 shilling note in my left hand and fold it up and hide it in my palm, lest the officer thinks I’m offering a bribe.
A face fills the open window to my left and a young, large officer says, “Good Morning, Madam, how are you?” His hand is massive, warm and his smile is cocked, his eyes mischievous. He looks like a chocolate Elvis. “I could be better,” I say and indicate Vitalis standing behind us on the road. Vitalis is farther away and I turn to make sure Peter is still with me. “We’re on our way to the show grounds, to work on our booth,” I say. The officer releases my hand and runs his finger up my bare arm while staring at my chest. I’m confused and move away from the window. He pins my arm down.
“I’m looking for an mzungu wife,” he says, all smiles. “My sister married an mzungu and is now living in the UK.”
“What would you do with an mzungu wife?” I ask.
“We’d move to your country and start a family,” he says.
I laugh. “How old are you?”
“24.”
“Ah,” I say. “So young.”
“How old are you?”
“42!”
“That’s okay,” he says still focusing on my chest. Then he sees my 1000 note and picks it from my hand. It disappears easily in his large grasp. “Give it back,” I say, tired of him caressing my arm and massaging my chest with his eyes and leaning into my window so I have to lean into the driver’s side. I look back at Peter, who’s a slim, small man. He sits erect, staring straight ahead with an artificial smile on his face. At least he’s still there!
“I’ll give you 500 shillings, how about that?” Officer greedy says. Is he honestly asking for a bribe? I can’t tell, so I reach for the money but he pulls back. Again with the eyes on the chest and his wiley grin. Again, I reach for the money and he allows me to take it back while he laughs. Then he takes a pen and writes his name, “Nicolas Murrey” and his phone number and tells me to call him so we can go on a date. I’m mad with Vitalis for leaving me exposed, which is just plain silly. He has his hands full dealing with the mean, short and muscular officer by the road.
Vitalis is back in the driver’s seat and we’re headed toward the gate. I ask him what happened. Why were we allowed to drive on when we didn’t have the license? Did it really just “fall” from the windshield? Vitalis is vague so I know there must have been some sort of bribe offered and accepted. At the grounds, one of the two gate men is at the front gate today. When he sees us, he flags us down and climbs into the van next to me. He’s going to get us into the back gate. We drive around back, fight the crowds, wait for a clear entry. The big guy comes and tells us we’ll have to pay, so I hand him the 1000 shillings and he moves inside the gate. Meanwhile, our passenger climbs out, slams the door and puts his face next mine. His expression is mournful as he whispers, “Please, Madam, 100 bob for my troubles.” That’s a lot of money for doing nothing. “I just gave all our money to the big guy,” I tell him. He accepts this and moves on to his next mark.
We get through the gate and go straight to George, the manager. He gives me the free passes that come with our stand rental. I stop by the show’s accounts office to pay for judging. I give them 1500 shillings so we can be judged in the category of “Best Institute of Higher Education.” But the blue and green satin fabric for decorating is in the vehicle, not placed in the stand yet. And we don’t have our literature printed. Tonny is printing it all today to bring tomorrow, the first day of the show. As I pass the 1500 to the accountant, they tell me judging will take place this morning. I almost pull the money back but remember how keen the director was on being judged. ‘Well,’ I think, ‘we’ll enter but there’s no chance we’ll be ready when the judges visit.’
Peter is painting the floor red where we had to repair pot holes. He paints the potted plant containers white, he touches up the well out front and puts a second coat on the exterior. We hire two women to assist. Ruth is “slashing” the grass in the back and Grace is mopping the floor and front walkways. She’s also cleaning the paint off the window panes with a razorblade. Meanwhile, I begin creating blue satin table skirts. A no-sew version using tacks. A stand across the street has hip-hop music blaring. Outkast and Beyonce mingle with local music. The bass is driving and deep and helps us work more efficiently.
I bought crisp, white, white cotton for the tops of the display tables. I’ve spread the white cloth down 16 feet of table when Peter and Michael (he just delivered our partnership map) decide to remove a piece of roofing from the ceiling beams. I had asked Peter to move the piece two weeks ago. It’s very heavy and the two of them struggle to reach up and support it while they lower it from the ceiling. What no one thinks about is the layer of red, fine dust sitting atop the piece. The dirt shifts and plops down in pyramidal piles onto my white, white cloth. “Shit!” I say. Kenyans are always impressed with my reserved eloquence. So I have to pull Grace from scrapping the windows and ask her to clean the cloth and the floor. Everything is covered in red dirt.
The judges arrive.
The head judge is a gentleman and he’s somewhat perturbed we’re not ready. He asks when we’ll be ready. I want to say “Who knows?” but don’t. “Will you be ready by 2:00,” he asks. “Yes,” I say. Either we won’t be ready by 2pm, or the judges will run late.
When Ruth finishes slashing, she moves inside and helps Vitalis set out TICH’s marketing items and books. The two of them hang giant vinyl posters advertising TICH’s principles and academic programs. I hang the handmade TICH clock, built from wood. Slowly, things fall into place. We hide extraneous stuff under the table skirts.
The judges enter.
The judges are two women and they immediately acknowledge our stand is not ready. They’d like to see our literature. So would I. I tell them to picture a projector on this satin-covered table. Slides/photos will be flashing onto this wall. Luckily, Michael hung the map of Nyanza Province we’d commissioned, so at least the judges can look at the map, at TICH’s partnership sites in five districts. I explain how TICH students and staff conduct primary research in these rural communities. It’s a major part of the curriculum, in addition to the rigorous academic schedule student’s are put through. Our community work makes TICH unique as an institute. The judges are very interested and ask lots of questions for 30 minutes. After they leave, I look at our TICH mugs on display and tell Vitalis, “Dang, I should have given them a mug, then maybe we’d have a chance of at least placing!”
My thumbs are incredibly sore from pushing brass tacks into the tables. Vitalis is upset that no one else from TICH came out to help assemble the stand. So are the two ladies we’ve hired, who step in and help us get everything in place. I take pictures, inside and out, for the TICH website. This will be the last time I see the stand since we’re leave for the Congo tomorrow. We’re all tired after a long day of moving furniture and balancing on tippy toes on stools to hang posters. I’m tired from hunching over fabric, ironing a smooth edge and tired from being asked for money and my hand in marriage.
We load up and lock up and pull away from the stand. I can’t say I’ll miss it. After the chaos of entering and the madness brought about by poor management, I feel badly putting the exhibit’s day to day management on Tonny’s shoulders. But I don’t feel badly enough because…
Congo Here I Come!
posted by Cindi at 9:23 AM
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