It's Not Quite Your Problem-Free Philosophy

So, I’m here. Day one involved a trip to immigrations to take care of residency paperwork, where I was fingerprinted no less than four times, before we headed out down the highway. Where we were promptly flagged down by the police, demanding to see our radio license. Because apparently in 2001 the government passed a music copyright law requiring anyone with a radio in their car to own a license to actually listen to music, then decided that notifying the public was unnecessary. Roadside “negotiations” ensued.

After a stop to look over the rift valley we reached Lake Nakuru National Park, driving toward our compound past grassy fields reaching the edge of the lake, lined by a wide ribbon of pink flamingos glowing under the distant hills in the dusk. The week consisted mainly of orientation, highlighted by the masses of baboons who invaded the compound, climbing on top of the bathrooms to fight, attempting to break into the dormitories, and raiding the trash burn pit. Oh, and reality check: BBC and NatGeo never mention swarming mosquitoes when they make documentaries portraying the rainy season as paradise.

Evenings were occupied by game drives. The park is pulsing with wildlife: our first drive turned up waterbuck, zebra, colobus monkeys, five lions in a tree, babboons, spotted hyenas, jackals, elan, white rhinos, gazelles, impala, cape buffalo, pelicans, storks giraffes and thousands of flamingos, wings sending up a roar as they rose into the sky. The next day we drove to a waterfall on the far side of the park, spotting guinea fowl, lion cubs, and a leopard lounging in a distant tree along the way.

Thursday there were riots in Nakuru, the town visible from our compound. Apparently people were disinclined to acquiese the request of the municipality, who decided to hike the rent. When people were sent to evict the residents, mayhem broke out and police shot into the crowd, killing two people and injuring half a dozen more. To top it off, a stray cat then took it upon itself to wander into the hospital and eat a premature baby straight out of an incubator. No joke. According to Jane, one of our staff: “I do not know about in America, but the incubator was open! What kind of an incubator is that?”

They were not kidding when they told us Kenya’s roads approximate to the lunar surface. Friday we drove into a rural area, off paved roads and up dirt tracks rutted by rainwater… Until our valiant bus hit a ditch, almost tipped over, and disembarking was determined to be the best course of action. We walked up the road between houses protected by fences of sharpened sticks until we reached a small trail running along the edge of a maize crop, then continued into the fields for another 15 minutes until reaching a small clearing with two mud-and-stick houses and a corral containing a single donkey: the home of one family of the Ogiek hunter-gatherer tribe. We were welcomed by a line of women who escorted us, singing, to some benches that had been covered with cloth. There were four generations present, ranging from the leader (somewhere around 97 years old) to his great grandchildren (as young as 4). Demonstrations were done of handdrill (firemaking with sticks), bow and arrow (nastily barbed arrows fused to shafts with impala skin), and other skills before speeches were made. Patrick, a man from the third generation, talked about how they are basically squatters in their own country: the forest where they used to live has been mostly cut, land parceled out to rich people with political influence as gifts and used to plant crops. The Kikuyu, who live on adjacent land, push further and further into Ogiek territory, forcing them to survive on smaller and smaller pieces of land. Currently, the land they live on is not technically theirs: it has been given away, and they are fighting in the courts to keep it. They are no longer able to thrive by hunter-gatherer methods due to how far back the forest has been cut. Remind you of anyone?

After speeches, socialization took place. We tried to explain about seasons and snow with little success. I puled up a photo of Mt. Hood on my camera and pointed out the snowcap, at which the men surrounding me started pointing and jabbering. The women took our arms in their hands, peering at the white skin of the “Mzungus,” asking what we had done. The men laughed at how we looked. As they escorted us back to the bus, one of the men asked for my phone number. “I don’t have a phone.” “Well, here’s mine. Are you married?” “Yes.” “Where is your ring? “I left it in America so it wouldn’t get dirty.” “Oh.”

Later in the day, Simon, one of our staff said, “Hey. So you know the two other women who were walking with us back to the bus? The ones who said they were Ogiek? They weren’t. They were Kikuyu spies.”

Thus concluded week one. Welcome to Kenya.