I got a gift today-- a fresh tilapia. Its the first of its kind but I hope not the last!
after all, I am in a fishing village on the shores of Lake Victoria and I hope to go fishing one day.
George, Sirme and Joseph grin as they hand me a plastic bag, a tilapia in it with the hook still on. I insist on paying, but they vehemently refuse.
They are members of the Lake Land Youth Group, a registered group in Uhundha, consisting of 30 members of both sexes, ages ranging from 10 to 30+. They have a community garden in the village as an income generating activity as well as for sustenance. They are also active in using music as a medium to raise awareness in the community regarding AIDS/HIV, the environment and family resources management. Their ideology resonates with Shiriki, so I connect them, so they can collaborate with each other and 'share' their knowledge.
they will be instrumental in helping us mobilize a community garden for the orphanage in the village. We start at 10 AM on Wednesday and having read the group’s by-laws I am positive that it’s not 10 AM African time ☺
Like Indian Standard Time, African time follows the mentality of Hakuna Matata, which in Swahili means No Worries. The last 3 days seem to have been exactly those kinds of days, but with a lot of activity.
Let me rewind to the beginning of my introduction to Uhundha…
I take the morning bus to Kisumu taking in the glory of the picturesque Kenyan countryside. Overtaking buses with Sasha Obama, Jai Mata Dee, Jay Swaminarayan, Nanak trucking helps me feel at home, as does the fact that I have had Kenyans talk to me in Swahili multiple times over the last week. Indians are plentiful here, as is the influence of Indian food. I have fresh chapatis every day here!
In Kisumu, Charles arrives on time, unlike most of his countrymen, to take me to his village, Uhundha. He has spent the night on a bus from Nairobi, where he works, to make the 8 hour journey to Kisumu to settle me in at his place in the village and to introduce me to the community.
It takes us a couple hours to get to Uhundha, after a few brief stops to pick up Maureen, the housekeeper, and to buy necessities needed in the house. The car navigates the gentle ups and downs passing through lush green fields of maize, while Lake Victoria plays peek-a-boo. Kids are everywhere, girls balancing yellow buckets on their heads.
We arrive at a big house with an overgrown garden. Two of Charles’ nephews appear from nowhere and start cleaning the place with Maureen.
Determined to not lose precious time, Charles takes me for a tour of the primary school, the orphanage and the area called the beach. When we get back to the house, the ghosthouse it once seemed to be has been transformed into a lovely cottage with a dining table, a living room full of couches and two chairs in the patio. I may not have power but i have a functional shower AND a western toilet (a scream of delight for not having to use the 'hole in the ground').
There are guests waiting. Charles invited the village elders, the school headmaster and a couple schoolteachers in the evening to introduce me before he heads back to Nairobi the next day. We have a great discussion about the needs of the community, prospective projects that I could think of after a cursory glance at the school, and the orphanage, and ways the community can help.
A finger-licking good meal of beef curry, kale and ugali (made with maize flour) ends a perfect but a long day.
Sunday is a relaxed day. I wake up with an urge to try my new Vibram Five Fingers (bought solely for their weight) on Kenyan soil, it’s the country that produces the world’s best runners. The primary school soccer ground seems like a good place to start. Besides, I can scope out the playground or rather the remnants of it, to see if any improvements are feasible there. Ten minutes into the run, there are sinister shadows of a kettle of eagles that I apparently disturbed. As they decide to swoop lower and lower with every flight, I decide to run away.
In the course of the day, I am visited by most of the people I met the day before. We discuss more projects, brainstorm ideas to mobilize youth and community groups as soon as possible.
Lunch is lentils (which I transform into the Indian way by adding onions, tomatoes, ginger and garlic) with beef curry and fresh chapatis. I certainly will need to run more in the coming days!!
In the afternoon, I take a motorcycle (the ‘driver’ wears a Number 12 New England Brady Jersey) to the nearby town to charge my laptop and phone, buy ‘Pilipil Hoho' (Luo name for Green peppers), as requested by Maureen among other stuff.
Back in my room after dinner of fresh tilapia stew, every few minutes, I hear the pitter patter of bird feet on the tin roof, or bats squeaking from the unfinished roof- their ‘favorite’ hide-out I am told, and I am strangely comfortable under the security of my blue mosquito net.
Monday I wake up late, but just in time to meet Josiah, the school headmaster, who shows me around the school. We decide on a spot for the compost pit, check out the garden plot and the demonstration plot, where children learn to plant kale and tomatoes, among other things. We plan to have a classroom cleaning along with putting trash bins and compost bins in the yard to encourage composting the following week.
Another brief trip into Usenge for a couple hours to recharge batteries and its time to meet the Lake Land Youth Group…
They are all waiting for us under a tree- there is a school bench, a mat and a stool to sit, there are few drums made of tin cans and cow hide lying around, and a sign with the group name.
As I approach, they hand me the objectives, current activities and by-laws. This group is more organized than a lot others I know- they even have a fine for not showing up without an excuse/apology for their weekly meetings!
I explain the objectives of my visit to Uhundha, the objectives of this meeting, the various projects we have identified so far, and are thinking about and how we can utilize their expertise and help in establishing the garden for the orphanage. They open up about their needs and issues they face.
One poignant request, among other requests for assistance in providing seeds, watering cans, water pumps, t-shirts/masks for the drummers, is to teach them some things I have learnt since I have been to 'many different places'. I am suddenly at a loss for words.
It may be a monologue, with me learning from you, I say. I am an environmental engineer, who has never dug a compost pit, even though I compost back in San Francisco. They seem to understand.
But then I promise to show them places I have been to on my laptop.
They promise to organize a show of a play/songs they sing to raise awareness of social and health issues among the community, for me over the weekend.
I promise to take pictures of them, record their drumming, burn them a DVD, and share their pictures and music with my family and friends. (I may not be able to land them a record deal with a recording studio, I warn, but I will take them to San Francisco)
They promise to show up on Wednesday at 10 AM with hoes and help me dig my first compost pit.
now, it’s a conversation…
Monday, August 1, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
soul revolution
The matatu comes like lightning- the ‘conductor’ holding a small card with a number, shouting the same, standing on the footrest, grasping the roof with his right hand.
I jump in and navigate gingerly through the narrow passage to go to a seat in the last row- the one with the best view, while Lil’ Bow-wow belts out ‘Bounce with me’ in the background.
The headrests are covered with cheap red plastic that match the upholstered black and red ceiling. Suddenly it swerves to avoid another matatu startling all the occupants. The man in the front seat reads an English newspaper about the tragedy in Norway, another continues to shout on the phone, a pretty girl in a grey skirt and pink blouse chews gum and plays with her sparkly pink rose earrings.
Armed with my camera, I am on my way to meet brothers from a Rastafarian CBO based in Kibera, the largest slum in Kenya and the second largest slum in the world. Shiriki, means to share in Swahili, unites the youth of Kibera to rally around environment conservation causes while earning a decent living through the arts, music and agriculture.
In a colorful studio surrounded by banana trees, taking in a breathful of marijuana from an intricately carved pipe, Ras Githaka explains the vision of Shiriki- to take the youth back to the villages, to teach them how to lead a fruitful life, use the natural resources available to provide for “Rasta livity”, as they say.
The studio is a living example of their ideology. It’s a place where the youth meet regularly to make music, weave bracelets, make slippers out of recycled tires, and cook meals made of plantains, avocados, beans and ugali (made of maize flour) over firewood. It also houses a small library, a small shop to sell bracelets and slippers.
The next day, I meet the Roots Connection band, who are practicing for an all-night concert over the weekend. As Joelle, the volunteer from Canada, who introduced me to this group, takes lessons in Photoshop from one of the brothers, I make my way towards a simple home-made loom, where one of the brothers is weaving a scarf in red, green and gold. Red is said to signify the blood of martyrs, green the vegetation and beauty of Ethiopia, where the Rasta movement originated, and gold the wealth of Africa. Many of its adherents worshipping Haile Selassie I, the emperor of Ethiopia as the reincarnation of Jesus- all Rastas here proudly wear a badge with his picture on it.
As they make melodious reggae music with meaningful lyrics, I wonder if they would be misunderstood by the most of the society due to their appearance or habits- wearing of dreadlocks and smoking weed, considered a spiritual act by the Rastafarians, is common practice.
For all the good they do, their alcohol-free and meat-free self-sustaining existence, the degree of self-sufficiency and self-reliance they have and try to instill in others, I personally consider these children of the earth the Enlightened Sons of Kibera.
I jump in and navigate gingerly through the narrow passage to go to a seat in the last row- the one with the best view, while Lil’ Bow-wow belts out ‘Bounce with me’ in the background.
The headrests are covered with cheap red plastic that match the upholstered black and red ceiling. Suddenly it swerves to avoid another matatu startling all the occupants. The man in the front seat reads an English newspaper about the tragedy in Norway, another continues to shout on the phone, a pretty girl in a grey skirt and pink blouse chews gum and plays with her sparkly pink rose earrings.
Armed with my camera, I am on my way to meet brothers from a Rastafarian CBO based in Kibera, the largest slum in Kenya and the second largest slum in the world. Shiriki, means to share in Swahili, unites the youth of Kibera to rally around environment conservation causes while earning a decent living through the arts, music and agriculture.
In a colorful studio surrounded by banana trees, taking in a breathful of marijuana from an intricately carved pipe, Ras Githaka explains the vision of Shiriki- to take the youth back to the villages, to teach them how to lead a fruitful life, use the natural resources available to provide for “Rasta livity”, as they say.
The studio is a living example of their ideology. It’s a place where the youth meet regularly to make music, weave bracelets, make slippers out of recycled tires, and cook meals made of plantains, avocados, beans and ugali (made of maize flour) over firewood. It also houses a small library, a small shop to sell bracelets and slippers.
The next day, I meet the Roots Connection band, who are practicing for an all-night concert over the weekend. As Joelle, the volunteer from Canada, who introduced me to this group, takes lessons in Photoshop from one of the brothers, I make my way towards a simple home-made loom, where one of the brothers is weaving a scarf in red, green and gold. Red is said to signify the blood of martyrs, green the vegetation and beauty of Ethiopia, where the Rasta movement originated, and gold the wealth of Africa. Many of its adherents worshipping Haile Selassie I, the emperor of Ethiopia as the reincarnation of Jesus- all Rastas here proudly wear a badge with his picture on it.
As they make melodious reggae music with meaningful lyrics, I wonder if they would be misunderstood by the most of the society due to their appearance or habits- wearing of dreadlocks and smoking weed, considered a spiritual act by the Rastafarians, is common practice.
For all the good they do, their alcohol-free and meat-free self-sustaining existence, the degree of self-sufficiency and self-reliance they have and try to instill in others, I personally consider these children of the earth the Enlightened Sons of Kibera.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
changes
Alex welcomes me to Cairo with a Revolution 2.0 t-shirt with an Egyptian flag and the date 25.01.2011 on it. What began as a ‘normal’ protest against police brutality on Police Day (Jan 25th), turned into Revolution 2.0, 1.0 being the one in 1952 that converted Egypt from a monarchy to a Republic.
The following day, on the metro, Alex practices his Arabic with a bubbly 5 year old. The kid, half-shocked and half-amused at the tall foreigner talking in his language, nonchalantly mentions that he is going to Tahrir, as are we.
We step out of the train to be stopped by 14 year olds, who check our passports and bags, before we can make it to the square. I wonder if they stop anyone from entering…
There is an excitement that lingers at Tahrir square or hope perhaps for a better future. Egyptian flags flutter in the little wind there is on this hot, humid day. Men, women, boys, girls, children of all ages lounge about in the square that has been cordoned off to traffic, quite a difference compared to my last time in Cairo three years ago. A teenager timidly suggests me to cover my head with a scarf, before disappearing in the crowd.
In one corner, everyone bows in prayer to the call of the mullah. Hundreds others live comfortably in their encampments, surrounded by enormous posters about the revolution.
A man sits on a railing and smokes, patiently waiting for customers for t-shirts that say “I love Egypt”. Another painstakingly bends down and draws on the road- more drawings of a person holding the Egyptian flag against the sun. A graffiti on the wall of a popular café screams ‘I want to see another president b4 I die’.
A young man wearing a purple shirt, LOVE written all over it inversely, two brushes in hand, one in his mouth- red, black, white, his forehead painted with those colors, offers to paint my hand.
I oblige with a smile and a ‘Shokran’, and extend my left hand, struggling to hold the heavy wide-angle still as I take a shot of the moment where I become a part of the revolution, as best I can.
The following day, on the metro, Alex practices his Arabic with a bubbly 5 year old. The kid, half-shocked and half-amused at the tall foreigner talking in his language, nonchalantly mentions that he is going to Tahrir, as are we.
We step out of the train to be stopped by 14 year olds, who check our passports and bags, before we can make it to the square. I wonder if they stop anyone from entering…
There is an excitement that lingers at Tahrir square or hope perhaps for a better future. Egyptian flags flutter in the little wind there is on this hot, humid day. Men, women, boys, girls, children of all ages lounge about in the square that has been cordoned off to traffic, quite a difference compared to my last time in Cairo three years ago. A teenager timidly suggests me to cover my head with a scarf, before disappearing in the crowd.
In one corner, everyone bows in prayer to the call of the mullah. Hundreds others live comfortably in their encampments, surrounded by enormous posters about the revolution.
A man sits on a railing and smokes, patiently waiting for customers for t-shirts that say “I love Egypt”. Another painstakingly bends down and draws on the road- more drawings of a person holding the Egyptian flag against the sun. A graffiti on the wall of a popular café screams ‘I want to see another president b4 I die’.
A young man wearing a purple shirt, LOVE written all over it inversely, two brushes in hand, one in his mouth- red, black, white, his forehead painted with those colors, offers to paint my hand.
I oblige with a smile and a ‘Shokran’, and extend my left hand, struggling to hold the heavy wide-angle still as I take a shot of the moment where I become a part of the revolution, as best I can.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
into the mystic
the final frontier- Tombouctou- its just like any other desert town- sandy with hot, sunny days and cold, dark nights. its the mythical notions that the name conjures up that drew me to mali, the familiarity yet the anonymity of it. beyond it stretches the sahara.
the path i take to tombouctou is the long, winding niger. the public pinnasse is packed as i step aboard carefully with a massive camera pack on my back. the boatman points to the vacant mattress in a corner 'ici'. one full size mattress for 3 adults- 2 travelers i met in mopti- dao, martijn and me!
earlier in the day, as i had passed by the pinnasse on my way to the market, a bespectacled, wiry man starts talking to me emphasizing the need to reserve a spot to sleep on the pinnasse, lest it runs out of space. so, as suggested, i hand him and the boatman $7 to put a mattress to reserve a spot for me.
my friends already have a mattress as promised- the full size in sight. when i ask about my mattress, the boatman points to half of a straw mat! while i didn't expect a pillow-top sterns and foster, i certainly was hoping for one of those cushy shocking green cotton mattresses with pink flowers i saw in the market, especially since i paid more for the journey than anyone i had met so far!
this does it. a angry shouting match ensues, much to the amusement of the fellow Africans, who cannot understand a word of what i say but give a thumbs up- apparently we are not the only victims here. Dao joins in with her own complaints about the size of the mattress! finally, after some commotion arrives that shocking green mattress. the best arguments, i decide, are in the language that the opponent doesn't understand. you can go on saying the same thing over and over again without ever losing its effect :) and we are off to a fiery start!
the journey on the Niger was unforgettable, even if an aurally challenging experience.
the river stretches wide as if awakening from a deep slumber, at every bend. we pass by forsaken mud houses, perhaps inhabited during the dry season. children wave and shout 'toubabu' for foreigners.
a woman in a village shows off her baby on her back, extends her hand and shouts 'cadeau'. a lady with big fula gold earrings, her mouth tattooed black, haggles for the price of tubers.
four naked boys splash around in the niger without a care in the world. an old man holds a radio to his ears, as the latest salif keita number tunes in and out.
a lady with blonde highlights plays with an ipod, clearly one of the elite malians.
a man questions my religion and nods disapprovingly when i say hindu. paape, the 2 year old who i decide to call dennis (the menace), always without his pants, makes it his personal mission to make trouble in every possible way he can. his mother spanks him constantly. another is enamored with martijn's feet, even sleeps next to them. he departs the pinnasse with a fanta in his pocket, a bright mischievous smile lighting up his face.
every village it stops at, the pinnasse is surrounded by boats selling bread, african potatoes, stale fried fish- there's more mayhem, chaos, shouting.
a bathroom visit is a painful effort, so we set a limit of two per day on them. it involves holding on to the railing and step by step making it to a little room in the back with a hole, the niger at the receiving end of it. the pinnasse, overloaded with people, smoothly glides away.
night arrives early and thus, begins the encroachment of space. soon we are surrounded by children sleeping on every free inch of our mattresses. i spend the night, cold and awake, trying not to hurt the little girl stretched out next to my legs.
day breaks and by midday there's a welcome respite, as passengers reach their destinations. the pinnasse reaches tombouctou at the break of dawn, after 36 hours, the second night cooler than the previous due to the thinning crowd.
we walk the sandy streets to the tourist office to get our passport stamped with the magic of Tombouctou. two Touaregs walk with us, helping us every step of the way. on our return we are invited to their tent opposite our hotel for the delicious Touareg tea- three cups of tea--the first strong as death,the second sweet as life, the third light as love, as they say.
after the first cup, the souvenirs are spread in front of us- ebony, agate studded Touareg silver jewelery. we politely decline, they are gracious, and tea time continues. we part with a small piece of salt from the Sahara, a gift from our Touareg friends.
the following day, as we are hounded by a mob of children selling souvenirs, an SUV comes to a halt and a man in an American accent offers us a ride. our rescuer- Scott is a journalist who is covering a couple stories in town- including the threats to foreigners in the area (as is another Swiss journalist staying in our hotel). the recent kidnappings of a french citizen from a remote part Gao in Eastern Mali and three Spaniards in neighboring Mauritania have hurt the tourist industry tremendously- i personally didn't feel threatened at all during my short stay in tombouctou.
the station wagon bound for Mopti honks at the hotel door at 5 AM the next day. the landscape by road on the way back to Mopti is breathtaking- vast grasslands, grass an unnatural hue of pastel green, dotted with women pounding millet in colorful african block prints, babies still slung to their backs, shepherds and cow herders in touareg outfits hurrying the animals off the road as our 4*4 passes by. once in a while the driver squints and speeds past people wanting a ride, as i take photos through the cracks in the windshield repaired by permit stickers. we overtake vans with people sitting on the roof along with firewood, straw mats and an occasional goat.
Africa just as I imagined it! i sit back and savor delicious pink guavas i bought in bulk for lack of small money.
the path i take to tombouctou is the long, winding niger. the public pinnasse is packed as i step aboard carefully with a massive camera pack on my back. the boatman points to the vacant mattress in a corner 'ici'. one full size mattress for 3 adults- 2 travelers i met in mopti- dao, martijn and me!
earlier in the day, as i had passed by the pinnasse on my way to the market, a bespectacled, wiry man starts talking to me emphasizing the need to reserve a spot to sleep on the pinnasse, lest it runs out of space. so, as suggested, i hand him and the boatman $7 to put a mattress to reserve a spot for me.
my friends already have a mattress as promised- the full size in sight. when i ask about my mattress, the boatman points to half of a straw mat! while i didn't expect a pillow-top sterns and foster, i certainly was hoping for one of those cushy shocking green cotton mattresses with pink flowers i saw in the market, especially since i paid more for the journey than anyone i had met so far!
this does it. a angry shouting match ensues, much to the amusement of the fellow Africans, who cannot understand a word of what i say but give a thumbs up- apparently we are not the only victims here. Dao joins in with her own complaints about the size of the mattress! finally, after some commotion arrives that shocking green mattress. the best arguments, i decide, are in the language that the opponent doesn't understand. you can go on saying the same thing over and over again without ever losing its effect :) and we are off to a fiery start!
the journey on the Niger was unforgettable, even if an aurally challenging experience.
the river stretches wide as if awakening from a deep slumber, at every bend. we pass by forsaken mud houses, perhaps inhabited during the dry season. children wave and shout 'toubabu' for foreigners.
a woman in a village shows off her baby on her back, extends her hand and shouts 'cadeau'. a lady with big fula gold earrings, her mouth tattooed black, haggles for the price of tubers.
four naked boys splash around in the niger without a care in the world. an old man holds a radio to his ears, as the latest salif keita number tunes in and out.
a lady with blonde highlights plays with an ipod, clearly one of the elite malians.
a man questions my religion and nods disapprovingly when i say hindu. paape, the 2 year old who i decide to call dennis (the menace), always without his pants, makes it his personal mission to make trouble in every possible way he can. his mother spanks him constantly. another is enamored with martijn's feet, even sleeps next to them. he departs the pinnasse with a fanta in his pocket, a bright mischievous smile lighting up his face.
every village it stops at, the pinnasse is surrounded by boats selling bread, african potatoes, stale fried fish- there's more mayhem, chaos, shouting.
a bathroom visit is a painful effort, so we set a limit of two per day on them. it involves holding on to the railing and step by step making it to a little room in the back with a hole, the niger at the receiving end of it. the pinnasse, overloaded with people, smoothly glides away.
night arrives early and thus, begins the encroachment of space. soon we are surrounded by children sleeping on every free inch of our mattresses. i spend the night, cold and awake, trying not to hurt the little girl stretched out next to my legs.
day breaks and by midday there's a welcome respite, as passengers reach their destinations. the pinnasse reaches tombouctou at the break of dawn, after 36 hours, the second night cooler than the previous due to the thinning crowd.
we walk the sandy streets to the tourist office to get our passport stamped with the magic of Tombouctou. two Touaregs walk with us, helping us every step of the way. on our return we are invited to their tent opposite our hotel for the delicious Touareg tea- three cups of tea--the first strong as death,the second sweet as life, the third light as love, as they say.
after the first cup, the souvenirs are spread in front of us- ebony, agate studded Touareg silver jewelery. we politely decline, they are gracious, and tea time continues. we part with a small piece of salt from the Sahara, a gift from our Touareg friends.
the following day, as we are hounded by a mob of children selling souvenirs, an SUV comes to a halt and a man in an American accent offers us a ride. our rescuer- Scott is a journalist who is covering a couple stories in town- including the threats to foreigners in the area (as is another Swiss journalist staying in our hotel). the recent kidnappings of a french citizen from a remote part Gao in Eastern Mali and three Spaniards in neighboring Mauritania have hurt the tourist industry tremendously- i personally didn't feel threatened at all during my short stay in tombouctou.
the station wagon bound for Mopti honks at the hotel door at 5 AM the next day. the landscape by road on the way back to Mopti is breathtaking- vast grasslands, grass an unnatural hue of pastel green, dotted with women pounding millet in colorful african block prints, babies still slung to their backs, shepherds and cow herders in touareg outfits hurrying the animals off the road as our 4*4 passes by. once in a while the driver squints and speeds past people wanting a ride, as i take photos through the cracks in the windshield repaired by permit stickers. we overtake vans with people sitting on the roof along with firewood, straw mats and an occasional goat.
Africa just as I imagined it! i sit back and savor delicious pink guavas i bought in bulk for lack of small money.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
starstruck
the camel glides on the sand- ungainly gait, chewing on little somethings, looking down on people who try to control him. i hold on tight to the wooden seat fitted snug on the hump- i prefer the two-humps and the stability they offer ons the bactrian camel in mongolia..
in the touareg village, muhammad pours a shot of tea or 'touareg beer' as he calls it. 4 year old fatima, with a mohawk, hides behind the flimsy straw tent and sings a welcome song to the beat of her little clapping hands.
the stars are endless.. nomadic touaregs study stars for 5 years before they make their first 30 day journey across the Sahara.
don mclean's 'vincent' plays in my mind as i look up at the sky- a simple pleasure i have denied myself for too long in san francisco..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
