A moth hovers around a kerosene lamp inebriated by its lambent glow. Maureen and me ‘cheer’ to the wonderful events of the past week- the Cabernet from South Africa is tangy. I bought it today from the ‘city’ (Kisumu), where I spent last night.
As I enter the house after a day and a half, Maureen runs to give me a warm hug and laments, ’I lonely in the house’. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I will be leaving again on Friday for the night to pick up some things I ordered.
After yet another sumptuous meal, as I pour her a little drink, suspicious that she may not be able to handle it, she says ‘ I had red wine and red bull at the Embassy.’ After the first sip, in the usual ‘Maureen’ way, she says ‘Is good’!
It rained on Saturday morning; it is a prelude to a violent downpour in the afternoon. I dance in the rain and place buckets, one after another, under the roof gutter to collect water for a bath. Thankfully, we have 13 little buckets- trash bins for the school classrooms to be given to them this week.
John stops by in the evening with an estimate for fencing the orphanage and can’t stop smiling, ‘We Africans say rains bring good luck.’
This past week has brought a lot of smiles and laughter.
The Ploughing, Porridge parties stretched over three mornings, all ending with a delicious feast of Nyoyo and Nyoka, which we eat only after saying grace.
From tomorrow, we will use hand hoes to prepare the land for the saplings (which I hope will emerge before I leave).
Saturday evening I have the great privilege of a meeting with the village elders again. Over steaming cups of spicy Indian tea, which Maureen is proficient in making now, we discuss the progress of current projects and the new proposal- an American NGO, in collaboration with a top-rated American University, would like to set up a proof-of-concept test system in Uhundha for producing ethanol, thus providing clean fuel, fertilizer, animal feed among other things, to the community.
More smiles, laughter and thanks…
This along with the news that I made it into the Missouri Photo Workshop in September and that some of the Lake Land Youth Group boys will be traveling with me to Nairobi to meet with Shiriki, facilitated by Alison’s (AVIF founder) kind offer to fund the visit, and that a local NGO might be coming this week to survey the village to help provide clean water, calls for a celebration and we do, with fresh fish, kale, ugali- this time with some tangy red wine! So, Cheers!
p.s.: Maureen giggled herself to sleep after that glass of wine…
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
place to be
I walk to the shamba (farm) every morning, little moths guiding me, stop by at Josehp’s place to say ‘Jambo’ to his family, and pick the pangas (machetes).
Some days I arrive to find the boys working already. They work tirelessly, they make fun of me when I call for a time-out and a water/banana/Cadbury’s Eclairs break every half-hour.
They want to finish the work as soon as possible.
With a swift, strong sweeps of the pangas, they clear the land, or rather breeze through it, while I struggle to master the swing, losing the machete several times in the process.
SosPeter mimics a Bollywood dance and asks me to teach them a hindi song that we can sing as we work together-he is the drama director of the youth group, after all. I can’t think of a good one.
We have visitors every day. Two boys listlessly walk towards us, holding a nile perch by its mouth. The boy jerks it towards me and laughs out loud when I get scared. Sometimes little boys minding their cattle pause and lend a helping hand, older women carrying water buckets from the lake pause and laugh. ‘Women don’t work in shambas or fish’, Joseph tells me.
When I am relieved that it isn’t a warm, sunny day but SosPeter disagrees. ‘African are like monkeys and baboons, we like the sun’, he says pointing to the sun peeking through the clouds
By day three, the land has been cleared, the seeds are resting in the seed bed shaded by leaves- thanks to the efforts of a few members of the youth group. Without them, it couldn’t have been possible.
Tomorrow is the Ploughing, Porridge Party. At 7 AM community members will gather at the shamba- there will be ploughing and digging of a compost pit and there will be porridge, which Maureen is preparing on an open fire outside.
It’s the place to be!
Some days I arrive to find the boys working already. They work tirelessly, they make fun of me when I call for a time-out and a water/banana/Cadbury’s Eclairs break every half-hour.
They want to finish the work as soon as possible.
With a swift, strong sweeps of the pangas, they clear the land, or rather breeze through it, while I struggle to master the swing, losing the machete several times in the process.
SosPeter mimics a Bollywood dance and asks me to teach them a hindi song that we can sing as we work together-he is the drama director of the youth group, after all. I can’t think of a good one.
We have visitors every day. Two boys listlessly walk towards us, holding a nile perch by its mouth. The boy jerks it towards me and laughs out loud when I get scared. Sometimes little boys minding their cattle pause and lend a helping hand, older women carrying water buckets from the lake pause and laugh. ‘Women don’t work in shambas or fish’, Joseph tells me.
When I am relieved that it isn’t a warm, sunny day but SosPeter disagrees. ‘African are like monkeys and baboons, we like the sun’, he says pointing to the sun peeking through the clouds
By day three, the land has been cleared, the seeds are resting in the seed bed shaded by leaves- thanks to the efforts of a few members of the youth group. Without them, it couldn’t have been possible.
Tomorrow is the Ploughing, Porridge Party. At 7 AM community members will gather at the shamba- there will be ploughing and digging of a compost pit and there will be porridge, which Maureen is preparing on an open fire outside.
It’s the place to be!
Monday, August 1, 2011
first giant steps
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…
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…
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
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