We are now in our last week in Kenya. A few more trips to the market, a few more chats and visits with friends made here, packing everything we're not wearing, and by Monday night, we'll be in full travel mode.
After leaving on Wednesday, we will arrive in Stuttgart to visit with some German friends. We will be there for another week before departing for home on the 24th.
Unlike in the mystical and half-remembered place called Alabama, we do not have such devices as "washing machines" here in Nairobi. When our clothes get dirty, and boy do they get dirty with the walking and the "mud" in the slums and the dust on the sides of the roads and the dirt on the autos and the walking, they end up in a pile in the bathroom.
At some magical moment when it is determined that they need to be cleaned (someone runs out of clean socks or underwear, or someone has to stay in PJs all day because all 3 of their pairs of pants are dirty, or we need to go somewhere and will need clean clothes, or the pile is approaching the point of critical mass), one of us (us = Toni or myself) will venture forth into the bathroom and begin the cleaning process.
Set under the sink are 2 buckets (they came with the flat). The washer places the buckets into the bathtub and fills each to about half full with water. A sprinkle of washing powder added into the "wash" bucket causes suds to spring forth.
The process is simple enough:
The wash cycle is now complete. Now on to drying.
Likewise, we have no clothes drying machine in our flat, so the washed clothes must hang out to dry. Luckily for us, the roof is flat and has clothes lines strung across the space for our use. Other than socks and underwear, which are hung in the bathroom, clothes are taken to the roof and hung out on the lines using clothes pegs.
Assuming they do not get an extra rinse cycle (rain), the clothes dry in a few hours. Lastly, just like normal, the dry clothes are collected, folded and given to the various family members for their placing in their closets.
I like the hanging out of clothes to dry, but the washing by hand has really gotten old. It will be good to be home.
River turns 9 today!
The local grocery store, Uchumi, has a bakery section and cakes. River says, "I have been watching those for over 3 months," so Toni went to pick up the cake ordered for his birthday and got some ice cream, too.
For the first time since we've arrived in May, we had cake and ice cream. Toni and I are still buzzing from the sugar (we have not had more than a small glass of soda at a time since we arrived).
All we were missing was comfy furniture, lots of friends, and chili-cheese dip.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO RIVER!!!!
How many times do you get a chance to have a birthday in Kenya?
It is 06:15 (too damn early), and I am up and getting ready to go to Lake Naivasha.I should have looked at a map, then I would have realized that we were headed into the Rift Valley today!
Joseph collected us at 07:00, with chapatis, from his wife, in hand. The morning is gray and the light drizzle dampens my spirit and my expectations for the day. Winding through traffic for a few minutes, we emerged on the A104 headed northwest out of Nairobi. The roads leads us through lush valleys of green, the garden plots easily definable and the houses a little further apart. We seem to going up more hills than down.
Suddenly, there were souvenir shops on the left and behind them stretched a wooden fence painted with black and white diagonal stripes. As Toni and I struggled to snap shots of the scene beyond the fence, Joseph pulled off the the road and parked near the fence. Resembling rehearsing clowns, we piled out of the car, leaving the doors open. At first, I was only vaguely aware of the hawkers' approach, like one is aware of the other crossers when the light changes. I stumbled out of the car, only to come up short at the fence. This lookout is at an altitude of 2461.5 meters or 8000 feet and on the eastern rim of The Great Rift Valley.
The scene presented to anyone taking a moment to stop and look is almost indescribable. I stand and stare, my head swinging left and right. I am trying and failing to take it all in. I snap some pictures, knowing they are but the palest image of this magical sight before me. Like the gods on Mount Olympus, I stand and overlook acres and acres. Below me stretches out left, right, and ahead to be lost in the horizon's mists, are rectangles of farmland, stands of trees, terraces containing hundreds or more houses, plots, and many thousand people. The people, unaware that the gods are looking down from on high and their houses are as match boxes from that height above one terrace, then another, then the valley floor far below. The floor of the rift valley, an expanse of grasslands, detail lost to distance except for Mount Logonot and Mount Margaret. Toni takes a sweeping video as I try to take shots that I can make into a panorama later. We spend many minutes transfixed by the vista, all the while hawkers failing to enter our attention any more than the giraffe notices the mosquito. After the taking of many pictures, the many guffaws, and the shooing of hawkers, we were off again. Further we climbed, then we started the decent into Naivasha.
On Monday, 10 September 2007, we left our flat in Nairobi and rode with Joseph, a friend, into the Great Rift Valley. While there, we visited Hell's Gate National Park.
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The road is a gravel and dusty one-lane, intended for the bicycles they rent at the office and at the intersection of the main road. As soon as we take the first curve, bicycles appear being ridden by many very pink tourists (the sun is intense today). The landscape is amazing. There are 2 freestanding towers of rock, many bluffs, rolling hills, and grasslands. We stop by the first tower to stretch our legs and take in the atmosphere. We walk around the tower and find some small pieces of obsidian on the ground and some bones. As we walk back toward the car, the antics of a girl, having successfully climbed the tower but having trouble on her decent, caught our attention. With her climbing instructor and the park's resident climber trying to talk her down, she began freaking out. We started out amazed, but soon the sniggering fits started as her yelling and protestations got wilder. She had gotten half way down, but was now scared and had grasped the guide rope and they could not lower her down unless she released it - which she was not willing to do, even though urged by the instructor. Finally, the instructor "free climbed" up the rock and tried to get her to release the other rope so they could let her down. Failing to get her to release the rope, he finally grabbed her and pulled her off the rock. Her legs flailing, she began screaming, "You're trying to kill me!" Ignoring her protests, the un-roped instructor carried the screaming girl down and placed her on the ground. Toni used her camera to take video of the episode. We later learned that the girl, once she stopped screaming, phoned her father to tell him that the instructors had beaten her. Some people....
Passing the first tower, we took an unmarked left turn onto a dirt track leading into a thicket of acacia trees. As we passed through the trees, we passed a zebra on the left. After clearing the thicket and topping the next hill we came upon some more animals. Again we are standing outside the car taking pictures in awe of the sight before us.
The scene is classic Africa. The grass carpeting the ground is a dusty brown and deceptively deep. Tufts of low green shrubs poke up through the grass carpet here and there, lending some color to the dull ground. The background so dominates the scene that my eyes sweep it before returning to the middle. The bluff rises hundreds of meters, covered with low trees and shrubs of bright green on every space where dirt could settle. The bluff could have been thrust upward only just the day before, the rock appears dry from exposure to air only in a few places. At the base of the bluff, some of the ground is piled as if recently fallen off the bluff or been thrust upward with the bluffs emergence. In the middle space, there are a few leafless tree trunks poking through the dusty grass. Slightly to the left of center and far off to the right, zebra congregate in small groups. Individuals roll on the ground, stirring wispy clouds of dry dust that drift off to the right on an unfelt breeze. In front of the zebras, two giraffes stand and watch us watching them. It appears that they are the dominant male and female, but I cannot tell for sure which is which. As my eyes get more accustomed to the colors and subtle hues of the scene, one of the leafless tree trunks turns its head. Suddenly, I notice several of them - smaller giraffes laying down, only their long necks and heads visible above the dusty grass. The scene, though not still, remains calm for several minutes - we watching everything, the giraffes watching us, the zebras mostly ignoring our presence. I turn around and behind us is another similar scene on the low hill behind us. Two large giraffes have emerged from the acacia trees and stand watching us while a large zebra near them also watches us. We seem to be as interesting to them as they are to us. So as to not startle them too much and break the calm, we get back into the car and drive on. In a word - wonderful!
Further down the dirt track, we pass near a herd of Gazelles. They are shy of the car and move away as we approach. The dirt road circles back and we head back the way we came.
We take a "matatu" to the Nairobi slum called Soweto. A "matatu" is a small van, commonly a Nissan Caravan, decked out with seats to hold 14 passengers plus a driver and a conductor. Matatus are the primary form of public transportation around Nairobi. The ride is usually cheap, 10/= to 40 /= per trip (/= is the symbol for the ksh or Kenyan Shilling, commonly known as a "bob"). Riding on a matatu is an experience not soon forgotten. If you are familiar with Harry Potter, my wife compares riding in a "matatu" to that of a "muggle Night Bus."
Soon after exiting the matatu, we've left the land of sidewalks and paved streets behind. A few steps ago, the pavement beneath my feet ended and I am walking on a packed dirt vehicle track, two parallel trails about half a meter across with a third grass covered track between, across a grass covered field. The grass is a little more than a meter tall and there is only one smallish tree off to the left of the track. There is not a hint of breeze to wave the grass nor rustle the leaves.
About 100 meters to my right, the field ends in a line of buildings. These single story structures back up to the field, showing us their concrete block, mud brick and sheet tin backs. There are many children playing in the intervening space from 50 meters nearly to the buildings. It appears that they are playing some ball game, perhaps it is football or some sort of kicking dodgeball. The children see us about the same time as we see them. Their game forgotten for the moment, they begin to move at an angle and as a group to intercept. Keep walking, chatting all the time, until the inevitable meeting takes place.
Amazed with the suddenness of it all, surrounded by 40 or so children from age 8 to teenage. Each asks the same question, "How are you?" The last word drawn out, like it has 3 o's. Once the chant starts, it is at once comforting to hear words you understand, overwhelming by the sheer number of those asking and their earnest interest in an answer and also a bit freaky. The phrase "How are yooou?" and the manner it is delivered sets up some strange vibration in the ears. The question stays in thought like the tune to "It's a small world" stays with you for hours and weeks after you exit the ride. After shaking the hand of every child, some several times, answering their question with, "Fine, thank you. How are you?" or "vzuri sana, habari yako?" and getting their responses of "Good" or "mzuri," the children begin trailing back to their games and my feet carry on forward.
A turn to the right and there are several smaller children playing in another group, age 5 to 8 or so. Again the questions and answers and shaking of hands, but this time the number of children is smaller and the mob effect less, so my feet continue to move. This time is different in that my hands are soon filled with small hands, clasping, holding. Now I walk with a child holding each hand as we make the way up the side street. Careful stepping on stones across a small stream and another 50 meters pass before my hands are released and the children race back to their games with stories of having walked with "mzungu" or "white person."
The street can only be called a street because it was roughly straight with a row of houses on either side and wide enough for 4 or more people to stand side-by-side. The houses are more of the mud brick, block, and sheet tin walls seen before while crossing the field. In nearly every doorway, stands or sits a mother and a few small children. These children are more shy, or "hiya," than their comrades nearer to the field. This time there are no handshakes, but the how-are-you's are exchanged, along with amazed looks by some of the children who may not have seen "mzungu" before. Another difference in this street and the track across the field, is the ditch running along and sometimes across the packed earth path on which my feet tread gently uphill. The liquid flowing in the ditch can be called water, but any resemblance to tap or bottled water ends with the way it flows. The ditch has a trickle of brown liquid flowing through it - partly mud, partly waste, completely disgusting - particularly because this ditch may be the only source of water some of these people have without having to walk a long distance to a tap somewhere in the slum. As the end of the street nears, a garbage pile sits on the left. Picking through whatever is left there are a few sheep and a couple of chickens.
The meeting concluded, my feet are headed out a different way than how they came in. My guide says this is shorter, but without guidance, I should not try to find this way alone. The streets are narrower here, but the same characteristics exist. The ditch containing brown, smelly water slowly flowing, litter on and in the packed earth of the street as well as in the ditch water.
Passing out this way, presents an important landmark - the local clinic, chemist, laboratory - Soweto Medical Centre. This building is wedged between houses and is of sturdier construction than the others surrounding it - concrete block, wooden supports, plaster covering on the walls. After passing the clinic, most of the houses have stoops or small porches on them where small stands are set up. These stands offer the locals the ability to make a little money by selling everything from vegetables and fruits, to toilet paper, cigarettes, and candy. Still other shops are more specialized into butchers or selling cooked foods - grilled corn-on-the-cob, goat, fish, etc.
Almost to the matatu stop, the street becomes more of an alley. I look down as I cross an intersection because the ground feels strange under my sneakers. Immediately, I regret my curiosity. This intersection is "carpeted" with the disposed hooves of sheep and goats, probably chopped up by the local butcher, grilled in one of the nearby stands, and the useless hooves tossed out into the street where I can walk upon them. Averting my eyes to my left, I am presented with a rack of three shelves covered by blackened fish. I thought they were blackened fish until my passing stirs the flies covering the fish and they move. Wrenching my eyes to my right, I am greeted by the sightless staring of many fish-heads beside a grill. Reaffirming my dedication to my vegetarian diet, I press forward into the alley.
This alley is very narrow, less than 2 meters across. There is a small but ever present ditch winding through it. The "ceiling" is nothing more than some tin or tarpolin connecting the roofs or stands across the alley. Obviously unaccustomed to tall people, the "ceiling" is low enough that I have to duck and in some places double-over to get through. All the while, slipping sideways by other people moving along the alley or making selections from the stands. A stop at one such stand provides some small potatoes and a couple of onions for dinner. At last, the end is in sight. A couple more zig-zags between stalls and the sky is visible once again and the ability to stand upright.
After standing on the concrete corner of this paved street for 10 minutes, enjoying the looks and how-are-you's from the passing children, a matatu stops on its way back to town. Climbing on board and taking my seat, I am sure that my trip to Soweto will not be soon forgotten.
