Snapshots of the People from Uganda Trip

Sipi Falls

Mbale

A Linear Life? My One Full Circle.

Many of us have a linear perception of time/life. It is only logical; years pass, one after another. We celebrate our 1st birthday, 5th, 10th, 21st and so on... Every second ticks by, and there is no slowing down, stopping it or rewinding.

But during my time spent in Kenya, some incidences bring me back in time, as if challenging this linear concept of time. Surely, Kenya has brought me back in time, to my childhood, but today, there was another [surreal/unbelievable] event, that left me feel as if I kinda travel back through time.

I was back at the Kenya Cinema again; the place where I had met Fred a.k.a. Deborah last Wednesday. Like the last time, I spoke with a Kenyan on the phone, describing what I was wearing, and waited for him to show up. IT was a different ending though. Last time, I left storming and frowning, but this time, I went home smiling...
This is why:

You can never expect to find a phone or a wallet, when you "lost" one in Kenya. (Most of the time, it would be pickpocketed, without you even realizing). In Mombasa, a friend of my lost a phone in a club. When he called the number up, someone answered to say he would meet us in 10 minutes to return the phone. But the Kenyan 10-minute (a.k.a real time 20 minutes) passed. We waited for about 40 minutes and no one showed up. Two days ago, a similar thing happened to a lady in a matatu (mini-bus) in Nairobi. I got to know of this because she borrowed my phone to call the person who was "coming" to return the phone, only to find out that the phone had been switched off.

So last night, when I lost my wallet, I wasn't expecting to get it back at all. I can't remember the last time I lost my wallet, and it was frustrating. There wasn't much money in it, but loosing it, made me feel incompetent; I can't even look after a wallet. And I wasn't sure how to tell my host-mother that I had lost the house key as well. But I went to sleep, hoping there won't be much of a problem, since she might have a spare key.

It turns out that she didn't. She had told me to go to the Yaya Center (a poshe shopping center), and find a locksmith who could change the whole lock and key set. It would have costed about 1000 Kenyan shilings (USD 15). I thought I could get a cheaper deal somewhere else. (Yes, thrift is in my genes.) I called Mama Mary, a mother figure to us, in the program. In stead of answering my question on where to get a cheap locksmith service, she mentioned something about a document. I wasn't sure if I heard it right over the phone. When we met, she told me someone has called her, late last night, to say that he has my document, and asked how to return it. It could have been my wallet, with the housekey.

He said he would be at Kenya Cinema that morning, and asked if I could pick it up there. I tried my luck, and made my way there. I was hoping it would be my wallet, but I was also skeptical, tainted by my last encounter at the same place. And there I was again, one full circle. Meeting, for the second time, a person I have no idea how he looked like or what the outcome of the meeting would be.

"I am wearing shorts and a blue shirt"

Fortunately/Luckily, that meeting neutralized my previous experience at Kenya Cinema. The money in my wallet was gone, but the Key, my student card and my bandaid/haniplast was there.

This afternoon, I left Kenya cinema for the second time again, smiling.

Thankful that there are people like Kelvin, who would go all out to help someone else. I am sure his kind heart will bring him a good future. He is now a 22 year old, matatu conductor who is working for a wage of 300 Shilings (USD 4) a day, to support his parents and his sister who was pragnated after her high school. He never got a chance to attend highschool but said he would be saving up to learn to be an electrician or an engineer.

I asked him what he was thinking when he found my wallet and he said, "I found the keys and I thought, poor girl, she would be sleeping on the roads tonight, so I wanted to return it and called the number three times. My friends were telling me I shouldn't. What if she reported you to the police, and say you stole the wallet? I don't know why but I had to return it."

Whatever the reason, I am awed by the extent he went to return my wallet. It would have been easy to ignore it, and go on with his own life, but he chose otherwise.

It's amazing how small acts of kindness can make such a difference.

I cook what I like.

I am not sure why it is, but I cannot follow receipts when I cook. [My brothers will be able to say more on this.] Every time I am with the pots and pans, I want to try something a little different, just to experiment. Sometimes things go well; sometimes, they don't. That's the short term effect.

But in the long term, I think it kinda affects my memory about food. It is difficult for me to make either Chinese or Burmese food, because I am not sure which is which anymore. During my freshman year winter term at Carleton, I invited friends over, telling them I am making Burmese food, and when they saw meatballs, one of them went, "that's not Burmese, that's Chinese food!"

Today, the house help, Auntie Grace, in Nairobi asked me to cook her Chinese food. I looked at what's there at home and came up with this:

-caramelized chopped garlic and onions till slightly brown
-sprinkles some salt in
-threw in chopped green bell peppers and cabbage
-and some freshly squeezed orange juice + orange flesh (the white membrane finely cut)
-put in boiled spaghetti noodles
-black pepper, actually, it was salad dressing that tasted and looked like black pepper
-poured in the rest of the orange juice
-added the [pre]-fried eggs with onions and tomatoes
-a little more salt and some sugar
-the rest of the orange juice
-chopped cilantro, just about a minute before taking pan off the fire.

It didn't turn out too badly. Kinda has a refreshing taste. I ate more than I usually do for dinner and Auntie Grace said, "You ate so well today! You must be missing food from your country."

I hadn't told her that I would be sharing this recepie with my family when I go home in December.

-living-

placing myself in
the present that is
constantly seeking the future

dissloved. diluted. camofluged

blurred
boundaries [between]
was. is. and to be.

afloat
constantly going somewhere,
but where?

My Shoes. My Camera and My Journal.
This photo was taken on my last day in Cape Town.

The name "Deborah" sounds nothing like "Fred,"

Does it?

Have you ever had periods of times when little incidences that happen during your day seem to be telling you a more important message?

What happened in the last couple of days seem to be teasing my faith in luck. I have always thought I have been way too lucky with life. But the days this week are very unpredictable. One day it is heightened great news, the next, something else happens. If you had drawn it, it would look like graph of voltage vs time, when an ammeter runs through it.Today, something pretty bazzire happened, and I am not sure how I should read/interpret this incidence.

(You help me figure out.)

The day before, I had met a Kenyan Social Development photographer and we had a 3-hour long conversation about, life, family, photography and development. It was very inspiring to speak with someone doing almost exactly the same thing I want to pursue. And he was very generous, giving me advice and contacts. One was the number of a lady named "Deborah," who runs vocational training programs to young women.

Without wasting anytime, I saved the number in my phone and planned to call her the next morning. And call I did. When I asked if I could meet her, she said, with a deep voice, that she is "on the field, but have some time free in the afternoon." I didn't really make judgements about the deepness (timbre?amplitude?) of the voice and just dismissed it. Perhaps I was clouded by sheer excitement of meeting her, or perhaps I simply had too much faith in my luck...

That afternoon, I went to town and called her, what time would be good for her to meet. She replied that she was nearby, and told me to wait for about 45 minutes. Then, an hour later, she called, telling me to meet her at "Kenya Cinema." I asked her what she was wearing, and she said brown.

The cinema entrance was crowded, but I didn't see anyone in a brown top. After a few minutes, I called her. And my call kept getting rejected. I looked around and a guy in a checkered shirt approached me.

"I am sent by Deborah to look for you."

I thought it was just a desprate attempt to pick me up. So I shook my head, ignored him and walked a few steps away, while trying to call Deborah again. No answer still. Call rejected.

That checkered-shirt-guy was still following me. "I am sent by Deborah. If you don't believe me, look at the message you sent me this morning."

I was confused. Why does he have Deborah's phone? Was he Deborah's chauffer fetching me from the cinema to the car? I was suspicious, so I asked him for Deborah's last name and the organization she was from.

He couldn't answer.

And finally he said, "I am not Deborah, my name is Fred, and I just played along because I was interested to meet you and know who you are." I was appaled. I think my jaws did drop wide open then, because he tried to ?fill the silence by saying," May be you got the wrong number, you should check with your friend again."

I checked where I had written the number down. I had saved a digit wrongly by mistake. At that point, I just walked off, thinking it was the best thing to do. I creened through the crowded city street trying to access my feelings, and just getting to terms with this absurdity.

I wasn't sure how exactly I felt that time, but I think it was a mix of

anger for having wasted my time waiting,
disbelief that anyone would/could pull off such an inconsiderate deciet, and
irritation upon myself for my carelessness.

--------------
Two hours later, he called to apologize. And I told him off, ranting my anger out. But in the retrospect, I am finding reasons to laugh about this incident.

Ridicoulous.

Life can be so unpredictable at times.

Politics of Water

The politics of water has been deeply grounded in Kenya's history, starting from the time the countries' boundaries were drawn. Colonization of east Africa, in a large part, was motivated by the access to the source of Nile. Now, years after, the water issue continues to play a huge role, both affecting and being affected by the politics within the country.

The Minister of Water in Kenya has pointed out the inefficiencies of the Kenyan government in building the dams, in time for the predicted ElNinio floods. Last week, when there was a Trade and Agricultrual Conference in Nairobi, water rationing to many homes stopped for 2 weeks, as water is diverted for usage in this conference. I could continue on with many other examples, but the truth is, the people on the ground, especially the group who are not financially viable, are hardly hit by the issue of water scarcity in Kenya. With the droughts in most parts of Kenya, the effects are heightened.

Even as a visitor in Kenya, I am reminded of this every day, as I pull a bucket full of water up the stairs, to the second storey bathroom. This is made possible, because my host-mother's home, located near the center of town gets water supply on alternate days. However, for the people living in slums like Kibera, or those in the Eastern Province, access to water is hindered by both a geographic and economic conditions, and perhaps, politics, to some extent.


Karende is a small Kikuyu village, where my host mother was born. She took me to there for the weekend and I gladly accepted. As we drove two hours north of Nairobi, the landscape gradually changed.

I noticed the changes in color. The soil is red and fertile. The trees lush and green. This is the highlands, I was told. A land the British once occupied to plant tea and coffee for export. Today, the inhibitants of the highlands continue to engage in farming.

Arrival to Karende was a refreshing change, not just because I needed a break from the school work and the lectures, but also because the air was crisp and clean. The next day, I got up at 6.30, hoping to give myself a walking tour of the area.

The first sight I saw was this:





I was surprised to find water easily flowing out of the tap. This was a strange, because for the last month, I would turn on taps, not expecting to get any water out of them. So to see a tap leaking, and to find it left unfixed surprised me.

Later, during breakfast, I found out from my host-mother that there is a continous supply of water, because Karende, the land of Kikuyu is near the dams. On the way back to Nairobi that day, I also found out that it is just a 15-minute drive away from Othaya, the hometown of the current president of Kenya.