Culture, innit

We posted a little while ago about music in Kenya and also about the daily auditory assault that is Classic FM (favourite advert of the moment: "It's pizza... in a pie! And remember, these pies are larger than normal pies"). However, I have good news: things have improved a lot recently, mainly because we discovered a quasi-posh bar not far from our 'hood with live music every Thursday. Who knew! True, the Kenyan friends who came with us were unimpressed and said you couldn't dance to the music so they didn't like it. I think they thought it was all a bit too Mzungu, which it is, but we are Mzungu so it appeals to us!

First we saw Queen Mashie:

Then the following week we saw Nina Ogot, sporting an awesome haircut:

So it's taken us some time but we've finally found a way to hear live acts every week without spending a fortune. Good times! To complement our new-found cultural experiences I am also reading a good book at the moment by Kenyan writer Binyavanga Wainaina called One Day I Will Write About This Place. I've only just started it but thus far it seems to be about a normal middle class Kenyan family where the kids go to school, play football and live in a proper house. A complete relief to escape the wars, corruption and slums so much African literature seems to focus on and just read about the Kenya I see around me (admittedly alongside the corruption and slums). I should point out that we also enjoyed the Storymoja festival last year, which is Nairobi's version of the Hay-on-Wye literary festival.

Finally, there is one more song I wanted to share with you folks back home: Kigeugeu is the pop song that equals Kenya for me, and whenever I hear it, however many years from now, I know I will think of our time here. The buoyant, upbeat tune misled me for a while until we worked on translating the lyrics in our Swahili lessons: turns out they're kind of dark. That's Kenya all over: optimistic and sparkly on the surface, but sometimes disguising murky undercurrents that are easy to miss at first glance.

The title, Kigeugeu, means 'chameleon', or literally someone who turns around on you, changing when you least expect it. You can view and listen below and the Swahili lyrics are available here. I won't give you the full English translation but in short the song talks about how doctors put your friend on a life support machine; the midwife switches your newborn baby for a dead baby so she can sell your baby on the black market (this activity even has a specific verb in Swahili); you vote for politicians and they come back with a big stomach (i.e. loaded); your pastor comes to 'pray' with your wife and you catch them up to no good; the world changes around on you and you can trust nothing. Cheery, huh?! I promise it's a great, catchy pop song: enjoy!

Marathon Man

So, I am running a marathon. And by running I mean the vaguest amount of forward movement that might be considered running. The marathon I am attempting is the Kilimanjaro Marathon on the 26th February (it doesn't involve running up the mountain, just for the record). I will be taking part with a VSO team comprising of volunteers from all over East Africa raising money for VSO and their own organisations.

I know we have recently tapped you up for donations when we climbed Mount Kenya, but if you didn't sponsor us then you can sponsor me now because marathons are hard and KAIH does great work. The money you donate will go directly to our vocational training centres which help young adults gain skills such as tailoring, cooking and hairdressing so that can start their own businesses. Gaining employable skills is vital for young adults with learning disabilities so that they can lead independent lives. Please email us if you'd like to donate.

Running a marathon is always hard but this training was haphazard from the start, with Christmas holidays, work and a penchant for Tusker interfering with ambition. Then there's the difficulties of training in 'Nairobbery', where terrorist threats are only the start of our trials: we are currently in the dry season at the moment which means it is only a reasonable temperature to run between 9 pm and 9 am. However running in the dark is also a no: where we live doesn't have much in the way of street lighting, and the drain covers have all been stolen, so the risk of falling down a drain is not insignificant. That leaves me with 6am to 9am, which is in fact a pleasant time to run if I didn't have to go to work.

Eddie & Dan during circuits

Other risks faced are being hit by a matatu or bike (I am currently averaging seeing one road traffic accident a month, usually pedestrian/ cyclist versus matatu), getting stones thrown at us by small children or choking on Nairobi's horrendous rush hour fumes. Matatu touts still try to bustle us onto their matatus not noticing the purpose of our running as well.

Being overtaken by Kenyan Athletes also running the Langata road, despite their smiles, waves and little encouragements, is disheartening too when you see how quickly they speed by seemingly hovering over the ground. Training "alongside" (for about the five seconds it takes them to pass) Kenyans with a reputation as the best long-distance runners in the world can be testing.

Lucky, then, that I have an awesome running buddy, Dan, another VSO volunteer also based in South B. In fact, the training has continued (we ran 23km last time) and we have found a nice route which runs alongside the National Park, which is like getting a free safari (we saw ostrich and zebra just last week). We have added a weekly circuits training session on the roof of Dan and Helen's apartment too, usually watched by small children and the chickens who live/ await execution on the rooftop. We have even cut-down on the Tusker-consumption.

Eddie & Dan in their natural environment

It's also been fun confusing Kenyans who stare slack-jawed at a pair of mzungus running slowly by. To combat the stares, I have taken to high-fiving pedestrians as we pass which amuses them even more. I did take my chances with this however, when passing the army barracks on the Langata road; a uniformed soldier with machine gun seemed uncertain whether to shoot me or accept my well-intentioned high-five.

So please, wish me luck and sponsor me! I'm going to need the incentive.

Randomation

I have now lived in Kenya for over a year. So what is my overwhelming emotion? How do I mostly feel every day? Ground down by the poverty? Bored out of my wits by the meetings? Happy watching the little kids walk to school hand-in-hand every morning?

Mostly I feel confused. The sheer randomness of everything still takes me by surprise almost every day and after 15 months I am still utterly at a loss to understand... well, pretty much everything. To try and explain why I am so befuddled I thought I would share a conversation I had on a bus a little while back. It's just a vignette, a window into my world, but it might help to explain.

Let's set the scene. I am on a matatu, headed from Migori to Kisumu. It doesn't look far on the map. Of course we can't leave Migori until the matatu is full, so we wait for an hour, by which point the matatu is all but exploding with passengers. Half an hour out of town we blow a tyre and are left stranded on the road, then at a garage. When we finally set off again we seem to have even more passengers and I am crammed into half a seat in the far-back corner (mercifully next to a window). It's two hours into our journey before the stares at the random white girl are broken by the man whose elbow is wedged into my ribs:

Man 1: So where are you from?

Me: England.

Man 1: That's good. So you will take me to your country?

N.B. This is one of the most persistent and annoying questions random strangers ask me in Kenya - I understand the reasons for it but after a year I am just utterly bored by it.

Me. No.

Man 1: Why?

Me: Because I don't know you.

Man 1: Still, I think you can take me to your country. I would very much like to go.

Me: Look, it is not possible for me to take you to my country.

Man 1: Why?

Me: Because it is very expensive and because you must get a visa to work.

Man 1: But you are mzungu! I think you can get these things for me.

Me: I cannot.

At this point Man 2 interjects from the seat in front, initially to my relief:

Man 2: Look, she cannot do that thing for you.

Man 1: Why?

Man 2: Because she would have to ask the Queen.

Me: That's right, I would have to ask the Queen, and you know she can be very much difficult.

(OK, so I seized on the guy's ignorance: in my defence we had another two hours to go and no elbow room to swing a punch, so it seemed the best solution).

Man 2: Yes you must ask the Queen. Tell me, what will you do when the Queen dies?

Me: Then Charles will become King, unless he abdicates - gives up.

Man 2: What! You do not choose? That is very bad. That is not democracy. [Turns to Man 1]. You see? This is how you make conversation with a mzungu. Not talking of taking to her country or what and what. You make conversation. Are you getting it?

Man 1: I am thinking that she could take me to her country if we were to marry. Me, I would very much like to marry a mzungu.

Man 2: What you say is true. [To me]. Are you married?

Me: Yes. I am very much married.

Man 2: What, the bride price has been paid?

Me: In my country we do not have bride price, but I am married.

Man 2: Ai! That is why there is so much divorce in your country. You know, if the couple had to repay bride price when they divorced I think you would not have so much divorce.

Me: Right.

Man 2: Also, here we just take another wife when things do not go well.

Man 2 turns back in his seat with a shake of his head that says, "these mzungu, they will never learn".

Man 1: So, when will you take me to your country?

One hour, forty five minutes to go...

Random, right? I keep hoping that one day it will all start to make sense but somehow the more I see the less I understand! I do laugh more so I suppose that counts as progress...