AIDS, Orphans and Excellence

The guy who had been revelling in my discomfort as I was manhandled by local women three days previously on a dancefloor, and then with whom I cooked for 300 rural Kenyans had one final experience up his sleeve. His mother ran an orphanage for local children affected by AIDS, and he spent much of his week-in between jobs-helping out there.

Kisumu, on the shore of Lake Victoria, and this region of Western Kenya suffers heavily from HIV, with many NGOs and government initiatives operating out of the city. Indeed, he himself had been circumcised a few months previously as part of a local drive to bring down the infection rates. A procedure I don’t envy for someone aged around thirty.

His sister was infected with HIV by her husband, who is now dead, and in an advanced stage of illness herself, is unable to look after her two children. They now live with their grandmother, along with several other children from the surrounding villages, all AIDS orphans. Philip had adopted his fourteen year-old niece who now helps at the orphanage, too, whilst finishing primary school. She says that when she grows up, she wants to be a teacher. Her eight-year old brother, Anton, also lives with his grandmother and seven other children whose parents are either dead from AIDS, or too ill to look after them.

Walking across the field beside Philip’s grandmother’s mud-brick house, one finds the Rainbow Community Excellence Centre, adorned by vibrant painted letters over a colourful mural. As I am talking to Sylvia and the other children, a meeting is taking place inside the shell. Philip and some local youths are discussing their plans for the centre, and how they can improve the lives of people in their community, and those of these children growing up without parents. He explains that he has been talking to some local NGO actors in providing assistance to the centre.

As we heading back through the fields to his home, everybody seems to know him.

» More photos: Rainbow Community Centre.

The Preacher Man

As the evening turned to night, those assembled for the memorial we were catering filled a marquee. A preacher was shouting, aided by ladies from the local church. At times, he spoke in tongues, at times people shouted hallelujah as they rose out of their seats. The night was filled with religious fervour.

Later, some local drummers came out into our fenced off kitchen to heat their instruments on our cooking fires. “They’re just not giving the right sound in this cold air”, one told me.

Moments later, the sound of hymns—in the local dialect—filled the air. Women’s soft voices sang in harmony as tambourines and the wonderful Kenyan drumming provided the rhythm. The sound of the crickets that had previously seemed deafening was drowned out. This was the sound of “Africa” I had always imagined, and it felt rather special.

Outside Catering, Kenyan Style

I don’t know how I get myself into these situations. Somehow I was in the back of a matatu driving out into the countryside around Kisumu; several kilos of fresh tilapia fish were leaking their juices through a bag onto the floor. Philip and I had slept for barely two hours after the previous night’s dancing. We were seven, the “outside catering” team, crammed in amongst a marquee and huge, metal pots.

We pulled in through a gate leading onto a large garden, in the centre of which stood a single storey house. Chickens roamed around, unbeknownst to the fate that would await them. I hadn’t a clue where we were, just that it was around an hour and a half’s drive east of the Kisumu. Fantastic looking hills rose just beyond a field in the distance.

Having erected the marquee, we started to cook for the hundreds of guests that would arrive. This was to be a memorial for the patriarch of the family who had died a year previously, and everyone from the local villages were invited. Estimates put it at around 300 mouths to feed; six of us would be cooking.

We dug holes for the three large fires that would serve as our stove for the weekend. We killed and plucked chickens; a cow—its legs tied together—was slaughtered and we hacked it to pieces; fish were scaled. We drew water from the house’s well and left it to boil for the massive urns of tea we would produce.

As the night advanced, under a star-filled sky the sound of crickets filled the air, singing in the local Luo dialect floated over from the nearby tent where a local preacher kept those assembled entertained, mixing with the smoke from our fires. At 5am, I was still up, rolling out chapatis for the morning’s breakfast. Come late morning, we were stirring huge pots of ugali with utensils that seemed more like oars than wooden spoons, at home rather in a rowing club than a kitchen. The stench of the tripe from the stewing matumbo filled my nose as I wandered past the fires, turning my stomach.

The guests were surprised to see a white man present in this rural corner of the country. I was surprised to be here. Before every meal, I would perch on a stool, pouring water from a small jug for people to wash their hands, staring at a line of hands as they file by. As two girls served the masses, one returned to our “kitchen”, asking me to come forward; a table had requested that the muzungo serve their meals. Everybody laughed.

I hadn’t slept for three days, but during that period I received quite the education in Kenyan cuisine, and the Luo rural culture. Here’s to saying “yes”.

On the Edge of Lake Victoria

“Stop man-handling the muzungo. Show some manners!”

It started with a mail from a Kenyan Couch-Surfer in Kisumu. “Welcome to Kisumu”, was the subject line, “it is my greatest pleasure meeting you … if you have some time and you think of coming then you can call me”. So I did.

I hadn’t heard of Kisumu, which seemed like a good idea to go and find-out what it was like. Two days later, following a rickety, day-long bus ride, I found myself in the Western Kenyan city that lies close to the Ugandan border, on the edge of Lake Victoria, named so by John Hanning Speke in honour of our queen in 1858.

We climbed into a matatu and drove out to his little village, several kilometres from the city. Several hours later, after feasting on fresh tilapia fish from the lake, we were in a very “local” bar, with a band playing. Philip convinced me to get up to dance, which I failed to recognise as a bad idea.

Not only was I exemplifying the White Man’s lack of dancing ability, particularly to this Luo rhythm, but being the only muzungo there, attracted quite a lot of attention from the local ladies. As the singer was telling them to behave themselves, and “take their turn, one at a time” in between songs, my face was glowing red as I watched Philip’s amusement at this spectacle. He knew what he was letting me in for, and he was encouraging them.

It was late when we arrived back at his home, passing the Masai guards who are famed throughout Kenya for their honesty & loyalty. “They make the best security” I was told. I wish I’d had them on hand earlier in the night.

Nairobbery

If you are a British citizen,and you need a new passport in Africa, you’re not in luck. Under the guise of “increased security”, but reeking of our government’s new-found love of austerity, there is only one place in Africa that now issues passports: Pretoria, South Africa. The already extortionate fee for a new passport is now compounded by courier fees and a prolonged wait.

Mine had three months left in it, half of what is usually required to enter countries. This is what scuppered my plans of overland travel from Khartoum to Kenya via Ethiopia - the Ethiopians wouldn’t issue me a visa. Here I stood in the British High Commission in Nairobi’s Upper Hill district, having my passport photograph signed, and leaving with a form and an envelope. I would have to DHL my passport to South Africa, leaving me without any travel documents in Kenya for a month - the expected turn-around time.

The over-cast sky of Nairobi threw a grey light over an already relatively grey city. Nairobi felt strange after Khartoum, and Kenya, with its visible British influence, felt strange after ten months in Muslim countries.

I was staying in the “dodgy” part of an already dodgy town; Kenya’s capital is reputed for its muggings, car-jackings and other violent crime. Walking back to my hotel at night, I felt strangely intimidated by the streets, having to put back up my guard. But it was refreshingly liberal, too. Music blared from bars and beer was available freely. A new-found friend in the hostel asked if he could smoke; the proprietor replied with “Bob Marley or normal?”.

Since I have been away, friends have asked me what drove me to go to “dangerous” countries, the ones with such a bad reputation, internationally. Syria, Lebanon, the West Bank, Sudan. The idea of Kenya, a massive tourist destination, seems a safe-haven afterwards, in their eyes.

But these impressions of countries are born of misunderstanding, misnomers of the Middle East. I don’t feel that I have been to “dangerous” places. Walking through Damascus at 2am in the morning, down narrow, winding, unlit dark alleyways, I have never felt so safe in a city. Groups of youths on a corner, which in London or Paris could be expected to cause grief, give nothing more than a sala’am alikoum, “peace be upon you”. Similarly, in Khartoum, I knew the greatest danger I faced walking the streets were insistent offers of tea.

Here in Nairobi it seems like “every man for himself”, and I can’t say I felt that enamoured by the city. I’ll have a month sans-passport to see if I change my mind and adjust to a whole new culture. Whizzing along the night roads on the back of a friend’s motorbike are helping things. Although at three in the morning, trying to sleep in a bed hollowed out by the passage of many travelers, the thumping African ragga blaring through the thin glass made me yearn the muezzin call. Right now, I still feel more at home in the Arab world.