My Last Blog Post

That last post proved prophetically ironic.

The beauty of writing is that it forces you to articulate your ideas. Vague feelings that were swirling around in your mind must be crystallized into something accessible enough for another human to understand. Sometimes, you start to write something about a particular topic only to discover your true feeling about it only when your fingers start hitting the keyboard.

I was planning on calling this post "My Visit to the Sub-County Hospital." I planned on describing a recent experience I had getting an ear infection treated. But as I started to type, I felt a tightening in my stomach followed by anxiety. I've felt this way before writing previous  posts. Usually I tell myself to just get it over with with the knowledge that the stress will go away once I'm done...until it's time for another post! I realized the absurdity of the situation. This blog was starting to feel like something to  I coerced myself into doing.

To be clear, there are plenty of things in life that should be done regardless of the pain, because of their benefits (getting up early, working out, staying away from junk food, cleaning up around the house...). However, painful and/or stressful activities of limited value should be eliminated, unless of course you're into masochism.

Maintaining this blog adds to my stress and I feel it is of limited value. 

There is something really annoying about feeling as though I must carefully catalog my experiences during my stay in Kenya, the notion that every outing and moment must be packaged and sold as something sexier than it really is. Everytime I open up this web page, I feel as if I'm expected to recount some amazing African adventure full of leopards, lions, wacky backward locals, or some epiphany about coming back home a "changed person". At the moment, I feel as though I have enough on my plate without having to twist and torture reality.

If you're reading this as a friend of mine and really want to know about my time here, we'll shoot the shit over a beer someday.

I'm happy I gave it a try.

In my journey through manhood, I've learn the importance not being too quick to dismiss suggestions offhand. I've slowly developed the habit of giving the opinions of others a fair hearing, despite my initial reaction. This has proven valuable. For instance, a friend of mine was diagnosed with leukemia and in need to financial support for the treatment. I had already given him a lot of money but that was still not enough and we began to brainstorm other options. He suggested that I reach out to those I knew from back home for donations. My initial reaction was, "hell no, people will think it's a scam just like those Nigerian princes...no one will give anyway...plus there's a lot of work that needs to be put it..and so on and so forth..." I slept on it and realized it was worth a shot. We gave it our 110% and ended up succeeding in raising enough money to give him a fighting chance.

Less dramatically, but still in the same spirit, prior to my departure to Africa, many people suggested that I start a blog chronicling my trip. My gut reaction was, "hell no, I don't feel like it, what a lame idea, I just wanna do my thing." But experience has shown me that an unwillingness to open up to new ideas can cost you big time. So I decided to give it a shot. 

A problem I realized early on in writing a blog dedicated to my time in Africa (but tried to ignore) was the inseparability of my daily experiences into neat categories. In what way does an experience count as "Kenyan" rather an a commentary on the human condition in general? Obviously, an easy solution would be to write only about things that would strike readers are foreign but that's not how my mind works or how I remember things. The fact is that I have been living in the same town for 4 months now and the sights and sounds I'm exposed to on a daily basis no longer strike me as odd. I don't see any "Africans", I just see people doing their best to survive based on the cards they've been dealt, rolling with the punches.

As much I love writing, I'd prefer to do it on my own terms, sometimes from the perspective of a stranger in a strange land and at other times philosophizing about the universal. I feel that this blog is not the place to do it. And as I stated before, I'm just don't feel like filtering through and chronicling experiences that quality as "touristy." 

If everyone's life is a tree, then "Kenyan Impressions" was a branch on mine that had to be pruned, making room for bigger and better things to grow.

Stay in touch

I will be back in Montreal for the holidays in December.

Until then, you can always email me (adamaberra@hotmail.com) or shoot me a line on Facebook.

I’m back…

It’s amazing how quickly 2 months goes by. Up until a few days, I was busy studying for a do-or-die supplemental exam (results are not yet out, so my survival is TBD). There are so many blogs out there started with enthusiasm only to go permanently dormant after a few posts…that won’t be the case here!  

Beautiful Things - Part 1

This is probably the oldest tree in town. I’ve asked the townspeople and gotten varying ages from 150 to 400 years. Either way, it has been around before any living human on this planet was born. It is majestic and motherly, creating a life-nurturing environment in its shade. 

(Hydro) Power to the People

This Saturday was beautiful and productive. Aside from examining the economic impact of access to the judiciary, my research center has also tried for years to conduct a randomized control trial on the effects of access to electricity. In 2008, we had managed to mobilize a community of farmers north of Kianyaga to fund and help built a hydroelectric dam, that would generate enough electricity for 200 households. Soon after its construction, the custom-built generator broke down and the entire site has been in a state of disrepair ever since. The head of the organization with whom we had partnered with (let's call him Robert) had proven very difficult to work with. Despite failing to come up with any feasible plans for reviving the project, he had been extremely reluctant to led us look for solutions that didn't involve his expertise.

The community members had understandably grown frustrated with us. After having contributed their hard-earned money as well as their manual labor, we had so far left them with nothing to show; just a dam whose generator is toast.

My boss was about to give up hope on the whole electricity idea until his stay here last month. We decided to make an offer Robert, essentially buying out his stake in the organization. In crude terms, we offering him money to get out of the way. Robert was a proud man with a reputation in the community to uphold. We were not confident in our odds.

As luck would have it, Robert agreed to give up his share in the project. We were now free to revamp this project on our own terms. The job will be a tall order: although the physical dam itself is fine, we need new generator and turbine, as well as electric wiring and poles which were never constructed. Our goal is to generate about 20 KW of power.

On Saturday we drove to one to of the micro-hydroelectric generators Benson had built north of Niyeri (about 2 hours from Kianyaga). The weather was clear and sunny, the roads smooth, and the landscape breathtaking. The power station was located in a scenic, lush, and fertile valley that felt hidden away from all the world's troubles. There was no cellular reception but that just added to the area's secluded mystique. The power came from a stream gushing down the valley's slopes, with water diverted into a 4 inch pipe that went into a reversed water pump which in turn spun a modified motor thus generating enough electricity for twenty farming families.

To me, Benson exemplifies the best the region has to offer. He is an engineer, in it not for the money, but for for the advancement of his people. I am told of many projects he undertakes in Central Kenya at a very modest consulting fee plus the cost of applicable parts.  He has also built mills for farmers to grind their corn, wheat, and flour. Farmers who stand to benefit supply all the labor for free labor.

The hydro project near Nieryi is instructive. It was built over ten years ago and has paid for itself many times over. The twenty farming families pooled their savings to pay for the initial construction of the hydro generator. Not a bad investment for free electricity for life!The quality speaks for itself. After decade of 24/7 use, the original motor (which itself was bought used), pump, and load controller are still in use. I am told the only maintenance involves oiling the motor. The valley shields the electrified houses from powerful winds and although some poles have bent through the years, no wires have been knocked out since the project's inception.

The modified motor connected to reverse water pump

Paradise

We were fortunate enough to meet a family who took part in the dam's construction and are now reaping the rewards. I met the patriarch of the family, along with his 85 year old father. They seemed so peaceful and relaxed. Their smiles revealed a mouth full of healthy white teeth (something I have also taken as a proxy for well-being). They laugh, gratefully amused at my broken Kikuyu, as we spent a few minutes visiting their home. For wallpaper, they have used old election posters featuring prominent Kikuyu politicians (the Kenyattas, and Kikabi make multiple appearances). There is even a poster of Barrack Obama. They have a modest television set with a DVD player as well lighting in all their rooms. When I asked the head of the family the biggest benefit electricity has given his family, he tells me it is in the children's studying. No longer are they confined at night to studying beside the dimness and hazardous fumes of kerosene lamps. He chuckles, noting that he also makes a bit of money on the side by letting neighbors charge their cellphones.

Myself, along with interns (also from Canada) are taken aback by the way of life in this valley paradise. It would appear that electricity was the final piece in the puzzle to self-sufficiency. The farms are abundant with a variety of crops with an equally diverse types of livestock. One intern tells me that he would seriously think about retiring here. It is 25 degrees with just the right amount of breeze and sunlight. I wish I could come back here with a blanket spend the whole day lying down and enjoying the natural beauty.

The road trip itself was memorable. Kenyans have a love affair with country music and Dolly Parton in particular. The three of us mazungus, with Benson, his partner, and another friend of his made six in a car that could comfortably hold only four. Nevertheless we managed to endure the cramped conditions in part due to the warm conversation coupled the the country tunes that seemed to fit the area rather well.

Sundays in Kianyaga

Our office is one of the few workplaces in town with a 5 day work week...for the field officers at least. As project manager, I've quickly discovered I still need to put in a solid 6 says so as to ensure things to don't fly off the the rails. Like most full time workers in Kenya, my Saturdays are just another work day...perhaps with the chance of leaving a little early. For almost everyone, Sunday is the only day of the week away from work.

Religion is a big part of people's lives. I have been to about a dozen people's homes so far and have yet to see a Kenyan living room without either a picture of Jesus or a cross. The Mount Kenya region is almost entirely Christian and I have seen church's from a wide array of denominations: Catholics, Pentecostals, United, Jehovah's Witnesses, Anglican, and so forth.  I have made a habit of the attending Kianayga's Anglican church because its only a 5 minute walk from my place and it is one of the few places of worship around here with a weekly English service. English service is from 8:30 am to 10 am and is aimed at the younger crowd. A little after 10, the Kikuyu service begins, lasting around 3 to 4 hours. The English service gives the younger generation a chance to pray and practice their faith without having to go through marathon of hymns and sermons.

When I wake up on Sundays,I usually do not feel like going. However I always leave the service feeling calm, cool, and collected. The service is very lively and is similar to Black American churches minus the gospel choir. There is however a musical ensemble comprising an electric guitar, drums, keyboard, and a musically gifted young man doing the vocals. Most of the hymns involve a good mount of physical movement, be it swaying your body, clapping your hands, or raising your arms. It is as if there is some collective spirit in the air that gets into your soul and makes you want to participate and sing and move your body.

I don't feel like going into an ideological debate about the teachings espoused during the service (a couple weeks back, the sermon was on the dangers of same sex marriage). In my opinion, it would be extremely condescending and inappropriate for a guest in another country to complain about such things. It is the unity and community spirit that I find so compelling. A church packed with three hundred teenagers and young adults on a Sunday morning is something you'll be hard pressed to find in Canada.

The rest of my Sundays are spent trying to do the most relaxing and least mentally or physically taxing tasks. That's what the rest of the week is for! I will usually be either reading, meditating, or visiting other people's places after service. I have almost finished Dubliners by James Joyce. Apparently, the Irish in 1900s took their tea in a similar manner to that of Kenyans today. Who wudda thunk it?

Paul's Story

Names have been changed for purposes of confidentiality.

Paul's demeanor was cool and collective. He's 21 and rents out a shop beside one belonging to a good friend of his, Mike. Paul and Mike go way back to when they were both toddlers. In high school, they went their separate ways.

On our drive to the national park, Paul told me about his ultimate goal: to become a pilot. He has never been out of Africa and longs to see to the world. He fantasizes about meeting his future wife in Brazil while on layover in Sau Paulo or Rio. According to Paul, pilots need to accumulate 50 hours of flight training to receive their commercial licences (a number which strikes me as frighteningly inadequate). One hour of flying lessons comes to about Ksh 15,700 an hour, or $180, more than the average Kenyan monthly salary. So far, Paul has racked up 27 hours. He knows people who've spent precious years in vain trying to reach the magic number of 50. For Paul, his art and and fashion business are but a means to amass enough money for the flight lessons.

As we continue to drive, Paul elaborates on his plans. He hopes to eventually start his own flight tours company out of Embu (a nearby town of about 50,000 residents). The idea is to fly wealthy tourists over Kenya's stunning wilderness. "You can only make really good money, when you are own boss." He tells me.

The road from Rukenya to Mount Kenya National Forest is surprisingly well paved and maintained, a sharp contrast to more heavily traveled Kutus-Kianyaga highway from which it branches out. It is a well known fact in these part that this road happens to lead to the house of the region's Member of Parliament.

Sometimes Paul takes up the whole of the two lane road, centering along the dividing line  "Us pilots are more used to runways " he jokes. He favorite movie is Flight, a drama about an alcoholic pilot starring Denzel Washington.

The engine overheats and the car stalls, we are forcing the car on to the shoulder. We add water to the cooling system and wait for the engine to cool. We decide this unplanned stop might be a blessing in disguise: we will see if Mike's girl cares more about the car or him. We pass around a bottle of brandy and talk about aviation disasters. Paul says the biggest problem about making water landing in the middle of the ocean is fear, the collective fear of a couple hundred stranded passengers on lifeboats in the middle of nowhere.

We try to start engine and it works. In ten minutes, we reach our destination at the gates of the national. Mike and Paul are friends with the park ranger who lets us park in the safe confines of the gates.

Getting out of the car, Paul finishes the brandy in a few swigs. We make our way along an electric fence, meant to keep elephants inside the forest. The fence apparently leads to a waterfall with an amazing view. I am told of a Youtube video purporting to show an elephant being thrown 100 feet after making contact with such a fence.

On our way down the cliff towards the base of the waterfall, we stop to appreciate the view. We see what appears to be farmhouse among tea fields. Admiring it, Paul tells me this will be his dream home. All that's missing is a runway.

Paul's dream home

The liquor must have hit him not long after because he soon rambled into incoherence. While Mike and his girl walk ahead of us, Paul speaks to me about religion. He tells me about how life nothing but "one big trip" and in the end we would all go back to our Maker. Yet under this apparent irrelevance of existence lay some deep meaning. What was the point of living if we would not be remembered? He did not want to live and be forgotten. God put him on earth for a purpose. Everything had to have had a purpose.

I smile and nod encouragingly.

At the base of the waterfall, Paul marvels at God's creation. After taking some pictures, we look at the time. It is almost 5, the time he promised to have returned the car to his mother. Walking back up the hill, we decide it would be best if Mike drove back.

On the road, Paul realizes his mother texted him three time asking his whereabouts. "She probably thinks I'm irresponsible," he moans.

Mike's phone rings and he answers it, to Paul's dismay. "I told him never to answer the phone while driving. It's dangerous."

We soon realize that it was Paul's mother who called Mike. "She doesn't even trust me!"

We pick up the pace, cruising down the nicely paved road to Rukenya, hampered by the speed bumps and rumble strips installed every few kilometers or so, designed to prevent speeding drivers from getting into accidents. Mike honks at slow moving piki-pikis and cow-drawn carriages, passing them when possible--no easy task in a mountainous landscape lacking in straightaways. I look outside the window at sights that would be odd back home: groups of four or five black figures walking on the shoulder beside fast-moving traffic: livestock playing a stubborn game of chicken with oncoming traffic; the mutatus driving even faster and more aggressive than us; students from primary and secondary school heading from Saturday classes.

The road ends at a T intersection, hitting the Kianyaga-Kutus highway, and we leave the smooth asphalt, head home on the pothole-infested thoroughfare. Pedestrian and vehicle traffic is heavier and so even though this route more straightaways, overtaking slow traffic is harder. The treacherous potholes at times forces us to abandon the paved road entirely in favor of the gravel shoulder.

In time, Paul grows impatient with Mike's driving and orders him to pull over. "Don't worry. I'm a pilot," he assures us.

Paul drives at speeds I would have thought impossible on such a poorly maintained road. The speedometer tops 140 km/h on a road not fit for even half that,  He swerves his way around potholes and passes slowpokes regardless of oncoming traffic. We experience several near misses with trucks and buses. "Holy shit!" I scream. This feels surreal like out of a 1950's hot-rod movie. A big part of me wants to believe that everything will turn out okay and that Paul knows what he's doing.

I recognize where we are, about 5 minutes from town at normal speeds. But this isn't good enough for Paul. Now, he overtakes slow traffic to the left via the shoulder! (Kenyans drive on the left).

After another insanely fast shoulder pass, we get back onto the road only to bang a pothole. Something goes wrong and we lose control this time, heading into the grassy ditch on the side of the road. My seat in the back is missing a safety belt. I hold on for dear life and tense my muscles bracing for impact. I feel as though I am about to learn a painful lesson. Thoughts race through my mind: is my traveler's health insurance going to cover me? Will I break any bones? Will we go into the nearby trees? Will my body be ejected from the vehicle? Will I be left permanently disfigured? The car is now sliding sideways and I brace for a rollover wondering how best to position myself for this terrifying turn of events. How strong is the car's steel? Will parts of me be crushed? We slide sideways and time seems to stand still. Then, bang! We hit somebody, possibly a child, the impact is blunt and loud. Paul regains control of the vehicle and amazingly gets it back onto the road. We keep driving

"You hit someone!" I yell. Everyone else is quiet. Are we just going to pretend like this never happened?

A minute later, we pull off the road, into the driveway of a high school along the main road (I later find out this is where one of Paul's parents works) and stop before the gates. Drivers of cars and mutatus who saw the accident have now surrounded us with their vehicles. They have gotten out and are surrounding our car in anger, punching and kicking the body. For a moment, I fear that being a passenger in the offending car, I myself will subject  to some form of vigilante justice. Paul is dragged out of the car. His face maintains that same calm and collective expression I saw when I first met him. A few men give me loud and hard smacks across the face. With each blow, Paul blinks but does not flinch. A crowd gathers, including a bunch of students on the other side of the gate.

By now, we have all gotten out of the car. I see the rear view mirror on the left has been completely knocked off. The tire on the left has also blown, probably from a pothole; we must have been driving on the rim for awhile. Luckily, I  do not see any block on the bumper. A man looks at me, shakes his head and softly says, "life is precious."

A security guard has grabbed Paul and is taking him inside the gates. Mike asks me to walk his girlfriend back to my place. I am quiet and shaken. If she feels likewise, it doesn't show. As the scene by the gates took place in Kikuyu, she translates some of what unfolded to me. Paul maintained that he lost control because his tire blew (not because he was driving like a maniac) and claims he didn't spot at the scene because he was not aware of hitting anyone.

Today, I talked to Mike, who put a positive spin on events. We did indeed strike a child but he says they suffered only a broken arm and that Paul's parents, who am I told are well known in the community, will cover all the medical expenses. After Mike's girlfriend and I had left, a police investigator arrived and questioned Mike and Paul. They told the story about losing control and not having noticed that someone was struck. The officer was paid an "incentive" by Paul's parents to just leave it at that and not dig any deeper into the matter.

My Home and Office

 Our research office is also a home to the project manager (me). Our building has two floors. The second floor contains the work area, kitchen, my room, office, and bathroom. The first floor has an additional couple of extra bedrooms and a living room-turned-weight room.

Despite the impression the photos below may give some, I really like the set up. I have just enough of the bare necessities to live simple yet comfortably. Other frills I would have thought "necessities" like a fridge, I've learned to do without. Much of the work our field staff does is...in the field. Our mornings start with a team meeting at 8 am in the main office. By 9 am, usually everyone except our lawyer and myself remain in the office. Work ends at 5 but the staff do not come back until the next day. My boss has given me the green light to repaint the office and get a new couch. Once I get settled in more, I plan on clearing some junk out of the office. However, it serves its purpose fine.

My mattress is comfortable and the shower has warm water: That's all I need!

My Personal Office. Lower back support + good jazz + strong instant coffee = productive day.

Rechargeable LED light. A life saver during blackouts.

Back in Montreal, my gym was a block away from home. This one's even closer.

Main Office (angle 1). Where the magic happens. Fun fact: all wooden furniture & couch built by local carpenter.

Main Office (angle 2)

Bless that net.

Messy boy.

Indoor plumbing is still a rarity in these parts so I have no complaints.

Shower

Shower floor. Warning: Failure to wear flip flops = fungus among us

Kitchen (angle 1)

On the menu tonight: pasta and fried potatoes

Kitchen (angle 2)

Locals' Reactions to a "Muzungu" in their Midst

People’s reactions to me can be classified into several broad categories. There are the drunken men who tend to make a significant minority of the townspeople (or maybe it just feels that way because they tend to make up a disproportionately large share of those who speak to me—or “at” me). Most drunks are harmless but annoying. The reasons why they roam the town streets and alleys tipsy as early as 11 am are probably tragic. However, I do not feel like I should waste my time communicating with intoxicated people as this will likely do them little good. I respectfully acknowledge their presence with a smile, nod, wave, or “hi” but have learnt my lesson early never to actually stop moving and give them my full attention. There will be the odd drunk who raises his voice and says something in Kikuyu which an edge and I can immediately sense the bad vibrations. Seeing me angers them. I will have more to say about this hostility later. To date, I have not received any overtly physical threats (at least, in English). My physical safety has never been threatened and no one has tried to touch me.

The sober adults are reserved, do not stare (at least when I look their way), and hardly ever stop me. During my first couple weeks, I paused and said hi with a smile to almost every decent person I could, shaking hands on many occasions. The novelty has worn off by now. However when I walk I still stop for kids most of the time. Their curious, innocent eyes devoid of any malice can be hard to brush off. Some are shy, others outgoing. They seem to be fascinated with my skin and many touch my arms and hands, perhaps thinking that lighter skin feels different from theirs. After touching my skin, some give off mischievous laughs. I ask them their names, where they are from, their age, and what they want to become. The level of ambition is striking for children under 10. The most common profession I’ve heard has been a doctor. Lawyer, pilot, and engineer also tend to be recurring ones.

Castle Forest Lodge

Last weekend, my boss, the manager I will be succeeding, and I got away from all the hustle and bustle of the town. Castle Lodge is located about 40 minutes away from Kianyaga (by mutatu) in Mount Kenya National Forest. It consists of a main building—a bar and dining room, the “castle”—a several other smaller cabins/lodges. They are very cozy, and contain a hot water shower, fireplace (always lit at night by one of the staff), and a comfy double bed. No TV or electrical outlets (a lamp and bathroom light are powered by a mini hydroelectric dam nearby) but who cares. All you need is a good book and perhaps a fully charged iPhone with a great jazz playlist. Compared to heavily used foam single mattress I’ve been sleeping on in Kianyaga, the beds themselves make the stay worthwhile. My boss only started meetings at noon, giving me the rare luxury of sleeping in.

We saw elephants Saturday afternoon. The curious boy part of me had wished to get up close and personal. Unfortunately, elephants are aggressive creatures and have been known to trample people and other smaller critters to death. 

Three Weeks In

I have been in Kenya for three weeks now. I’ve settled into a stable routine at the office in Kianyaga. I know my way decently around much of the town: which places serve the best chapatti; the butcher with the best cut of beef; the vegetable and fruitstand lady with the best selection of produce; what types of food can be found in stores and the ones I need to stock up on during my occasional visits to Nairobi (Vinnegar and Tabasco).  I’ve grown used to living without a fridge and only buying perishables which I plan on eating in the next few hours. My weekday routine consist of waking up before 8 am. I can’t wake up any later than that because work starts at that time. Lucky for me, I live in the office. My field officers have proven a pleasure to work with. I look forward to knowing them better over the next year.

The town itself is nothing special and is probably typical of most lower-middle income countries. Kirinyaga is definitely not the poorest region of Kenya. Located in the highlands to the south of Mount Kenya, the red clay soil is abundantly fertile. Banana and avocados are everywhere. The town is surrounded by homesteads—“shambas”—usually no more than a few acres but from what I’ve seen they produce enough for farming families enough to get buy. At least this part of the country has passed the threshold of agricultural self-sufficiency long ago. Destitute to the point of starvation it is not.

For at least the next two weeks, I intend to focus on getting into the groove with office procedures. I have not had much time to explore as a tourist and for good reason. My predecessor, who is about to wrap up her 13 month stay, will be here for a couple more days. I’ve aimed to learn as much as I can from her while she is still here. I have tremendous respect and admiration for her as she seems to know this town inside out. She knows basic Kikuyu and has picked up on the area’s cultural nuances. She’s a firm negotiator. Though not dictatorial, she does know where to draw the line with the staff. I can see they respect her a lot.