Back again, with hopefully better luck internet-wise.
Where was I? Ah, Mombasa. Unstoppable forces. We saw the immense Fort Jesus, built in the 1500s, conquered by seemingly every empire since. Each of the women bought bui bui, the traditional muslim cover-wear, and kangas, a colorfull alternative to the standard black (a perplexing color choice for the hottest place in the world). The four men bought kanzu and kofia, traditional muslim wear for men, which, unlike the well recepted kangas, made us really just look like Ultratourists; instead of allowing us to fit in, stuck us out like 4 non-muslim sore thumbs.
After two days in Mombasa, with, let me just say it again, the coolest 80 year old man on the 3rd rock, we travelled to the remote island of Pemba.
A 3 hr motor boat ride on high seas and a still uneasy stomach region didn't give my initial impression of the place the get go it needed for such a extreme change. The tiny island, one of two that makes up Zanzibar, is mainly farming lands, or straight up uninhabited. The people live in mud huts, which sound terrible, but is really no worse that a spanish mesa or a cabin for that matter. That said, the furthest extent of westernization found here is their clothing, and even then only half of them wear what we call "modern garb". I was given to my host brother Khamis in the village of Tumbe, immediately cast away from the women sitting, trying and failing to communicate. This was something you notice quickly as a man in a muslim culture: the idea of men and women intertwined is seemingly unheard of. Men are blue, women are red: no purpling allowed. It's sad to see at first, quite honestly, but once you realize that your American values and ideals on life are similarly, completely foreign and sad likewise, you are humbled by their rocksteadiness.
For the women, on a whole, it seemed the Tumbe experience was the most difficult yet. Touching of faces, rummaging of private belongings, and parading of wazungu seemed to be on the local's agenda. The men on the other hand had a wonderful time: soccer with the local boys, hangin' out, waited on day and night. It's a lesson I learned in Riruta not to try to help with female-role jobs, much less in the crevace of gender divide called Islam.
The next day, we met at a sea weed farm. A beach that looked like it was straight out of a post card was our port to a rickety hand carved boat, in which all 14 students and 2 captains dragged us to the shallow underwater shamba. It was surreal to say the least.
Now I'm nestled in a Zanzibari hotel. Tulitembeatembea, or we walked around for a while, surrounded, for the very first time in a month, hoards of white people. We felt out of place, like fakes, meandering through the "Authentic Maasai Staff!" Signed streets, beautiful as they may be. Stonetown in one of the oldest cities in E. Africa, and is now world reknown as a tourist destination, something we were initially excited for, but now, after 3 African families, we felt like we knew something they didn't; cocky I know, but truth all the same.
Trying to find a singular identity for Islamic Swahili coast is impossible. Islam is a maliable, adjustable religion, regardless of what those headlines say. If a culture doesn't allow for lavish muslim ammenities, it just focuses more intently on a certain element. The people of Tumbe weren't as fortunate as those in Mombasa to attend brilliantly decorated mosques or travel to Mecca, so instead, they take the covering of women and their domestic roles much more seriously. The familily aspect is much more prevalent because, well, their on an island...where are the men gonna go?
Safari in a week
More to come,
Tim
Monday, September 27, 2010
Island Dishes: Or How Immodium Saved My Life
First, let me preface this post with a prayer filled outreach to my Swahili professor Rose. On our final day of class, during a celebration with our homestay families, her father unexpectedly passed. Rose was my first Kenyan friend, and my deepest condolences go out to her and her family.
Mombasa. Oh, sweet Mombasa, how I love you. If you have ever seen Aladin, which you have of course, then you have seen a cartoon, non-tropical ideograph of Mombasa. Islam is king here. Women are covered head to toe, separated entirely from the male population, bound to domestic labor; a discussion perhaps better performed in person rather than over this Interweb thingy.
All four boys on the trip were more than privileged to stay with Professor Ahmed Sheik. The man is seriously one of the most influential figures of the 21st century. For God's sake, he came up with the word for email, video, cellphone, television, etc. in Swahili. He invents words!
And then, Island Dishes. A restaurant for 5 meals straight, and, for lack of a more delicate term, the worst diarrhea I have, or ever will experience. As my fluids drained on a toilet for literal hours, I couldn't help but overhear the wonderful city sounds of a town created in the 16th century.
I would love to say more, but my internet is about to expire. I hate to leave it on that note, of all notes, but...I will.
More to Come
Mombasa. Oh, sweet Mombasa, how I love you. If you have ever seen Aladin, which you have of course, then you have seen a cartoon, non-tropical ideograph of Mombasa. Islam is king here. Women are covered head to toe, separated entirely from the male population, bound to domestic labor; a discussion perhaps better performed in person rather than over this Interweb thingy.
All four boys on the trip were more than privileged to stay with Professor Ahmed Sheik. The man is seriously one of the most influential figures of the 21st century. For God's sake, he came up with the word for email, video, cellphone, television, etc. in Swahili. He invents words!
And then, Island Dishes. A restaurant for 5 meals straight, and, for lack of a more delicate term, the worst diarrhea I have, or ever will experience. As my fluids drained on a toilet for literal hours, I couldn't help but overhear the wonderful city sounds of a town created in the 16th century.
I would love to say more, but my internet is about to expire. I hate to leave it on that note, of all notes, but...I will.
More to Come
Friday, September 10, 2010
How Are You, Mzungu? Or How My Personal Space Was Demolished
My first week in my first homestay is a major adjustment to say the least. The idea of "lone wolf time"? Extinguished. My homestay family rolls 10 deep in a house roughly the size of my living room back in the states. Even as I type this I am pressed firmly against two large Kenyans (one of which not smelling especially appealing) in a tiny cyber cafe.
I am in Riruta Satellite, a suburb of Nairobi that resembles absolutely nothing like a suburb of America. Forget clean, ticky tack mansions with lawns and Pomeranian yapper dogs. I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
I arrive at the house with my mother Ruth who has bought me a Maasai cloth, now draped around my shoulder, only making me stick out more. Not only am I the only gangly white boy in my neighborhood, I'm the only one dressed in traditional tribe garb. As we open the turquoise iron gate to the small complex, seemingly endless hoards of watoto (children) pause from their daily activity of rolling tires and playing with half burnt garbage. The awkward pause is followed by a chorus of shrieks, laughing and yelling "mzungu! Mzungu!" or for you in the states, "White man! White man!"
I move into the cramped house to meet my brothers Richard, Eunice and Joshua, my sisters Winnie and Maggie, my aunts my uncles, my cousins. My father is still at work (and even today he has only said "how are you" to me, before he decompresses with a Tusker beer and an evening with KTN Leo). The rest of my weekend? Television. Simply television. It's a relatively new shipment to this suburb, so no matter where you go in Satellite, you will here a TV blaring 24/7. It's not that I don't love WWE Wrestling or overdubbed Spanish soaps, or even the freakin' news for that matter. But to be truthfully honest, I didn't come here for that. I could do that in Bend (and believe me I did).
Lately though I have been working to have my family speak in Swahili with me, walk with me, even if I have to drag them from their programs.
I've gotta say, of all the women in the world that I've seen (and Mama Barb, I mean no offense) Ruth is by far the strongest. She wakes up at 5 every morning, cooks and cleans for the rest of the day (for 10 people mind you) for the soul purpose of allowing her children to attend schools worth going to. She's tough and witty and doesn't take any of my mzungu shit. If she serves me a meal, by god, I'm eating that damn meal, even if it's more than I eat in a week (and normally, that's exactly what it is).
So what have I learned so far? A little Swahili (although no one here uses it; it will be very useful in Tanzania, however), some tribal studies. Mostly I have come the conclusion that Nairobi is a town of contradictions. The sweet tantalizing smell of roasting maize on the cob and samosas filled with goat meat dance around your nostrils, but are swiftly kicked in the shin by the grotesque odor of raw sewage and burning trash. Riruta claims to be a family-centric neighborhood, but as soon as the clock strikes 6, children best be inside, not to mention the speeding matatos and buses fly through the thin roads like their in a Tom Cruise movie. And finally, in a city as politically corrupt, a city that is run with the intentions of feeding the full rather than the hungry, it was my brother Eunice who said it best:
"It is not the garbage, or the sewers, or the politicians or even the land that makes a community. It is the people. We Kenyans are all about community, therefore, we are all about the people". And that I have seen most prominently.
More to come--
Tim
I am in Riruta Satellite, a suburb of Nairobi that resembles absolutely nothing like a suburb of America. Forget clean, ticky tack mansions with lawns and Pomeranian yapper dogs. I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
I arrive at the house with my mother Ruth who has bought me a Maasai cloth, now draped around my shoulder, only making me stick out more. Not only am I the only gangly white boy in my neighborhood, I'm the only one dressed in traditional tribe garb. As we open the turquoise iron gate to the small complex, seemingly endless hoards of watoto (children) pause from their daily activity of rolling tires and playing with half burnt garbage. The awkward pause is followed by a chorus of shrieks, laughing and yelling "mzungu! Mzungu!" or for you in the states, "White man! White man!"
I move into the cramped house to meet my brothers Richard, Eunice and Joshua, my sisters Winnie and Maggie, my aunts my uncles, my cousins. My father is still at work (and even today he has only said "how are you" to me, before he decompresses with a Tusker beer and an evening with KTN Leo). The rest of my weekend? Television. Simply television. It's a relatively new shipment to this suburb, so no matter where you go in Satellite, you will here a TV blaring 24/7. It's not that I don't love WWE Wrestling or overdubbed Spanish soaps, or even the freakin' news for that matter. But to be truthfully honest, I didn't come here for that. I could do that in Bend (and believe me I did).
Lately though I have been working to have my family speak in Swahili with me, walk with me, even if I have to drag them from their programs.
I've gotta say, of all the women in the world that I've seen (and Mama Barb, I mean no offense) Ruth is by far the strongest. She wakes up at 5 every morning, cooks and cleans for the rest of the day (for 10 people mind you) for the soul purpose of allowing her children to attend schools worth going to. She's tough and witty and doesn't take any of my mzungu shit. If she serves me a meal, by god, I'm eating that damn meal, even if it's more than I eat in a week (and normally, that's exactly what it is).
So what have I learned so far? A little Swahili (although no one here uses it; it will be very useful in Tanzania, however), some tribal studies. Mostly I have come the conclusion that Nairobi is a town of contradictions. The sweet tantalizing smell of roasting maize on the cob and samosas filled with goat meat dance around your nostrils, but are swiftly kicked in the shin by the grotesque odor of raw sewage and burning trash. Riruta claims to be a family-centric neighborhood, but as soon as the clock strikes 6, children best be inside, not to mention the speeding matatos and buses fly through the thin roads like their in a Tom Cruise movie. And finally, in a city as politically corrupt, a city that is run with the intentions of feeding the full rather than the hungry, it was my brother Eunice who said it best:
"It is not the garbage, or the sewers, or the politicians or even the land that makes a community. It is the people. We Kenyans are all about community, therefore, we are all about the people". And that I have seen most prominently.
More to come--
Tim
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Being Mark Wahlberg, Or How I Commence My Journey
As I sit on the plane that takes me to my first destination, Nairobi, I find myself flipping through an article in the inflight magazine entitled "Being Mark Wahlberg", which I personally think, would be freakin sweet. How amazing would it be to produce a show based on your own lavish lifestyle and entourage? Someday, perhaps...
But as I land, 400 something hours later, in a dingy corner of Nairobi airport, I realize Mark E Mark is anywhere but here to familiarize my surroundings. It smells, not particularly bad, but I wouldn't call it an enticing smell either...just different. The locals stare at us, a group of 15 wide-eyed white kids, aimlessly stumbling through the crowded hallways.
We arrive at the Kolping Guest House and fall into our beds, which could be comfortable, but for all I cared, I could have lay face first on a bed of nails and I would have said"Christ, these nails are comfy".
Our days are filled with 4 hrs of Swahili lessons by two of the most engaging and thoroughly entertaining teachers I have ever had, Rose and Julius. Rose has a hearty laugh that fills you up and makes you want to impress her with your butchered vocab. Julius is missing a front tooth and loves to poke fun at those who can't quite pronounce the African "Ooh" sound. The rest of the day is dedicated to, at this point, sleep and wandering of the streets.
More to come, my friends. More to come.
But as I land, 400 something hours later, in a dingy corner of Nairobi airport, I realize Mark E Mark is anywhere but here to familiarize my surroundings. It smells, not particularly bad, but I wouldn't call it an enticing smell either...just different. The locals stare at us, a group of 15 wide-eyed white kids, aimlessly stumbling through the crowded hallways.
We arrive at the Kolping Guest House and fall into our beds, which could be comfortable, but for all I cared, I could have lay face first on a bed of nails and I would have said"Christ, these nails are comfy".
Our days are filled with 4 hrs of Swahili lessons by two of the most engaging and thoroughly entertaining teachers I have ever had, Rose and Julius. Rose has a hearty laugh that fills you up and makes you want to impress her with your butchered vocab. Julius is missing a front tooth and loves to poke fun at those who can't quite pronounce the African "Ooh" sound. The rest of the day is dedicated to, at this point, sleep and wandering of the streets.
More to come, my friends. More to come.
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