The Japanese moran

At one point we decided we needed a car. Not because we were fed up with transport by matatu or foot. No, the decision was purely based on future projection. My love was still waiting for the return of the tourists, resulting in him resuming his work and thus acquiring an income once again.

But being idle is not his style. Furthermore surviving on little money for months in a row is quite eye opening: an extra income generating source would be welcome, as an alternative to tourism that following the recent chaos in Kenya proved to be very unpredictable. This insight led to many brainstorm sessions, which in turn led to a plan. And that plan was called CAR. To be used for safaris, transfers and other (taxi) rides. Completely multi-purpose.

Not just a car, but a real four wheel drive. Just like in Europe that type of car is quite fancy here in Nairobi. The only difference is that in Kenya you really need such a car once out of town, especially during the rainy season, owing to the disastrous condition of the roads.

Thus the search for a four wheel drive started. But where on earth do you find that second hand car with low mileage held by an old lady, who happens to be the first owner and has always maintained her wheels through the dealer?
Nowhere, as that lady does not exist. Neither does that dealer.

So the first challenge was how to proceed. We used all our contacts, and got the most obscure cars offered. Then we started leafing through the newspaper and visited traders in multiple hand cars. We examined typical expat-hangouts, like the big shopping malls, where there is always a bulletin board full of ‘Quick sales’. Expats leaving the country are often in a hurry to sell their vehicle, which should lower the price. However, this theory was not sustained by the practice. We encountered many dream-cars, only to discover that they all were alarmingly above budget.

Not to worry, we were still in the phase of orientation. A sunny Sunday brought us to the Jamhuri Car Bazar, a huge field with second-hand cars, offered by both traders and private sellers. Like we told ourselves, we were there to take a good look only, solely for orientation purposes. Two hours later we had bought a car.

Plenty of cars on offer with that sturdy outdoor look. Real 4WD’s, but also numerous fashion models, only suitable for use within the city. Unfortunately prices proved to be as sturdy as elsewhere. So soon enough we were done looking around. Or so we thought.
So we thought… as parked at an unobtrusive spot there it was, the Japanese Moran. Its location so well hidden, that we searched for it more than half an hour in despair once we decided to give this car a second glance. A critical second look turned into a critical test drive. Followed by critical bargaining. And then the deal was done. We became the proud owners of a Suzuki Samurai. A Japanese warrior, right from the start fondly dubbed by us as Japanese moran – ‘moran’ means warrior in both the Masai and Samburu language.

Buy a car in Africa and life gets really hectic. Drawing the sales agreement, starting an official investigation into the vehicle’s background (to guarantee that it was not stolen) and arranging the insurance almost took a whole day. In the process I came in possession of a Kenyan PIN number – an administrative code used for taxes, an essential condition to become the owner of a car. From a personal point of view, this felt as a small triumph – now I had official proof of my existence in Kenyan society (though my residence status is still pending, I am still admitted on a temporary visa).

The PIN only took a couple of days to be released. The investigation by the authorities into the car’s history lasted considerably longer. But in the end they gave us the go-ahead: the Moran was clean. Not that this consent ended the long wait for final ownership. We were still in search for the log book – the ultimate proof of ownership. Four weeks, many phone calls and even more text messages later it finally came through – from that moment on, the Moran really was ours. And this time the authorities kept their promise, within the indicated two weeks we received the log book in our name by registered mail.

Meanwhile the car plan had turned into a serious project. As obviously some things had to be changed, replaced, adjusted and improved. Leading to a Moran our style, in perfect condition.
My love took the lead in the project enthusiastically. His expertise in mechanics and his numerous contacts with endless skilled men came in handy. And I eagerly supplemented my English vocabulary – with names for spare parts of which I did not suspect their existence until recently.


The concept of a garage is multi-interpretable in Kenya. Concrete halls smeared with oil containing a bridge do exist, at most petrol stations. But all too often a ‘garage’ is an indefinable plot in the open air, with possibly a tiny shack made of corrugated iron somewhere in a far corner. From a Western point of view this might seem to be very vague, but as it turns out it is ultimately wallet-friendly. And the mechanics are real professionals that can do wonders with a minimum of tools like spanners.

Anyone expecting a story with a hilarious end since after all this is Africa will get disappointed. On the contrary, all our efforts were rewarded, our intuition and especially the Moran did not let us down. Except for some grumble when the petrol is almost finished (gas prices have risen to alarming heights in Kenya as well) the Moran is still driving smoothly.

The big test came in June, when we took the Moran for a visit to his Samburu and Masai brothers. A safari of ten days, the Moran heavily loaded with its brand new roof rack filled with camping equipment and other luggage. Dirt roads, rain, dust, heat, potholes, mud tracks, the indeterminate state of the ‘roads’ in the national parks - to the Moran all these challenges did not pose any problem. Nowhere did the ride become awkward, even in the worst mud pools the four wheel drive did not have to be turned on. Real morans, Samburu and Masai warriors, lovingly caressed their namesake while cleaning it after each game drive.


But the true acknowledgment came from a young male lion. In Masai Mara he walked straight to the Moran, sniffed at the spare wheel on the back approvingly, marked it as his territory with his head and stared inside through the rear window for a long time.

With the blessing from this lion-king-to-be nothing can go wrong. So as from now we are in business. For rent: compact, reliable 4WD, in perfect condition, with or without driver, suitable for any safari!

The African white

A never-tiring game: spotting wazungu*. In a mainly black society, every white skin catches the eye, whether you want to or not. Even my love cannot stop pointing out all fellow-whites to me. And then the guessing game starts: resident or not? Though this is not a very difficult game, as the tourist are easily recognisable, by their clothes (even in the city they manage to wear outfits as if the beach is around the corner), their daypacks and their searching eyes and sometimes uncertain posture.

As a white person in Kenya, it is not always possible to melt into the background. Obviously, there are both advantages and disadvantages to this visibility. On the downside: almost everyone takes you to be a well-filled wallet. This can be derived from the smallest details. Wherever you walk, a taxi is offered to you (because why should you walk when you can afford other transport?). Strangers address you just like that to ask for money – even if they have just left the supermarket with bags full of groceries they request “a few shilling for transport, sister”. And if you dare to come close to a curio shop, you are in for some very sticky company, pushing you to buy souvenirs. From then on, a quiet shopping trip is out of the question.

The hairdresser, another place where it is a disadvantage to be white. When asked if they are capable of cutting European hair in their salon, the answer is always yes. Followed by quoting an extraordinary high price. The service involves a cutting job using normal household scissors (locals never have their hair cut, if anything they allow clippers to create their hairstyles). Which results in a hairdo consisting of strings of hair of diverse length. Fortunately, the Kenyan climate is doing wonders to my hair – even this unusual hairdo looks healthy and full of volume.

Very often though, I do benefit from being noticeable. Crossing the always packed Ngong Road a few times a day can be a real challenge. The trick is to throw yourself fearlessly in between the constant stream of traffic. Usually, this is done in two stages, leaving you waiting in the middle of the road until the tiniest gap to proceed occurs, while the cars, trucks and matatus are skimming all around you. Luckily, many drivers prove to be very understanding when they spot this white lady; they slacken their speed and gesture me to continue – remarkably, it is always the black drivers who are this tolerant, whereas the white ones all stoically accelerate.

That the police sometimes start checking traffic in order to supplement their own wallets instead of the national budget, is a fact that is accepted here with reluctance. To the average Kenyan this is part of daily life; it might be out of order, but there is not much you can do about it as an individual. Nevertheless, it remains striking that once the police discover a white passenger, the car is always waved to continue. Though I expect this attitude to change once I will start driving myself – then they will probably kindly welcome me to their system.

People remembering you after only meeting you once, is a definite advantage of being white. All kiosks in my area know who I am. Not only do I stroll around on a daily basis, I also make sure I am a customer at every kiosk around. This is inspired by social reasons, I want to favour them equally when it comes to turnover, but also by security reasons. Kiosk owners know the area the best and notice even the tiniest change. And that is what I am relying on: today they greet me, tomorrow they might warn me in case something is not right. As I do not have the illusion that here I can judge certain situations all too well, my kiosk ‘friends’ definitely add to my sense of security.

But sometimes I am really ashamed of being white. Or better: of my Western background. Especially of everything I am not used to and will probably never get used to. Like the attitude towards food. Kenyans generally eat anything and consume all that is edible. When it comes to meat, I know how to deal with this, at least, when I am not served intestines. The big chunks of fat (‘white meat’) are considered a sheer delicacy by my companions, so everybody benefits when I pass them on. Usually I eat meat.

But one day in Eldoret meat is not on the menu, it is fish I am served. Once cleaned on both the inside and the outside, a fish is generally fried as a whole, with the sides carved to ensure the whole fish will be well done. This way of preparing allows you to easily scrape pieces of fillet off the bones with a knife. And that is how I eat my fish, during a lunch break of a workshop. The amount of fish thus consumed is more than sufficient to me, as my stomach still is not accustomed to the piles of food that are generally served here.
Meanwhile, the Kenyans around me strip their fish completely with their fingers, eating virtually everything, except for some bones and the head’s carcass. In an environment where a daily meal still is not self-evident, I am painfully aware of the differences. Purely by coincidence, I am seated in a corner of the restaurant, my back facing most of the other guests. I consider this to be a fortunate coincidence, as the others at least do not have to witness my clumsiness.

But I do not get away with my fish that easily. After lunch, the Kenyans approach me. Full of joyful anticipation, they start inquiring about my eating habits. “Did you eat the fish’s head?” “No, I did not eat the head.” “How did you eat the fish, with cutlery?” “Yes, I used a fork and a knife.” “How can you eat a fish with a knife, then you have not been eating. That way you are not eating anything of that fish!”
Laughing with excitement, they continue the discussion amongst themselves. They seem not to be resentful at all, they just share their amazement over my strange way of consuming that fish. But I am well aware that I have left at least half of what is edible to them, consider myself a spoiled brat and feel deeply ashamed.

Touchingly enough, they are all accepting it. They are only fascinated by the differences and do not think I am spoiled at all. Maybe because they still consider me to be an honoured guest in their midst. Maybe because I am doing my utmost to really become one of them, that is, if we are not eating. And at one point I feel that I am succeeding quite well, when I casually overhear a remark from one of my colleagues. “She might be a mzungu*, but she is a mzungu mafrika.” An African white. One day I will be fully integrated, no doubt.

* wazangu = whites (plural)
* mzungu = white (singular)

The battle of the sexes

The gender debate is a hot topic in Kenya. According to the media, the modern Kenyan women are bossing the men around, which is certainly not to the satisfaction of the lads. Relationship issues are important subjects of discussion. The most popular radio stations in Nairobi, like Classic 105, all host talk shows that air the views of the audience. One topic that led to a frantic debate, was the question “Can a woman earn more than her man?” Many Kenyan men seemed to have trouble to accept this, as did many women by the way.

The Saturday edition of The Daily Nation, one of Kenya’s leading newspapers, is another entertaining source of information on the level of emancipation in the country. One of the supplements is filled with ‘modern’ advice regarding relationships. Is the Kenyan man troubled by the too emancipated and demanding attitude of the modern Kenyan lady? Why does not he look for the perfect marriage material abroad! According to the Saturday Nation, Tanzanian and Ugandan women are usually far more traditional then their Kenyan counterparts: they still know how to treat their husbands like kings. Does the Kenyan woman feel that after years of dating it is finally time to embark into a real commitment? The newspaper provides all kinds of tips how to lure the potential groom into marriage, including the classic advice to become pregnant.

Apart from the media the battle of the sexes can be witnessed in many places. Like in Kibera, the biggest slum area of Nairobi, said to be the largest even on the whole African continent. A slum bursting with energy, much more genuine and raw than many other areas of the city, giving you the sensation to have finally arrived in the heart of the real Africa.

The workshop in Kibera is dedicated to peace building. But put a group of adolescent men and women into one room and one can almost taste the testosterone. Their survivor’s instinct leads the male chauvinists to constantly challenge the ladies. A challenge deliberately created by the lads, threatened as they instinctively feel by the intelligence and eloquence of the women present. And in the heat of the battle, they even shamelessly declare that women are inferior to men, “because she was made out of my rib”.

And what turns out to be the core of the debate? The question “Who is doing the laundry!” Not surprisingly though, because doing the laundry can without doubt be labelled as the most severe duty in the household. All laundry is done by hand in cold water, washing powder therefore needs to be extra powerful, which means one has to rinse numerous times. A heavy task, left to the women by most men without any hesitation or second thought. Thus for the women, the laundry proves to be the hottest dispute in the household. And even in this workshop, they launch the debate with intense energy.

But as always, theory does not coincide with reality. Much to my surprise, the lady who takes the lead in the debate, off the record reluctantly admits that yes, even she takes care of all her husband’s laundry. “But actually I do not mind doing it.”

What is their secret?

It has been almost two months since my arrival, a period sometimes filled with amazement and surprise. Over six weeks in Kenya, captured in a handful of arbitrary questions, in arbitrary order.

1. Why is a toilet seat never tightly fit and always moving, if there is a toilet seat at all?
2. Why can the portrait of President Kibaki be found hanging in most buildings, not only in the governmental ones, but also in hotels, restaurants and shops, but is it never hanging straight?
3. Why are the sheets on the beds this thin, in such a way that the mattress is always shining through?
4. Why do the locals scrub and mop their floors centimetre by centimetre on their knees, while scrub brushes and mops with handles are widely available and actually not that expensive?
5. Why are the locals’ shoes always tiptop shining as if they have just been polished, whereas my shoes seem to have attracted all the African dust and mud within five steps outside?
6. Why do Kenyans hang their laundry soaking wet, yet their clothes seem never to lose their model?
7. Why are there traffic lights on the major intersections in Nairobi, when everybody is ignoring them on a large scale?
8. Why does bread fall into pieces and crumbs after only one day, giving you a hard time trying to make a sandwich?
9. Why is President Kibaki referred to always by his last name and Prime Minister Raila mostly by his first name?
10. Why does carbonic disappear out of the cola within no time, even when you screw the top to the bottle very tightly?
11. Why do Kenyans exclaim “Excuse me!” when they have to sneeze?
12. How do the ladies manage to balance their way on the unpaved streets and through the potholes, rocks, mud and dust, while wearing the highest heels and the most fragile, elegant sandals?
13. Why is every toilet sealed with a padlock, even the most smelly pit latrine in the middle of nowhere?
14. Why do all cookies taste stale, even when you have just opened the package?
15. Why is almost the whole country heading for church on Sunday morning?
16. Why are public displays of affection not done, except for the park (and bars)?
17. How come at the most odd hours (like on Sunday family day) men can be found alone in bars, sitting all by themselves, solely kept company by their beers?
18. Why is beef by far the cheapest meat?
19. Why are virtually all streets in downtown Nairobi declared a no smoking zone, while at the same time you almost choke in the diesel fumes?
20. Why are there strict rules for littering in public places like parks, with huge penalties backing them, but most people do leave these places fully littered nevertheless?
21. Why is the bar always hidden behind a gate of heavy bars?
22. Why are most rooms in houses and offices lit by a single bulb only, preferably one of 100 Watt?
23. Why did nobody call me “Hey mzungu!” all this time?
24. Why is even watching football fun in this place?
25. How come everything smells, tastes, sounds and feels much more intense here?

“This is the Kenya we want”

Saturday night, downtown Nairobi, a quarter past seven, the city has almost gone dark. In the bus (Citi Hoppa) with direction Jamhuri we are awaiting our departure. Which is not scheduled according to a timetable, the ride will only start once all seats are taken.

While the bus is filling up slowly, one of the passengers at the back of the bus starts making weird sounds and shaking her head. Everyone turns to see what is going on. Even before the lady starts convulsing, several passengers shout: “She is having an epileptic attack!” They rise immediately to give first aid. And they know exactly what to do. The lady is laid down flat on the back bench of the bus; a pen is clenched between her jaws to prevent her choking in her tongue.

My love takes care of her glasses and keeps them in his custody. Meanwhile another passenger has found her mobile phone, searches the address book and calls her mother. “What do you usually do in such a situation?” This seems to be the only logical question, in a country where one cannot simply dial 911 in case of a medical emergency. Ambulances do exist, but are available only to those patients with a paid registration. And for the average Kenyan this kind of membership is beyond his or her reach.

Slowly the lady is regaining consciousness. The bus has filled up in the meantime, except for the seats on the back bench. And although every seat is an important income generator, both the driver and conductor decide to depart nevertheless. Off we go, this time not driving like mad as all busses and matatus normally do. On the contrary, the conductor urges the driver to drive pole pole (slowly). Which is remarkable, as all rides are usually operated in the greatest rush, thus providing a maximum income in a day, by rattling off as many rides as possible – the Kenyan ‘public’ transport is a private business.

The common idea about Africa is that abnormal behaviour is seen as insanity of bewitched persons, who need to be hidden in remote places and be kept away as far as possible. Even when this so-called insanity has a medical cause, like in the case of epilepsy. Not in this African bus, though. Everyone knows exactly what is happening and what to do. The sense of community is large, as both passengers and crew unify in taking this lady home safely. Nairobi turns out to be not that hard and rough after all.

Annan the hero

Kofi Annan still is one of the most mentioned names in the Kenyan newspapers, together with president Mwai Kibaki and prime minister designate Raila Odinga. Remarkably, Kibaki is mostly referred to by his last name, whereas Raila is mentioned by his first name. But leaving this aside, Annan is just Annan, the former Secretary-General of the United Nations, the Ghanaian who almost on his own (or so it seems) found a way out of the Kenyan crisis.

In the euphoric aftermath of the peace deal achieved by him, Annan continued to play an important role in Kenya, even long after he had left for his hometown Geneva. Being the new Best Friend to all the Kenyans, the media liked to mention him often. Sometimes even following the most peculiar approaches.

As it happened, in one of the Saturday editions of the Daily Nation an article was published under the significant title “Suave and sexy at 50”. It contained numerous tips for the Kenyan man over-50 years of age, how to exploit his matured status to catch a young lady. Because, as it was put: “Kenyans have a lot to thank Kofi Annan for. Not only did he deliver the much sought-after peace deal for Kenyans; he also managed to make men over 50 suddenly appear to be in vogue.” Every woman wants to have an Annan, every man wants to be an Annan.

The worshipping of the hero seems to have no boundaries. Even on the streets it is not to be missed. Many matatus* decorate their rear windows with portraits of their idols. Nowadays the image of the Ghanaian can often be seen rushing by. Tupac had to give way to Annan.

No wonder that, when Kibaki and Raila were disagreeing about the coalition government last week, all Kenyans were looking northward, towards Geneva. At first Annan remained adamant, it was the Kenyan leaders’ move now. But when the news leaked that the Kibaki-camp in particular clenched to an uneven division of the ministers’ posts (both in number and in weight), a statement was released in Switzerland. The designer of the peace pact used only one formulation to summarize the essence of this pact: equal sharing of power.

Annan has spoken and once again he has made it to all the front pages. And his magic is still working. Within a day, Kibaki and Raila declare that they have reached agreement. All ministers’ posts will be announced on Sunday 6 April, the new government will be installed on Saturday 12 April.

This is a development not totally to the satisfaction of the media and the wananchi (citizens). Their main frustration is the lack of achievement of their own leaders, on their own. This makes one of the readers of the Daily Nation suggest: “Why not appoint Kofi Annan the expatriate president of Kenya if it is, indeed, the case that it is he who has all the answers to the country’s political problems?”

Whether or not he is providing all the answers to the political problems, Kofi Annan will continue to play an important role in Kenya. This brings me to discuss the seemingly endless worshipping of Annan the hero with one of my colleagues.
He answers me with a question: “What do you call someone more than a hero?”
“A saint? Maybe God?” I suggest.
“That is what Annan is to the Kenyans.”

* Matatus = shared taxis, private minivans that constitute the alternative public transport, servicing fixed routes, often driving like mad

Inappropriate

Eldoret Showground is one of the largest IDP camps in Kenya. Approximately 12,600 IDPs (Internally Displaced Persons) have found temporary shelter here.

Showground, it sounds very inappropriate. But the name of the stadium was already well known, long before the terrain was turned into its current capacity. The show that nowadays is running continuously here represents the daily reality of (in this case) Kikuyu families who have fled their homes during the post-electoral violence. Now these families are housed in tiny tents, provided for by the numerous aid agencies that operate in this area.

Like a real show, the camp is tightly directed. Tent after tent is pitched orderly, row after row, field after field. In between the tents there is a space left of barely 20 centimetres; the rows are separated by a path that measures 1 metre at the most. The mud roads that lead through the camp are wide enough to accommodate the trucks and 4WD’s of the aid agencies.

The corner of each block of tents is marked by tents hosting the sanitary facilities, neatly separated in areas for gents and for ladies. At the end of the terrain big rectangular tents are pitched, serving as temporary schools. Almost all teachers are volunteers, often IDPs who hold a teaching degree. Meals are provided at regular hours.

The persistent story is that IDPs do not want to return to their origins, the places where they have been chased away from. Rumour has it that they feel staying in the camps is all quite convenient: no rent to be paid, while meals and schooling for their children are provided for.

Once faced in reality with the circumstances in the camp (a reality that is even more shocking than the images on television and in newspapers suggest), this is a view that is really hard to believe. Even for Kenyan standards, these people barely have a decent space to live in, lacking any form of privacy. The sight of the camp is gloomy, especially with the torrential rain of that moment. The terrain has turned into one big slough. On the clothes lines that are set up provisionally, the laundry is literally dripping from the never-ending rain. Where on earth does one find shelter in this place – and be satisfied with it at the same time?

And here I find myself, ploughing through the mud in the pouring rain, wearing my Madonna-dress and high heals. Even in that respect I am hardly prepared for the conditions of this camp. This visit came without prior notice, leaving me no time to change my official outfit. Quite inappropriate, yes... so who seems to be out of place here?

Eldoret’s trauma

Eldoret is Kenya’s fourth largest city. Located in the heart of the Rift Valley, the stage of the worst tribal clashes that grasped Kenya at the start of 2008. This is the area where the church was set to fire, burning at least 30 Kenyans alive. This is also the area were thousands of people fled from the violence, leaving their homes literally burning, chased as they were by armed gangs. This is the area where still the most IDP camps are situated (IDP = Internally Displaced Persons, preferably not called ‘refugees’, as this expression implicates that these people will never be able to return to the places where they have run away from).

News that never made it to Nairobi, let alone to the rest of the world:
* more churches have been set to fire, not only that one church that served as a symbol of how deep Kenya was sliding down
* not only Kikuyu (often portrayed as the ruling class, that was chased by all other Kenyan tribes) have found refuge in these camps; even today there are still camps existing hosting Kalenjin IDPs (the people that form the largest number in this area)
* the crisis has left communities completely divided; at schools, Kikuyu kids no longer mingle with their Kalenjin classmates and vice versa; churches are split, with Kalenjin celebrating mass in one building, and Kikuyu meeting in prayer at a different venue
* Eldoret is completely deserted after sunset, as if the residents are voluntarily obeying a curfew; the crisis may be ‘solved’, still nobody is willing to be out there after dark

Eldoret was my base for a couple of days, to assist with a Trauma Awareness Workshop organized by the Coalition for Peace in Africa (COPA). The COPA secretariat may have been situated in Nairobi for quite some years now, never was there a reason to implement any programme in the host country. Up till now. The recent violence in Kenya has led COPA to initiate a programme aimed at the regions that are worst hit by the crisis. In this programme, the expertise of the COPA members in the fields of trauma healing, reconciliation and peace keeping is deployed. The Trauma Awareness workshop is tailor made to give local community leaders (like church leaders, but also representatives of women’s groups) instruments to heal the deep wounds left in society by the recent crisis. Only by addressing these traumas the tension, which is still simmering under the surface, can be diverted, preventing new outbreaks of violence. And without adequate attention for their traumas, the victims of today might just as well turn into the perpetrators of tomorrow.

And the people of Eldoret and its surroundings are truly and heavily traumatized. Without an exception all workshop participants draw the most gruesome symbols of the violence, illustrating the touching stories they are sharing. Guns, pangas (machetes) and bows and arrows play the lead in their stories. They all have eye-witnessed the dead victims lying in the streets, which seemed to be left there carelessly – people did not dare to pick their beloved, in order to give them a proper funeral. Now they all avoid that one spot, terrified as they are for the scenes that are stuck in their memories.

Images that made it to the international news bulletins and that have left a profound impression here in Eldoret: those mobs of youths emanating an unprecedented aggression, those houses that were set to fire apparently arbitrarily, that church in flames packed with people, that boy with an arrow piercing his scalp, that toddler crying on the bed with his lifeless mum lying in a splash of blood on the ground.

Not to mention the heavy personal losses some of the participants have been facing: a woman who lost both her husband and her cousin, a man who saw his own house being set to fire, another man who discovered his friend in a pile of bodies in the morgue.

All nikubaya (bad news), as one of the participants summarized. Yet all these people have the power and the energy to confront their own traumas and subsequently share their experience and knowledge with their own communities. Their belief in the future is immense; their love for their homeland is endless. In the same week that left Kibaki and Raila disagreeing once again, this time on the completion of their coalition government, the real hope for Kenya could be found here, on grass roots level.

Puerperal visit

Good Friday is an official holiday in Kenya, so we were blessed with a long Easter weekend. A perfect opportunity to admire the snow. Snow in Africa? It might sound strange, but the most famous (and highest) mountain in Africa, the Kilimanjaro, is known for its peak covered in permanent snow. Though that peak is often sheathed in mist.
The mountain itself is Tanzanian territory, but the best view on the Kili is found in Amboseli. Amboseli is one of the famous national parks of Kenya, the stage for a classical African safari. Bush camp, camp fire, game driving – all this comes with a view on the peak of Africa. But only if you are lucky. Where elsewhere ‘on safari’ guides and visitors inform each other about the wildlife not to be missed, in Amboseli the view on the Kili is the topic of every conversation. As soon as the clouds dissolve, the excitement rises among the safari-guests.


The way out there already looked very promising. We were late, resulting in an arrival in the dark. Pitching the tent relying mainly on your feeling is not quite something to look forward to. But the spectacular sunset, while still on the road, more than made up for this. Followed by a breathtaking light show given by Mother Nature: full moon, flashes of lightning illuminating the cloud formations everywhere on the horizon, culminating in the snow on the Kili reflecting in the moon light. And what is a better start of the day than leaving the tent at sunrise, only to be facing that famous peak?


Amboseli already had experienced its fair share of the rains – March usually marks the start of the ‘long rains’ in Kenya, the most important rainy season. The park proved to be lushly green and swampy, but, above all, one big maternity ward. Like elsewhere, the Amboseli baby boom is closely related to the ample availability of food. And it is very adorable and touching to see all those newborns discover the world. Our classical safari turned out to be a puerperal visit – all the more enjoyable!

The big move

A new start in a completely different country is not complete without shipping some goods. Not all the stuff I wanted to bring could or would be taken as my personal luggage on my flight, so I decided to send it ahead by air cargo. A simple procedure: take the excess luggage to the cargo centre of Amsterdam Airport, complete several forms, pay the shipping costs plus a 35 euro handling fee. All in all this took me 15 minutes only, including receiving the confirmation that my cargo would be transported virtually simultaneously to Nairobi: me flying Swiss Air, the cargo flying KLM.
The morning after my arrival in Kenya, I was kindly informed that my cargo had arrived as well, with the request to pick it up at the airport. So far so good.

Jomo Kenyatta Airport, Nairobi Cargo Centre. Sounds cosmopolite. But it turns out to be an opaque labyrinth of obscure offices, corridors, stairways and halls, which need to be visited in an inexplicable order. Fortunately help is widely available, fixers identifiable by their official airport ID’s are attracted like magnets to the mzungu (white lady). And all the time I cannot help but feel that this is a typical example of typecasting: in their eyes, mzungu mainly means cash! And I am not helping their impression by arriving in the company of two locals, one the driver, the other my love. Two fixers decide to join the entourage and help to get the cargo released.

My escorts are issued with visitor’s passes, after handing in their ID’s. Strangely enough I do not have to follow this procedure, as my passport is needed for the official entry of my goods. We all get a body search, the first of many to follow. And then it all starts, the incomprehensible round to innumerable counters and offices. The fixers do a good job, as the official papers are dug up in no time. Within the hour, it seems we have made considerable progress. So far so smooth.

The boxes containing my goods are waiting in the cargo arrivals hall. A customs officer visits the venue to personally inspect the cargo. Box after box is opened. I try to close my eyes for the rudeness of the inspection, all that digging in my stuff feels like invading my personal territory. In any case, it looks to be a speedy routine. Nothing will prevent a fast release of the cargo.

What follows is a day filled with African waiting, and much African debate. How the fixers are operating is incomprehensible in itself, what they exactly want from me is even more inexplicable. Literally, because despite many questions they seem unable to justify the amount they are asking for. Their request comes down to 12,000 shilling, roughly 120 euro. Only 1750 shilling can really be explained, as that amount covers the handling and administration fees.

And that is exactly the amount I am paying. We end up in a game of chess, negotiating, attracting and rejecting, resulting in a stalemate. They claim to save me huge import taxes and want to split the difference. Then adding some more indefinable expenditure.
I know for sure that I do not have to pay import taxes anyway, as all my stuff is personal effects: clothes, books, camping gear, all of it used. Nothing of real value, no fancy electronics, nothing interesting to trade.
Of course I want to reward the fixers for their help, but giving them more than 10,000 shilling (approximately 100 euro) seems to be exorbitant for half a day’s work. When I tell them why I am moving to Kenya and that they are requesting half of my monthly allowance (and here I am exaggerating a bit), they are completely perplex. A mzungu without a well-stuffed wallet, that is a new concept to them.

In the end all cargo is released, after a lengthy lunch break, followed by another hour of endless stamping. The fixers do protest about the reward I am giving them, but not with me. Very subtly they turn to my love, suddenly talking in Swahili. Subsequently followed by requesting a lift back to Nairobi. Apparently they did earn sufficiently this day.

African doll house

Jamhuri 2. As from now on, this is my home. Located somewhere in the Southwest of Nairobi, glued to the slums of Kibera, situated approximately halfway the well-known Ngong Road, which roughly runs from downtown Nairobi to the white enclave Karen (the territory of the KC’s, or Kenyan Cowboys as the white Kenyans are nicknamed) and further on to Ngong Hills.

Jamhuri 2 is a middle class area, populated by mixed tribes. Most houses are owned by their inhabitants and are self-made, which results in a mishmash of styles – as far as this can be perceived behind the omnipresent walls and thick steel gates. As elsewhere, every palace has been turned into a barely conquerable fortress, the daily reality of living in Nairobbery.


Middle class area does not mean that the streets are asphalted. The intersection of Ngong Road (important mark when I take the matatu: on the corner of Ngong Posta, the former post office, which was among the first victims of the January riots, leaving it completely burnt) still has tarmac, but as soon as the turn into the neighbourhood itself is taken (mark: turn off at the Coca Cola kiosk, after three speed bumps) all that is left is a real Kenyan dirt road filled with potholes and bumps. Two more turns at a Coca Cola kiosk (omnipresent as ever) and there it is: I have arrived at my African dollhouse.

Like almost everywhere in Kenya, the streets in Jamhuri 2 do not have names and the houses are not numbered. Most likely that is the reason why I had to draw a map with the location of my ‘domicile’ (as phrased by the embassy), when I registered myself at the Dutch embassy as an inhabitant of Kenya.


Before I can really start enjoying my dollhouse, there are two more hurdles to be taken. One: the enormous steel gate, closed with a large padlock, which key I still do not own. Two: my ‘own’ front door, also securely locked with a giant padlock, which key is my sole possession. To conquer the first hurdle successfully, I got the phone number of askari Julius, the watchman, a Masai from Tanzania who does not speak a single word of English. A constant stream of Swahili is launched at me, which I barely understand. Especially talking over the phone proves to be extremely funny. I simply introduce myself as the mzungu neighbour (the white neighbour), to which he responds with a “Sawa” (OK!). And each time he manages to appear from the strangest corners, holding the key. Often he asks me where my rafiki (friend) is. Or something along that line.


In addition to Julius, a second askari is guarding the house, but this one is situated behind the gate, on the compound itself. The dog listens to the straightforward name Doggy and looks a bit shattered, with intensely sad eyes. Fortunately, after only two days the animal starts wagging its tail hesitantly, instead of aggressively barking at me. And at least I have managed to teach Doggy a few Dutch words, as he now fully understands “Goed volk!” (literal translation: Good people - an expression indicating visitors mean no harm). Even my rafiki is now greeted with a careful wag of the tail.


Once on the compound I follow a small alley next to the house of Martin the landlord. On a tiny lawn decorated with clotheslines there it finally is: a little guest house, also known as my African dollhouse. Not that spacious, but according to Kenyan practise crammed with large and sturdy furniture. The teeny-weeny kitchen forces the fridge to be fitted in the sitting area. The bedroom is too small to successfully take a decent picture of it. The bed on the other hand is large enough for me to lie sideways or diagonally.


A fridge, a gas stove containing two burners, electricity and cold water - those are the facilities. In the bathroom (though ‘closet’ might be a better description) the toilet is located to the left and the shower to the right. The shower I have immediately transformed into an African shower. Like most Kenyans I know, I am now using a water basin to wash myself.
One of my most important investments here was an electric water kettle. My first action after waking up is to boil water and pour it in a large basin. Mixed with cold water this results in a delightful bath. Using a small jar I pour the water over my body, lather and rinse. Equally clean and fresh, but in any case much more comfortable than a cold shower!


The gas stove is not working yet, hence preparing dinner (or better: organising dinner) requires lots of improvisation and creativity. The bulb in the bathroom is broken down, in the sitting area and the bedroom the lights are an intense 100 Watt. The curtains have been measured, but still need to be arranged. A sheet is provisionally hanging in front of the bedroom window, with the help of a clothesline and numerous clothespins. In the sitting room the fierce light and the lacking curtains create the sensation of sitting in a display window.


Seriously! I now know exactly which kiosk I have to visit to get my vegetables, fruit, air time, or other necessities. All kids in the street wave at me or approach me to shake hands. Neighbours greet me with a cheerful “Habari!” or “Hello, how are you!” All my stuff is somehow fitted in the rooms and now neatly arranged. According to Western standards, it might look like a small place without much luxury, but it nevertheless feels like home to me. My African dollhouse!

Karibu Kenya!

In an almost empty plane I am flying from Zurich to Nairobi. I feel estranged, and the tears of saying goodbye are not yet totally swallowed. Completely blank I stare out of the window, for hours in a row. Underneath me the landscape is gradually changing. The Egyptian – Sudanese border marks the East African time zone. The Nile is meandering like a fertile ribbon in the arid landscape.

Dusk has just turned into dark when the plane starts descending and proceeds with the landing. Finally I am setting foot on Kenyan soil again! My first priority is acquiring airtime. And then passport control is waiting for me. I already received my entry form for Kenya in the plane. It proved quite challenging to complete. What to fill in when asked for my country of residence? I have just left the Netherlands, planning to stay away for at least two years. And what to answer when asked about how long I am planning to stay in Kenya? Fortunately, my plans are not questioned. I am welcomed to Kenya, for a period of three months to start with. “Karibu Kenya!”

A small gathering of people is waiting near the luggage belt. No tourists this time, with their anxious expectations of their upcoming safari. This time it is only Kenyans on their way home and a few people with a mission – be it business, religious or non-governmental.
Usually I am the Queen of Travelling Light, bringing only one small backpack. This time it is four fully stuffed suitcases and bags I am picking from the belt. And of course customs decides to select me for a small inquiry. Fortunately, I know a little already about the African art of making conversation. A question-and-answer game, exchanging many pleasantries before coming down to the sole purpose of the talk. Playing it by the rules, we talk about the situation in Kenya and the fact that I was supposed to arrive in January already. The customs officer points at the little elephant that is part of my necklace with lucky charms. The elephant bringing luck, I admit that I am purposely wearing this necklace today, especially since the elephant is the ultimate symbol of Kenya in my view. He claims he really likes that. By the way, do I have anything to declare? No? Welcome to Kenya then!

The arrivals hall is remarkably quiet. Not the usual pushing and shouting – there is no point in trying to seduce tourists at this moment, as there are none coming. Which makes it an atypical arrival in Africa – for me personally this is quite comfortable, but it is quite painfull if you think of the many Kenyans that are anxiously awaiting the travellers to return, as they need the income generated by tourism.

In the car on the way to the hotel, I am catching flashes of the radio news. There is an item about “Prime Minister Raila Odinga” and this sounds so natural, that it almost seems unimaginable that this prime minister’s post was created only very recently. Listening to the news, I would almost forget that the post-electoral agreement is still very young.

The hotel serves as my temporary home. Here I can acclimatise for a couple of days, before I move into my apartment. A real home needs music, so I put out my iPod and speakers and press shuffle. Each new song that starts playing, is reminding me of Wham!’s Club Tropicana. Until it hits me that the intro is coming from outside – the crickets are playing live tonight. The sounds of the African night, how could I forget! These sounds unmistakably include the endless barking, shouting and crying of the dogs. Although I am not realising this until I notice the dogs’ noises – not missing them, until I am hearing them. Only then do I realise: yes, I am really in Nairobi now. Satisfied I fall asleep.

A sort of homecoming?

“I know exactly what you mean, how Africa catches you. In some Asian countries, buddhist Thailand / Laos / Cambodia, I have experienced how the beauty and the warmth of the locals can touch me. But never have I been touched so deep inside like in Africa, that place just feels like the perfect fit, only there have I experienced this profound click with people. Is that a sort of homecoming? Or are these strong emotions solely possible because of the reassuring existence of a real home elsewhere? In other words: is this overwhelming feeling of wanting to stay provoked by the knowledge that we are nothing more than simple passers-by?”
(e-mail to a friend dated 13 April 2006)

A transition from passer-by to resident.
Africa, Kenya, Nairobi is to become my new home.
On Wednesday 12 March I will (finally!) be crossing the Alps, the Mediterranean and then the Nile, following it all the way down south. But does ‘flying southward’ equal ‘flying homeward’? Will I really feel at home there, now that I have committed myself to stay for a while? Do I belong to Africa, and does Kenya belong to me?

A rollercoaster of emotions is causing the sensation of thousands of butterflies flying around in my stomach. Waiting for my departure lasted long enough. But still, saying goodbye, leaving everything in the Netherlands behind, this time for real, makes me feel excited and (to be honest) quite emotional. What really helps, is knowing that a warm welcome is waiting for me in Kenya – by Skillshare, by COPA, and, above all, by my love.

Once again on my way to Nairobi

For a brief moment, there I was, back on Kenyan territory. But it was a very brief moment, as it only lasted ten minutes. Maximally.

Location: the embassy in The Hague. The Kenyan flag is waving invitingly. My visa for Kenya has been granted a long time ago. But according to that visa, I should have entered the country before the 1st of March. Hence my call to the embassy, to explain that I have not been able to leave for Kenya yet, due to the security situation. “Hang on, dear!” – followed by a long consultation with the Immigrations Officer. Yes, of course my entry date could be extended, “no problem”. I just had to come by to get my visa adjusted.
So here I am, my passport glued to my hand. Briefly back on Kenyan territory. Unfortunately, the Officer has just left the building. “Sorry, dear.” Maybe I could return later? Of course I could, but there is not much left for me to do in The Hague. Mail proves to be the next best alternative: once refreshed with new stamps, my passport will be sent to me by registered mail.
“Asante sana,” I thank the lady of the embassy. “Karibu, dear!” she answers with a smile. To me it feels like I really have visited Kenya again, albeit shortly this time.

A careful first step, once again on my way to Nairobi. This time I will definitely take that flight to Kenya, or at least that is what I hope. And this hope is supported by the success of Kofi Annan’s negotiations. Mwai Kibaki and Raila Odinga have finally signed the agreement to share power.
The two men are agreeing. Which leaves it to the rest of the 36 million Kenyans to also embrace the deal. Hopefully they will all support the compromise. So a new start can be made, with all the wounds healing slowly and the disrupted economy getting back on track. “Back to normal!” – the biggest wish of every Kenyan.

Just like the movies

To be in Kenya, or not to be in Kenya, that is the question. Quite frustrating! Or, in the words of one of my friends: “You must feel like you have ended up in a really bad movie. One that you were very much looking forward to, but that turns out to be completely different, without you being able to change it.”
Once I was the lead actress starring in her own remake of movies featuring Kenya. Now all that is left is a supporting part.

Take 1: Out of Africa
A dirt road somewhere in Northern Kenya. We are travelling from Loyangalani (near Lake Turkana) to Maralal in a 4WD. As ever the car is packed with hitchhikers – in this remote area it is normal to offer a lift to as many passengers as possible. After a short period of rain the sun is shining. The landscape is deeply green, the slightly sloping road is dry. The last time we met an oncoming car is more than an hour ago. Somewhere in between the green hills the question is asked: “Do you want to drive?” A bit concerned I am catching the eyes of our passengers, but they nod at me encouragingly. So I take my position behind the steering wheel. A bit shaky, as it has been a long time since I had to shift gear with my left hand. But I manage to get the car moving. For a moment, for a tiny moment, I feel like Karen Blixen in Out of Africa: wow, here I am driving through the Kenyan landscape! Not for long though: within a few kilometres I am hitting a small pothole and one of the springs breaks. The rest of the journey we are crawling along, but I am no longer the driver.

Take 2: The Constant Gardener
Maralal. Together with friends and family we are walking to the house of my sister in law, which is located just outside the town. Children are playing everywhere on the street. As it turns out, they love to practise English with the mzungu. From every possible corner their high-pitched voices are sounding: “Hello, how are you!” This time there is no hidden agenda, like with the ‘Gimme’-kids (“Gimme pen! Gimme sweet! Gimme shilling!”). No, these Maralal kids just want to communicate with us spontaneously. Like a mantra I am repeating my answer: “Hi, how are you!” My brother in law starts grinning: “It is like that scene from The Constant Gardener, when that lady is visiting Kibera!”

Take 3: The White Masai
The local bus from Maralal to Baragoi. Though ‘bus’, that sounds a bit euphemistic. A cabin with small benches has been glued to the chassis of a 4WD truck. This ‘bus’ is driving every other day and provides the only ‘public’ transport service to the north. This means it is completely packed with passengers who came to Maralal to shop for necessities. We shuffle and shake our way to Baragoi. In a small town, the last stop before we reach Baragoi, people are circling around the bus. They all want to catch the ride to Baragoi, which is about an hour away. To secure their space in the bus, they are all shouting and jostling. After some pushing and poking, the boldest succeed to squeeze themselves into the bus. Now even the aisle is crammed. A little girl, who has been sitting in the aisle alongside her mother’s seat (probably they can only afford one proper seat), is about to get squashed. Her Turkana mother has got her hands full of her tiny baby-brother. So I decide to offer the girl the space on my lap. As soon as everybody more or less has conquered his or her own space in the bus, we continue to Baragoi. To pass time, a group of Turkana girls who have acquired almost all the free space in the bus, starts singing. And that is how I continue this bumpy ride: with enchanting Turkana hums in my ears, the girl now leaning into me and a magnificent view of the savannah, where a gerenuk and a pair of dik-dik start jumping away as the bus is nearing. It is hot, dusty and my position is very uncomfortable, but no matter what, this is a moment of pure African happiness.

Those were the days. Now it is back to reality.
The film script of my big adventure has been rewritten once again. During the next four weeks I will definitely be staying in the Netherlands. According to Skillshare the situation in Kenya is still too unstable and insecure. Hence they have announced a timeout, to calm down from the stress of adjusted departure dates and the process of packing and unpacking. Kofi Annan and his African wise men are trying to resolve the current crisis in Kenya. And in four weeks time, Skillshare will monitor the situation again.
Meanwhile I will start my placement from a distance, through online support. The coming weeks will reveal what this exactly means.

Quote of the day:
“Subira ni ufunguo wa faraja” (Swahili proverb)
translation: Patience is the key to tranquillity

In between lives

Is booking a ticket tempting the gods?
The new ticket was there, departure was set for January 31st. That day the adventure would really start. Finally I would fly to Nairobi.
Nevertheless I was still being very cautious, as I mailed my friends: "I will not start believing this until I really have set foot on African soil."
I could not have been more right: my departure has been postponed again. Though it is no surprise following the recent rise of violence in Kenya.

And here I find myself, still 'in between lives'. My life in the Netherlands is concluded and packed into many boxes, my new life in Nairobi is yet about to start - but when?

Now what? Annan to the rescue?
The statements mediator Kofi Annan and his counterparts Raila Odinga and Mwai Kibaki made this afternoon, gave me a little bit of hope. And that hope is hopefully growing within lots of Kenyans. Hope that everything will turn out right. Eventually.

Quote of the day:
"Unless we resolve our differences to save our nation, there might be no nation left to save." (Raila Odinga)

“Which tribe are you?”

“Hello Monique, which tribe are you?” During my earlier visits to Kenya I have been greeted this way many times. A greeting with a smile, showing a great sense of humour. Cause there is no question about it: obviously, I am a mzungu (white person).
Like everywhere in Africa, greeting rituals in Kenya are elaborate. When someone’s name does not disclose his or her background immediately, the tribal question is the next to ask. Previously a quite innocent question, solely meant to get acquainted. Nowadays a question that leaves a bitter taste. The tribal question has evolved into a very serious issue.

Ongata Rongai is a town located about twenty kilometres south of Nairobi. Kenyans from all over the county gather here and live together in peace. People who do not want to stay in the capital and who are able to afford a little bit more than a shelter in a slum like Kibera, are drawn to towns like Rongai. With inhabitants descending from all 42 tribes, this town is a successful example of a melting pot. Not without the regular fights or irregularities, but never with a racial undertone. Though sometimes statements like “I do not like the Kikuyu” could be heard in casual conversations in bars. But, in comparison: the Dutch are generally not that fond of the Germans either.

The big unrest did not reach Rongai in the past weeks. Because that is what life is like in this melting pot: the reality of peaceful coexistence prevails. Ongata Rongai turned out to be relatively stable. Hence it became a safe haven for many fellow Kenyans. From Kibera, but also from towns in the Rift Valley, refugees found their way to Rongai.

All of a sudden, the quiet is over. Ongata Rongai is overwhelmed by police. Inhabitants are summoned not to leave their houses. Tension is building.
And all of a sudden the violence is getting very close, leaving an even stronger sense of insecurity, as my love is living in Rongai. He is renting a small house in a local compound that acts as a symbol for the melting pot Rongai: several families living together, with a variety of backgrounds, also Kikuyu.
Everybody is forced to stay indoors, surrounded by policemen who indicate that they will not hesitate to use live bullets. It is unclear whether there is a serious threat of violence, or whether the police are only at their doorsteps to protect hem. One thing is clear: the police seem to be very good at provoking fear and confusion. A sleepless night is the result. And for the first time my love is using those dreaded words in a text message he sends me: “The issue is going into tribal.”

Bad timing

“Tour operators evacuate tourists from Kenya.”
“Dutch Foreign Office advises against travelling to Kenya.”

This week the Holiday Fair is held in the Netherlands. Exotic destinations that are relatively unknown, like Rwanda, are highlighted in the news. TV commercials from the big tour operators, showing the most idyllic sceneries, dominate every commercial break.
Traditionally, January is the month to start planning the summer holidays, for the Dutch and for other Europeans. And Kenya as a destination has disappeared from every wish list. The timing of the unrest could not be any worse.

Meanwhile, in Kenya great masses are discharged. Hotels near the Mombasa beaches and in Masai Mara are closing down, until further notice. Local tour operators receive cancellation after cancellation. Staff has been sent home.
And in Kenya no work means no income. Just imagine how many people in Kenya are directly or indirectly depending on tourism… it is going to be a hard year for the Kenyans.

How bizarre

4 January 2008
How bizarre to be waking up in the Netherlands, on what should be my first morning in Kenya. And how bizarre that I will be working for the Coalition for Peace in Africa, but cannot start yet due to security reasons.

But above all, this situation is bizarre for the Kenyans.
How bizarre that their country, up till now a model of stability in Africa, can develop into a violent chaos within one week. How bizarre that terms like ‘genocide’, ‘Rwanda’ and ‘Idi Amin’ are used – Kenya was the last country in Africa to be associated with those terms… that is, up till now.
How bizarre that two men apparently are not ready enough to swallow their pride. What they seem to forget is that this is not only about the two of them, but extends first and foremost to the 36 million Kenyans.

The conflict seems to be a tribal one, at least, that is the picture all the news reports are sketching. But for many Kenyans their first and foremost struggle is to secure their fundamental democratic rights – no matter how much they long for peace and quiet, this is a struggle they are not willing to give up that easily.
And what almost every reporter seems to be forgetting: though Kibaki has won the presidential elections (whether rightfully so, or not), he did lose the parliamentary elections. Which means he is not backed any longer by a majority in parliament. Therefore he needs to form a coalition. If not, it will be close to impossible to govern Kenya for the next five years.

Postponed: Mo not leaving for Kenya yet

31 December 2007
Due to the current explosive situation in Kenya following the elections, I will not be flying to Nairobi on 3 January. My departure has been postponed until the situation calms down in Kenya. When exactly is still unknown. In the next days I expect to be in close contact with Skillshare International about the situation in Kenya and about my future departure.

Meanwhile I have ended up in a crazy ‘spiral of information’ with my love. He went to his hometown Loyangalani in the north in order to cast his vote and is currently unable to travel back to Nairobi, due to the unrest. Loyangalani itself is calm, but completely blocked from all news. Radio stations do not work, the only channel in operation on the television is controlled by the government. Here in the Netherlands we turn out to be much better informed about the latest news than the Kenyans themselves. Fortunately the mobile network is back into operation. Which means that every hour an sms with the latest news is finding its way to Loyangalani.

2 pm: “Latest news. City centre of Nrb is closed, no one is allowed in. Police is announcing in Kibera that anyone leaving their house will b shot dead immediately. Heavy riots also in Mombasa & Kisii. Raila compared Kibaki 2 Idi Amin & has just called his supporters 2 a massive demonstration on Thursday.”

Nrb = Nairobi, Kenya’s capital
Kibera = biggest slum in Nairobi
Mombasa = city in Kenya
Kisii = city in Kenya
Raila = Raila Odinga, the opposition leader that according to the official result has lost the election by just a few thousand votes
Kibaki = the president, who according to the official result has been elected for a second term and was sworn in immediately after that announcement
Idi Amin = former dictator in Uganda

Prelude

At the start of December 2007, the Big Adventure becomes a bit more of a reality, and a bit less of an adventure into the unknown. Skillshare International has organized a pre-placement training in Birmingham. Four intensive days packed with information, on everything that Development Workers might be facing during their placement. Many subjects are touched upon, from big issues like capacity building, fundraising and social change to more practical issues like opening a bank account in the new country.
It was inspiring to be finally meeting others that are facing the same big step, thus creating our own small network to exchange experiences and expectations.
Good also to be finally getting an answer to the most trivial question in my preparation: whether or not to take my duvet. Skillshare’s opinion is that yes, I should be taking the duvet, if that helps me to quickly feel at ease in my new environment. Which puts an end to all the hesitation, I will be taking the duvet, even though according to local custom, I should be sleeping under a shuka (Masai blanket). In any case, I will be well prepared for the cold nights in July!

Kwaheri! *

A unique job, at a unique project, in a unique organization. For almost three years I have been working at HPR Organisation, being responsible for the PR and Communication of the event ‘Woonbeurs Amsterdam’ (the leading interior design event in the Netherlands).
HPR gave me an overwhelming farewell, making sure I am truly ready for Kenya, by supplying me with their home-made survival and memory kit.
The memory kit consists of Dutch symbols, a picture book containing all my professional highlights and an iPod filled with tunes I might need when homesick. The survival kit contains items that are not to be missed in Kenya, like mosquito spray, but also the booklet “How to survive…Kenya”, written entirely by my former colleagues. In it, they reveal their best tips and tricks, like “Trust your intuition”, “Being in a traffic jam is worse” and “Hakuna matata”. Already a classic, this booklet, which no doubt will help me through the rough times!

* Kwaheri = farewell (Swahili)

The African perspective

Sustainable peace on the African continent. This might sound like an ideal that is only attainable in a future that is far, far away, but it is definitely an ideal worth fighting for. The Coalition for Peace in Africa (COPA), initiated and run by Africans, is operating from an African perspective. In COPA’s view, conflict situations need to be transformed into something positive, respecting the African approach, that leaves room to the different traditions and cultures that live in Africa.
COPA is a platform for anyone engaged in peace keeping and conflict transformation in Africa. COPA facilitates these organizations and individuals in their work, for instance through training, supplying information and offering network opportunities (the exchange of knowledge on different levels). COPA also plays an active role in the promotion of African-wide peace, for instance through lobbying. COPA’s domain involves the entire African continent, its central office is based in Nairobi.
http://copafrica.org

Working and living with the locals

Sharing skills and ideas. Learning from each other through the worldwide exchange of expertise and knowledge. That is one of the fields in which Skillshare International operates.
By request of one of its partners, Skillshare temporarily assigns experts in certain fields to that partner organisation. An expert works with the partner as a volunteer, on local terms. Development Workers (DW’s) help to further professionalise the partner organization. At the same time DW’s share their skills with their local counterparts, making sure the partner is able to fulfil the position independently after the placement has ended. DW’s work and live under local circumstances, receiving a local allowance.

About Skillshare International:
Skillshare International is an international development organisation working to reduce poverty, injustice and inequality and to further economic and social development in partnership with people and communities throughout the world. Skillshare is doing this by sharing and developing skills and ideas, facilitating organisational and social change and building awareness of development issues. Skillshare’s vision is of a world without poverty, injustice and inequality where people, regardless of cultural, social and political divides, come together for mutual benefit, living in peaceful co-existence. The Coalition of Peace in Africa is a partner organization of Skillshare International.
http://www.skillshare.org

“All Africans are the same”

Stereotypes and prejudice, they do exist. Africa and the African man above all, can be described in a few compact sentences, according to many. Which leads to a picture that is not too positive. ‘The White Masai’, the most successful book about a love in Kenya, is quoted extensively, being the most reliable source in many eyes. So many times I have heard that everything in this book is true. And that all descriptions are valid for any African man, because: “All African men are the same”.
But of course! Just like all European men are exactly the same…
Fortunately many reactions on my adventure are less cramped. Lots of people think it is quite brave to take this big step. Though I am personally not too sure that I will be that brave when I board the plane to Nairobi in January…

A long cherished dream

Working and living overseas has been a dream to me ever since I was a child.
Coincidence does not exist, but I ran into the opening of Research and Communication Officer at the Coalition for Peace in Africa purely by coincidence. A placement that fits my academic training, my personal interest and my experience in communication and PR. The dream that I have been cherishing for a long time is now becoming a reality: I will be following my ideals, my personal ambition and, above all, my heart.

African star

We met in Kenya and became friends in Uganda. A close friendship grew into real love in Tanzania. Born and raised in totally different circumstances, but soul mates nevertheless. Despite the distance, the cultural differences and personal misfortune, this unique love has stood firm for over two years now. Thanks to both the KLM and the extensive mobile network that is spread all over East Africa.
Now we are getting the opportunity to live and work closer to each other: during the next two years I am residing in Kenya, home of my African star.

Out of Africa?

In search of my own Out of Africa-experience I returned to Kenya in April 2006. A starting romance, camping in the bush, campfires, starry nights and memorable encounters with the wildlife – it was all there.
But there is so much more to Africa than just this idyllic picture. The real beauty of Africa can be found in its inhabitants. What struck me the most during my travels throughout Africa, was the spirit of the Africans. Africa is a continent filled with talent. Poverty, lack of material wealth and traumas from past and present cannot be disregarded. But where you would expect bitterness, most Africans turn out to remain truly positive. That is a power that is giving inspiration and hope for the future. Africa is not a lost continent, but a continent full of potential. Where the Africans themselves need to get the chance to let their own continent flourish, using their own talent.

Reunion in Kenya

21 April 2006: Reunion in Kenya, in an Africa that is boiling hot as ever (in every sense). And what can I say? It is amazing, close as ever, but sometimes it can be hard, leaving me feeling lonely even. At the same time this is the perfect way to get to know the real Africa. Do as the locals do, a fantastic way to experience Kenya.

(extract from travel journal dated 24 April 2006)

The love remains

10 December 2005: A painful goodbye to Africa, again. In any case, Africa is still on my mind, giving me reasons enough to return – for that balloon safari during the Migration, for the climbing of the Kili, for another 100 bush camps at least, for those breathtaking African nights full of stars…

(extract from travel journal dated 10 December 2005, when finishing a trip through Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania)

The first time

8 November 2003: Departure from Africa. A special journey, due to both the overwhelming beauty of nature and the unprecedented kindness and friendliness of the locals. Dusty trip. At least once a day I found myself sighing ‘This is Africa!’ (due to inefficiency or other illogical inconvenience).
It was not love at first sight, but I have grown to love Africa deeply.

(extract from travel journal dated 8 November 2003, when finishing a trip through South-Africa, Mozambique, Malawi, Zambia and Zimbabwe)

I dream of Africa...