Maria and the English Story Book

I just had the delightful experience of watching while a picture book was curiosity-devoured by Maria, the 2-year-old daughter of a One Mango Tree tailor. Maria used to cry in terror at the sight of my white face but we had become friends before I left Uganda for four weeks of travel. Now I've been waiting for her to trust me again; she doesn't cry but stares at me apprehensively.

Today I waved a couple of kids books in front of her, smiled, held out my hand and said "Come, Maria." She was instantly lured by the book and even took my hand until we reached the doorway. Then she let go and refused to leave sight of her mother, who was busy peddling an old Singer across the room. I sat down on the floor, just beyond the doorway and tried, unsuccessfully, to engage her in peek-a-boo flirting, but the best we did was make eye contact a few times

After five minutes or so, I laid the books on the floor within her reach. But she didn't reach -- just stayed out of my line of vision. Another couple of minutes passed in the shyness standoff. Then I held the colorful "Mystery of the Missing Dog" out to her, around the door frame; she hesitated but hearing her mother's reassurance, in Acholi, she finally took it in her hand.

Usually with a child that age most of the talk would be about objects in the illustrations, using words a 2-year-old would know -- boy, girl, dog, lost, Daddy -- but she knows no words in English and I lacked the Acholi/Luo vocabulary. My dialogue attempts did not work well, but that didn't dampen her enthusiasm one bit. She could do it alone. An organic unfolding.

Maria carefully turned pages, not in sequence of course, and gazed intently at each for much longer than I would have ever expected of an American toddler, even if good commentary was being made by an adult companion. Next, she would silently study the photos of the author and illustrator. Then she would return again and again to the same randomly flipped pages, only occasionally uttering a comment. In Acholi.

The books content held her full attention for almost half an hour, after which she entertained herself with the form of the book. She would drum on it with her hand or clutch it to her chest, patting it rhythmically. Eventually she got her feet in on the fun, first with the book propped on her outstretched ankles and feet and then by balancing the book on her upright toes -- and catching it when it fell off. Then she experimented by hiding it under her body, spreading her little dress to cover it.

I wonder how long her imagination and curiosity would have sustained her love affair with the little book if uninterruped. I had stopped doing more than observing by this point, but another tailor tried to show her the farm animal book and how to press a button and get animal sounds. This one held no interest for her; she glanced, then ignored it. But the spell was broken and she put down her favored book.

I have given the book to Maria's mother so they can read it together at home. I'm eager to hear what Maria tells her Mom about the story book experience, from her perspective. One thing sure -- she's capable of sustained focus and she likes this picture book from America.

NOTE: The report from Pamella, Maria’s mom, was that she kept saying “It’s MY book, Adaah gave it to ME.” (Adaah (spelling??) means Grandmother in Acholi/Luo and is their usual name for me, except for the ones who call me jajaa, the grandmother tag in Luganda tribal language)

Here’s hoping Maria’s love affair with that book will evolve into a passion for literature and discovery and maybe even expression of her own imagination through writing someday.

Glimpses of Kenya --Without Safari

Every East Africa tour book I’ve seen has a variation of this line from Rough Guide: “A safari is of course de rigueur, whether it’s a shared minibus, a self-drive adventure, or being pampered in luxurious wildlife lodges.” Although ‘safari’ is simply Swahili for ‘journey,’ what the travel specialists mean is an excursion into the wilds to see wild animals. But, guess what, Julia, Danielle and I journeyed across Kenya and through a part of Tanzania without that kind of safari.

We skipped a safari-safari mainly because my companions had been traveling throughout Southern Africa for three months (plus their two years in Namibia) and had already seen as much wildlife as they cared to see, especially since national park entrance fees are quite high and you can’t do even a barebones, low-budget ‘safari’ for less than about $150 a day. We were all interested in stretching our travel dollars as far as possible, and I consoled myself that both the Serengeti and Masai Mara are near enough to Uganda that I can probably have another chance at that experience. (And, who knows, maybe I’ll win the lottery and be able to see the Big 5 and the wildebeest migration from a hot air balloon!)

From Mombasa we took a bus to Nairobi. We skimmed the edge of Tsavo National Park and with eyes peeled I spotted two zebras and a couple of primates. All the other wildlife I thought I was seeing turned out to be cows or goats! Panoramic views were very Kenya-esque, flat with sparse vegetation, an occasional acacia tree. Looking toward Tanzania, I could imagine it was Kilimanjaro I was viewing right across the border but I suspect it was some other look-alike peak.

Arriving late afternoon, we were welcomed to Nairobi by one of the notorious traffic snarls that plague the East African cities I’ve seen so far. Creeping our way from the outskirts of town to the bus depot took an hour and a half. So, there we were in a bad section of Nai-robbery at almost dark, thinking of all the horror stories we had heard about the dangers. Caution kept us from trusting any of the alleged taxi-drivers who rushed, competitively grabbing at our bags. When we phoned the guest house where we were planning to stay to confirm their address and ask advice, they offered to send a trusted taxi for us. Taking a real taxi was a rare treat for us, accustomed as we were to either walking or taking shared mini-van “taxis” that travel a set route. We sat on our luggage on a street corner, ate freshly-roasted ears of maize from a street vendor, and waited until the driver arrived.

From the safer suburban setting of our guest house we planned our one day in Nairobi. We managed to fit in quite a lot. A city bus (with a sign inside reading “No Smoking, No Preaching) took us to central Nairobi where we found a mini-van that could drop us off somewhere “not too far” from our first destination, the elephant orphanage. The “not too far” turned into quite a long walk and we barely arrived in time for the one-hour-only daily feeding and viewing of their thirty or so rescued elephants. Most were orphaned at the hands of ivory poachers or fell victim to man-made dangers such as wells or pipes in which they had become trapped. The survival rate is disturbingly low, even with the expertise and care of the animal trust organization. It has been operating for almost 30 years and has successfully raised more than 80 elephants, about half of which have been returned to the wild. The process is complicated, as emotional needs as well as physical needs must be met if the elephant is to develop in such a way that it will be accepted by a wild herd. Infant elephants cannot be weaned until about two years of age, so special formula is imported from Europe and the babies are fed from three-liter baby bottles, as often as they ‘demand’ it. They also sleep with their human caretakers because they need that kind of closeness; however they rotate the keepers so the baby elephants do not get overly-attached to only one substitute parent during their five-year infancy. I found it all fascinating; maybe you would like to read more or “adopt” a baby elephant as a sponsor. http://www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org/html/raiseorphan.htm

The giraffe sanctuary was our next stop – after another long walk during which we snacked on some unknown but delicious tropical fruit picked from bushes along our path – my best guess was loquats, but loquats are not native to East Africa. This educational facility charged a hefty entry fee and relied on a series of wall exhibits to teach school kids and other visitors a few facts about these awkwardly-elegant, long-limbed, long-necked creatures and about wildlife conservation. The highlight was getting to feed a giraffe out of our hands (we were on a platform to get us up to treetop height), and then getting a big smooch by holding food pellets between our teeth. I must tell my human friends that my giraffe friend’s tongue was very rough!

The animal sanctuaries as well as our next destination, the Karen Blixen home and museum, were in the luxurious suburb named in her honor. Another bus ride (and another long walk) took us through Karen, past many beautiful estates with colorfully lush gardens and eventually got us to the former coffee plantation and home of the “Out of Africa” author. As a fan of the book and movie, nostalgia overtook me upon seeing the house where the exterior movie scenes were shot, especially its old-fashioned front porch where Meryl Streep as Karen danced with that handsome rogue lover played by Robert Redford to the scratchy strains of “Let the Rest of the World Go By” coming from that old, cranked phonograph he had just brought to her. Remember?

Nairobi has an impressive city center. Broad boulevards, lots of green foliage and bright flowers, and modern skyscrapers – it’s unfortunate that its reputation for high crime is enough to keep many potential visitors from going, or from enjoying their stay. We kept our visit short, partly because of the safety issue; we didn’t want to be added to the statistics. By the next day we were heading west toward Uganda, this time crammed into a matatu with about 15 other people; it was a 12-seater mini-van.

It took the better part of the day to reach Naivasha, the end of the line for that matatu, and to find another one going from town past Carmelly’s Campground on Lake Naivasha. It was a beautiful place – I must say probably the most spacious, quiet campground I had ever seen – with huge trees and green lawns leading down to the edge of the lake. We were not there for the lake as much as for nearby Hell’s Gate National Park where we spent the next day. Anne and Geoff, a delightful older British couple touring Africa in their Land Rover, gave us a lift to the park, so that this time the walking could be done inside the park rather than getting to it. Being allowed to safely walk or bicycle through this park is one thing that makes it unique; it felt natural to see giraffes and zebras strolling around without the separation of being in a vehicle.

Hell’s Gate is named, partially, for the deep gorge created there millions of years ago when Mother Nature shook up Africa from Ethiopia to Mozambique, leaving The Rift Valley. We hired a guide (as you’re not allowed to go without one) and went for the three-hour hike through the Lower Gorge. It involved more climbing than I would have thought I could do, up steep, slippery cliffs with barely a foothold, but with the expertise and hand of the guide and a bunch of hands at the bottom to catch me if I slipped, all was well. (In fact, I took pride in finding it easier to do than Anne did, and she’s younger than I.)

To end the day, I left Julia and Danielle to explore Hell’s Gate further on foot and on bicycle while I rode with Anne and Geoff past several geothermal power plants that are also part of the park and another reason for the name Hell’s Gate. Impressive clouds of hot, smoky steam were rising into the blue sky while the plants piped usable power into town. We were headed for afternoon tea at the Elsamere museum and guest house. Maybe a few readers are old enough to recall Joy Adamson and her fame as the “Born Free” lady. This had been her home, overlooking the lake; we found the spread of high tea goodies very satisfying after a day of climbing, and the memorabilia in the museum interesting as well as a showing of an old, streaky documentary about her work as an animal protector and how she raised Elsa, a lion cub orphaned at three days old, and gradually returned her to the wild after two years.

We were back on a bus the next day, still heading west. Before we even left the Naivasha station, I was entertained by the marching band that took up a position in the bus parking lot. The marchers were clad in white uniforms, playing drums and singing, and I concluded they were a Kenyan-style Salvation Army troupe, ready to preach the gospel right there in the bus park.

As soon as the bus pulled away, a smartly-suited man stood up in the aisle and for a half hour or so he lectured to the passengers in a tribal language. I thought at first he was preaching, but then decided he must be a politician or activist trying to rouse them to a cause. Nope, must be an educator – maybe warning about HIV/AIDS. Eventually, he pulled some pill bottles out of a pocket and I realized he was indeed talking about health. Finally, I decided he wasn’t really trying to sell the products as much as getting people into a multilevel sales down-line. Only a guess, but I have heard that multilevel business is big in East Africa. I guess I’ll never know the real story.

At the first stop, Nakuru, vendors piled onto the already crowded bus. Usually, they have to stand outside the bus and try to sell passengers food, drink, and sundries through the windows. But this was a virtual made-in-China department store and local market all in one. I could have purchased any of the following … to name a few options that were paraded up and down the narrow aisles: peanuts, cookies, cakes, bread rolls, flashlights, shoes, jewelry, yogurt, soda, water toys, cell phones –real and toy, wallets, sunglasses, regular glasses, miniature lanterns, batteries, watches, hairbrushes, a Swahili dictionary, booklets in English (I was their main target for this one), Obama pens and pencils, handbags, and – back to food again – crispy Samosas. I wondered if the bus company gets a commission or if they thought of this as a customer service.

The scenery was diverse and kept me from falling asleep. Rolling hills and distant mountains gave way to grazing land (savannah?) dotted by acacia trees, and then rich farm land interspersed with new forest growth (reportedly only 1.7 percent of Kenya’s native forest remains, but there are numerous reforestation projects). Nearing the town of Kericho, my eyes were delighted by the chartreuse green of the tidy and orderly-looking tea plantations. We then wound around and climbed to reach the town of Kakamega; from there we traveled by matatu over bumpy, dusty roads to our destination – KEEP Retreat, a part of the Kakamega Environmental Education Program run by local people in the Isecheno community. Our thatch-roof banda was charming, the setting in a forest clearing quite picturesque and calm, and the electricity non-existent. But there were toilets and showers not too far away. KEEP provided us with lanterns and we were tired enough to fall asleep rather early.

Walking at the edge of the forest surrounding the bandas in the early morning, I was as delighted as a child to spot something black and white and black and white moving in the trees. Swinging around up there in the canopy were families of black and white thumbless Colobus monkeys -- and we would see more of them before the day was over. I must admit, though, that never were we close enough for me to confirm that they were thumbless; the guide book gave me that fact. They were cute, though!

Kakamega forest reserve is said to be Kenya’s only surviving virgin rainforest. We engaged a guide and went out on what was supposed to be a five-hour hike but turned out to be six (possibly because I walked pretty slowly for the last hour). We walked through dense areas with strangler figs as well as some sections that had been replanted 20 years ago and some areas from which inhabitants had been forced to move to allow the government to reclaim and protect the forest. We ate a picnic lunch on the banks of a river and then began the climb back uphill toward our camp. In one stretch guava trees were growing wild, remnants of a guava plantation that had existed there.

Lots of colorful primates were spotted. Along with more black and white Colobus, we saw blue monkeys, and red-tailed monkeys. It was a peaceful, though tiring walk. Thankfully there were no steep hills to climb on this segment.

I opted out of the planned sunrise climb to a high viewing point the next morning, but alas it was cloudy and misty so Danielle and Julia missed it also. We were not far from the Ugandan border so a few hours later we were crossing at Buscia and spending our last Kenyan shillings on fruit for the rest of the trip to Jinja on the Nile.

From Mombasa to Lamu -- and Back Again

Before heading north up the coast, we spent two lazy days back in Dar es Salaam, catching up on internet café time, walking, devouring newly-discovered “dosas” at an inexpensive South Indian restaurant, and socializing with Heather and Natalie from our Namibia Peace Corps group who were traveling in another direction.

Our Tanzania to Kenya route was part of the so-called “Swahili Coast,” which extends from Somalia south to Mozambique. “Swahili” comes from the Arabic world sahil which actually means “of the coast” but refers to the civilization that emerged through many centuries of intermingling the cultures of Arabian, Indian, Asian, and European traders with that of the indigenous Bantu tribesmen.

We took a bus. It was a beat-up, crowded bus with windows that wouldn’t open and curtains that wouldn’t close but we took what we could get; the more deluxe bus line had stopped making the run from Dar to Mombasa. The border crossing was pretty uneventful; we got off the bus, did Tanzania’s exit paperwork, bought the Kenyan entry visa, got passports stamped, and got back on the bus. The terrain seemed to change a bit, with more organized farms (along that stretch anyway) and a slightly different shape to the traditional huts along the road. And I began to spot a few baobab trees – those rugged giants that have so captured my fancy.

Mombasa is an island; from the south the only way to enter the city is via a ferry. We didn’t know why, but all the other passengers got off the bus and walked onto the ferry, but we three muzungus were told to stay seated on the bus for the short ferry trip. (It was only later I learned that a bus had plunged off the ferry a couple of years ago, drowning lots of passengers. That’s probably why they got off!)

It was late afternoon when our bus reached its off-loading point, so we walked a couple of blocks to an inexpensive guest house, had dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant and made it an early night as the neighborhood we were in was not suitable for after-dark exploration. But, it was near the bus stations where we would resume the journey the next morning, knowing that we would see more of Mombasa on the way back.

The five or six hour ride between Mombasa and Lamu seemed longer; our seats were in the very back of the bus, where bumps are felt most keenly, and the last couple of hours were on a pot-holed, dusty road that eventually deposited us at the water’s edge, at the small village of Mokowe. We and all our luggage and way more people than looked possible were then pushed, squeezed, and shoved onto a small boat that ferried us to peaceful Lamu. I should mention that we got to Lamu the hard way – the budget traveler way; most tourists fly into an airport on Manda Island and take a ferry across the channel to Lamu.

Lamu is one place where ‘walking tour’ takes on a different meaning. Unless you ride on one of the ubiquitous donkeys, walking is the only way to tour the town. With 3,000 donkeys wandering around and no motorized vehicles, Lamu feels so long ago and far away, it’s easy to see why the whole town is designated a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. The winding lanes, old mosques, little shops, and Swahili architecture with ornately carved wood doors, windows, and balconies are all similar to Zanzibar but here everything is at an even slower pace. There are still “jambo” touts approaching tourists but not at the same annoying level.

We stayed only one night in Lamu town and then hired a small boat to take us and our luggage to Shela, a quaint village at the start of a glorious stretch of beach with dunes …and few people….and one camel, a lonely-looking animal who must have been put there to amuse and pose for tourists. The camel looked as out of place as the dressed-up Masai “warriors” who were all along the beach. It was a 45-minute walk to get back into Lamu town – a walk we did several times.

Maulidi, a week-long festival celebrating the birthday of the prophet Muhammad, began while we were at Lamu. As non-Muslim tourists, we were not able to participate directly, but we did get to watch a procession through town and along the waterfront. Followers of Islam of all ages, mostly men and children dressed in their finest robes, chanted and sang as they paraded, carrying flags. It was colorful and festive, but we heard that this was just a mild kick-off, with the main activities occurring at the conclusion. Since the dates, based on the Islamic calendar, are different each year and can vary by several weeks, we felt lucky to have our timing coincide at all with the festivities and will just have to wait for another year to see Maulidi-inspired donkey and dhow racing events.

A highlight of the Lamu visit was our sunset dhow ride with Imre, an Israeli tourist whom we met on our first day in Shela and who steered us to our lodging in the private villa-cum-guest house where he was staying. Imre had made friends with Kiru, the owner of a dhow, and together we struck a deal with him to take us sailing for several hours in his old but still elegant-looking vessel. The trip included a little snorkeling, some beach time on Manda Island across the channel from Lamu, cruising past some very unusual private homes built on Manda by wealthy Europeans, and weaving in and out of the thick mangrove swamps until it was time for the sun to set. And set it did, magnificently, in shades of ethereal orange and mauve. Satiated by the fresh air and the beauty of nature, we took our physical appetites back to the guest house for a scrumptious Red Snapper dinner cooked Swahili-style just for us.

As we bussed back down the Kenya coast, we stopped at Malindi, a beach resort very popular with Italian tourists; our fringe benefit was having authentic gelato and pizza, both a rarity in most of Africa. The next morning we visited the nearby Gede ruins where the intriguing remains of 14^th century Swahili civilization are easy to explore amidst a pleasant setting of huge trees, which along with their roots had overtaken the ruins prior to the 1940s excavation. There’s an air of mystery. Little is known about the origins of the settlement or the reasons for its demise. Clearly it was suddenly abandoned in the 16^th century, and one theory is that the residents were fleeing from Galla invaders from Somalia. A small museum displays relics unearthed there, showing it to have been a prosperous community.

It’s time to talk about the ferry again. The infamous Likoni ferry has problems beyond the aforementioned bus that went over the edge. But of course I didn’t know its history at the time. This time we had reached the island city from the north via a short bridge, but we would be staying with a Peace Corps volunteer who lived on the mainland to the south so the only way to get there was on the ferry. We were told to make the ferry trip before night, but we were running late. Commuters crowded the dock area and we found ourselves in the near-dark, shoulder to shoulder with a surging throng. Everyone was intent on securing a place on the next ferry; what I later learned is that commuters have sometimes been left waiting for up to five or six hours when ferries stall or when several have been pulled out of service for repairs. The long waits have resulted in near-riots aka stampedes, to the point that they have tried to separate and protect women. (I noticed no such protection going on during our half hour of crowded maneuvering.) I was attempting to roll my “cheater’s backpack” (i.e. backpack with wheels, too) close behind me but kept losing my balance as people lunged or were pushed into me, and when I stumbled sideways on some steps, Julia took pity and carried it for me – along with her heavy backpack. There were railings to steer us into sections, and as we got closer and closer to the ramp’s edge I imagined how corralled cattle might feel. We finally got on and as we surveyed the sea of shoulders and faces and estimated a crowd of more than a thousand, news stories about overcrowded ferries capsizing came to mind. When I did my research later I was not even surprised that a Likoni ferry had tipped over and drowned 270 passengers in the ‘90s. Another fatal accident occurred just this month when a waiting truck’s brakes gave way and it plunged into the people waiting to board. Traveling on the Likoni ferry is not something I’d want to do every day and, worst of all, this experience left me feeling less than the intrepid, independent traveler I’ve fancied myself. I really needed Julia’s help with the luggage in the chaos, and that was humbling!

Carly and Jacob, from our Namibia Peace Corps group, were also traveling through Mombasa and also staying with the hospitable Kenya PC volunteer, Jonathon. The five of us found the ferry trip more manageable the next day when we returned for a sightseeing day in Mombasa. Following Jonathon’s insider tips, we viewed Fort Jesus and hiked round the perimeter of this Portuguese seafront stronghold (rather than paying admission to go inside), walked through Old Town which struck me as having a disturbing number of women and children begging, lounged for a ridiculously long time on pillows sipping beverages in one of the atmospheric coffee houses, lunched on shawarma – a Middle-Eastern style pita sandwich that we all loved, and even had a walk around the huge Nakumatt supermarket resplendent with its gleaming wide aisles and familiar brand name options – something we had seen little of during our time in Africa. (I should mention that in Uganda, there’s a Nakumatt in Kampala where I manage an occasional shopping splurge.)

Mombasa has an attractive city center with wide boulevards and tall buildings, but one thing I didn’t see is the pair of huge aluminum “elephant tusks” sculpted to form a big M-shaped arch (no not quite like McDonalds) over Moi Avenue; that’s the image often used to represent Mombasa. The other tourist draw we missed are the many white sand beaches in the vicinity; we heard great things about them but were satisfied with the Swahili beach days we had already enjoyed on Zanzibar and Lamu, and we were eager to continue with the next part of our itinerary, inland Kenya.