SophiaBoutilier's Blog

Danger in Numbers

sophiaboutilier — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 09:20:42 +0000

500 people just ran across the street at once. The road is seething with people. A quick moving current of humanity
I’m in Forodhani Park, the centre of Stone Town, Zanzibar. Early this afternoon the park had hosted the World Cup. The famous golden chalice had been making its way through African cities on it’s way to South Africa where the games will take place.
Always a popular spot for locals and tourists alike, Foro was especially bustling this afternoon. The Cup drew quite a crowd. It was gone now, but the spectators remained, milling around, chatting and catching up with one another.
And then, they all fled. At once the park was drained of people as if the plug had suddenly been pulled in a bathtub. The young and old raced across the street propelled by some invisible force. As a foreigner somehow immune to this force, I waited for an explanation. When it came: “mwizi”.
Mwizi is the Kiswahili word for thief.
While robberies happen not infrequently in this part of the world, those mwizi must be armed with gall, guns or both. Getting caught stealing is a very risky business.
Mob justice, also referred to as community justice, is a powerful force. I’ve heard stories about wayward men that come home from philandering to find their shops boarded up, or burnt down. Some of these offenders merit the consequences, like the man who raped a developmentally delayed girl in the community where I stayed in 2007. He was forced out of his village. And in my opinion, good riddance. But a tarnished reputation or a burned out business is hardly the same as burning the perpetrator himself.
When it comes to theft, screaming thief at the offender in a public place pretty much guarantees that they will be beaten by the most excitable bystanders. Those who are slower to the punch will stand by to watch.
Now, I don’t mean to paint a barbaric picture of Kenyans of East Africans. As with everything, these events happen in context. Societies are complex entities, indescribably complex. Of a visitor of only 9 months I have no intention to reify Mombasa culture as something that I could fully understand, let alone sum up in a 1000 word blog. I can offer a few points of view, coupled with the caveat that these are not complete and should not be treated as such.
A report released last summer identified the Kenyan Police Force as the most corrupt institution in the country. When the justice system is so defunct, what choice is there but to take matters into public hands?
What is more, unemployment levels in Mombasa, although I don’t know the exact numbers, are extremely high. There are few places where young men are not sitting idle. Unemployment is caused by many social and political factors, none of which I wish to describe in this entry. Nevertheless, it’s a feature of this society. With unemployment, comes boredom, frustration, a feeling of impotence (among other symptoms). Essentially: a powder keg.
And then, there’s group mentality. In 2006 I attended the Liberal leadership convention in Montreal. Having no idea of the unexpected election of Dion, I was sporting his t-shirt and cheering from his corner of the room. The reason for my allegiance: his booth had the most left over free merchandise and I didn’t have a press pass, nor am I a delegate. Camouflaging myself was the best way to slip past the security guards. The events of the convention are another story, but one of the things that stuck with me was the near possessed behaviour among delegates. It was like Hitler youth in there. Dressed in uniform, chanting in unison, losing sight of what’s actually happening, we were all carried along on an ocean of emotion. Surely it’s fun and exciting in a way. It’s also disturbing and scary as hell.
I’ve witnessed floggings. Friends of mine have seen people doused in kerosene. What comes after that, is easy to guess but near impossible to imagine. Coming from a culture where people are more likely to turn away and go about their business (for better or for worse), beholding the hysteria of gathering crowds is difficult, to say the least.
All this said, thieves must think hard before they strike. Or do they? The security guard at my office was recently robbed in his home. The neighbours couldn’t come to his family’s aid as they were all being robbed at the same time. In this case, there was safety in numbers for the gang.
But thieves aren’t the only people facing mob justice. Recent outbreaks against alleged homosexuals caused a number of people to be evacuated by the Kenyan Human Rights Commission. Others lost their jobs or homes; employers and landlords feared the consequences of their connection to targetted individuals. Particularly in situations like this one, where fear, intolerance and group mentality precipitate witch hunts, there is serious danger in numbers.

Going Under Cover

sophiaboutilier — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 09:18:40 +0000

“Call me, we’ll go clubbing”, said the moon faced girl seated on the floor in full buibui and hijab.
I didn’t know what to say, so I settled for “umm, okay, I guess”. Typical, awkward, non-committal answer. How Canadian of me. Nearly offensive, really. But she couldn’t be serious, Muslim girls don’t go clubbing. Right?
Of all the assumptions to confront, expand and discard, that of Muslim women has been perhaps the most significant so far. Ever portrayed as prisoners, locked behind a veil, Muslim women are denied agency far more in North American media than in their very homes and cities. Particularly in light of the increased intolerance and stereotyping of Islam that has taken place in the last decade, women are often seen as the powerless victims of a backward and cruel social system. Even those accepting of the religion shake their heads at the disempowerment symbolized by covering one’s head.
I took a course in university on multi-cultural education. The professor, who I won’t name here for the sake of privacy but who was fantastic, did not teach us how to teach, but rather, to think, to criticise, to be self-aware. One lecture was devoted to the screening and discussion of a video called, if my memory serves me, “The Headmaster and the Head Scarf”. It was a documentary on the controversy in France over the banning of religious symbols in schools. One girl’s comment struck me. She described girls at her school wearing skin tight jeans with g-strings hanging out and asked the interviewer if this was not oppression. Is it really freeing to package one’s body in a fashion dictated by the preferences of men or magazines? Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s not how much skin one shows or hides, but how much one feels in control of one’s own presentation.
Such sentiments were echoed by my co-workers one day over lunch. “They should take themselves and their low-rise jeans back to Nairobi”, one declared empathically of dancers performing on the back of a truck to sell some product. “We’re not interested in that here.”
Dress can be a powerful medium of expression. The trousered woman is still a symbol of empowerment – free from the confines and inconveniences of her skirt. My presence in an office where women wear hijabs and buibuis to work, means that I report in long skirts and blouses or loose pants and long tunics. It’s an adjustment. In many ways it’s also a relief. There is comfort and freedom in obscuring the shape of one’s body from public scrutiny. The amount of time and energy consumed by this topic is truly staggering. And yet, although wearing a buibui hides the shape of a woman’s body – the hallmark of sex appeal in Canadian culture – such women are not then damned to feel ugly or oppressed. What an interesting parallel I have just created; indeed, a woman who can not devote herself to looking beautiful must be oppressed, is that not her raison d’etre?
In my first week in Mombasa I noticed a woman stepping down from the curb. As she held up the side of her robes her foot emerged sporting an elaborate 4 inch high-heel. Whether she considered such footwear treat or torture can not be known and should not be assumed. Imagining that the extent of clothing a woman wears is inversely correlated to her level of agency is simply ethnocentric. Perhaps this woman enjoyed her flashy shoes. Perhaps she felt bound by gender norms to be taller or more graceful. Perhaps her feet hurt. The choice is not for the onlooker to make. It is, or should be, for the woman herself.
From scanty Nairobi fashion trends, the conversation soon turned to matters of hair removal – a topic that unites many women around the globe. The details of waxing, done where and by whom, were shared by all present.
The fact that their bodies are rarely accepted in their natural forms, hair and all, is part of a set of gendered conditions that frequently serve to disempower women. Nevertheless, it’s equally true that many women embrace and enjoy these conditions. I myself think that mascara makes my life better. Now I’m being tongue-in-cheek of course, but I am not a feminist who believes in dividing people based on their personal aesthetic. My point about the waxing, is that I could have had this conversation with a group of women in a thousand different places in the world. The fact that these were Muslim women was not the source of this gendered cultural preference, nor of a particular disempowerment limited to this group. At one point a colleague piped up, “my husband refuses me to wax”. Her comment was not meant to imply that her husband controls her life, but served as a reminder that she was not bound to altering her appearance simply (although these things are far from simple!) because of the fact that she is a woman and a Muslim.
What is too easy to forget, particularly when information is served up through a limited narrative, or “narrowtive”, is that people are free agents and make decisions for themselves. When there is only one thing on the menu, there may seem little choice in what to eat. But there is no question that other food exists.
There are, of course, situations where people are without the minimum means to make choices, and to me, this is the goal of development, to provide the foundation for choice. Oppression exists in many forms and must be addressed, not assumed.
As development workers and laypeople it is overly simplistic and arrogant to assume that others in situations “less developed” than ours, do not make decisions every fraction of a second, just as we do, steering and calculating the paths we follow in life. We must make the decision not to accept limited portrayals of people or situations just because these are readily available. Indeed, much goes on behind the veil.

Sunscreen

sophiaboutilier — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 09:17:52 +0000

“If I could offer you one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.”
- from, “The Sunscreen Song”.
The Sunscreen Song, a spoken word poem put to music that was popular at graduation ceremonies in the late 90s is full of advice that may or may not appeal to the listener. Personally, I love it. I often listen to it as I cool down from a run, pretending I don’t hear the line “be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone”. My mention of sunscreen here is not, as one might think, because it’s ten thousand degrees in Mombasa right now, but because it reminds the listener of the simple and obvious things in our lives that have the power to bring about enormous benefits in the present and the future. Sunscreen is one of these things. Making friends with the young Canadians in my Fellowship programme, known as IDMs, is another.
Of all the things an IDM has to be grateful for, bug bites, sweat stains and stomach pains ranking lower on the scale, the least publicised benefits may be the most significant. Surely, I have gained professional skills, practiced fieldwork, integrated in a new office environment, acquired Kiswahili vocabulary, tested my strengths and weaknesses, and, it’s hoped, contributed to the functioning of my organisation. These are wonderful things. And, as much as I have worked hard, I am lucky for all of them. These are the kinds of opportunities and experiences one might find on the programme’s website, or though talking to alumni. Wonderful as these are, there is yet another.
But first, a word of caution to the next generation of IDMs. It’s not all easy! Indeed, the challenges are as formidable as the successes. They are also as valuable.
Such challenges will present themselves differently based on placement and personality, it can be sure. Because of their specificity, I’ll leave them for the next round to discover on their own. And so (thank you Randy Weekes for this phrase), back to the secret benefit of the placement, friendships with other IDMs.
It seems quaint, I realise, to highlight as extraordinary something that seems so provincial as a bond forged between fellow Canadians. Nevertheless, these friendships aren’t to suggest that friends made overseas are any less extraordinary; but they are perhaps, more expected.
My experience getting to know some of the other IDMs, current and former, has brought me not only countless laughs, but invaluable introspection, support and growth. From the start (although I spent the night before the management seminar in tears, not knowing how I’d been misplaced into a pool of such amazing – and intimidating – individuals) they were terrific. Whether we were writing proposals or rap songs, reading reports or InStyle, crunching numbers or Canadian imported chocolate (a treasure overseas!), we shared a very special wavelength.
Passing the same screening process meant that we entered as equals. There was no need to prove why we were there, or what we’d done prior to arrival. This in itself was and is quite unusual. Most social situations precipitate an environment in which each fights for position. Freedom from competition allowed us to be ourselves, flaws and all. The result: true friendships.
What is most wonderful is that we are all very different.
From here in Kenya, on days when the world seems to crash down around me, it is rebuilt by the wisdom, empathy and jokes of fellow IDMs. Perhaps it’s unfair that, on top of all the other benefits to be reaped, I have been afforded yet another. But I am also comforted and inspired that these exceptional people are out in the world, and always an email away. Sharing and comparing the endless challenges and surprises, we have all learned, grown and changed. We share a bond now, because we have done it together.

At Three, You’re Free

sophiaboutilier — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 09:16:32 +0000

One of my happy tasks at my current job is to visit community preschools. My interest in education was, and still is in some ways, at the secondary level with teenage students. Nevertheless, my introduction to early childhood programmes at MO, has been fascinating.
Societies are made up of individuals, each of whom has developed an identity and a sense of how the world does and should work. Each individual comes to see the world a certain way and the amalgam of these views, coloured by patterns of power, generates the social norms that guide our every move. These views are primarily established in the early years. So, in some way, three year old children are deciding the destiny of society. They, and their environments, interact to give birth to the ways of seeing and doing that will characterise the coming generation.
Of course, this paints an incomplete picture devoid of the social change occurring on every level, the forces of tradition, innovation, conformity and chaos. What is more, at three years old, while enormously observant, children’s consciousness of their place or potential in the world is something, I think, that is not preserved. Surely young children think about who they are, what they will become, how the world exists for them to be in it – or at least that they exist because the world does or vise versa, but where do those thoughts and ideas go? When do they (we) realise they no longer think as before? Or can this realisation really occur if the previous way of thinking can not be captured, like grasping at wisps of a dream?
What a curious thing in a world of records and analysis that such profound moments in person building float away on the wind. It’s quite wonderful in a way that such things are not regimented or fenced or truly understood. Perhaps the world should maintain some mystery.
Although children share many of the feelings and thoughts that adults have, they tend to experience them differently. The too often cynical and self-conscious generation before them (that’s us…) could learn a lot about resilience and moving on from young children who have an amazing capacity to rise above disappointment and overlook the bonds of social protocol when it suits them. Such are the children of one preschool I visited in Msambweni District, in the South Coast of Mombasa.
We were on a nature walk, a group of about 30 little kids, their teacher and I. Down the grassy yellow hill, along the path towards the river. For some families, it was laundry day. Atop the prickly straw-like grass was laid pairs of tiny socks and trousers, brightly coloured kangas, and whatever else needed washing. The cloth dried stiff in the sun.
In 5 minutes we’d reached the river side. The water was populated by ladies bent double to wash their clothes. Two young boys led a herd of cattle across a dip in the bank to get to the other side. Some of the women seemed surprised to see me, others smiled a tacit welcome to their place.

Preschools girls pause to chat by the river bank

The teacher rounded up her own little herd, giving the children options for their outdoor time. A few settled on the ground, taking out their notebooks to sketch the plants and scenes around them.

The rest, the majority, tore off their school uniforms. In a flash they were down to their underwear, and went running into the river. It was hard to tell boys and girls apart, all with shorn heads and spritely bodies. For a moment, it didn’t matter. Here, these children were free. From nowhere came the social pressures to be feminine or masculine, to be responsible, dignified, seen and not heard. Here, they were just little people enjoying themselves, not constrained, defined or obliged by who, what or where they ought or were thought to be.
Remarkable.
Of all the time spent teaching young children to become adults, perhaps we forget to let them teach us to be human. I can’t think of the last time I allowed myself such freedom. Perhaps it’s time I start.

Back on the Blog

sophiaboutilier — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 09:15:04 +0000

It’s been ages since my last post. I have no real excuses save for an increase in work and a decrease in time. Pole sana.
Still, while not finding time (or discipline) to write I have not stopped thinking. In the last few days I’ve coalesced some of these thoughts into the entries to follow.
In my goals for 2010 I included “write at least 5 blog posts” as one. The commitment to recording and sorting through my thoughts is important. I often rely too much on an inflated sense of my ability to remember and retrieve my experiences as they get filed away in the back of my brain.
Unbelievably I have just begun my penultimate week at work in Mombasa. I fly out of Kenya April 4th. It will be a difficult goodbye.

A birthday wish

sophiaboutilier — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 13:45:10 +0000

Friday October 2nd was my 23rd birthday. I was endlessly fortunate to receive cards and best wishes (not to mention cake!) from so many of my loved ones. I know I’m a little old to be making a wish list, but, a humble request…

I first came to Kenya for the first time in 2007. Through the Arts Internship Office at McGill University I was incredibly lucky to be selected for a three-month placement in Elangata Wuas, Kenya with the NGO Africa SOMA. Africa SOMA (www.africasoma.org) works to increase educational opportunities for marginalised youth in Kenya. Working in six key project areas – secondary school scholarships, the community library project, the international art exchange, the volunteer teaching programme, the evaluation programme and the cross cultural exchange – Africa SOMA conducts most of its activities in conjunction with community organizations in Elangata Wuas. Affectionately EWuas, the area is 3 hours south west of Nairobi. It is remote and it is dry. Educational opportunities are few and often in conflict with semi-nomadic lifestyles.

Since the conclusion of my internship in August 2007 I’ve continued to work with Africa SOMA. In May, I was made a board member. I visited EWuas in February and September of this year. I love the place and the people (blog on my latest visit to come). Education is seen by community members as a critical ingredient to improve opportunities and adapt livelihoods to changing climates – both literally and figuratively.

The severity of drought in Kenya has hit EWuas and pastoralists hard. As cattle shrivel to death due to lack of food and lack of water the price for livestock goes down and the price of food goes up. Families shift to greener pastures, literally, although in some places they are only imagined. Lack of vegetation cuts off the survival supply chain.

An unexpected casualty of drought is education. As families move and resources are diverted to meet immediate needs, the challenge of education is magnified.

October 2009 is the first ever SOMA Month. Volunteers and friends of Africa SOMA are hosting events around the world to contribute to the final inputs necessary for the Elangata Wuas Resource Centre (EWRC). EWRC is managed by a community-based organization. It will serve as a library and a community centre with wings stocked with specific materials to meet the varied needs of primary and secondary students and the wider community.

Primary school wing of the Elangata Wuas Resource Centre

The EWRC is a great project and one that people believe in. During an interview in 2007 one EWRC committee member described it to me: “Outside, everywhere in the community the library is now very famous, the library is connecting people to education. If you talk about it, people know you [are] going there to learn. It is empowering people to education, giving them an opportunity. It is a door, opening a door…”

I am organizing events in Mombasa, including a by donation birthday pool party at my apartment, for SOMA month. For friends around the world, please check the list below for possible events to attend.

MOMBASA: October 2: Sophie’s Pool Party
MONTREAL: October 10: FunRaiser House Party chez Allison and Jennie
TORONTO: October 31: FunRaiser Halloween House Party chez Heather and Jordie
WASHINGTON DC: October 31: Loopin’ the Lincoln: A Bike-a-thon around DC’s Lincoln Memorial in Halloween Costume

And for anyone who might have taken me for a drink or a coffee for my birthday, please consider donating those few dollars to Africa SOMA. Donations can be made online, tax receipts provided. Your money will go to furniture, books, bookshelves, learning materials, a community phone, chalk boards for primary school students, study cubbies for secondary school students, corners on reproductive health, veterinary care and the environment in the community wing. It’s a wonderful project in a wonderful place and almost completed. Help the EWRC to open and serve the EWuas community!

On Eid and Eating

sophiaboutilier — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 12:58:42 +0000

I get the whole premise of Ramadan. Well, that’s a half truth. I get what I’ve been told but I realise that there is much that can not be told or can be told but not understood without the spiritual drive to back it up. Nevertheless, what I do understand is that the practice of fasting is to exert self-discipline, to sacrifice and to share the experience of going without. The last point is perhaps most significant. Knowing hunger, fatigue, deprivation creates an empathetic bond with those who live in such circumstances. No longer, the suggestion goes, will the hunger of a homeless person seem negligible or removed from my existence. We both exist, both experience hunger, and both need food and compassion to function and survive.

And thus, my ability to eat whenever I want (leaving restrictive beauty standards aside for the moment) is something to be shared, as is our humanity.

This is a beautiful concept. And I can empathise whole-heartedly (and empty-stomachly) that going without food slows down the body and the mind, that hunger magnifies obstacles.

And yet, the practice of fasting during daylight hours struck me as flawed somehow. No matter my discomfort during the day, I knew I could eat at night. I could (and sometimes did, having bowls of cereal at midnight) eat throughout the night if I wanted. I couldn’t help thinking that the lesson of Ramadan was lost on me.

And then it was the night before Eid. Eid is the holiday that marks the end of the Holy Month. It has been likened to Christmas in its importance and its festivities full of food, family and gifts.

Lying in bed on Eid eve I began to feel hungry; I wondered if I should eat something so as not to carry the hunger over to the next day. And then it struck me: I could eat in the morning… and that not everybody could. Suddenly I was quite shaken by this most obvious of observations. After a full month of fasting I’d finally digested the importance of the month and the magnitude of the message.

Eid took place on September 20th this year after the sighting of the moon on the night of the 19th. Following Eid I fasted for an additional 6 days, an optional fasting period called sita (literally, six). Now I’m finished for the year, and perhaps, forever. Still, I found the experience very valuable and if I find myself in similar circumstances in the future, I would definitely do it again. I count myself lucky that I was supported during work hours, offered many dinners by an extraordinarily generous colleague and let be by my non-fasting friends with whom I could not share lunches or brunches or coffees for a month worth of weekends. And of course, that I’m in a place where the sun sets before 7:00pm every night.

On Learning Kiswahili

sophiaboutilier — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 09:03:33 +0000

“You see, language is culture. Language is culture, right, so we don’t say habari ya usiku?… How is the night” (he raised his eyebrow at the translation of the word ‘night’ and we both laughed)

As in any language there are certain words one does not say in polite company. What is more, there are certain such words that closely resemble common every day words. Learning a new language is like walking through a minefield. For example, when getting off the matatu, the term for “getting off” has the same double meaning as it does in English. One of my friends learned this the hard way when she insisted, in front of the driver, conductor and a few of their friends, that she was “getting off, right here, right now”. The word for the number ten (kumi), comes perilously close to kuma, a particular part of the female anatomy… Similarly kulewa (to get drunk) seems impossibly close to the foreign tongue as kuelewa (to understand). Kunywa (to drink) bears uncomfortable congruence to kunya (to do in the bathroom what Kenyan’s refer to as a “long call”).

Despite the wide margin of error, I am learning a little at a time. I practice often with my office mates who are entertained no end by my attempts. Unlike speaking French in Montreal where the pressure and expectation to be perfect can be enough to discourage one all together, wazungu are infrequently expected to learn Kiswahili. When one shows interest, it is often to the delight of native speakers. More like speaking French in Paris, where well meaning and humble foreigners do their best to parler.

Despite that end of the day feeling that my brain can absorb no more, I force myself to sit with the book and audio tracks so generously bestowed upon me by my endlessly thoughtful sister. I learn new words and verbs and try them out at work or on my friends. I carry flash cards in my purse and test myself while riding the matatu. And on Wednesday mornings (although my fitness routine is taking a hit during Ramadhan) I go to an aerobics class before work conducted entirely in Swahili. (I am grateful for my sister again here and for all those Sunday mornings we dragged ourselves out of bed to leap around with a roomful of middle-aged women in tights. While the words for “grape vine” or “V-step” aren’t the same, most of the basic moves seem to transcend linguistic barriers). Furthermore, this frees up my Wednesday evenings to devote an hour in a coffee shop to concerted studying rather than the adhoc fast forwarding of grammar lessons punctuating music on my iTunes.

Part of this interest springs from the very opportunity of being in a place where such a skill can be acquired. Here there are people to talk to, signs to read and jokes to laugh at (although humour is always the last linguistic frontier). But beyond the geographic advantage are the intertwined desires to connect with people and to make a life here.

Speaking in one’s native tongue feels good. It allows nuanced expression not available in second or third or fourth (or…) languages. Of course there will always be emotions and experiences not quite possible to describe in any words, but, I hazard to state, the native tongue comes closest. Surely there are millions (billions?) who speak multiple languages with great ease and finesse never skipping a beat or a preposition. And yet, there is something about the language through which one comes to recognize and define one’s self and surroundings. To be able to understand the self and surroundings of Kenyans in their own words seems integral to working here in the long term. And that is something I think I want to do.

My impression of Kenya is not a product of a tourist’s rose-coloured sunglasses. Some things are very difficult here. A visiting friend called me brave to live here. There are many features of my life that colour my experience making it easier or harder, more natural or less; sometimes the same features work for and against me simultaneously.

Of course, this happens at home too. But it is thrown into stark relief here; I am reminded that being away from the familiar makes one far more self-aware. And as I endeavour to analyse this awareness, I can not deny a draw to be here.

Last weekend I went to Elangata Wuas where I spent three indescribable months in the summer (Kenyan winter) of 2007. Being in EWuas made me feel more whole, like being with a good friend.

I will likely begin my Masters studies next October, consuming my life for the following year. I have a variety of other plans and degrees to pursue after that. But still, as my colleagues at work would encourage me to say, nitarudi Kenya tena na tena (I will return to Kenya again and again).

The Middle of Know Where

sophiaboutilier — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 08:36:34 +0000

A little over a year a go I would have labelled this blog “the Middle of Nowhere”. This would have connoted to a remote place devoid of reference points relevant to me and would have somehow leant credibility to my own sense of adventurousness by being in this place so unknown to me. It’s common to read tales of travellers describing the middle of nowhere in so many remote areas of the world. But nowhere is always someone (or something)’s somewhere.

While writing my honours thesis I came across a book, under the guidance of my wonderfully insightful professor, by Paulette Goudge. “The Whiteness of Power” has a title that might cause some to turn up their noses, tired of the anti-Western narrative characteristic of a development backlash. “It’s not like that anymore”, “when can we move on from colonialism” (not really a question, more of an exasperation), “we’re doing the best we can”, “I’m not racist, I love Africa(ns)”. All are not uncommon sayings within the development discourse. Surely I have not captured the extent of the debate with these few phrases, but they illustrate a denial of ongoing racism within the development industry in particular and the world in general.

What is interesting about Goudge’s book is how she dissects similar phrases and sentiments to uncover forms of racism or stereotyping not immediately evident. She takes issue with “the middle of nowhere”. Calling somewhere nowhere strips that place of its meaning and referentiality to its inhabitants. “Nowhere” denies the authenticity of the lives carried out in that spot, relegates these experiences into those of animals, just part of nature removed from the human existence the visitor assumes he/she occupies (on this point, see Lessons 4 – read Ishmael!).

Now, I don’t have Goudge’s book on hand and I don’t mean to represent her views incorrectly, but I definitely found something in this examination. Nowhere only exists as an unknown. But the newcomer, not knowing a place by definition, should not discount the knowledge of those for whom the place is somewhere, for whom the place is home.

I was most fortunate to know a new somewhere yesterday.

In 2007, when I first came to Kenya to live and work in Maasailand, I taught part time in a primary school. My classes, grades (called standards at the primary school level here) 7 and 8 were full of remarkable young people (not to mention some scoundrels). In particular I bonded with the students in standard 8. (My internship partner, Jessika, was the star of class 7). The head boy of the school, William, a class 8 student, fulfilled his responsibilities with great care. He came early to school on Saturdays to unlock the office in preparation for weekend study sessions, he prepared a list of phrases in English, Kiswahili and Maa for me, he had Jessika and I over to his homestead where we were fed and cared for while listening to stories from his father about work with the colonial administration pre-independence. He was a good student, host and friend.

The week before I left for Nairobi (I flew from Mombasa to the capital September 11th) I received a crackling call from an unfamiliar voice. It was William. He had been back to Elangata Wuas during the school holidays and heard that I was back in the country. Although the connection was not great I came to understand that he was in secondary school a few hours outside of Nairobi. Yesterday I went to visit him.

The journey was fraught from the off as no one I spoke to knew of the place I was trying to travel to. “It’s in Mombasa” one offered. “It’s a four hour drive” (translation – 7 hour drive if the roads are under construction, a necessary prerequisite for their improvement). “It’s a one hour drive”. “That place doesn’t exist”…. By noon I was getting frustrated and started to think I wouldn’t bother with the trip. William wasn’t answering his mobile and I wasn’t ready to hop on a matatu for 4 (or 7) hours with no guarantee of the place ever materializing. Fortunately I was able to get a hold of the school principal who did know the place, the route and the distance. 2 hours. Manageable.

The way interurban matatus operate is entirely demand based. There is no set schedule. When the vehicle is full, it leaves. The next one opens its door and waits to fill up, and so on. Most people travel in the morning, making the frequency of departures higher. By one o’clock I counted myself lucky to see ten of the fourteen seats already filled. An hour later the wheels started to roll. Getting out of Nairobi is never easy. If nothing else (and the city is many things), Nairobi is a city on the move. But when everything is moving at once, the system can fail. The classic ‘jam’ is rarely avoided. As it was, I probably made it onto the highway within half an hour, not too bad.

Having no idea where the place was or what it looked like, I watched out the window the whole way. My fear with travelling to new locations is to reach the end of line to be unceremoniously turned out with no way of getting back to the destination I had presumably missed along the way. As we rolled along (the roads for 90% of the trip were smooth and new – luxury), my frustration dissipated. Zebra, gazelle, giraffe, ostrich, and the usual cattle hears, animated the journey and made up for the dust lining my lungs and nostrils.

And then I reached somewhere. Sultan Hamud. I alighted the matatu and waited to be picked (Kenyans never say “picked up”, only picked. It’s a phrase I have picked) by a runner from the school on his motorbike. The only mzungu in an atypical location, several people asked me if I was lost, needed help or soda. I refused all and waited in the sun. In time I learned that my driver had a puncture and would be delayed until he could repair it. In more time I learned that the problem was not fixable and that someone else would pick me. I watched as tankers and tourbuses drive by, bound for Mombasa. And then a red piki piki (motorcycle) appeared as promised, and off we went.

I would like to take a moment to apologize to my mother. I love her dearly. She once had me promise never to do two things. One of them was to ride on motorcycles. To be fair, however, the soft dust roads at 10 miles an hour doesn’t pose quite the risk she might have imagined at the time of issuing the prohibition.

The drive off the tarmac to William’s school was utterly incredible. I’m kicking myself now for the falling into the cliché of writing about red earth and big skies in Africa. But, there can be reason behind the rote of clichés and here I found it.

The drought has made dirt roads soft and dusty, the way I would imagine driving on a mattress. There was no one around. A few stray goats bleated and foraged. But otherwise, just land and sky, humanity tucked away out of sight. I was surprised, at one point, to catch my reflection in the rear view mirror. Here I was. In the middle of somewhere.

Reaching the school I enthusiastically greeted the principal for all his help and coordination of transport. With all the hiccups, I was 4 hours later than I’d planned. He told me a bit about the school. It is only two years old, teaching (so far) only form one and two. When this year’s senior class finishes they will be the first form three class for the school. A chapel and boarding facilities are currently under construction. All will have mabati (corrugated iron) roofs and solar-powered lighting. I signed the visitor’s book, an important ritual in this country, and we strolled back outside to be met by a bounding William.

Taller than I remembered he greeted me with a hug and then a handshake. He told me about transferring from a different school after his first year, partly due to the financial toll of the drought, partly because he preferred Maasai teachers, their accent being easier to understand. His favourite subject is physics, followed by chemistry. Chemistry was one of my favourite subjects in high school thanks to a brilliant and hilarious teacher whom I still often think of. William and I talked about molecules and balancing equations and how chemistry is played out in our every day lives, in our every moments. He is studying to go to university to be an engineer.

Soon I had to leave to beat the darkness. So grateful for having persevered I boarded the piki piki and reflected on the importance of making and maintaining connections with people and places. It means a lot to be important enough to someone to have them call you two years after meeting. It means a lot to have someone travel 4 hours to meet you even if only for half an hour. William and I stood to gain nothing from one another except for the privilege of knowing each other and sharing memories. I was asked for nothing. I cringe a little at writing that last phrase as I feel it might suggest that this is something extraordinary, that under “normal” circumstances I would be asked for something. Perhaps wrongfully I have the feeling that some readers might have expected my visit the school was borne out of an ulterior motive. To be clear, this was not the case.

Waiting for a matatu back to Nairobi someone came over to me and asked, “why are you so stranded?” I replied that I was visiting a friend, not stranded at all. I felt fortunate to know where I was, far from nowhere.

On the drive home the sun set despite my efforts to beat the world’s rotation. Single wick oil lamps and cooking smoke dotted and smudged the darkness rolling of the road into the hills and up to the night sky. A few zebra chomped on road side grass. In a time when all matter of nouns – people, places and things – seem to be growing thinner as the drought persists, these zebras were fat. It was good to see.

Fasting Makes Time Move Slowly

sophiaboutilier — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 08:18:38 +0000

It also makes my brain move slowly.

I am currently 4 days in to the Holy month of Ramadhan. I am fasting like almost everyone else in my office. This was not an easy decision nor was it an impulsive one. In fact I have been mulling it over for weeks. I asked myself many questions: “Is it right for a non-Muslim to fast for Ramadhan – a religious event?” “Is it disrespectful to eat when my friends and colleagues can not?” “If it doesn’t hold religious meaning, is fasting just being hungry?” “Can I survive without water for 11 hours a day?”

During the month office hours change from 8:00-5:00 to 7:30-3:00. Of course, in the “short” day there are no breaks for tea or lunch. Many people rise at 4 to take dates and milk or chakula na maji (food and water). Others, like me, get up at their regular time and move through the day swallowing nothing but saliva and air. “Dry fasting”, practiced here, forbades the consumption of liquids as well as solids.

I knew that I wouldn’t be able to comfortably eat at the office during Ramadhan, but I had planned, initially, to eat immediately before and after work hours and to sneak snacks whenever possible. I know no one at MO would force me to fast. And yet, suggestions to try it were numerous and enthusiastic. I had decided that I would “faux fast”, eating and drinking on the weekends, and having breakfast before work but waiting until sundown to eat in the evening. I was content to fib, hiding behind my weak foreigner status, a little when it came to sharing stories of hunger or thirst or lack of concentration with my coworkers.

And then I changed my mind. At the gym last weekend, the first day of the fast, one of the attendants – idle due to the paucity of patrons on a Saturday morning – told me of her fast and that of her son. “He insists on fasting” she said, adding that he is only seven years old – most children begin fasting at 9 or 10. “He sees us fasting and he wants to be part of it”. It struck me then that if I was going to fast at all, even if I do not observe the Muslim faith, that I should fast with integrity.

Ramadhan is an extremely significant event for so many of those around me. And, while it holds different meaning for them than for I, to observe it incompletely would be pointless. To do so would only bring about thirst without understanding, hunger without empathy.

And so, I am torturously writing from a café surveying my friend’s latte with covetous eyes and taking nothing. The waiter understands and lets me sit here without ordering anything. Tonight I will break fast with the call of the evening prayer knowing that people all over the city, and the world, are breaking bread or naan or hamburgers or whatever with their loved ones and communities.

And while I will not pray, I will share in the feeling of chosen deprivation and discomfort, remembering those who do not have the choice. I will muddle through my work with a foggy mind knowing that with dusk food and water will renew my clarity of thought and energy of body and remembering my own good fortunes and the need to share and create these everywhere. And when asked by my colleagues at work how I am feeling during the twenty-odd days to come I will respond to them with the common Kenyan phrase I find so charming and so true of the actions of many, tukopa moja, we are together.