I'd Buy That For A Shilling

'Tis the season for shopping as they say, and what better way to celebrate the season than with a holiday special blog post related to the subject. I know what you're thinking. Lorenzo? Shopping? No way! But as frugal and minimalistic of a lifestyle as I try to lead every so often the time comes when even I find myself requiring some purchasable item. Shopping in Kenya is truly an experience unlike that found in the retail empire from which I came. There are no large product displays, no holiday decorations, and the notion of a “Black Friday” sounds just plain racist. So seeing as I've been making more lists than old white beard lately I thought I would give my faithful following around the world a brief run down of a few of places here in Kenya to get your shop on.

Dukas – The Kenyan equivalent of the 7/11, these old west style boutiques serve as the primary outlets for life's everyday sundries. All merchandise is stored securely behind the counter and is shielded from wandering, sticky-fingered appendages by a 2 meter long barrier of security wire that can only be circumvented by taking a moderately-sized step to the side and and then reaching around. Should the item you seek be out of stock, be it flour, shark fin, or time-travel grade plutonium, the maverick behind the counter will adamantly reassure you that they just ran out and will be fully stocked with sought after prize tomorrow, whether or not they have ever heard or seen the requested article.

Market – Picture in your mind walking through a crowded outdoor swap meet, the sun bearing down on you as you navigate through alternating stretches of powdery moon dust and mud-laden quagmires. Tight clusters of vendors' stalls, appearing to have been hastily constructed the night before leaning unstably against one another, line the river of foot traffic before you. Some arranged into well-planned rows, others placed haphazardly with no apparent regard given to the surrounding architectural layout, these lumber kiosks peddle buckets, wooden spoons, designer second hand clothes, and other practical effects. Manners only get you so far as schools of people force their way against one another through passages that were never intended to allow space for more than a single person at a time. Impromptu entrepreneurs litter the walkway, thoughtfully stacking their random merchandise on makeshift tarps hemmed together from patches of food aid sacks clearly reading “Corn Meal – Not For Sale”, funneling the already overcrowded stream of prospective customers tighter into a web littered with opportunistic, undercover, self-deputized pocket inspectors. Majestic mountain ranges of cabbage cast shadow over seasonal heaps of mangoes, oranges, and avocados as rows of Kenyan women compete against one another to move identical inventories of uniformly priced produce. DVD copies of yet to be released theatrical blockbusters. “Genuine” Blackberry phones, brand new and complete with box. There are deals to be had and gems to be unearthed in the nooks and crannies of this commercial wilderness, and if you're lucky, the person parting with your treasure may actually let you walk away with it for a fair price.

Hawkers – You don't find them, they find you. Sunglasses, socks, charcoalized bones (a.k.a. Snake rocks), flowers, glue, woman's shoes, apples and plums (the “exotic” fruits), puppies, toys, handmade crafts, a framed holographic drawing of a migrating giraffe, whatever you need they assume they've got it (for healthily marked up prices), and it's their job to stand in front of you until you realize it. Employing a wide variety of hard sell marketing pitches such as displaying their entire inventory to the customer at point blank range, pointing emphatically at their selection while touting it less than a foot away from the prospective buyer, and (for those tough sells) pointing and saying the name of said commodities while holding them at a distance close enough to the shopper's face that they could subtly take a bite, these stone faced trinket brokers can be found patrolling Kenya's bus stations, medians, and pretty much any place there is even a remote possibility of crossing paths with a tourist.

Fundis – One part Bob Vila, one part Han Solo, these freelance artisans are the only reason anything does (or doesn't) get done in rural Kenya. Armed with a hammer and a certificate of completion qualifying them to perform any variety of specialized craftsmanship from building a wooden chair to wiring electrical circuits for NASA satellites, these rogue handymen are ready and willing to take any job, though completing said job is another story.

Hardware stores – Getting started on that do-it-yourself project? You'll find everything you need at one of Kenya's numerous hardware outlets...assuming “everything” is limited to 1/2” piping, 2”X4”'s, and corrugated sheet metal. Variety is as tough to find as toilet paper at a highway truck stop and the only advice you'll get from the knowledgeable experts behind the counter when dealing with anything even slightly out of the ordinary is to throw everything away and start over or to “buy a new one”. Caulk. Rubber washers. Dry wall. You'll have more luck finding a parachute woven from unicorn tails and frog tears than most of these taken-for-granted fix-er-up ingredients. The lack of variety can be a blessing when shopping on behalf of your fundi as even the most detailed schematic can simply be labeled as “screw”, “hinge”, and “grass”.

The Superstore (a.k.a. America) – Step out of rural Africa and into America's retail heartland as you pass through the sliding glass doors and into what is collectively accepted to be Kenya's premier shopping experience. These X-Mart style emporiums serve as the glorified spending ground for the upper echelons of Kenyan society. Flowered pot holders. Plush comforter sets. Cheese. These monuments of hedonism are capable of satisfying most lavish materials desires, however the absence of mounted swinging fish, chia-coated animal sculptures, and plug-in deodorizers show that this country still has a long way to go in terms of development.

The American Paradox

Americans hold a special place in the hearts and minds of the Kenyan people. Our president (with an approval rating in the high 90's) is infallible, our university education system unparalleled, and simple tasks such as riding a unicycle, reading English out loud, and typing never cease to strike awe into the deepest fibers of those around us. Despite the diamond encrusted pedestal upon which we have been thrust, there remains, here in Kenya, a constant and unwavering belief that Americans, as perfect as they appear, are entirely incapable of performing any sort of practical day to day activity whatsoever. Our image of infinite ability and untapped potential aside, feats such as cooking beans, washing clothes by hand, and walking for prolonged periods of time (eg. longer than 2 minutes) are viewed as entirely out of our spectrum of capability. Sadly, during my time here, I've done surprisingly little to aid the efforts to dispel this misconception.Case in point: We return to a cool, quiet evening in the dust laden mountain sanctuary that is Loitokitok. The sun has long since journeyed West as the Milky Way casts her elegant smile down on the rustic mountain town. The distant cries of 4-legged barnyard laborers are the only audible evidence of civilization. Following a routine conversation with the Peace Corps' top brass, my host mother, a proud and boistrous woman who radiates a gregarious confidence with her every action, has been left with the impression that I'll soon be tested on my ability to adequately brew a cup of tea and, should I fail to meet expectations, will be deemed entirely unfit for Peace Corps service, only to be shuttled out of the country on the next available flight. Following this conversation, it has been decided that on this night in question that I shall hereafter assume the duties of brewing my own cup of evening tea, devoid of any assistance from the rest of the family. Having already proven myself a national disaster in terms of language proficiency, my benevolent host mother is is clearly trying to help me give the Peace Corps as few reasons as possible to declare me an utterly failed attempt at cross-cultural relations, disacknowledging any involvement whatsoever in my training, if not altogether denying my very existence. To be honest, I have no appetite for tea on this particular evening, though undestanding that if I don't prepare tea for myself then, despite any protest on my part, it will undoubtedly be prepared for me at the cost of someone else's efforts, I set to work.My host family inside watching the evening news, I go about filling a small sufuria (a wide-brimmed, handleless pot resembling an upside down top hat which has become the regional gold standard of cookware) with that most essential of ingredients: water. As I breeze through the steps of brewing the perfect cup of tea my next task would seem simple enough, remove the already heating bath water from atop the outdoor charcoal stove so that I can heat the water for tea. The problem? Clearing the stove puts me face to face against a pot designed with all the practicality of a set of rubber crutches. Imagine a miniaturized version of the gemini space explorer, the ceiling cut away so as to allow the cabin to be filled within 1/16th of an inch from the top with scalding hot water. A single, shallow, downward facing pocket formed by a thin sheet of tin riveted into place near the top of this miniature galactic explorer serves as the only grippable area on this lopsided, water-logged space craft. Why a second handle was deemed unnecessary is beyond the understanding of a lowly first year volunteer such as myself, as gripping the nearly overfull vessel by the lip opposite the handle seems the only way to maneuver the torpedo shaped kettle without dousing the stove, ground, and myself with white hot bath water.The path before me is clear, I launch into action gripping the conicular broiler with a set of never once laundered rags clearly set outside for this very purpose. Moist lip in my left hand, awkward tin offshoot in my right, I move with the steady, purposeful motions of a neurosurgeon operating on the pope as I'm careful not to tilt or jerk in any direction that would cause blistering water to slosh over onto any of my appendages. All is progressing well until a sudden, unpredictable shift in the Earth's rotation causes the simmering cauldron to slip from my left hand, sending the smallest wave of steaming fluid splashing over the charcoal and concrete. A long, drawn out hiss and a puff of steam are released as torrent of scarring fluid washes over the once glowing embers, drowning out the quietest of startled breaths as my limbs retreat from the path of the searing waterfall with speeds capable of confounding even the most cunning siafu horde. Free from harm, I set down the recalescent lunar lander and place the aluminum, water-filled show hat over the damp but still active coals, as grateful for not completely extinguishing the family's cooking fire as I am for avoiding third degree burns. As I relax downward onto a small wooden stool and begin tending to my evening beverage the door to the house bursts open like a bag of Doritos freshly discovered by an emaciated group of shipwrecked mariners marooned on a deserted isle. Out of the entryway shoots the house worker, a hard working young woman with a vibrant smile who has passed on to me the majority of the cooking and cleaning know how that I've acquired here in Kenya."What happened?" she says, her eyes drifting down to the still billowing pool of fluid sprawled out around the stove, "Did you get burned?""No," I start in, "I just spilled a little...""What happened?", demands my host mother as she appears in the door frame, "Are you ok?""I'm ok," I answer.Cutting into my attempts to explain further she interjects, "You screamed."I try to explain that I most certainly did not scream, but before the words can escape the threshold of my oral cavity I'm interrupted as the head of my host father rolls around the edge of the door frame and into view. "What happened?", he inquires as he joins the scene.The house worker explains that I spilled the bath water as my host mother turns back to me. "From now on don't try to move that on your own," she orders, pointing at the still mostly full monolith of water, "call one of us to help you."I agree as the wave of spectators recedes back into the house, their impression of my capabilities no stronger than before they came outside. From that night on tea would always prepared for me before I got home.