Tick Tock

The concept of time has systematically blown the minds of individuals who have made any attempt to understand it since before the dawn of civilization. Wormholes and black holes. Relativity theories and flux capacitors. It seems the deeper we delve into the subject the more confusing, depressing, and frankly uninteresting the whole matter becomes. Even the time-space guru Einstein was known to feign exaggerated yawns and bellow out “BO-RING!” when engaged on the subject by students and intellectual colleagues for more than a few minutes. But despite our lack of understanding on the illusory subject, time plays an important role in various parts of the world, and Kenya is no different.

Some might say that time holds a unique place in Kenya in that it seems to have no place at all. 9 AM meetings regularly start at 2, “right now” could refer to anytime today, and the phrase “next week” could be three months from now or beyond. Indeed, the Swahili proverb “Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka” (Hurry Hurry Has No Blessing) is seemingly followed to the letter. But there is a system here. An unspoken set of rules and guidelines driving the day to day agenda of those living far outside the shadows of the city. A protocol that everyone understands and adheres to. An etiquette that is the bane of anyone who foolishly tries to push their own agenda without trying to understand the culture they’re in. Who would be foolish enough to waste the morning in an early meeting when that’s the coolest time to work in the field? Why would anyone risk the social isolation that would result by not stopping to greet everyone they pass on the way to the village or by not attending the 3 day funeral of their friend’s cousin’s grandfather just so they could meet a deadline? Those from clock dominated societies seem to run into an unending sea of frustration when they cross through the wormhole and into this alternate chronometrical society, so it’s important to remember things will happen when they happen. A meeting will start when it starts, the shop will open when it opens, and a 6 month late blog post is considered right on time.

A Heroic Tale

It's Mother's Day in most parts of the world (at least it was when I started scribbling this down on paper), and what better way to celebrate than with a special blog post dedicated to that most esteemed class of individual, the one whose sweat and tears oil the machine that drives this country, the one without whom all life on the African continent would grind to an inoperable stand-still. I am referring, of course, to the Kenyan Mama. Bearing the weight of Kenyan society on her head like a bucket of water 41 million people heavy, the life of this matriarch is a test of character and endurance so brutal it makes the Ironman look like a shuffle board match. With feet strong enough to walk over broken glass, and hands tough enough to hold flaming coals, these under-appreciated females of the pride are capable of enduring just about anything the world can throw their way. What better example than the story of Mekatilili.

Who is Mekatilili you ask? Only one of the baddest mamas ever to walk the sandy loams of Kenya. To follow her story we travel back to the early part of the 20th century. Black and white are dominating fashion, the electric slide is still powered by a hand-crankable device, and territories such as Mexico, India, and Kenya are increasingly resisting their colonial rulers.

As the local story goes, a group of freedom fighters from the Giryama tribe are engaged in a bitter struggle against their British occupiers, among them one traditional healer by the name of Mekatilili (meaning mother of Katilili). During this period of unrest, the son of our heroine, Katilili, is captured by a British officer who answers to the name of Champion and transported to the western Kenyan outpost Kisii where he is to be imprisoned. But Mekatilili won't have it. Powered by the inextinguishable fire of maternal instinct, the herbalist liberator journeys on foot nearly 900 kilometers, crossing hippo infested waters and outrunning cheetahs across lion covered savannahs for about two weeks, arriving finally at theshold of her son's prison.

"Champion, give me back my son", she demands, but the British officer, alarmed to see Mekatilili so far from the battle grounds of the coast, accuses her of witchcraft and refuses her request. Resisting the urge to double over the British gentleman by releasing one of her trademark reverse spin kicks into his midsection our naturalist instead takes her leave.

The following day Mekatilili again appears at the gate, begging a word with her son's jailor. Champion, through a mask of contempt and thinning patience, decides to oblige our journeying hero's request to parley. As the man-at-arms warily approaches the place where Mekatilili is standing, wisely keeping his distance as word of her infamous spin-kicking ability has preceeded her, she presents to him a mother hen with one of her chicks, imploring the foreign agent to seperate the aviary toddler from it's mother. Cautiously, Champion inches forward and begins to pull the young fledgling away from the hen but as he does, the matriach fowl launches forward into a desperate, feather drawn flurry of pecks, scratches, headbutts, and any other offensive maneuver you can imagine a chicken employing to selflessly defend her young.

As the commander of forces reels backward under the weight of the hen's "to the death" offensive Mekatilili says to him, "That is why I have come. You have taken me son from me", again demanding the return of her child.

Champion, through a thick emotional shell hardened by years of fighting for the empire, feels the heat of Mekatilili's words, his insides melting from the emotion that fuels them. At that moment he realizes the fire burning inside of her is unlike any that he has ever encountered on the field of battle, and, in a gesture of respect and understanding displayed all too rarely in our world, returns to Mekatilili her imprisoned son. Reunited, mother and son begin their long journey together back toward their coastal homeland, the chicken went on to invent some kind of synthetic down, while Champion probably quit the army and went to live on top of a mountain to study zen or mushrooms or something.

So children let's pay homage to the women who brought us into this world. Not because they crossed a country to protect us, but because we know they would.

Happy Holidays

I just wanted to wish everyone a merry April first. Drive safe.

What's Your Sign?

Kenya is a nation, and like most nations, republics, and confederacies (fan-based nations excluded) it is chock-full of nationly tidbits and national what-nots. National bird: the lilac breasted roller. National anthem: Ee Mungu Nguvu Yetu (Oh God of All Creation). National flower: Taifa brand sifted maize meal. But no national treasure is more fascinating, more enigmatic, or, frankly, easier to blog about than the national automobile: the Matatu. Poorly understood by those outside of Kenya, the most common misconception surrounding these rolling games of twister is that each one is the same as the next. In fact, each matatu, tuk tuk, pikipiki and bodaboda is a unique entity, with its own personality, quirks, and habits. So how is the common, lay commuter supposed to be able to know the flavor of their chariot before they enter? Well, apart from the wild color schemes and lavish neon lighting, each vehicle, like a Spanish galleon setting out on the high seas, bears a unique epithet distinguishing it from the rest of the fleet. Sometimes written using old English lettering, sometimes written using old English grammar, here are a few monikers you might spot traversing Kenya's motorways:

Game of Chance - Not the words you want to see on a vehicle you are about to entrust your safety to.

Tripple M - Yes, that's 'triple' spelled with two "P"'s. This name is not so much humorous as it is flat out confusing. Try as I might, I can't think of any triumvirate of "M" related anything that would be witty or significant enough to brand in semipermanent decal lettering across anything. My best guess is that the monster mash is somehow involved.

Street Credibility - I'm pretty sure that anywhere street cred is important, referring to it as 'street credibility' is an instant way to lose it.

Jesus Loves (written in blood) - Take that Satan. You're not the only one who can write your name in sanguinous body fluids and look cool.

Peace Corps - Finally, some props.

Dangerous - See "Game of Chance".

Addicted - "Sure I'll get in, but would you mind walking in a straight line first?"

Say No 2 Drugs - Would you please talk to 'Addicted'?

Big Machine. Permitted to Kill - I might be more intimidated by this if I weren't big enough to physically overturn the tuk tuk it was printed on without spilling a glass of water.

Xtreme Grace - Other than conjuring up the mental image of a tutu clad ballerina slamming a Mountain Dew while jumping a pink, flower patterned skateboard over a serene meadow filled with the most adorable man eating puppies you can possibly imagine while a string orchestral arrangement of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida floats in the air, I'm not quite sure how to react to such an overpoweringly gentle name.

Oh Yes 2 - Sounds promising, but what happened to the first "Oh Yes"...?

Da Promise - Not to sure what this one is referring to, but you can be certain there's a Bears fan behind the wheel.

Karl Malone - No joke here, Kenyans just really respect and admire Karl Malone.

Desire - The latest matatu from Calvin Klein.

Grand Hustler - Better make sure you get some sort of written agreement on the fare before hopping into this one.

Pole Pole Kenya Project group (translation: Slow Kenya Project Group) - Got a Deadline? Well...then...you probably shouldn't outsource any of your work to these guys.

And my favorite...

Slow - Ok, granted the rest of the name was scratched off, it doesn't exactly instill a lot of confidence...I think I'll just walk.

Customer Loyalty

Small business is something more of an art than a science here in the forgotten rural villages of Kenya's coastal province. "Competitors" find it commonplace to refer customers to one another, supply and demand has almost no sway over local prices, and the thought of a price war...well...there's just isn't any thought at all. No, nestled here on the outermost fringes of the corporate world's leering, opportunistic gaze, the rules of capitalism just don't seem to have fully taken hold. But in these dusty streets lined with rows of shops, or rather multiple duplicates of the same shop, one has little to go by, save for family and tribal loyalties, when deciding which duka shall be the deserving recipient of their repeat patronage. Enter customer service.

To identify the origin of my own consumer loyalties I need look no further back than that fateful Sunday afternoon during a period that the majority of the world generally recognizes as autumn. Now, this not the kind of Sunday afternoon Lionel Richie would sing about, or the kind that would involve a picnic basket and a golden retriever with biblical first and middle names, a penchant for catching frisbees, and an uncontrollable habit of randomly soiling the carpet despite being the perfect companion in nearly every other way. Nor is this the kind of Sunday afternoon where legions of boozed-up armchair quarterbacks crowd in front of their TV sets to passionately root on their team, which has to close out the season with 9 straight wins in order to have a winning record and chance at the playoffs. No, this is the kind of Sunday afternoon that I imagine you might encounter during the Spanish Inquisition, where the pious are in church and the less pious are staying out of site so as not to broadcast the inadequacy of their piety to those who would have them tied to a ferrel donkey and dragged through a breyer patch. It is on this type of Sunday afternoon, this holiest of afternoons, that I step out from my humble abode in search of some kind of produce to prepare as part of my evening meal.

Appetancy driving my steps, I start rounding the very limited array of options which may be even remotely capable of satisfying my desires for vegetable goodness. The first stop in my procession, the village market; a helter-skelter assemblage of branches, birches, and sticks lashed together into a makeshift, chest high, six foot by two foot table. Selection at this bazaar is anything but predictable, being totally dependent on local harvests, weather patterns, and whoever decides to happen upon to the market that day for the purpose of sprawling their various surpluses out across the surface overtall bench. The rules of exchange here are simple: anything on the table is for sale, anything under the table....well, those are probably somebody's children. Whether the result of my having gotten off to a late start or a flat out absence of variety from the day's outset, by the time I arrive I find the lone eatable on the counter to be a basket full of dried makumba, a small river dwelling fish that, if you didn't know better, you may mistake for a newly born sardine. Not exactly the ideal side dish for an herbivorous individual such as myself. Having already gone the previous day without taking in anything higher than the first layer of the food pyramid, again due to fluctuations in the market, my prospects of consuming anything even remotely resembling a balanced diet on this weekend look grim.

Spirits dashed, palate unsatiated, my mind, rolling through the short list of options still available, steers me toward the local supermarket, a two meter by two meter establishment whose produce section is consistent of a small cardboard box full of onions which, surprisingly, is always well stocked. Fighting off the urge to completely surrender myself to dejection and discouragement, I enter dim, windowless structure and exchange greetings with the shop keeper, a young man no older than myself with a persistent close-lipped smile, a pair of brightly attentive eyes, and a deep yet soft spoken voice that is like a smooth, melodic butter spread in a perfect grade over the eardrums.

Formalities observed, I cut straight to the chase, "Do you have any vegetables besides onions?" I pry inquisitively, like a zealous gumshoe poking around for a hot lead.

Eyes shifting, fingertips rapping tersely against one another in a disjointedly rhythmic manner, he is clearly mulling over the best way to tell me 'No'. His unfocusing gaze continues to dart across walls lined floor to ceiling with merchandise as though scanning for some unseen object when suddenly his eyebrows shoot up like a pair of freshly roasted toaster pastries and he moves to his left with a purpose typically reserved for mothers who are hoisting cars up off of small children. Reaching up on a high shelf he pulls down and, in the same motion, dexterously bags a pair of glowing red tomatoes. Already willing to pay any price demanded of me I start fumbling through my pockets for coins, bills, property deeds, permenant teeth, and anything else mildly of value.

"How much?" I query, doing little to disguise my disadvantage at the bargaining table.

"Just take them," he tells me, the thought to charge me never crossing his mind and he extends to me the bag of what was clearly meant to be a part of his own dinner.

Realizing that declining this gesture of kindness would be about as culturally acceptable as delivering a roundhouse kick to the stomach, not to mention being too starved of variety to try, I accept the satchel of fruit like a Nobel Peace Prize, feeling as though I should make some memorable speech to commemorate the moment. I recognize that no combination of nouns, verbs, or adjectives could adequately express my gratitude for what would be the best tomatoes I've ever consumed, rather, I hope that my undying customer loyalty will help convey that sentiment.

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.