Hello everyone!

Saturday was my last day at Baraton University. It was also the Sabbath for the Seventh Day Adventists, meaning that it was required to be a day of rest. Absolutely no work was permitted. All stores and offices on campus were closed, as were the library and computer clusters. Neither exercise nor laundry could be done. The students attended church from 9am to 1pm, and again from 6pm to 7.

For me, it was a very slow day. That is until my 1pm lunch at the home of Professor Ssemanda, the professor who had invited me to campus in the first place.

She had prepared a meal for seven people: herself, her sister, a nephew, his friend, a pastor, a lecturer, and myself. This meal for seven people was probably enough for 20. It was fantastic – chapati, fried chicken, two delicious varieties of rice, stewed vegetables, potatoes, and more. And no one could leave the table until it was gone. I ate until I thought I would burst. I guess this was my opportunity to make up for having missed thanksgiving.

Afterwards, we sat around the living room engaged in a fairly animated debate of women’s rights in Kenya and the United States. This is a topic about which almost every Kenyan seems to have a strong opinion, but which is almost never discussed. I will return to this issue later within this post, but for now suffice it to say that I spent a very intense hour (civil and polite on all sides, but intense) defending women’s rights with my host and her sister. There were some very disappointing perspectives voiced by the other side, even from the highly educated lecturer and pastor. More about the gender rights issue in a minute. I also had the honor of spending an hour or more going through family photo albums with my host.

Afterwards, I ran (waddled, perhaps, after all the food I had been given) immediately to the home of another two professors, this time an American ex-pat and his Taiwanese wife, both of whom were enormously kind and courteous.

Then it was off to see the fourth professor of the day, this time another Kenyan. He and his wife were fabulous hosts, making me feel absolutely at home. We discussed the merits of learning Swahili as an American (a question I commonly have to field, both here and at home), the American education system, and my impressions of Kenya and Baraton in particular. Once again, I was brought to the brink of explosion by the amount of food I found on my plate. And after I barely managed to finish that, I was compelled by my overzealous host to “just finish the potatoes.” And then the rice. And then the vegetables. It was almost too much to bear.

Then he brought out a GIANT tray of fruit. Mangoes, Papaya, Passion Fruit, Melons, and a nice tall glass of Pineapple Juice. I really don’t think I have ever eaten that much fruit before in my life. Seriously. And this was AFTER two enormous meals before. Of course, everything was delicious beyond words. The food was spectacular, and I’ve never tasted sweeter fruit than those the professor gave me. It’s just that the concept of “please, no more – I’m full” does not stand a chance against Kenyan culture and it’s stipulations about hospitality. Even my hosts were laughing about how funny it is that a guest can’t escape being over fed. If I hadn’t been miserable with all my delicious food, I would have joined in their mirth.

When I left, I was invited by Salim to accompany him to another professor’s late night goat roast. I went on the condition that he wouldn’t let anyone force me to eat anything. Of course, that deal went right out the window the minute we walked in the door. I managed to limit the damage to one small bowl of the Filipino professor’s wife’s sticky rice (purple rice fried in brown sugar and spices until it forms a play-dough like consistency with the most delicious caramel flavor you can imagine), but even this was almost too much to bear. It was incredible.

I returned to sleep that night around midnight still as full as when I left the table, and on a tremendous sugar high.

The next day I traveled with professor Ssemanda to her small but beautiful tea farm just off campus, and from there to Eldoret, where we boarded a matatu for Nakuru. The road was miserable, but we had a good time talking and taking pictures of the people and places that we passed along the way. I arrived in the evening, met briefly with Dennis, and then returned to my host family in Mangu, where we had a lovely reunion and lots of exciting planning for the week ahead. It’s good to be “home” again in Nakuru.

Here’s the aforementioned discussion of women’s rights in Kenya as I have come to understand them:

While many communities are making significant strides towards what most Americans would consider a more equitable and progressive gender situation, many more are very, very far behind. There are still families in which the woman is never permitted to leave the home. Young daughters are raised into a lifestyle of subservience from the outset, and many young rural girls stay at home to work while the boys go off to school. Domestic violence remains an issue. Even many westernized families believe that the roles of women and men should remain apart. In many instances the role of the wife is to take care of the family and the home, and then to take care of the husband when he returns from work. While much progress is being made, outdated ideas remain, often not too far beneath the surface.

In the current ongoing election and campaign season, several female candidates have been victims of severe violence, including one woman who was murdered. Many others have been the recipients of death threats and threats against their families. The common understanding is that the violence is intended to “keep women in their place” and out of office.

Even some of my REPACTED friends had to struggle (or their mothers had to struggle on their behalves) to defy their fathers or families and receive an education. I can only imagine how many more were not so fortunate.

There has been a tremendous upwelling in the women’s rights movement in the past few years, and much good work is being done. But it is still an area that needs improvement. In addition to being a fundamental human rights campaign, the movement towards gender equality will also assist in many other critical development issues. Many case studies from across sub-Saharan Africa (a large and diverse region, but the results are still valid) have shown that the advancement of women’s rights and women’s education can do wonders to limit the spread of HIV and other STDs, reduce violence, and even promote economic development. (See the book “The Invisible Cure” for further reading.) Hopefully the current trends of progressive thinking (There is a common saying: “a woman educated is a nation educated”) will prevail over the violence and subjugation that continues, and things will continue to improve.

English Lessons and Skipping Town Early

Greetings all,

Not too much to report from the last few days, other than making a few new friends, eating tasty but nondescript food, getting the occasional caffeine headache, reading a lot, and sleeping early.

The only really noteworthy thing to come of the past few days was last night, when I sat in on an English class. The group was discussing the difference between American English and British English. I was called forward to give an impromptu example of American English. I spoke for a few minutes about any old thing, using fairly simple language and speaking at a manageable pace. After a few minutes it became increasingly clear that I had lost a good number of the students. It was an interesting reminder that coming here without knowing any Swahili would have been a very daunting task. These were college students who are studying English, and I was still unable to communicate with them in a relaxed and natural manner. I would have likely had even less luck with the average Kenyan on the street. The language barrier that I experience every day when communicating in Swahili is actually not all that different than that which I’d experience if I just used English.

Anyway, the rest of the class consisted of discussions of the merits of “Lorry” versus “Truck,” “Flat” versus “Apartment,” and “Holiday” versus “Vacation.” I was also surprised to hear that “Fall” is a distinctly American term, whereas “Autumn is more closely associated with British English. I guess there are some things you just can’t learn at home.

Anyway, the pithy nature of this post is probably indicative of my experience here. It’s been tremendously pleasant, but I’m feeling kind of lazy for just sitting around and killing time most of the day. I’ve changed my plans to get back to Nakuru a good bit earlier (Sunday morning, hopefully), so that I can continue with a little more of my work before I depart. My plane leaves two weeks from today! Craziness.

I also met a few American students here (most of them come from African families but did their lower education in the states), and I think we’re going to play American Football this afternoon. Needless to say, I am tremendously excited by that.

Talk to you all soon,
Chris

University of Eastern Africa, Baraton

Hello, everyone.

The University of Eastern Africa at Baraton is a Seventh-Day Adventist college with some 1,500 students from all over Africa. I have already met many people from Kenya and Tanzania, as well as Malawi, Zimbabwe, Rwanda, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Ghana, and South Africa. Many of them are Seventh-Day Adventist, but for a college of that denomination, I was surprised at how many are not. For example, my three closest friends thus far are all Muslim. However, all students are expected to attend church every night for 45 minutes, regardless of their own faith. In keeping with the strict interpretation of the scripture that the Adventists adhere to, the campus also refrains from serving Alcohol, Coffee, Tea, Soda, or Meat. Tobacco use is prohibited, no jewellery is permitted, and there is an 11:45 curfew.

Despite all of these things which might in other contexts have detracted from my experience (NO COFFEE?), I’m actually finding Baraton is actually a very nice place. The campus is clean, safe, and friendly despite being located in the middle of a very poor and dry area of the country. The students and faculty that I have met have all been tremendously welcoming, and even the all-veg food is pretty good. I have a room to myself in the “Old Men’s Dorm” (so named due to its having predated the other men’s dorm, not due to the age of its occupants), and the shared bathroom is considerably cleaner than several others that I have encountered in East Africa.

As I said above, the three guys who I first met up with and have since befriended are all Muslim and all hail from the costal city of Mombasa. They are called Abdallah, Salim, and Juzer, and all three of them are of “Swahili” stock.

[ Quick history lesson: Traders were travelling back and forth across the Indian Ocean from East Africa to the Middle East, India and possibly even China as far back as the 7th or 8th century, and maybe even much farther. This interconnectivity brought increased wealth to the costal communities of Kenya and Tanzania, as well as a tremendous Islamic and Arabic influence (To alleviate any potential confusion: “Arab” is an ethnicity, “Islam” is a religion, “Muslims” are people who practice Islam, of whom many are Arab. There are also a great many African Muslims, Indonesian Muslims, and Persian Muslims to name just a few. There are also many Christian Arabs, and the like. Anyway…) The East African coastal peoples gradually assimilated these cultural and religious influences and formed a new society, calling themselves the Swahili people. The coastal peoples intermarried with Arab traders from the north and formed a fairly powerful trade network of their own, peaking between the 8th and 13th centuries. This is why the coast is predominantly Muslim, even though most of the rest of the country is Christian. As they grew in power and wealth, their language began spread inland. With the advent of colonialism the different colonial powers (Portugal, The Omani Empire, Germany, and England) utilized the language to different extents, and before long it was a major language of government. It was gradually supplanted in Kenya by English in the last several decades before Independence, but it is still one of two national languages (along with English, which is less widely known, especially outside of the cities) and is spoken by almost everyone. In Tanzania it is the only national language, and very few people speak English. Despite this national appropriation of the language, the coast is still considered to be the home of Swahili, and most folks there would call themselves the Swahili people. Many of them, including my friends here, are of mixed or even predominantly Arab descent. ]

Anyway, my three friends here are all seniors, and are all preparing to graduate in March. They have been tremendously welcoming and friendly, and have made me feel very much at home. They are all from relatively wealthy families (Baraton is a private university and there are very few scholarships available, so many people are), and I get the impression that Salim and Abdallah come from families that are very well connected in the Kenyan political and Economic elite.

Other than spending time with those guys, I am finding Baraton to be a little on the slow side. Exams start at the end of the week so many people are spending a lot of their time studying. There also isn’t really a significant town around, and the few restaurants across outside the gate are sufficient for sneaking out at meal time to get meat or soda, but not much else. Although the campus is certainly pleasant and would be a nice place to attend school, I nevertheless find myself with lots and lots of free time. On the plus side, this is helping me catch up on all sorts of reading. I’m also making some headway on the planning of the 24 hour play festival coming up on January 12th (tickets are just $5- reserve yours today!) and on my email correspondence, but this isn’t really what I came to Kenya to do. I have met briefly with a few professors, including one interesting meeting with a professor of Geography and Development Studies, but even that didn’t seem to lead anywhere, as he had to cut it short with other work to do. I doubt he’ll have time to schedule a second interview.

All in all, it seems like a very pleasant place that I happened to arrive at in the wrong context and/or at the wrong time. And I can’t even upload any more photos or anything to the web because the connection is a little too slow. If you find that my blog posts trail off for the next week, it will probably because there isn’t that much to report. On the other hand, if you find that I’m writing a whole lot more than usual, it’s probably out of a lack of other things to keep me busy. Now would be a good time for that casual email you’ve been meaning to send, if you catch my drift.

The current plan is to return to Nakuru on the 12th, but if the boredom keeps up I might move that to the 11th or even the 10th. And after that, I’m back to Nairobi on the 15th or 16th, and off for climbing in France with Nick O’Brien on the 21st. In these last visits to Nakuru and Nairobi I’m also going to be going around purchasing wearable art for sale back at Taylor’s Landing Country Store, so if you have any sorts of goodies that you’d like to be able to buy at very reasonable prices to support Kenyan artisans, please let me know ASAP and I’ll see what I can do. I’m already planning on bringing Earrings, Necklaces, Bracelets, Handbags, and Sandals, but if you’re interested in clothing or other things, that’s great too. I’ve also heard that the Red Ribbon Pins made by the HIV+ Single Parents support group are now on sale at Taylor’s, so if you are interested in those, they’re officially now available.

Thats everything (and then some),

Chris

Public Transportation Nightmare

Greetings friends and family!

I’m currently writing from the desktop computer of the secretary of Doctor Miriam Ssemanda, the Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences at the University of Eastern Africa, Baraton. Doctor Ssemanda was a guest professor of Swahili at Princeton last year, and it was by her invitation that I now find myself here at this lovely Seventh-Day Adventist college in the tiny hamlet of Baraton, roughly an hour outside of the larger hamlet of Eldoret, Kenya.

I look forward to telling you all about this school, but first I must relate a story about public transportation. Two nights ago (my most recent “last night in Nakuru” – of which I have already had three and will certainly have at least one more) Sylvia and I were both in the city until 6pm, and agreed to meet at the matatu stand at 6:15 to find a car for the ride home. Due to a bit of misfortune (or possibly a bad decision), the car for Mangu wasn’t a typical 14 passenger matatu, but instead a mini-bus that seats 24. Naturally, the most profitable trip a bus can take one in which every seat is full, and as such we typically spend a good half an hour or so sitting in the van waiting for sufficient passengers to arrive. Because this bus could accommodate a whopping 24, because Mangu is a relatively unpopular destination, and because it was a Sunday, well over an hour later we still found ourselves waiting for the bus to fill.

It was already near 7:30 when Sylvia remembered that she had promised her mother a loaf of bread. She ran out the door, saying something to one of the conductors and disappearing off into the night. This left me alone to ponder why it was that we seemed to have three conductors, and why they spent as much time shouting at each other as they did attempting to draw in as many passengers as possible. Just a few minutes later, the bus departed. Sylvia was no where to be seen. I asked one of the conductors to wait for her to return, be he insisted that we were in fact going to pick her up. That seemed rather unlikely, but as we were taking the rather unusual course of driving right into the market area as opposed to leaving the city, I resigned myself to gazing desperately out the window until some other course of action presented itself.

Soon I realized that we weren’t just passing through the city on an unusual route home, but actually weaving up and down every block while the conductors hung out the doors and windows trying to drum up more passengers. We even stopped in the middle of the road for a time while we debated prices with a potential rider. The bus was sufficiently large (and awkwardly parked) to stop all flow of traffic, and it wasn’t too long until we were receiving a variety of very unpleasant comments from drivers and pedestrians.

After about five minutes of this, I called Sylvia (who was very confused as to where we had gone) and gave her directions to our location, and she caught up to us right as we the negotiations were wrapping up, barely making it on board. Also during this period another lady disembarked to run an errand, leaving her bags and a small child on board. The general protocol is to wait for such people to return, but our rather disorganized conductors had had enough. Perhaps they finally grew weary of lingering in town (as had I, long before), or perhaps they too had heard the warning shouts from the street that the police were on their way. But for one reason or another we took off like a bat out of hell, abandoning the woman in the city without her child, her bag, or a ride.

Of course, I was not the only one a bit chagrined at this course of action, and before long most of the passengers were yelling at the driver to turn the bus around. Finally he did, but not before wasting five minutes driving out of the city and another five driving back in. By the time we returned the woman was no where to be found, and we had to spend another ten minutes driving around to search for her. All told, it was a little more than an hour and forty-five minutes from when I boarded the bus to when we finally hit the main road out of town. Sylvia and I were quite relieved to be on our way. The advances of the drunken man across the aisle were becoming a bit much for her to bear, and besides, we were both hungry and had much to do when we got home.

It isn’t uncommon for matatus full of passengers to stop at a gas station and fill up en route. Often the drivers and conductors are living day-to-day and ride-to-ride, and don’t have the means to maintain a full tank of gas anyway. I’ve often had to pay my fare up front so that they would even have the cash to put something into the tank. (There was also one time when me and a whole car full of people had to pay up front and then wait half an hour while we drove straight from the stage to the mechanic and had the tires realigned, but that has nothing to do with this story.) That being said, it IS uncommon for the three conductors to argue about who is going to pay and about who is going to do the pumping, and then to get into a ten minute argument with four or five gas attendants about God-knows-what before anyone even starts to fill the tank. This was starting to become the matatu ride from hell.

We were finally pulling out of the gas station a few minutes later when we stopped again, this time so the driver could bound out of his seat and come running around to the passenger door. “We’re being followed by some police from town, and we’re over loaded. If we get caught like this, we’ll all have to go together to the police station until the paperwork gets sorted out. Is anyone willing to get off here?”

No answer.

“Anyone?”

Silence.

“Is anyone willing to lay flat on top of the bus for a few miles until we get clear of here?”

Three guys jumped up.

Five minutes later we were pulled over, and a fairly irate officer was standing just in front of me, inspecting the contents of the bus. We were almost about to get off, when he noticed that most of the passengers were not wearing seat belts. A seditious grin slid across his face. “Why aren’t you wearing seatbelts!?” He demanded in Swahili. “That is a 500 shilling fine ($8 US – a huge penalty for these people) for every one of you! I’m turning this car around and taking it back to the station!” This meant we would all be thrown into jail until we paid our fine and were free to go again. Of course, then we’d still have to find another way of getting home. Plus, most of the people with us wouldn’t be able to pay, and I wasn’t sure what would become of them. I was not thrilled. And I could only imagine what would happen when we arrived at the station and the officer discovered the three men on top of the bus. There was a massive outcry from my fellow passengers, and the officer turned and made to return to his car.

Fortunately, one of our conductors thought quickly, and ran after him. I don’t know what he said or what he did, but after five tense minutes of waiting, he returned alone and shout “lets go.” I didn’t know whether he meant we were going to the station or continuing on our way, but over time it gradually became clear by the smiles emerging on the faces of those looking back out the windows that the officer was letting us pass.A few miles later we passed through the permanent police check point, and although we were all quite apprehensive, it passed without event.

A little bit later we stopped again for the men on top of the bus to come back inside. They were greeted with a hero’s welcome, which I thought was fitting. Although I was surprised at how readily everyone forgot that the greed, confusion, and inefficiency of the conductors was what had caused all of these problems to begin.

Either way, in all the confusion neither Sylvia nor I was ever asked to pay, so we couldn’t really complain too much. We arrived at our stop two and a half hours after we boarded the bus, about two hours later than we had expected. It was a long and miserable ride, but I suppose in retrospect it makes for a good story. Either way, I was happy to finally arrive safe and sound, and five hundred and fifty shillings richer than I could have been.

Sorry for the bad grammar and spelling, this post was composed in great haste. Hopefully one day I’ll have time to actually sit and do things thoughtfully.

Until then, I miss and love you all.

World AIDS Day 2007

December 1st marks the annual World AIDS Day, and the residents of Nakuru honored the occasion with a large gathering in the downtown Nyayo Gardens. There were a multitude of large tents set up, representing organizations such as Family Health International, the Catholic Diocese of Nakuru, and the Nakuru Police Department. Each had its own unique activities, ranging from the sales of arts and crafts made by various support groups to the distribution of free health information, condoms, and nutritional supplements. The main tent was home to a host of local health, youth, and political leaders, along with the winners of the Miss Red Ribbon Pageant and other prominent HIV + individuals. This tent opened out onto a central stage area, in which arts and youth organizations alternated performances with poetry readings and ensemble dance pieces by local school children. The rest of the clearing was occupied by hundreds of seated school children ringed by invited guests, concerned residents, and curious onlookers. The flowering trees and other foliage towering overhead gave the whole place a serene natural feel.

Behind the main tent the volunteers from the Red Cross and Nuru Ya Jamii had established two Voluntary Counseling and Testing tents, outside of which dozens of people had lined up to receive information and learn their HIV status. Partially at the urging of my host mother Jane and partially to satisfy my own curiosity about the process, I eventually found my own way into this same line. I was surprised to learn that a few of the members of REPACTED did not actually know their own statuses, and I was able to convince them that if I was going to be tested, they should be too. So it came to be that three of us spent well over an hour waiting in the line (or the jumble, if you will, as there were often contentions and near-fights over the true sequence of the “line,” especially as the clock marched on towards closing time.)

I began to grow unexpectedly apprehensive as our time to be tested grew neigh, as did most of the group around me. Because of my personal circumstances, decisions, and environment, I knew that the odds of my being HIV+ were tremendously small. But as I grew ever closer to actually determining my status for sure, a few small doubts began to creep into my mind. What if I was one of those miracle cases where infection stems from the slightest encounter with an infected medical instrument or a handshake where both people unknowingly had broken skin? What if there were no discernable explanation at all, but I was somehow infected nonetheless? I had been in close proximity to many affected individuals in the past few months, perhaps some mistake had accidentally been made. I wondered if I could possible have the strength to face a positive result, or if I would be took weak to live up to the very same advice I had been distributing for two months. I found myself sympathizing with the host of anxious individuals around me, many of whom had surely been in far more compromising situations than myself.

Fortunately, this anxious waiting period also turned out to be a fabulous teaching and learning experience. Many of the people in line, assuming that I was present as some sort of AIDS expert or foreign medical official, began to ask me questions. “Can white people get AIDS?” was one of the most common. “Is this a problem for the whole world, or just Africa?” “Is it true that AIDS was made by the Americans to kill black people?” I was amazed that such basic questions still persist, despite the mass-education programs that have been taking place. Many other questions of more detailed natures also came up, and the REPACTED members (names omitted to protect the innocent) and I took turns providing the best information we could. This job was soon made easier by the arrival of one of the VCT counselors, who began to prepare us all for our test with a brief conversation about the means of transmission of HIV, and what knowing our statuses would mean for us in the future. Most of the information was a repeat of things I have already learned, but I was still pleased to see that everyone who gets tested also gets this sort of lesson. I was also impressed with the confidence of many of the patients who asked rather difficult questions in front of their peers. Perhaps the knowledge that we were all feeling the same vulnerability emboldened them. Regardless of the cause, the last few minutes before I entered the tent were occupied with a tremendous exchange of information.

The two other group members and I agreed to be tested as a group, and to share our statuses from the moment we heard them. This meant entering the tent together, and it proved to be a great idea, as my apprehension was growing by the minute as I waited for our turn to come. Finally the counselor came to get us (all VCT “doctors” have been thoroughly trained in the requisite sanitation, medical, and counseling skills, but few are actually medical experts beyond the issues of HIV.) Once inside, we examined the literature and equipment arranged before us like an exhibit in an HIV museum. As the councilor prepared his equipment, the three of us took turns saying encouraging things and holding hands.

The test itself was a relatively simple process. The counselor used a fresh and sterilized disposable “sharp” to prick the end of a finger, and then drew enough blood to fill a small dropper, probably about 5ml. He then opened a disposable test strip (something rather akin to pool chlorine-level test strips), and placed a few drops of blood on one end. He then disposed of the sharp and dropper in a biohazard box and placed a few drops of a test solution on the strip. He then hid the strip from view while we waited for it to develop, and moved on to the next patient. The whole process for all three of us took no more than ten minutes. While we waited, he filled out some demographic information that we provided in individual interview sessions. This was rather straightforward, although looking over his shoulder I did notice that he made a handful of assumptions about me and the other members of the group. Between the spaces for “age” and “marital status” there was a space for “sexual orientation.” For all three of us he assumed heterosexual without even asking the question. We were all also automatically recorded as Christians.
After a brief waiting period, we were instructed how to interpret our test results. You have to read your own results in order to help you feel like you "own them" and to help you accept the truth, one way or the other. For me, it also served to further intensify the situation. With one final reminder - "one stripe, negative; two stripes, positive" - and one last set of reassurances, he handed us our tests. First there were sighs of relief. Then a moment of tension again as we realized our friends might not have been so fortunate. Then a burst of laughter as we realized we were all okay. The moment that followed was as momentus for its joy as the one before had been for fear. We were all okay. But this sensation also passed as we realized that many of the people who had passed through this tent before us had not been so lucky, and that millions more awaited that same fate.

Later in the day I accompanied REPACTED and a host of Red Cross volunteers to a local slum area where we brought a VCT tent and loads of information to hand out. For me and the others with whom I had been tested, encouraging people to learn their status took on a new meaning. Having been through that experience ourselves (and in my case, with much less to fear than many others), I could appreciate the horror that many felt at the suggestion. But I also recognized in a new light the importance of knowing your status, both to help you protect yourself and to protect those you love. In the end, I probably shouldn't have let the day be so much about myself. But in so, I certainly gained a new appreciation for what it means to be HIV-, and for the challenges facing the campaign to raise awareness and defeat stigma and fear. Certainly a World AIDS Day that I won't be able to forget.

A Safari and An Outreach

Greetings all,

Our first full day in Nakuru was largely occupied by a big trip to Lake Nakuru National Park just outside of town. We awoke early to be ready when our hired van/driver arrived, and by 8 am the whole group of us (the host family - George, Jane, Charles, Sylvia, and Caro - plus me and dad and Blair) had climbed aboard and we were off to the park. We ran into trouble 5 miles from the house when the van ran out of gas (I'm not certain why the driver didn't fill up prior to coming out to get us), but after half an hour of waiting by the roadside for him to hitch into town and back, we were once again on our way. Although the park was fairly expensive ($40 US for foreigners, $3 for residents), we soon realized that it was going to be worth every cent.

The park is a large parcel of land starting just 3 miles from downtown Nakuru. It contains a large and shallow lake, some dense forest, and a stretch of semi-arid savanna, and the whole thing is ringed by low hills, many of which have sharp cliffs facing inward towards the lake. It is a fantastically beautiful place. The lake itself is home to an enormous flock of flamingos, who stand (monopodically) in large clumps near the shore, where they feed on a very specific species of algae (which in turn feeds only on flamingo waste.) From a distance they give the lake the appearance of having being ringed entirely in pink. It is also home too several huge flocks of storks and pelicans, all of whom are alarmingly loud and large (many stand 2-3 feet tall). The water also draws large numbers of mammals, and near its edges we saw giraffe, gazelles, rhino, zebra, water buffalo (which are enormous), and several other large animals whose names I do not know. We also saw a hyena eating a flamingo, an angry troupe of baboons (as well as plenty of smaller monkeys), a tiny hoofed animal called a dik-dik, very large and bizarre rodents called hyraxes who were neither curious nor afraid of our presence, and more colorful lizards, birds, and insects than I could possibly describe. There were no Lions, Elephants, Warthogs, or Leopards, but every other species we had hoped to see were present in large numbers. It was an animal-watching dream.

We also came across a gorgeous waterfall cascading down from beautiful (and tremendously climbable - I'll be back one day) sandstone cliffs. There was a forest of cacti towering 40-60 feet over our heads, a low marsh that is home to several hippopotamuses (whom we did not see), and some very arid near-deserts. The diversity in such a relatively small space was astounding. George and Jane had been in the park many years before, and Sylvia vaguely recalled visiting with a class when she was very small, but otherwise none of us had been before, and we were all fantastically impressed.

We returned home that night just before dark, my dad was invited to a village elders meeting with George, and Blair and I helped Jane and Sylvia prepare dinner. It was a relaxing way to end an enjoyable day, and I think everyone felt quite satisfied. We stayed up very late drinking Chai and talking, and I think we all learned a lot. I'm hopeful that my dad (who arrived home safely this morning) will have time to write a little more about it in the days to come.

The next morning Blair, dad, and I went back into the city to accompany REPACTED on a theatrical outreach in a nearby slum. They had arranged this particular one to coincide with our visit so that Blair and my dad could see the work they do. We arrived at the site around 10 am, and more or less immediately set to work with mobilizing an audience. We sang our usual songs, danced and made noise, and generally called attention to ourselves. Blair and dad were both quite amused at our antics, especially when they were each in turn pulled into the circle by members of the group, becoming Incorporated into the commotion. After a time a skit was initiated, and we fell to the side to watch. At this point the multitude of tiny children descended upon the three wazungu, overwhelming my dad's ability to take a picture of each, and shouting out "mzungu!" and "howareyou!" with glee. We were also amused to find them shouting "Kibaki Tena" (Kibaki again), a campaign slogan currently employed by the incumbent president in his bid for reelection. His campaign manager surely deserves a bonus for thoroughly saturating the nation with his message, if even three year old slum dwellers are shouting his praise.

Anyway, the skit ended well, with large amounts of audience participation (thanks to the great work of a fill-in facilitator as our usual one was out of town) and after a few small group discussions took place, we departed again. Both of my guests were thoroughly impressed, and made their thoughts known at the post-performance discussion back at the theater. The group appreciated their attendance and kind words, and after lunch we once again went our own way, this time to buy tourist goodies at the local curio market, get dinner, and return home.

The next morning we visited the orphanage where Carrington and Bev both work (although Bev had just returned to the states the night before), and got a great tour from Carrington himself. I was thrilled to see how much progress had been made on a few construction projects in the weeks since I had visited. The place is really coming together beautifully - no doubt a testament to the work my friends and theirs had done. Shortly thereafter we returned to Nairobi via matatu, and in the evening I saw dad off at the airport. I've been in Nairobi (thanks to the hospitality of Micah and Hodari) taking care of a little business with the Red Ribbon pins, and tomorrow I'm heading back to Nakuru for World AIDS Day on the 1st. Then I'm off to Eldoret to visit Professor Miriam Semanda and the University of Eastern Africa - Baraton campus there. I'll keep you posted on how that goes.

I hope you all find a way to acknowledge World AIDS Day wherever you may be, and I wish you all the best, always.

Yours,
Chris

Back and Forth to Nakuru

Hello again!
Sorry for the delay in postings, I've been away from computers for quite some time. Saturday morning we packed up our things and met Blair in the lobby of the Hilton. A short Taxi ride brought us to the Matatu stand, where we purchased tickets for the long ride to Nakuru. I was able to get the front seat for Dad (where he'd be able to stretch his legs at least a little), but Blair and I found ourselves in the back of the bus, trapped by the bars on the windows and the seats that fold down across the aisles to accomodate more passengers. 3 bumpy, dusty hours later, we were in Nakuru, and my dad was beginning to understand what I mean when I say that the roads here are a mess.

We met up with my host father George, recieving a very warm welcome in his office and leaving our bags in his car while we set out for lunch. I was thrilled to be reunited with the usual fare at Mama Njeri's (the very small restaurant where I often eat with REPACTED), and even dad found the $.30 beans and $.15 chapati to be a very satisfing meal. Afterwards we visited the theater and Nuru ya Jamii, and got dad his first bodaboda ride. We also attended a small portion of the "Miss Red Ribbon" beauty pageant at the theater in the evening, in which HIV positive and HIV negative youth vie for the title, and afterwards (when the audience has established it's favorites and selected a winner) it is revealed who is living with the virus and who is not. The idea is to support the young women who are positive by providing them with an opportunity to be celebrated, and also to drive home the point that you cannot and should not distinguish the afflicted from their peers, because all are beautiful and have much to offer. It's an anti-stimga message wrapped up in a lively event for youth that also features "know your status" themes and provides empowerment. Although we could not stay til the end, I was thrilled with the high turnout and the support the audience gave to the performers. It was a very positive occasion.

As evening settled in, George took us out to a restaurant where he bought my dad a drink and Blair and I played pool with Charles. Then we returned home where we met again with my host mother Jane and sister Sylvia, and the youngest daughter Caro who is home from school on break. It was a very pleasant occasion with much conversation and eating of good food and drinking of tea. We also made the final preparations for the next day's mini-safari.

I'm very short on time at the moment, but I will be back near the computer again this evening or early tomorrow, and will explain more about the trip then. Suffice it to say that it has been a positive but relatively uneventful time, and that I am in Nairobi until tomorrow afternoon. I'm sorry for the lack of content, and also the lack of proofreading. I hope that the quality of my writing will improve soon.

Much love,
Chris