Freewheel Burning

Woke up at 6 to start my journey back home. I say goodbye to the house lady, Janet. Fortunately, she tends to Japanese people, who never picked up the absurd habit of tipping. Her kind goodbyes are genuine and I’m appreciative. She’s a wonderful cook.

Actually, I’m marveling (as I do every time) at the amount of weight I’ve gained. Malarone, in addition to making me dizzy, blind and nearly psychotically depressed, robs me of the ability to feel hunger, and the ability to tell when I’m full. A bad side effect when fried foods and meat are the only things available.

Takatou appears. He’s been my dinner partner for the past couple of weeks and politely puts up with my half garbled, nightly political rants. He kindly drives to the Mbita ferry port.

The Mbita ferry is full of surprises. Today, I sat next to a pile of goat hair. I take pictures of boats and enjoy the ride. It will be relaxing compared to the manic, 100 mph taxi ride to Kisumu airport. This area is pretty empty, but I’ll never get used to driving on African highways.

I arrive at Kisumu. The easy part is now over. From here on begins the harrowing adventure of African airports. Mostly, its a game of “hurry up and wait.” Today goes smoothly until Nairobi, where I discover that my flight has been delayed by six hours, at least if the sign is to be believed. Of course this means I’ll miss my flight home and will have to spend the night in Dar. I’m frantic.

The airport staff inform me that the signs are never to be believed. “Oh that? Those things are always wrong.” Never believe the digital signs with the Kenya Air logo.

A couple of days ago, I wrote about prices in the local market. In that post there were some pictures of some local sellers. To be fair, I printed them out and took copies to the people in the pictures as a way of saying thanks. Prints are cheap, and people get excited about having pictures of themselves around. It’s a small price to pay for invading someone’s space for a while.

Someone saw me giving out copies and pretty soon nearly the entire market was asking to have their picture taken. In Malawi, taking pictures in a market is a big no-no. Here it’s entirely ok.

Photographing people in a crowded market in the middle of the day is kind of a challenge and, to be honest, I don’t like having my camera out in the open. It draws attention and attracts young thieves. I’m consoled, though, by newspaper reports of market thieves being burned alive (whatever you do, don’t Google it).

Upon first looking at the pictures, I was fairly underwhelmed. Shots of people I’ve had the chance to speak to are always far better than just shots of people I don’t know at all; the story is everything. I must have shot nearly 50 people in a span of 3 minutes so there really wasn’t much time for conversation. To me, these were just some rushed shots of some random people in the market.

However, looking at them again, I discovered something interesting. I realized that every single one of the people in the pictures made a point of demonstrating their trade, or wanted themselves to be featured at their stand clearly identifying themselves as the owners.

All of them took the time to make themselves look good before having their picture taken. Some put on their “uniform,” which was usually an apron. A few even went out of their way to look like they were passing goods to customers, emphasizing that they are merchants who believe in what they sell.

Nearly all of the vendors in the market are women. Some are in their 80′s. Some are just kids. Some have small children with them. All of them appear to know each other well. Almost none of them speak English, indicating that few have been to school.

It’s clear from the pictures that every one of the market vendors is immensely proud of what they do, even if its just selling a few tomatoes, having a small cooking oil stand or dealing in kitchen goods. I’m certainly not denigrating market sellers, but the level of pride evident in this small, out of the way market in this isolated corner of the planet was pretty inspiring.

Today I went with one of the survey teams to Sucru, a tiny island of about 200 people on Lake Victoria.

Like other islands, the people make their living almost entirely through fishing. Small scale fisherman capture Nile Perch, Tilapia and catfish, bring them back to community fishing boards, which then sell them to larger brokers, which then take them to the notorious (and mysterious) “factory.” The “factory” then filets the fish and sells them to European and American dealers. The welfare of this tiny island depends entirely on the whims of hungry Europeans. The global economy starts on islands like Sucru.

In contrast with the other islands, however, the locals appear to eat some of what they catch. In fact, I assume that the majority of what they eat comes straight from the water. I could see absolutely no evidence of agriculture of any kind on this tiny island. The result is that the residents of the island appear quite well fed, some are even fat, but clearly lack essential vitamins due to their monotonous diet.

Housing conditions are miserable, and, like many islands here, sanitation is quite poor. About twenty years ago, a group came and installed a septic and well system to try to keep the locals from openly defecating and drinking their own sewage, but the system appears to have never been used. Like most areas around Lake Victoria, people prefer to crap in the bushes over a formal toilet. The result is that diarrheal disease is constant, and children live in states of vastly poor health.

As far as I could tell, school age children have to stay with relatives on the mainland in order to get an education. Healthwise, they might fare better in school.

Though only having a handful of residents, malaria is endemic to the island. Black mambas (considered the most dangerous snake in the world) are also native and live in plentiful numbers. We found a freshly killed one on a rock.

Safari ants are also plentiful. A few crawled up my pant leg and drew blood. I can be seen in one of the pictures picking them off myself. I think everyone had their pants off at some point picking off ants.

Despite all the challenges, the locals are incredibly kind (like many people around the lake), appear quite happy and don’t mind being photographed. They laugh hysterically at my rudimentary (though improving) command of the Luo language.

Yesterday, I was walking through the local market here in Mbita, Kenya and was struck with a (very overdue) revelation. Prices for basic goods here in Kenya are really not much more or less than prices for the same goods in the United States.

Kenya is certainly not cheap for foreigners and one may be under the impression that we pay some extra surcharge on just about everything. In some countries, this is very true. In Kenya, everyone pays the same price for everything.

Take a liter of milk. In the US, a liter of milk (at the time of this writing) is going for approximately $1.13. In Kenya, despite local production, a gallon of milk costs $.87. Turning that milk into cheese will set back an American $9.30 a pound, a Kenyan, a whopping $10.38.

It is worth mentioning that the newspaper here has reported that the price of milk in Kenya has shot up by 40% since the beginning of the year to nearly $1.05.

Shopping in a local hardware revealed that prices for steel nails and roofing is almost the same as the U.S. A kilogram of penny nails here costs about $5.00, just about the same as what I would pay in the states. 2×4′s will run approximately $.30 per foot, again, entirely comparable to what I pay in the States. A gallon of gas here is about $5, still cheaper than Malawi’s $10 but more expensive than the States.

To put this in perspective, an average American family pulls more than $44,000 yearly, where a typical Kenya is unemployed and may eek by through farming and informal market activities on a mere $800 a year (assuming GNI as a proxy).

Thus, to a Kenyan, food and housing are both incredible expenses. A Kenyan family likely spends nearly 80% of every penny they earn on food. The remaining 20% goes to school fees, cell phone minutes and transportation.

The trouble, and what may don’t realize, is that all of these things, food, steel and gasoline are commodities that are readily traded on the world market. Thus, prices are pegged to worldwide prices set by larger economies such as the United States and Europe. A Kenyan has to pay the same amount of money for the same products as an American, a Brit or a citizen of Japan.

One may argue that this situation may be an unavoidable consequence of a truly global economy, an unfortunate side effect of the free market. Competition on world markets, however, is only part of the equation. The situation is made worse, for example, by US policy which rewards speculation in commodities on Wall Street, a practice that was illegal before 2000. The global market, far from being free, is actually controlled by large global financial players betting on rising prices, prices which they themselves are setting.

Rising food prices barely make a dent in US home budgets, and even if they do, most families can cut things like eating out to adjust. A Kenyan, on the other hand, has nothing to cut when milk goes up an extra dime. People will simply just eat less.

Here are some more pictures. I mostly took these on a morning walk.

Of note was the picture of an amorous male donkey terrorizing the females in a local market. The incident stopped traffic, left a fruit stand in ruins, and knocked at least three people down into the dust. Even the furious beatings of the locals couldn’t stop the donkey, which is notorious for causing chaos on this end of town.

I’m too busy writing other things to actually write anything for this blog, so my two readers will have to suffice with pictures.

Right now, I’m in Mbita, Kenya, located in Nyanza Province. The area is known to be one of the least developed places in all of Kenya, but has to be one of the friendliest. It’s not hard to find someone to talk to, and even easier to get their picture. Most times, they ask you to take one.

I don’t have the energy to make a real post tonight, having ridden 7 hours to Lake Victoria, 2 hours of which were on a rickety Kenyan road. Thus, I am posting these three pictures that stood out to me in the hundreds that I’ve already taken. The first two are in the vicinity of Lake Victoria, the last is form a bone jewelry making collective in Kibera, Nairobi.

A grueling flight, though the planes were largely empty, leaving lots of space to spread out. I was even able to sleep lying down.

Even from the sky, Nairobi is doing well. Lights are to be seen everywhere, paved roads are obvious and even from the sky, the condition of the vehicles is vastly superior to anything found in Blantyre, for example. The airport is filled with Kenyan Air planes, newer air terminals and even newer vehicles. Even the terminal bridge features large ads for EPSON printers and not Zain telephone cards. Stepping out of the terminal bridge however, I notice that the tiles on the ground are mismatched and haphazardly linked.

I nearly twist my ankle stepping in. Now this is the Africa I know.

Immediately, I go into travel mode, go through passport control, get bag, exchange money, clear customs, all as quickly as possible to beat the mad rush of people entering who probably don’t know what they’re doing. I secure a taxi driver named Sam. That’s really the first thing you have to do: secure a trustworthy driver. Treat them well and they will treat you well.

He compliments me on my English, though I remark that his English is better than mine. He says “No, no, I used to work in Mombasa.” The US has a base in Mombasa and Sam used to work driving military men around. “The talk so fast, I can’t understand anything they say. And they use foul language.” I inform him that US military recruits often come from the countryside and that they don’t use foul language when their mothers are around. “They should know that they disrespect me. Please tell them.” I agree to.

The talk of the military leads him to give me a run down on the war with Al Shabaab from Somalia. He instructs me not to go to the North. In the States, we fight wars elsewhere. It’s hard to fathom an active conflict just miles away from relative prosperity.

The times have been good to Nairobi. The lights are on. The roads are paved. Cars are in very good condition. The normal burners seen hobbling through Blantyre are not to be seen here. I make note of multitudes of hotels and at least ten neon lit casinos on the way. “The Chinese are here now, ” Sam says.

Indeed he is right. Even billboards are written in Chinese now. It’s clear that Chinese investors are creating a parallel economy, one for the Kenyans, one for western tourists, and yet another for the ever increasing numbers of Chinese investors and laborers that, by appearances, are flooding the country.

He points to a brightly lit hotel and remarks that it used to be the US embassy, you know, the one that was bombed by Al Qaeda in the late 1990’s in the lead up to 9.11. It is now one of the best places to stay in Nairobi.

He mentions witchcraft. One can’t go very long in a conversation in Africa without having the subject brought up at least once. His tells me that even the educated are doing it now. Wives, seeking to reign in sexually wandering husbands, place spells on them to control their activities. I ask him if his wife has placed a spell on him as well. He tells me no, that he treats his wife well, though mentions that one never knows whether one is under the influence of one of these spells. If his wife had bewitched him, he would never know. Any of us could be bewitched, even right now.

I make it to the guest house. One of the gate keepers runs a bomb checking device under the car, with an air of formality. The driver laughs and says exactly what I’m thinking, “this kid probably doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.”

The guest house is run by Seventh Day Adventists. They only serve vegetarian food, which is fine with me, though I note to my horror that caffeinated beverages are not allowed.

It is too late to get food at the guest house so I have Sam drive me to get something to eat. He drops me off at an Italian restaurant in the city center. I am convinced that the best Italian food outside of Italy is in Africa.

Leaving the restaurant, I bolt for the cab. Around 20 street women carrying babies surround me demanding money. I guess this is probably their best way of making a living. The wait outside the Italian restaurant for whiteys to leave, then gang up on them hoping that some money might get thrown their way. Interestingly, they are all dressed exactly the same, as if there is a street mother uniform. I barely make it to the car as the driver panics, “Get in the car!” As the door closes, the mothers’ demeanor changes to the familiar laughing and smiling that Africans are known for. They wave us out. I notice the zipper to my bag is open, though nothing is missing.

We drive through the city center. At this time of night, the only places open are nightclubs and a few casinos. We proceed through a gauntlet of prostitutes on the left and drug dealers on the right. I assume the prostitutes are on the left to facilitate entry into vehicles. The drug dealers can sell directly to drivers on the right.

I wonder to myself if the army of baby carrying women over by the Italian restaurant were originally stationed over here with the prostitutes.

The driver reminds me that this is nothing. He says he’ll bring me through on a Friday night. The streets are packed, he says. On morality and consumerism, Kenya is a far different ballgame from peaceful and content Malawi.