We leave Saturday morning after a sturdy breakfast of Spanish omellete and toast at the Central Business District Nakumatt – the infamously handy supermarket chain. Once again, blessed to be living in this remarkable flora and fauna, we are preparing ourselves and shedding the constant rise of Nairobi – a city never destined to sleep.
We crawl out of the city – the typical sleepy Saturday jam – and into the countryside. Nairobi is a cool city – for light scarves and sweaters – settled in the lush Central Province, the country’s bread basket. Rains, while currently absent, water the countryside. Apparently every morning one used to wake up to a thick blanket of fog, comparable with the slopes of Mount Kenya. Now, on our way to Mile 46, we see a countryside completely transformed. The highway is tauntingly being built next to us, but we are forced to endure the rocks and potholes for now. There is a deceiving amount of industry: a “Mombasa” cement plant, trucks and trailers, grey dust from pounded rock. The sun is hot and the ground is scorching.
S. used to teach near a town, forbiddingly called Mile 46, in Elangata Wuas. A Maasai populated region about two hours outside Nairobi. We are off to see some of her old friends and spend the night with some friends of friends who have agreed to host us (at a small fee, dubbed “cultural experience.”) I am grateful to have a host. After all, the Maasai have become iconic of Kenya and it seems easy to slip into the stereotypes that we have been reluctantly imbibed with.
Our matatu stops in Kajiado, a small town sitting on the last stretch of (now) tarmac highway before heading to Mile 46. Chapati, sukuma and ginger soda; we have to negotiate for a taxi as there are no more matatus heading into town and the lorry has already done its daily trip. With our price settled, we take another off-roading adventure to Mile 46, stopping at this place that S. refers to as “camp.” A Maasai owned community venture, the “camp” accommodates foreigners and ensures that they do live that “cultural experience.” From what I gather, this type of “tourist-y” venture (which includes jewelry sales) is the sole means by which the Maasai, on top of selling their cattle (not a prefered option), can earn a bit of extra income. On that note, if you’re interested in heading “off the beaten track” next time you head out of Nairobi, I would recommend this.
The Mile 46 market is a string of stalls placed in a desert-like landscape, save sturdy shrubs and the occasional strip of trees. It is dusty and hot, but there’s a cool breeze. From under the stall eaves, women are selling intricate beaded jewelry, Chinese-made white rubber shoes in plastic bags, deep red and blue shukas, and the standard kiSwahili proverb imprinted cotton cloth. The food market is filled with dusty cabbages and potatoes – one sneakily grabbed by an errant cow – and bundles of sukuma.
This country continues to suffer an awful drought. Peoples’ faces fall when asked about the lack of mvua; the livestock is dying. S. says some of her friends have clearly lost weight. When will the rain come? The past three years have been drier than ever before. I have to check my own behavior when my reaction is that herding is not “sustainable.” However, how much of this eroding sustainability is due to our own misbehavior? How much of this sustainability can be recouped?
After visiting the market, we split up into three different directions. My guide takes me to Esther’s house. A middle-aged mama, we take a motorcycle and meet her half way. We trace the railway to her homestead, three pale buildings with a rusted bore hole in the background. The machinery broke and now they visit a bore-hole a kilometer or so away.
Jacqueline, Esther, the mama’s, eldest daughter is brilliant. Unabashedly, she grabs a pen and paper and makes me write my name down. In the morning, when I wake up, she giggles and perfectly pronounces my last name. Most 40+ year old professors who I have studied with for over 2 years fail at this. She is learning English in primary school and rattles off a string of familiar nouns, “my friend,” “dog,” “family.” She grabs my book and reads the title, “High.” She’s insatiably curious and clearly clouds out her other siblings, a shy boy called Jacob and their younger sister Elizabeth. The toddler, whose name escapes me, remains in a state of fear when I am around.
When we arrive, we duck into the homestead. The mud and cow dung walls keep the place cozy. There’s a fire in the middle of the home, covered by a grate, deep black with soot. There’s a paraffin candle tied to a pole. The mama sits in the entrance to the second sleeping room. I sit on the bed, which, technically, occupies the kitchen, eating and living rooms. She nurses her baby and washes the dishes. She continues to nurse and boils hot water, milk, chai and sugar, pouring us hot tea in tin mugs. The baby ambles over to her siblings, narrowly kicking over the pot of hot water.
Every child has a responsibility. The young boy has fetched wood and water with his older sister. He helps his father mix corn for the cows. While the little girl, Elizabeth, rubs her eyes in coming sleep, she dutifully brings a thermos to the mzee, her father, who occupies a sturdy cement house built for foreign engineers who came to the region to install boreholes a long time ago (now the water source expired, their homes occupied). The mama continues to cook with the child in her lap. She boils water for ugali and pours in maize flour. With a large, flat spatula she stirs until thick. She pummels and stirs the thick white mass. Without emerging to take a breath from the smoke and heat, she then boils sukuma with goat meat.
When I step outside, it is dark and the stars are indescribable. I want to open every part of my body and feel whatever glory might be offered by such a fantastical painting of brilliance on black. I have seen stars like this twice before: on an island off the coast of Tanzania, hours before our boat sunk, and, more recently, on the slopes of Mount Kenya. It is empowering and overpowering. The wind is strong and cold, thorns blow onto my ankles and feet. The cows and goats bleat from their pen. There is the faint glow of a paraffin latern in the other house, the mzee is there listening to the radio, evening news and music.
Inside, food is served. Ugali and sukuma have the strange ability to always be delicious when hungry. Ravenous, the children and I destroy our servings, our hands dripping with goat fat and sukuma. The baby is being spoon fed by his mother and then his sister. After dinner, the children help clean up. They are always around, tending to their mother without a sound (oh, how my own mother would have loved this behavior!).
There is something pleasantly familiar to each movement. When my guide asks me what differs from my house back home, I have little to offer. The tools are different, I tell him, but the behavior is the same (safe less coaxing for children to help out). My mama in her own kitchen, much larger with better ventilation and windows, carries around my youngest sister (when she was also a toddler) and cooks a four-course meal. My father sits in his study, reading and writing. The children remain in the living room or kitchen; giggling, causing trouble, playing boardgames and now, having a glass of red wine while thumping our textbooks down impatiently.
In this home, I sleep on the bed overlooking the fire – a slab of wood covered with cured hide – and I can hear the wind. I think back to my own family: we camped for three months on an island off the West Coast while our house was being renovated. The differences so exacerbated by everyone are yet so slim. During the summer, we often sleep outside still to hear the wind and watch the stars.
In the morning, we leave early. It is still dark when we have chai and bread. The mama is sitting in the narrow entrance to the children’s sleeping quarters, stirring the tea. Jacqueline is tickling my feet, coaxing me awake. The puppy has found refuge under the bed. The stars, always evanescent, make way for the sunrise. As we start our hour walk back to Mile 46, the sun rises over the sloping mountains.
