Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Final Thoughts
The road from Kakamega to Nairobi is long and dusty, a pounding, ragged journey that savages the spine. The first half is a shambling ditch with an archipelago of tarmac mounds that makes speed impossible and slow progress unbearable. This is not surprising. The first half of the road from Kakamega to Nairobi lies outside of Central Province. Central Province, if you were wondering, is the land of the Kikuyu, the tribe of Kenya’s chosen ones. The abused house servants of the colonial British, the Kikuyu managed to proffer their subservience into a primary role in independence and have been the tribe of the ruling party over the entirety of the past 45 years since Uhuru (independence). As you might imagine, the roads in Central Province are considerably better.
The man next to me on the bus from Kakamega to Nairobi is Luya by tribe. He works for a bank in Nairobi but still returns monthly to see his family in Kisumu (near Kakamega). He asks me the obligatory questions posed to whitey: Where are you from? How long have you been in Kenya? What do you do here? Why monkeys? And someone pays you for this?
I have grown accustomed to these questions, and the peculiar reactions to my answers. I assume that my responses baffle most Kenyans and make them ponder how the US maintains its super-power status when they continue paying people to follow monkeys around. Then my companion asks a new question: What do Americans think of Africa?
I have no quick, practiced response to this one. I am an American, but I feel utterly unqualified to speak for my countrymen in this regard. Our impressions are predominantly shaped by media. The Africa of my youth was narrated by Marlin Perkins and David Attenborough, and was a Technicolor safari across wild savannahs, punctuated by violent wildebeest migrations across the Mara River. National Geographic showed us the ochre-painted Maasai warriors dancing and the rainbow-colored Samburu women. Joy Adams got “Born Free” stuck in all of our heads and Sigourney Weaver made Dian Fossey much prettier and less insane than she really was. And we’ll not even discuss Tarzan.
So, what do Americans think of Africa? I think of forests where shrieking animals still disturb an interlocking canopy. Savannahs where elephants born in my father’s youth amble in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. I think of people with absolutely nothing happily offering me, a stranger, food and water when I arrive already full and quenched. I think of modern cities with suited businessmen and western fashion. I think of mud huts and grass roofs. I think of hope and development. I think of overwhelming poverty, disease, and despair.
But I am not the one to represent my countrymen’s thoughts of Kenya to my bus companion; I am not representative so I do not respond. I look out the window as we pass out of Kisumu; I see the burned houses, homes destroyed in the election violence earlier this year, homes of Kikuyu burned by Luya angry at the election stolen by Kibaki and homes of Luya destroyed by retaliating Kikuyu. Burned out houses, left unrepaired and undemolished, stark reminders of the anger and frustration at a government entrenched and a country held back by years of orchestrated chaos.
I look out the window at tent cities set up for the displaced and wonder when they will go home. I think of Rwanda, 1994. I think of Darfur today. Zimbabwe. Congo. And now I can answer my new friend: What do they think of Africa in my country? They don’t.
The man next to me on the bus from Kakamega to Nairobi is Luya by tribe. He works for a bank in Nairobi but still returns monthly to see his family in Kisumu (near Kakamega). He asks me the obligatory questions posed to whitey: Where are you from? How long have you been in Kenya? What do you do here? Why monkeys? And someone pays you for this?
I have grown accustomed to these questions, and the peculiar reactions to my answers. I assume that my responses baffle most Kenyans and make them ponder how the US maintains its super-power status when they continue paying people to follow monkeys around. Then my companion asks a new question: What do Americans think of Africa?
I have no quick, practiced response to this one. I am an American, but I feel utterly unqualified to speak for my countrymen in this regard. Our impressions are predominantly shaped by media. The Africa of my youth was narrated by Marlin Perkins and David Attenborough, and was a Technicolor safari across wild savannahs, punctuated by violent wildebeest migrations across the Mara River. National Geographic showed us the ochre-painted Maasai warriors dancing and the rainbow-colored Samburu women. Joy Adams got “Born Free” stuck in all of our heads and Sigourney Weaver made Dian Fossey much prettier and less insane than she really was. And we’ll not even discuss Tarzan.
So, what do Americans think of Africa? I think of forests where shrieking animals still disturb an interlocking canopy. Savannahs where elephants born in my father’s youth amble in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. I think of people with absolutely nothing happily offering me, a stranger, food and water when I arrive already full and quenched. I think of modern cities with suited businessmen and western fashion. I think of mud huts and grass roofs. I think of hope and development. I think of overwhelming poverty, disease, and despair.
But I am not the one to represent my countrymen’s thoughts of Kenya to my bus companion; I am not representative so I do not respond. I look out the window as we pass out of Kisumu; I see the burned houses, homes destroyed in the election violence earlier this year, homes of Kikuyu burned by Luya angry at the election stolen by Kibaki and homes of Luya destroyed by retaliating Kikuyu. Burned out houses, left unrepaired and undemolished, stark reminders of the anger and frustration at a government entrenched and a country held back by years of orchestrated chaos.
I look out the window at tent cities set up for the displaced and wonder when they will go home. I think of Rwanda, 1994. I think of Darfur today. Zimbabwe. Congo. And now I can answer my new friend: What do they think of Africa in my country? They don’t.
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