Lake Bunyoni Canoe Weekend
Day 1
A hire chews burned corn. It quickly tires his jaw. We feel our legs rock back and forth from canoes, though we now sit still, sneezing smoke burned off from six beanstalk-sized logs. Eerily warm ashes sneak up our jacket sleeves. Our leader Moses promises legs will ache tomorrow like our paddling muscles burn today. No land in sight lies flat.
Everyone tried to sleep before the sun set. The younger ones confess to hangovers. A poor radio signal plays bad music. We trade tales of buraucratic corruption, waiting for our lamb to lose more pinkness. Insects feast on us as we pine to feed.
Day 2
An 18k hike/run/canoe jaunt today. Nimechoka cabisa. Rest those heavy eyelids, after some on-demand campfire rapping.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
From my Dear Mother
The following is written by mum, Sharon Bullock:
As we rounded the last bend in the road before reaching Teach Inn, a wave of yellow-clad Ugandan children ran alongside our van, waving and smiling. It was at this moment all of the built-up pressure in prepping for this trip gave way to overwhelming relief. My heart caught in my throat, tears welled in my eyes. Like Leif had said, I will have a feeling like I was coming home.
Now, more than a week into our month long stay, we are having an unbelievable experience. People of this remote area are very poor. Parents are working in the crop fields all day long and the kids are on their own most of the time. When not in school, kids are scampering up and down the terraced slopes fetching water, collecting firewood, herding goats. It's not unusual to see 3+4 year olds wielding machetes, hacking away at bushes for burning.
Teach Inn is an oasis for these children. Since they experience little interaction with their parents, they very much appreciate the time with us volunteers. We give them attention and they are polite and welcoming with open arms.
In the classroom, we are to teach in a manner that lets them feel expressive and creative. When with their regular teacher, the students copy the written English from the board into their small exercise books. What I'm gathering is they memorize much but may not necessarily understand what they've written. For the most part, handwriting and spelling are well done.
Our lessons focus on sparking the imagination. At first the students are reluctant to open up, creatively, but after brainstorming and prodding , they usually get going. Most kids are shy, but they are warm and affectionate, always.
Some tidbits of info: since we're at 6000ft, no mosquitoes or snakes-yeah! No one here has running water, including us. Recess is all soccer—most boys are Arsenal fans. No wild animals around here except exotic birds although goats, chickens, pigs, and cows are everywhere. A motorized vehicle anywhere around is rare (very nice). The lucky ones have bicycles. It's a treat to walk around here. Fresh fruit and veggies rule! Lots of pineapple, avacado, spuds, carrots, and tomatoes. This close to the equator, it ecomes dark@7 all the time. The wet season just ended, dry season begins.
Oh, on our first day we were formally introduced in a morning assembly, complete with singing, drumming, and clapping. After I said my name and Leif his, it was noted I shall from then on be known as 'Mama Leif.' The headmaster told me this was a title of honor and my presence is greatly respected. He also said, "thank you for Leif." Most volunteers are 20-somethings. A middle -age ol' gal is a rarity. Everywhere I go, I hear, "Mama Leif."
As we rounded the last bend in the road before reaching Teach Inn, a wave of yellow-clad Ugandan children ran alongside our van, waving and smiling. It was at this moment all of the built-up pressure in prepping for this trip gave way to overwhelming relief. My heart caught in my throat, tears welled in my eyes. Like Leif had said, I will have a feeling like I was coming home.
Now, more than a week into our month long stay, we are having an unbelievable experience. People of this remote area are very poor. Parents are working in the crop fields all day long and the kids are on their own most of the time. When not in school, kids are scampering up and down the terraced slopes fetching water, collecting firewood, herding goats. It's not unusual to see 3+4 year olds wielding machetes, hacking away at bushes for burning.
Teach Inn is an oasis for these children. Since they experience little interaction with their parents, they very much appreciate the time with us volunteers. We give them attention and they are polite and welcoming with open arms.
In the classroom, we are to teach in a manner that lets them feel expressive and creative. When with their regular teacher, the students copy the written English from the board into their small exercise books. What I'm gathering is they memorize much but may not necessarily understand what they've written. For the most part, handwriting and spelling are well done.
Our lessons focus on sparking the imagination. At first the students are reluctant to open up, creatively, but after brainstorming and prodding , they usually get going. Most kids are shy, but they are warm and affectionate, always.
Some tidbits of info: since we're at 6000ft, no mosquitoes or snakes-yeah! No one here has running water, including us. Recess is all soccer—most boys are Arsenal fans. No wild animals around here except exotic birds although goats, chickens, pigs, and cows are everywhere. A motorized vehicle anywhere around is rare (very nice). The lucky ones have bicycles. It's a treat to walk around here. Fresh fruit and veggies rule! Lots of pineapple, avacado, spuds, carrots, and tomatoes. This close to the equator, it ecomes dark@7 all the time. The wet season just ended, dry season begins.
Oh, on our first day we were formally introduced in a morning assembly, complete with singing, drumming, and clapping. After I said my name and Leif his, it was noted I shall from then on be known as 'Mama Leif.' The headmaster told me this was a title of honor and my presence is greatly respected. He also said, "thank you for Leif." Most volunteers are 20-somethings. A middle -age ol' gal is a rarity. Everywhere I go, I hear, "Mama Leif."
For the Kids
Sometime in Late June?
The Roman Calender decrees a week passed at TeachInn. A week for birds cuz man has time flown. Living alongside the adoring and adorable masses of Bukiga's blessed Ugandan farmerchildren, the school fills us volunteers with vigor, pride, and utter exhaustion come sundown. Every class we teach, roars of welcome greet us as we walk in the classroom door. The kids knows us by name, as evidenced by their perpetual screaming of them. At this moment, dozens of kids have discovered my journal writing location and intently peer over this scribbly cursive I write. Their laughter rises and falls between stares of perplexed fascination. Since the children are subject to a strict regimen of route memorization in the classroom normally, the mandated role of the foreign teacher is one meant to stimulate other modes of learning. Particularly the fun ones. Games, art, song, dance, slang instruction, and the like. It seems I have marked the arrival of hip-hop in this village. When I flow a simple rhyme to beats/ these kids will move their feet / don't matter if they don't eat / we go till the end of the week...
Spare houre give way to lovely long-distance runs atop hills patterned with checkered-quilt patterned farms. Each evening, hours of football (termed soccer for you Yankee isolationist holdouts) organized by the Arsensal and Manchester worshipping kids elapses on a hilly, bumpy, and and brilliantly small pitch. The capricious nature of the course, along with the individualist styles and athletic upbringings of the students, often causes a level of ball-hogging that even the greediest American forwards shy from. And it's a delight to watch or imitate.
Memorable names of kids; most of which still do not sound as cool as the indigenous surnames: Fortunate, Gift, Evidence, Promise, Jericho, Happy, Apple —wait, now it is apparent Fortunate is leading a band of little twerps in requesting I "give us music". For one, they are much more melodic than I. For two, where do these snots get teh nerve to mess with my personal space with such a laborious request? I oughtta take a cue from the full-time local teachers and carry a ruler to instill some hard-knock discipline onto these selfish ingrates. jk.
The Roman Calender decrees a week passed at TeachInn. A week for birds cuz man has time flown. Living alongside the adoring and adorable masses of Bukiga's blessed Ugandan farmerchildren, the school fills us volunteers with vigor, pride, and utter exhaustion come sundown. Every class we teach, roars of welcome greet us as we walk in the classroom door. The kids knows us by name, as evidenced by their perpetual screaming of them. At this moment, dozens of kids have discovered my journal writing location and intently peer over this scribbly cursive I write. Their laughter rises and falls between stares of perplexed fascination. Since the children are subject to a strict regimen of route memorization in the classroom normally, the mandated role of the foreign teacher is one meant to stimulate other modes of learning. Particularly the fun ones. Games, art, song, dance, slang instruction, and the like. It seems I have marked the arrival of hip-hop in this village. When I flow a simple rhyme to beats/ these kids will move their feet / don't matter if they don't eat / we go till the end of the week...
Spare houre give way to lovely long-distance runs atop hills patterned with checkered-quilt patterned farms. Each evening, hours of football (termed soccer for you Yankee isolationist holdouts) organized by the Arsensal and Manchester worshipping kids elapses on a hilly, bumpy, and and brilliantly small pitch. The capricious nature of the course, along with the individualist styles and athletic upbringings of the students, often causes a level of ball-hogging that even the greediest American forwards shy from. And it's a delight to watch or imitate.
Memorable names of kids; most of which still do not sound as cool as the indigenous surnames: Fortunate, Gift, Evidence, Promise, Jericho, Happy, Apple —wait, now it is apparent Fortunate is leading a band of little twerps in requesting I "give us music". For one, they are much more melodic than I. For two, where do these snots get teh nerve to mess with my personal space with such a laborious request? I oughtta take a cue from the full-time local teachers and carry a ruler to instill some hard-knock discipline onto these selfish ingrates. jk.
Beats Update
19/6/08
A no-holds-barred Ugandan shindig went down last night at Lake Bunyoni. An assortment of teacher volunteers, hangout volunteers, and locals packed in small cloisters got cozy beside a gorgeous, "pearl" of a lake. The entire affair took place on a steep hill, with even the firepit slanted at an angle. Folks inhaled six or so crates of beer. Local pineapple-tinged firewater Waragi was absent. In its place, "africa's #1 Vodka" packets and Moramba, both of which are not recommended for non-E. african phenotype consumption. One looks like water and tastes like ato part cleaner; the other looks like auto part cleaner, and tastes like auto part cleaner.
Before we'd made a dent in the spirits, spontaneous drums and dance erupted. I met the preferred chillers on hand: Comfort, the amiable drummer and unmatched dancer, and Charity, the enthusiastic hymm singer/vodka packeteer. Tis always disappointing when you meet good folks but know you will not get to know them much thanks to modern manifestations of time and space.
Next day, we checked into the dank Teach-Inn facilities. Three hours of strenuous child immersion later, we bounced in to Kabele once again. The destination of highest anticipation: Match and Mix, the bar/dancehall for Friday celebration. A glorious venue for hours of grooves served until sunrise. Comfort led the way with a devilish looseness in his shoulders and hyperkinetic hips. His feet kept up with him, improvising countless hop-scotch sequences that reveals most contemporary U.S. hip-hop backup dancers as lame imitations of their hipper genre forefathers, and mothers. Other memorable Ukiga (local tribe) included Cle Malli, the Rasta with a shaved head, who bought me a brew in the name of freespirited Rastafarianism. He proved a good person to practice with at saying "Ethiopia" in as mystical tone as possible.
A no-holds-barred Ugandan shindig went down last night at Lake Bunyoni. An assortment of teacher volunteers, hangout volunteers, and locals packed in small cloisters got cozy beside a gorgeous, "pearl" of a lake. The entire affair took place on a steep hill, with even the firepit slanted at an angle. Folks inhaled six or so crates of beer. Local pineapple-tinged firewater Waragi was absent. In its place, "africa's #1 Vodka" packets and Moramba, both of which are not recommended for non-E. african phenotype consumption. One looks like water and tastes like ato part cleaner; the other looks like auto part cleaner, and tastes like auto part cleaner.
Before we'd made a dent in the spirits, spontaneous drums and dance erupted. I met the preferred chillers on hand: Comfort, the amiable drummer and unmatched dancer, and Charity, the enthusiastic hymm singer/vodka packeteer. Tis always disappointing when you meet good folks but know you will not get to know them much thanks to modern manifestations of time and space.
Next day, we checked into the dank Teach-Inn facilities. Three hours of strenuous child immersion later, we bounced in to Kabele once again. The destination of highest anticipation: Match and Mix, the bar/dancehall for Friday celebration. A glorious venue for hours of grooves served until sunrise. Comfort led the way with a devilish looseness in his shoulders and hyperkinetic hips. His feet kept up with him, improvising countless hop-scotch sequences that reveals most contemporary U.S. hip-hop backup dancers as lame imitations of their hipper genre forefathers, and mothers. Other memorable Ukiga (local tribe) included Cle Malli, the Rasta with a shaved head, who bought me a brew in the name of freespirited Rastafarianism. He proved a good person to practice with at saying "Ethiopia" in as mystical tone as possible.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Straddling the Southern edge of Uganda, is that some French I hear below?
The Tuskers and Pilsners have given way to Niles and Eagles. Nairobi is a memory, Kabale is around me. And my mother, who laughs at the way the whole ordeal being recorded. We shall soon rocket away from the cyberworld, Until we teach a kid enough English to send him off on foot from the bush and into town with messages to type, blog entries will dry up for some time. So if one wants to know what we are doing, use one's imagination to discover.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Myths of Mau Mau
13/6
Historians Association Conference - Day 2
-Mid morning- The first batch of presentations winds down as we prepare to hear out a just-arrived cadre of Mau Mau veterans. Or so they claim. Dr. Lote Hughes, the fierily spectacular Brit who rented the weekend’s gari for her, Nick, and I, looks at me as they walk in. I read her amused expression, knowing that unless these unsmiling gentlemen fought their own personal Mau Mau campaign around 1972, they ain’t no Mau Mau. For all the myth and controversy surrounding Mau Mau, nobody disputes that such history went down in the 1950s. These wazee need to resoundingly convince us that, despite looking like Kenyatta babies, they are at least 85.
Of course, the validity of their status as Mau Mau veterans may matter considerably less than the agenda they shall present to the association, or other matters scarcely related to historical accuracy providing certain people in high places support such potential promoters of historical farce.. We shall see. We are told these folks want us to help write not only Mau Mau history, but to help us write the history of Kenya at large.
2:00pm – Still winding down the opening batch of presentations… Oh, the repetitions in speaking. I slip in to a hypnotic stupor when someone slowly says, “Let me be brief” (talk for at least half an hour to make an already-made point).
2:15 – The first Mauist speaks. He avoids saying he himself is a veteran but says a more elderly-looking man next to him “will tell you everything you want to know about detention.” He also admits MM veterans are between 80 and 90. I recall not digging detention in middle school.
The man stands to talk, something no one else has done. He says he has government support. Then he says “don’t allow the project to be taken by the government.” Appealing to the association to help the Mau Mau War Veterans Association to write the history of MM, he now reads his own history of Mau Mau.
A professor politely tries to stop him [“we don’t want to exhaust you, just make copies for us”]. Talks louder. Slower. Supreme dullness reigns. Exotic birds, a cool breeze sound outside. A full-length swimming pool lies still. Should I just leave the room right now? No one can do to me, can they?
2:30 – It’s worth staying to hear the historians snicker at the blustery depiction of Mr. Mau Mau’s nemesis, a professor who said Mau Mau “hid” in the forests and ate untraditionally roasted animals (dogs, mbwa choma) to survive.
The chairman of MMVA, who said he fought as a young thing and is 80 now, tells his war detention story. This proves, according to prof Macharia and others, he isn’t really Mau Mau. Rule number one of Mau Mau: don’t talk about Mau Mau. But talk he does. And in truth or fabrication, the stories thrill. The general sentiment seems to be to let the old man keep his true or fabricated dignity by talking but refrain from endorsing his association. As historians, we are inclined to include just as much testimony from folks like the Kikuyu Home Guards, who supported the colonial regime and brutally tortured rebellious Africans to maintain it.
Historians Association Conference - Day 2
-Mid morning- The first batch of presentations winds down as we prepare to hear out a just-arrived cadre of Mau Mau veterans. Or so they claim. Dr. Lote Hughes, the fierily spectacular Brit who rented the weekend’s gari for her, Nick, and I, looks at me as they walk in. I read her amused expression, knowing that unless these unsmiling gentlemen fought their own personal Mau Mau campaign around 1972, they ain’t no Mau Mau. For all the myth and controversy surrounding Mau Mau, nobody disputes that such history went down in the 1950s. These wazee need to resoundingly convince us that, despite looking like Kenyatta babies, they are at least 85.
Of course, the validity of their status as Mau Mau veterans may matter considerably less than the agenda they shall present to the association, or other matters scarcely related to historical accuracy providing certain people in high places support such potential promoters of historical farce.. We shall see. We are told these folks want us to help write not only Mau Mau history, but to help us write the history of Kenya at large.
2:00pm – Still winding down the opening batch of presentations… Oh, the repetitions in speaking. I slip in to a hypnotic stupor when someone slowly says, “Let me be brief” (talk for at least half an hour to make an already-made point).
2:15 – The first Mauist speaks. He avoids saying he himself is a veteran but says a more elderly-looking man next to him “will tell you everything you want to know about detention.” He also admits MM veterans are between 80 and 90. I recall not digging detention in middle school.
The man stands to talk, something no one else has done. He says he has government support. Then he says “don’t allow the project to be taken by the government.” Appealing to the association to help the Mau Mau War Veterans Association to write the history of MM, he now reads his own history of Mau Mau.
A professor politely tries to stop him [“we don’t want to exhaust you, just make copies for us”]. Talks louder. Slower. Supreme dullness reigns. Exotic birds, a cool breeze sound outside. A full-length swimming pool lies still. Should I just leave the room right now? No one can do to me, can they?
2:30 – It’s worth staying to hear the historians snicker at the blustery depiction of Mr. Mau Mau’s nemesis, a professor who said Mau Mau “hid” in the forests and ate untraditionally roasted animals (dogs, mbwa choma) to survive.
The chairman of MMVA, who said he fought as a young thing and is 80 now, tells his war detention story. This proves, according to prof Macharia and others, he isn’t really Mau Mau. Rule number one of Mau Mau: don’t talk about Mau Mau. But talk he does. And in truth or fabrication, the stories thrill. The general sentiment seems to be to let the old man keep his true or fabricated dignity by talking but refrain from endorsing his association. As historians, we are inclined to include just as much testimony from folks like the Kikuyu Home Guards, who supported the colonial regime and brutally tortured rebellious Africans to maintain it.
Any Excuse to Ditch the Perpetually Stormy Ocean of Dirt and Petrol That is Nairobi
12/6/08
Historians Association of Kenya Annual Conference
Egerton University – Nakuru, Kenya - Day 1
The Vice Chancellor of the association began his opening remarks four hours after the itinerary suggested. Reminding his fellow historians that Kenya’s history dates back further than anyone else’s, he laughed at a couple of his own unfunny jokes before letting the Keynote speaker give his self-described “facts and speculations” concerning the history of the land that “forged human existence”. Paying word-for-word attention to United States International University Professor Macharia Menune proved untenable. Macharia, like the majority of the presenters, spoke long, slow and circular. A trifecta of longwindedness factors: 1. Oldness 2. Africaness 3. Percieved encouragement from fellow historians that the speaker has something worthwhile to say and that the longer it takes to say it, the more worthwhile it is.
Macharia, and no less than a few others, did have wise words concerning the relevance of history in places where governments stands to benefit from folks forgetting the past. Using pro-historian themes laden with examples, allegories, and parallels involving pangas, bellies, and hyenas, Macharia spurred admitted anger throughout the room at the Kenyan government, and the world, for not giving history its due. The association chancellor suggested demonstrations as a means of getting respect. Then he looked at the size of his and other conference leaders’ guts before joining them in laughter.
Surrounded by other unabashed nerdlingers who love to talk, I found the conference helpful to my own research. On the opening night of the conference, Prof Macharia learned of my research game and, furthering his reputation as a class act, gave me two articles he remarkably had on his person.
I was the youngest registered attendee at the conference. But a few volunteer loiterers hung out around the conference room who attended Egerton as undergrads. Nick accredited their presence with a university desire to foster a community feel for the affair. Since the students found everything I did to be hilarious regardless of my intentions, I decided to behave comedically in order to give them the most bang for their mzungu buck. I’d greet them with whistles, peace signs, or exaggerated knuckle bumps. Busted mad slang, which confused more than amused. The best humor lay in imitating Kenyan accents in either Kiswahili or, more dynamically, in English. I speculate they cracked up from this because although I think I am nailing the impression, I in truth sound nothing like them. When E. Africans imitate American tongue, they sound like a TV anchor who has a badly congested nose, and who is mentally retarded.
Historians Association of Kenya Annual Conference
Egerton University – Nakuru, Kenya - Day 1
The Vice Chancellor of the association began his opening remarks four hours after the itinerary suggested. Reminding his fellow historians that Kenya’s history dates back further than anyone else’s, he laughed at a couple of his own unfunny jokes before letting the Keynote speaker give his self-described “facts and speculations” concerning the history of the land that “forged human existence”. Paying word-for-word attention to United States International University Professor Macharia Menune proved untenable. Macharia, like the majority of the presenters, spoke long, slow and circular. A trifecta of longwindedness factors: 1. Oldness 2. Africaness 3. Percieved encouragement from fellow historians that the speaker has something worthwhile to say and that the longer it takes to say it, the more worthwhile it is.
Macharia, and no less than a few others, did have wise words concerning the relevance of history in places where governments stands to benefit from folks forgetting the past. Using pro-historian themes laden with examples, allegories, and parallels involving pangas, bellies, and hyenas, Macharia spurred admitted anger throughout the room at the Kenyan government, and the world, for not giving history its due. The association chancellor suggested demonstrations as a means of getting respect. Then he looked at the size of his and other conference leaders’ guts before joining them in laughter.
Surrounded by other unabashed nerdlingers who love to talk, I found the conference helpful to my own research. On the opening night of the conference, Prof Macharia learned of my research game and, furthering his reputation as a class act, gave me two articles he remarkably had on his person.
I was the youngest registered attendee at the conference. But a few volunteer loiterers hung out around the conference room who attended Egerton as undergrads. Nick accredited their presence with a university desire to foster a community feel for the affair. Since the students found everything I did to be hilarious regardless of my intentions, I decided to behave comedically in order to give them the most bang for their mzungu buck. I’d greet them with whistles, peace signs, or exaggerated knuckle bumps. Busted mad slang, which confused more than amused. The best humor lay in imitating Kenyan accents in either Kiswahili or, more dynamically, in English. I speculate they cracked up from this because although I think I am nailing the impression, I in truth sound nothing like them. When E. Africans imitate American tongue, they sound like a TV anchor who has a badly congested nose, and who is mentally retarded.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Obamania
7/6/08
Exaggeration of Kenya’s excitement over Obama’s rise is impossible. Saturday, I donned my Obama T-shirt to see what interactions would transpire. As I descended the stairs of the room in the hostel where I put the shirt on, the guy manning the reception desk stopped me, politely demanding I tell him how Obama could be so successful in America. A Luo from Obama’s native province Nyanza, he recited several Barack-finds-himself-in-Kenya’s-homeland anecdotes and speculations. His friend drifted within earshot of the banter, his eyes glowing as he annunciated www.barackobama.com off the shirt printing in a voice actors use when they begin reading sacred religious texts. And he was a supposed rival Kikuyu. The two then tugged at each end of the shirt and, laughing, told me hold still. Three hours, two life stories, and one people’s history of Kenya later, I put on a long-sleeve over the hot item and headed downtown to meet up with the young, pre-eminent Kenyan historian Nicolas Githuku.
Already bubbling with U.S. primary conversation as we waded through rip tides of Saturday night street traffic, the drinking of the two Tusker Fame Eviction Party K2 Tusker pints given to each entrant at the door had us spitting perspectives at near-flow speeds, volume, and, I know on my part, creativity. Toasting to the 3rd-most famous leader named Hussein, I tried to speak from deep in the throat to be heard over the latest East African Nameless and Nonini cuts, and to be noticed over a contentiously heckled Portugal v Turkey match. My experience rasping into faint P.A. systems let me get through to Nick and other Obamaites, who tell me “thank you for Obama,” to which I respond, “thank you for Obama.”
Heading to Nick’s on Sunday, one could actually hear people shouting “Obama” from several establishments besides bars as they read a Sunday Nation that contained no less than 8 articles on the Greatest Black Man in the History of the World.
Exaggeration of Kenya’s excitement over Obama’s rise is impossible. Saturday, I donned my Obama T-shirt to see what interactions would transpire. As I descended the stairs of the room in the hostel where I put the shirt on, the guy manning the reception desk stopped me, politely demanding I tell him how Obama could be so successful in America. A Luo from Obama’s native province Nyanza, he recited several Barack-finds-himself-in-Kenya’s-homeland anecdotes and speculations. His friend drifted within earshot of the banter, his eyes glowing as he annunciated www.barackobama.com off the shirt printing in a voice actors use when they begin reading sacred religious texts. And he was a supposed rival Kikuyu. The two then tugged at each end of the shirt and, laughing, told me hold still. Three hours, two life stories, and one people’s history of Kenya later, I put on a long-sleeve over the hot item and headed downtown to meet up with the young, pre-eminent Kenyan historian Nicolas Githuku.
Already bubbling with U.S. primary conversation as we waded through rip tides of Saturday night street traffic, the drinking of the two Tusker Fame Eviction Party K2 Tusker pints given to each entrant at the door had us spitting perspectives at near-flow speeds, volume, and, I know on my part, creativity. Toasting to the 3rd-most famous leader named Hussein, I tried to speak from deep in the throat to be heard over the latest East African Nameless and Nonini cuts, and to be noticed over a contentiously heckled Portugal v Turkey match. My experience rasping into faint P.A. systems let me get through to Nick and other Obamaites, who tell me “thank you for Obama,” to which I respond, “thank you for Obama.”
Heading to Nick’s on Sunday, one could actually hear people shouting “Obama” from several establishments besides bars as they read a Sunday Nation that contained no less than 8 articles on the Greatest Black Man in the History of the World.
"Ole Ole Oliech"
6/6/08
2010 World Cup Qualifier – Guinea v Kenya
Despite taking the bourgeoisie route into Nyayo International Stadium by way of a 300Ksh ($4.25) “V.I.P.” ticket, the primo seats in the shade and center do not place me amidst any sort of stuffy, anti-rowdiness fan base that one encounters amongst many wealthy American observers of spectacle. Decked in sparkling Premier League knockoff jerseys and sub-Saharan tight designer jeans, the overwhelmingly young male partners in noise are whipped into a fist-pounding, miraa-chewing frenzy. It’s an hour before kickoff and a Mkenya both full-body painted in Kenya colors and dressed in drag runs laps around the track prompting roars. In one hand, he holds a flag. In the other, a (I think) novelty banana. “We salute Obama” is painted in red across his chest, a phrase the stadium p.a. announcer often repeats.
The crowd claps/chants a rhythm long-short-short-short [hoo!]. Dancing can, and does, accompany. Folks fill the stairways, though seats behind the goal remain open. It seems against the Kenyan national character to boo the other side before the match. At 3:30 in the afternoon, even the drunks carry an air of dignity in their swaggers and stutters. A few give jeers, but they are politely petite boos that one hears at a kindergarten haunted house.
As the game begins, I notice that the end-zones have not only filled completely but that more watu are coming in than ever before. In the opening minutes Dennis “the Menace” Oliech splits two defenders and nets one for the home squad. A stadium has never been so loud. Groups of dancers prowl the faraway. A man takes off his shirt and rubs his belly like a jeanie lamp as he spins around. Spiderman descends from afar as folks instruct him to fly. He unmistakably considers attempting going airborne off a lengthy drop-off, then cowers away. Everyone laughs at him. The announcer then announces that newly-stated Prime Minister Raila Odinga has just entered the building about 30 yds to my left. Textbook African leadership. Wait until a moment of mass euphoria before showing up. Let the people viscerally associate you with good times.
The first half is tactically dominated by the Guineans. But they miss several clean looks by inches and are held scoreless. The Kenya side fruitlessly presses on with an offense entirely comprised of deep through balls to the forwards. The strategy proves not the stupidest, as a sensational behind-the-back pass from Oliech set the Harambee Stars up with a shot they shanked badly as the half closed. The announcer begs security to close the gates. The stadium is packed like the slums. More continue to pour into Gate 6. The announcer has to name a guard by name to get it closed. Others pound gate three from the outside, nearly shaking it open before tardy Askari interfere. Inside, we yell “Karibuni,” welcoming the late arrivals in. As halftime, the announcer thanks the crowd for “coming out and showing how sports can demonstrate national unity.” The loud system then pumps an East African produced response-and-response Barack Obama song. The verses describe his idolized life story. People shout the chorus (his name) with a gleeful timber not found even among us U.S. Daily Show liberals.
The second half is all Stars. The Guinean coach claimed before the match that the Brave Warriors would be lucky to escape with a draw because Kenya is “unbeatable at home.” Of course, the Harambee Stars have recently played, as the Daily Nation describes, “like garbage” on whatever pitch will host their corrupt, previously Fifa-banned squad. But today, the coach’s complement proves sincere. Oliech menaces his way past two defenders again to score. The crowd, far exceeding the 35,000-person guideline, changes the “Ole” chant to an “Oliech” chant. Oliech responds with another pro strike that hits the top bar, just a bit too high for the hat trick.
Either the high elevation above sea level and/or the high level of noise exhausts the Warriors. The African Cup quarterfinalists fall 2-0. Fans storm the field, grabbing fifa.com signs and holding officials’ chairs upside down over their heads. Way too many climb a small terrace and begin dancing. Some climb over the barbed wire into the V.I.P. zone, realize nobody cares enough to do anything about it, then climb back on the filed to rejoin to central fracas. The announcer ever-so-politely points out that Fifa officials are in attendance and may be apt to re-ban Kenya if the scene turns too spontaneously awesome, wildly African, or hooligan ugly. Apparently, it doesn’t. The crowd is hailed in the coming days as an example of how Kenyans should behave: united and jubilant in the absence of motivated law enforcement.
Barring further, increasingly-probable collapse of its government, Zimbabwe comes to Africa’s capital this Saturday.
2010 World Cup Qualifier – Guinea v Kenya
Despite taking the bourgeoisie route into Nyayo International Stadium by way of a 300Ksh ($4.25) “V.I.P.” ticket, the primo seats in the shade and center do not place me amidst any sort of stuffy, anti-rowdiness fan base that one encounters amongst many wealthy American observers of spectacle. Decked in sparkling Premier League knockoff jerseys and sub-Saharan tight designer jeans, the overwhelmingly young male partners in noise are whipped into a fist-pounding, miraa-chewing frenzy. It’s an hour before kickoff and a Mkenya both full-body painted in Kenya colors and dressed in drag runs laps around the track prompting roars. In one hand, he holds a flag. In the other, a (I think) novelty banana. “We salute Obama” is painted in red across his chest, a phrase the stadium p.a. announcer often repeats.
The crowd claps/chants a rhythm long-short-short-short [hoo!]. Dancing can, and does, accompany. Folks fill the stairways, though seats behind the goal remain open. It seems against the Kenyan national character to boo the other side before the match. At 3:30 in the afternoon, even the drunks carry an air of dignity in their swaggers and stutters. A few give jeers, but they are politely petite boos that one hears at a kindergarten haunted house.
As the game begins, I notice that the end-zones have not only filled completely but that more watu are coming in than ever before. In the opening minutes Dennis “the Menace” Oliech splits two defenders and nets one for the home squad. A stadium has never been so loud. Groups of dancers prowl the faraway. A man takes off his shirt and rubs his belly like a jeanie lamp as he spins around. Spiderman descends from afar as folks instruct him to fly. He unmistakably considers attempting going airborne off a lengthy drop-off, then cowers away. Everyone laughs at him. The announcer then announces that newly-stated Prime Minister Raila Odinga has just entered the building about 30 yds to my left. Textbook African leadership. Wait until a moment of mass euphoria before showing up. Let the people viscerally associate you with good times.
The first half is tactically dominated by the Guineans. But they miss several clean looks by inches and are held scoreless. The Kenya side fruitlessly presses on with an offense entirely comprised of deep through balls to the forwards. The strategy proves not the stupidest, as a sensational behind-the-back pass from Oliech set the Harambee Stars up with a shot they shanked badly as the half closed. The announcer begs security to close the gates. The stadium is packed like the slums. More continue to pour into Gate 6. The announcer has to name a guard by name to get it closed. Others pound gate three from the outside, nearly shaking it open before tardy Askari interfere. Inside, we yell “Karibuni,” welcoming the late arrivals in. As halftime, the announcer thanks the crowd for “coming out and showing how sports can demonstrate national unity.” The loud system then pumps an East African produced response-and-response Barack Obama song. The verses describe his idolized life story. People shout the chorus (his name) with a gleeful timber not found even among us U.S. Daily Show liberals.
The second half is all Stars. The Guinean coach claimed before the match that the Brave Warriors would be lucky to escape with a draw because Kenya is “unbeatable at home.” Of course, the Harambee Stars have recently played, as the Daily Nation describes, “like garbage” on whatever pitch will host their corrupt, previously Fifa-banned squad. But today, the coach’s complement proves sincere. Oliech menaces his way past two defenders again to score. The crowd, far exceeding the 35,000-person guideline, changes the “Ole” chant to an “Oliech” chant. Oliech responds with another pro strike that hits the top bar, just a bit too high for the hat trick.
Either the high elevation above sea level and/or the high level of noise exhausts the Warriors. The African Cup quarterfinalists fall 2-0. Fans storm the field, grabbing fifa.com signs and holding officials’ chairs upside down over their heads. Way too many climb a small terrace and begin dancing. Some climb over the barbed wire into the V.I.P. zone, realize nobody cares enough to do anything about it, then climb back on the filed to rejoin to central fracas. The announcer ever-so-politely points out that Fifa officials are in attendance and may be apt to re-ban Kenya if the scene turns too spontaneously awesome, wildly African, or hooligan ugly. Apparently, it doesn’t. The crowd is hailed in the coming days as an example of how Kenyans should behave: united and jubilant in the absence of motivated law enforcement.
Barring further, increasingly-probable collapse of its government, Zimbabwe comes to Africa’s capital this Saturday.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Itinerary
June is upon us yet the sun shines nowhere in this pasty land of trite expressions and petty bloggers. Time to eat an early, massive dinner to stalk up in case Africa runs out of food by the time Friday rolls around.
5/6 - Leave Portland
6/6 - Arrive Nairobi, haggle unsuccessfully with cab driver, decide to take chances with matatu transport, get lost.
15/6 - Find sokoni, buy new pair of (used) shoes, take bus to Kampala, Entebbe.
16/6 - Meet mother, teach Ugandans.
23/6 - Realize Ugandan children should be the ones teaching us, resign to a life of an ex-pat DRC hillbilly, try to live off land, starve, allow soul to migrate to African ancestral homeland.
So just a couple short weeks for entries. It sure is relaxing not having to worry about deadlines and such.
5/6 - Leave Portland
6/6 - Arrive Nairobi, haggle unsuccessfully with cab driver, decide to take chances with matatu transport, get lost.
15/6 - Find sokoni, buy new pair of (used) shoes, take bus to Kampala, Entebbe.
16/6 - Meet mother, teach Ugandans.
23/6 - Realize Ugandan children should be the ones teaching us, resign to a life of an ex-pat DRC hillbilly, try to live off land, starve, allow soul to migrate to African ancestral homeland.
So just a couple short weeks for entries. It sure is relaxing not having to worry about deadlines and such.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)