Stark post-coloniality awaited in Malindi, courtesy of Scorpio Villas. 3 day break from substantial Kiswahili study, Waswahili practice. Palace-sized beds, cushions, mattresses, pillows delicately situated along mazes of hardwood floors and outdoor paths. Acres of mostly vacant villas scattered between palm trees and Jurassic-looking foliage. Africans serve red and white South African wine, spiked mango juice. Clean pulls of pulp-filled passionfruit juice complimented the already complementary. With Kenyan currency falling, the walimu (teachers) with Yale’s purchasing power are becoming more and more able to taste and share fruits of the rich.
To think of the living arrangements in Scorpio is to feel strangely uncomfortable. Noting like an unexpected onslaught of paid-for material luxuries to conjure American guilt, I guess. A reticence to indulge causes a motion deriving from aversion to the simplistic historical? Black Africans handing towels and bowing to White Sunbathers, the ratio of hotel workers exceeding that of occupants, women digging and carrying mud in view of my yoga poses. Rampant injustice? Such hotels are seen to offer primo jobs, and this one left no chore left understaffed, no tourist grievance left un-placated.
But it’ll eat ya souul? Tosha…time to dispense with apologies for narcissism, the unbridled self-reflexivity of predictable generalization. Rock and roll happened here.
As is custom in wealthy establishments across the world, Scorpio hired four musicians to entertain lucrative guests and assuage the ears of business owners by way of covering U.S.-England pop hits. As is typical, and enduringly bizarre, of East Africans’ preferences: Dire Straights “Walk of Life,” (I have heard this one played really, really late at clubs in Kenya) Cher “Do You Believe in Life After Love?” (A far cry from its recent House-techno incantations) “It’s Too Late to Apologize,” (They sung it at Kampala National Theatre, Reggae Monday, audience knew every word) “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.” (The Portland Timbers supporter in me stood proud for this one).
The audience was four smartly dressed, beer sipping, young Kenyan women. If only it were more like a scene from an African-styled sequel to “Almost Famous,” and the girls sat to date/adore the band members. They began to study the floor harder as I found a slouchy, two-step off the 4/4 time. The vocalist sang the lowest notes he know how, letting his posture and sound shrink before wandering keys, droopy bass, relentlessly steady, flairless drums. Singing with a politeness that reflected the demure disposition of the other working men and women in the vicinity, the singer succeeded in blending in, refusing to draw attention to the music. He could not be celebrated, nor condemned. Only an attentive deciphering of his mumbled, accented lyrics could interpret origins of his covers.
After some other students trickled into the scene, Drummer asked if we were ready for reggae. We were. The exchange altered the band. Before, it had revealed its compositional competence, but concealed any performative countenance. But then the vocalist jumped an octave, exuding a passion that follows confidence. Postures perked all across the room, “singin don’t worry / bout a thing / cuz every little thing / gonna be all right. Suddenly, the singer was Pete Tosh, aided by The Congos on harmony. “Three Little Birds” turned to “One Love,” “Waiting in Vain,” and “Red Red Wine.”
Afterward, old man drummer said to me, “you sing us a song tomorrow…rock? Blues? But not reggae?” Apparently, he was not listening to what I kept saying over and over: “Night Nurse.” Initially, I wanted to hear the band play that Gregory Isaacs classic, which I thought could serve as some sort of salute to the local women in attendance. Finally, after the fifth time I said it, the singer sang the chorus to the drummer to let him know what I meant. They smiled. “Tomorrow, you sing with us Night Nurse.”
The next night, Saturday, the band played for a larger audience of working girls and tourists. Alternating between the pop covers were 9-14 minutes of African instrumental jams. I recall a reluctance to go up and ask them to stop their set for me. Making them stop and mess up their show for an mzungu to be into himself seemed, again, to be strange, uncomfortable; conjured a guilt that comes with relative affluence. But the African student on my program, Shani, was encouraging, predicting that the band would love an excuse to disrupt the ordinary. I walked up to the band after a number was winding down, barefoot, with kikoy and soccer jersey, and told them I’d been practicing “Night Nurse” that afternoon. They hadn’t, but told me to sing a note into the mic and then started an awesome reggae grove. The keyboardist listened to a few verses, the chorus, and proceeded to kill the song. We ran through it two or three times, altering solos, exchanging stupidly immodest grins. Nearly all of the students, my teacher, the drink servers, towel holders, and sex workers came over and hooted it up.
My memory of what happened next is certainly distorted, I recall the following theater…
As our Night Nurse faded into its last “only you only alone can quench dis here thirst,” Drummer grabbed me, and asked, “what next?”
Me: “I shot the sheriff?”
Him: “Okay, we don’t know but we will just play”
Me “I shot the sherri-ff” (into the mic, loudly)
Keyboard: (chords that perfectly corresponded to that salvo)
Me and band: rest of the song.
Drummer: “Now ‘No women no cry’”
[mid-way through song, the prostitutes got up, including a singer with a beautiful voice, someone who society should never allow to be prostitute] Her and I: “everything is gonna be all right / everything is gonna be alright”
Me: “what about redemption song?”
Keyboardist: “I play the guitar, we do a duet solo”
Drummer: [yelling] “Yes, Yes, Feel the Love, Reggae Music”
Dozen or so of the students and hotel workers, together, the intoxicated coming in with echoed harmonics a half verse behind: “Ole pirates yes dem rob I / sold I to thee mercant sheeps…
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Ekonomik Sitcheeyation
Food: Teachers and newspapers agree Kenya has a food shortage, one that appears will get worse before better. The main ingredient for flour, maize (unga), is at an all-time premium. In Nairobi, protesters stopped downtown traffic and blocked PM Raila Odinga from entering his office. The marchers held signs and wore hats saying unga=30Ksh. If such a thing exists as national character, it is embodied here. Rather than request free food, or overthrow of government, folks unite around bargaining price for wholesale grain. Raila addressed the crowd, attempting to blame the high prices on factors beyond the government’s control, namely weather. After the crowd screamed back “No” in unison, Raila put his fist in the air and yelled “Harambee!” (freedom), hoping to be echoed in kind by a crowd full of people otherwise identified as Raila followers. Instead, the crowd responded with “Unga!”
Kenyan newspapers go on to detail how much of Kenya’s governmental grain reserves were sold for profit by politicians. Needless to say, such grain money didn’t channel back into the federal budget. Millions of maize kilos remain, but the government seems content waiting until the crisis reaches more of a full-on famine, so the stored maize is worth even more when unveiled.
On the other hand—with restaurants, street grillers, fryers, market fruits and veggies, dinners dat skool pay fo, dinners which “stress” other students on the program concerned the food will go to waste—I’ve never seen food cheaper for foreign buyers.
Oil: Gas (petroli) prices are high. As. Shit. 4 dollars a gallon would be a sizable reduction in price. I guess sustaining 3 wars in the Middle East isn’t an option. Way more people say they walk than they did before ’08. Muthafukas walked everywhere in 08. With even the beloved matatus proving too expensive for many to ride, more people are burning more energy to get to work each day on foot. As a result, they must eat greater portions for their meals each day, thereby compounding the food shortage.
Electricity: Goes kaput here and there. Ocasionally, outages are forewarned. Is in high demand, according to many authors of market forces indicators (journalists, editors at African Busi ness magazine, for example). But many know it is dispensable most times of day in Mombasa and don’t get too worked up about it. My night vision cockiness soars / AC ain’t indoors / so sweat pours from da pores.
Technology: You can buy a phone and a line for under thirty dollars, and call the U.S. at anytime for 3KSH a minute (approx. 4.5 cents a minute). Some globalization going a positive direction. With M-PESA, a creation of Kenya-run Safaricom, Kenyans no longer form lines into the street in wait of banking services. Instead, their phones are their banks. They store and send money in small computer chips, “SIM” cards.
Kenyan newspapers go on to detail how much of Kenya’s governmental grain reserves were sold for profit by politicians. Needless to say, such grain money didn’t channel back into the federal budget. Millions of maize kilos remain, but the government seems content waiting until the crisis reaches more of a full-on famine, so the stored maize is worth even more when unveiled.
On the other hand—with restaurants, street grillers, fryers, market fruits and veggies, dinners dat skool pay fo, dinners which “stress” other students on the program concerned the food will go to waste—I’ve never seen food cheaper for foreign buyers.
Oil: Gas (petroli) prices are high. As. Shit. 4 dollars a gallon would be a sizable reduction in price. I guess sustaining 3 wars in the Middle East isn’t an option. Way more people say they walk than they did before ’08. Muthafukas walked everywhere in 08. With even the beloved matatus proving too expensive for many to ride, more people are burning more energy to get to work each day on foot. As a result, they must eat greater portions for their meals each day, thereby compounding the food shortage.
Electricity: Goes kaput here and there. Ocasionally, outages are forewarned. Is in high demand, according to many authors of market forces indicators (journalists, editors at African Busi ness magazine, for example). But many know it is dispensable most times of day in Mombasa and don’t get too worked up about it. My night vision cockiness soars / AC ain’t indoors / so sweat pours from da pores.
Technology: You can buy a phone and a line for under thirty dollars, and call the U.S. at anytime for 3KSH a minute (approx. 4.5 cents a minute). Some globalization going a positive direction. With M-PESA, a creation of Kenya-run Safaricom, Kenyans no longer form lines into the street in wait of banking services. Instead, their phones are their banks. They store and send money in small computer chips, “SIM” cards.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Off-Campus Housing
I stay a couple narrow blocks from the Indian Ocean. Our house is clay—one of many multi-story conglomerations of breathable, breezy rooms and balconies. My mtaa, my neighborhood, is part of “Old Town” Mombasa . Old Town surrounds Fort Jesus, the medieval-era Portugese stronghold, currently home to goats and homemade soccer balls.
Many of these streets are too skinny for cars. Skinny people in Kofias, Khangas, and more fashionable, less easy to describe, Muslim getups speak a fast, tonal Swahili. They often exemplify what many African historians see as a distinct, longstanding, culture that exists apart the East African interior (For nerds: Frederick Cooper, Slaves to Squatters, and Jon Glassman, “Sorting Out the Tribes.”).
Contemporary Kenyans on the coast and in the mainland seem versed in a set of characteristics that apply to coastal folk. Visiting Nairobi in 2008, some impromptu oral historians attributed coastal land displacement to former President Jomo Kenyatta’s cleverness. Kenyatta allegedly convinced the “very lazy” coastal Waswahili to give government Kikuyu their land in exchange for pilau, a rice dish.
Tonight, on the Kenyan comedy program “Churchill,” a stand-up comedian, hilariously dressed in short pants a lå Cosmo Kramer, proposed instituting a cultural exchange program in Kenya for animals. He discussed contrasts between Roosters and Hens from the Rift Valley and Mombasa, respectively.
Imitating a hen from Rift Valley, he dashed back and forth across the stage, evoking the imagery of Kenya’s superstar distance runners, most of whom come from Rift mountains. His Mombasa rooster slowly strutted, cocking its hips, unable to catch Rift Hen.
Rift valley rooster vigorously screams “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO,” while Mombasa rooster nonchalantly mutters, “coup, coup.”
Those working in the Mombasa restaurant where this show played were howling and wiping their eyes from laughter.
Many of these streets are too skinny for cars. Skinny people in Kofias, Khangas, and more fashionable, less easy to describe, Muslim getups speak a fast, tonal Swahili. They often exemplify what many African historians see as a distinct, longstanding, culture that exists apart the East African interior (For nerds: Frederick Cooper, Slaves to Squatters, and Jon Glassman, “Sorting Out the Tribes.”).
Contemporary Kenyans on the coast and in the mainland seem versed in a set of characteristics that apply to coastal folk. Visiting Nairobi in 2008, some impromptu oral historians attributed coastal land displacement to former President Jomo Kenyatta’s cleverness. Kenyatta allegedly convinced the “very lazy” coastal Waswahili to give government Kikuyu their land in exchange for pilau, a rice dish.
Tonight, on the Kenyan comedy program “Churchill,” a stand-up comedian, hilariously dressed in short pants a lå Cosmo Kramer, proposed instituting a cultural exchange program in Kenya for animals. He discussed contrasts between Roosters and Hens from the Rift Valley and Mombasa, respectively.
Imitating a hen from Rift Valley, he dashed back and forth across the stage, evoking the imagery of Kenya’s superstar distance runners, most of whom come from Rift mountains. His Mombasa rooster slowly strutted, cocking its hips, unable to catch Rift Hen.
Rift valley rooster vigorously screams “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO,” while Mombasa rooster nonchalantly mutters, “coup, coup.”
Those working in the Mombasa restaurant where this show played were howling and wiping their eyes from laughter.
Jet Lag Memoir
The exhilarating feeling of Return.
Sights: shantyshack bars with dirty, partially lit signs and poorly dressed men sitting outside, smiling with bad posture. Wandering goats and children. So many places qualify as killer “dive bars,” based on Portlander, “Hipster” criterion. [pointless hand gestures ] It’s all so, like, spontaneous, so random…totally digging the artsy vibes. The street kids are, like, so creative. Burning tires to use the metals for cash. So raw. Totally be down to trip on glue with them.
Smells: Ocean, garbage, burning tires. The welcoming sense of déjà vu fades quickly here.
Sounds: Islamic chants in hypnotically melodic Swahili from mosque softly amplified throughout Oldtown, 2am. Lullabies seeping into upstairs bedrooms.
Nostalgia: makes my insides feel warm and fuzzy. Ludicrous to feel this way? I, a white American, getting “back to my roots” here? Surely it’s absurd to walk around, surrounded by black Africans I don’t know, and feel at home. I should be the mgeni here, the stranger, a consummate outsider. But what is an outsider? To be socially alienated, hopelessly distinct? Such feelings don’t exactly dissolve when living in the U.S. In academics, one’s analytical framework, daily thinking habits, diverge from the majority of Americans. I guess if you don’t mind being the center of attention, and like to fancy yourself as independent and original, then far-off, exotized travel is the thing for you. Of course, if it were tourist season, all pretense of novelty would be shattered.
Sights: shantyshack bars with dirty, partially lit signs and poorly dressed men sitting outside, smiling with bad posture. Wandering goats and children. So many places qualify as killer “dive bars,” based on Portlander, “Hipster” criterion. [pointless hand gestures ] It’s all so, like, spontaneous, so random…totally digging the artsy vibes. The street kids are, like, so creative. Burning tires to use the metals for cash. So raw. Totally be down to trip on glue with them.
Smells: Ocean, garbage, burning tires. The welcoming sense of déjà vu fades quickly here.
Sounds: Islamic chants in hypnotically melodic Swahili from mosque softly amplified throughout Oldtown, 2am. Lullabies seeping into upstairs bedrooms.
Nostalgia: makes my insides feel warm and fuzzy. Ludicrous to feel this way? I, a white American, getting “back to my roots” here? Surely it’s absurd to walk around, surrounded by black Africans I don’t know, and feel at home. I should be the mgeni here, the stranger, a consummate outsider. But what is an outsider? To be socially alienated, hopelessly distinct? Such feelings don’t exactly dissolve when living in the U.S. In academics, one’s analytical framework, daily thinking habits, diverge from the majority of Americans. I guess if you don’t mind being the center of attention, and like to fancy yourself as independent and original, then far-off, exotized travel is the thing for you. Of course, if it were tourist season, all pretense of novelty would be shattered.
"Black Swan" is a Great Airplane Movie
Washington D.C.-Amsterdam – FUA (fat ugly American) passenger quotient was significantly lower than that of Portland-Washington. Though I must continue circulating the statistic that Oregon has the lowest obesity of rate of any U.S. state. (I must also echo Mark Twain’s sentiment that citing statistics is stealthier, more sophisticated way of lying).
Best outfit in Europe – girl wearing religious headscarf with fabric covering most of her body. But nevertheless visible: a black t-shirt with pink letters that spell, “Duh, Winning.”
Four tiny pieces of chicken, measly portion of fries, iced tea in a cup designed to restrict one’s drink to soda: 11.50 in U.S. money at Amsterdam airport. And to think the papers say they are running OUT of money in Greece, Ireland, and soon, the rest of EU Europe.
Best outfit in Europe – girl wearing religious headscarf with fabric covering most of her body. But nevertheless visible: a black t-shirt with pink letters that spell, “Duh, Winning.”
Four tiny pieces of chicken, measly portion of fries, iced tea in a cup designed to restrict one’s drink to soda: 11.50 in U.S. money at Amsterdam airport. And to think the papers say they are running OUT of money in Greece, Ireland, and soon, the rest of EU Europe.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Modest Re-Launch of the Flying Matatu
After a three-year hiatus in the United States, I'm teeming with anticipation, trepidation, and needlessly flowery articulation as I prep for a return to the Other Side of Africa: Mombasa. My multi-day flight itinerary is set to begin tomorrow morning.
I am taking a summer swahili class through a Yale abroad program and summer FLAS scholarship. I don't think it will be like the Mombasa scene in 'Inception.' Although my time/space perception will probably again get shifted a little bit. Jet lag and laid-back Swahili Muslim vibes do that to a mzungu. I figure the transition will instead resemble more of an "Eat, Pray, Love" delusion, but with academics and poor folks involved.
Hard to say at this point how often I'll write here. Or what I'll write about. Please don't hesitate to offer questions, prompts, or disses in the comments section. Also got dat email: leifjacksonbullock@gmail.com.
Peace yall
I am taking a summer swahili class through a Yale abroad program and summer FLAS scholarship. I don't think it will be like the Mombasa scene in 'Inception.' Although my time/space perception will probably again get shifted a little bit. Jet lag and laid-back Swahili Muslim vibes do that to a mzungu. I figure the transition will instead resemble more of an "Eat, Pray, Love" delusion, but with academics and poor folks involved.
Hard to say at this point how often I'll write here. Or what I'll write about. Please don't hesitate to offer questions, prompts, or disses in the comments section. Also got dat email: leifjacksonbullock@gmail.com.
Peace yall
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Outros
Sad, looming departure from many things African a few matatu rides away. Sad to leave hawkers selling indefinitely borrowed road signs to cars stopped in traffic on Uhuru Highway, Nairobi. Sad to leave happy faces everywhere. Sad to leave folks who say karibu (welcome to) Kenya two months after one arrives, their eyes aglow. Sad to not share a city bus with a dozen-strong work crew that hauls hundreds of kilos worth of metal, including a steel ladder the length of a poll vault that rests in the aisle. Sad to no longer hear Mama Kikuyu halt such a bus with brash complaints as she vows to report, and does report, the public transport violation. Sad to stop eating delicious food everywhere at all times. Sad to begin not noticing so clearly a remarkable trait of human resiliency: the bleaker the living conditions, the stronger, and more selfless, people behave. Sad to walk away from streets where I must ignore nearly everyone I pass, and not because they will rob or hurt me but because they will adoringly pursuade me, as a result of their starkly transparent nobility, ingenuity, and vulnerability, to give away all my possessions and earnings to as many as I can before taking them back to America. Sad to cease being a softie in a land where potent humanity intoxicates a most sober individualist who, in principle, frowns upon spontaneous handouts.
Takin' a 48hr Nairobi layover before heading back West. My African Mama and mzungu Mama discuss tea recipes. I tie a few loose ends concerning the more scholastic aspects of Kenya history research. Hopefully, leaving the land will invigorate as it will also likely sadden. Again, I stress a point, as a I retire posts written within sub-saharan Africa, that either God(s) love this traveling American, or I've been just damn fortunate to breathe the air at the right times and places.
Takin' a 48hr Nairobi layover before heading back West. My African Mama and mzungu Mama discuss tea recipes. I tie a few loose ends concerning the more scholastic aspects of Kenya history research. Hopefully, leaving the land will invigorate as it will also likely sadden. Again, I stress a point, as a I retire posts written within sub-saharan Africa, that either God(s) love this traveling American, or I've been just damn fortunate to breathe the air at the right times and places.
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