Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Pushed to the limit, part two

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“Don’t worry. It will be dark [during the trek to the summit], you can’t see the steep parts,” Mohammed had told us the day before, attempting to reassure us. His words didn’t exactly have the desired effect, but he was right.


I’d expected it to be pitch black, but the aforementioned awesome starscape provided a surprising amount of light in one’s immediate vicinity. Beyond that, however, all you could see was a couple clusters of LED lights floating above and below signaling other groups of climbers.


The first 30-40 minutes weren’t bad. Not too cold, not too steep. And the initial burst of adrenaline was enough to offset the extra strength required to subdue my illness.


As we continued to ascend, the cold intensified, the air thinned, breaths became shorter, and the adrenaline waned. About 50 minutes in, my weakness caught up to me. “Mohammed (pant)…I’ve got to stop (pant),” I uttered as I collapsed on the closest non-jagged rock I could spot. “Ok..no problem, no problem,” he replied.


That was Mohammed’s favorite English phrase – “no problem.” If only that were true. Actually, I might have a problem, I thought. I’m short of breath, very tired, and getting cold – and we’re not even one-third of the way up yet.


Pondering this, I rested for a good 4 or 5 minutes before being prodded by Greg, who was eager to keep moving. While he hadn’t been able to sleep at all the previous night (common at high altitude), he had managed to avoid illness. Slowly, but still ungrudgingly, I rose and continued on; at this juncture the thought of turning back hadn’t really crossed my mind.

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Twenty minutes later, I again collapsed on the nearest viable slab of earth. Mohammed noticed I was struggling. “You ok? Let me take your pack. Drink water.” I took a gulp out of my lone 1-liter bottle and handed him my bag. It wasn’t heavy – I’d made sure of that – but at that point I knew that every little thing would count.


Another twenty minutes. Same story. The amount of strength required by each step seemed to be increasing at an increasing rate and the length of each breath was decreasing at the same pace. As I laid back on the cold earth, trying to catch my breath, all sorts of thoughts began crossing my mind.


What the fuck. Why am I so short of breath? Should I turn back? Why am I doing this? If only I wasn’t sick, and weak. But I am. Do I have altitude sickness? How do I know if I’m nearing a cerebral edema? (Fresh in my mind was the story I’d recently heard from a very experienced Scottish climber who experienced this potentially fatal condition on his first ascent up Kilimanjaro.) How much colder is it going to get? Do I have enough layers? Maybe I should turn back. Even that would be a long way though. I can’t wait to climb in my sleeping bag.


Finally: This is fucking intense. Can I make it, physically? I might be at my limit here.


Realizing my situation was not going to improve, I looked over to Greg. ”I’m weak. I need to go slow. I can’t go as fast as you. Can you catch up with that other group.” I asked. “Ok. Go at your own pace.” With that, he was off, and I laid there, my mind racing, for another 5 minutes.


Eventually, I managed to regain my wits, get up, and continue on. Despite all the warnings I’d seen over the past few days while reading up on climbing – always descend or at least pause your ascent if you feel the effects of altitude sickness (e.g. shortness of breath, fatigue, headache) – I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t give up, couldn’t be that guy. Regret would be a certainty. I needed to reach the summit, and I wanted to make it by sunrise, as planned.

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We must not have been going as slow as I thought, because we caught up with Greg and the other group (Steve, the embassy employees, and the Christian ropes course posse) at the next break point. I did not bother saying hi to anyone - air was at a premium and words used too much. I was somewhat comforted when I heard another climber discussing a possible descent with his guide. OK, It’s not just me. (He continued on as well.)


From that point, it continued to be a struggle. Oxygen grew sparser and sparser and the temperature colder and colder. Soon my toes were numb from the cold (how long does it take to get frostbite?) and I was attempting to double-up my gloves as my fingers neared the same state. (The gloves were not meant for layering, which left the second layer – mittens – half hanging off my hand and my dexterity near nil. The alternative was worse.) But I’d made a decision – not necessarily consciously, but I realized it nonetheless. I was going to reach the peak. I put away thoughts of turning back, took it slow, concentrated my strength, and pushed.

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An hour later, Mohammed spoke: “We’re almost there. We will stop by a cave before top.” I felt a pang of relief – almost there. At the same time, however, I wondered where the sun was. It was bitterly cold at this point – all my digits had in fact gone stiff – and the wind was picking up mightily. If the sun didn’t come up, this would be unbearable. I asked Mohammed. “20, 25 minutes” he said. “25 minutes!” Greg exclaimed. “We’re going to freeze.” That is seriously a possibility, I thought.

View from the cave, after the sunrise

The “cave” turned out to be little more than a curved indentation near the summit but it did indeed offer great protection from the wind. As I huddled in the dark, knees to my chest and double-gloved hands under my armpits, I realized I had never been in a situation where I lacked control to such a degree. If the sun decided to take its time rising today (or, more likely, it was cloudy), I could get hypothermia. If I slip at the wrong moment, I’d tumble down indefinitely. If I suddenly started feeling the potential effects of altitude even more acutely, I’d be at the mercy of Mohammed (the guide, not the prophet, though I might take all the help I could get at that point) to get me back down the mountain. It was a weird, unusual, and scary feeling.


Meanwhile, Mohammed was smoking a cigarette (he did this every time we stopped, how he still managed to climb every day – very quickly, and never tiring – perplexed me) and a porter was serving the Arcterx-clad Danish couple cups of hot tea.

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I couldn’t even take my camera out at the summit. Nor could I stay up there for more than a few minutes to enjoy the view. (Later, I’d ask if Kilimanjaro was visible. It was.) I was spent, and despite being only a few meters higher than the cave, the cold was far more intense due to the bitter sting of incredible winds. Fortunately, Greg was able to take a few snaps. And I forced a smile for a few seconds:

at the summit (pt lenana)

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The sun rose hastily and the temperature rose accordingly. Conditions were far better on the way down and the views were spectacular. A vast, complex, rugged, beautiful landscape – hidden by darkness on the way up – revealed itself: glaciers, lakes, the other peaks, canyons, valleys, and the pure vastness of it all. I managed to get my camera out.

Sunrise behind the peak

From the caveThe shadow of one peak over another, and a portion of the rapidly diminishing glacier. (In the 90s, the entire summit trek would have been through snow, per Mohammed)

The canyons and lakes

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Mohammed’s opening quote rang true on the trek down. It was unbelievably steep, leaving everyone dumfounded that we’d navigated it in the dark. Within the first The path downhalf hour, every single person had exclaimed “I can’t believe we actually climbed up this.” The descent wasn’t as hard as the trip up, but it was more annoying. To avoid tumbling down the dirt and rock, you had to continually turn, slide, and balance yourself. It reminded me somewhat of skiing moguls when you don’t really know how. Every few minutes someone would fall, and 20% of the time this would result in a prolonged, uncontrolled slide on one’s ass.

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Two hours later, we were back at the lodge. Sitting on a hard picnic table in a small, dirty shack never felt so good. I’d been dreaming of my sleeping bag but mustering the strength to climb up to the top bunk seemed like too great a task. Tea was served within minutes, and then breakfast.


Everyone ate, and then headed for their sleeping bags. I was about to do the same when Mohammed came by: “20 minutes, we leave.” Fuuuck. We’d opted for the 3 day trek, which meant we’d now have to head all the way back down the mountain. It was another 6-7 hours at least; we had to get a move on in order to make it to town for the last matatu back to Nairobi.


I seriously contemplated staying with the other group and making my way down the next day – this would mean I could nap – but in the end, spending the night back in my bed, with a hot shower and real toilet nearby, sounded a lot better than one more day in the hut. I washed my face, hit the bathroom, packed up, and 45 minutes after returning from the summit we set off again.

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The combination of the sun shining warmly, relatively abundant oxygen, and my recent trip to the outhouse, reenergized me a bit. I pulled out my iPod and scrolled to Notorious B.I.G. A little Biggie seemed like the perfect soundtrack for the moment. On came “Going back to Cali.” Nairobi would do just fine.

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The terrain was relatively easy and we hiked with haste. We crossed the entire valley – about 3 hours – without any stops longer than a 30 second water break. And I kept those at a minimum – I was down to the last of my supply and did not want to refill at the river given the uncertainty regarding the source of my stomach bug.


Finally we stopped at the same overlook that had captivated us a day earlier. I scarfed down half a Cliff bar, stole some of Greg’s water, watched Mohammed smoke a cigarette and then we set off again.


Once Old Moses Hut came into view, Greg picked up his pace, eager for lunch and a bench I suppose, but my steps started to grow heavier. The effects of about 5.5 hours of near-nonstop walking, in my improving-but-still-not-100% state, finally started to hit. Soon Greg was out of view. By the time I reached the camp, I was literally on my last ounce of strength. The long gazes I received from energized groups about to head in the opposite direction confirmed this


Luckily – miraculously, it seemed at the time – Mohammed managed to secure us a ride for the last leg of the journey down to the park gate. It was the easiest part, but I gladly agreed to pay the $20 to ride on the back of a pick-up truck. Ten minutes later we were at the gate.


It was over. Finally.

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Am I glad I did it? Definitely. I was certainly pushed to my limit physically. There were certainly periods I wasn’t sure if I would make it – not that I would die though serious conditions did cross my mind, but that I would turn back. But I didn’t, and I was rewarded with a great story, amazing views, and newfound knowledge of what that limit feels like.


However, I don’t think I’ll be climbing any other mountains anytime soon. I still think its a cool idea, but I’ve learned a few things that indicate once is probably enough:

  1. “Roughing it” is not my style (some of you could probably have guessed this…)
  2. “Endurance” sports are not my specialty (e.g. distance running, hiking 17,000 foot mountains, soccer) – I’m more of a “sprint” sports player (e.g. basketball, tennis)
  3. Always pack pepto-bismol

I’ll wait for that cable car on Everest.

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Note: Full picture album to be posted on facebook.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Pushed to the limit

Mt Kenya from the park entrance

I never thought it would be easy. But I never thought the ascent up Mt. Kenya, the second highest mountain in Africa, would push me, almost, to the absolute limits of my strength and endurance. Or at least the closest I’ve ever come. It was intense.

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I’d pondered climbing* Kilimanjaro (the one that has Kenya beat) before I came here. At first, I’d thought some experience would be required to scale a 20,000 foot peak. But after reading up a bit and talking to some people who’d done it, I learned that it’s actually possible for any reasonably fit person to complete. However I didn’t think I’d actually get around to committing to a 5 or 6 day journey, and I decided against bringing the heavy gear such a trek would entail (boots, jacket, gloves/hat, etc).

Fast forward to my second day here. I’m out to lunch with another volunteer consultant, Greg from Poland, and he asks if I’d like to climb Mt. Kenya. Yeah, I’d be interested, I say in a non-committal fashion, eager to make the first of many exotic excursions to come in East Africa. But, I mention, I’d have to get my hiking gear sent over first.

Couple emails and two and a half weeks later, I’m on the phone negotiating equipment rental arrangements with our guide, Mohammed.

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Our journey began on Friday around 6:45 AM. Greg picked me up in a taxi and we headed to the city center to catch the matatu (small bus) to Nayuki matatu station, with the peak in backgroundNayuki, the staging town for excursions to Mt Kenya. Two and half hours and a sore ass later (the seats in the matatu were marginally more comfortable than a rock), we arrived. Within seconds of stepping out of the vehicle, multiple hands were extended with business cards and inquiries as to whether we needed a guide. No, we’re all set, asanti. “Call Mohammed,” Greg says. “Ok.” “I know Mohammed, I know Mohammed” several people quickly exclaim as I dial.

We were escorted  down a few blocks of muddy streets to Mohammed’s office. “You have shillings or dollars?” he asks. “Dollars.” “Huh…you will need to pay in shillings.” “Really?…Well, that’s all we have.” I respond, hoping my sore ass didn’t wake up at 615 for nothing. “Ok..I will go exchange. Give me the dollars. I will go to bank.” Greg and I look at each other, obviously both wondering whether we’re really gonna give this guy hundreds of dollars and let him walk away. Hesitantly, we hand over the cash – no choice, I surmise. “I’ll also get your boots” he says. (Largest size he had in shop was a 9.5, I’m 11.5)

15 minutes pass by. 20. Not that long, I suppose, but in this situation it felt like it. Is he coming back? How far can the bank be? After about 30 minutes: “I see him” Greg says. Disaster 1 averted. I pack up the bag for the porter with some of the stuff I brought as well as all my rented gear: sleeping bag, down jacket, “wind pants” – but no boots. Mohammed did indeed return with size 11.5 boots, but after putting my foot half way into one and getting a whiff of one of the worst foot odors I’ve ever smelled, I decided my hiking/cross trainers would do. As we walked out, I saw one of Mohammed’s friends putting his boots back on.

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Baboons gathered at the start of the trail We arrived at the park gate around noon, after a lunch of goat nyama choma which made me re-pledge to reduce my meat intake. Here, we ran into one of the other groups we would spend the weekend with – our coworker Steve, some US and Canadian embassy staffers, and a few Georgians (the state, not nation) here to lend their expertise in building Christian ropes courses (yeah, I’d never heard of a ropes course either). Greg and I had thought about joining this group from the get go, but decided we wanted to make the trip in 3 days instead of the recommended 4. (I found out on the day before we left that this didn’t actually mean we would ascend any quicker, just that we would have to hike all the way down from the summit on the last day.) Soon we hit the trail, leaving Mohammed, with our passports, at the gate to sort out the entrance fees.

Part 1 of the Simron Route

Day 1 was pretty easy. The trail was soft dirt, which is very dusty but relatively easy to walk on, and wide – cars use this road too.  We hiked for about 3 hours to Old Moses Camp, the hut where we would spend night 1. My shoulders were a little sore from carrying my pack for a lot longer than I usually do to/from work, but that’s it. This won’t be so bad, I thought.

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I’m a city (and suburban, I must admit) boy. And Indians don’t really camp much – at least not my family. So this was a new experience for me. And technically, I guess, we weren’t really camping since we were staying in Old Moses Hut huts not tents. But close enough, for me at least. The Westin this was not. No electricity, save a single solar-powered light centered in the dining room, no hot water, no showers, and no real toilets. Just a few picnic tables in the dining room, grimey beds uniformly sagging in the middle, one sink, and some outhouses. Quite basic I thought, especially considering the $150 park entrance fee and $10 rent. Indeed, Greg confirmed that in Europe the facilities on similar mountains are far nicer.

Basic though the facilities might have been, the service was surprisingly excellent. Within two minutes of arriving, we were given freshly cooked popcorn, biscuits, and hot tea. This trend would continue all weekend. In fact, the food was very plentiful - at times I felt like I was better fed on the trail than in Nairobi – and quite good. A typical dinner would consist of soup, bread, meat (fish, chicken), greens/vegetables, beans, rice or noodles, fresh fruit for desert (mangoes, passion fruit, banana, papaya), and a few cups of tea. Lunch and breakfast were similarly extravagant.

That night, as I laid in my sleeping bag wearing basketball shorts, wool dress pants (best thing I could find), t-shirt, sweatshirt, and a fleece, I pondered whether I brought enough cold weather gear. I was warm enough at the moment, but we were going a lot higher still.

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Day 2 started at 7 am. It was significantly more tiring than day 1, not just longer (~6.5 hours, plus breaks) and higher, but on rougher terrain and a lot of up-down through valleys. But the scenery really started to get great about half way through. After crossing the final valley, we were greeted with a clear view of Mt. Kenya gaping over a deep, immense valley. This picture can’t nearly do it justice:

Mt Kenya and the valley

We paused here for a while taking in the scenery, trekked for another hour or so and ate lunch by a stream. Mohammed insisted the water was drinkable, and I thought it must be given how high we were, so I filled up my water bottles (“bottled at the source”). By the stream, we relaxed for a bit and enjoyed a lunch that included guacamole – yes, guac at around 12,000 feet in central Kenya – blue curant juice, and the essential mangoes, passion fruit, and banana.

Shipton's hutIt was only a couple hours to Shipton’s Camp from there, but by the time we reached we were both quite exhausted. Luckily, we were again treated to tea and biscuits within minutes and relaxed. Rejecting Mohammed’s friend’s boots the day before seemed like a bad idea at this point as I was confined to my sweaty, dirty, hiking shoes at the end of the day while I watched others comfortably strolling around in crocs, slippers, or fresh sneakers.
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It started to hit shortly after arriving at Shipton’s. My stomach. I was sick. Is this really happening, I wondered. The afternoon before the summit. Maybe it will pass quickly, I hoped, as I took some medicine. Dinner rolled around and it was still there. I ate about three spoonfuls of vegetables, and a few sips of soup, and gave up.

Seeing me hand my full plate back to the cook, Mohammed inquired: “You ok? Is it altitude?” “No, not feeling well, my stomach.” “Drink hot water,” he recommended. I did; it didn’t help. I sat there for a bit longer, wondering what caused this. The food tasted good, and I’d been eating it for almost 2 days already, but it certainly was not the cleanest or most hygienic “kitchen”. In fact, it was very dirty, but you ignored it because you had no choice. Or, perhaps it was the water from the river. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away.

I got into bed and hoped sleep would help. It was fairly early, but given our 3am departure time for the summit, I didn’t have much to recover. I slept in fits, simultaneously trying to ignore and fight off the discomfort. Both attempts proved quite futile.

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The peak, from Shipton's camp

A few hours and a trip to the outhouse later, the pain had subsided –somewhat. But I was left weak and tired. Still, I had to attempt the summit or this would all be for naught.

I layered on two pairs of socks, basketball shorts, sweatpants, a long sleeve dri-fit shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, a decent-but-not-great borrowed EMS fleece, and my light rain/wind coat. Layered as such, and with a torch in hand (no headlamp), I headed out into the night, under quite possibly the most amazing starscape I’ve ever seen.

Here it goes, I said to Greg meekly, hoping the worst was over. I was wrong.

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TO BE CONTINUED

*Note: I’m using the word “climbing” in its colloquial definition. Technically, I think, climbing means using ropes etc; and walking up a mountain (what I did) is “trekking”.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Climbing Mt Kenya

IMG_1680


Climbing Mt Kenya this weekend. 3 days, 17,000 feet.

First real climb I’ve ever done, and doing it in 1 day less than the minimum all the guidebooks recommend. But I hear its doable.
Unfortunately the glaciers are melting (see, I recycle for a reason) but should still be a lot of great pictures, and some narrative.
Post to come next week.

Monday, February 9, 2009

scheduling meetings (or lack thereof) in the non-profit world

6:19 PM Gabriela: Neel, did you find out what time is the call?
cant get it!
me: no..i think it was 10?
Gabriela: no
6:20 PM it was 10 my time and 11 am your time?
me: no? sometime in the morn
Gabriela: really?
how embarrassing... i am asking Ndavi, and he is like.... you can't remember when your meeting is....
:)
6:21 PM me: ha, yeah i dont remember...
Gabriela: me neither
6:23 PM me: well is someone setting it up?
im not even sure how conference calls work here
Gabriela: have no idea
me neither ... i didn't even remember we had a meetin

Sunday, February 8, 2009

To the field

16: the number of shops which surrounded the area soon to be home to the Nyala Dairy Chilling Plant, in 2002.

285: the number of shops and vendors - microenterprises” and entrepreneurs - which today bustle around Nyala Diary. (Included in this number is the “Obama Hotel” restaurant - note again the love of our pres.)

A few of the shops are directly related to dairy farming, but the vast majority are not: general stores, restaurants, food vendors, clothing “boutiques”, even a TV repair shop – quizzically, given the lack of electricity at all the farms I saw – and an internet cafĂ©. The village has been transformed. And a chilling plant has become a "hub".



The “hub” concept was pioneered by TechnoServe in Nyala. The primary goal is to develop a market for business development services (e.g. a Savings & Loan, agro-vets) and link suppliers of these services to those who demand them, i.e. dairy farmers. The result is increased efficiency, production, and incomes for all involved. The extension is that a whole community may be revitalized around the linchpin of the hub, a dairy chilling plant in this case, though the concept is applicable in many other industries as well.


It is this concept that I will be working to develop, as part of the East Africa Dairy Development (EADD) project, in other villages in Kenya. Hence, I set off to learn about it first hand by visiting Nyala and the surrounding farms. The journey was about 300km from Nairobi, I think, and took about 3.5 hours. I was going along with a couple colleagues from Uganda and Kenya, and we were meeting up with a film crew creating a documentary, funded by EADD and the Netherlands Development Agency, about Nyala – what it is, how it works, the impact its had, etc.


The drive to Nyala was mostly on 2-lane paved roads, but with a smattering of potholes that necessitated frequent swerving into the opposite lane or off the road. This was an unnerving experience: we were going about 75mph, which may not seem that fast but certainly feels like it when you’re swerving on narrow roads like these. Furthermore, there was a constant flow of people walking alongside the road, and we passed within inches (it seemed, at least) of them as we meandered on and off the street. (Kenyans walk a lot. Which is why, I was recently told by a colleague who claimed he used to walk 6km each way to school every day, they are so adept at long-distance running.)

These roads seemed like a luxury, however, soon after we turned off and headed toward the farms. Within the first 5 minutes, I was exclaiming to my companions that “I can’t believe we are driving on these.” A picture (to the left) cannot convey how rudimentary and bumpy these paths were; clearly intended for pedestrians and donkeys rather than cars. The stares we perpetually received by children and adults alike, standing on the edges of the dirt and rock, confirmed that vehicles were a rarity.






Simple. That was the first word that occurred to me as I stepped out of the truck and onto the hard, dry earth (parts of Kenya are experiencing a protracted drought). The premises consisted of small long and narrow house, a kitchen, where the wife was furiously working surrounded by two of her six kids, a zero-grazing structure (production trumps animal activism in these parts), and a couple hectares of land growing maize and other random crops. Electricity or running water was nowhere to be found. Tea, however, was offered within a few minutes of arriving.

Happy. And surprisingly well dressed. Those were my first impressions of the farmer, whose name I could not pronounce and no longer remember. He was truly content, frequently speaking of the “love” for his cows, praising Nyala for its contributions, and not only very excited about his future, but also about telling us about it. (The well dressed part made a bit more sense once I learned he was also the headmaster at a local school, but it's also further evidence of the sartorial point I made in my last post.)

After speaking with and filming farmer #1 for about an hour and a half, we went on to visit and film another farm, and then to a women’s farmer group meeting at a primary school that was located unbelievably deep within the bush. The tales about walking miles to school are indeed true, it seems.





Farmer #2 did not convey quite the same sense of glee as #1, but I suspect this was largely due to the fact that she was much older and tiring. However, happiness was again evident when the women’s group erupted into song at the slightest prodding by the documentary’s director.


It sounds clichĂ©, surely, but I do wonder how many people of other walks of life are as happy as that farmer. Or wear this happiness on their sleeve, at least. Perhaps many, perhaps very few, I don’t know. In any case, it was a new and interesting experience visiting such a community.


Nevertheless, it did feel good to get back to urbanity and its comforts in Nairobi, though I could definetly do without the pollution). And content as that farmer might have been, I certainly don’t see myself trading Chicago, Boston, or Nairobi for that matter, for the village.



Pictures: (complete album to be posted on facebook)

Farmer #1's daughter. Highly reluctant to smile, but an excellent photo subject nonetheless.





















The primary school




















One of the founding members of Nyala: jovial at 85 (at least) and with 50% of his teeth, maybe.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Thompson Falls

Full album here

Also, added Nairobi pictures here

New post coming later today or over weekend...

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Notes from Nairobi

I've been in Nairobi about a week now and I'm quite pleasantly surprised by the city so far. It is more developed and more comfortable than I expected. Of course, I didn’t really know what to expect given this is my first venture to the continent, but had a frame of reference based on the following:

  1. Common Perception of Africa: as a woefully poor and exceedingly undeveloped land
  2. India: another very poor developing country which I've spent quite a bit of time in
While the first point is certainly based on fact – Africa is the poorest continent and contains all of the 25 least developed countries in the world – it surely does not tell the whole story. Actually, the large cities, as I was recently told by an NGO-employee who had just been reassigned to Nairobi from Sudan, “allow you to live quite comfortably” - and probably enjoy yourself at that.

This is certainly true in Nairobi. To illustrate, take my experience with the following three critical items:

1. Food
- The grocery section of the Nakumat (think Kenyan Wal-Mart, but without the rural stigma) in the year-old Westgate shopping center puts some of Chicago’s Jewel-Osco’s to shame.
- My Chicken Tikka Masala was delivered within 30 minutes, pretty good and spicy.
- Local food is not bad - for 200 Ksh ($3), I get my lunch of rice, beans or lentils, chicken (either bbq or in an Indian-like curry sauce), vegetables (kale is common), and chapati.

2. Coffee
- While instant “coffee” is the norm for many Kenyans, you can find a good cup at coffee houses: At Nairobi Java House, I enjoyed a great cup of locally grown coffee – in a real mug, no less – while people watching: everyone from a local Sikh father and son eating breakfast-in-the-afternoon, to the biracial (Chinese/white) couple sitting on the same side of the booth, to the Kenyan woman with her globally-ubiquitous white headphones peering out from under her head scarf.

3. Entertainment
- Only over the air TV in my apartment. Only watch Al Jazeera - surprisingly good news coverage.
- Cinemas play American and Bollywood movies
- Nightlife seems pretty decent, but TBD. Good music - from latin to hip hop and dancehall.

However, despite these comforts, Nairobi is also the place where I’ve been advised it’s not safe to walk anywhere at night (even in the upmarket neighborhood where I stay). And where I don’t feel 100% secure since my apartment building has barbed wire and an electric fence in the back but not in the front – only a gate, wall, and two guards.

Now on to my second point of reference: India. As most anyone who has been to India will tell you, you cannot escape the poverty; there are simply too many people. You could step out from the one of the nicest hotels or apartment buildings in Mumbai and instantly be confronted by several beggars, often malnourished and ill-clothed children. Even in the smaller towns, you will likely pass slums and shanty towns a child relieving himself by the side of the road.

In Nairobi, you can escape. As I’ve told everyone who unfailingly asks what I think of Nairobi, it is cleaner (though not clean) and much less crowded than I expected based on my experience in India. In retrospect, I suppose I should have anticipated this given the sheer difference in population (3m in Nairobi vs. 20m in Mumbai; 40M in Kenya vs. India’s 1.2B).

Even walking through the city center I felt safe, was not harassed and did not feel congested until we ventured into the central matatu boarding area. (Matatus are Kenya’s answer to mass transit - thousands of independently-operated VW mini buses that run continuously at a price of ~30 cents). I wanted to take a picture of this, but was told by my local guide not to take my camera out because someone could “snatch it” here.

Furthermore, I’ve yet to see a slum or even what appears to be a very poor area. Of course, they exist, I've just managed to avoid them. However, the ever-present barbed wires and electric fences remind me they exist.*

Now, on to the people: They smile a lot and everyone I’ve met so far has been very friendly. Especially when I tell them I’m from Chicago – “Obama’s place”. They LOVE him here in his father's homeland (more on this in a later post). In fact, one of the first things I saw in the office was an “Obama-Biden” flag hanging above my desk.

Another thing: Kenyans can drink. Lot of beer, and lots of rounds. (Tip: Don’t get caught going out with just enough cash for a few drinks for yourself, as I did recently.) Also, people dress quite “smartly” – jackets, ties etc. I’ve noticed this in India too – why is it that Americans have largely shed formal attire, recent Mad Men-inspired resurgence notwithstanding, while the developing world hangs on?

That’s it for now. Subsequent posts will likely be shorter. Let me know what you think...

*Note: This was true when I started writing this post a few days ago. Since then, I’ve past some seedier areas on the way out of town (see last pic below).

Pictures: (will post more on facebook when I get to a better internet connection..)
My apartment:
















The office

















On the way out of Nairobi