Although I’ve told the stories of Umoja, I haven’t gone into detail about individual women in the village.  For Rebecca’s trip to the Sante Fe crafts fair, I created two short profiles of Naibala and Nagusi, women who have been at Umoja from the beginning and who represent the strength and resilience of the village’s residents.  I want to share these brief biographies with you here, so you can carry them in your heart as I do now.

Naibala telling stories

Photo: Kate Cummings, Umoja Uaso. Partner: Vital Voices, 2009. Kenya

Naibala Lekermui is one of the first to sit down in the shade of the acacia tree each morning and begin her beading.  Others in the village choose a seat nearby so they can hear her jokes, her ready laugh, and her lively stories.  Naibala is a natural leader in these casual settings, and so it is no surprise she was one of the women who founded Umoja Uaso in 1990.

Before beginning this women’s village, Naibala, now 55, was living with her husband and his other wives.  “Every decision was made by him, she says about her husband, “he didn’t give me anything.  He only wanted me to give birth.”  After years of unhappiness, Naibala gathered her five children together and left her husband; after searching for a refuge and finding none, she and a dozen other women in a similar situation decided to create their own.  Now, nearly two decades after the founding of Umoja, Naibala continues to search for ways to improve the community’s well-being.  Vital Voices has played an important role in Umoja’s growth; it is because of their help, Naibala cites, that members of Umoja learned about women’s rights.  “In the Samburu tribe – women, they do not have their rights.  But, in the (Vital Voices) training, we were taught that we can be in politics – we also have the right to be counselors and chiefs.  We have that chance as women.”

Now, mothers in Umoja have aspirations for their daughters to become local community and government leaders.  And these hopes don’t stay within Umoja’s gates; women in the village regularly visit neighboring Samburu communities and share what they have learned from Vital Voices.  For women in nearby villages, Umoja Uaso represents a future that was previously unthinkable.  These regular visits spread the seeds of awareness and empowerment that have blossomed in Umoja’s residents. Naibala sees Vital Voices as instrumental in the continued success of Umoja: “We cannot forget Vital Voices because, even if they are not here, they have taught us and we will also teach our children. We will not forget until the end of our lives.”  What is next for Naibala, for Umoja?  Naibala laughs, the beaded rings around her neck swishing softly. “We want education – more and more.”  There is little that can stop Naibala now when she imagines what is possible.

Nagasi

Nagusi Lolemy often works alone or with a handful of women, smiling at passersby as she adds another round of beads to the colorful necklace in her lap.  Her influential role in Umoja is not immediately apparent, but spending some time with Nagusi as she beads reveals her wisdom and resilience.

Nagusi married young, to a man of her family’s choosing.  Nagusi often herded her husband’s cattle in the expansive territory around their village, in areas that were sometimes patrolled by the British Army.  One day a group of soldiers came across Nagusi in the bush, and raped her.  She was left in the desert, unable to move; some women found her and brought her back to the village.  When her husband found out what happened, he refused to allow her back into their home.  Nagusi left her village, uncertain of what would happen next. Traveling from place to place, Nagusi met other women who had faced similar hardships and they, too, sought a refuge and place to call their own.  It was in this way that Nagusi became one of the founding members of Umoja Uaso.

There have been many improvements in life at Umoja since Nagusi and her friends made the decision to form a village independent of their husbands.  Nagusi, 56, takes great pride in supporting herself and her seven children with the jewelry she makes.  Depending only on herself for an income means Nagusi can make important decisions about her household – particularly about her childrens’ education.  Nagusi imagines a different future for her daughters – one where each girl attends school through college, and has the opportunity to hold positions of power in her society.

Nagusi sees the advancement of her craft as the foundation for her children’s brighter future; this is why, Nagusi says, the Vital Voices training has made a difference.  Before the training, women were making all their necklaces with wire; during the training, they learned about using thread to make the pieces more flexible and comfortable.  Vital Voices and Umoja artisans exchanged ideas about modern styles and traditional Samburu fashions, coming up with innovative designs that combine the vibrance of Samburu culture with contemporary tastes.  Nagusi believes it is this kind of support that guides Umoja towards greater economic sustainability.  “Nowadays,” Ngausi says, “we are gaining knowledge and trying to change.”  She bows her head thoughtfully, then lifts it up with a triumphant smile.  “We are now improving.”

The Magic Five – the women who composed my timed and measured team of jewelry makers – deserve introductions.  After only a few days, they became my sisters.

Naibala

Naibala (“Nye-ball-ah”) is one of the elders in the community.  Her name actually means “brown”, a nickname from the women because of her lighter skin (Rebecca, what is her real name?  Rebecca yells to Naibala – what is your name?  Naibala is too far, and Rebecca laughs, turning back to me: I don’t know).   She is a storyteller, a mother of mothers, and has the loudest laugh (warm, just often enough).  She is best at creating the multi-layered orange and yellow necklace, strung with wire.

Dtipayon

Photo: Kate Cummings, Umoja Uaso. Partner: Vital Voices, 2009. Kenya

Dtipayon (“Dip-ay-own”) is an elder, too, but quieter.  She is so beautiful in person, it is quieting just to see her.  She works with hardly any breaks, only stopping occasionally for a pinch of chew (tobacco).  She smiles during Naibala’s stories, and can sit in one position for so long without any signs of restlessness.  Her piece of jewelry is a beaded bracelet, carefully strung through a piece of recycled car tire.

Anna

Anna is one of the youngest woman at Umoja, maybe no older than 22.  She is giggly, and keeps a close eye on me.  I held impromptu yoga sessions during our long days of immobility, and Anna was the most enthusiastic – and amused – participant. When she laughs (again, this is often), her cheeks rise so high they threaten to obscure her eyes.  She has a little girl, named Becky, who loves to wear the women’s jewelry and imitate their undulating dance.  Anna specializes in making a modern version of the Samburu headdress.

Anna, Sericho, Senteiyo

Photo: Kate Cummings, Umoja Uaso. Partner: Vital Voices, 2009. Kenya

Sericho (“Sayeree-cho”) is young, maybe 25.  She has two children, the youngest of whom comes tottering for her from their hut each hour, indifferent to systems or time constraints.  Timoke, the youngest, pulls on her beads, drags her dress in the dirt, and she – in one graceful motion – sweeps the child under her dress and nurses him, and he is immediately asleep.  Sericho breaks into song, sometimes dancing in place; the others treat this as normal.  She is making a modern necklace with many beaded strands, each with multi-colored extensions.

Sentiyo (“Sen-tay-oh”) is probably the same age as Sericho, but is not as gregarious.  She has the ever-pouting child, Brett, who is no more than 2 and is also impatient for his mother at all times (tugging, pulling, crying).  She employs the same technique as Sericho in quieting her baby (she has an older girl, also).  She likes to joke with Sericho, and laughs more than she talks, which gently nods the plastic rose in her headdress.  She specializes in a traditional necklace, with rounds of colorful beads and dangling seashells.

Each day, we gathered around 8:30 in the morning on the cowskin under the acacia.  The women would bring their unfinished pieces with them, untouched since the day before when we stopped the clock.  I laid out the scales (brought from the US) and, while the women beaded steadily, I asked Rebecca about the prices for each material that was being used.  And, somewhere in the morning hours and the longer afternoons, we came up with some numbers.  They are rounded, not sharp: in the systemless situation, guesses become facts and estimations turn into solid foundations for further calculations.  These five pieces were among 35 pieces Rebecca is taking to the US, and each one needs to be priced (based on the estimations from the 5 that were thoroughly measured), so the estimations were extensive.

The enforced timing was almost unnecessary.  The women worked with only about 10 or 15 minutes rest from 8:30 to 5 (we took lunch, don’t worry).  They set the pace, and somehow there was relaxation throughout – songs, stories that entertained me despite my limited Samburu, and the ever-present children.  In the end, the five pieces took anywhere from 9 to 19 hours to make; these pieces are selling for low prices that cannot cover these hours.  I was advised by a specialist in African handicrafts to set the hourly wage at 31 Kenyan shillings: this is about 40 cents.  And, I am told, this is fair.  What’s more, this is higher than what they were charging in their market.  The price I was calculating also included the materials, overhead, and a profit margin, so there is more to this number than the hourly wage.

Still, sitting with these women all day, I wanted more for them.  And maybe more is possible with this beginning.  With my (lack of) faith in systems, I need encouragement to believe.  But this structured approach to making and selling their jewelry abroad might just help Umoja be the self-sufficient community it dreams to be.  And, I needn’t remind you, this is up to Us as much as Umoja.   Not because We may have money to buy jewelry: this is too simple.  Up to Us because we all have control over how we interact with the extensive network of people present in each of our daily lives – in our coffee, our eggs, our cars.  Behind each of these commodities or resources on which We depend are people; as personable and individual as Sericho, Naibala, and Rebecca.  We cannot be reminded enough that the distance separating us is small; the realities connecting us are larger and, from this cowskin rug seat under the acacia, much more important.

My tasks at Umoja sound simple.  Rebecca is going to Sante Fe in July to sell Umoja’s jewelry at an exclusive crafts fair; she will also go to Washington, DC, to have a market fair at the Vital Voices office.  In preparation for her trip, I am to photograph each piece of jewelry, create a product catalog with all of the items that lists the measurements (weight, size) of each piece, a compelling story about the necklace or bracelet’s origins, and come up with names for each one.  I will interview two women who have participated in training workshops with Vital Voices at the village, and tell the story of their lives – before and after Umoja.  And, I will create a shortened version of the product catalog that has the ex-works price (labor costs + materials + +overhead + 15% profit margin) listed for each item so buyers can know how much each item costs and how many can be made per month.  It’s simply a matter of collect the data and reporting it, yes?  No, actually.  “Yes” assumes there is a system, a method for gathering information, for recording it in village books.  It is natural, for me (Westerner) to assume this information would be available, I just have to ask for it.

So I asked Rebecca, how much do you spend on beads per month?  And she pauses, eyes widening – Per month? Oh, she looks down, then to the women beading around her.  I have no idea, she shrugs.  I break it down: where do you buy the beads? She replies: Nairobi, sometimes here at Archer’s Post, where the price is double.  Me: Okay, how many times do you go to Nairobi to buy beads, and about how many do you buy each time? Rebecca: (thinking) I go maybe three times a month – no, two times – it depends.  And when I go, I get what we need; that changes.  Me: And how much are the beads in Nairobi?  Rebecca: Some colors are one price, other colors are more expensive.  Me, talking to you: this is not simple.

Naibala

The systems We have in the West – rote, boring, established – are not here, in the desert, in northern Kenya, with women who have not gone through Our systems and cannot automatically spit out what We want.  I am proud of them, actually, for functioning without Our systems (I’m including you in this, forgive me but We are responsible), but in order for them to receive a fair price for their beautiful jewelry through Our outlet, Umoja has to develop these cogs in the system: minimum wage, hours worked for each item, materials used for each item, and how much the community spends per month on the whole production, the business.  The weight of this task felt like an anvil on my chest when I finally saw the enormity of what I was supposed to do in, now, 5 days.  So we start (there is no time for waiting, in this sun, in this role of responsibility).

Rebecca, we are going to have to time five women – your fastest and most skilled beaders – making five different products, your most popular (I wait for resistance. None; I continue).  I will have to sit with them from the moment they begin making the jewelry to the second they finish, timing all breaks taken (still no complaint).  I will have to weigh every bead, piece of plastic, rubber and string used – before they finish and after.  Someone will have to take care of their children; it could take days. –And Rebecca, what does she say?—You come tomorrow, at 8 in the morning, and we will begin.

And when I come at 8am, they are there, waiting for me under the acacia tree.  They are seated (with natural elegance) on the cowskin rug, each of them assigned to one of five pieces.  Systems!  Who needs a system when there is such diligence and commitment?  I know, diligence can benefit from structure.  What I mean is: too bad we do not find this diligence, this willingness and openness, throughout the systems We have – a trust in the possibility for improving one’s habits because, simply, maybe there is room for positive change.  It is complicated – my head already wants to return to the commitment under the acacia.  And we will, when I can settle the sandstorms that have swept from outside my hut into my head – I am still adjusting to the role of system-starter, of translating the pace of Samburu into the international marketplace.

It took me half of the first day to realize it, but then everywhere I looked it was obvious – the reason this choice, a women’s village in the heart of Samburu-land – is so unusual.  Let’s use the right word: Revolutionary.  The series of connections in my brain went like this:
1. All of the children each woman has had in their marriage (the one they left), are with them at Umoja.  Most of the women have had at least two or three children – in fact, several of the women I talked to had five to seven.
2. These children are mostly still of schooling age, and one of the reasons these women left their husbands was because they wanted their girls to be educated, and their husbands did not.
3. School costs money – thousands of Kenyan shillings (77 shillings to one USD)

Hands of creativity

4. The primary source of income for these women is the jewelry they make.  True, they make some money from the entrance fee they charge visitors for a tour of the village, and there is a campsite nearby (where I am living) that earns them some extra cash, but really the beaded crafts are what each woman at Umoja sees as her livelihood.  Each day the women gather in circles in the shade, and spend the better part of each day (from around 8 to 5) making jewelry in their traditional Samburu style.  These pieces are carefully displayed in wooden stalls that serve as the market in their village.  Each day they lay out their wares, careful not to get sand (that is everywhere) on the beadwork, and each day at sunset they take it all apart.  How often, I asked Rose, do people drop in and have a look at these stalls?  Maybe twice a month, Rose replied.  This brings up another complicating factor,
4.a. The drivers who bring tourists to this area are unlikely to stop at Umoja.  At other villages, the drivers (who are, lest we forget, men) actually pocket most of the entrance fee that other villages charge the tourists; the drivers tried to pull this trick on Umoja, collecting the $20 entrance fee from passengers and giving Umoja about $4 of it.  Rebecca, who does not take flack from anyone (I mean it: anyone), told these drivers they would have to fork over the entire fee.  It is, after all, Umoja’s money; the driver gets plenty of payment for carting musongos (white folks) around.  The drivers stopped visiting.  When passengers ask about the women’s village from their guidebooks, the drivers say it has been moved far away, burnt down, or failed – whichever false truth suits their mood.

Til the sun goes down

And so,

4.b. I asked Rebecca this time, when was the last time you sold something in the Umoja market?  She paused, turning to consult the women beading nearby.  She nodded in response and turned to be again: it was in January (6 months ago), a total of about 3,000 shillings (that’s $38).  I stared, dumbfounded, at the women beading steadily under the tree.  Soon, when the sun starts to go down, each woman will go to her section of the market stall, and one by one put her displayed jewelry back in a large sack, and start in the morning with the untangling and displaying of each piece on the wooden planks.  They are ready, everyday, just in case.  And why?

Because

4. This is one of the only ways a woman can make a living in male-dominated Samburu-land, and it’s what they do all day in the hopes that eventually it will be a reliable source of income, 3. They insist on sending all of their children to as much school as possible and this means money, 2. They have left their husbands who were their only source of income and continue to be the breadwinners in surrounding Samburu villages, and 1. These women still carry all the responsibilities of family without the benefits of their partners’ income (not to mention the other forms of support one would hope a partner brings).  So you see, these women are the Samburu warriors, not strictly their male counterparts, because they are fighting for their children, and for everything they themselves have never had.

Addendum: the cattle are dying.  There is less water than usual this time of year, and the cows have no grass or water to drink.  The gravity of this livestock loss hits when we consider the Samburu diet: cow’s blood, mixed with milk, and meat on the side.  Yes, there are some collard greens and gelled grits thrown in there (what?  Am I back in the South?), but those goods are trucked to the nearest town and therefore cost money the women don’t always have.  The land is desert, with little else besides thorny bushes and acacia trees (read: branches of tiny piercing swords), so starting up a garden bed, for example, is not a simple solution.  They have actually started one and it is, to be expected, without any new growth.

So the injustice completes itself: we’ve got a population with an unreliable source of income whose food staples are no longer available because of climatic conditions and, because they do not have steady funds on which to draw, this population cannot easily substitute those staples.  Due to cultural norms and traditional family roles, this population finds resistance in the surrounding communities when they attempt to remove the albatross of constraining social expectations and establish new economic and social practices.  It is a grim picture – and, in this final circular description, too simplistic.  What about those immeasurable human qualities – resilience, determination, wit, being clever and knowing how to use it?  There’s no stopping here: more soon on how the women of Umoja are filling the gaps of dread and no-hope with ingenuity, good humor, and love – in other words, the miracles that can turn a day around.

Laugh breaks

P.S. Don’t forget to click on the Flickr tab on the right side of this blog for many more pictures!  You can also get there by clicking on any of the pictures here.  There are lots of new images all the time.

When Rebecca first stepped out of the cab, I thought, I didn’t know people could be this beautiful.  What beauty means here: when you can see (and feel) how a person’s way of dress represents generations of a people who knew how to harness the brightness and the subtleties of the rainbow, the sun’s warmth, the shock of the peacock’s flourish.  In the split-second of this first glance, Rebecca wooed me completely, and I felt for the first time I understood how a woman can be much more than topically beautiful if she is wearing the right thing.

Rebecca Lolosoli

For Samburu women, the right thing is several pounds of beads ringed gracefully around the neck, dangling mirrors on a crown-like headdress that sing with each head-turn, carefully bent tin bracelets and anklets that bind the appendages in flashes of silver, and a wrap of cloth that ties at the shoulder and turns into a dress that is always some breathtaking shade (and I mean leaving you without breath) – the manifestation of the exclamation point in hue form.  There are as many variations on the color and pattern of beadwork as there are stories told by grandparents; if I’m diligent enough, I’ll sit down one of these days and devote a blog to the story of the beads.

The second day I met Rebecca we boarded a matatu (a large van that serves as an expanded taxi for trips around Kenya) headed for Nanyuki, then Isiolo, and finally Archer’s Post.  Rebecca is the co-founder and chief of all things revolutionary at Umoja Uaso, (“United River”), a women’s village for Samburu who have left their abusive marriages and want to raise awareness about women’s rights while living as a self-sufficient collective.  It was just as surprising to see Rebecca on our second meeting, because she was entirely beadless and without her sing-song mirrors.  Instead of her headdress, she wore a tight red scarf around her shaved scalp.  Her dress was sheer, black, and long – but god(s) help her, she had a brightly colored dress underneath that rang out like a bell from the dark sheath around her ankles.  Rebecca, where are your beads?  I asked.  We were in the back of the matatu, which had strange stick-on pictures of fruit and juice all over the ceiling.  It is not safe for Samburu in Isiolo, Rebecca replied.  Her voice was noticeably quieter and less boisterous than at our first meeting.

Rebecca Lolosoli, co-founder of Umoja, with friends

I found out, over the course of several hours in our fruit-papered matatu, that there were many places that were unsafe for Samburu along our journey.  A tribe close in proximity to the Samburu, known as the Burana, had been stealing some cattle from Samburu villages at night; in return, those villagers were reclaiming their cattle, and sometimes people on both sides were killed in retaliation.  The fighting escalated to such a degree in February of this year that the government called in the army to the dusty and desolate area around Archer’s Post, where both tribes live.  A hidden twist: the minister who ordered the army’s involvement – or was in some way instrumental in their assignment – is Burana.  According to Rebecca and other Samburu, the army only served as armed support for the Burana, and began to target the Samburu regardless of their behavior.  Discrimination against the Samburu only spread once the army took sides, and just two weeks ago a Samburu woman was stoned to death in Isiolo – not by soldiers or Burana, but by a faceless mob.  Rebecca explained that when the women leave the village and go beyond Archer’s Post, they remove their jewelry and anything about themselves that is distinctly Samburu (like a peacock removing its tail feathers – not natural) so they will not be subject to aggression.

And there they were – the army – about 7 hours into our trip.  There were tanks with enormous missile launchers on the front, leaving dust storms in their wake as they trolled the areas just south of the Samburu.  Soldiers patrolled the unpaved road, inspecting each face with a metallic steadiness; AK-47’s were wrapped over their shoulders and hung pointing to the ground.  Rebecca said there was a time just a few months ago when the gunfire was so intense, bullets were flying into their village and the women were ducking behind their houses to avoid the stray shots.  The UN decided to send a delegation to investigate the human rights abuses happening in this area (4 months after it started) and were expected to arrive two days after myself.  They called to say the security situation was too unstable, and they were canceling the investigation.  If there is any reason in this decision, coming from the very people who are responsible for reporting what is understood to be an insecure situation, I cannot find it.

On our way to Nanyuki, then Isiolo, and finally Archer’s Post, we passed from tropical lush hillsides into a desert broken by the erratic mountains of former volcanoes.  The women’s village Rebecca started nearly two decades ago, along with a dozen other Samburu women, is located along the Uaso River.  The river is the only source of water for miles and, in a place where there is no rain for over 10 months of the year, water is everything.  This area is called “the north” in Kenya, also known as “on the way to Ethiopia”, while it’s really in the upper middle part of the country and Ethiopia is still several hours away.

It was nearly 4 in the afternoon when we made it to Archer’s, a town seemingly built to mimic the wild west frontier towns of America past.  The road was all red dust, my hair stiff with it despite being in the vehicle.  The buildings were hardly level or even four-sided, and mostly served just beer and soda, with a few “hotels” (read: kitchen) that make meat dishes.  We passed through its ramshackle corridors so quickly, I had no memory of Archer’s appearance until I returned a week later.  Just beyond the town, along a smaller dirt path, we came to a gate made of briars and stones cobbled together.  The gate’s opening was filled with women in their bright dress, an oasis in the middle of tan baked earth.  Behind them, I could see the rounded roofs of their huts, and after that, the occasional sand cyclone spinning itself out, and after that, the bowled edges of the distant landform the Samburu consider God.

Umoja women welcome song

Our matatu stopped in its own dust cloud, and I could hear the women singing through the closed windows.  Rebecca had been in Nairobi for several days, so I imagined they were singing her back.  They are greeting you, Rebecca said, and nudged me towards the door.  I must have look surprised in my immobility – Go, Rebecca said, this is Samburu welcome!  I pushed open the door and the voices rose in volume, the swish of the womens’ beads against their undulating chest movements were an impromptu percussion section.  I pulled out my cameras without grace or dexterity, feeling the rush of glimpsing a rare creature you may never see again.  I filmed wobbly clips, and took poor pictures that didn’t capture any of the moment’s animation.  I turned back to Rebecca and waved my hand in front of my face.  It is too hot?  She said.  No, I shook my head.  I was crying.  Welcome to Umoja, Rebecca laughed.

Umoja women sing their greeting to visitors

Just returned from the dusty wilds of northern Kenya, I’m now back to electricity, palatable water, and you.  I was not absent, I promise.  Before I get into it (and there’s plenty to get into), here’s a video I was supposed to publish last month.  It’s an interview about my expectations for the summer.  Already, it feels like watching home videos of your childhood — what you were like before — but it’s a part of this storyline and so deserves a place.  Click on the link below and it will take you to me, pre-Kenya.  And you need hardly wait for more about my trip to Samburu-land -that’s just around the corner.

Video by Kate Cummings, 2009 AP Fellow. Location: Washington, DC. Partner: Vital Voices.

One glance at this picture, and you know Kenya is full of miracles.  In particular, papayas, mangoes, and plants with extremely large leaves (the latter makes me nervous and excited at once).  I flew into Nairobi almost 24 hours ago, simple as can be.  That’s it – a day on some planes, a body slightly kinked from inertia, and like magic: Africa is underfoot.  I collected my baggage in a few short minutes, and walked through the gate that read, “Smile, you are in Kenya.”  Kenneth was there to meet me, a driver sent by The Advocacy Project, and he asked me about my safari.  “Your journey, your journey” he rephrased, after my long pause.  He drove me to Rosa’s house, a friend of a friend who works for the Mexican Embassy here; she came out with her arms wide open like we were sisters.  Her house is airy and spacious, decorated with welcomed austerity and, at night, standing in the small courtyard outside felt like a clearing in a tidy jungle.  The deep purple of the elephant plant’s stems were visible even in the darkness.  In the morning light, I saw the electric fence for the first time – delicately lining the top of her surrounding wall, 16 wires tall.  It could almost be mistaken for clothing lines. 

Kenneth drove me to the mall this morning (me squirming in anticipation of consumption Western-style), and on the way we saw newspaper vendors standing in between the moving cars – a headline flashed “found dead” but I couldn’t catch the rest.  “Very safe, Nairobi”, Kenneth said several times last night and again this morning, usually without my prompting.  And I believe him, to some degree.  I believe him less at night, when there is not a soul outside of a moving vehicle.  This is very odd to me, having spent most of my time abroad in India – where EVERYone is seen at all hours of the day, walking.  During the day, I’m told it’s fine to go out – in safe neighborhoods – but no one dares go out at night.  I said something in the car about this as we were driving from the airport – just “strange that no one is outside” and Kenneth waited, then said “everyone is going home now.” 

The phone card and the computer modem that I bought today have yet to actually connect me to the rest of the world; such a small thing and yet because of it, less than 24 hours after my arrival, I feel caged and impatient. Usually I am roaming the streets as soon as I hit the ground, learning by exploring.  The illusions of control that accompany Western amenities – such as the telephone and internet – are powerful, and so clearly not the source of control once they’ve been removed.  I cannot leave this verdant compound alone, and I cannot call my worried family (who by now assume I’ve been swallowed by the heart of darkness that America’s media calls Africa), so here I am – with myself.  How immediately I want to do more than what is possible – and this is exactly why Africa and I are a good pair.  I’ve still got this nagging idea that I have control, over anything, and this country has all kinds of tools (the gentlest here at first) for showing me that I don’t. 

The evening is coming fast now – there is only a brief window where the sky is rosy with the sun leaving.  I’ve got the door to the kitchen open behind me, chancing a visit from the wandering lizards; the smell of approaching rain and the birdcalls are too much to shut out.  Just before the sun left, many more birds came into the backyard, and some perched lithely on the electric fence.  I guess they are just the right weight to sit undetected.  There is balance in most everything. 

I have just returned from India two days ago after a whirlwind pilgrimage to the source of the Ganges, only to find I am at the beginning of another footpath, this one into a place I’ve never been – I have, actually, no idea what to expect once I begin this journey.  Africa is a completely unknown continent to me, despite my studies of its people, culture, and politics this year.  What I don’t know are the most important aspects of daily life – how do people bargain in the markets (stern face? with overt gentility?), are there a lot of bicycles or do people mostly walk or drive, do people smile when their eyes meet, or almost always stare or look away?  Without any of this ground on which to stand, I already feel wobbly about my entry to Kenya, less than two weeks away.

new journey beginning

new journey beginning

I’ll be working with three amazing local organizations, all of which are partnered with AP’s partner, Vital Voices (VV).  The Umoja Uaso group is a community of women who have banded together to provide each other with a place of refuge and support after being forced out of their homes because they were raped.  The Empiris Women’s group includes individuals like Kakenya, who turned a fate of arranged childhood marriage and planned genital cutting into one in which she made her own choices – going to school, raising funds in her village to go to college in the United States, and now has returned to her village to give back by building a school for girls so they, too, may have other choices – some of their own.  And finally, I’ll be collaborating with Ripe for Harvest, that empowers young people by providing life skills and job training to them while also helping to transform society’s perceptions of youth as more likely to be destructive than to be positive leaders in their communities.

I am very moved by the mission of each of these organizations, and that each one is operated by Kenyans and is not dominated by international interests or staff.  I am still uncertain what role I will be with each organization, as I’m still learning what each one is currently doing and where they would like to continue to go with their projects, but I feel so motivated by the inspiring work they are doing that I am eager to offer the best of my self.  Sometimes it is easier to leap than to wade in, and it seems this new direction is asking me to leap; I’m quickly learning there is so much more to gain when I stop resisting the truth that I know so little.  Letting go of this ego-heavy attachment, I’ve got the space to explore, to learn, and to offer a more fresh and creative side of myself for each person I photograph, and each entry I write.  This is what I hope to do, and who I hope to be, for the people I meet in Kenya this summer.