The Mendazi Party

Mama Joy dumped some self rising flour into a plastic bowl in the small kitchen. Our party members were an interesting group: three mothers whom I had gotten to know from the creche, a bundle of their toddlers, Janice's (one of the mothers and owner of the house we had gathered in) temporarily adopted daughter Margarette and me.
"So what ingredients do you need to make mendazi?" I asked Mama Joy holding my camera up to catch her response. It was really quite simple. Flour, warm water, a pinch of sugar and whatever else you could afford at the time. Sometimes milk, sometimes eggs and- if you're really doing well- chocolate or lemon. I call them the poor man's doughnut.
After mixing the flour and warm water- each measured out by instinct- Mama Steven tasted some dough, spitting it out satisfied. It was time to fry them up. Out side the modest wood house, Mama Steven had started a three stone fire. The technique where you find three large stones, roughly the same size, and arrange them in a circle lighting a fire in the middle. Then the pot of oil sits on top of the stones. It's simple genious.
As the oil heats up to a boil Mama Joy kneeds a chunk of dough expertly into a ball. She then coats her work table with a bit of flour and rolls it out into a thin circle. Cutting it grid like the peices are ready to be fried. I give it a whirl and find that it is not quiet as easy as it seems. They chuckle at my oblonged dough shapes.
The dough makes about 60 Mendazi, maybe even more. I am astounded. No wonder the African ladies get a little chunky over here; 60 mendazis for under 3 dollars! I eat over 10 of the delicious little morsels and I don't regret it, they were amazing! Now that's the kind of party that I would never miss.
As I sat around the three stone fire the four toddlers wandered around with peices of mendazi on their faces and hands. After a while Janice put some tea on and we talked and laughed until almost dark.
"Janice, are we still taking motorbikes home? It's almost dark!" Half an hour later I sit smooshed between Janice's pregnant belly and the motorbike driver zipping down a pitch black dirt road towards the small town of Kikuyu. I could not stop smiling for the entire ride, even as my head bonked against the helmet of the driver after he hit every pothole in the road. Funny he should have a helmet and not the passengers. The thought lasted only a moment, no place for caution in a moment of pure reckless spontanueity.
After connecting with two more matutus, once with Mama Joy's toddler wedged comfortably on my lap, I walked through the doors of our campus apartment to be met by a worried looking aunt. I chuckled nervously as I tried to explain myself and eventually regained her confidence. Well, at least I think I did.
The party was wonderful and I shall bring back my new acquired skill to Canada where many more mendazi parties will ensue.

 

This is little Natashia, very adorable and, as an added treat, she wasn't even afraid of me even though I was the first whitey she'd ever seen.

The Farthest Village

I stagger out of the small truck with nothing much on my mind since the heat had rendered it useless. Smacking my dry lips I reached into my bag for some water. Sweat. Every where coming from every pore. I wiped my sweaty forhead with my sweaty hand and then stared around the village trying to take some of it in. Straw house, children, sand, tree, sand. A man who worked at the dispensery in the village placed out two chairs for us, and although I had been sitting for more than four hours already, I stared longingly at the plastic chair. Finally I wandered away from the group and sat gingerly on the the ledge to make it look less lame that I was sitting. And then I slouched a bit, and a bit more until I was splayed on the chair. Glamour and disposure were far from my mind in this dusty, humid, little village. Hannah, a few yards off, was recording some little kids jumping at a mango tree and then falling over. It was cute, they were both filthy and wearing only pants. The one little boy's pants were so ripped that they concealed nothing at all. After a while some of the village guys wandered over to see the white people that a driven all the distance to see them. They were being sponsered by Hannah's church and so naturally there was pictures and conversation and laughter. I sat complacently. And then they wanted to give us a tour around the village. I groaned inwardly at the thought of walking, even standing! Here I was in a village that not many people in the Western world will ever get to see and I am groaning on a faded, flimsy lawn chair.
Forty minutes later I sit heart racing in the truck bumping along the road. Why the change in mood? Well it could have something to do with the long walk through unmanaged field or hearing the story about the man who's head was almost chopped off by his brother and law. Or because there is a giant black and white spider crawling on me and three people are trying to find it and remove it in the back of the cramped pick-up truck.
Despite my buzz killing mood and dramatic re-accountment of the day it was actually spectacular. Being exposed to such contrast from my own culture was life changing and memorable. I shall never forget it.

Donkeys, Camels and Other Modes of Transport

Donkey
"Noooo, I don't want to!" I looked up from my Glamour magezine and glanced at Hannah on the other bed in our tiny hotel.
"Hannah, it's our last night. We are not going to go to bed at eight o'clock." She groaned but eventually was persauded and 15 minutes later we set off for our moonlight donkey ride. It was fantasy like; plodding over moon lit dunes through tiny villiages of straw houses. I felt like an Arabian princess.
Camel
"Should be here soon," said Jamal as we lay under the shade of a boat house on the shore of the brilliant blue Indian Ocean.
"Ah, there they come," I nodded to the far end where two proud camels bobbed steadily towards our direction. We bartered over the price for a few moments and then watched the two beach boys, who were to be our guides, assemble the sadles. Two long sticks criss-crossed in the front-handles of sorts- then layers of middle east looking blankets for a cushion. I hiked up my pants then lept fearlessly onto the hump. Holding tight to the sticks I readied myself for the beast to arise. It was an experience like no other: I was lurched backwards 90 degrees, then shot forward perpendicular to the ground then finally leveled out. Smiling I looked across to Hannah to see if she had been as over joyed with the experience as I. Snapping photos and giggling we rode off into the horizon...
Other Modes
The Black Pearl was a majestic boat. Its planks were clean and well varnished and canopy blocked the beating sun rays from damaging our delicate skin. The company wasn't bad either, three young beach boys and three more waiting on Shella beach for our arrival. My favourite stood with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a massive afro dyed blonde. His shirt read "beach boy" and he splashed into the water to help us out of the boat. I smiled as I thought one Black Pearl and six Jack Sparrows.

Back to Never Never Land

Lamu welcomed me back like children do to the icecream truck. The sun shone bright and the waves rocked our little boat lovingly. I stared out towards the strange little island as we approached with feelings I still cannot pair with words. My companion this time around was far different from the group of 20 last time. I became a little nastalgic as we carted our luggage up the steps of the Sunsail, our humble home for the next three nights.
The next morning- after a rather muggy, stuffy, uncomfortable sleep- we woke early and headed to the main land where we would spend much of the day villiage hopping. Now when I say villiage I mean those remote, thatched roofed, naked children, hungry looking, national geographic villiages that one always pictures when someone says the word "Africa." I had really started thinking that they were just some silly made up thing after living in the glam of Nairobi for so long. But there we were, piled 17 high in a small pick up traveling down a dirt road in- what felt like and could have been- 40 degrees. My long, culturally appropriate dress stuck to my thighs, drenched in sweat, and I sat nervously in the seat behind our body guard, watching the barrel of his gun point menacingly at my head as it bounced and bumped along with the potholes in the road. Hopefully not loaded.
To be continued...

The Typical, Wonderful Evening

Its about seven o'clock and we sit contently around the living room reading books or watching the news, enjoying each other but each absorbed in our own activities. Hannah is maybe editing an interview or picture, Uncle Mark is perhaps cheering at a goal Chelsea made, Aunt Lois is sipping a glass of lemon tea and reading a book. I am sitting in my rocking chair observing or typing or becoming frusterated at calculus. Suddenly we will hear the screeching of breaks, a thump and a whomp. We will all raise our heads, chuckle then go back to the activities we were enthrolled in. The speed bump just out side the gate gaurding our little compound never fails to bring us together in the evening.

Nightmare on Dagoretti Street

The day started out rather bland to be honest. I had no idea how deeply disturbing my day was about to become. I had decided that today I would devote my time prepping the Creche (a small day care like setup for the orphaned or completely destitute children under the age of 3) for reopening. Nicole having left along with the ladies I had become the last whitey. It felt weird blending into a crowd in comparison to being the main attraction but also kind of nice. I stood silent watching the group of Kenyan mothers work tirelessly for their children. Once the creche reopened they would have a safe place to leave the children they either adopted from a dead friend/neighbor, or were left with after their husbands split. This would mean that they could find work and make money to create oppertunity and feed the futurless tots. I smiled at how they still managed to laugh and sing even in their completely depressing situation. The current activity was painting the walls with a safer, not lead-based paint. The turn out was great; 14 women (each with a child or two stapped to their back or running ramped) but only two paint brushes. 
"Is there a hardware shop close by?" I asked Mama Joy after observing the mulling around of those with no tool to paint. Now, my mistake was that the Keyan "close by" and the Canadian "close by" differ from about 10km. The creche is situated on the precipice of a valley over looking  beautiful farm land rich with banana and mango trees. Around the area are small shops selling goods and, what I was wishfully guessing, paint brushes. 5km South of the creche, however, in the bottom of the valley lays the scourge of the Earth; Dagoretti.
"Yes, yes! Irene and Mama Steven will take you," It took me about to seconds to realize that we weren't going to a quant little shop on top of the valley as we stepped onto the rocky, sloping trail into the bowels of imminent filth.
 20 minutes later the view of Dagoretti came into veiw and I found myself relaxing a little; big yellow umbrellas were set up and a hustling, bustling crowd clothed in white outfits gave off a friendly glow.
Huh, not at all as ominous as I had thought it would be. I had never actually ventured to the backside of Dagoretti as I had only had to encounter the front portion where the transportation dropped me. Perhaps, like most things in life, it appears rough on the outside but is a really friendly wonderful place on the inside! And here I will find a diamond in the rough of sorts! Optimism raced almost histarically through my mind. A useless poison. Stench assulted my nostrils as we marched closer and closer towards the streaming crowd dressed in cheerful white. And then my mind froze and my stomach lurched. I gulped back the urge to vomit. My reeling mind revolted the images my eyes absorbed. The stunning robes of white each wore bright crimson splashes of freshly shed blood. I opened and closed my eyes, tipped back my head and swallowed hard again.
"Ahh, market day." Said Mama Steven. I slowly came out of my shock. The slaughter house. I knew it was back here I just never thought how apparently here it was.
And then, in a daze, I followed my indifferent, calloused companions in the midst of the creatures covered in blood soaked garments carrying plastic grocery bags full of fresh, bloody meat. A man wearing a white, blood soaked hat and a torn bloody coat locked eyes on my white skin and smiled a toothless smile at me...
The rest of the story will be published in Steven King's newest book. Look for it in bookstores today.
An hour later I was back sitting amongst the adorable babies handing out mendazi to the kids and paint brushes to the mothers. I sighed and laughed at the experience to myself. It was good to see, however disturbing it was; the West hides this so extremely well. Meat is just tasty, nicely packaged morsles but the reality is, somewhere there's a factory full of blood drenched workers knee deep in what PETA calls murder haha Never have I been so stongly locked into a conviction as the one I had made not to eat meat. I dislike the idea but am, in a way perverted to that of my minds innate instinct, glad of the production. It is the employment source of many other wise jobless and starving Kenyans.

Lamu: Part Two

We had decided that we would go back on the boat for our second day at Lamu and try our hand at deep sea fishing. The Douglas's seem to carry around a curse of bad luck when it comes to fishing. Perhaps a long deceased ancestor upset Davey Jones and was sentenced to have offspring with pitiful fishing skills for eternity. Never-the-less I decided that I will not be punished for the sins of the past and set out determined. 
And so we begin our adventure, sailing in the Imani; the most faithful, slightly leaky, Rasta boat to have ever sailed on the Indian Ocean. It took a while to get far enough into the open sea for good fishing and although the gentle waves were lulling me into a state nastalgia it seemed to have a less enjoyable effect on some of the other passengers. Unenjoyable for both the passenger and the spectator. Finally we made the first stop and the fishing lines were issued. The term "fishing rods" would not be appropriate as the square plank of wood inwhich the fishing line was wrapped around could not have been classified as a rod. The sinker was a rusty peice of rebar and the bait was just a plain old chunk of squid not desguised by any kind of fancy schmansy lure or shiny metal twirlers. I felt the curse of Davey Jones weigh heavey upon my shoulders; I would never outsmart Neptune's creatures with this kind of archaic madness! I sighed as Captain Dolphin shook his head and started the motor to search out a better spot. The beginning of a long fruitless day no doubt.
With the motor cut and the boat slowing, Toothless (a name I had developed for rasta helper who was missing a tooth) cast my line for me and then handed it over. Do I even bother trying to find the technique for fishing with a plank of wood? My skeptical thought was cut short by my mother's shrill shriek of excitement, "I caught something! I caught something! Ahh ahhhhhh! AHHHHH!" Seems the curse is on my father's side. As the dark figure attached to her line loomed closer to the surface the boat tipped to the right in response the onslaught of ecited passengers coming to witness the ascent of the first catch. And then there it was. An octopus. In my ecitement I reached out to touch the wealthy limbed creature but at that moment it freed itself from the line and escaped into the blue. Cruse my cursed hand! It seemed all for the better though as Toothless began acting out what would have happened had I managed to catch the beast with my bare hands. He didn't have to know English to explain that the octopus would have malled me. But from the moment that my mother had had that first lucky nibble the Imani had seemed to transform into some sort of fish magnet. Toothless would throw down a line, tug at it for only a brief moment and then reel up a fish. I was shocked. Who knew that in trying to maximize the catch potential by covering our equipment with shiny lures and buying the newest light weight rods we were actually drowning the delicate art of fishing with over modernization. I shall never touch a rod, nor lure, again. And, miracles of miracles, I was able to reel up a fish. After Toothless had made sure it was tightly attached to my line of course. I laugh at Davey Jones and his curse!
A few hours later we arrived to the shore of Manda beach with a bag full of freshly caught fish and a few bright, red sunburns to prove our days work. The rastas disappeared somewhere on the beach and left us to swim in the warm water of the Indian Ocean. We then took our places underneath a thatched roof of a small tiki shade house and awaited our lunch. We were served generous portions of coconut rice, stewed vegetables, fish (yes, the fish that we had caught) and fruit. I don't know what was more wonderfully novel; being served food by men, cooked by men or the absolute deliciousness of the "from scratch" dishes.