Getting my groove back-hatua kwa hatua

Step by Step. I began today fighting back tears and ended today with sheer joy. Its true what they say about PC – the highs are so high and the lows so incredibly low.

Today after some errands in town, I headed out to visit my friend Tori in a village about 1 hour away called Boguta. I boarded the matatu this morning tearing up, just wanting to lay down and cry and sink and release. I was one of the last passengers to fill the Nissan 14 seat bus, and I remember thinking that this was quite possibly the most incapable vehicle(if it could be called that) I have ever been on. It was rust eaten with random holes, parts were re-saudered back on, the sliding door didn’t close, and the cushioning for the seats were ripped open and exposed at every seam. The tout rode with his head out the window staring towards the back wheel as though he were watching to make sure things weren’t falling off the bus yet…what could I do? I closed my eyes and endured the ride. We sped rather smoothly down the tarmac. After about 20 minutes or so, we hit the turn off onto the dirt road that leads out to some of the more remote villages. Because of the condition of the road, there was no closing eyes and resting, no pretending you were somewhere else, infact, gripping onto anything possible for dear life is more like it.

At this point, the matatu is at full capacity. Because of relatively recent Kenyan laws, matatus are regulated to 14 passengers, each wearing a seatbelt and must be driving under 80 km/hr. For a large part these laws are enforced along the main highways… and really enforced is relative because many police can be bought off. All this is to say, I thought we were at full capacity, but man was I wrong. Just shortly after we left the tarmac we stopped and added 9 more passengers and some large sacks of grain and tree seedlings on top. Meaning an extra person on each bench seat, a few standing hunched over the seats and 3 men hanging out of the now open sliding door. One of the touts yells to me in Kiswahili from the window opposite, “here in Kenya, we get close!” everyone on the bus awkwardly laughs. As we continue on, a smile begins to creep across my face as we weave around rocks, potholes, carriages full of water jerry cans pulled by bulls and sometimes boys and their herds of cattle and goats. The driver honks wildly as we pass through towns informing residents that we are infact approaching and to prepare to board because we are just barely gonna stop. You cant help but laugh at the ridiculous spectacle.

Then the driver lays on the horn and slams the breaks-usually this indicates that a herd of cattle is in the road and you see the boys running frantically beating the cows to get them off the road just before our matatu swerves on by. (This could be a video game here) This time though, it’s a bit different as we come to a complete stop and then a gradual creep. Im stuck in what feels like a permanent hunch, so I maneuver my way to looking out the window and I see these long legs, hundreds on them, moving at a mechanical pace. I see a couple baby camel run by and realize that I am driving through a huge herd of camels. It was really a kind of magical moment-as we all stared out the window I shared in the moment with the young girl in a purple satin dress with puffy sleeves squatting over next to me. We both remark in a certain awe at how many there were. It made me feel better knowing that the crazy mzungu isn’t the only one who thought this was damn cool, the 12-year-old Kenyan did too. By this point, a smile had fully taken over my face. I then realize that this seemingly innocent 12 year old schoolgirl had a wedding band on her finger-amazing-I tried not to let the reality of this practice and its societal implications seep into my improving mood.

We continue on flying and swerving down the road horn blaring. We stop to let some passengers get off and I breathe a sigh of relief and begin to take back some of my good ol American personal space. Again, a little premature on my part. Some get off, but we add another 6 to our previous total. I end up with a woman’s legs between mine and an ass in my face, again back in that hunched position because of course, someone is also leaning over me. One man climbs on top of the car, another hangs off the side ladder and there are now 5 men hanging out the open door. We start up again at the same clip, and im thinking what a tragedy this would be if we got into an accident. It starts to rain steadily-coming in through all of the open doors and holes-im flat out laughing at this point-Karibu Kenya.

...

I arrive in Boguta, walk to the nearest duka(shop) and ask in Kiswahili where my friend Tori lives. She is the only white face in the village, so they point me down the road towards her house. After repeating my questioning a few times, I find where she stays, but she is not there. One of the men sitting idly nearby gets 3 young kids to take me to where she is leading a session on water sanitation issues. These kids take me gladly, holding my hand and leading me down the path, giggling an barefoot. We say hello to everyone we pass and I can read the looks of confusion on their faces at the presence of another mzungu in town.

Tori is just finishing her session and is delighted to see me!! We head back with the kids and along the way, the sky opens up again, we all begin running and laughing down the pathway through homes until we read Tori's house. It was just a wonderful moment to share, a bit of the glimpse of feelings to come! At Tori's house, I unpack the gifts I brought for tori. ‘baked’ chocolate oatmeal cookies (now chocolate crumbles), oranges, a mango, an avocado that has exploded everywhere in the bag and a flattened banana. We both start into a fit of laughter-without explanation, we both knew that the matatu ride had decimated everything in the bag, and really, what can you do but laugh?

...

In the afternoon, tori and I head out for a walk into the hills around Boguta with no real destination in mind but the hills, and perhaps, if it worked out, we would stumble upon a group of women who dance traditional Druma dances every evening. Perhaps. We start out of town and end up on this bright red dirt road surrounded by plains, a few rolling hills and even scarcer mountains jutting up for dramatic effect. Because it is a rainy day and because we are in Kenya, the cloud formations are just incredible, casting amazing shadows over the brilliant landscape as the sun comes out. A lighting scheme similar to those you might encounter in the Southwest. It was absolutely gorgeous, I had that goofy grin across my face-you know the one- its frequently accompanied by me remarking how everything is just gorgeous in the ever changing view. I was in the ‘I love it’ mood – everything was incredible. Man it really was. It felt good to be out there, to discover, relax and begin to experience a bit of the beauty this country has to offer outside of its sprawled urban and peri urban centers. It started to rain a little just adding to my state of wonder. We continued walking and soon the red dirt road narrowed to a red dirt pathway and we wound our way up into the druma hills. Because the pathway we were on was the only real walking path/route along this hillside, we soon found ourselves in the middle of a homestead comprised of 4 mud houses with straw roofing. Being 2 tall white faces, they knew we were coming before we knew where we were going. They ran out and met us on the path with greetings and insisted on carrying our nalgenes. They bring out chairs for us, we engage them in conversation, again pretty brief as our Kiswahili is still young… when we lose the ability to communicate in a common language, we just stare at each other for a little while, maybe a few of the girls in their bright kangas will come over and pet our hair. As we get tired of the staring we tell them that we are in search of the Druma dancers and they point us in the right direction-really the only direction along the path other than where we came from. We repeat this interaction a few more times at each homestead we happen upon.

Eventually we reach the compound where the dancers meet just as they were beginning to congregate for the evening. They were overjoyed to have us. They sat us down and fed us roasted corn as they finished the preparations. As my hungry belly enjoys the snack, im taking in the gorgeous landscape. We are on a hillside that looks out over the green and red plains and sharp mountains in the distance. You can see for miles. Its my favorite time in the evening, the sun is just beginning to lower creating that warm glow and contrasty long shadows. The wind has picked up – but only a little- just enough to isolate the sound of the wind and those sounds we were creating as the only audible sounds around. As more people come, the women begin dancing. The leader, the chiefs son, begins to sing in a call and answer pattern. The women answer in their high an raspy yet full voices. As the instruments show up, they add into the rhythm- a couple hand drums, some overturned jerry cans, a metal bicycle rim and long bolts, a wooden flute and two maracas made of metal cans that gave the moment a mesmerizing intensity. They all begin to find their unity, their sound, and the women begin their slow, slow dance-small steps, maybe a little hip motion, but mainly a whole lot of shoulder and breast shaking. But slow. I remember just sitting there stunned by the beauty of the moment; the landscape, the low sunlight, the raspy voices of dancing mamas, the intense beat of the drum, and the brightly colored fabrics caught by the wind as the mamas danced rhythmically. It was one of those moments where nothing else in the world existed, a moment that cannot be captured by any media because it consumes all of the senses, a moment that went on for the next hour as the mamas invited us to join them – we sang and we danced, smiled and laughed. I was bursting with joy. Tori said she kept looking over at me and I was just overwhelmed with goofy happiness. High. A high only Africa can give me. For the next hour we just shared with the group, embracing people as they joined in the circle and slowly migrating to the drum in what can only be described as local dance-offs. Everyone in the area found their way to us and sang and clapped and watched. Ahhhh it was just glorious. We stopped only when our bodies were too exhausted to find another muscle to isolate rhythmically. The mamas fed us some more roasted corn. We all hugged and said our jubilant goodbyes, them insisting that we return, and us promising we would. They sent us down the path towards Boguta – I was nearly skipping down the path as the sun set. I had found it, why I returned, that Africa high, the shared joy with complete strangers. I had the moment I was waiting for, confirming I still had that happiness inside of me. It’s here - I’m here.