Some aesthetic therapy, courtesy of Lake Victoria

Anything I say will just make it less beautiful:

"It's like there's a chapati in your mouth and everyone's invited"

I hope you all had a very happy normal Thursday this week! I know I did. For no particular reason, I have decided that today is a good day to write about Kenyan food and how much Kenyans love to feed visitors. I also have this weird urge to say that I am very thankful for my field team, the end of the rainy season, the fact that I am coming home in two weeks, and pineapple.

Without further ado, dear readers, I present to you the menu of literally every single home and hotel in Western Kenya. Whoever said variety was the spice of life forgot that Kenyans don't like spicy stuff very much. (Sorry, I lied. Brief further ado: eating establishments in Kenya are called "hotels" as a holdover from the days of British colonialism, when really the only restaurants in the country were those at the hotels catering to Europeans--the word association apparently stuck with the food rather than the lodging, so now if you walk into an establishment in western Kenya that has "hotel" on its sign and ask for a room, they will probably smile and offer you their own bed as they are secretly confused by this unusually demanding customer and wonder how you can eat ugali in bed.)

And now, your specials for this evening:

Ugali - A pale, pasty, lumpy, Play-doh-textured concoction made from maize, served at temperatures usually reserved for melting precious metals. That way, when you follow the local custom of picking it up with your hands and molding it into a kind of edible spoon, the third-degree burns on your fingers conveniently distract you from its complete and total lack of taste. You can ask any Kenyan and they will tell you that a meal without ugali does not count as a real meal, because you cannot possibly feel full unless you've had it. Translation: ugali is a dense delivery vehicle for empty calories to help people feel like their stomachs are full, as they're not likely to have an abundance of other food most days. Tastes like: Nothing. Not as in "like nothing you've ever tasted." As in "nothing." Utterly flavorless. Alternatively, if I could remember what Play-doh tastes like, I suspect ugali would only be slightly worse than that.

Maharagwe - A kind of bean stew. Tastes like: Imagine you are a Mexican cowboy dreaming of some refried beans. But then you forget to refry them and they just turn out kind of liquid-y. You would be an unhappy cowboy, but you would probably still eat them. And they would be okay, but in your mind you would be like, "Ay caramba! These beans could be so much better."

Sukuma - The cheapest locally available vegetable, it kind of looks like green confetti when it's shaved from the larger head. It's also known as "sukuma wiki" (wiki being Swahili for "week") because poor Kenyans will often eat only ugali and sukuma for the last week of the month before they get their paychecks. Tastes like: Spinach. Mixed with grass.

Ndengu - Stewed green lentils. Tastes like: Has kind of a dry, dirt-ish texture, and a savory, dirt-ish flavor.

Kechambari - Sliced tomatoes with onions. Tastes like: Depends where you get it. When properly mixed with dhania (cilantro), it's got a nice pico de gallo flair to it. Otherwise it mostly tastes like tomatoes.

Samaki - Tilapia from Lake Victoria, usually served whole roasted, so that you get to really dig in there with your fingers behind the eyeballs to politely get those last bits of meat out. Of course, if you're really polite, you'll just eat the whole head and not bother with the whole business of distinguishing between meat and organs. Tastes like: Uh, fish.

Kuku/nyama/mbuzi - Kuku = scrawny chicken. Nyama = scrawny beef. Mbuzi = Really scrawny, greasy goat. Tastes like: Hard to say, I'll let you know when I've finally finished chewing.

Wali - Rice. Tastes like: Rice.

Chapati - An oily flatbread, similar to naan but thinner and with less flavor. Tastes like: Freedom.

Matumbo - To understand the story behind matumbo, I need to tell you about my field officer David. David comes from Luo-land, the area where my project does most of its work, so when we're eating lunch out in the field he always takes it upon himself to order something new for me. The first time we tried this system, I ended up with matumbo, which appeared to be some kind of stew with splotchy tubes floating around in it. When I asked David what it was, he would only say, "Just try!" I tried it, thought the rubbery texture was a little weird, but decided it wasn't terrible and gave David a thumbs up. He smiled at me. "It's cow intestine!" Tastes like: Honestly, it tastes like beef. And feels like octopus.

Omena - Another David order, this one was a little easier to visually identify. Omena are tiny fish, cooked until they are dry, crispy, and salted. And actually, they're pretty darn good. Tastes like: What you get if you put anchovies and potato chips in your combination fuse-o-matic shrink machine.

Maziwa chungu - This one was introduced to me by Nellie, another of my field officers. The name in Swahili literally means "sour milk," which has my vote for "Swahili understatement of the decade." This is whole milk that has been allowed to curdle until it gets chunky, and unlike omena, it is not good. Nellie made a deal with me when she served me a glass that if I could make it halfway through within ten minutes, she would drink the rest. I dumped three large spoonfuls of sugar in and gagged my way through for about half an hour before she got impatient, snatched it away from me, and drank the whole thing in two gulps. Apparently this is quite the delicacy in Kenya, because just then Duncan, yet another field officer, walks in and exclaims "Ay, chungu! Why did you not serve me as well?", prompting Nellie to scold me for being too slow, because "now everyone will want some!" Tastes like: Don't ask, don't tell.

By this point, you may have picked up on a general distaste for Kenyan food coming from my direction. I just want to say...yeah, that's basically true. But it does grow on you: there's not a day that goes by when I don't have ugali, sukuma, maharagwe, ndengu, or chapati at some point, and it's not bad at all (the fact that we flavor everything with tabasco sauce and chutney smuggled in from the states doesn't hurt either). I don't even miss stuff like cheeseburgers or apple pie or genetically-enhanced chicken anymore.

Haha, yeah right. First thing I'm eating when I get off that plane.

A Not-Quite-Yet-Insider's Guide to Surviving Field Work in Africa, Part II

Well, I would say it’s been one of those weeks, but by this point it’s been far more than seven straight days of insanity here. Let’s call it one of those months. The kind that reminds you irresistibly, relentlessly every moment of exactly what kind of place you live in now, that forces the question “why am I in Africa?” into your mouth, then answers it magnificently before you have the chance to gulp. I’ve had some of the most frightening experiences of my life over these past few weeks, but I’ve also got nothing but optimism for the way things are heading here, which is an interesting tension to live in. The fact that I have so many stories and no time to tell them has been steadily eating away at me these recent weeks. It’s good to be writing again.

As a gift to my mother, who will undoubtedly be even more desperate to see me firmly planted back on North American soil after reading this, I have now included a helpful countdown to the exact moment my plane is scheduled to touch down in St. Louis. Not that it’s really possible to improve on your current rate of visits per day, Mom, but at least now you have a slightly better excuse for refreshing the page than “Hmm…I know it’s technically 4 AM Kenyan time and I just checked ten minutes ago, buuuuut …maybe he stayed up really late just to put up a new blog post!” (Just kidding, love you Mom!)

Now where were we?

***

Scenario A:  The Abducted Automobiles

Andrew’s Solution: Well, first of all, let’s get one thing out of the way: don’t bribe. Ever. It’s expensive, it sets a very bad precedent, it lowers the status of your organization within the community, it creates an incentive for further police shenanigans, and it’s utterly repulsive from a moral standpoint. Bribes are kind of like the hard drugs of development work: they may seem like a quick and easy escape from your problems, but once you start down that road it’s nearly impossible to get off. Also they’re both illegal. Just say no. Try something like this instead:

                Step 1: Try to reason with the police.

                Step 2: Pretend to shoot yourself in the face.

                Step 3: Wait ten minutes, then go back to step 1.

This will only be fun for about three hours, at which point I would suggest polling your field team to see if any of them have a relative on the police force (don’t be picky here—any old cousin, brother’s wife’s uncle, or crazy grandma’s neighbor’s son will do). Have them call and spend some time catching up, reminiscing, “how’s your mother”-ing, cajoling, threatening to tell mom or skip the next family reunion—whatever it is Kenyans do when they want a favor from someone. Then try to act gracious and nonchalant when the police mysteriously show back up at your gate a few hours later. “Sorry, you want to return what now? Oh, you mean THOSE field vehicles. I completely forgot they were gone…you can just put them anywhere. Asante sana, see you at the next roadblock!”

Scenario B:  The Bogus Blood Burglary

Andrew’s Solution: After wiping that incredulous smirk off your face and coming to terms with the fact that this is actually happening, you need to act fast. This is the kind of thing that can permanently prevent you from working in a certain area, and it can harm the work of other aid agencies too when they arrive. Send your best communicators (both Swahili and the local dialect) and friendliest government contacts to the village as soon as possible to hold a community meeting and clear up the misconception.

Then never send your team to the field in a red car ever again. Ever.  I am entirely serious. IPA no longer employs any red cars in its vehicle pool for this very reason.

Scenario C: The Guilty Guide

Andrew’s Solution: You actually might not end up having a whole lot of say in this one, so try to trust that your field officers have received excellent training and possess something resembling common sense. Your field officer may decide to take this one solo, as mine did, opting for the rather cheeky move of calling the arrested man’s wife and asking her to take over his guide duties. I would have taken a slightly different approach, something like “Stay there, wait for us to find another guide and come get you, and by all means don’t go increasing your association with the accused by calling his wife, who is probably not the cheeriest woman in Kenya at this moment.” Shows how much I know.

Scenario D: The 4-by-4 Fake-out

Andrew’s Solution: Huh. You are stuck on a muddy hill with an uninsured, unsafe vehicle in the middle of nowhere. The obvious first step I know you’re all thinking of is to spend an hour on the phone ordering a new insurance policy for the vehicle and making sure it can be available the following morning. This will leave you stuck on a muddy hill with an uninsured, unsafe vehicle in the middle of nowhere, an hour closer to dark than when you started. The police may or may not be friendlier by this point. If you have been really laying the charm on (if anyone asks: why yes, Kenyan police officers are in fact much tougher than all those American police officers you know), they might even offer your team a ride back to town.

Scenario E: The Suspicious (and Not-so-Sober) Spouse

Andrew’s Solution: Despite the unfortunate situation it put your team member in, this one’s easy. Make sure it’s always a female field officer that visits this household in the future. Tell your male field officers they are not allowed to conduct interviews inside the house, but must sit outside when administering the survey. If you want, you can advise them to ask each respondent for a small bucket of water upon entering the compound, to be thrown upon any intoxicated intruders.

Scenario F: The Awful, Awful Arrests

Andrew’s Solution: There are no jokes to make about this one. We were told in no uncertain terms that the absolute worst thing we could do would be to show up and demand their immediate release. Aside from the very real risk that we ourselves would be put under arrest as collaborators, our presence would only signal the presence of potential bribe money, turning an obstinate process into an impossible one. It’s an incredibly helpless feeling to be told you can’t even go see your team in jail, bring them food, tell them it’s going to be all right…nothing good happens in Kenyan prisons: diseases and beatings are as numerous as the inmates themselves, and our team found themselves on the receiving end of both. With the help of a diligent Kenyan lawyer, we were able to secure their release two days later, at which point several of them were admitted to a local hospital. Although legal action could have been taken against the police (and against the local radio station which reported that we were organizing a thievery ring in the area), our interest in continuing to work in this district dictated otherwise. Asking your field officers to go back to an area where they’ve been arrested, abused, and labeled community menaces is nobody’s idea of an ideal situation, especially not the moment you’ve finished telling them how thankful you are for their safety and the perseverance they’ve shown. I can’t say enough about how unbelievably dedicated and passionate they are.

***

To be fair, these are among the more dramatic situations that I’ve faced, and I have a great support staff to help me handle them. A description of the elusive (read: imaginary) animal known as a “typical day in Kenya” would include much more mundane fare: village elders forgetting to notify their communities that your team is coming, leaving you with a few hours worth of thumb-twiddling while guides and respondents are assembled; vehicles getting stuck in the mud; respondents going on safari, going missing, or falling ill; field officers getting scared off by snakes while doing observations or community meetings…nothing special.  Here are some more general tips I’ve found useful in dealing with such things:

1.       Laugh. A lot. Let’s face it, this stuff is RIDICULOUS. I don’t want to make light of any of the serious, dangerous situations my field officers and I have found ourselves in, and I especially don’t want to make sport of ignorance. I do want to recognize that there’s a lot of humor to be found in the unexpected, the bizarre, and the completely irrational—if I couldn’t smile at it when some policeman gives me the most transparently bogus reason for asking my team for money…there would probably be fewer confused policemen wondering why the weird white guy is laughing at their very serious requests. And I would have less fun.

2.       Adjust your expectations for plans and circumstances; keep them high for people. Corruption, drunkenness, violence, dishonesty—these things aren’t African, they’re human. It’s one thing to be wary of situations that could fall apart or put your team in uncomfortable places; it’s another entirely to be wary of people and assume the worst of them. I believe in Kenyans, even if their country hasn’t yet given them the institutions to put them in a position to succeed honestly.

3.       Invest some quality time in building the perfect “time to be patient” playlist in your iTunes. Mine is usually headlined by Arcade Fire’s “We Used to Wait” followed by healthy doses of K’Naan and The Beatles.

4.       Never pass up a chance to introduce yourself—Kenyans are crazy connected, which kinda just happens when you have a couple hundred people in your extended family. This means that anyone you meet could have a cousin on the police force, or in the government, or that works as an auto mechanic, or that cooks really good chicken gizzards and sells used batteries on the side. Investing in a relationship with one Kenyan, worthwhile in its own right because they are all fascinating people with compelling stories, could connect you to half the town.

5.   Have faith. I am absolutely and irrevocably against hackneyed, feel-good platitudes that get whipped out in situations like this with the implication that the worries of life flee in panic at their very utterance. I’m doing it anyway. Sometimes that’s all there is.

***

Life outside of work is rarely easier to make sense of. Things get stolen, transformers blow up, people demand bribes, friends lose children and relatives to disease or accident, the local market doesn’t have any decent peanut butter…and Saturday, not 40 yards in front of me, I watched a speeding, fully loaded oil tanker veer off the terrible, dangerous, potholed road from Kisumu to Busia. It looked for a moment like the driver would find a way to stay upright, but the next instant it swung past the point of no return, flipping completely over at full speed, finally coming to rest with the driver’s side smashed against the road and the tank leaking its volatile contents onto the dirt shoulder. While a small crowd chattered around the cab, obscuring my view of whatever may have happened to the driver, most of the nearby villagers, as though some happy trick of memory allowed them to ignore the fact that ten seconds earlier they were meters away from being crushed, were hurriedly hunting for jerry cans, buckets, anything they could find to collect the precious leaking fuel. Praying that no one decides to light up a cigarette, sending this action movie disaster scene to a tragic special effects finish, I hurried reluctantly away from the crash site. There would be no police investigators there to take my witness statement, no ambulances rushing to the scene from a nearby health center—it feels wrong to leave such scenes.

Sorry for freaking you out, Mom. 20 days to go.