Upon being chased from a graveyard...and other stories

This is outside mama tunza's orphanage-the sepulcher where I taught in May


Poe would've had tears in his eyes...

I never thought I'd be chased from a Kenyan graveyard...

Yesterday was another laid back day. Two days from leaving to the IDP camp, 2 days until I get to volunteering and I can't wait. Don't get me wrong, I love soaking up the aesthetics. The cool breeze and palm trees never fail to add rhythm to the song in my heart-Kenya, it seems, is full of confused, beautiful songs. However, I'm not here to be a tourist or to gain some kind of philosophical arm-chair enlightenment-I'm here to serve and to listen. I digress, Gina and I got terribly lost on the Matatu, the Kenyan public transit. The rather assertive Matatu operators convinced us that we would indeed make it to the monkey park-ah the monkey park. Alas! Alak! we were taken to the national park, which costs a pretty penny and is gorgeous, but i've seen it before. This park was directly across from the most surreal graveyard that I have ever seen.

The graveyard was absolutely pregnant with small crosses and laterite soil-red as eroded blood. A strong breeze swept the soil to dust and blinded me-I was humbled. Gina saw a herd of wild animals grazing by the graves, an unusual site for the venue of tears and reflection. Being naturally curious, we approached to take pictures and observe. Soon we noticed that the family that was herding the goats was yelling at us and began to walk, then power-jog their way to us. We followed suit-albeit in the opposite direction. I think we offended them, who knew? We got away, unscathed, but I wonder how we ended up offending a group of nomadic herders!

Another day, another bribed policeman.

We rode the bus home from the graveyard and overpriced park (foreigners paid 20$, locals paid $3) and it was the average fare. Loud western rap, people hanging out the door, lots of odd gestures, lap-sitting and too many people-the norm. I noticed that the bus wasn't moving and the operators, as well as the crazy individuals hanging from the bus, started talking rapidly and fearfully. I thought that I heard that a milita set up a road block, so I ducked down-fearful that a militia drugged up on qat would kill us all. Instead, it was a cop. Cops in Kenya are not the police of Utah, i.e. are not the law-abiding write too many tickets public servants. Cops in Kenya, according to the man sitting next to me on the bus-and many other locals-are corrupt and abusive. The man next to me told me that nobody calls the police when they are victimized, because the police will rob and beat them-he said, "it is worse to be a woman" when going to the police office. The women are raped and otherwise assaulted [authors note: this would likely not be the case for a western muzungu like myself-a fact I hear from many here.]

This policeman made it clear that he wanted a bribe-somewhere between 500 and 1000 ksh, or about 7 dollars onward. I was told that bribing the police happened "every other time" the bus made a trip. The violations include hanging out the door and other minor violations that are only upheld when a cop wants a bribe. It is hard to imagine fearing and bribing Kaysville police on a daily basis. My traveling companion recognized this as an aspect of daily life and as part of a system that is designed to keep the corrupt in power.

Reflections

I have never experienced so many friendly people in one area. Kenyans have gone out of their way to be friendly and helpful. It is of little doubt that Kenyans love Americans-pictures of Mr. Obama line many of the walls of local business and houses. I feel as though my very presence is a representation of hope, of some connection to a land that is ruled by law-albeit a sometimes dysfunctional law. I am heartened by the amicable nature of these remarkable people-it is a tale of two cities-violence and the best of humanity.

Next time I write-i'll be at the idp camp!

Wish me luck.

-Cameron

***Photos provided by Gina Barker (many more to come).