FIFA on the FDR

A wonderful thing happened on the way up the FDR…

Once upon a sleep evading night circa 2 or 3 AM, I made a whole bunch of workout mixes on my iPod.  Thing is, I usually don’t make it down to Dance Mix 5 or Dance Mix 6 during my workouts (as marathons also evade me lately) but on today’s run, I skipped right down to Dance Mix 5 and hit play.  The first song was “Wavin’ Flag” and there, amidst the commuter traffic and smog on the FDR, I was back in the rolling hills of East Africa during the frenzy of World Cup.

I returned from Africa three months ago and I can recall it vividly, but whenever I come back from a big trip, the pace of New York City grabs a hold of my bra straps and woos me with new cultural offerings at the MoMA and the Whitney, a slew of marquee names appearing on Broadway, the best chefs in the world opening signature restaurants, a host of my favorite authors passing through for talks, Central Park runs as the leaves turn, and my darling nephew on the cusp of actually, gulp, walking.  Oh, and there’s that small burden of trying to make a living.

Lately, I’ve been in a vortex of travel pieces, travel blogs, travel pitches, travel itself, and when time permits, the occasional dinner with friends.  Africa became a thing of a distant past.  Which.  Really.  Sucks.  On each return, I promise myself that I will reflect on the life-changing nature of my nomadic life in regular interval; I will stay in close touch with my new travel friends; I will keep the countries I love as close to my heart as I keep the people I love.  And I try.  I really do.

Enter today’s run. 

“Wavin’ Flag” was just the tip of the iceberg, recalling the regularly scheduled Coca-Cola commercials that ran to the World Cup’s anthem—commercials that I grew to love.  “Game On” sent me down a dreamlike road of memories and songs and I found myself back in Tanzania watching Ghana beat the United States (what a fucking game!) and the Zanzibar lounge where the guy next to us rooting for Ghana in the next round was from Astoria!  The aroma of the East River began to melt away, replaced by the salty ocean air outside Forty Thieves, the dive beach bar in Mombasa where Darryl and I watched the Netherlands rock Uruguay and Spain crush Germany with a few really dull Swedes. 

Lyrics to the songs that I knew just three months ago returned, and had I more confidence in my singing ability, I might’ve belted out a little “Waka Waka” right there as I hit the dog park.  With Shakira my running partner, my pace had picked up and I recalled my urgency about catching the finals in the very swanky bar of Nairobi’s Stanley Hotel with new Kenyan friend Brian Jones.  Surrounded by world citizens of all walks, rather than Giants fans of one state, I watched Spain coast to victory while text messaging with Edu and Chris, Barcelona-living friends who sent along pictures of the dancing going on in their streets. 

Talk about one world and one culture—summer of 2010 was all about identifying with those things.  South Africa set the globe afire a few short months ago, and I’ve been so busy trying to make a living, thinking about things like fall boots and maintenance on my apartment, that I clearly needed a reminder about global citizenship, the astonishing beauty of Africa’s open meadows, and the friendship of the people we met along the way. 

If just for 45 minutes on the FDR this morning, I was back in East Africa, living the dream, playing out my role of world citizen dutifully.  Then, Lady Gaga popped my bubble as a garbage truck honked in passing.  But for a moment, it was all about the waving world flag. 

Check it out:

The Official FIFA World Cup 2010 Album:

http://www.listenupalbum.com/

East Africa: The Q&A

I wasn’t sure what to expect before I left for Africa in June.  It was the only continent I hadn’t visited, and the one I was most eager to go to.  Now, having spent 5+ weeks in Kenya and Tanzania, I’ve processed and reflected and can easily say that it one of the best periods of my life.  I wasn’t sure how to tackle this blog post; everyone has so many questions (and preconceived notions) about Africa.  For that reason, I decided to do it as a straight-up Q&A.  If you have more questions, post them in comments and I’ll update my post with answers to them.

Were you sooo hot in Africa this summer?

It makes the best sense to start here, because it’s the most commonly questioned misperception about the African subcontinent.  And the accented sooooo hot is always the same, no matter the inquisitor.  It’s actually quite chilly in Kenya and Tanzania, and that’s because of altitude.  From when we arrived in Njabini, at Flying Kites, through Kilimanjaro (obviously…), and even on safari, we wore long sleeves every day.  Jeans.  Socks.  Closed-toe shoes.  I was underprepared for this climate aspect, lugging around floor-length sundresses and strappy sandals like it was my job.  I was expecting to come back bronzed and beautiful.  Sadly, it wasn’t until Zanzibar that my forearms arms saw the light of day.  Then, I made up for lost time.

What did you eat in Africa?  Is the food good?

YES.  (Capital.  Bold.  Italics.)  First of all, I don’t know what they do to their eggs over there, and maybe it’s because they’re laid and brought fresh to table, no refrigeration or pasteurization but…Africa corners the market on great omelets.  Breakfasts were all included and at a premium.  Even the fried-eggs-over-toast-at-the-very-base Gimwa Hotel were worth seconds (or thirds).  Also at breakfast was tons of fresh fruit – mangoes, papaya, pineapple, and watermelon, served at the beginning of breakfast, rather than the end. 

In the coffee, the milk is hot.  Which makes such better sense.  Why do we serve ours cold, again?  Forget coffee, though, the Kenyan tea rocks.  It’s a chai variety, thick and savory with a bit of spice.  The milk develops a skin on the top as it cools, but eventually that becomes endearing not skeevy.  Okay, maybe a little skeevy…

The soups are to-die for.  Who teaches soup-making as hobby over there, because I must learn.  Again, going back to question number 1, nobody expects soup in Africa because it’s sooo hot, right?  Pleasant surprise.  Cream-based, lentil based, curry flavorings. 

Inland, we ate a lot of lentils, beans, potatoes, and rice.  On the coast, it’s like the lobster lottery.  Lobster (or crab) at every meal.  In salads, soups, raviolis, grilled or broiled as main course.  And these aren’t little ratty lobsters, but meaty portions of tails and claws.  In addition, there were fresh vegetables of all sorts grown in local village gardens.  Venture into the villages and you can eat like a king for pennies from a menu of fritters and broths, as well as vegetables and fruit.

A tip or two about eating out:  Leave plenty of time.  It takes twenty minutes to get salt and pepper, let alone a piece of toast.  Guard your plate.  Once you look finished or have a lull in fork-to-mouth movement, your plate will be taken from you.  Hot sauce goes well with EVERYTHING in Africa.

Tanzania vs. Kenya?

Though they’re so close, sharing mountain ranges and borders, these countries are wildly different. 

When I first arrived in Kenya, I felt like I had a sign on my head that said “I’ve never been to Africa before, so please ignore me.”  Because that’s what they did.  Though after 3 weeks in Tanzania, returning to Kenya felt like homecoming.  I think the Kenyans are less trusting, less apt to open their arms in welcome because of a spotty colonial history and turbulent political system.  That said, since I’ve been in Kenya, the new constitution was approved by a 70% margin, and the future looks a little brighter.

On our first days in Tanzania, we felt a much more welcoming vibe.  Possibly that’s because we had acclimated a bit, and our first glimpse of Tanzania was through the eyes of the hired company taking us up Mount Kilimanjaro.  But that’s just a maybe.  Tanzania was better organized, and my take is that it goes back to the Nyerere presidency from the 60’s to the 80’s.  He unified the Zanzibar islands with the mainland Tanganyika to become Tanzania and, it seems, still has a profound effect on the democracy that exists today.

Gun to my head…Tanzania.  But it’s very close…

What are some little things, possibly indigenous to East Africa, possibly indigenous to travelers in East Africa that you noticed?

Many Africans get confused and say “you’re welcome” instead of “thank you.”  They use phrases like “Obey Your Thirst “and “Just Do It” in everyday context.  Like, on safari, my guide Rajai was always asking “Marie, did you obey your thirst today?” in an effort to make sure that I was drinking enough water.  The fact that this line of questioning took the form of Gatorade’s tagline (and that’s where he likely picked it up) was lost on him. 

Coca-Cola signs are everywhere.  All the bars, the stores in the mud-based villages, the billboards, even the ONE refreshment hut (and I do mean hut) coming down Kilimanjaro have Coke signs to announce them.  Usually the signs feature a woman with an Afro tilting her head back in drink.  Kiosks are even shaped like massive Coke bottles with cutouts for the counters—phallic American symbols of big business.  I wonder when exactly Coca-Cola came into Africa so aggressively; it’s very disturbing. 

I was always dirty.  And I don’t mean use-a-little-hand-sanitizer dirty.  Dirty in breadth and scope.  My eye socket corners, the soles of my feet, under the nails, in my ears, and as a film on my arms.  My hair was sand-colored and un-brushable most of the time.  Anything white is off-limits.  It’ll be beige in no time at all.  My shoes were coated in grime.  Their shoes, the shoes of the Kenyan and Tanzania people, however, were always clean.  People wear lace-up leather shoes, shined to the hilt, as if they just came from a shoe shine…clean.  How?  It was utterly amazing.

When you’re driving through the countryside, there are fields upon fields of flowers.  All kinds—sunflowers, calla lilies, orchids—and thousands of them.  I thought about the florist expenditure that we must spend, be it for weddings, funerals, or other affairs on such flowers.  Yet, there were thousands of them in sun-shining splendor along Africa’s back roads and it made me smile every time.

Speaking of roads.  All are bumpy and unpaved roads.  You’re holding on for dear life through most of your car-time in Africa.  I think I mentioned this in an earlier blog: sports bras on safari – an absolute must, so I reiterate.

Speaking of cars, Kenyans and Tanzanians put baby amounts of gas in their cars at the stations.  For a 90-minute drive, they would get a ¼ tank.  They won’t fill up, because they don’t believe in waste; use as you need it, pay for only what you need.  Forget gas, nothing goes to waste.  Everything gets recycled from the banana leaves to the broken down 1970’s radios and carburetors.  The sides of the streets are littered with men fixing bicycles, refrigerators, lamps, patching tires, reselling furniture.  If it can be reused, there’s a corner on which some weathered man is recycling it.

At lodges and hotels, the staff greets you with passion fruit juice and hand towels (to clean off the dust).  Hotel room mints come in the form of mosquito and roach spray.  Bugs here are as big as your fist.  Mosquitoes are like nowhere I’ve ever been.  In Zanzibar, on the coast, you can barely breathe without catching a few in your lungs, and by morning, your sheets are polka-dotted with blood from rolling over feeding mosquitoes during REM.  Yes, you actually get used to it.

Most of the towns smell like fire.  Much of this is attributed to the fact that refuse is burned for fuel, or because there’s a lack of garbage collection.  New houses within these communities are made of cinder block, though I prefer the mud-dried houses built on a frame of logs and sticks and accented with thatched banana or coco palm leaf roof.

Everyone needs to know a time for everything.  Breakfast, lunch, or dinner primarily, but also if you merely mention you MIGHT go to the market in passing.  Ok, what time?  Might want to take a walk later.  Ok, what time?  Returning to the airport?  When, what time?  When you give a roundabout answer, you then have someone waiting for you at that exact time guilting you into something you only said you might actually do.  It’s a vicious cycle.

Everyone has biblical names.  Little girls named Ruth and Miriam, little boys named Joseph and Jacob.  If it’s not biblical, it a descriptive noun:  Happiness, Mercy, Destiny, Patience, and the like. 

What about the African men?

One thing everyone should know about African men:  most cheat.  My Kilimanjaro guide, Richard, asked me to be his African girlfriend.  “We will email once you leave,” he says to me as we bound down the mountain on Day 7.  “Marie, I love you.”  “Yeah right,” I say, mildly amused.  I mean, who doesn’t want a good 50-something African man with seven children to love her?  “What does your wife think of that?” I ask.  “She knows that I cannot be with one women, it is not natural.”  And so it went…  Biondi, our drive in Zanzibar, brought his on-the-side bird into Stonetown with us.  They canoodled in the back of the van while we caroused until all hours.  I had to knock on the window to get his, ahem, attention to drive us home.  Our driver to Mombasa’s wife was headed to Zaire for temporary work.  He was on the prowl for a replacement.  

So, besides the fact that the African guy isn’t my guy to begin with… well, there’s the cheating.

How was it traveling with someone?  Specifically with Darryl?

Short answer: It was amazing. 

Long answer: I admit I was nervous to travel with someone.  I’ve spent the better part of the last four years traveling on my own.  I tend to be a little anal; I unpack as soon as I check in, I make lists of restaurants and local foods to try from my notes, I like to wrap the blanket between my legs so that my knees don’t touch.  Would I snore?  Would we get on each other’s nerves?  Was she too much of a hippie to my fancy?  When should I tell her I’d never been camping?

Slowly, I realized she was the perfect travel partner.  Where I’m uptight, she’s laid-back.  When she’s travel nervous, I’m calm.  We both like to get our hands dirty and engage in the culture in which we’re traveling and we both like nice sheets when the day is over.  (I admit, I was surprised by this.  She’s a bit of a Jungle Jap, if I’m spilling the beans…) 

Soon, we’d developed into a rhythm.  She always took the bed (or the side of the bed) closest to the bathroom.  I took up more room in the closet.  I expressed displeasure to any staff/clerk/tour guide that displeased me; she benefitted.  She let me try to do things my way only to be wrong.  Then, having patiently waited, we would do it her (right) way.  The best part?  She never said, “I told you so.”   She turns the AC off before we go to sleep; I turn it back on sometime during the night.  My luggage started off heavier.  Hers finished heavier.  So, there.

A kind person, Darryl always wants to give something back to anyone who, like, waves or smiles at her.  Shirts, food, money – she’s always searching her bag for a gift, to show “they mean something to her.”  It comes from a beautiful place, but in my opinion, exacerbates the problem.  “Can’t someone just do something nice for you without you feeling guilty?” I would ask her.  And she would smile sheepishly, and say something like “But the kid outside our room was so cute and I just found this $1 dollar bill from this Rabbi I used to know who told me to pass it onto something worthwhile, and I thought that the kid would be a good person to pass it onto.”  I wouldn’t disagree with her logic, but then I would say something like, “Okay, but do you have $100 dollar bills from the Rabbi for the line of children that have now gathered outside the property fence?” 

Me?  I haggle.  I refuse to be taken for a ride because I’m a tourist.  Sorry, a traveler.  I can’t give to everyone, so I give to very few.  Forget Africa being poor, traveling through poverty with Darryl, I’m now poor.  That being the worst of it, I think Darryl and I are headed for quite a few other adventures.

What was your favorite part?

Spending time the kids at Flying Kites.  Hands down, this was the best experience to bottle and take home from Africa.  It’s a special feeling, impacting the lives of others in a profound way, and ever since I involved myself with Flying Kites and their cause, I’ve felt deeply affected by Africa in a way that’s markedly different from the other continents I’ve visited.  Children, of any age, have always had the ability to inspire me to do great things.  The children of Flying Kites inspired me tenfold.

Would you go back?

Tomorrow.

A Word About the Constitution

 When I arrived at the Nairobi International Airport in early June, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  A travel writer, I’d seen the likes of five continents, but this was my first trip to Africa and I was trying to withhold expectations.  My goal was to merely absorb what I experienced and process later.  Little did I know my time in Kenya would come full circle two months later on a Montauk, New York beach.

I was in Africa on a charity mission—climbing Kilimanjaro for an orphanage called Flying Kites.  Located in a small town about ninety minutes north of Nairobi, Njabini was my first prolonged stop on a whirlwind East African tour.  I came to find that Njabini was representative of the millions of tiny Kenyan towns that dot the landscape of this beautiful country.  Deeply colored dirt roads meandered off the main drag, a street littered with roadside shops advertising beauty parlor services, internet and fax facilities, and every kind of odd and end under the Kenyan sun—recycled transistor radios, patched tires, mismatched flatware, and mended children’s clothing. 

Hailing from New York City, Njabini was refreshing.  The mountains stretched in every direction, the foliage shimmered bright green in the heat of the sun and fields of calla lilies and sunflowers grew in abundance.  Each morning, as I made my way down from my room at the bare bones Gimwa Guesthouse, the townsfolk were walking the streets—children in school uniform, gentlemen in heavily used suits, and women with tall fruit piles atop their heads.  As they passed, the Njabini people would wave at the crazy mzungus—white people—en route to Kilimanjaro who had overrun their town.  They didn’t know what to make of us, but their spirits were so open and curious, it was hard to resist their charm.

On morning three in the Gimwa café, a dusty breakfast room with a snowy one-channel television, posters of Jesus Christ, and an unwritten menu of eggs and toast, I noticed a large, thick booklet on one of the tables.  Curious, I picked one up.  “The Proposed Constitution of Kenya.  6th May 2010.”  I looked around sheepishly.  Did someone drop their…Kenyan Constitution?  Had I just become embroiled in an East African version of The Pelican Brief?  Then, I noticed that all of the Gimwa tables were sporting the same booklets. 

Francis, an upstanding Njabini citizen affiliated with Flying Kites, read the confusion on my face.  “We will vote soon on a new constitution that will bring us closer to a true democracy.  In it, there will be less presidential power and better oversight.  There will be needed reform.”  It was 1963 when Kenya’s last constitution was drafted under a colonialist model.  The dissemination of this new legislation was intended to help the country unite in understanding of the document’s goals.  Concern was understandable; previous votes, like the presidential election of 2007, created devastating aftermath.  Over 1,000 people were killed in riots and massacres, and hundreds of thousands more were displaced.  The majority of the atrocities took place right near Njabini’s Rift Valley.  I glanced around.  Here?  Massacres?

As I sipped some Kenyan tea, I skimmed the 47-page document.  “Did you see the environmental legislation?  Page 12,” said Thomas, one of our fellow Kilimanjaro climbers.  “What about the parts on the limits of presidential power?” remarked my friend, Darryl.  I had never turned the pages of my own country’s constitution, yet here I was in rural Kenya, turning the pages of theirs.  It was a pretty incredible moment, Njabini locals and American adventurers talking about Kenya’s proposed constitution—the introduction of a Senate, a qualifying system for those who wanted to hold office.   Humbled, I was reminded of the bounty of my own civil rights.

As I made my way through Nairobi and Mombasa, I continued to see the booklets on park benches, on restaurant tables, and in hotel lobbies.  Each time, it gave me pause.  I wondered what would happen in August.

Last week, as I perused the papers at a local Montauk beach café, I was overcome with emotion reading the headlines.  By a margin of 69%, The Proposed Constitution of Keyna, 6^th May 2010, passed.  Without violence or contest.  I raced home to the pile of travel notes and research I had accumulated during my five weeks in East Africa and pulled out my own large, thick booklet.  Then, I set aside my newspapers, conjured the smiles of the wonderful people I met in Kenya, and began to read.

"We Love You So So Much"

Four days on a beach in Mombasa leads back to Njabini and Flying Kites.  Only this time, we’re prepared for the Gimwa, our home away from home.  We’re not surprised when it takes two hours to check in, or when the shower drips on our head in the middle of the night while using the toilet.  The very damp towels we’re supposed to use to dry off no longer annoy us and we anticipate the cacophony of early morning roosters and wild dogs.  We even look forward to the curdled skin floating on the chai tea in the café; we know the line dancing music videos that repeat on the one snowy Gimwa television channel, and we’ve come to terms with the fact that Ruth and Mary, the Gimwa servers, aren’t at all happy to see us. 

But the children are.  And that’s all that matters.  They clamor for our attention as soon as we arrive back on site.  Some remember us, some don’t, but they love us just the same.  Before long, we’re trading stories about the mountain, playing nail salon or kicking soccer goals in tribute to the ongoing World Cup.  Ah, welcome back!

There’s a different vibe on this visit.  All of the Kilimanjaro climbers have gone home, a number of volunteers have completed their stays, and Kites founders Leila and Justine have made their way back to Newport.  Even the in-country directors are off-site, pushing forward with a local program called Oasis in Nairobi to unite the surrounding orphanages in practice and standards.  I imagine this is what regular days feel like at Flying Kites.  Lazy, organized, quiet.  The eighteen boarders have all of our attention today—Sunday.  They come out to greet us one by one—Rahab, Moses, James, John, Mary, Benson, Joseph, Sara, Lucy, Lucy Obama, Miriam, Hannah, Ann, Alex, Isaac, Daniel, Rose, and the newest alum, Eve*.

In the month since we’ve been away, a lot has happened.  Eve is now in temporary Kites custody.  The chief of Njabini stepped in on her behalf; her family didn’t put up a fight.  It took a little getting used to, seeing Eve in clean jeans and a baby blue fleece.  No more filthy school uniform, no more cowering in corners along the main Njabini road.  Her smile spoke volumes but it was plain to see that life, albeit a past life, had taken its toll.  In the period of an hour, Eve could go through any range of emotions, usually unprovoked.  She might be happy and giddy, then argumentative and belligerent.  She pushes and she yells.  Then, she cries.  There’s a lot of distrust in Eve’s eyes, but she’s figuring out how to get along with the others.  You can see that she wants to learn; her English is fantastic.  Thinking about how little language she had when we met her in Njabini speaks to her desire to fit in, to learn, and to grow.  I shudder to think of what would’ve happened to Eve had Darryl and I not come to Kenya.  It gets me every time.

As we’re laying on blankets in the sun after lunch Ann, a stunning beauty of eleven years old who has been braiding my hair turns to me and says:

“What did you do to your legs?”

I look down at my legs, unsure of Ann’s meaning.

“My legs?  Why?”

“They don’t look like regular mzungu (white person) legs.”

Bashfully, she gestures to the fair-skinned Bethany.  Then, her gaze turns to Darryl.  I laugh.  

“I went in the sun and I got a tan at the beach.”

“Oh,” she says but she looks confused. 

“What’s tan?” she asks.

I realize she’s never seen a beach and I feel guilty.

When she sees me writing the conversation down, she asks if I’m writing what she said to remember her.  Yes, I say.  I want to remember you forever.  Slowly, she takes my pen and asks to write in my book.  Then, she proceeds to write the rest of our conversation.

“What’s your favorite colour?”

“My favorite colour is red,” I reply.

“What’s your favorite color, Ann?”

“I said magenta,” she writes.

“I want to remember you forever, too.”

I turn away because there are tears in my eyes and I don’t want to have to explain.

Seeing Ann write in my notebook prompts Lucy Obama to beg a turn with my pen.  Daniel has my camera, Eve has my sunglasses, Alex has my sneakers, and now Lucy has my notebook.  It’s hard to keep track.  After scribbling behind the shield of her elbow, Lucy’s head pops back up.

“I wrote you a letter, do you want to hear it?”

“Yes, of course, Lucy Obama!”

She reads:

“Dear Marie and Aunty (I assume this is Darryl)

My name is Lucy.  I live in Flying Kites.  I love you so much.

Baboons.  Warthogs.  Giraffes. 

Dik dik.  Cheetah.  Elephant.  Impala.  Zebras.”

Huh?  Confused, I take my book back.  Lucy is giggling uncontrollably.  She has written on a page opposite my safari notes.  She’s copied all the animals, and all my notes, into her “letter.”  Then, she grabs the book back.  “I love you,” she writes again.  As Rahab takes a turn in my notebook, Daniel shows me the 100 photographs he’s taken during our writing session.  Daniel might have a career as a photographer; his montage of a Flying Kites Sunday evokes the freedom and playfulness of being a kid.  So many years past my own childhood, it was wonderful to see myself through childhood’s lens.  Especially the lens of these children: the beautiful children of Flying Kites.

Rabab keeps it simple.

“Rahab

My name is Rahab.

I am seven years old.

Bye.”

I don’t want to leave. 

We may have been prepared for the Gimwa, but saying goodbye to these sweet, little faces isn’t something I’m ready to face.  “It’s so sad, when everyone leaves,” says Ann, eyes turned toward the ground.  Rose is hysterical, Daniel won’t meet my eye; Eve is visibly upset.  The children who have spent more time at Kites seem used to the transition, but it doesn’t make it easier on Darryl and me.  “We love you so so much, we love you so so much!” sing their little voices in song as we pull away in the Flying Kites vehicle. 

I only hope they know how much we love them in return.

*Name has been changed.

Eve*

Darryl met her on the corner of Flying Kites Road while I was exchanging dollars into shillings at the local bank.  She was dressed in a red and white checked skirt and navy blue sweater – a school uniform – but said that she couldn’t afford her dues.  Instead, she strolled the streets.  Many of the townsfolk hissed at her, or conversely, they paid her no mind.  Darryl polished her nails – small, skinny fingers – while she leaned against a dilapidated building next to a bike.  Her smile was transfixing and mischievous; her skin was perfection.  Eve*.

As we made our way up the winding, muddy, mile-long road toward Flying Kites Leadership Academy, Darryl’s little friend followed.  Together, they talked in the same way that Leila, Justine, and I chatted ahead of them.  Or so it seemed.  As we entered Flying Kites, a massive campus of lush, green land, laundry lines, classrooms, and the shrieks of happy children, Eve demurred.

Flying Kites is a place that helps the most needy children in the Njabini community.  Most are orphans, though in a few rare cases, Kites requests custody of a child on the basis of abuse.  Two of the children, siblings, were taken from a mother that tried to boil them alive.  Yes, it gets that bad.  Darryl and I were lucky enough to spend time at the center before our Kilimanjaro climb, a climb that celebrated the very children rocking and rolling around us.  Over a hundred little faces met me on arrival.  My breath caught, my eyes welled; Flying Kites exudes a special feeling.  The place is a heaven (and a haven) for the many that pass through its gates and it translates.  Immediately.

“Auntie, Auntie,” scream these tiny, virtual strangers.  Here, in Kenya, elders are “Auntie” and “Uncle,” making it hard to resist the heartstring pull of such sweet, vibrant kids, regardless of the snot dripping from their noses, or the crust caught in the corners of their eyes.  Every one of them wants (and warrants) my attention.  “Auntie, watch me!” says Sylvester, as he throws a Frisbee.  “Auntie, watch me!” says Rahab, as she jumps rope.  “Auntie, read me a story,” says Lucy Obama – a self-designated moniker that evolved when a second Lucy entered the facility.

Willis is hiding behind a volunteer’s leg; Miriam is playing with the new kitten, Matilda; Moses is in back with a cage of bunnies.  They beg me to take their photo; they giggle uncontrollably when they see their own image.  Like monkeys, they crawl and climb all over me.  They hug, and they kiss; affection is in abundance.  Sarah and John have recently joined the crew.  They are reticent and quiet, and unlike the others, they don’t seek out attention.  When I hear the circumstances that preceded the arrivals of the others, it’s easy to see just how Flying Kites puts lives back together again.  Sarah and John will be wreaking havoc in no time, I’m sure…

A steady stream of volunteers passes through the home to help Sarah, Brian, and Frannie – celebrities in their own right – keep Kites ticking.  There’s the 40-something breast cancer survivor traveling alone for the first time, the Backstreet Boy-esque duo who brought their own Peter Luger sauce and circuit training ropes for backyard exercise, the 16-year old student who came armed with a duffle-bag full of kid-sized Crocs, and the quick-tongued Newport-based college senior who was leaving as we arrived.  In that short, three days of time, I saw how the characteristics of the volunteers, vastly different in every way, matched the spirit of the children. 

On the Day of the African Child, a national holiday that commemorates the Soweto riots of 1970’s, a feast for the leaders of the Njabini community takes place at Kites.  Of course, the generator blows when the reggae band plugs in, but the candlelight sets a lovelier mood.  The kids are on fire, dancing and singing to local gospel sensation Jimmie Gait, conga lines form, the goat sacrifice (that took place on the property earlier in the day) was well received, and one by one, the kids are carried off to bed, happy, fully and entirely spent.  Except for Eve.  She didn’t attend the feast. 

Eve qualifies as an abuse case.  Nobody can accurately determine her age.  Darryl, a social worker, pegs it at around 11.  Eve thinks she was born in 2002.  Recently married off, Eve’s screams during sex with her husband prompted him to give her back to her family.  This, in turn, caused great shame.  Her parents beat her to within an inch of her life on her return prompting her aunt to take her in.  But when a Kites volunteer gave Eve’s aunt food stamps to help care for her, her family took her back to profit.  More beatings.  Plus regular rapes by her neighbor.  Add to that, Eve has epilepsy, which further stigmatizes her.  On the day we left for Kilimanjaro, Eve was again wandering the streets in her school uniform.

Today, Eve showed up at Kites.  Beaten.  Broken.  Again.  They have a custody hearing tomorrow morning.  God, I hope they win. 

*Name has been changed.

A Njabini Sunrise

We’re here!  Africa.  Well, Kenya to start. 

At first glance, it reminds me of India: abject poverty, haphazardly placed bundled garbage, potholes, unrecycled plastic, roaming goats, cows, and donkeys, shoeless children.  All that’s missing are the monkeys…  Here, the skin of the people is about four shades darker, and there is – at least from what I’ve seen – less of a sense of humor.  India’s people, no matter their plight, are always smiling.  In Kenya, it’s tough to crack that initial grin.  There’s a level of quiet, of reserve, of indifference, that almost makes you feel like you’re invisible, as Darryl so aptly put it.  She’s right.  Nobody sees me yet.  Even when I smile.

Out of the city, similar to most third world highways, chaos rules.  Diesel fumes run noxious; horn honking creates cacophonous melody.  Buses, mass transport, and motorcycles are piled high and full.  So many people moving from place to place.  Robert, our driver who moonlights as a Kilimanjaro guide, is a jovial guy who tells us about his country.  The Westlands of Nairobi is an enclave of the wealthy; con men run deep – especially ones in good suits; English is Kenya’s predominant language; 95% of people summit Kilimanjaro on 6-night hikes (whew…).  He’s lovely and informative, and likes us off the bat.  He gives us hope that his is the spirit of the people we’ve come to find.  Robert smiles back.  Every time. 

As city bleeds into country, we climb to Njabini’s elevation of 8,500 feet.  Located in the Great Rift Valley, Njabini is where Flying Kites’ Leadership Academy is located and we can’t wait to arrive.  Darryl, Flying Kites and I are long, and fast friends.  I’ve been waiting to enter their world in the same gracious, welcome way they entered (and changed) mine.  We will volunteer our time at their children’s home; we will climb Kilimanjaro for their cause.  En route, we pass gorgeous, tall pine forests and bushy, flat-topped acacia trees; perched, menacing vultures keep one eye open to dinner possibilities in villages of one story-dilapidated accommodations that line the roads.  Everyone is on the streets – walking, chatting, working – children are all dressed in school uniforms.  Njabini is different than Nairobi; I’ve started to see the color of this land.  

We’re staying at the Gimwa Hotel, a spare guesthouse in Njabini’s small village.  Our bathrooms (a luxury to begin with) look like I would imagine a Riker’s island set-up might look.  The insects are enormous, my dinner was chopped meat and cabbage, and the air smells like burning wood.  No matter, though.  I’m in Africa.  “Jambo” is the word for hello in Kenya, and in Njabini, I plan to use it loosely and with genuine feeling.  Too bad that Mary and Ruth, the girls who man the Gimwa café, don’t care to respond to our Jambos.

I want to be Oprah; I want to be Madonna.  I want schoolchildren of all ages to celebrate me in robe and song.  I want to be crushed by the love of the African people.  Isn’t that how it’s supposed to happen?  I think that’s how everyone pictures Africa, but there’s a slower arc to the “mazungu” (white person) embrace.  

On Day Two, I watched my first African sunrise.  Before I left New York someone told me to cherish every sunrise.  And at 5 AM, the roosters, donkeys, and rabid dogs reminded me that my first opportunity beckoned.  The remnants of jetlag hadn’t quite left my sleepy frame, but awake and half-alert, I bundled up and crept outside for a peek.  A murky blue start to my first Kenyan morning, and though the vision wasn’t as grand as I had expected, the gesture wasn’t lost on me.  In that moment, thinking about where I was, and what I was about to experience, unbeknownst to me, I smiled.  And the equally sleepy, bundled Njabini woman coming out of her hut behind the Gimwa looked up and met my eye.  

Then, she smiled back.

Bring On Africa!

I’ve done this already.  Multiple times.  And yet, the mixed feelings inevitably come.  Kenya, Tanzania, and Mount Kilimanjaro loom large on my horizon, but I’m torn on leaving a very settled New York existence for the pleasures and perils of a travel-break. 

Most of you know my story: a rising publicist within the matrix of the HarperCollins Publishers machine, I left my job in 2005.  No disillusionment with cranky authors, no falling out with top brass, no desire to continue my upward climb.  I just…quit.  Looking back, the urgency and growth that I had long associated with my position had fallen off.  I owned my New York City apartment; I dabbled with the same boy for half a decade.  Change cramped my style, but it was time.  On the cusp of 31, unattached, and unchallenged, I decided to delve into a new experiment: traveling the world.  Solo.

The lack of corporate identity faded to black, replaced by worries about proper hiking boots and rain ponchos, durable yet lightweight wheelie luggage and international visas.  A holy immunization hell awaited me.  Ecuador would be the first stop on what came to be a two-plus year adventure, but in that solitary moment of booking a ticket to Quito, I wondered what I would wear on the plane.  These became my preoccupations.  Night sweats ensued.  The big question loomed: was I prepared?

A month on the road showed me that preparation only goes so far, and you’re never completely ready for life’s many challenges.  I grew to love greeting the dawn each day—often in a new city—with a wealth of possibility at my fingertips.  Shockingly, I embraced living out of a suitcase.  The contents of that well-chosen wheelie bag became the only constant; everything else around me fluctuated like the wind. Spontaneity became my new best friend.  Unpredictability, my new boyfriend.  Oh, how I thrived.

More than two years have passed since I returned to New York as headquarters of my new life.  In that time, I’ve struggled with re-entry.  Redefining the location of your old life in relation to your new one takes work and, at the time, I wasn’t ready to go back to work.  I wallowed.  I did; probably way too much and for way too long, but it takes a while to process two years, five continents, and thirty-something countries in a studio apartment that doesn’t have the best natural light. 

Eventually, though, the sun came out.  Hiding behind bedcovers until 2 PM started to feel silly, and I slowly began to rebuild.  A manuscript here, a freelance travel article there; working with various global charities reinvigorated my soul and drove my passion.  Voila!  New York regained a bit of its rose-colored glow.

This winter, when the opportunity to spend the summer in Africa presented itself, it seemed a no-brainer.  For charity, no less: where do I sign?  But now, five days out, coming full circle in career and confidence, I’m mixed on leaving.  Again.  Thankfully, I have hindsight on my side, and my trip to East Africa ties into my budding role as a travel writer and a responsible tourist.  I always think I’m immune to anxiety on the eve of extended holiday, and my nerves take me by complete surprise when they surface.  Plus, with each new adventure, they change their spots.  Today, they take the form of: Will I be able to summit Kilimanjaro?  My first joint trip in years, will my travel partners and I get along?  Will I have enough time to cover my assignments and bask in the continent I’ve dreamed of exploring?  And, of course, do I have the right hiking boots? 

Luckily, I know the answers will sort themselves out.  They always do.  That’s the beauty of taking a break from real life for a solid dose of a travel life. 

Bring on Africa!

*This blog was adapted from a piece I wrote for a website called Briefcase to Backpack (www.briefcasetobackpack.com).  Check them out!