I’ve officially been in Nairobi for a week(!) and I only
today figured out how to control the temperature in the shower to settings
other than “freezing” and “scalding.” (There’s an switch on the water heater,
which is in another room, that controls the flow of electricity to the pump,
which controls the temperature.) Hey, I’ve been busy…
We started off the week with a brief introduction to the history
of East Africa and of the conflicts in Somalia, Ethiopia, Uganda, Rwanda, DR Congo,
and Sudan that have pushed hundreds of thousands of refugees to Kenya since the
late 1960s. Once they arrive in Kenya, they’re supposed to stay in one of two
major refugee camps established to house them: Kakuma in the north, which is
mostly Sudanese refugees, and Dadaab in the east, which is predominately
Somali. In reality, though, as conflicts rage on for decades (particularly in
Somalia) and the prospects for return and repatriation seem increasingly remote,
tens of thousands of refugees have made their way to Nairobi in search of a
more permanent existence.
Estimates vary widely as to the number of urban refugees
living in Nairobi, but the actual population probably falls somewhere between
80,000 and 450,000. Probably.
Tuesday morning we took a class field trip to Kibera, the
largest “disadvantaged living area” (aka “slum”) in East Africa (and possibly all
of Africa?), to talk to a few refugees about their experiences in coming to and
living in Nairobi. After a 20 minute bus ride through roads more pot-holed than
those in New Orleans, we arrived at the Koinonia Community Project (www.koinoniakenya.org) compound a whole
mile away from where we started. Koinonia is a sort of comprehensive skills
training center for undocumented migrants and other residents of Kibera where
they teach wood carving, painting, batik-making, sewing, and other handicrafts
(and also provide free or very cheap health care for undocumented migrants at
their in-house clinic). We took an awkward mob tour through the narrow shipping
container where John, a Congolese refugee, was teaching the art of wax removal
to his 12-year-old batik-making apprentices and stared in anticipation as an
old Rwandan wood carver turned a stump into an intricately carved Jesus and
lamb. We asked them, as tactfully as possible, about their journeys to Kenya
and where they considered to be “home.”
Valencio, a 23-year-old Rwandan man, told me about
witnessing the genocide when he was just 5 years old. Since then, he’s lived in
Uganda, Sudan, Ethiopia, Tanzania, and Kenya, with the surviving members of his
extended family who are now scattered across East Africa. Now he carves
stereotypical African masks for shipment to some overpriced home décor store in
Italy. He told me about tensions and distrust among Rwandan refugees living in
Kibera. He would like to be a graphic designer but can’t even afford
cigarettes, let alone a laptop and a degree. (I didn’t bother to point out that
maybe if he saved his 100/- a day instead of spending it on cigarettes…)
I wandered away from the group to talk to Frederic, a
middle-aged Rwandan man sledge-hammering away at a giant Nubian Jesus carving
commissioned by a local Cathedral. He told me his life story, about how he’d
grown up in a rural community in the south of Rwanda and how his family were
farmers. He’d left in 1994 as well, not because of some fear of violence (he’s
Hutu) but because everyone else seemed to be leaving and he thought it would be
interesting. He ended up in Gabon, then on some mission in Congo-Brazzaville,
then returned to Rwanda by boat (this part I think he was lying about, but
perhaps I just don’t understand geography).
From his portfolio he pulled out a picture of himself
from 2001. In the picture was a carving he’d done: a pile of machetes in the
shape of Rwanda, turned on its side with two women marching along the border
holding torches above their heads. Standing next to him was Bill Clinton.
“Do you know Bill Clinton?” he asked me. “I do. And I
know the truth about Bill Clinton.”
For the next 45 minutes, Frederic told me about how Bill
Clinton had hired Osama Bin Laden to assassinate the president of Rwanda in
1994 in hopes that the country would collapse into genocide (which it did).
Clinton and the other super powers, he said, wanted to build a military base in
the south so they could spy on Russia and wanted access to the mineral wealth
in the Congo, but the Rwandan president was standing in their way. So, the
genocide happened and Clinton and the rest of the world didn’t intervene
because they had secretly started it. They hand-picked Kagame’s puppet
government, trained a bunch of Black Americans to look like Rwandans and
infiltrate the country (to spy, of course), and never paid Osama. September 11,
he said, was punishment for America because Bill Clinton still owed him money,
and the War on Terrorism is an American cover-up designed to obscure America’s
involvement in the genocide.
Amazing.
Other students heard similar conspiracy theories about the
genocide in their conversations, which was incredibly surprising to me. Is it
just that particular population of people who had fled the country who felt
that way? Are these opinions widely held by Rwandans still living in Rwanda? Or
is Frederic just crazy and persuasive enough to convince all of the other
Rwandans at Koinonia that his particular version of events was the truth?
We made our way through the overpriced, non-price negotiable
gift shop (where I paid an Mzungu price for an adorable clutch) and headed back
to town. In the afternoon, I continued my shopping spree at Kazuri Bead
Factory, an income generating project started for single mothers in Nairobi
some 35 years ago. They dig their own clay from here in Kenya, make it into
beautiful hand painted beads and then sell it abroad for exorbitant prices. We
took a tour through the factory where clay was being wet and pressed and dried
in flat sheets. Women were busily rolling, flattening, and poking toothpick
holes in damp clay, then leaving it in the sun to dry. In another building we watched
them paint and glaze, fire and string their beads into beautiful necklaces.
I asked our tour guide a million questions unrelated to
the process of necklace- and earring-making. How much do the ladies make per
hour? (40Ksh starting, with regular annual raises.) Are they paid bonuses or
commission? (Not really, but they get promoted if they do well.) Do they get
some form of health plan? (Yes, there’s free care for immediate family at the
on-site clinic.) Is there a lot of turnover? (Only one woman has quit in the 17
years the guide has worked there for reasons other than wanting to be a
stay-at-home mom or moving out of Nairobi.) Basically, the place is perfect. They
provide paid training, paid vacation and medical leave, opportunities for
certifications and non-job related workshops, educational savings accounts for
kids’ secondary school fees, and some of the most competitive pay in the city
for women of very low educational level. And, they make some really pretty
stuff. (I'll post photos as soon as I have access to internet that works for more than 4 minutes at a time.)
The majority of my week, though, has been unrelated to
jewelry shopping. I’ve been going to class in the morning, eating a delicious lunch
of beans and rice and Fanta at a little café surrounded by monkeys (all for
less than $2.00), going to class in the afternoon, researching in the evening,
eating my fill of cheap fruits and vegetables, and going to bed. All while
wearing awesome earrings from Kazuri.
Tomorrow (Friday) the whole group is headed up to Mt.
Longonot National Park for some marginally school-related activities (“maybe
the tour guide will be a refugee or something”), then on to Lake Naivasha for the
weekend. We’ll be going on a bike safari and hiking and staying at a place the
Lonely Planet describes as “a plywood palace,” so I should have some interesting
tidbits to report after the weekend.
And next time I
write, I’ll be 26! Woot woot!
Love from Nairobi.
No comments:
Post a Comment