OK, maybe that's a mild exaggeration, but after being refused service on racial grounds on three occasions (and an additional time because the barber is closed on Sunday), I have successfully gotten my hair cut! This may not seem blog-worthy, but I lost about 3 pounds, am 8 degrees cooler, and my tefilin and hat both fit again.
I admit this may seem like less than earth-shattering news in light of Japan, Libya, Israel, etc. but it's all I've got to offer today.
This is our last day in Nyeri, we'll spend the day practicing our presentation before delivering it to the government tomorrow in Nairobi. I packed this morning, and will be off to the Congo in another 2 days, and back home in less than a week! How the month has flown... well, maybe not for Deb.
Showing posts with label Nyeri. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nyeri. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Coffee, Tea and Nairobi
Friday morning, the team decided to take in a little local color before work by going to one of the many ubiqutous coffee plantations in the area. At least, that was the intention. The Postal team had made a very good friend and number one fan in the local postmaster and he hooked us up with a guide and an entre. The hitch was that we when we showed up, we were met with a non-coffee, non-plantation destination. It was a tea factory. We went through and saw the tea leaf delivery, the withering, macerating, drying, crushing, and sifting machines. Then we advanced to the tasting room, where about 10 different pots were brewing, and Francesco took the lead, swirling and spitting as one might at a wine tasting. Remarkable how many different styles (their relative value apparently changes with the desires of the market) can come from just one batch of leaves.
Not to be deterred, we inquired after a subsequent coffee visit, which was happily granted. After a 5 minute drive that took 35 minutes, we arrived at yet another factory, this one devoted to coffee. The smell of freshly roasted beans was ambient from the moment we got out of the car, though there is no industrial roasting at this particular plant, just enough for quality control and tasting. We went through the demonstration groves, where the agronomists at the coffee mill show the farmers optimal practices for maximizing the quality and yield of their plants. Apparently, one the farmer delivers the beans, there's very little that the mill itself can do to increase the quality of the resulting coffee... much of it is determined at the plant itself. Steve, the British intern showing us around the plant, was quite accommodating of all of our questions and most importantly arranged for a fresh cup of joe for all of us - and by fresh I mean beans that were roasted one floor below, having been beans on the tree mere weeks before. As you might imagine, it was delicious.
This whole process turned from a quick one hour jaunt into a 3.5 hour morning event, which stressed out some of my teammates, as they had a trip planned to Lake Nakuru for the weekend. I was on a little bit more relaxed schedule to head to Nairobi, since I was planning to take a matatu. I don't recall to what degree I've covered matatus thus far, but they are small Nissan minibuses that are the most common form of inter-city transportation in Kenya. Picture five rows of three seats with a steering wheel in the front, inside an interior the size of a Honda Odyssey. Foreigners typically shun them, and for some good reasons... up until recently, matatus were completely unregulated. Speeds were unlimited, as were numbers of passengers which could number above 20. Fatal accidents were common. Drivers were either unlicensed, stoned or both. Vehicles were unguided road missiles, and held to no mechanical standard. After accidents, drivers would typically abandon their junk heap vehicle and just run for it. These practices have been largely reformed now with police constantly pulling over matatus to check the licensing and state of the driver, ensure that insurance and inspection are up to date, check the number of passengers, but the stigma still remains.
Matatus are cheap. By comparison, a private taxi from Nyeri to Nairobi is about 7500 Ksh one way, or about 85-90 dollars. A matatu ride from Nyeri to Nairobi is 250 Ksh, just under 3 bucks. Yeah. So my colleague Francesco walked me down to the matatu stop, I bought my ticket, he snapped a photo of me in the matatu as my last will and testament, and waved goodbye. I sat in the "jump seat" by the sliding door, which avoided the "death seat" next to the matatu driver. The only downside with a matatu is that they leave when they are full, which in my case took about a half an hour. In that half hours time, you are a captive audience and a sitting duck for every two bit vendor with any wares to ply. Fruit, drinks, cookies, samosas, candies, phonics books, calendars, combs, grilled meats of unclear origin, religious texts, and padlocks, all circling the lot full of vans, shouting and looking to swoop down on any flash of cash since they're largely selling the same stuff. My van finally filled (with 17 passengers instead of 15 if you count the two kids unbelted in their parents laps), and we pulled off onto the highway. The "African Massage" was in full force, but honestly once you have accustomed yourself to the white-knuckle, breath-catching panic of passing by swerving into the oncoming lane on a well-trafficked highway, there's really very little incremental terror doing it in a matatu versus a taxi - only that your heirs will have less to inherit in the latter case.
I made some small talk with my sleepy matatu-mates who were pleasant if not particularly conversational. When we made a brief stop to drop someone on the outskirts of Nairobi, I hopped out to make room for the exiting passenger and was immediately approached by an aggressive panhandler who quickly became abusive when I refused him. My fellow passenger leaped to my defense, pouring calumny on him in Swahili until he backed away, flipping all of us off in the process. Matatu Solidarity!
I made it to downtown Nairobi unscathed and in enough time to make it to my modest accommodations, shower and head over to the synagogue for Kabbalat Shabbat. Many of the folks I met the first time were not around, which made it difficult to gain entry past the synagogue security guards, but fortunately, I spied a former head of the shul, "Veitzman" (first name, yes, you may be Israeli if your first name is Veitzman) who granted me access. I quickly discovered why things were particularly buckled down as my entry was immediately followed by the arrival of 4 black sedans and a chase car with siren blaring. Out walked a gaggle of obvious Israeli security goons, the Israeli Ambassador Yaacov Keidar (who is a regular attendee there) and the Israeli Minister of Internal Security Yitzchak Aharonovich, who was in Kenya for official meetings. Davening proceeded with the normal hodgepodge of tunes and styles, with some of the regular mizrachi mix taking jabs at the bitachon crew for not singing along.
The next morning we were not only without a minister, but also without a minyan. We davened mostly from our seats, and I was glad to be able to help out at least a little bit, leyning most of the parasha from a chumash. I should mention that we were lacking a white minyan, which is to say that there were sufficient African Kenyans present to make a minyan, but despite the fact that many of them have been coming to shul there for two decades, or in the case of the younger kids their entire lives, none of them have been put in touch with any sort of conversion process. Certain shul members have definite opinions on why this has been the case but I'm not going to get into shul politics by blog.
After davening, I ran into David and Michael, two East Africa trekkers - one from Australia, the other a GWU graduate who just finished his service in the Israeli Army. Since my plan for the afternoon was already wander-lunch-nap-wander, I amended it to wander with friends-lunch-nap-wander, and enjoyed trading stories of Kenya.
Saturday night, we were all invited to join a lecture that the visiting Minister was giving at the social hall in the shul. I was happy that my Hebrew has not atrophied so badly that I couldn't keep up, as the Minister addressed topics as varied as Iran, fire-fighting, the Itamar Massacre, Gilad Shalit, mafia protection rackets, the various Middle East revolutions in progress, Hamas, Hizbollah, electoral realignments, "broken window" theory and others. It got heated at one point, when someone asked about the recent settler evictions, and the minister simply replied "Ani lo rotzeh l'daber al zeh." (I don't want to talk about that.) It was a good talk, though I think I probably could have given it. Not to be conceited, but I've got the process on being an Israeli minister pretty much down pat. (apologies to the non-Hebrew speakers for the Hebrew, apologies to the Hebrew speakers for the poor Hebrew transliteration).
Audience member: Kvod haSar, mah ata choshev al <noseh>?
Sar: Tishma, <noseh> zeh lo davar pashut. Zeh inyan m'od me'urkav, v'm'od matrid. Yesh beYisrael achshav vikuach tziburi al <noseh>, v'kamuvan yesh vikuach gam b'memshala. Anachu ovdim achshav al <noseh> v'nireh ba'yamim v'chodashim hakrovim mah ha-tozaot.
Try it yourself, you too can be an Israeli minister! Use Syria, tunnel smuggling, prostate cancer, Idan Raichel, Krembo, you name it. All you need now is a few hundred thousand votes and you're good to go.
 |
| Vast bins of drying tea leaves |
 |
| I <3 Conveyor Belts |
 |
| Tea varieties all from the same batch of leaves |
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| Francesco hard at work |
Not to be deterred, we inquired after a subsequent coffee visit, which was happily granted. After a 5 minute drive that took 35 minutes, we arrived at yet another factory, this one devoted to coffee. The smell of freshly roasted beans was ambient from the moment we got out of the car, though there is no industrial roasting at this particular plant, just enough for quality control and tasting. We went through the demonstration groves, where the agronomists at the coffee mill show the farmers optimal practices for maximizing the quality and yield of their plants. Apparently, one the farmer delivers the beans, there's very little that the mill itself can do to increase the quality of the resulting coffee... much of it is determined at the plant itself. Steve, the British intern showing us around the plant, was quite accommodating of all of our questions and most importantly arranged for a fresh cup of joe for all of us - and by fresh I mean beans that were roasted one floor below, having been beans on the tree mere weeks before. As you might imagine, it was delicious.
This whole process turned from a quick one hour jaunt into a 3.5 hour morning event, which stressed out some of my teammates, as they had a trip planned to Lake Nakuru for the weekend. I was on a little bit more relaxed schedule to head to Nairobi, since I was planning to take a matatu. I don't recall to what degree I've covered matatus thus far, but they are small Nissan minibuses that are the most common form of inter-city transportation in Kenya. Picture five rows of three seats with a steering wheel in the front, inside an interior the size of a Honda Odyssey. Foreigners typically shun them, and for some good reasons... up until recently, matatus were completely unregulated. Speeds were unlimited, as were numbers of passengers which could number above 20. Fatal accidents were common. Drivers were either unlicensed, stoned or both. Vehicles were unguided road missiles, and held to no mechanical standard. After accidents, drivers would typically abandon their junk heap vehicle and just run for it. These practices have been largely reformed now with police constantly pulling over matatus to check the licensing and state of the driver, ensure that insurance and inspection are up to date, check the number of passengers, but the stigma still remains.
Matatus are cheap. By comparison, a private taxi from Nyeri to Nairobi is about 7500 Ksh one way, or about 85-90 dollars. A matatu ride from Nyeri to Nairobi is 250 Ksh, just under 3 bucks. Yeah. So my colleague Francesco walked me down to the matatu stop, I bought my ticket, he snapped a photo of me in the matatu as my last will and testament, and waved goodbye. I sat in the "jump seat" by the sliding door, which avoided the "death seat" next to the matatu driver. The only downside with a matatu is that they leave when they are full, which in my case took about a half an hour. In that half hours time, you are a captive audience and a sitting duck for every two bit vendor with any wares to ply. Fruit, drinks, cookies, samosas, candies, phonics books, calendars, combs, grilled meats of unclear origin, religious texts, and padlocks, all circling the lot full of vans, shouting and looking to swoop down on any flash of cash since they're largely selling the same stuff. My van finally filled (with 17 passengers instead of 15 if you count the two kids unbelted in their parents laps), and we pulled off onto the highway. The "African Massage" was in full force, but honestly once you have accustomed yourself to the white-knuckle, breath-catching panic of passing by swerving into the oncoming lane on a well-trafficked highway, there's really very little incremental terror doing it in a matatu versus a taxi - only that your heirs will have less to inherit in the latter case.
I made some small talk with my sleepy matatu-mates who were pleasant if not particularly conversational. When we made a brief stop to drop someone on the outskirts of Nairobi, I hopped out to make room for the exiting passenger and was immediately approached by an aggressive panhandler who quickly became abusive when I refused him. My fellow passenger leaped to my defense, pouring calumny on him in Swahili until he backed away, flipping all of us off in the process. Matatu Solidarity!
I made it to downtown Nairobi unscathed and in enough time to make it to my modest accommodations, shower and head over to the synagogue for Kabbalat Shabbat. Many of the folks I met the first time were not around, which made it difficult to gain entry past the synagogue security guards, but fortunately, I spied a former head of the shul, "Veitzman" (first name, yes, you may be Israeli if your first name is Veitzman) who granted me access. I quickly discovered why things were particularly buckled down as my entry was immediately followed by the arrival of 4 black sedans and a chase car with siren blaring. Out walked a gaggle of obvious Israeli security goons, the Israeli Ambassador Yaacov Keidar (who is a regular attendee there) and the Israeli Minister of Internal Security Yitzchak Aharonovich, who was in Kenya for official meetings. Davening proceeded with the normal hodgepodge of tunes and styles, with some of the regular mizrachi mix taking jabs at the bitachon crew for not singing along.
The next morning we were not only without a minister, but also without a minyan. We davened mostly from our seats, and I was glad to be able to help out at least a little bit, leyning most of the parasha from a chumash. I should mention that we were lacking a white minyan, which is to say that there were sufficient African Kenyans present to make a minyan, but despite the fact that many of them have been coming to shul there for two decades, or in the case of the younger kids their entire lives, none of them have been put in touch with any sort of conversion process. Certain shul members have definite opinions on why this has been the case but I'm not going to get into shul politics by blog.
After davening, I ran into David and Michael, two East Africa trekkers - one from Australia, the other a GWU graduate who just finished his service in the Israeli Army. Since my plan for the afternoon was already wander-lunch-nap-wander, I amended it to wander with friends-lunch-nap-wander, and enjoyed trading stories of Kenya.
Saturday night, we were all invited to join a lecture that the visiting Minister was giving at the social hall in the shul. I was happy that my Hebrew has not atrophied so badly that I couldn't keep up, as the Minister addressed topics as varied as Iran, fire-fighting, the Itamar Massacre, Gilad Shalit, mafia protection rackets, the various Middle East revolutions in progress, Hamas, Hizbollah, electoral realignments, "broken window" theory and others. It got heated at one point, when someone asked about the recent settler evictions, and the minister simply replied "Ani lo rotzeh l'daber al zeh." (I don't want to talk about that.) It was a good talk, though I think I probably could have given it. Not to be conceited, but I've got the process on being an Israeli minister pretty much down pat. (apologies to the non-Hebrew speakers for the Hebrew, apologies to the Hebrew speakers for the poor Hebrew transliteration).
Audience member: Kvod haSar, mah ata choshev al <noseh>?
Sar: Tishma, <noseh> zeh lo davar pashut. Zeh inyan m'od me'urkav, v'm'od matrid. Yesh beYisrael achshav vikuach tziburi al <noseh>, v'kamuvan yesh vikuach gam b'memshala. Anachu ovdim achshav al <noseh> v'nireh ba'yamim v'chodashim hakrovim mah ha-tozaot.
Try it yourself, you too can be an Israeli minister! Use Syria, tunnel smuggling, prostate cancer, Idan Raichel, Krembo, you name it. All you need now is a few hundred thousand votes and you're good to go.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The News You Refuse
I'm fortunate to count numerous journalists among my friends, so many that it's drastically skewed my perception to the positive. It occurs to me only in retrospect that all of them without exception are print journalists... and my infrequent exposure to the clowns on cable TV never even met the definitional criteria by which to affect the average. I have learned my lesson.
Our early morning meeting with the reporter started amiably enough with introductions, and random recollections from each other's respective hometowns manufactured from the mists of history playing the role of international travelers' small talk. "Ah, Rotterdam, I remember it well" and such.
We then dug in to what exactly he wanted to report on. We briefly detailed our respective projects, and he requested whether there were any "human interest" stories among us. I stammered and try to convey that the human interest stories were not the CSC participants, but the CSC beneficiaries, the citizens persevering while their country simultaneously experiences the birth pangs of democracy, attempts to modernize their economy, government and civil society, and teeters on the edge of chaos and violence, in a neighborhood too well accustomed to both. He persisted in inquiring about human interest stories on the team, but relented in the face of our blank stares and agape mouths. He then asked what we would be doing over the course of the day. As it so happened, we had a meeting scheduled with the district commissioner (an appointed mayor for the larger region - a frank, competent lady in charge of coordinating the efforts of 42 different government agencies in her location, and the first woman ever to hold her slot), but that didn't catch this newsman's fancy. The other teams were going to be working on their reports, debating ideas for innovation, and distilling them down into presentations - also nothing that raised his eyebrow.
He then literally said "Will anyone be doing anything with a screwdriver?" My already dumbfounded expression hit the pavement. "One of the unique aspects of the IBM program," I said, "is that rather than digging ditches or building houses - and trust me no one would want to live in any house I built - we're using our professional skills and honed expertise to bring more value to Kenyan society than we could by turning screwdrivers." I may as well have said it in Yiddish for the impact it had.
John, our teammate from marketing, quickly took control of the situation, clearly more accustomed to dealing with this type of vapid kabuki than any of us. He suggested a return visit to the school for the mentally disabled or the orphanage that we had just visited the prior Thursday, a proposal which immediately hit paydirt. I gagged a little bit, and turned off like a lightswitch. As Luan's boyfriend put it, "If he wanted a show, we could have sent him to the theater."
Are we really so facile as to demand only news which looks good? I will admit to not being an unbiased observer, but I actually think the problems we are working on (and dare I say some of the solutions we've come up with) are quite compelling. Our stories are counterintuitive to many Western notions about what is afoot in Africa, and represent the best chance for an emerging market country to pull itself up by the bootstraps out of a backdrop of plentiful basket cases into a somewhat prosperous, largely functional state. In Africa! Go know.
Our subteam ignored our newsman visitor for the rest of his foray here, which saved me the trouble of telling him where he could put his screwdriver. Instead, we had a very productive visit with the DC, and set up our presentation for the e-Government conference in Nairobi on Wednesday. On Tuesday, we'll give our client Dr. Getao a sneak peak, and then get up at the crack of dawn to trudge down the Thika Road. Once more, into the breach, dear friends, once more...
Our early morning meeting with the reporter started amiably enough with introductions, and random recollections from each other's respective hometowns manufactured from the mists of history playing the role of international travelers' small talk. "Ah, Rotterdam, I remember it well" and such.
We then dug in to what exactly he wanted to report on. We briefly detailed our respective projects, and he requested whether there were any "human interest" stories among us. I stammered and try to convey that the human interest stories were not the CSC participants, but the CSC beneficiaries, the citizens persevering while their country simultaneously experiences the birth pangs of democracy, attempts to modernize their economy, government and civil society, and teeters on the edge of chaos and violence, in a neighborhood too well accustomed to both. He persisted in inquiring about human interest stories on the team, but relented in the face of our blank stares and agape mouths. He then asked what we would be doing over the course of the day. As it so happened, we had a meeting scheduled with the district commissioner (an appointed mayor for the larger region - a frank, competent lady in charge of coordinating the efforts of 42 different government agencies in her location, and the first woman ever to hold her slot), but that didn't catch this newsman's fancy. The other teams were going to be working on their reports, debating ideas for innovation, and distilling them down into presentations - also nothing that raised his eyebrow.
He then literally said "Will anyone be doing anything with a screwdriver?" My already dumbfounded expression hit the pavement. "One of the unique aspects of the IBM program," I said, "is that rather than digging ditches or building houses - and trust me no one would want to live in any house I built - we're using our professional skills and honed expertise to bring more value to Kenyan society than we could by turning screwdrivers." I may as well have said it in Yiddish for the impact it had.
John, our teammate from marketing, quickly took control of the situation, clearly more accustomed to dealing with this type of vapid kabuki than any of us. He suggested a return visit to the school for the mentally disabled or the orphanage that we had just visited the prior Thursday, a proposal which immediately hit paydirt. I gagged a little bit, and turned off like a lightswitch. As Luan's boyfriend put it, "If he wanted a show, we could have sent him to the theater."
Are we really so facile as to demand only news which looks good? I will admit to not being an unbiased observer, but I actually think the problems we are working on (and dare I say some of the solutions we've come up with) are quite compelling. Our stories are counterintuitive to many Western notions about what is afoot in Africa, and represent the best chance for an emerging market country to pull itself up by the bootstraps out of a backdrop of plentiful basket cases into a somewhat prosperous, largely functional state. In Africa! Go know.
Our subteam ignored our newsman visitor for the rest of his foray here, which saved me the trouble of telling him where he could put his screwdriver. Instead, we had a very productive visit with the DC, and set up our presentation for the e-Government conference in Nairobi on Wednesday. On Tuesday, we'll give our client Dr. Getao a sneak peak, and then get up at the crack of dawn to trudge down the Thika Road. Once more, into the breach, dear friends, once more...
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Taking a break from the grind
Today we took a break from our work schedules to spend some time in the communitiy of Nyeri. We spend time at the Allemanos Special School
The conditions we met may have been shocking from an American perspective, but they were in line with much of what we have seen around Kenya
At Allemanos, we were prepared to not really have any interaction with the kids since so few of them are capable of communication. But from the moment we arrived, it was clear that standard verbal communication was not going to be required. We parked the cars, and walked down to the sports fields where the students were having Physical Education. Immediately a wave of at least 100 kids of all ages, identically dressed in gray jumpers FLOODED towards screaming at the top of their lungs. Within moments, there were multiple kids leading us around by the hands, kicking soccer balls, dancing, and just generally making clear their unrestrained glee at our presence. In some ways, it was the least foreign experience that I’ve had since I’ve been here. These kids, deprived of speech, were like similar kids anywhere in the world – unburdened by the knowledge of their own limitation, and absolutely satisfied, even ecstatic, within the boundaries defined for them.
We started up an IBMers vs. Allemanos soccer game, which basically consisted of the 6 male IBMers versus about 30 mixed-gender Allemanos students. They had seemingly boundless energy, but we had precision. After giving up an early goal in part due to amazement, I took a perfect feed from John and tied it up with an open goal. Rami would have been so proud. Alex, our DOT liaison, joined us and scored the next goal despite his inappropriate alligator shoes. And Francesco put us ahead for good. I let up a late goal, but we triumphed 3-2… our hosts did not seem put out.
After the kids had some lunch and we some tea with the school administrators and teachers, we got a short tour of the facility – a simple kitchen where the aptly named Charity cooks the 400 meals per day that the school requires, a nicely outfitted physical therapy gym, a garden that the more able kids help maintain, a cow pen where the half dozen oxen provide milk for the school again with assistance from the pre-vocationally functional students, the laundry, the dormitories and the classrooms. Most of the buildings were donated from societies in My colleague Francesco brought an extra laptop and provided Sister Jane, the school administrator, with the school’s first computer, complete with a USB modem which will outfit them with internet connectivity.
The kids put on a lovely presentation singing and dancing with full vigor, and most of the IBM team joined in the fun. All in all, an extraordinarily rewarding visit.
Our next stop was an orphanage in Mweiga. I was creeped out by the welcome we received, which consisted of well-rehearsed songs, dance numbers and a (weak) comedy routine. My allergy increased as the time went on as I asked myself “Is this another safari?” I got suspicious that maybe this was the donor shpiel that the administrators had the kids put on in order to extract more foreign money from visiting pockets, and I withdrew from the crowd to talk to some of the kids around the periphery. Fortunately, my impression seems to have been inaccurate, and the kids I spoke with were very well adjusted and not at all put upon by the proprietors to gussy up to visitors. I spoke with Theresa, a 13 year old girl who was caring for their newest orphan – pudgy 9 month old. She was self-confident, articulate and pleasant, talking to me about her desires to go to the University of Nairobi and study accounting, her satisfaction with her local school, the big-sisterly role that she plays with some of the other girls in the orphanage and the general litany of teen stuff. She was decked out in a High School Musical t-shirt, naturally, though I never got to ask her if she actually knew what that was.
I played some soccer (poorly) here as well, and then broke out some of the gifts we had brought, specifically the construction paper and massive bin of crayons that Bianica had brought. Immediately the kids converged on me and I was awash in children showing off how well they could write their names or draw a flower. It was adorable. I broke out my rusty origami skills and started doling out paper cranes and fortune tellers to much acclaim. Reka then graced the kids with some salsa dance instruction which they seemed to catch onto quickly (certainly relative to me). I got some face time with the 9-month-old who was initially quite shy, but the patented Sloan baby charm bore fruit and the international language of “Boop on the nose” was received with the requisite smiles and giggles. The skies opened and the rain started to call, which we took as a clear sign that our day was over.
The next day, we proceeded to Kimathi University IBM is cool and why they should Think Big. I was bowled over by the reception, with some of my Swahili humor getting a rise and very positive views from students and teammates alike. I stayed after to talk Watson with a few of the more inquisitive students while most of the students went for an IBM career workshop and to do some hands on work building functional smartboards from about $22 of materials.
Half the team then departed to
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Shabbat Nyeri
With the rest of the group enjoying a Safari in Samburu, a Shabbat of solitude was in the offing.
I set up my little Shabbat corner of my room, and jumped in, lighting candles (something I’m certain I haven’t done in at least 13 years if not longer). Knowing that all of the rooms surrounding me were assigned to my colleagues and therefore empty, I let loose, serenading the unperturbed trees outside my window with a full volume Carlebach Kabbalat Shabbat, something I haven’t really done since my last Friday night at Kesher back in October. About halfway through, I could hear the muezzin from the local mosque behind the treeline and across the highway joining in, something that recalled davening in certain locations in Jerusalem.Emotionally, it was a mix of the transcendence of davening apart, away, and in complete isolation and longing for the top shelf family time that normally constitutes a Shabbat evening. But having made my solitary bed, I aimed to sleep with gusto, pacing my prayers according to me own whim, lingering on tunes that felt right, and singing every Shabbat zemer published in the Koren siddur. My Shabbat meal constituted of a mini-Kedem grape juice, 2 whole wheat matzot, a tin of tuna fish, a packet of RJ’s Kosher Beef Jerky and an orange – basar v’dagim v’chol matamim – and I was off to bed.
Since all my timepieces are electronic, I can’t tell you what zmanim I observed, but I can tell you precisely when I woke up, as the rooster who has made himself a home just out of view but not out of earshot from our bank of rooms has been quite punctual all week. He has no snooze button, and his repeated crowing is quite impossible to sleep through. I hope to kill that bird.
Praying in the morning was similar to the previous night, although layning the parasha to myself alerted me to how rusty I’ve become, gotta work on that before Rami’s bar mitzvah. Before lunch, I caught myself pausing a second time after “Savri” in Kiddush, which brough a smile to my face - as if I expected one of my avian audience to reply “L’Chaim”.
I leisurely strolled around the town and the Green Hills campus for some of the day, indulged myself a long Shabbat afternoon nap, and enjoyed a few selections from the Mitoch HaOhel collection of drashot from YU that the Rosenbaums presented to me as a going away present. The frenetic pace of our work during the week and the full stop of this Shabbat put the conceit of progress and the humility of rest in lovely contrast, and I thought for a while about the proper frame of reference for our work here. Though I hope that all of us are able to make substantive contributions during our brief stay, Shabbat brought home the notion that Kenya was here long before us and will be here long after us, and our fondest wish can only be that its progress, whose success will be determined by factors indubitably far out of our control, is ever so slightly buoyed by our efforts.
Tomorrow I rise early to head out into the Mau Mau caves, fortunately long since abandoned.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Some background on Nyeri
A very productive morning, after which my colleagues headed out "into the bush" to spend some time on safari in Samburu. Samburu is not particularly Shabbat-friendly (not that Nyeri is significantly better, but at least I have the span of the Green Hills to roam), so I opted to stay alone. My Sunday free, I signed up for an early morning excursion into the Aberdares, the nearest National Park to the area, and a hike to tour the Mau Mau caves.
I haven't written much about our home base of Nyeri, but it is Kikuyu Central. The Kikuyu are the largest of Kenya's 42 communities, yet hold power, wealth and influence even in excess of their numbers. In fact, President Mwai Kibaki is from this town. Nyeri now is indistinguishable from many other towns its size in Kenya, but during the dying days of the British Protectorate, this area served as the home base for the Mau Mau Rebellion, a bloody and vicious time prior to Kenyan independence. The myth and history of the Mau Mau have become indistinguishable in many cases, but it is likely that they were driven to revolt by the typical excesses of colonialism - shortage of land devoted to the natives, outrages visited upon the local communities, a complete stripping of their political rights - and it is undisputed that they dwelled in the forests around Mount Kenya, stockpiling captured weapons to add to their signature Panga long machetes, and unleashed violent attacks ostensibly in the hopes of driving out the British and other white Europeans.
At this point, the accounts veer into the gory and easily exaggerated, but hyperbole or no, they were trying times for Kenya. Tens of thousands of Kenyans died (a significant number due to internecine violence) and another 70,000 were imprisoned over the course of a conflict which killed less than 100 Europeans but made the case that the British protectorate was failing and likely led to Kenyan Independence in 1963. All this within a small radius of our current home. In fact, the local university where I'll be speaking at the end of next week is called Kimathi College, named after Dedan Kimathi, a Mau Mau freedom fighter/terrorist (your pick) who is currently hailed in Kenya, but was known at the time for strangling to death those who he suspected of treason until his alienated followers joined up with the British, captured him, held him less than a mile from our hotel, and then executed him by hanging after a court decision in absentia. I'm hoping for a knowledgeable guide who will be able to provide some first hand or close second hand knowledge of those times for me.
In the meantime, I've got my own Shabbas Safari planned that consist of pray, eat, walk, read, sleep, repeat. Shabbat Salama.
I haven't written much about our home base of Nyeri, but it is Kikuyu Central. The Kikuyu are the largest of Kenya's 42 communities, yet hold power, wealth and influence even in excess of their numbers. In fact, President Mwai Kibaki is from this town. Nyeri now is indistinguishable from many other towns its size in Kenya, but during the dying days of the British Protectorate, this area served as the home base for the Mau Mau Rebellion, a bloody and vicious time prior to Kenyan independence. The myth and history of the Mau Mau have become indistinguishable in many cases, but it is likely that they were driven to revolt by the typical excesses of colonialism - shortage of land devoted to the natives, outrages visited upon the local communities, a complete stripping of their political rights - and it is undisputed that they dwelled in the forests around Mount Kenya, stockpiling captured weapons to add to their signature Panga long machetes, and unleashed violent attacks ostensibly in the hopes of driving out the British and other white Europeans.
At this point, the accounts veer into the gory and easily exaggerated, but hyperbole or no, they were trying times for Kenya. Tens of thousands of Kenyans died (a significant number due to internecine violence) and another 70,000 were imprisoned over the course of a conflict which killed less than 100 Europeans but made the case that the British protectorate was failing and likely led to Kenyan Independence in 1963. All this within a small radius of our current home. In fact, the local university where I'll be speaking at the end of next week is called Kimathi College, named after Dedan Kimathi, a Mau Mau freedom fighter/terrorist (your pick) who is currently hailed in Kenya, but was known at the time for strangling to death those who he suspected of treason until his alienated followers joined up with the British, captured him, held him less than a mile from our hotel, and then executed him by hanging after a court decision in absentia. I'm hoping for a knowledgeable guide who will be able to provide some first hand or close second hand knowledge of those times for me.
In the meantime, I've got my own Shabbas Safari planned that consist of pray, eat, walk, read, sleep, repeat. Shabbat Salama.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Reaching out
Today we spent much of our time reaching out to a variety of local and national government officials. Since our project spans the gap between e-Government and its constitutional, legislative and regulatory underpinnings, we have a broad range of technical and legal within the government who we need to interview in order to ensure that our recommendations are relevant and actionable. Given our short time frame, it's already remarkable how many meetings we've been able to coordinate at relatively high levels. I know that if the tables were turned, I'd be deleting emails and sending calls to voice mail left and right. Fortunately, that hasn't been the case here.
In parallel, we're developing detailed interview documents that spell out exactly what information we need to get from each stakeholder, and doing our own research via the web to determine what some of the answers are likely to be, and what other answers can be brought from outside the country as global best practices to benefit Kenya. It's massive, but fascinating reading for my inner geek as we compare e-government legislation in Norway, the U.K., Finland, Australia, the U.S., South Korea and others.
OK, enough work talk, here's another piece of local color. Luan, Nimeesh and I had lunch in Nyeri again today, at another second story cafe, this one open air. The heat of the day and omnipresent dust was not enough to erase the enjoyment of drinking in the sights and sounds of this bustling small town. I'm confident that there's no corner like it in the US anywhere - bumper to bumper cars, people milling about, in front of storescape that is devoid of brand names, each one hand painted with the proprietors name above it, none of them busy, but all of them eking out a living. Below the balcony was a man tending a small, crowded coop of chickens, and an even more crowded cardboard box of chickens, which led me to jibe that my colleagues lunch would at the very least be fresh.
A trip to a bank to make the deposit for the group's weekend safari led to an experience with the always flexible closing time. 3:10 can become 3:00 with a kind word, and we walked into an ultra-modern Barclay's Bank which seemed to defy the space and time around it, as if it was a portal to a first world country.
The negotiations at the bank took longer than we expected, we had already taken a leisurely lunch, and it was hot, so we decided to grab a cab back instead of walking. For 200 shillings (about $2.50), it seemed a reasonable luxury. My rudimentary Swahili was enough to identify and procure a vehicle (cabs are not marked anywhere in Kenya that I can tell, but certainly not in Nyeri). Fortunately the cardboard on the passenger side floor was sturdy enough to keep my feet from touching the street. As we drove up the main road, I was dismayed to see the driver pull into the Koboil gas station on the corner. I questioned the customer service wisdom of fueling up with a car full of passengers until I glanced over at the driver's side dashboard and realized that it was amazing that we had made it to the gas station, given that the needle was firmly on "E". Sure enough, the driver asked for his fare at this point. He took 100 shillings and put it in his pocket, and gave me back the other 100 shillings to give to the service attendant, enough to buy 1 litre of gasoline. His fuel gauge ever so slightly buoyed by the stop, he ferried us back to the Green Hills front gate. And here's the good part. He then gave me his cell phone number in case I ever needed a cab again in Nyeri. This is to say, that this guy who sits around the center of town waiting for the rarest rarity of a cab fare, so much so that his means of livelihood and transportation stands on the verge of uselessness with vapors so evanescent that the kilometer each way to our hotel would stand a fighting chance of exhausting them, who can spare only one quarter of a gallon of gas at a fill-up, nonetheless has a CELLULAR PHONE which he will fund and maintain even at the risk of disabling his only apparent source of income. I have nothing more to add.
We returned immediately to work upon our return, this time choosing the grassy plaza as our "office". A sudden rain forced us inside, and the rhythmic patter of the rapid drops on the corrugated tin roof made the passing shower sound more like a typhoon. It mostly drowned out the noise of the absurdly sonorous aerobics class though, and provided a steady soundtrack to our furious work efforts, which carried over to a brief dinner and then back to the bar for a few more productive hours.
Next will be my first Shabbat in isolation in Nyeri... more to come.
In parallel, we're developing detailed interview documents that spell out exactly what information we need to get from each stakeholder, and doing our own research via the web to determine what some of the answers are likely to be, and what other answers can be brought from outside the country as global best practices to benefit Kenya. It's massive, but fascinating reading for my inner geek as we compare e-government legislation in Norway, the U.K., Finland, Australia, the U.S., South Korea and others.
OK, enough work talk, here's another piece of local color. Luan, Nimeesh and I had lunch in Nyeri again today, at another second story cafe, this one open air. The heat of the day and omnipresent dust was not enough to erase the enjoyment of drinking in the sights and sounds of this bustling small town. I'm confident that there's no corner like it in the US anywhere - bumper to bumper cars, people milling about, in front of storescape that is devoid of brand names, each one hand painted with the proprietors name above it, none of them busy, but all of them eking out a living. Below the balcony was a man tending a small, crowded coop of chickens, and an even more crowded cardboard box of chickens, which led me to jibe that my colleagues lunch would at the very least be fresh.
A trip to a bank to make the deposit for the group's weekend safari led to an experience with the always flexible closing time. 3:10 can become 3:00 with a kind word, and we walked into an ultra-modern Barclay's Bank which seemed to defy the space and time around it, as if it was a portal to a first world country.
The negotiations at the bank took longer than we expected, we had already taken a leisurely lunch, and it was hot, so we decided to grab a cab back instead of walking. For 200 shillings (about $2.50), it seemed a reasonable luxury. My rudimentary Swahili was enough to identify and procure a vehicle (cabs are not marked anywhere in Kenya that I can tell, but certainly not in Nyeri). Fortunately the cardboard on the passenger side floor was sturdy enough to keep my feet from touching the street. As we drove up the main road, I was dismayed to see the driver pull into the Koboil gas station on the corner. I questioned the customer service wisdom of fueling up with a car full of passengers until I glanced over at the driver's side dashboard and realized that it was amazing that we had made it to the gas station, given that the needle was firmly on "E". Sure enough, the driver asked for his fare at this point. He took 100 shillings and put it in his pocket, and gave me back the other 100 shillings to give to the service attendant, enough to buy 1 litre of gasoline. His fuel gauge ever so slightly buoyed by the stop, he ferried us back to the Green Hills front gate. And here's the good part. He then gave me his cell phone number in case I ever needed a cab again in Nyeri. This is to say, that this guy who sits around the center of town waiting for the rarest rarity of a cab fare, so much so that his means of livelihood and transportation stands on the verge of uselessness with vapors so evanescent that the kilometer each way to our hotel would stand a fighting chance of exhausting them, who can spare only one quarter of a gallon of gas at a fill-up, nonetheless has a CELLULAR PHONE which he will fund and maintain even at the risk of disabling his only apparent source of income. I have nothing more to add.
We returned immediately to work upon our return, this time choosing the grassy plaza as our "office". A sudden rain forced us inside, and the rhythmic patter of the rapid drops on the corrugated tin roof made the passing shower sound more like a typhoon. It mostly drowned out the noise of the absurdly sonorous aerobics class though, and provided a steady soundtrack to our furious work efforts, which carried over to a brief dinner and then back to the bar for a few more productive hours.
Next will be my first Shabbat in isolation in Nyeri... more to come.
Day One?
Despite the fact that I've been in Kenya for a week, this felt like Day One all over again. If nothing else, this was our first "regular" day, waking up with no agenda, no appointments, just a blank sheet of paper, and a sackload of expectations. We reported to our crammed work room, accompanied by a selection of Kenya’s six-legged fauna. A butt-ugly marabou stork methodically patrolled the terrace outside. John, our delegate from Marketing, promptly saw to it that the room was plastered with Smarter Planet posters, while the rest of us attempted to figure out the massive 80s era network router in the middle of the table.
Our team jumped right into the meat of our project, breaking down the issues we hoped to tackle, identifying the stakeholders and sources of information we would draw upon for data, and overall taking a disciplined and methodical but aggressive approach towards a broad and complex situation.
After a non-stop morning, we broke for lunch and headed en masse into Nyeri town, separated from us only by the near vertical stretch of road that undoubtedly earned our hotel its name of Green Hills. The town itself is less than a kilometer from our door, but only half that distance be forward progress, the rest must be ascent and descent. Nyeri itself is a small but vibrant town, dusty and shabby on the whole, but hardly desolate with the buzz and bustle of a market town around every corner. The storefronts probably average about 6 feet wide, selling everything from auto parts to liquor to cellular phones to household goods to cellular phones to hair products to cellular phones. I’m still floored by the degree to which people who look like they don’t have ten shillings to spare are all toting mobile phones. Out of an abundance of caution, I doffed my yarmulke, as we entered the city proper, and we meandered over to the Nyeri Town View restaurant, situated on the second floor overlooking what must suffice as the center of town, marked only by a small blue and white obelisk at the middle of an intersection frequented by decrepit cars and trucks of questionable structural stability. We crowded into the compact diner, which managed to stash a kitchen, a full bar, and two dining areas into a tract no larger than my two-car garage. Still, the service was warm and welcoming as it has been everywhere we’ve ventured in Kenya, and for the meager sum of 250 shillings each (about $3), my mates feasted on a platter piled high with chicken, rice and vegetables, barely making a dent before capitulating to the generous portions.
We headed deeper into town after lunch, with Nimeesh and I serving as the scout team. We located a barber shop, a 4 shelf grocery store narrow enough to require a sharp exhale in order to pass someone in the aisle, a few more cell phone stores – really Safaricom, Zain and Mpesa are omnipresent, I counted three Safaricom stores alone on one block – and the ultimate goal of our wanderings, a store selling bicycles. Unfortunately but not unexpectedly, even after bargaining, we were met with the “Tourist Surcharge” which might be more unceremoniously dubbed the “White Man’s Price” and the price was beyond our tolerance. We made a mental note to beseech our Kenyan program manager Alex to inquire after the same cycles and see if the price didn’t drop by a solid 20% or more.
In the afternoon, we got back to work, which turned out for most of the folks to be equal measure drafting interview questions and arranging for weekend safaris, but we made steady progress. Some took a break for a one hour aerobics session held at the hotel which is apparently hosted by a half-deaf black Richard Simmons hopped up on amphetamines. Those exiting the class resembled those exiting Nam.
The PCK team visited the local Posta branch and were pleasantly shocked to be greeted with open arms by the branch manager who welcomed them in without an appointment, and despite their complete lack of business attire or formal preparation, held for over an hour, giving them an invaluable front line account of everything that transpires at the branch level… certainly a tremendous boost to their challenging project.
After a quick dinner we got right back to work, this time retiring to the un-updated but perfectly comfortable hotel bar, and beginning our legal interpretation and gap analysis, while sipping some Tuskers and gin and tonics. We dubbed this our new official after hours office, and worked through an entire edit of our day’s work.
Tomorrow, our work structure finalized, we begin our research in earnest!
Today’s activities were brought to you by the word surreal. If you would have asked me to assign a number value to the likelihood that I would be in Nyeri relaxing in a bar with a Tusker, interrupting our discussion of the finer points of the Kenya Communication Act of 2009 to bend an ear to the TV news to learn the latest twists in the Attorney General appointments imbroglio if only to figure out who we’re going to be meeting with in Nairobi next week, pausing only briefly to define the word “promulgate” to my Korean colleage, I would have given you a low single digit percentage which rhymes with “hero”. Go know.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Nyeri Town
Today we ventured outside Nairobi Kenya Kenya
The departure from Nairobi Nairobi IBM East Africa communications and marketing resource who has been effectively made the liaison between us and IBM EA. She first wowed us by informing us that our group’s arrival had made the papers, appearing in that morning’s edition business section of the Standard, one of the two major Kenyan newspapers. Maureen is pretty amazing, a Kenyan through and through, worldy, eloquent, mellow, sharp, upbeat, and a objective knock-out. Like all Kenyans we’ve met she’s also an unapologetic optimist, seeing only brilliant progress on the horizon despite the atrocities, chaos and violence that have littered Kenya IBM , and her life. That plus the scenery I’ll describe was enough to banish from my mind any idea of using the ride to rest.
The road to Nyeri was bumpy, rocky, and under construction at the start, with heart-stopping near misses de rigeur. But Maureen faithfully piloted our rolling projectile without incident. We made it as far as the market town of Thika before stopping at a fruit stand for refreshment. Del Monte has ample operations in the Kenyan heartland, and most of the items on the menu seemed like the kind of canned or boxed product you might find in three weeks time on a grocery shelf in Europe or America Nairobi
The closer we got to Nyeri, the more lush and verdant the surroundings became, with fields predominating over dustbowls. We passed through small towns, but between them were thatched huts, men tending cattle on the road shoulder, women carrying bundles of hay or twigs on their backs, a few stray goats, and some people sitting without any clear objective, although admittedly some of them were on cell phones. This intensely rural landscape was not one we expected a mere hour outside the Nairobi
Nyeri continued the green surroundings, but placed a thriving town with rich offerings in the middle of it. Though we have not yet had a chance to thoroughly investigate, we already caught glimpses of banks, restaurants, cafes, service stations and the like. I’m hopeful that we’ll find sufficient material to satisfy our rudimentary needs while we’re here.
We arrived at the Green Hills hotel, our home for the next four weeks. The accommodations are mixed, with thriving, beautifully cared for horticulture, and somewhat less cared for architecture. The gym, spa, and small pool should not be discounted, but the lack of internet in the rooms might cause us some bit of consternation as we strive to keep in touch with each other and with the outside world. I’m planning to go up to the terrace in a half an hour to Skype with my family, despite the fact that it is pushing midnight, and I’d much rather be in my PJs.
We jumped back into our suits, snapped up a quick lunch on the terrace overlooking a beautifully manicured plaza, and then headed out for our work content for the day, a meeting with local District Commissioner and Provincial Commissioner… roughly the mayor and governor of Nyeri and the surrounding area. They were pleasant and seemed to enjoy hearing a brief overview of our work and charitable efforts, and confirmed much of what we had heard regarding the need for these initiatives. To hear them talk of the 42 agencies’ efforts that they coordinate in the local area, and to empathize with the frustration they felt, for instance, at the three to nine month period it takes them themselves to get a driver’s license, gave us valuable proof points for our strategies. And both the DC and the PC will certainly provide us critical access to their bureaucracies so that we can see first-hand how the process works (or doesn’t work) currently. However, the most powerful evidence of the need for change came just outside the office where the queue for the various registration actions that the population needed to take snaked out of the offices, across their entry halls and out into the dusty parking lot. And the PC assured us that this was not even a bad day. The notion of the people sitting out there in the hot sun, hopefully in the right line at the right time with the right documents, praying to get in front of a clerk before they leave for the day who is competent and has integrity, when the registration they are performing is likely completely duplicative, half-knowing that they’ll likely be there at least another time before their transaction is complete and furthermore knowing that the whole process could likely be done online with a few key clicks was both heart-rending and fortifying. We provided some small gifts to the DC and PC and headed back to unpack at the hotel.
After a pleasant dinner, with sufficient fruits and veggies to fill my belly, we headed out into town to a small bar called the “Gazelle Impakt” (don’t ask me). It was quite dead, but still always enjoyable to hang out with the group, we downed a few Tuskers (which appears to have *excellent* market penetration) and called it a night.
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