The thickening clouds gave way to early morning rains and overcast skies. Cindy, a Kenyan resident student at the Village Volunteers home bundled herself with warm clothing. I walked into the kitchen wearing my usual gym shorts and a button-down blue shirt as she prepared breakfast, an assortment of avocados, bananas, chopped vegetables mixed with scrambled eggs and warm indescribable chai tea.
“Aren’t you cold?” The temperature felt like low 70s.
“No, this is great. The temperature back at home is hovering mid-30s C, so I’m liking this a lot.”
“You are crazy.” She annunciated with a grin. “This is cold for us, and this rain is not normal. Climate change.” Unseasonable rain and droughts, receding glaciers on nearby Kilmanjaro, Mt. Kenya and the Rwenzoris, are significant markers to a changing climate on equatorial east Africa. I expressed how cool it would be to hike the Rwenzoris, also known as the Mountains of the Moon, on the border of Uganda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) then ski down only for the novelty of skiing at the Earth’s equator.
“Better hurry.”
I picked up a Matatu and met Victor for lunch in downtown Nairobi. A plate each was placed in front of us of tilapia fish caught at Lake Victoria and served fried and complete with slits carved vertically across the body. On the seat between us rested an Orutu, a traditional Luo single string violin-like instrument made for his half-brother.
“I’m surprised your brother sold it to me.” His brother is local Kenyan traditional/hip-hop fusion artist. I would have liked to meet him at his studio, but our time was limited.
“Actually, he didn’t want to,” Victor laughed. “The goat skin on its drum was slaughtered on his tenth birthday.”
“You’re kidding me? I can’t take this.”
“It’s okay. He has two, and he figures it’ll have special meaning to have one here and in the U.S.”
Victor, a university student and unofficial guide to Tyler and myself throughout Nairobi, finished his tilapia meal long before I finger tore through one side of mine. He picked at his plate of ugali (a loaf of maize) and talked of our similar and contrasting cultures.
“In this Nigerian film, a Nigeran man visits the United States and goes into a bakery. He receives a loaf of bread, but when he goes to pay for the bread, he realizes he left his wallet and money at his hotel. He offers to take the bread, but return with the money later that day. The cashier says, ‘No,’ and threatens to call the police ater he insists to take the bread, but return later. The Nigerian man is dumbfounded,” Victor described then added, “We find that really funny why the cashier would act in such a way. Here, it would be okay to take some food from a vendor with the intent of returning with money.”
“Meanwhile, people in the U.S. would side with the cashier and distrust the man, finding his actions humorous,” I generalized, picking up the check before meeting with Solo7 in Kibera.
“I finished it very nice for you,” Solo said handing me a wood canvas painting of Jesus Christ carrying his cross, mounted on an 8x10 hardwood slab.
“Thank you, Solo. This is great. I would have bought this piece off of you if I could ship it home,” I admitted pointing to his “fire” painting.
“You could take it off the frame and roll it.”
“That’s a good idea, but I don’t have enough money on me to give you and we leave Nairobi the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
A pause then I had an idea. “You said art supplies are hard to come by, right? Would you want to work out a barter deal where I mail you paints and brushes in exchange for the painting? You could ship it to me after receiving the supplies.”
“That would be great,” Solo responded beaming with a smile. “You can take the painting now.”
“You trust me?”
“Yes. Sure.”
Margaret, Alan’s mother, dressed under a long thin purple dress with an off-white zipper-down sweatshirt rose from a stool at the foot of her kiosk and hugged Tyler and I. Hugs and other public displays of affection are taboo in east African culture. “Frank, I saw a picture in Tyler’s journal of his mother and father kissing,” Alan laughed with the same innocence of a kindergartner confronted against coodies.
“Don’t people kiss here?”
“Yes, but only in private. It is not acceptable in public.” Later I would learn dates are comprised of talking before going straight to business. There appears to be no middle ground. I don’t know how much of a generalization that is, however.
Toi Market, as it always appears, bustled with foot traffic through the narrow corridors between shops. An elderly woman lay on the dirt beside Margaret; her cheekbones prominent beneath crumpled paper skin. The woman pulled a brown blanket over her face, muttering something in Swahili to no one in particular and hid from us. Only pruned fingers tips gave hint someone huddled underneath the fabric heap. Not once did I see her peek from under the shroud.
Seven days since arriving in Nairobi and all but one day we visited Kibera, alternating visits with Solo7 and Alan’s family.
“You are free here, Frank. Do whatever you need,” Alan’s father John explained to me walking to Toi Market the first time. “People know me, they know Alan, and if they see you with us, you are accepted. Be free. Film what you want.”
That was a relief. Many either hid from the camera or shouted at me not to film in their direction. Many reasons can be cited for people’s negative reactions to any camera, video or still, professional or consumer. Exploitation ranks at the top.
Following the post-election violence, and to a lesser extent before, shantytowns like Kibera were under the spotlights of sensationalizing media attention. Although definitely a stark contrast to western standards, many residents of Kibera feel their lives are being pitifully portrayed as a means for profit. One cannot argue on either of those accounts, although on the other hand the truth is what it is and in rebuttal all media—journalistic and art—is exploitative under either negative or positive connotations. This is both an ethical and sometimes moral dilemma documentary filmmakers face, and it is not an easy path to follow. Fortunately, everyone who understands our purpose and project has not only been accepting of the camera, but also very forthright with insight through a candor that is shocking.
Serendipitously meeting Alan presented an amazing inside look into not just his family’s life, but also the inner workings of Kibera, specifically the surrounding villages of Mashimoni and Lainisaba, both areas of Kibera hit by the post-election violence.
“It was dangerous,” John explained to the camera. We sat at the center of a blackened tin siding enclosure, the remains of one’s home and now a site for trash dumping. “People were running everywhere. Some were running to the churches. The tear gas was all over Kibera. Houses were being burned. So many people were circumcised. Women were being raped. So many people were killed. You could not see Kibera. All you could see was smoke.”
Margaret added, “You see Toi Market. During the violence at Kibera, all of he shops were looted and everything was burned.” Months after, an NGO rebuilt the market place; the new shiny new siding stands in sharp brilliance against all of Kibera.
“Now we are staying very peaceful in Kibera,” John noted. He presented the view behind him. “You can see now we are restructuring ourself. We are coming together and I hope another election in 2012 such a thing will not happen.”
Following church a couple days earlier, we met with a self-initiated youth group of twenty-some children and teenagers brought together not only through faith, but a common interest in self-educating each other and those younger about everything from peace to AIDS through rap, poetry and plays. No adult guidance or direction; the assembly designs and creates everything privately and attendance is voluntary. Groups like this one, as well as other larger organizations covering poverty to women’s rights sprouted as a result of the post-election violence.
The shadows disappeared with the crowds and sun. Toi Market reflected all too well with its shiny metal roofing and dark wood foundations the cold blueness of nautical twilight. Tyler itched to get a move on.
We shook John’s hand and thanked him and his family for their support and cooperation with us. Together we bowed our heads and he led us in a short prayer.
“God, I ask you watch over and guide Tyler and Frank through Kenya that they may help bring peace to our country. I ask this of you Lord. Follow them. Protect them. Amen.”
“When are you coming back to Nairobi?” Margaret asked.
“I will be back in three weeks, but Frank will be traveling to Uganda and South Africa,” Tyler answered.
“Oh, you must visit us when you are in town. I am making a bracelet for both of your mothers. You tell her, ‘hello,’ for me from your mother in Kenya.”
“Aren’t you cold?” The temperature felt like low 70s.
“No, this is great. The temperature back at home is hovering mid-30s C, so I’m liking this a lot.”
“You are crazy.” She annunciated with a grin. “This is cold for us, and this rain is not normal. Climate change.” Unseasonable rain and droughts, receding glaciers on nearby Kilmanjaro, Mt. Kenya and the Rwenzoris, are significant markers to a changing climate on equatorial east Africa. I expressed how cool it would be to hike the Rwenzoris, also known as the Mountains of the Moon, on the border of Uganda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) then ski down only for the novelty of skiing at the Earth’s equator.
“Better hurry.”
I picked up a Matatu and met Victor for lunch in downtown Nairobi. A plate each was placed in front of us of tilapia fish caught at Lake Victoria and served fried and complete with slits carved vertically across the body. On the seat between us rested an Orutu, a traditional Luo single string violin-like instrument made for his half-brother.
“I’m surprised your brother sold it to me.” His brother is local Kenyan traditional/hip-hop fusion artist. I would have liked to meet him at his studio, but our time was limited.
“Actually, he didn’t want to,” Victor laughed. “The goat skin on its drum was slaughtered on his tenth birthday.”
“You’re kidding me? I can’t take this.”
“It’s okay. He has two, and he figures it’ll have special meaning to have one here and in the U.S.”
Victor, a university student and unofficial guide to Tyler and myself throughout Nairobi, finished his tilapia meal long before I finger tore through one side of mine. He picked at his plate of ugali (a loaf of maize) and talked of our similar and contrasting cultures.
“In this Nigerian film, a Nigeran man visits the United States and goes into a bakery. He receives a loaf of bread, but when he goes to pay for the bread, he realizes he left his wallet and money at his hotel. He offers to take the bread, but return with the money later that day. The cashier says, ‘No,’ and threatens to call the police ater he insists to take the bread, but return later. The Nigerian man is dumbfounded,” Victor described then added, “We find that really funny why the cashier would act in such a way. Here, it would be okay to take some food from a vendor with the intent of returning with money.”
“Meanwhile, people in the U.S. would side with the cashier and distrust the man, finding his actions humorous,” I generalized, picking up the check before meeting with Solo7 in Kibera.
“I finished it very nice for you,” Solo said handing me a wood canvas painting of Jesus Christ carrying his cross, mounted on an 8x10 hardwood slab.“Thank you, Solo. This is great. I would have bought this piece off of you if I could ship it home,” I admitted pointing to his “fire” painting.
“You could take it off the frame and roll it.”
“That’s a good idea, but I don’t have enough money on me to give you and we leave Nairobi the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
A pause then I had an idea. “You said art supplies are hard to come by, right? Would you want to work out a barter deal where I mail you paints and brushes in exchange for the painting? You could ship it to me after receiving the supplies.”
“That would be great,” Solo responded beaming with a smile. “You can take the painting now.”
“You trust me?”
“Yes. Sure.”
Margaret, Alan’s mother, dressed under a long thin purple dress with an off-white zipper-down sweatshirt rose from a stool at the foot of her kiosk and hugged Tyler and I. Hugs and other public displays of affection are taboo in east African culture. “Frank, I saw a picture in Tyler’s journal of his mother and father kissing,” Alan laughed with the same innocence of a kindergartner confronted against coodies.“Don’t people kiss here?”
“Yes, but only in private. It is not acceptable in public.” Later I would learn dates are comprised of talking before going straight to business. There appears to be no middle ground. I don’t know how much of a generalization that is, however.
Toi Market, as it always appears, bustled with foot traffic through the narrow corridors between shops. An elderly woman lay on the dirt beside Margaret; her cheekbones prominent beneath crumpled paper skin. The woman pulled a brown blanket over her face, muttering something in Swahili to no one in particular and hid from us. Only pruned fingers tips gave hint someone huddled underneath the fabric heap. Not once did I see her peek from under the shroud.
Seven days since arriving in Nairobi and all but one day we visited Kibera, alternating visits with Solo7 and Alan’s family.
“You are free here, Frank. Do whatever you need,” Alan’s father John explained to me walking to Toi Market the first time. “People know me, they know Alan, and if they see you with us, you are accepted. Be free. Film what you want.”That was a relief. Many either hid from the camera or shouted at me not to film in their direction. Many reasons can be cited for people’s negative reactions to any camera, video or still, professional or consumer. Exploitation ranks at the top.
Following the post-election violence, and to a lesser extent before, shantytowns like Kibera were under the spotlights of sensationalizing media attention. Although definitely a stark contrast to western standards, many residents of Kibera feel their lives are being pitifully portrayed as a means for profit. One cannot argue on either of those accounts, although on the other hand the truth is what it is and in rebuttal all media—journalistic and art—is exploitative under either negative or positive connotations. This is both an ethical and sometimes moral dilemma documentary filmmakers face, and it is not an easy path to follow. Fortunately, everyone who understands our purpose and project has not only been accepting of the camera, but also very forthright with insight through a candor that is shocking.
Serendipitously meeting Alan presented an amazing inside look into not just his family’s life, but also the inner workings of Kibera, specifically the surrounding villages of Mashimoni and Lainisaba, both areas of Kibera hit by the post-election violence.
“It was dangerous,” John explained to the camera. We sat at the center of a blackened tin siding enclosure, the remains of one’s home and now a site for trash dumping. “People were running everywhere. Some were running to the churches. The tear gas was all over Kibera. Houses were being burned. So many people were circumcised. Women were being raped. So many people were killed. You could not see Kibera. All you could see was smoke.”
Margaret added, “You see Toi Market. During the violence at Kibera, all of he shops were looted and everything was burned.” Months after, an NGO rebuilt the market place; the new shiny new siding stands in sharp brilliance against all of Kibera.
“Now we are staying very peaceful in Kibera,” John noted. He presented the view behind him. “You can see now we are restructuring ourself. We are coming together and I hope another election in 2012 such a thing will not happen.”
Following church a couple days earlier, we met with a self-initiated youth group of twenty-some children and teenagers brought together not only through faith, but a common interest in self-educating each other and those younger about everything from peace to AIDS through rap, poetry and plays. No adult guidance or direction; the assembly designs and creates everything privately and attendance is voluntary. Groups like this one, as well as other larger organizations covering poverty to women’s rights sprouted as a result of the post-election violence.
The shadows disappeared with the crowds and sun. Toi Market reflected all too well with its shiny metal roofing and dark wood foundations the cold blueness of nautical twilight. Tyler itched to get a move on.
We shook John’s hand and thanked him and his family for their support and cooperation with us. Together we bowed our heads and he led us in a short prayer.
“God, I ask you watch over and guide Tyler and Frank through Kenya that they may help bring peace to our country. I ask this of you Lord. Follow them. Protect them. Amen.”
“When are you coming back to Nairobi?” Margaret asked.
“I will be back in three weeks, but Frank will be traveling to Uganda and South Africa,” Tyler answered.
“Oh, you must visit us when you are in town. I am making a bracelet for both of your mothers. You tell her, ‘hello,’ for me from your mother in Kenya.”
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