An update from the Bros

Somewhere in Spain. Or Portugal. Or France. Dude... where are you now?

While I muster up the courage to tackle my next post, I thought I'd throw in a few words for the family. They've been pretty busy lately.

Ryan is currently out in Europe, on a solo backpacking and surfing trip across France, Portugal, and Spain. He's been there for a couple weeks now, his final destination being the Mediterannean coastal town of Màlaga (the birthplace of Pablo Picasso). There he will be staying with a host family and taking Spanish classes for 5-6 weeks. Seems like a pretty good gig.

the beauties of a self-timed photog

While he left his computer and cellphone at home, he did bring a camera, which has got a pretty good self-timer. In true Ryan fashion, he has taken a series of candid snapshots plotting his journeys. Most of them are impromptu photographs of him smirking in the foreground of spectacular scenery and historical landmarks. To say I'm jealous is a severe understatement. I've attached some photos here.

He always seems to meet people as well. He's been bouncing around from hostel to hostel and from several bed and breakfasts and couches. It seems he's really making the most of his trip, and I'm proud to see how much fun he has had exploring by himself.

He also sent me some comments in response to my last post under the subject "travelingadventuresincrazyplacesidontevenknow." They were great, and very true - here's an excerpt:

...It is not about how the world presents itself to us, it is how we present the world to ourselves.  Everyday we are in a position to see the world under a new light, from a new perspective.  If you restrict yourself to one perspective in any given circumstance, then you will never find good in the world.  Everything is fair, everything happens like it should, everything is what we wish it to turn out to be.  If you focus on the nothingness of the matter, nothing will come from it.  Will you sit under the roof on a rainy day, or will you stand on the highest hill and let the rain fall.  It is you who decides what is good and what is bad, but you must be willing to embrace it so you can truly experience it.  Do not hold that nothing can come out of this situation. Find a way, find many ways to discover something in this.  Everything exists for a reason, find that reason.

And don't only think the whole time you're there. The best way to think is to go explore for a while and not think about anything, and then you sit down and the next minute you know you're actually thinking. If you're thinking about thinking, it doesn't sound good, it has no real depth to it. 

When I wake up, it always takes me a few minutes to realize where I am, it's awesome... the other night I woke up on a kitchen floor... dedication to the journey, although I do honestly miss home sometimes...

I quickly replied, telling him that he may actually be Leibniz - "Everything exists for a reason, find that reason."

The people you meet. Walking across Europe with his 4 legged companion

The words (and criticism) resonate well. First, I probably do think too much sometimes. I kind of dug my own grave when I named the blog "Musings."

Second, it really is true - so much of life is what you make of it, and what you aspire it to become. While things won't always go the way you expect them to, many of those diversions and challenges exist for a reason. Normally they take you in directions and along paths you may never have ventured upon if you hadn't been held up or rerouted somewhere in the first place. And normally this is a pretty good thing.

Anyway, Ryan, if you're reading this, keep living it up bro. It sounds like an awesome time. For all of us, his advice should give the reminder and the power to introduce a little more spontaneity and inspiration to all our lives. To me, and definitely to Ryan, the thrill of spontaneity and new inspiration is what life is all about.



Anyway, the parents are back in Denver, and things seem to be going pretty well out there as well. I talk to them over the phone about once a week. A phone call from here to any land-line in the United States is about 5 shillings per minute, which isn't so bad.

Thumbs-up. Like a champ. Trent before surgery

Trent is out in Colorado as well, but he's spending the next couple weeks on crutches. He had surgery on his knee yesterday to fix his Meniscus Root Avulsion, essentially a torn meniscus. He was tripped a few months ago in hockey and fell into the boards in an odd way. For now, the doctor says he'll be on twigs for at least another month. Keep your head up buddy - chicks dig a torn meniscus. You're a total badass Trent.

He's also been sending me some email updates - it's hilarious to see his mind beginning to transition from that of a lowly middle schooler to a rebellious high schooler. Sentences like this seem to advertise a maturing teenage mind:

Life out here has been normal as usual, [but] being an only child you don't get to do what you want. I went to the batting cages today, I was complete shit.

Keep smiling Trent, you'll be alright :)

For all of you waking up on the kitchen floor - may you rest in peace. Enjoy your Friday's and weekends.

For now, I'm headed off to talk with the Director of Fisheries. Expect another update very soon.

Mr. Scott

"...dedication to the journey, although I do honestly miss home sometimes..."

The best of all worlds

    Nothing is fair in this world. Nothing happens like it should. Nothing is ever what we wish it to turn out to be.

    At least sometimes that is the case. Despite being a scientist at heart, a person who relies on the predictability, repeatability, and order of the universe, I find myself sometimes abruptly reminded of how violently unpredictable and absurd our world can be.

    I began reading Candide a few days ago. In the novel, arguably one of the most famous satires in the enlightenment movement, if not all time, Voltaire ridicules Leibnitz's philosophy that everything has an underlying functionality, that is, everything in this world exists for a specific and excellent reason. Voltaire uses Candide's teacher Dr. Pangloss (in Greek - all tongue), who preaches incessantly and obnoxiously of these ideas, as a medium through which he comically articulates the logical absurdity of our world being the "best of all possible worlds." In the world of Voltaire, the "best" world is anything but - it is merely cruel, unmerciful, and chaotic.

    Yesterday I had an experience that reminded me of how cruel, unpredictable, and unmerciful the world can be; how sometimes things point to a world that can in no way be the "best."

     After getting lunch with the other interns for a friend's birthday (for Dutch, the guy), I left to watch soccer at a local sports club, and then crossed the ferry to meet up with Ndiema and his wife. I took a Matatu south towards Mtongwe, and alighted at Likoni Secondary School. To the left of the school is a long dirt service road which leads out towards the house. While the main road is busy with cars, the dirt road is full with largely foot traffic. Shouldering my backpack, I set off down the dirt drive. Along the drive on the right are buildings and homes, to the left, rows of fruit trees. Some children yelled out to me as I walked, and I returned the gesture. "How are you?" "Poa, poa."

    Not long into my walk, a car rumbled in front of me, crunching pebbles. Looking up, I saw Ndiema smiling from the front seat. He was carrying several women in the bed of the truck. They hopped out, I stepped in. He turned the car around, and then loaded the back up with ten other women who were headed the opposite direction.

    I joked - "You sure your wife is OK with this?"

    We drove back towards his home. On the way I saw my host parents out the window, walking along the shoulder. I had never seen them this far from the island. Surprised, I turned to Ndiema. "Did you know they were coming?"

    "Yes, they told me just a few hours ago."

    I was still smiling at the sight of our pickup, the bed full of women. We stopped at a house a few before Ndiemas; a crowd was gathered outside. I slid out from the front seat, and watched the women's faces as they climbed down from the truck. Their smiles had turned solemn. Those already at the house bore somber expressions, heavy and grey. I felt the air churn delicately, eerily, and cringed like when a soft curtain brushes unexpectedly against skin. Something was not quite right.

    Ndiema pulled me aside. There had been a death in the family.

    "Here Mr. Scott, come with me."

    We walked back to his house, a few homes down from the one we had stopped at. He opened up his computer and began to show me pictures. "We were very close," he said, "and I wish I had more pictures of her."

    There, one with her husband.

    And another, with her three children. The eldest no older than fourteen, the youngest no more than seven.

    Soon two men walked in, the first more elderly; the second maybe a decade older than I. The younger was the late women's husband. His eyes looked ringed, deep and forlorn. His shoulders slumped under the weight of a day longer than any human should endure. We closed our eyes in prayer, and then sat for a dinner of ugali and greens. I watched as he kneaded ugali in his hand, head hanging over his plate, his appetite clearly lost.

    I gave him my blessings, but out of respect for him and his closest friends, I stayed at Ndiema's house to watch a movie. I didn't want to distract the congregation from their mourning.

    I began to ask Ndiema what had happened. "She fell," he said. I left it at that.

    Once my host parents had tired, Ndiema drove us back to the ferry.

    I asked my host parents for the story.

    That morning the husband woke, dressed, and left for work. Minutes later the children heard a crash in the bathroom, and ran in to find their mother lying unconscious on the floor. The oldest ran for a cell phone, but the SIM card had expired and the phone was out of minutes. Rather than running for help, they scavenged the house and the streets, looking for a new card to use, as precious minutes ticked away. Eventually they realized their efforts for a phone were futile. Together they ran for the nearest help.

    Ndiema and Mary answered the door and sprinted over to their friend's house. Together they lifted her into the back of their car. He whipped the car around and throttled the engine, racing out to the hospital.

    When they arrived the doctors quickly pronounced her dead.

    As I listened, I stood in shock, staring out across the calm waters of the Indian Ocean. The ferry's engines hummed, the prop churning under the weight of its cargo, motoring us back towards the island. Thoughts began to fill my head.

    "Had they known they could still use an expired phone to call an emergency number?"

    "Why hadn't they gone straight to Ndiema?"

    "How did she fall?"

    "How much time was wasted?"

    I thought of home. So many of my friends have lost parents, have lost friends and relatives and loved ones. For those that were closest, the questions must race in, tenfold. The "I wish's" and the "What if's" overtake all other reasoning. Soon every thought is caught in that endless logic loop, the questions multiplying, the doubt, remorse, and regret reaching every cavity, every region, every vessel; every neuron.

    For those children, for that husband, this world certainly cannot be the best world. If it was, something would have conspired to save her life. The phone would have had minutes available, the husband would have been home, the kids would have went to Ndiema's first, or maybe the ground may not have been slick in the first place. I can only imagine the pain that that uncertainty brings to that family.

    For those children, and for that husband, even for all of us, the world is not always the best. Things cannot always be what we want them to be. In this world we live in, sometimes we are given the short end of the stick, or the absolute worst chain of events. Not everything can exist for a specific and excellent reason.

    However, we must weather the challenges, and persevere. In a way, Voltaire's work is a celebration of that, of the beauty and capacity of human perseverance in the face of extreme hardship. Sometimes we must accept our fate, accept the cards we are dealt, or the land and soil that we must plant upon, no matter how infertile. Not merely accept, but also act. We must deal with the challenges we are dealt. Only then can we move forward.

    In the mind of Voltaire, our world is far from the best of all worlds. We must contend with what challenges life may hold.  In the words of Candide, "we must cultivate our garden."

    Keep their family in your thoughts and prayers,

    Scotty

A Busy Week

Dusk in Downtown Mombasa

Mombasa is an interesting city. I laugh when people tell me it’s one of the slower ones in Kenya. But as I get more accustomed the once speedy pace is starting to feel about right. Now I don’t necessarily find it so fast.  The traffic is like I’ve said before – insane – but now that I’ve become used to it, it’s pretty predictable, and I’ve found some odd sense of order in it. Same with the food – I know what I’m getting before it’s there, be it ugali or chapatti. I can smell it in the air before it even gets to the table. Despite that, I still seem to always be surprised by something small.

It’s the little things. Like the day they gave me curdled, sour milk. Apparently it’s a delicacy out here… but it’s got to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, let alone tasted (yes, I confirm, curdled, sour milk tastes sour and chunky). It must be an acquired taste. Or maybe it’s the incredible array of t-shirts I’ve seen. A Joe Sakic Stanley Cup shirt, a Panama City Beach shirt, Playboy, lots of Michigan state and Notre Dame gear, and a Duke hat. It’s always fun to see what paraphernalia has ended up out here.

Or take the office earlier this week. The wind was gusting, a welcome relief from the heat of most days. Yet with it came the smell of rancid, putrid decomposing trash. As much as I enjoy the wind, at times I almost prefer the hot, sweaty, and, most importantly, stagnant air.

Or another - Staying out past dusk always makes you an instant target and opportunity for the disadvantaged residents of the streets. This is no surprise. I’ve seen beggars before back in the states. But when you turn and find the person tapping on your back in torn trousers and a ragged shirt is the age of your brother, things suddenly become very different. My advisors tell me to just walk past, because if you acknowledge them, they won’t give up. But that is one of the hardest things to do, to feign ignorance and walk right by. It’s terrible, seeing the pain of starvation and exhaustion in the eyes of a boy or girl that could not possibly be older than fourteen. It doesn't help that one of us clearly carries at hand the means to feed both a nice dinner, or buy each a new pair of trousers.

Planning a project here brings other surprises. The looming issue of corruption plagues so many philanthropic efforts that it colors a lot of thinking in the development sector. It’s the feeling that despite obvious problems and easy solutions, no one with any form of political power would care to put the interest of the population before their own. Many government offices even bother to acknowledge it (though the enforcement is at best haphazard), hanging “Comment and Corruption Report” boxes.

The government is trying. The new Kenyan budget which released earlier this week (1.7 Trillion Ksh, about 20B USD) included a provision eliminating roadside weigh stations on Kenyan borders. In the past, corrupt weigh station officials were known to arbitrarily dole out taxes to these shipping trucks, keeping a large cut of the artificially high tariffs for themselves.

There’s so much work to be done though. There’s a landfill that you pass on the way northward from Mombasa to Kilifi, near Mtwapa, right off the side of the road. Rather than using government resources to clean the rotting mess, an advertising billboard one hundred meters long was constructed to hide the sight of the landfill from the streets. No billboard can block the stench though.

There are other examples and I could spend way too long talking about them, but before I do, just understand that situations like this start to get to the heart of problems in Kenya. Kenyan’s realize what is wrong, and many have available the information that would provoke people to change it. However, it seems the most useful path to a solution always has a factor missing, or a fault along the way. Be that insufficient willpower, poor structure, lack of governmental action, corruption, not enough enthusiasm, or simply minimal capital means… a lack of something stands in the way, and results in the cutting of some kind of corner. It’s like trying to eat cake with a straw (bear with me) – the straw certainly resolves one potential problem, that is, drinking your drink, but it doesn’t really help you eat the cake. No matter your resolve, if you try to eat the cake with that straw, you are going to be unsatisfied. In the same way, a billboard may, in a very offhand-way, boost the livelihood of the surrounding community by providing some extra advertising space, and also hiding the unsightly landfill. However, in the end it leaves one unsatisfied. The true cause of economic and financial shortcomings is likely something the billboard can’t fix – that terribly repugnant stench.

It’s been hard to accept that some problems in Mombasa will remain unresolved without drastic governmental changes and years of time. But acceptance of that provides incentive to evaluate which problems can actually be solved with the current available resources without cutting corners. There are certainly examples of failed or poor solutions. But for every poor one there are many ideas that are not just a cover-up. These solutions are founded in creativity and improvisation.

I’ve been putting a lot of thought into these issues lately, and that’s partly why I’ve delayed my updates for this week. I’m normally pretty exhausted when I get back from work, and I’ve had some great books that have kept my thoughts away from the blog. Some of the above was written earlier this week, and some of my thoughts have certainly changed, so I’ll do my best to profile those now or later in the week. But enough of that … I’ll keep you updated on my project ideas as they come. You’ll hear more about them later.

Breaking on to Boabab beach at Kenyan WOD 2012

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The parade to Boabab beach

The last week went very well. While last Thursday I remained home from work nursing my stomach bug, Friday was the World Ocean’s Day (WOD) event in Kilifi.  I left home early on Friday and made it to the office to help with some pre-departure preparations. The busses carrying our office, youth group volunteers, and select teachers and students, were supposed to leave at 6:30 AM so that we could set up. However, a small delay in departure led to further delays when ranks of schoolchildren and teachers expecting a ride to the event showed up. The buses had only limited space, and we had prepared a list for the volunteers and schoolchildren allowed on. But word always seems to get from one to another, and suddenly it felt as if all of Mombasa had the impression they were getting on our buses. We were terribly late, and eventually were forced to make some tough decisions – if there was going to be a World Ocean’s Day, we would have to leave some back home.

When we reached Kilifi, hundreds of schoolchildren were already assembled in the town center. While waiting for the road to close, the group hoisted the World Ocean's Day banner as hordes of schoolchildren and citizens assembled behind. The crowd grew to frenzy. When the Kilifi traffic cop finally beckoned the banner forward, cheers erupted and the procession leapt forward, the entire parade breaking into song and dance. I jumped in along with them. I’d never seen anything like it before in my life. Someone asked me if we "do stuff like this" in the states. I laughed. Ask yourself: when was the last time you saw schoolchildren, 2^nd graders to 12^th graders, come together, shut down a road and celebrate something? Maybe sports? The 4^th of July? I don’t know. It seems that whenever something like that should happen, there’s always someone off to the side, worried about how cool they look, or what their friends are doing, or just complaining. To see so many united people singing, dancing, and laughing, was a really moving experience, and it was awesome to walk with them, building and sharing their energy and emotion.

Beach clean-up

When we finally reached the water, within minutes the entire beachfront was full of activity as the procession panned out with bags and picked trash from the beach. Within half an hour most of the debris had been removed, and I watched as the students and adults returned with their bags, walking across the pristine white sands of Kilifi. Following the cleanup was a short exhibition, then student performances, speeches, and awards.

During the proceedings I was lucky enough to meet Lieutenant Cole, the commander of a Joint Task Force stationed in Malindi, Kenya. He was there with 7 or 8 guys from his team. We took some time to talk. Their force was working with communities to provide water safety and boat handling training to local fishermen, focusing on program sustainability. He gave me his card and told me if I needed anything, to give him and his team a call. It was eerily comforting to hear a Navy Lieutenant tell me to call him and his task force if I needed anything. Not that I expect to need them, but hell, I may need to go grab a beer with them.

School entertainment at WOD

The rest of the day was a success, and a great time. However, at the end of the day I was left a little appalled. Those who attended WOD were provided lunch, and the vast majority of the attendees, rather than disposing off it, simply left their trash and debris back on the beach. As I looked out over the beach it seemed as if we had left the area no better than we had found it. That disconnect, between the purpose of the day (cleaning the beach) and the end result, was very frustrating to me. It left me pondering: how do you get someone to care about something subconsciously, beyond the times when they are told to do something?

Saturday I woke up to my host mother sick. She had had some stomach bug problems as well, but her’s had never really improved. She would be taken to the hospital later that day. While she is fine now, she stayed there till Wednesday.

Ndiema came by later and took me to church. While it was already 11am, church runs from 9am until 1-2pm every Saturday (my family are 7^th day Adventists), so I managed to catch about 2 hours of the service.

The church is large and airy, equipped with pews and a large altar and stage area at the front. Fans whizzed, churning the hot, humid air around the room as a breeze puffed through large gated windows. The ceiling was high, and the sounds reverberated off the tin roof and the white concrete walls. Chicken wire sealed the area between the roof and the walls, keeping the birds outside. When I walked in, the pastor paused for a moment, stole a look, and then continued reading. I smirked. Everyone in the church, all two-hundred men, women, and children, turned around in their seats to see me. I gave a wry smile and a little wave, and followed Ndiema to a pew right in the middle. He had told me beforehand, “I’ll only translate the funny parts for you.” Instead he decided to translate the entire sermon, word by word. To me, that made the whole sermon pretty funny “part”.

Afterwards we went out to lunch, where I was reminded by Ndiema that in Africa, “we eat… to finish.” I finished embarrassed. I was the only one at the table to not finish my meal, besides the little twelve year-old at the end of the table. As partners in crime, he and I fist bumped. From there we visited Joyce at Mombasa Hospital, a pleasing complex of whitewashed, open-air medical buildings. It really seemed like a nice place to spend a few nights, especially with the sound and view of the water, which was literally just outside the window.

I then traveled across the ferry to Aman’s house. We were planning on going out to a house party that night in the city. Curious to see what a Kenyan house party was like, we quickly finished dinner, and headed back to Mombasa. Once there we found seem cheap Kenyan liquor, and made our way out to Tudor, where the house was located.

Now house is a bit of an overstatement. It was one room, with about ten of us packed in. The room was small, enough for a bed and some chairs, and a refrigerator and small kitchen in the back. It was a very interesting night, certainly compounded by the fact that the area is one of the slums of Mombasa. We had a great time though, and it was fun meeting some locals my age, and experiencing the slums in a more intimate manner at a new time.

On Sunday the interns all met for lunch in Likoni, and then went together to see Shelly beach. The water was at low tide, so we waded through the tide pools and walked all the way out to the reefs. Critters were everywhere – sea sponges, starfish, crustaceans, and urchins. The urchins were everywhere, and you had to be very careful where you stepped to avoid being punctured and stung. It some places they blanketed the pools so densely even the sand seemed black and purple. We found a cool octopus too (that a fishermen had speared earlier).

I stopped at Nakumat afterwards to get some peanut butter and jelly for the week. In the checkout line I met some cute girls from Canada. While they had been in Kenya for five weeks, they were leaving the next day for Zanzibar for a few days, and then were traveling on to Nairobi. It seemed like an awesome trip, but the timing was uncanny… ah cruel, cruel fate!

The work week started out pretty slow. Monday and Tuesday were especially long, but I did my best to engage myself in whatever was going on in the office. Monday involved a debrief on World Ocean’s Day (they called it a post-mortem, but I refuse to call it that. It’s not dead… it’s coming back next year right? Right?!). Tuesday was a little faster, mainly because I started to take some initiative on my project. I started to compile resources from the office, and began to organize information about some projects that had been left in the planning of WOD. One project in particular caught my eye, involving work with Beach Management Units (BMUs), which monitor and protect the livelihoods of local fishermen. I spoke with several in the office about it, including Iddi (or Iddi Iddi as he sometimes prefers, his name being Iddi Juma Iddi), a goofy guy who is also one of the hardest workers in the office.

As I compiled more information about BMUs, I became more and more curious about their role, and so I proposed to Omondi (my supervisor), and Okeyo (the head of Eco-Ethics), traveling to speak with a few of them down on the south coast to do a needs and asset assessment on Thursday. Dutch helped to vouch for my idea – she has really been looking out for me, and has also provided a lot of great advice. Dutch, as I’ve said before, is from Aspen, and graduated from the University of Colorado. She has white wispy hair and a great smile. I think she has been relieved to have some new energy in the office, especially someone who brings her a little taste of home. She’s finished one year of her two year Peace Corps obligation, and while I know she enjoys it, it certainly can be a tiring job, especially when you’re out in a place as far away from home as this and living alone.  With Dutch I eventually won over both Okeyo and Omondi, who also allowed me to head up the project during my time here. I began preparing some materials. On Wednesday, I devised some surveys in English and Swahili to handout to the BMU fishermen when I traveled to the south coast the following morning.

The BMU was on a beautiful stretch of coastline

Omondi and I left early on Thursday to the ferry. Omondi is one of the most laid-back, soft-spoken, and knowledgeable people I’ve met here. He’s the kind of person that you’d want to spend all day with. Not only is he a fun guy, but you’ll never talk about the same thing twice. I feel very lucky to have him as my supervisor, and I get the impression that he is always looking out for my best interests. As we walked to the ferry he began telling me about some subjects that people generally avoid in conversation here. Apparently the Coast Province has been trying to secede from Kenya. While it may be a futile effort, especially considering that most of the infrastructure and academic power is located in western Kenya (the best secondary schools and universities), there are still several political movements advocating the secession. I guess it makes sense – most of the government initiatives and community projects take place in and around Nairobi, which is nowhere near the coast province. If the coast province could take the revenue of its ports for itself, Mombasa being the second largest port in Africa behind Durbin, South Africa, it would likely be a very prosperous area, and be able to fund its own development, rather than see its tax earnings always sent westward.

After the ferry we took a bus southward. It was essentially a mini-greyhound bus. It was painted completely fire-truck red, and then emblazoned with huge Ferrari decals and emblems. The sound system was fantastic, and we listened to reggae all the way to Shimoni, a town about an hour south of Lakoni/Mombasa. From there we took other means to get to the first BMU, which was about 5 km off the roadside.

When we reached the water I was in awe. If you’re looking for pristine, white, sandy beaches, come to Kenya. Every one I’ve been to is something out of a movie. This one was no exception. I walked along the shoreline, picking up perfect conches as little sand crabs rose up out of their sand holes and sidewise scuttled out of sight. At the other end of the beach was a small rock outcropping. Omondi and I climbed through a hole to check out the tide pools on the other side. Returning through the hole, we looked out on the water at the several fishermen out on the reef, paddling their dugout wood boats and canoes. Most use spears, basic nets, or free-dive. They get up around 3 or 4 in the morning and stay out till around 1pm on a usual day.

Speaking at the fish banda

The BMU had a fish banda that was built on an out cropping on the other side of the beach. After speaking to the head of the BMU, we realized our day of travel was going to be much easier. The BMU was hosting a mangrove planting celebration for all of the local BMUs.

Mangrove planting

Yep, I got to plant one too

Eventually around thirty people showed up, and the meeting began. The entire meeting was in Swahili, so I caught what I could. Several people spoke, and I strained to understand what they were saying by watching their body language. I handed out my surveys, and then spoke with the fishermen that could understand English. Then Omondi and I (as the guests of honor) each planted a mangrove tree. They then provided us lunch. It was a simple meal – a plate of beans and ugali – but the portion size was monstrous. While all of the other fishermen were splitting the plate between 4 or 5 people, Omondi and I, as the guests of honor, had to split the entire thing between the two of us. And again, to reiterate – in Kenya, they “eat to finish.” With grossly full stomachs we set off to speak to the next BMU, a short 5 km ride up the coast.

When we got there the fisherman had already packed up and left, so we went to see the head man, who lived a short walk inland. The area was an idealic Kenyan coast village. The chickens and cattle roamed freely, and kids screamed as they frolicked in the grass between the houses. The man met us outside, and we sat down to talk. He was a funny old man, and we began to ask him how his operation was going. We asked him about an engine that was donated to his operation. The BMU still uses it, though they store it up at the house, which was good to hear. After a short while though I began to realize that my presence was coloring his responses. When a muzungu comes to ask anyone “how things are going,” the initial thought is “what can I get him to get for me?” There is definitely a misconception that whenever a muzungu is there asking questions, they are going to get some kind of windfall. While I was curious to find out how to improve their livelihood in the long term, the answers to my and Omondi’s questions were instead directed towards short term financial benefits. When asked what the greatest need for the fisherman was, his response was “a glass bottom boat” so that the fisherman could run a tourism operation during the low fishing season.

A fish trap

Before we left we had him fill out our surveys. One question asked for their age. The old man had to walk inside to get his ID card to check. He couldn’t do the math, so he gave it to us to add up. He really was an old guy: the man laughed when as read his birthdate: 1939.

When we got back to the office, Dutch and I went to see a movie at Alliance Frances. It was a great documentary about the diversity of Europe, although the ending was eerily abrupt. On the way out we met some friends of hers from Germany, all students around my age.  I took one of their numbers. Maybe I’ll be able to meet up with them this week.

On Friday I traveled up north to Nyali to visit a private business who had offered to provide powerboat and boat safety training to BMU operations. The business, a fishing supply outlet called Captain Andy’s, is essentially Kenya’s equivalent to West Marine, although it had much less of a corporation feel, and also dealt with much larger vessels than WM. I met a man there named Steve, a muzungu who is actually a 3^rd generation Kenyan. He’s a strapping guy, and has the look of a sailor, with ragged bleach blonde hair, a few tufts of chest hair sticking through the first couple undone buttons of his shirt, and a certain air about him that exuded years spent on the water. We had a great talk, and together devised some action plans forward. One misconception we cleared up during our trip to the south coast the day before was that BMUs didn’t really need powerboat training. What they did need however was basic boat safety training and personal flotation and survival techniques, since fisherman drowning is incredibly frequent. I asked him to devise some curriculum with his instructors to tailor to those needs. Afterwards we had a good talk about my experiences in Kenya so far. When he heard I surfed and sailed, he gave me the contact numbers to a few of his friends, and told me to call them. They play beach volleyball up in Nyali every Wednesday night, and he thought I would love to meet them.

Mama Anna and a few of the FSD interns

Later on Friday we had an FSD meeting. Afterwards I went back to the office. Dutch was the only one left and so we got to talking. Her kids are coming in for the next two weeks, and she’ll be joining them on safari the next week. We began to talk about hockey. Her husband had been pretty involved in Aspen hockey, so as I shot in the dark, I told her that one of my coaches at Duke lived in Aspen for a couple years. When I told her his name, her eyes lighted up. “You know Dick Marr?!” Living here in Mombasa, half a world away, it’s hilarious to think how small the world is.

After leaving work, I left to meet Jak at his Internet Café. We hung out for a bit and then he drove me back home. On the way we stopped at a place under Dutch’s recommendation, a place called the Seamen’s Club. It seems like a great place to get away from the noise of the matatus and streets, and I’ll definitely spend some time there in the future.

Jak and his little cousin

Saturday I woke up for church. There was a guest pastor there, and while he spoke in English, the Swahili translator kept talking over him, so I could catch very little of his two and half hour sermon. But the delivery was incredible; the entire packed church (more like five hundred people that day) was transfixed to his words and shouts. His voice lifted and fell with his stories, and as his emotion built, so did the energy of the room. As I listened and observed, I pondered what it meant to be a captivating and engaging speaker. I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but somehow I still felt interest and a connection. In a tribute to a novel I just read, that profiled the age when “everyone wrote,” I wrote some notes during the sermon to help me remember how it felt.

“So powerful, so full, so enveloping. You need not understand. Just feel. Back and forth, his emotion building to a level both eerily terrifying and terribly comforting. It is so loud, so real, it soothes the thoughts and calms the soul. How things as this can do it is beyond my comprehension.”

It felt pretty cool.


The rest of the day went well. From there I went to meet up with some other interns and then together we went to see Prometheus. The movie theatre, Nyali Cinemax is only about 500 Ksh for a matinee 3D movie (normally 300Ksh for 2D). Most of that money probably goes to A/C, which is a fantastic bonus.

Now here I am, Sunday morning. I need to finish my work plan for FSD, but I think I’ll save that for later. The weather has been very temperate lately so maybe I’ll go for a run. As always, thanks for reading, and let me know if there are any pictures in particular you'd like to see. I have so many I don't know what to do with them...

Till next time,

Scotty