03 septembre 2006
Adapt to your hostile environment
I recently participated to the first “hostile environment training” organized in Africa. This is the kind of training where journalists are sent by their news organizations before they go on dangerous assignments like Iraq for example. For Western journalists it is often a mandatory step, because insurance companies will not protect you unless you’ve undergone such training. But for local journalists here or for freelancers like me, your own experience is your training. And you have no insurance whatsoever.
This training had been sponsored by UNESCO, and organized in Nairobi with the help of Camerapix, the production company with which I sometimes work. Most of the journalists who were attending the training were local journalists from DRC, Sierra Leone, Chad and others. Besides me and the Camerapix team (Andrew, Mark and Farah), there was only one “international” journalist. By “international” I mean a journalist who travels to cover stories outside of his or her own country. It was a short white South-African woman who looked about 45 (although I learnt later she was only 39) and who would drink about 10 bottles of water everyday, subsequently making about 20 trips to the toilets.
A woman from an international organization for the protection of journalists was there - a tall and skinny blond woman in kaki pants. She welcomed each one of us with an iron-strong handshake that meant “I-might-be-a-tall-and-skinny-blonde-but-I’m-tough-and-I’ve-done-things-in-the-past-that-made-me-this-way-but-trust-me-you-don’t-want-to-know”.
The trainer was Roy, an ex-British army officer who had fought in Iraq before shifting careers. Now he takes tv crews to Iraq. Sometimes he also serves as bodyguard for Saudi millionaires in London.
During 2 days Roy taught us how to ensure that your hotel room is safe, how to bandage different kinds of wounds, how to avoid being kidnapped and how to behave if you are, how to avoid mines and how to recognize different types of weapons.
Most of it was common sense and not adapted to Africa. The pictures illustrating the “mob and crowds” chapter looked like they had been taken in London. The police were in full body armor and organized in a nice straight line. We were told to avoid this type of situations but if we couldn’t, to hide behind the police. “But what if there is no police?” I said. “Riots are not so organized here, they just happen. Sometimes you’re even the CAUSE of the riot. In some places, like Somalia, there’s just no police. And when there is police, they might not be on your side”. “Well then the only thing I could advise you is to stay away from a place if there’s a potential risk. Trust your gut feeling”.
It wasn’t Roy’s fault. He was a good trainer, but he didn’t now anything about Africa. He didn’t even know Kenya was a tropical region and that yes, there was malaria here.
The part that I found the most interesting was the medical training. If was too quick to be really efficient but now I know what “clearing the airways” or “capillary refill test” mean. I’m also supposed to know how to do it.
Came the point where Roy tackled what to do in case of fainting. “Has anybody here ever fainted?” he asked. Andrew, Mark and Farah started giggling like three idiots. Of course, I knew this was coming. I raised my hand “Yeah, me, I fainted” (see the post” Journey to Wajir”). “Oh, and you know why?” “Yes, it was hot and I hadn’t drunk enough water.” “That’s a typical reason”, said Roy to the rest of the class. “And did you see black spots before you fainted?” “No actually I saw everything in white”. “Yes, white or black spots, you loose sensitivity to colors when you’re about to faint”.
Roy had been trained during his army days and his medical knowledge had served him well, especially when he had to deliver his own daughter (!!).
The South-African woman was whining every time he would show a photo of a wound on his power point presentation, complaining that she couldn’t bear the sight of blood.
Actually, she was whining about all the time. We were all encouraged to share stories and anecdotes and she had many to tell. One of the highlights was the story about the “pervert-child-soldiers” in Sierra Leone who would try to touch her at roadblocks because they were drunk and she was a woman with blond hair. “Well if it bothers you so much, why don’t you go back to your natural color?” I thought. No way she was a real blonde.
She was so painfully annoying that at some point even Roy couldn’t repress an overwhelming urge to look at his watch. She just would go on and on and on about how “awfull” and “terrible” her experiences had been. I really wondered why she was doing this job, and then it occurred to me that she probably liked having people pitying her, and at the same time admire the fact that she had put herself in dangerous situations.
She was not the only one with stories to tell. A few others seemed like they needed to speak. Some sort of therapy? Or maybe they saw in the interest in other people’s eyes a justification for the way of life they had chosen - because they themselves didn’t remember why they had. I hope I’ll never be like that… I don’t think I will.
01 septembre 2006
Obama in Kenya
You might have heard that Senator Bark Obama was recently in Kenya, as part of a bigger tour of Africa. But Kenya is special for Obama as it is the country of origin of his late father. Obama’s father left Kenya to attend university in Hawai, where he met Obama’s mother. He finally settled in the States where Barak was born and later attended Yale.
I already liked Barak Obama when I was in the States. His speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention was great – it completely outshined Kerry’s. It’s also worth mentioning that Obama is the first black US senator and that he was elected with 70% of the votes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up becoming the first black president of the United-States.
Here in Kenya he was welcomed as a hero, especially in his ancestral home of Kisumu. Obama’s trip only lasted a few days, but he managed to tackle all the issues that make Kenya today. He went to Kibera, met with people affected by AIDS, got tested himself, and went to Wajir to see the lasting effects of the drought. Several times over the course of his trip and above all in his closing speech at the university of Nairobi, he spoke out against corruption.
He explained to president Kibaki and in front of the cameras how the tv crew that was traveling with him had to pay a bribe to the customs officer to be able to get into the country with their equipment. Kibaki promised that the money would be returned.
Obama also spoke out against the tribal tensions that are still governing Kenyan politics. In the countryside, most people will vote for one candidate because he comes from their own tribe rather than because they agree with his program. Because President Kibaki is coming from Kenya’s largest tribe, the Kikuyus, he stands a big chance of being reelected, just like that.
Obama comes from the Luo tribe (second biggest one), and although he cannot hide it because of his name and his region of origin, he purposely didn’t bring it forward. When he visited his home region, he managed to keep the Luos within safe distance – which, judging by their reaction when their MP Raila Odinga makes a public appearance - is a difficult thing to do.
What I found impressive is how well Obama knew Kenya and Kenyan politics, especially for somebody who had only been here twice and for a few days. He had a very precise and well-informed view of the hopes and challenges of the country.
Many people here probably hope that somebody like Obama could have enough weight to influence positively the government. But in his speech at the university, Obama reminded young Kenyans that it was their responsibility to change things. Hopefully this speech would have inspired at least a few of them.
31 août 2006
Crater Lake
I spent last weekend in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been to. I drove to Naivasha, a small resort town on the shores of a large lake, about 2 hours away from Nairobi.
I had a reservation at “Crater Lake camp”, a luxury tented camp by a small volcanic lake (close to 
the main lake - lake Naivasha). The hotel management had told me that I would need to drive through 5 km of dirt road before reaching the place, but that I would be fine with my little Toyota Starlet.
Well, the ride was fine until the tarmac turned into… something that wasn’t even a dirt road. It was just a sand and rock path in the bush, something that would have been hard to tackle even with a 4-wheel drive. This took me by surprise and I crashed the bottom of my car on a rock that was hidden in the sand. Still, I managed to drive all the way to the top of the crater – and there the view was really worth it.
Hundreds of flamingos were offering an interesting contrast with the green water of the lake, which was surrounded by large acacia trees. Rare Colobus monkeys were jumping from tree to tree, calling out at each other.
The camp had only 11 rooms made of large tents that had enough space to hold a four-poster bed. Each tent was linked to a stone bathroom with electricity and hot water. The rooms had their own verandahs with a great view on the lake and its flamingos. On Saturday 
night there
was a short thunderstorm and the lightning reflected on the lake in the dark.
The camp also had its own game park, and during a walk around the crater I bumped into two giraffes. It always does me something to see giraffes in the wild like this, with no fence between me and them.
A great weekend really. On the other hand, the ride back was quite a nightmare. The shock on the rock had damaged by back wheels and the car had lost its balance. It was drifting unpredictably and very difficult to control. I had to have it fixed before heading for Nairobi.
First I had wondered why nobody had bothered fixing this road, but in the end it’s probably best that way. It keeps most people away from Crater Lake and hopefully it will stay hidden and exclusive for a little longer.
16 août 2006
Stand up before the movie
I went to the movies for the first time since I got here the other day. Before that I never had the time or the energy to look up the screening times in the newspaper (there’re not on the internet) and then to drive for maybe half an hour to get to the mall where the film is playing. But apart from these downsides, movie theatres are nice and new here, very much like American theatres, and they show all the recent movies.
Anyway, I was enjoying the preview when all of a sudden the Kenyan flag appeared on the screen and the national anthem started playing. Everybody stood up. I had to stood up too or face the risk to be thrown out.
Kenya is not an authoritarian regime and I still can’t figure out exactly what purpose this fake demonstration of patriotism is supposed to serve.
13 août 2006
Eeew
Ok, I think I have enough. It’s the third time in a few weeks that Kenyan tv shows a baby born with a horrible deformity – and not the same one, it’s the THIRD BABY. One was born with his heart outside of his body. Yes, you read it well, with his heart OUTSIDE his body. He only survived a few days. The one I just saw honestly I couldn’t really describe what it looked like. It had huge eyes like a fish’s. Then there was the one that we couldn’t see because the nurses didn’t have the courage to show it to its mother. Oh and there was also that kid with half a face – he got mauled by a dog after his mother abandoned him on a dumpster. You probably heard about it in the States because an American couple paid for the surgery that would enable him to get a new face.
The parents never seem bothered about the cameras or about the idea that their deformed kid will be seen by millions of people. Amazing.
07 août 2006
First interview
I did my first interview the other day. By “first interview” I don’t mean the first interview I conducted of course, but the first interview someone did of me. It was for the BBC French Service (one of my clients) and about my book.
I have to say that it was a good thing it wasn’t live. It’s much easier to ask the questions that to answer them. Fun though to hear the editor saying “Marie Lora, whom our listeners know well because she’s our correspondent in Kenya”. They know me well really? I’m not convinced.
29 juillet 2006
My holiday in Somalia
Sorry I haven’t been updating this blog for so long. I’ve been busy like I’ve never been busy before, then my computer crashed, and then I went on a holiday in Somalia.
Well, it was not exactly a holiday. I had convinced UNICEF to take me to Merka, a small coastal town about 90 kilometers south of Mogadishu. The region of Merka is one of the only peaceful ones in Somalia. As a result, many people who fled the conflict in the capital over the years ended up in one of Merka’s five IDP (Internally Displaced People) camps.
UNICEF very rarely takes journalists to Somalia for free. But I managed to convince the communications officer, Robert, that it was worth paying for my flight because I had many big clients. For the first time, my expenses were also totally being taken care of, I even had an advance in dollars – the currency of many failed economies like Somalia’s.
At the airport on Monday morning I met the group with which I was going to spend the next four days. There was Joe, a member of the British NGO Shelter Box, which works mainly on emergency situations like the 2004 tsunami. He was travelling with Mark, working with Shelter Box too but also a freelance photographer for the BBC and several UK newspapers. A white Namibian whom I never managed to understand the name because of his accent was also travelling with us. He was going to Merka to train teachers. Robert was accompanying all of us. At the gate, I bumped into Jeff, the new New York Times correspondent, and another familiar face: Djihad, the fashion photographer from Wajir. They were taking the same UN plane but to Baidoa where Ethiopian troops had reportedly entered to support the transitional government and prevent a possible attack from the Islamists. The situation was pretty tense there and it was Jeff’s first trip to Somalia.
After a couple of hours of flight, the plane landed in K50, the famous airport situated 50 kilometers away from Mogadishu (hence its name). Mogadishu does have its own airport but it has been closed for a while because of the conflict. Now I’ve heard it’s open again and the Islamic Courts are in the process of rehabilitating it.
K50 doesn’t really look like an airport. It’s more like an open space in the middle of nowhere. It has one runway and one small waiting room with dirty toilets and no toilet paper. The only planes to land there are the UN and NGO planes, and also the qhat charters. In a field full of plastic bags dancing in the wind, a crowd of Somalis is constantly awaiting the daily arrival.
We then took a smaller plane to get to Merka, only 18 minutes away when you fly there, but going by road would take 2 hours. Simply because there’s no real road. We flew along the coast, above a rough landscape of yellow earth and dark green bush soon turning into orange sand dunes. As soon as we got out of the plane, we could smell the sea. The weather was beautiful and windy.
The UN convoy was there to meet us. A small pick-up full of gunmen and three large landrovers. We drove to town through the bush and they dropped us at the guest house that serves as a base for the UN personnel. It was basic of course, but had a large terrace with an amazing view on the beach and the sea. But impossible to get out of the compound by yourself and walk to the beach. Every outing had to be organized in advance and you had to be
accompanied by the guards.
We first liaised with the UNICEF team on the ground and quickly set off to the first IDP camp. It was much smaller than I had expected. Most of the families living there were from Mogadishu. Some had come recently when the Islamic Courts battled the warlords out of the city but they had already gone back. The others had been living there for 5 to 10 years in small nomadic huts. There was a school, run in a tent by UNICEF.
Over the course of the next couple of days, we visited all the IDP camps of the area. People let us 
film them and interview them, they welcomed us into theirs homes and thanked us for our visit. None of them were planning to go back to Mogadishu. After 16 years of civil war, Merka was the safest place they had found and they didn’t know where else to go anyway.
We also went to the regional hospital. The whole city of Merka runs on 
generators, and the hospital one was operating only 16 hours a day. There was absolutely no medical equipment, so the staff (who had not been paid for over 6 months) was doing whatever they could with what they had to treat about 100 patients a day. The main causes of admission were tropical diseases like malaria, TB, diarrhoea, but also, because we were in Somalia, gun wounds.
I went to the surgical ward to interview a couple of wounded. The first one was a 27 year-old former militia member. He had actually never seen the fighting. He was injured while fooling around with some of his militia friends. He was accidentally shot in the shoulder. Now he was fed up of all this and he told me he had decided never to touch a gun again.
The second man I spoke to had lost one of his feet when he got caught in crossfire. He was not 
bitter nor angry – that’s was Allah’s will he said. He was planning to get back to work as soon as possible. But he was a driver before the accident… I wondered if he realized he would probably not be able to keep the same job.
The man in charge of the hospital was a Somali doctor who had spent about 15 years in London. He had just come back to Somalia. Merka general hospital was the only referral hospital around – one, for more than 1 million people. I asked him how it felt to come back and have to deal with the lack of funding and equipment after having worked in some of the most modern hospitals in the world. He said he was very happy because it was a challenge and that he really felt he could make a difference here.
We would spend every day out in the field and come back exhausted in the evenings. Dinners were spent all together with the UN staff at a common table, but very often I was too tired even to speak. I didn’t feel any special connection to anyone, some people I even found boring or annoying. Robert for example could spend hours trying to find links between words in different languages. He would take a Somali word and try to find out what it could mean in English, Swahili or Kikuyu, his mother tongue.
The only person who I enjoyed talking to was Mark. He is Scottish, so I didn’t always understand everything that he was saying. But what I did understand was pretty interesting. He had started his professional life in the army, before taking a 180 degrees turn and establishing himself as a paparazzi. After 4 years of tracking Blair and other British tabloid celebrities, he got bored and started travelling to war and disaster zones. That’s how he came to know the people working for Shelter Box and they offered him to be their photographer. He now gets sent all over the world.
He had eaten great food in Pakistan, wandered around Israel and Java, got chased by angry locals in Wajir, and met a 60 year-old aid worker in Sudan who didn’t care if she got raped as long as she didn’t catch anything.
From his days in the army, he had kept the habit of bringing his favourite food packed in small tin boxes: porridge, Lavazza coffee and cigarettes. The traditional Somali breakfast of liver and crepes never tempted him (and me neither I have to say). The only time he had got sick with food was after eating a salad at the Nairobi Hilton.
I was sharing a bathroom with a UN guy who was apparently not as lucky. I regularly had to unclog the toilets which seemed to be protesting against my neighbour’s stomach problems.
The following day we had to pay a “courtesy visit” to the local authorities. They ended up coming to see us at the UNICEF office. The governor of Merka’s region is a member of the Islamic Courts. He was short, light skinned with clear blue eyes. Since he came to power four years ago he has at least been able to maintain the peace, eventhough it implies collecting taxes by force to pay the militias instead of using the money to fund the hospital or build roads.
When the local authorities delegation sat down at our table (after politely refusing to shake my hand), I realized I was the only woman who was not wearing a head scarf. I figured that if really this was pausing a problem somebody would mention something. Nobody ever did, which probably meant that they were moderate Muslims – that was confirmed later.
After the introductions and the thank yous (thank you for welcoming us here, thank you for the access you’ve granted us/thank you for coming, thank you for your interest in Somalia), they offered to take us to town. Mark and I jumped on the occasion to get some pictures of the city and soon our convoy of cars was heading towards the market. I didn’t like the fact that we were all going – it was going to be a real circus trying to get around town. I quickly split up and went my own way, followed by two or three gunmen. As usual, in a few seconds a huge crowd gathered around me. The guards were keeping people a few meters away from me, so it wasn’t so bad. But after no more than 5 minutes, the rest of the UN team came rushing towards me “Marie, it’s not safe to stay too long in the same place, I don’t like the crowd, it’s dangerous, we shouldn’t stay here, let’s go, let’s go!!”. Robert literally pulled me away and we all hurried to the cars. How stupid I thought, everything was going fine until they started to freak out. That’s a recipe for disaster.
Back at the guest house, I had to listen to an hour lecture by Robert on what to do and not to do in Somalia. I tried to explain to him that I was used to this kind of situation, that being a young white woman with a camera I would inevitably attract a lot of attention. But he insisted in teaching me life. As if I was totally stupid and irresponsible and I didn’t know what I was doing. Nobody said anything to Mark, who had actually pissed off two Somalis by taking pictures without asking.
The next day, as I was doing a stand-up on the terrace in case CNN would be interested in the story, Robert gave me another lesson on what to wear and what not to wear.
- Marie, can you please button your shirt?
- No.
- Marie, listen to me, you know here there are some things that you can’t wear, I want you to cover yourself.
- Robert, in case you didn’t notice, I just changed for the purpose of this stand-up. I’m on the terrace, nobody can see me from the street. I’ll change again before we go out.
- Marie, you’re not listening to me, I want you to realize that I’m giving you good advice.
- Robert, you’re the one not listening. Did I ever wear anything inappropriate over the course of this trip?
- Marie, I’m telling you…
- Answer the question. Did I ever wear anything inappropriate? Haven’t I been doing what you’ve been telling me to do, even when I don’t agree?
- Marie…
After 4 days running around under the sun in pants and long sleeves when the men of the group were wearing shorts and t-shirts, I was really getting frustrated. Frustrated also at all these middle-aged UN guys who kept insisting on carrying my camera, or my tripod, or both. I’m not their wife, nor their daughter, in any case not a helpless woman who just happened to be in Somalia with a bunch of bags to carry. I was actually doing my job, and I could do it on my own.
On the last day, we went to visit an agricultural school – the only type of higher education available in Merka as there’s no universities. The schooling and literacy rates are much higher in the region than in the rest of the country though, which partly explains why the area has seen less fighting. “Educated” young people are noticeably less likely to join the militias. 
I also insisted to go to the beach to film young men playing soccer and fishermen on their boats. There on the beach, you could really get an idea of what Somalia would be if peace settled permanently in the country. A prime destination for adventurous tourists, far away from the overcrowded beaches and concrete 5 star hotels (until modernity catches up). A moderate Muslim country, with the longest coastline in Africa and huge fields of banana trees. 
As I was saying goodbye to the owner of the guest house, an elegant forty-something Somali fluent in Italian, he whispered to me “Marie, next time don’t come with the UN. We’ll take you to a small beach over there, empty, and you could swim and enjoy your holiday in Somalia.”
23 juillet 2006
Legal corruption
I finally received a copy of my book from my editor. But when I got to the post office to retrieve it and after having signed 3 different receipts and documents at 3 different counters, I was shocked to be asked to pay 250 shillings (about 4 dollars) to get my parcel. The woman before me, whose delivery notice had come to the wrong address, was asked 2000 shillings (29 dollars). She left empty handed, either because she couldn’t afford the 2000 shillings or because the contents of her package weren’t worth the money.
I was later explained that before this “storage tax” was put in place, you would never receive anything of value or remotely interesting from the post office. In an effort to reduce theft from the post office staff, the administration had had the idea of the “storage tax”. Which means that you’re actually rewarding the post office for not stealing your parcel, a kind of legal corruption.
It’s even worse with large shipments. NGOs often complain that they have to disburse tens of thousands of dollars to get relief food or equipment out of Kenyan customs.
10 juillet 2006
Ayany Primary School
I’ve lately spent several days at Ayany Primary School in Kibera to do a story on Free Primary Education, the program launched by the Kenyan government in 2003 that opened the doors of primary schools to many poor children.
About 2500 children are today enrolled at Ayany Primary School. That’s about twice as much as in 2002, before the abolition of school fees. But with only 28 teachers, an average class is packed with 70 to a hundred children. They often have to share a desk and a bench for four.
After 2003, many children who had been out of the system, sometimes for several years, were able to reintegrate school. But after such a long time spent in the streets, they had to learn everything from scratch, especially discipline. They had to be taught how to use the bathrooms, how to wash their hands and shoes before going back to their classrooms. They’re also in charge of keeping the premises clean by sweeping the floor and cleaning up after lunch.
I first went by myself the first time(quite a useless shoot), and then went back with Andrew once CNN had confirmed their interest in the story. Things were a lot easier the second time – kids behave a lot better when Andrew is the one shooting. Nobody thinks it’s funny to pull his hair for example.
We first went to see the Director of the school. She wanted to introduce us to the teacher who was going to be in charge of showing us around. Her name was Leah Asego. As I was explaining to her what we were doing there and what we were looking for, I noticed that Andrew was holding back a smile. What was so funny? When it was his turn to introduce himself, he turned towards Leah and said “Mrs Asego, do you remember me? You used to be my teacher at Olympic Primary School.”
Funny. But I have to precise that Andrew brutally left his primary school after receiving 40 strikes of cane on his hands because he hadn’t done his homework. He just went home and told his family that he wouldn’t go back to school. For a week he couldn’t use his hands. His parents were supportive and enrolled him in a different school. He keeps a very bad memory of his first school, so I was hoping that Leah Asego wasn’t one of the wicked teachers. But luckily she was actually one of the good ones.
We soon had the opportunity to see her work. She took us to her class, where she was teaching 80 
kids between 11 and 16 how to tell what time it was. For each good answer, children would get a clap from the class. And for each good answer to a difficult question, they would even get a little song.
I asked her to tell us which children would be interesting for us to interview. She pointed to a 14 year-old boy named Oliver. “A complete orphan, she said. He lost both his parents to AIDS and the neighbour who brought him here also died. Now he has no one”. She also suggested that we interview Arriane, her “prefect”. She was 12 and one of the brightest in the class.
During the morning break, we set up in the empty classroom and interviewed both of them. Oliver was full of ticks, obviously very stressed, not by the interview but in his life in general. He told us about his parents. He also said that he wanted to become a pilot. The sad thing was that he probably wouldn’t even be able to go to secondary school, which is not free in Kenya. When I asked him if he had a plan to achieve his dream, he stayed silent for a long time. He also told us that he often didn’t have anything to eat at home, and that the free food that he was getting at school was very important for him. “Where do you get money to buy food or the things that you need at home?” I asked. “Nowhere” he said, “sometimes, it’s Mrs Asego who gives us money”.
Arriane was a very impressive girl. She was very articulate, very smart and quick. Her father had 
died two weeks before from TB, but she had already turned it into a strength. “I’m the only one my mother and my little brother can count on now. I have to work hard and get a good job to be able to help them”. She wanted to be a neuro surgeon.
I asked both Oliver and Arriane if we could follow them home to see how they lived. Both agreed.
We then went to film the kitchen. At 11am and 1pm, everybody gets free food, porridge and then rice 
and beans with an avocado. The food is provided by the World Food Program and cooked with charcoal that burns with suffocating smoke. After a few minutes in the kitchen I couldn’t breathe anymore. The free food is a strong incentive for children not to drop out of school. Before, a lot of them used to get sick or faint. Now the problem is more about channelling their high energy.
Overall, the school seemed very well organized. It was not getting enough money from the government of course, but the international community had stepped in. UNICEF was building new toilets for girls. A local donor was helping improve the playground and physical education field that for the moment looked more like a garbage dump than anything else. Barclays bank was building classrooms. Most public schools were not so lucky.
Because of the large number of HIV-positive children in the school, an extensive “prevention and education program” was also going on. But after looking into it, the message was pretty basic: abstinence. I interviewed a young boy who was one of the “peer advisors” of the school. His role was to advise the other children on different topics including HIV-AIDS. “So what do you advise them to do?” I asked him. “I tell them not to have any boyfriends and girlfriends and to wait until they’re married to have sex. Before girls used to get pregnant very soon and drop out of school. Now, there’s a better awareness.” “Oh, so no boyfriends and no girlfriends, ok. Is that what you do?”. “Yes”. “And it’s not too hard?” “No, I’m used to it” he said uncomfortably. Andrew was giving me a look that was saying “Marie, Marie, Marie, leave the poor boy alone”.
This is one of the tragedies of Africa. In general there’s a lack of information and education, but when it comes to AIDS, it has terrible consequences. There’re no sexual education classes in schools. Kids barely know how things work or what a condom is. Because of the power of the Catholic Church, the only message that gets across is the one of abstinence. But this is an unrealistic one. Young people will continue to have sex before marriage whatever the Church or their school says. And they will do so without condoms, because nobody would have given them the correct and relevant information about it.
As planned, we met up with Oliver and Arriane again after their last class. Leah Asego was going to accompany us to their homes. We also needed a “local” to come with us, as an insurance against theft. Peter had worked with many tv crews and on the shooting of the Constant Gardener. He guided us through the intricate and muddy streets of Kibera to Arriane and Oliver’s homes. Kibera is a photographer’s paradise. Everything is interesting to film, and its ugliness often becomes oddly beautiful, especially along the path of the rail track that runs through the slum.
Both of the children lived in a single small room. Arriane shared hers with her mother and her little 
brother. Oliver with his three brothers and his sister. Arriane showed us how she was preparing her bed every night. She had to put the coffee table in one corner and pull out a mattress that she would put on the floor, next to the single bed where her mother and brother were sleeping. No kitchen, no bathroom, no toilets.
It was the same for Oliver. I asked Leah if I could speak to some of the neighbours who were sometimes taking care of him and his siblings. “No, there’s nobody. They’re all fed up of them. They’re not helping them anymore.” “Both their parents died of AIDS”, I said, “did they get tested? Do they know their status?” “No, no. You know, I can only encourage them to go, but I can’t force them. And Oliver is too stressed, he doesn’t want to know” “And even if they did, would they be able to get treatment?” “No, they wouldn’t. So what difference does it make if they know or not… none, really”.
Arriane’s father had allegedly died of TB. But TB is an opportunistic disease that touches many HIV-positive people. So it was also possible that Arriane and the rest of her family was HIV-positive. What a waste.
We thanked Arriane and Oliver a lot for welcoming us into their homes and we wished them to succeed at school. Andrew discretely gave them a few hundred shillings each, and then we left.
On the car back home, he asked me if I thought they would make it. “I hope so” I said. “Arriane is very strong, she has a plan and she still has her mother, she’ll find a way to get somewhere I think. Oliver, I’m not sure, you’ve seen his face, he looks so terribly sad…” “Hum, I would have said the opposite” Andrew said “somehow the guys make it. But Arriane, she’s pretty, she’s a girl, Kibera is a tough place, she might get raped, something bad can happen to her any day. It’s actually what happened to most of the very smart girls who were in school with me.”
27 juin 2006
Crocodile tastes like frog
A friend of mine recently asked me what weird/surprising/original things I had eaten since I moved to Africa. He was disappointed when I told him that most of it had been quite straightforward and risk-free.
Still, I figured I could develop a little bit. First of all Nairobi being a cosmopolitan city like Paris or New York, you can eat just about any kind of food: Chinese, Japanese, Indian, French, Italian, etc. You also have the choice between several fast food chains, many of them specialized in fried chicken. The Java House cafes are probably the most popular meeting point for lunch or coffee. Just imagine a Starbucks with food (hamburgers, sandwiches, quiches, salads, and of course brownies, muffins and bagels, everything very American). Of course, they also have coffee.
Then if you really want to eat African, you have to specifically look for it. But you can find very good Swahili food almost anywhere in Kenya and Tanzania. The dishes are usually composed of rice or ugali (maize porridge) and fish or meat, often cooked in coconut milk and curry. If you want to do things right, you should eat with your fingers. Yes, fish too. You get the trick pretty quickly though.
Finally, something that is pretty fun to try out is game meat, and then the Carnivore restaurant in 
Nairobi is the place to go. For a fixed price, waiters will come to your table carrying huge skewers of meat and serve you until you say no more. Besides traditional meat like chicken, beef or pork, you can try ostrich, crocodile, camel, and when you’re lucky giraffe (no giraffe the day I went unfortunately). Camel was not my favourite, it tasted like fatty lamb. But crocodile meat is very good I thought, kind of like frog’s legs. Of course this doesn’t help if you haven’t tried one or the other.
