It goes clackety clack

The overnight train from Nairobi to Mombassa: they say it's a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Which I now realize is quite the clever double entendre. Is it once-in-a-lifetime because it's an elusively rare gem of an experience that one will never be lucky enough to capture twice? Or is it because after you've experienced it once, you realize that once is quite enough; no repeat performance necessary.

For those who are fulfilling a decades-old dream of colonial elegance, perhaps the former. For those who live in Kenya, complete with repeat access, probably the latter.

But nonetheless, I did it! I traveled. By train! Who doesn't love trains? And lions! Who doesn't love lions?

The Nairobi train station on a Friday night is a mix of bustle and repose, as people either shuffle out of town or patiently await their turn to leave.

Going somewhere swiftly.

Going somewhere slowly.

Boarding with a cane and head full of luggage.

The overnight train leaves Nairobi at 7pm(ish) and arrives at the Kenyan coast in Mombassa at 10am(ish) the next morning, endowing passengers with a solid 13 hours of throwback colonial sophistication in a first-class sleeper car. Supposedly. But if you're thinking of the smooth, bump-free train trajectories of Europe, you're thinking of an entirely different brand of transporation. Dial it back by about 100 years to the 1890s when these tracks were built. Reflect upon the various nicknames this railway had: "the lunatic line" and "the iron snake." Recall that in one year a pair of lions (only two!) killed somewhere between 28 and 135 rail construction workers (so, aptly, the Kenya railways logo is a lion?).

Most notably, a night on this train is a ride through history, if not a restful night's sleep. It goes clackety clack and rocks back and forth with every chug. It's the type of train on which you'd send a no-good fella' packing with a one-way ticket to a soundtrack of "Hit the Road Jack." A choo choo train in the most literal sense.

So then what's the point? Why not just pay the extra $20 to fly down to the coast in an hour? Why, because you would miss this:

Sunrise over Tsavo park.

Dawn from the breakfast car.

And as you draw closer to Mombassa, the landscape changes to pineapple plantations and small villages where the children run outside to just wave and wave and wave at the train. If you lean far enough out the window, I'm sure you can hear them hollering, "Howareyou?I'mfine!"

Pineapples, all the way down.

Hi!Howareyou?I'mfine!

Certainly there's an elegance, a romance, to train travel. An elegance shaded by a crimson hue when you think of the bloody history, not only from lions but also from an invasion into the land of the native peoples. If not the current pinnacle of luxury and glamour, the trip is evocative. Sensory and historically weighty, it probably is a once-in-my-lifetime affair... Clackety clacking our way through Kenya.

A little bit dreaming

A PhD had never really occurred to me until I got to grad school where it seemed like everyone was doing it. So I thought about it, and I thought about it some more, and I still didn't really want to do it. None of the reasons compelled me. I don't want to be a professor; I don't want to be a PI; and I don't want to be a student for another 5 years. But, at long last, I have finally found a compelling reason for getting a PhD:

I want to be able to say- in the midst of a large staff meeting- honestly, unabashedly, and preferably in a Belgian accent (although I'm not sure this is conferred with an advanced degree), "I'm sorry, I was a little bit dreaming. What was the question?"

I'm sorry. I was a little bit dreaming. I love that.

The Nairobi sky, walking home this evening. I was a little bit dreaming.

Actually, I had been writing something to post on here earlier this week- Monday, to be precise. I was going to take you through a narrative of the Nairobi weekend, and I was going to show you this picture of the bar that has salsa classes on Sundays, complete with disco lights, mirrored hearts on the walls, and a ceiling sponge-painted to resemble a cloudy sky:

But priorities shifted on Monday when an oil pipeline exploded in the Industrial Area slums. You could have seen the news on any number of outlets that day (NPR, CNN, NYT, Fox, BBC, Daily Nation, etc., etc.). The death toll has fluctuated among sources, but seems to have settled at approximately 75 deaths reported. My understanding of the situation leads me to believe that this is very likely an under-reporting.

I was at work and actually unaware of the day's events until later in the evening when my roommate came home. She had been working in a clinic in that area and treated/referred many of those involved. There is much to say about this, and I'm not sure that my thoughts are well digested enough to present here coherently, but 2 things have stayed with me this week:

First, people were running towards the oil spill instead of away from it. To collect oil. Oil for their houses, oil for their cars, oil for sale. This also happened in Kenya in 2009 with an overturned petrol tanker, where everybody rushed to collect the petrol with their jerry cans and the scene exploded. This visual speaks to the economic situation of life in the slums here better than any statistics can.

Second, I keep thinking about what Camille told me about treating those who were injured. People who had 3rd degree burns over 100% of their body. Mostly, I keep thinking that they're going to die (if they haven't already). That's what she said- that you can't survive with 3rd degree burns over 100% of your body. You get a toss-up between hypothermia, dehydration, and infection, but you don't get to survive. The whole idea is surreal: men riding in on motorcycles, walking around the clinic, being fit with IVs, getting referred to the hospital... yet they won't make it.

I didn't ask how long they'll live. I was going to, but the conversation took a different turn. Now, I'm almost glad I didn't ask. For all I know, they could still be in this living limbo, not yet succumbed, at home with their families, a little bit dreaming.

Nairobi Orange

Beauty, they (the people who say pithy things) say, is in the eye of the beholder. And to an extent I'm sure that's true. After all, we all remember The Office rift caused by the Hillary Swank: Hot-or-Not debacle. But on the other hand, there are also some things in which, I say, the beauty cannot be disputed. Like this:

Santorini, the vast blue view from Oia, 2004

Sadly, there's no place that looks like that around here. Don't get me wrong- Kenya has a wealth of natural beauty; if I were to say otherwise, people would be after me with pitchforks, and rightfully so. There's beauty here, and here, and here- almost everywhere you turn... but not so much in Nairobi. Or perhaps I've been so blinded by of smog and shopping malls that I've been too distracted to see it.

So I decided to start a hunt for the beauty in Nairobi. Not just at the highlights like the National Park or Giraffe Manor, but in the city's details: my walk to work, at the grocery store, heading downtown. And after I started looking, so many things started popping out at me that I needed to compartmentalize in order to handle the volume of aesthetic details emerging. I choose compartments of color.

Today: Nairobi Orange/Gold

Gate down the street from my apartment. The security issue is another aspect of Nairobi, in addition to smog and shopping malls, of which I am not terribly fond. Everything is behind an impenetrable wall: apartments, restaurants, NGOs. But leaving aside the literal and symbolic exclusiveness, it's at least nice when the gates are attractive. I love that this one is the color of the Golden Gate Bridge. Not sure exactly what's inside it, but I do spy a stack of 4 tires. Hopefully of no relation to Michael's missing tires story.

Antique croquet set at Karen Blixen's house. My favorite lawn game if you discount assembly and dessembly time (otherwise bocce might win for portability and convenience). Favorite part of the Karen Blixen tour is when the guide points to a picture of her husband and says, "There he is- The Syphilis Man." That has to be one of the worst epithets to go down in posterity.

Side of the road, as seen from a taxi during the rain, returning home from a stormy picnic under tents with blankets and wine. Heading inside for hot showers, tea and cookies.

Clay pots at one of the plant nurseries that line busy commuter roads for miles. I have no idea how anyone stays in this business, as the supply is huge (literally, miles of baby tree saplings growing in plastic baggies) and I've never once see anyone purchase a plant or a pot, but it all adds a nice horticultural ambiance to the cityscape.

Hippos can't jump

In my opinion there is no better way to spend a Sunday than on a boat (followed closely by 'at a winery' or 'in bed').

My last full day in Seattle happened to be a Sunday, and it also happened to be gloriously sunny and summery. The article on Seattle's mere 78 minutes of Summer even points specifically to that day: July 2. Not only was it the height of glorious weather, but someone knew someone who had a boat, and somehow I was invited to spend the afternoon sailing, grilling, and watching the sunset from the middle of Lake Washington. Stupendous.

Only, I couldn't go. My room was a mess, my suitcases were empty, and my flight was in less than 24 hours. I tried packing faster, considered pulling an all-nighter, bargained with a higher power, and yet the boxes still refused to fill themselves. Even sulking didn't help; I wasn't going to get on that boat. Le sigh. I cursed my luck, shook my fist in the direction of Kenya, and went back to tossing clothing around the room.

Two months later, I still dream of sailing in Puget Sound, but I no longer curse Kenya because it finally gave me my sought-after Sunday On A Boat.

Sunday on a boat on Lake Victoria, to be precise. Land of the Luo, home to the hippos, nosh for the Nile. Drifting through tangled mangroves, where bright yellow male birds build nests in hopes of attracting a female; if the female doesn't like the nest, not only will she refuse to mate with it's creator, she'll tear it up. (Life lessons from nature?). And birds relaxing on a Sunday boat of their own:

Hauling in fish, and colorful nets drying in the sun:

A lot of travel seems to happen at an approximate 45 degree left tilt... The captain here is hiding behind his sail but amazingly managed to avoid capsizing.

And the highlight- a hunt for hippos! Hungry hungry hippos. After an hour or so, we came upon a family of 4 (including a baby hippo!), bobbing above and below the water's surface.

As we made concentric circles ever closer, I asked "Aren't hippos rather dangerous?" The guide's reply, "No, no no, they're not aggressive." Questionable expertise, given that a quick Google search on "hippos" and "aggressive" tells me that hippos kill more humans than any other animal in Africa (aside from mosquitoes). Google search also told me that "Hippos can't jump." Seems true enough... I believe the internet..

But as I type this, there were no hippo attacks upon our party. Perhaps they were having a weekend relax as well. No question about it, Sundays were made for lazing in boats.

5 differences between Nairobi and Seattle

When I got to Kenya, people kept asking me about experiencing the phenomenon of "culture shock." So much so that I started actively looking around for it ("Do I feel shocked by this? No? How about that?") in a hyper-sensitized sort of way. Sure, there are armed guards checking car trunks for bombs at all shopping malls, the radio plays a ridiculous amount of Boyz II Men, and there's no Yelp Nairobi (although I'm eagerly awaiting that day), but these things are hardly shocking. Living in Nairobi is quite the same as living in any city: Wake up, press snooze, press snooze again, roll out of bed, go to work, read and reply to lots of e-mails, go to the grocery store, cook dinner, rinse, repeat.

My routine is thrilling, I know.

But with my 2-month anniversary of living in Kenya soon approaching, I've reflected back on several ways in which my life here is different that it was back in the U.S. Thus, I present, in no particular order:

5 Ways My Life in Nairobi Differs from My Life in Seattle:

1. I like CNN.

To be fair, the primary exposure I had to CNN in Seattle was the clips that were rebroadcast on The Daily Show, and it is Jon Stewart's job to point out the ridiculous segments. But then again, when the scrolling headline reads, "Beyonce doesn't like the word Bootylicious" it doesn't take too much work to find the silly in the news reporting. International CNN is leaps and bounds above its U.S. counterpart... Perhaps it's just the illusion of British accents, but I feel so informed!

2. English.

Everybody speaks it, but the jargon and phraseology is so different that I have to relearn how to word myself in order to be understood. I have to ask the driver to "pick me" rather than "pick me up." Anytime anyone has planned communications about professional matter they are "liaising." And insurance plans are called "insurance schemes." This last one slays me because we're actually having quite a bit problem with our insurance company here being less-than-upfront, and I can't help thinking, "Well, you probably shouldn't have signed up with a scheme, now should you?"

3. Sarcasm as a foreign language.

It's not understood by the majority of people, which makes it like a secret code language. Since English is the only language I'm fluent it, I've never been able to communicate privately in public spaces, but with sarcasm, the sky's the limit! Approximation of a real conversation:

Laura: "Oh good, is this Boyz II Men again?"

Kara: "Yippee, I love Boyz II Men!"

Anjuli: "Although we've come to the eeeeennd ooooff the rooad, and just caaaaan't let you goooo."

Taxi driver: "Yes, they're very nice, aren't they?"

4. Meaningful relationships with taxi drivers.

I have 20 phone numbers in stored in my address book; 11 of them are in the Ts.

Taxi Evans

Taxi Evans2

Taxi Jeffrey

Taxi Matthew 6a-12a

Taxi Patrick- nights Steve

Taxi Peter

Taxi Peter- richard

Taxi Sammy

Taxi Samual 5a-8p

Taxi Steve

This phone

I rotate who I call based on and informal algorithm of rates, hours of operation, how chatty I feel that day. Jeffrey and Samual when I don't feel like talking; Peter and Steve when I do. I also still can't remember my own phone number.

5. I can't be sneaky.

Not that I'm generally that sneaky in the U.S., but coming from Seattle, my iridescently pale skin makes it impossible to fly under the radar here. There was recently a week-long workshop for another department at work, and they catered a mouth-watering lunch buffet every day with spiced lentils, fresh juice, greens, meats, breads... yum. My coworkers all stopped bringing their lunch that week and just hopped into the buffet line for freebies. Day 1 was OK, Day 2 I got raised eyebrows, and Day 3 I realized they were on to me. Started bringing my lunch again. Can't be sneaky.

6 (A bonus). Avocados are bigger than bananas.

The avocados are the approximate size of dinosaur eggs (could make a bowl of guacamole out of 1) and the bananas are itty bitty (need 8 for banana bread). This might seem trivial, but I still haven't gotten used to the way my fruit bowl looks.

It was splendid

What I forgot to mention about last week's camel derby was that it was also my birthday. Which makes sense, as I actually forgot about my birthday itself for long swaths of the day as well. Bumping and thumping along a dirt road for many hours will jog things like that straight out of your head. Apparently.

My last birthday was a goodbye to San Francisco and all the hominess and stability that it entailed. This birthday dawned with a trek across the Kenyan countryside. I will refrain from waxing too interpretive about the changes incurred in a single year, but I think my recent trajectory is best illustrated by this pictorial juxtaposition:

Wine and s'mores at dusk before moving to Seattle (Aug 20, 2010)

Layers of clouds at dawn while flying over Kenya (Aug 26, 2011)

The airplane picture is from this past weekend's trip to spend time with Anjuli and Laura in Kisumu.

For as much as I hate waking up early (and even more so, getting out of bed early), I love flying at dawn. Although I suppose this isn't terribly odd, since no one could possibly deny that the aesthetics of seeing a sunrise from above the clouds are impossibly beautiful. The last time I flew at dawn was from Seattle to San Francisco, and in my groggy state I sincerely thought that the lakes dotting the Pacific Northwest were pools of liquid gold on the earth's surface. Then I woke up a bit more and realized that the gold rush ended 150 years ago (and also, that "pools of liquid gold" was a ridiculous notion). But still, it was splendid.

The flight from Nairobi to Kisumu lasts a mere 30 minutes, and as such we barely had time to breach the top layer of clouds, spending most of the flight gliding between them. Not particularly accomplished in topography, but having a decent working knowledge of Kenya's layout, I think we saw the summit of Mount Kenya ascending through the clouds.

And other Rift Valley ranges peaking through as well.

A 'Good morning!' from Kenya.

On the road

When you tell people that you're going to compete in the Maralal International Camel Derby, the response you get is overwhelmingly, "You're going to do what?" Followed by either, "That's awesome!" or "Why??"

And it IS awesome, although I can't specifically point to why. It's camels! It's dirt! It's camping in tents! It's more camels and lots more dirt! It's beautiful Samburu colors in the middle of the desert:


It's also blisters on your fingers and riding 10k on a burlap sack. It's warm $2.00 beers from a make-shift tent with chickens sitting beside you. It's children who follow you around with face-paint and teenagers who just laugh and laugh and laugh to see the Mzungus on camels. It's label-making "camel race-lady" magic:


No, this isn't my trophy, sadly enough. My first camel (in an act of foreshadowing, perhaps) refused to walk even as far as the starting line. My second camel took me on a leisurely stroll through the landscape of northern Kenya and downtown Maralal, moseying us into an uncontested last place out of 40 or so competitors.

How slow were we going? We were going so slow that the camel in front of us (the penultimate camel, if you will) was being pushed from behind by his handler. Pushed. And he was beating us. But we overtook a few people with saddle malfunctions in the home stretch and ended up crossing the finish line in a solid 4th-to-last place.


But a wise friend recently reminded me, "Don't forget to travel" and, as such, I must note that a majority of the weekend was spent on a bus. An itty-bitty squishy bus with all of our possessions strapped onto the roof with a tarp. A bus that went "kaTHUNK... eeeeeeeeee... kaTHUNK.... oooohhhhhggg gmmggzzw," and spent much of each 10 hour trip tilted at a 45-degree angle to the left. The pictures below reflect the real travel.

The time when our bus got stuck in the mud trying to ford a miniature lake in the road, when we all got out to lighten the load and examined mosquito larvae in puddles until a truck with a rope came by to tow us out:


When we saw zebras grazing to our right:


When we saw zebras grazing to our left:


Funny lookin' Dr. Seuss trees (Agave):

And trees regal in the sunset:


When we finally understood where the "kaTHUNK.... oooohhhhhggg gmmggzzw" sound was coming from:

When we stopped in town "fix" our wheel, and the children formed a critical mass of squeals around our bus and the local restauranteur got confused about two blond people ordering the same meal and never brought me mine, despite asking for it thrice (I think she thought we were the same person):


When, after two hours of maintenance at the gas station, we were on the road again... I can't wait to be On the road again:


When the bus broke down again about 10 minutes later, and the sun went down, and we devised plans for saving our camera memory chips in case of a roadside mugging, and we ended up hiring local matatus to drive us the last four hours to Nairobi but they didn't know the way:


And still we smiled.