In the Heart of Kenya
Our four day trip to Mumias took us into the country, and out of the more cosmopolitan trappings of Nairobi which. in some parts reeked of an imitation of western culture. In Mumias we saw people riding bicycles as a primary mode of transport, huts which people actually lived in and children chopping down tall grasses with machetes. The people endeared themselves to us with their friendliness and by taking a keen interest in us. The landscape around us was lush and green, with red clay dusty roads. We stayed at my uncle's cousin Tim's house and set about exploring the town on foot the very next day. Everywhere we went, people waved and looked at the three of us with a mixture of shock, surprise and pleasure. Some people followed us, like a little girl in a magenta hooded jacket and brown skirt who tagged along at a safe distance as we walked down the main road and throughout all our meanderings. One man, out of sheer delight exclaimed, "Oh, what about, I like it!" His attempt at a come-on in broken English was adorable, so we engaged him in polite small talk for a few minutes. While heading back to Tim's we decided to walk a little bit in the opposite direction and we ran into a man who stopped his rickshaw driver suddenly and jumped out just to talk to us. He was a warm and burly man, dark skinned with a broad, smile with big dimpled cheeks. His eyes twinkled as he shook our hands vigourously and welcomed us to Mumias. He introduced himself as George. Thrilled at the prospect of meeting foreigners, he invited us to meet with him for a tour of the Mumias Sugar Factory, his place of employment, the next day. I jumped at the chance to have an opportunity to see this part of the town through the eyes of a local. It's the kind of thing that makes independent travel so special, and that sets it apart from package tours, you get opportunities to interact with local people. My sisters, on the other hand were a little more hesitant, but in the end, we took his cell phone number and told him we would call him the next day and meet him near the entrance of the factory. But what if he's a creep? Both my sisters had these reservations but my instincts told me that he was a good man. I convinced my sisters that this was an opportunity not to be missed. The next day, we called George to tell him that we would meet him near the front gate of the factory at noon, and he couldn't have been more excited.
The Mumias Sugar Plant is like a town unto itself complete with a supermarket, post office, police station, and two grade schools for the children of the employees, as well as housing for the employees of the factory. Being a sugar factory, it has its own sugar cane fields which are tended by employees. When we met George he greeted us with one of his big smiles and told us that in order to get us inside the factory to see how they made the sugar, he would have to stop in the management office for a visitor's permit. My sisters and I sat outside in the hot sun for more than twenty minutes, after which a disappointed George emerged from the office with some bad news.
"Oh, no, what should I do, what do I do now?"
"What happened?" I asked.
George explained that a permit to take foreigners into the plant had to arranged in advance, so taking us on a tour wasn't possible. We were all disappointed, but no one more than George, who really wanted to take share it with us.
"Oh, what should I do now, I wanted so much to take you to see the factory!"
"Well, you can still take us around the grounds," said my younger sister Kelly.
So that is what we did. At the end of the tour George took us to the housing development for employees of the factory and invited us into his home where we met his wife and three children: eight-year-old twin son and daughter, and a three year old daughter, tired and sleepy and resting in her mother's arms. The house was tiny, with the living room dominating most of the space. It was decorated with momentos from George's days playing goalie for the Kenyan National Soccer team, one of which was a Kenyan flag with a soccer ball in the middle, and a poster of Bob Marley and the colors of Africa in the background, red, gold, black and green. His music permeated the background as we munched on a plate of crispy, golden, fresh french fries made by George's wife. His children were beautiful-- dark-skinned with burgundy undertones. The girl had high cheekbones and big, long-lashed doe eyes. His wife looked tired and didn't talk much. I hoped she wasn't upset by our unexpected arrival. We stayed for about a half an hour before taking pictures and exchanging addresses with George. He wanted copies of our pictures, he said. It would be our pleasure. Even though the day didn't turn out the way that any of us hoped that it would, it was the shared experience that we would all treasure.