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.

Journey to Mumias: The Road Trip

At the heart of the purpose of making the journey to Kenya was to attend the memorial service for my uncle's parents who passed away several years ago. We also planned a safari, and a trip to the eastern coastal town of Mombasa for some fun on the beach, but these excursions were just fluff, mere touristy vacation in the eyes of my uncle Edmund. On July 11, we left for Mumias, a town in western Kenya near Marach, my uncle's birthplace and the villiage in which he grew up. We left Nairobi at around 8:45am and reached Edmund's cousin Tim's home in Mumias at 8:30pm. We were supposed to arrive well before that hour, but we were road tripping through Kenya, rural Kenya, mind you, without a map and battling potholed, gravelly, red dusty roads which worsened the closer we got to our destination. There was one stretch of the trip which found us driving over bumps and potholes for about three hours, and stopping to ask for directions more than a few times. What made it all worth it, however, was driving through the Great Rift Valley a vast drop in the earth that stretches on seemingly endlessly in both directions. It was absolutely fantastic. After several hours of sitting in our white, beat up, junk yard van, I felt an overpowering urge to get out and run, run, run!! I had fallen behind on my exercise routine since arriving in Kenya so when we got to the valley lookout point for a closer look at the dramatic drop below us, I ran as fast as I could from one end of the lookout to the other for a much needed release of energy! I was in awe of the myriad shades of green all around me, shades of sage, shades of the depths of the deepest forest shades of the light, cool and calming, and then there was the sky above us, as high as the valley below us was long. I was feeling small, so spectacularly small up there and the air, oh, so clear and pure if I could drink it it would taste like water from the the cleanest mountain stream. It was cool and brisk and bracing, and I could feel the life force within me.

Looking Back on Kenya

On July 1, 2007 I took a trip that would be the most eye-opening, most beautiful and perhaps the most important voyage I would take for a long time. I traveled with my two sisters, my aunt and Kenyan uncle and their three daughters, to Nairobi, Kenya. I always knew that I would get to Africa someday, but I was not sure when or with whom, or to which African country. An opportunity presented itself when, in the spring of 2006, while visiting my sisters in New York City, I made a stop in Easton, Pennsylvania to spend easter with my aunt and uncle and cousins. I hadn't seen them in eight years, since they left Milwaukee for the east coast when I was a teenager. My uncle mentioned to me that they were planning a trip to Kenya for his parents' memorial. I half-jokingly said, "Can I come?" My uncle replied, sure you can. In that moment I got serious about it, envisioning myself in the savannah watching zebras, giraffes, and African sunsets. I excitedly mentioned to my sisters that I invited myself along on their trip and they, too, wanted to come, fast forward a year and a couple of months later, and there we were, the eight of us on board a Virgin Atlantic flight bound for Nairobi.
One of the biggest misconceptions I had about Africa was that it would be hot. It did not occur to me, even after having been to many other tropical countries, that it would get cool enough to warrant wearing a sweater and jeans. In Africa, no way! Well, yes, that is exactly how it turned out to be and I brought only a jean jacket, a few pairs of socks, and no jeans at all, just three pairs of light pants in anticipation of cool weather, but not cool enough for jeans. That was the last picture I had in my mind. Walking around in jeans in the east African sunshine. As it turned out the sunshine I had anticipated turned out to be mere patches of sunshine in between overcast skies mixed with the pollution of Nairobi. Night brought on a deeper chill.
The eight of us spent our first week in the capital going out to clubs, and having fun with members of my uncle's family. We were immediately and warmly embraced by them as if we were a part of their family. On our first night, we went out to Klub House, a very popular Nairobi nightspot, where I had to bundle up for the cool weather! During our first night out, we indulged in one of our favorite treats. Many years ago when my aunt and uncle lived in Milwaukee, my aunt was introduced to a savory, spicy appetizer gifted to the Kenyans from east Indians called samosas. One of my fondest memories of going to her house as a child was knowing that she would make those samosas for us. Made of ground beef, onions, garam masala (various Indian spices), wrapped in egg roll skins and then fried, and, in the Kenyan style, sprinkled with lime juice, they are bursting with flavor, and simply beyond delicious. Klub House is known for serving some of the best samosas in town, and when Brian, one of my uncle's cousins, told us this, we knew we would be eating a lot of them that night! We ordered thirty of them!