Cape Town to Nairobi to Nakuru to Osiri Beach

Kenya

Sunday-Tuesday, 11-13 July, 2010

 My dear, patient penultimate penguins, I’m sorry it has taken so long to get to Kenya… I have frequently been sans internet, and I’ve also been so very busy with our field work, conferences, and the snark infested waters of the Indian Ocean.  I also must apologize, because it seems that, at least for now, I can’t post film clips (that is, without sitting here in the lobby of this hotel for a hour, for each to upload--which is what I did to get the one below!).  I have some great footage, though, and I’ll post various things when I return to the Land of Broadband, or at least the Land of Brobdingband, which is slightly more beefy and has better sausages.

And so… from Cape Town, I managed to maneuver my pith helmet bark around the Cape of Good Hamhock and up the east coast.  I took a left before the Horn of Slapricow and rode a tumultuous typhoon to Nairobi, where I met, after much correspondence and anticipation, Adrian Onyando a scholar of oral literature at Egerton University, a poet and storyteller, a gentleman, a man of much muchness, and One Good Egg.  Adrian had gone to great pains in creating an extraordinary 2-week field work and research program, the details of which I will, presently, be playing out on this here blogbone.  Adrian and I immediately drove about an hour and a half to Nakuru, and the Merica Hotel.  Thankfully, it being a singular institution, it is not a Merica Hotel. 

Anyway.

Adrian, his wife Beatrice, and I left Nakuru early on Monday to reach Homa Bay.  It is a long drive, and towards the end, the roads degenerate considerably.  Along the way, we passed through rural Kenya, with fields of corn, sorgum, sugarcane, and in the highlands, endless stretches of tea plantation, a lucrative legacy of colonial days. We made a stop at a honey-making collective, where one may buy a special honey mix, including—all smashed into a brownish, lumpy sludge—bits of comb, semi-solid mystery-blobs, plenty of honey-mummified bees--oh--and some honey.

We did not arrive at Hotel Hippo Buck (Yes, what else?) until night, where Adrian, Beatrice, and I thankfully fed ourselves with fish and ugali (the ubiquitous cornmeal cakes… think gritsbricks), and retired…

The next day was the first real day of field work in the Homa Bay area, home to the Luo people (though they are spread out through many countries in Africa).  We drove the dirt path up Osiri Hill, past the small houses of corrugated iron and thatched roof, and ended up at Adrian and Beatrice’s compound, which features the beginnings of their organization, the Osiri Beach Education and Career Forum (with the rather unweildly acronym, OSBECARF).  Through OSBECARF, they have built the only library within many miles of this location, and they also have various education and counseling programs for the villagers in the area.  It is an enormous undertaking, and they have done some amazing work, getting the local children funds, which are combined with the parents’, to put them in schools--and then making sure they stay in school.

When our car entered the courtyard of the compound, we were greeted by a group of performers drumming, singing, and dancing to welcome me.  Ostrich feathers flying, drums drumming, they made me feel positively ostrichish, or perhaps just ichish.  Sometimes I can’t tell the difference. The area elders came down the hill, and I went down the line, shaking hands, receiving their blessings and well-wishes, to which I replied in my limited Luo, ero kamano, thank you. Also, when they really mean it, they have a hip, three-part handshake: the normal, then the cool thumb-gripper, then normal again.  As I was filming, one of them stepped boldly out, grabbed my hand, and led me up to our gathering place.  I have the film clip to prove it, but it will have to wait until I can post these…  In the scorching sun, to the accompaniment of drums, feathers, and a shofar-like horn, I stomped and kicked, clomped and shook and booked and jumped and, finally, schlumped, as they played that funky music.  After wowing the crowd with my moves (and also removing the last shreds of doubt in relation to my ability to get down and shake it with a ceremonial fly-swatter), we had some speeches, and then I was taken around back, to a garden area, to plant my welcome-tree.  Now, I have had some affinity with the Lorax for some time (notwithstanding the moustache), but never did I imagine that I would have a tree not only planted in my honor, but also named after me.  Michael the B, meet Michael the Tree.  I put the sapling in the ground, threw in a few shovels of dirt, and watched as they watered and filled in the rest.

I gave my namesake a firm leaf-shake and was escorted up Osiri Hill, for a view and storytelling.  The land is dry, with strange cactus-like desert candelabra trees and magic wildflowers.  At the top, I was able to see all around, including a piece of the enormous Lake Victoria below, with all the hills and valleys around.  I was told the history of the area, about the original tribe of magicians who lived on this hill until other tribes drove them out.  When the magicians left, they scattered their remaining seeds, where their magic plants prospered, but now the plants were cursed.  Since then, Osiri Hill has been avoided by some, who fear the bitter magic of the plants, and who say that the magician tribe occasionally sneaks back, to gather plants for their magic brews.

On the way back down, we stop by the “Inspiration Tree,” a lovely sculpted tree with thick foliage creating a cool chamber below, where a ring of rocks marks the performance space around the trunk.

 I’m told a story of magic and hippos and led back down the hill, over mysterious ancient stone configurations, to the main hut where everyone is assembled.

Now that all of the welcoming ceremonies have been attended to, the next step is introductions.  Starting with the elders, each person introduces him or herself to the group, but this is no simple howdy-do.  The Luo people prefer to introduce themselves with far more than their names; they also give their nonro, or background, and then they often deliver their pakruok.  There is no direct translation for pakruok—it is a unique form, that has, by the way, had little scholarly attention—but it includes nicknames, very short stories, and/or what is like a brief narrative, compressed into a form that also resembles a name itself.  For instance, Akwany son of Otieno, gave this pakruok: “the-behind-of-a-ship-is-white-as-it-starts-off.”  The pakruok utterance is distinguished from normal introduction and storytelling by a certain chant-like intonation, pacing, and musicality.  The pakruok can also include one or more siguia, an original musical composition that acts as a personal song. Part of the nature of the pakruok is that it should be unusual and interesting… and thus, when the Luo combine artistry, humor, wild creativity, and a strong sense of identity, they sometimes end up with literary nonsense, from carnivalesque gender games to logic-bending images and non sequitors.  The following is one of the more animated fellows in the group, who identifies himself as Odira:

And so once again, we find new uses of nonsense—in unexpected and extraordinary ways.

Here is the text from one of the pakruoks (though not the one above), from Ong’ete Marembo, a Luo man (who, by the way, also uses the name, "Wilkista," below, which is a woman's name):

     I am the Smoke that overlooks the illness of the sheep;

     Wilkista* Agutu son of Marembo.

     Let-me-see brings Give-me, the brother to Onyando

     Let-me-see brings Give-me:

     ‘Why do you pull this cloth,

     Since I started pulling it, you too have been pulling it?’

     I stop there.

Through the afternoon, the audience members performed various kinds of oral literature, including songs, stories, riddles, and tongue twisters (which, as I suspected, produced some nonsense).  We managed to gather some children to perform, as well, though most were at school.

One of the problems with this kind of gathering is that people tend to want to perform only those pieces that they think are fit for a guest—pieces that give their history or have some otherwise didactic  or “high” artistic value.  Of course, what I want is their nonsense literature, and while they usually have it, they are reluctant to deliver for fear that it is not worthy of the occasion, that it has little value, hearkening back to the accursed dictionary definition.  This is, in part, why we are doing this; just as Sukumar Ray created the tenth rasa to legitimize the genre of nonsense, so we try to elevate its status wherever we go.

My high horse has grown long in the trooth, and so I shall take him out behind the barn with handcuffs and a baguette.  Beatrice and some of the other women provided a huge feast, that was taken in a separate hut with Adrian and several of the male community elders.  There were a few more performances before we had to go home in the gloaming.  I promised the group before I left that I would repay them, in my own small way, by performing the next day…though what exactly I would do, I wasn’t sure.  Still, their interest was peaked, and we all retired looking forward to another day of stories and nonsense.  I place a white stone on this day.

By the way, anyone wishing to donate to OSBECARF and/or sponsor one of the local children can write to Adrian at: addyonyando@yahoo.com or  adrianonyando@gmail.com. It takes very little money to make a huge difference here.