Holiday Season

I spent last Christmas with friends from Birthright near Mannheim in Germany. It was the epitome of a European Christmas: there was classical music, a tree with gifts, Knödel, and a cheerful wintry spirit. Christmas in Kenya was virtually the polar opposite.

The Strangest Christmas

Christmas Eve is not a thing here; all the action happens on the 25th. The first order of business in the morning was to slaughter a goat from the family flock, selected the previous day and kept in an fenced enclosure overnight. Smith, the 12-year-old cousin from the mainland, did the deed, tying the goat up, sharpening the knife, and neatly slaughtering it. The goat was strung up on a tree, the blood was drained and the boys got to work skinning and dissecting it. I thought the sights would bother me much more than they actually did; I actually had breakfast as I watched them work. The meals for the next 2 days, starting at 10:30 am when the first pieces of meat were ready, all had goat meat dishes: there were goat ribs, fried goat liver, goat meat stew, smoked goat legs, and even a goat intestine stew. Grace and some of the children don't eat goat meat, so they slaughtered a rooster for themselves and did much the same.

Hoping to break the rhythm of feasting, Lizzy (the other volunteer from Austria) and I decided to go on a walk in the afternoon. A smiling teenaged boy came out of a house and waved at us as he approached. "Oh no," was Lizzy's reaction, "he wants to marry me off to someone here. If he asks say I have a husband in Italy." The reality was actually much worse. The guy's name was Shem ("like Noah's son") and he invited us to come to his house, where his mother and aunt were preparing Christmas lunch. After some small talk and pleasantries, we got down to business. "No Europeans are ugly," Shem claimed, "they are all wow." Therefore, he proposed, Lizzy and her Italian husband should conceive a daughter, whom he could then marry. The age gap of at least 17 years didn't seem to bother him at all; Lizzy was practically squirming in her seat. "Don't be afraid," Shem comforted us, "feel at home." Sorry, but nobody back home ever pitched me the idea of marrying an unborn child. This wasn't even the punchline, as Shem apparently had a longtime girlfriend in Nairobi. "Doesn't she mind you planning these things?" I asked. "She understands," was the cryptic response.

We made our excuses to leave, not before Shem protested that we didn't come hungry to his home and invited us back for food. There were 2 adorable puppies in the garden and I stopped to pet them; Shem promptly offered to give me one of the dogs, explaining that "you seem to love dogs more than me".

We continued down the road for a while, until hearing louder than usual shouts of "muzungu" from the roadside. We turned to say hello; a young man was already heading towards us at full speed. #HereWeGoAgain. In excellent English, he invited us to come and see his home, which turned out to be an absolutely enormous family compound, home to hundreds of people in several dozen houses. The center of the compound was a sort of courtyard with the grandparents' graves in the center, where Christmas festivities were in full swing. There were huge speakers blasting African music, children running around and adults lounging around on the graves.

We were led towards the lakeshore to one of the houses, where our host introduced himself as Zaddock (his spelling; esoteric biblical names run strong in these parts) and introduced us to his "two mothers". To my disappointment, this was no lesbian couple in the Kenyan jungle, but rather his father's two wives, both of whom were active in raising him. Tea with milk and mandazi were served, much to my delight as this was the first milk product I had had in nearly two weeks.

Zaddock started telling us his family story. His grandmother had over 160 grandchildren by the time she died several years back, nearly all of whom live in the family compound. Land was becoming scarce, though, and a general meeting was called for the next day, with mandatory attendance for over 200 family members. The main item on the agenda was to decide which members of the family would leave the compound and build homes further up the mountain. Having grown up in a family of 11 where nobody could ever agree on anything, I could only imagine what this meeting was going to be like.

Zaddock was outgoing, worldly, intelligent, and charming, so I couldn't help but wonder what was keeping him here. Turns out he had been a nursing student in Nairobi, but money for his tuition ran out after 2 years and he returned home to the island, where employment was nearly impossible. He refused to let this get him down, though, saying that "every road is bumpy and you have to tackle the bumps". In my eyes, he was a metaphor for Kenya's younger generation, whose parents can't afford to send all their children to purchase higher education and can't get a job otherwise. He lived underneath some really impressive cliffs Lizzy and I wanted to climb up and offered to take us up whenever we wanted, we swapped numbers and promised we would be back.

Back home, we discovered most of the kids were at the main Christmas party on the island, taking place at the nearby Beach Club hotel. We had dinner and Charles (16) came to pick us up on a motorbike he had borrowed from a friend. He agreed to let me drive it there but I had to get the thing started first. I had gotten used to the concept of kick-starting by now, but this motorbike was so underpowered that the engine would immediately die if the throttle was released. I set off into the night with Lizzy behind me, bouncing over the rocky road until we heard music. I tried to gracefully stop by some other parked bikes, but discovered I had no brakes, front or rear. Shifting into first and aiming for the rockier part of the road, we bounced to a painful stop, my feet down for more friction and Lizzy nearly getting catapulted in the air as we hit a particularly large rock. Charles and Gabriel caught up with us shortly thereafter, expressing their surprise we had made it in one piece.

We paid the entrance fee of 50 shillings ($0.5), got stamped, and walked into the party. It was bizzare, to say the least. Islanders of all ages turned out in their hundreds to watch a beauty pageant called "Mr and Ms Mfangano", where 4 men and 4 women in costumes took turns catwalking in front of a panel of judges. The costumes included several police officers, a construction worker, a tennis player, and something resembling a British colonialist, composed of a grey morning suit, black oxfords, and a newspaper, the first one I saw on the island. Some of the costumes included 4-inch heels, a thoroughly puzzling item of clothing on an island entirely lacking pavement. Between the catwalks, there were performances by two local dance troupes and a competition to see who could drink two glass bottles of Coke more quickly, the contestants popping the tops off with their bare teeth. We ran into the Spanish group (they kind of stood out, to be fair), and joined forces with them.

This went on for a good two hours, until I remained alone with 4 Spaniards, one of whom actually turned out to be Peruvian and another Colombian.

We headed to a nearby building to get beers, where a loud group of teenage boys was sitting at a table with an older man who was the center of attention. They called us over and the older man offered to buy us all beers. His name was Nicholas (ho-ho-ho; the humor was lost on him) and he was a local politician from the next district over. Sorry, Suba taxpayers, it seems your shillings ended up in my liver.

The music from the "stage" got louder and we said we wanted to dance; Nicholas led us back and we positioned ourselves very close to the stage. He was called up by the MC and gave a speech in Luo; we cheered the loudest when he finished. This turned out to be a tactical mistake, as the MCs immediately took notice of us and invited "our muzungu guests" to come onstage and participate in a dance-off. We gave some nearby 6-year-olds our beers to hold (the older members of the crowd couldn't be trusted) and stood in a line as we faced off against a local guy. The Latinos asked for "Macarena", but despite sounds of approval it seemed nobody knew what that was since the DJ played Justin Bieber. Hilarity ensued as we attempted to copy our rival's moves, the cheering crowd egged on by the MCs. Mateo tried saving our dignity with some signature Colombian moves but it was no use. We were entertainment.

The Latinos headed back to their compound and I walked back to Samuel's, unsure how sober the boda drivers were. I arrived just in time, the strongest rain I've seen here coming down as I got into pyjamas and lasting all night. It was the perfect ending to one of the strangest days in memory.

Bushwhackers

The rain lasted well into Boxing Day, making the road so muddy it sucked my flip flop clean off my foot as I tried to go to the lake. After 36 dry hours, we took Zaddock up on his offer to climb the cliffs the following day. We set off after lunch, hoping to beat the heat and riding through deep mud before reaching the family compound. The hike ended up being one of the most physically challenging activities in recent memory.

It started off nicely, walking through low brush with the commanding cliffs rising high above us. I even fleetingly spotted a monkey in a tree, though it disappeared before I could take a picture. We reached an isolated house, home to one of our guide's hundreds of relatives, and the going turned rough. The bush started closing in around us, the path gradually becoming narrower until the brush on either side touched and became thicker. The incline started rising, as well, the loose soil providing poor footing and the plants mostly too thin to support my weight. Rocks that looked stable came loose underfoot and tumbled downhill, one narrowly missing Lizzy's head. Then it got worse.

The jungle closed in all around us, the "path" becoming a narrow strip of merely slightly less dense bush. I mostly had to duck beneath branches, my arms up like a boxer's to protect my face, since seemingly every plant either had thorns or burned to the touch. The incline became climbing wall-grade, prompting a desperate search for stable hand- and footholds to keep climbing. Turning back was not an option at this point; as bad as climbing up was, climbing down the slippery slope would be suicide.

The heat was unbearable, the breeze unable to penetrate the bush in the near-100% humidity. I was completely soaked in sweat from head to toe, unable to wipe my dripping face as my hands were covered in dirt from climbing. I had to blow on the top of my nose to stop the sweat from dripping into my panting mouth. Every meter was an epic struggle, my pulse beating in my ears as I tried to keep track of Lizzy and Zaddock who kept disappearing into the jungle ahead. I had to rely on my instincts, worn down by my urban upbringing, as I leapt from branch to tree stump, every step off the "path" causing my foot to plunge into thin air as I frantically tried to regain my balance.

Suddenly, the terrain flattened out and a breeze started to blow. Climbing a rock to get above the bush, we were treated to spectacular views in all directions. The moment would have been perfect, if only I had not been hit full in the face with a burning plant. My face literally felt like it was on fire, my eyes shut as I tried not to scream. The burning was gradually replaced by a sense of elation. I was drenched in sweat, my arms and hands covered in scratches, my neck matted with dried tree sap, and my hair full of plant detritus, but I had made it. I had climbed the jungle cliffs and reached the top in one piece. The moment was completed by finding a 3-inch thorn in my shoe; the climb was so painful that I hadn't even noticed it.

We stopped to savor the views from several spots, large rock formations providing perfect observation platforms in the clear weather. We started walking downhill, the going infinitely easier, prompting the question of why the hell we couldn't have come up this way. There were some steep streches requiring us to climb, but at least it was firm, porous rock and not loose soil.

Around halfway down we started following a river which needed to be crossed. The ground near the crossing was seriously muddy, the grass mostly flooded with flowing water. I was just about to say how I felt like an American GI in Vietnam, and how that didn't end well for them, when my foot plunged into knee-deep wet mud. The irony was almost worth it. Heading to the river to wash the mud off, I found myself at the top of a series of waterfalls, straight out of a scene from the Lion King (a movie puzzlingly entirely unknown to Kenyans). Bathing in the cool water was just about the most appealing idea at the moment, but we were running out of sunlight and vowed to come back. I felt like such a good Jew, rushing home on Friday before the sun set.

Approaching the shore, we spotted two magnificent houses in the distance. One looked like a plantation house straight out of the American South, built out of proper materials for a change. It was by far the most beautiful house I had seen thus far, almost comically out of place on the poor tropical island. I asked Zaddock who lived in the houses, and he said they belonged to a prominent politician's mother and stepmother. I had heard so much about the ubiquitous political corruption in Kenya, but I had yet to see such a tangible and glaring manifestation of it.

We made good on our promise 2 days later, climbing back up the hill with some navigational assistance from nearby villagers and swimming in the clear waterfalls. It was every bit as amazing as I imagined, though I couldn't understand why we were the only ones there, especially considering it was holiday season. Despite rampant unemployment, the locals spend their days in the villages, only rarely visiting even easily accessible nature spots.

Nigerian Soap Operas and Medieval Astronomy

Most evenings in Mfangano were spent at the local "pub" in Kitawi with Samuel, Lizzy and Bernard (Samuel's friend and partner) occasionally joining as well. The pub was the perfect set for a major insight into local culture - Kenyan TV. Most of the content is Nigerian-produced, ranging from soap operas to movies seemingly made by a high school film club with a matching budget. Latin American soap operas dubbed into American English exist as well, though the Nigerian films are infinitely more entertaining. In one particularly memorable one, a sharp-dressed man accompanied by his absurdly elegant wife walks through poor African villages, performing miracles and curing villagers of evil spirits by appealing to Jesus.

The pub was also the setting for some great conversations, such as Samuel explaining to Lizzy "the three reasons why men drink beer", (amounting to roasted meat, dancing and women) or telling me that smart people attract lightning more frequently because of the electrons in their brains. Another evening saw me trying to explain the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to Samuel and Bernard with the help of Google Maps, followed by the concept of zoning laws, which was absurd to them. Another regular part of my schedule is nightly discussions with Gabriel (14). He has a personal vendetta against Charles Darwin, constantly trying to prove him wrong, along with claiming that the Sun orbits the Earth and that the Moon is much larger than the Sun. I tried telling him about Galileo but it was no use. At least he hates Trump with a passion, even suggesting I join Al-Qaeda to attack the US so he gets voted out of office (African Political Theory 101).

Jewish Martin Luther

New Year's was rather tame in comparison to Christmas. Lizzy left the island on the 30th, leaving me a stack of HIV prevention leaflets she had prepared but not managed to distribute, since her final days on the island were rainy and the roads were impassable. My hosts gave me the number of a boda driver with the promising name of Boss, who said he could drive me all around the island, stopping at schools, churches, and clinics along the way to distribute the leaflets. I thought the road on the densely-populated southern shore of the island was bad, but it was nothing in comparison to what awaited me in the more rural areas. It hadn't rained in two days, but the road clearly hadn't gotten the memo, with long muddy streches lasting for hours. Charles, who had joined me on the back of the motorbike, and I had to get off every few minutes to walk the deeper and steeper parts, as Boss tried to navigate the treacherous mud, which was so deep at one point the bike sank until the tops of its tires. There were several rivers we had to cross, as well, overflowing as they drained the highlands into the lake. My shoes, which were finally clean after the hell they had endured with Zaddock, were solid brown once again.

On the upside, the other side of the island was beautiful, mostly wild and untamed jungle interspersed with small villages and lake shore. We stopped to pick some berries similar to small cherries, until Charles got stung by a bee and we had to escape on the motorbike. The locals were curious why a white foreigner was hanging sheets of paper on the walls of their churches (I wanted to think of myself as a Jewish Martin Luther, but preaching healthy hygienic and sexual habits instead of berating the Catholic Church), and I really hope the information we distributed will make an impact.

Disaster nearly struck towards the end of our journey, as we suddenly hit a rock on a downhill. Charles elegantly hopped off as we skidded to a stop, but I had to cling to Boss, who somehow kept us upright. It turned the rock had bent the brake out of shape, but a couple well-placed kicks straightened it back out.

Scotch and Tonic

Like everything else, Kenyans celebrate New Year's a day late on January 1st, so the group of Spanish volunteers planned to throw their own party at their house. They ended up cancelling the party, so as midnight approached I was left to roam the pitch-black village with Brenda and Gabriel, looking for a place to welcome in the new year. The pubs were all closed, so we returned home disappointed. Not exactly how I pictured starting the new decade.

I finally finished making my video on New Year's Day, my last full day on the island. Samuel was delighted and asked me to stay longer, the kids loudly protesting my imminent departure. My hair was getting out of control, so after toying with the idea I hesitantly headed to the village to get a haircut. The barber actually did a really good job for someone who's probably never seen hair like mine before and didn't even have a pair of scissors, saying that "you need to be very precise when serving a white person, your hair is complicated". The haircut was 50 shillings ($0.5), and I tipped him another 50, feeling like it was a win-win situation as a haircut back home is still 15 times more expensive.

In the evening, Godwins, Marilyn's oldest son (21) invited me to join his friends at one of the beach resorts. I started driving there on Boss's bike, but we then stopped to pick up two more friends. Godwins took over as all four of us squeezed onto the bike. It was actually fine, once you get used to not having any personal space and a stranger essentially sitting in your lap.

The drink of choice was Scotch and tonic, the whiskey the first imported product I had seen thus far. The locals were knocking it back at an alarming rate, made even more alarming by the fact that Boss was at the table with us, until I was assured that we would be taken back by a sober friend. Everyone was curious about life in Israel and other places I'd been, a guy named Austin even asking if I thought it was possible for an African to marry a white person. The next morning, after bidding the family farewell, Boss showed up to take me to the water bus. He let me drive the whole way there (prompting some very confused looks from everyone around) and refused to let me pay him, so I guess I must have done something right. After three wild weeks on Mfangano Island, it was time to move on.