Joseph and I drive up and down the dusty boardwalk that is Mbirikani, an ugly village for anyone with a Western mindset, but curiously colorful and compelling at the same time.
We stop for lunch at what amounts to a tea room. Sides of beef hang unrefrigerated in the front window; several mzee slouch watchfully in plastic chairs at uneven wooden tables (in fact, there only seem to be old men haunting the place); a makeshift kitchen in the back, really an open room next to laundry hanging on the line, serves only chai and chapatti, our lunch.
In Ireland, where I lived for the past six years, this shabby hideaway would constitute (in more posh terms) the pub scene sans pints of Guinness and smoky whiskeys, rugby cheer, leather booths and smokers lingering wistfully in the alleyways. But I am not quite ready for Mbirikani’s real drinking establishments, even though we’re about to visit one in search of Saine Pune.
Several of the Maasai mamas shopping at the vegetable and fruit stands tell us where the infamous lion killer is hiding. At the pub. “He is crazy, crazy,” Joseph keeps saying, shaking his head and laughing. “He loves to drink.” “Beer?” “Oh, no, Saine Pune is a warrior, he goes for hard spirits.” More laughing. I’m thinking, this guy has got to be part Irish.
From behind a corner spills Saine Pune, struck blind by sunlight. The doorway to the fine establishment from which he pours is a shower curtain. That's right. “Crazy, crazy,” mutters Joseph again. An old mama from the tribe, dressed to the nines in a traditional red, black and blue shuka and bedecked with beaded jewelry, pulls the object of our desire towards our Land Rover. He is thrilled to see Joseph, a boyhood friend.
Color me stunned. For Saine Pune (his lion fame-game name) is quite an unassuming presence – lean, drunken, shaggy, virtually toothless and sporting black hair like bean sprouts. (I am reminded of the famous ‘70s-in-America chia pet.) As we drive off, dust devils decorate the red earth. Saine Pune, launched from the back seat between the two us and reeking of hooch, embarks on a string of rapid prayer, or at least that’s what I think is happening. “Are you praying?” I ask. “No, it is our way of traditional greeting.” As I listen to the pacing and exchange, I notice that what appear to be questions are long, while the answers are short “Ehe”s, “Oh”s and “Unh”s, lending a beautiful sing song to their conversation in Maa.
On the way to a nearby cluster of cow dung, mud and straw huts called bomas, our captive begins to argue mightily with me and Joseph about his fee for talking about savage hunting days. He wants Ksh 1,000, not the usual Ksh 500. Joseph corrals me back into the car and as we begin to drive away, Saine Pune capitulates with great apology. The three of us then retire to sit on short-legged stools under a wait-a-minute tree (so called because of double-edged thorns that catch your clothing coming and going).
Outlaw. Superstar. Outrage. Saine Pune is called many things, but he is regarded highly enough in warrior circles to have inspired celebratory songs in his name. This slim, goofy man has killed 13 lions in the past few years. And despite the moves the Maasai have made towards the preservation of big cats in this reserve, Saine Pune continues to be worshipped by many within the tribe, especially the young girls who are smitten by his singular bravery in hunting lions.
Most recently, when two 14-month-old orphaned cubs killed a donkey at a neighboring manyatta, this master of his own universe speared one brother in the haunch and assumed he was dead. (Recent investigations by the organization Living with Lions have indicated that the pair survived Saine Pune’s assault.) While the infamous warrior was arrested by lion guardians of the MPT that same day, he led them astray in the grass plains of Kilimanjaro, and neither cub was sighted for about a month.
While interviewing him, I am duly captured by Saine Pune’s feet. They are as gnarled as tree roots, misshapen toes curling in upon one another, crumpled and twining. It’s no wonder that his tracks have become as distinctive as those of the lions he hunts. When I ask Saine Pune about his passion for these precious and vanishing creatures, he replies: “My father was a great hunter. Nine lions he killed. But I have become an even greater warrior. Very strong.” And his arms come up curled like a pin up for weightlifting, fists in the air.
Most of this day with Joseph has been a heedful of wow. And it’s why I moved to Kenya in the first place. Just as I want my son Tiger to have an excellent childhood, I also want to continue leading an exciting life that's rewarding in every way. (Besides, it’s never too late for a second childhood!) But this subject matter of the Maasai vs. lions vs. conservation is so vast and overwhelming; many times I hardly know where to begin.
But certainly the day’s ending is clear. Joseph and I with Chief Kayok in the back, eager to recharge his mobile phone at our camp, barrel down the dusty adobe-colored dirt roads. Singing along with Fleetwood Mac’s Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow and Tusk, we expertly skirt herds of Grant’s gazelles, their tails tucked underneath their bottoms which means they sense no true danger nearby. (These antelope are distinguishable from others because “Grant’s wear pants” -- their hind end and back legs are splashed with white for a trouser-like effect.)
The sun is rapidly closing up shop as we head back to the Chyulu Hills. And awaiting me at Elena’s is a true luxury after a long, dusty day: a warm bucket shower. Two gals from the Living with Lions , a researcher and a scientist, are coming over for dinner, a miracle concoction in this neck of the woods. John, the cook, is trying to do a vegetarian fritatta over a gas canister!
For this night at least, I am home and happy.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Monday, June 28, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
THE LION WARRIORS, Part 2
I’m spending most of my day in interview mode with Joseph as my guide throughout southeast Kenya’s Mbrikani Group Ranch. First on my list is Chief Elder Ned, one of four elected by the Maasai to oversee the social activities and “upbringing” of young warriors following their initiation at around the age of 15 years. Ned, who my filmmaker friend Elena says is like Abraham Lincoln for the respect he commands and the spirit he imparts, is involved with both the Maasailand Preservation Trust (MPT) and the Predator Compensation Fund (PCF). (When a lion kills any livestock, the owner is compensated financially for the loss.)
Ned is famous among young and old warriors alike for standing up to the Maasai elders several years ago when the two conservation arms were taking baby steps. He declared, in the face of all tribal logic, that “lions should not be hunted anymore. There are too few left. We will kill them all.” And his words rang true for many of the old wise men. They listened, and the warriors coming up through the ranks have begun to learn new ways of proving their manhood (e.g., through competitive social activities like games and academic accomplishments).
Joseph and I then drive clear across the great, golden savannah away from the Chyulu towards Mt. Kilimanjaro to meet with Kayok, a chief of warriors. He is a diminutive man with a noble profile, aquiline nose and all. Kayok’s role is to chaperone the young warriors in a particular manyatta until they graduate from their brothers-in-barracks living to their own home and marriage. Much to my surprise, this chief not only has a cell phone – many Maasai do, it’s quite disorienting – but has also been to the States. I ask him what he liked best. “The zoo,” he replies in Maa, a statement that further startles me. Joseph translates: “Not because of what it is, but because it showed me that Americans are trying to save animals too.”
Before we leave, I am intent on connecting with the little children under Kayok’s care. As mother of a two-and-a-half year old, I have a soft spot for toddlers and do everything I can think of to tempt them towards me – crouching down to their level, whispering gently. The girls are having none of it; two of them begin to cry, unfamiliar with seeing a mzungu in this neck of the woods. But the the chief’s mother passes a boy through the car window and he sits in my lap, not moving a muscle except for lowering his head. I am delighted and press the top it with the flat of my hand, a greeting that Maasai children offer to adults as a sign of respect and recognition.
“Now you get to meet the Notorious Gangster,” says Joseph. “My best bad guy,” he adds, eyes twinkling, his smile broad and steady. All day, I’ve had the feeling of being with a rock star already as small crowds greets everywhere we go. Spilling through the Land Rover windows, they offer huge handshakes or a clumsy embraces. But it seems my young driver/guide has saved the best for last as we head to the nearest pub.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Ned is famous among young and old warriors alike for standing up to the Maasai elders several years ago when the two conservation arms were taking baby steps. He declared, in the face of all tribal logic, that “lions should not be hunted anymore. There are too few left. We will kill them all.” And his words rang true for many of the old wise men. They listened, and the warriors coming up through the ranks have begun to learn new ways of proving their manhood (e.g., through competitive social activities like games and academic accomplishments).
Joseph and I then drive clear across the great, golden savannah away from the Chyulu towards Mt. Kilimanjaro to meet with Kayok, a chief of warriors. He is a diminutive man with a noble profile, aquiline nose and all. Kayok’s role is to chaperone the young warriors in a particular manyatta until they graduate from their brothers-in-barracks living to their own home and marriage. Much to my surprise, this chief not only has a cell phone – many Maasai do, it’s quite disorienting – but has also been to the States. I ask him what he liked best. “The zoo,” he replies in Maa, a statement that further startles me. Joseph translates: “Not because of what it is, but because it showed me that Americans are trying to save animals too.”
Before we leave, I am intent on connecting with the little children under Kayok’s care. As mother of a two-and-a-half year old, I have a soft spot for toddlers and do everything I can think of to tempt them towards me – crouching down to their level, whispering gently. The girls are having none of it; two of them begin to cry, unfamiliar with seeing a mzungu in this neck of the woods. But the the chief’s mother passes a boy through the car window and he sits in my lap, not moving a muscle except for lowering his head. I am delighted and press the top it with the flat of my hand, a greeting that Maasai children offer to adults as a sign of respect and recognition.
“Now you get to meet the Notorious Gangster,” says Joseph. “My best bad guy,” he adds, eyes twinkling, his smile broad and steady. All day, I’ve had the feeling of being with a rock star already as small crowds greets everywhere we go. Spilling through the Land Rover windows, they offer huge handshakes or a clumsy embraces. But it seems my young driver/guide has saved the best for last as we head to the nearest pub.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Thursday, June 24, 2010
THE LION WARRIORS, Part 1
Welcome to that magical time of day in East Africa, late afternoon/early evening, when the heat comes alive the way we most associate with the middle of the day. It is stark and welcome and direct. I am sitting on the poolside patio of the elegant Ol Donyo Waus in the Chyulus, a conservation-minded lodge that does posh with a purpose. Here, linen, stone and wood seem to fold around you, and elephants appear to be within grasp at the watering hole below the golden flagstone terrace. The lodge nestles in the lap of a former volcanic range, looking out on nearly 300,000 acres of golden grass plains, the Twin Hills or Mau in Maasai (perfect reflections of one another, they are so proportional), and Mt. Kilimanjaro in the far distance, surrounded by marshmallow clouds in a grey-blue sky.
In contrast, I'm staying behind this sumptuous property at my friend Elena’s very basic camp (hello, sinkless) with her crew as they complete wildlife filming on THE LION WARRIORS OF KILIMANJARO. A Norwegian/Californian filmmaker who’s as gutsy as she is gifted, Elena invited me down to immerse myself in background research on what’s happening between the Maasai and lions in the Amboseli-Tsavo ecosystem.
The two “tribes” are at a very emotional juncture. For the first time, young initiates, who’ve just been circumcised and are training to become warriors, are not killing lions as part of the ritual. By embracing this new tradition (and there is significant resistance), the Maasai are now facing another tough dilemma. What do they do about lions in a severe, post-drought environment where their former four-legged trophies attack their manyattas?
These predators are killing prized cattle and shoats (sheep and goats) instead of their normal fare of wildebeest and zebra whose populations have dwindled considerably. How can the Maasai not turn back the clocks and start hunting the most famous of the big cats again? Which takes precedence -- conserving wildlife at potentially huge personal expense to the locals or preserving a way of life at all costs? Are they truly able to live side by side so that both parties can thrive?
Today I am caught full throttle in the middle of this duality. In pursuit of a kind of natural justice, Joseph leads the way. He is quintessentially tall, dark and handsome, a young warrior with long black lashes and a graceful bearing. He also works as a scout for the Maasailand Preservation Trust (MPT) in order to prevent lion killers from having their way. Joseph believes that the approximately 30 big cats left in the surrounding group ranches should be protected and spared. Many agree; some don’t.
TO BE CONTINUED…
In contrast, I'm staying behind this sumptuous property at my friend Elena’s very basic camp (hello, sinkless) with her crew as they complete wildlife filming on THE LION WARRIORS OF KILIMANJARO. A Norwegian/Californian filmmaker who’s as gutsy as she is gifted, Elena invited me down to immerse myself in background research on what’s happening between the Maasai and lions in the Amboseli-Tsavo ecosystem.
The two “tribes” are at a very emotional juncture. For the first time, young initiates, who’ve just been circumcised and are training to become warriors, are not killing lions as part of the ritual. By embracing this new tradition (and there is significant resistance), the Maasai are now facing another tough dilemma. What do they do about lions in a severe, post-drought environment where their former four-legged trophies attack their manyattas?
These predators are killing prized cattle and shoats (sheep and goats) instead of their normal fare of wildebeest and zebra whose populations have dwindled considerably. How can the Maasai not turn back the clocks and start hunting the most famous of the big cats again? Which takes precedence -- conserving wildlife at potentially huge personal expense to the locals or preserving a way of life at all costs? Are they truly able to live side by side so that both parties can thrive?
Today I am caught full throttle in the middle of this duality. In pursuit of a kind of natural justice, Joseph leads the way. He is quintessentially tall, dark and handsome, a young warrior with long black lashes and a graceful bearing. He also works as a scout for the Maasailand Preservation Trust (MPT) in order to prevent lion killers from having their way. Joseph believes that the approximately 30 big cats left in the surrounding group ranches should be protected and spared. Many agree; some don’t.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
D-RATS!
My landlady Lila comes by early on a Thursday morning to collect the rent. It’s about 8:00 am and a deep mist hovers over the back garden. It does that in Kenya this time of year.
I’m feeling a bit misty myself, having just woken up from a bit of a “lie-in”, as they say in Ireland. Still in PJs and without my glasses, the world is blur to me. “What’s that gray blob?” I ask my landlady, and we both start heading towards the end of the porch. I’m thinking that perhaps someone has left us a large sack of potatoes from their kitchen garden.
But waiting for us in the misty morn is no neighborly sharing of veg. It is the biggest, ugliest rodent I’ve ever seen in my life, dead as a doornail. I mean HUGE compared to anything I’ve encountered of such species, the size of a cocker spaniel who’s been quite well fed. “I think it’s a Cane Rat,” Lila says brightly. I am momentarily freaked by the creature and shuddering visibly. “Yes, I think so. Look at those teeth!” The chompers in question are long and columnar. The Cane’s bottom and top teeth protrude directly from the end of his pug nose, unaligned, giving this erstwhile grasscutter a bucktoothed grimace. “They’re herbivores,” Lila reassures me, gamely turning the creature over with the toe of her sandal. Eeewww.
I am speechless staring at this bristly, grey-haired monstrosity, in complete rigor mortis and decorating my “Welcome” mat. The rat’s three-toed feet are clutched in a death throe, his body curved in almost a fetal position as if he died in his sleep. His ears are small and round, the size of dandelions, his face is square-ish. I imagine that if he were furrier, he’d resemble a guinea big. (Except for the larger-than-life bit.) I can’t even look at the tail, imagining it to be as thick and wide as a garden hose.
“Sandy must have killed him,” adds Lila in her plummy Oxford accent, pointing to her overly-eager Ridgeback. “Look at how proud she is.” “Christ on a bike, what do we do with him?” I mutter. “Oh, I’ll have John take him to the bin. Or perhaps we’ll burn him. They roast them as a delicacy in the bush, you know.” She is delighted with herself.
This herbivore has immediately made quite an impression upon me. I’m sure he’s been the Night Thief haunting our downstairs and leaving ghost-like paw prints of red mud across the counter tops. Last week, something dragged the pet Biltong (a kind of jerky) into the middle of the living room.
Cane curiosity piqued, I start delving online. I Google said rat and discover that they are denizens of sub-Saharan Africa and can grow up to 10 kg (22 lbs to you and me) and two feet long. I’m very disturbed by a picture of a man holding a live one over his shoulder. The Cane could easily mistaken for a baby donkey, it’s that big.
What’s more, I find two outrageous links:
1) Cane Rats for Sale – London: “Many people do not believe that Cane Rats can make for good pets. Why not give them a try!”
2) Cane Rats – The Congo Cookbook [to paraphrase]: Whether considered fine dining, a favorite pet or a pesky species, the Cane Rat is a valued source of protein, known for its tasty tenderness. Usually caught in the wild, this herbivore is consumed in rural areas and sold in urban markets just like other bushmeat. The Cane Rat is commonly used in traditional African stews and soups.
But the Zaire cookbook, Where There is No McDonald’s, gives me the greatest pause. Here for your pleasure is a rat recipe not to be missed, but only if you’re stuck somewhere in the bush with no MREs in sight.
DEKU DELIGHT
Place a dozen smoked rats (the small field-rat type) in fresh water and soak for 30 minutes. Prepare a sauce of tomato, onion, pimento and palm oil in a large skillet. Drain the rats and remove skin and other inedible portions. (?) Fry for about 20 minutes, turning occasionally until well-cooked. A true connoisseur eats them piping hot, bone and all!!!
Serving tips: Usually offered as an hors-d'oeuvre, they also are delightful arranged on a platter of carrots, lettuce, and cauliflower. Or just slide them on a hot dog bun…
I’m feeling a bit misty myself, having just woken up from a bit of a “lie-in”, as they say in Ireland. Still in PJs and without my glasses, the world is blur to me. “What’s that gray blob?” I ask my landlady, and we both start heading towards the end of the porch. I’m thinking that perhaps someone has left us a large sack of potatoes from their kitchen garden.
But waiting for us in the misty morn is no neighborly sharing of veg. It is the biggest, ugliest rodent I’ve ever seen in my life, dead as a doornail. I mean HUGE compared to anything I’ve encountered of such species, the size of a cocker spaniel who’s been quite well fed. “I think it’s a Cane Rat,” Lila says brightly. I am momentarily freaked by the creature and shuddering visibly. “Yes, I think so. Look at those teeth!” The chompers in question are long and columnar. The Cane’s bottom and top teeth protrude directly from the end of his pug nose, unaligned, giving this erstwhile grasscutter a bucktoothed grimace. “They’re herbivores,” Lila reassures me, gamely turning the creature over with the toe of her sandal. Eeewww.
I am speechless staring at this bristly, grey-haired monstrosity, in complete rigor mortis and decorating my “Welcome” mat. The rat’s three-toed feet are clutched in a death throe, his body curved in almost a fetal position as if he died in his sleep. His ears are small and round, the size of dandelions, his face is square-ish. I imagine that if he were furrier, he’d resemble a guinea big. (Except for the larger-than-life bit.) I can’t even look at the tail, imagining it to be as thick and wide as a garden hose.
“Sandy must have killed him,” adds Lila in her plummy Oxford accent, pointing to her overly-eager Ridgeback. “Look at how proud she is.” “Christ on a bike, what do we do with him?” I mutter. “Oh, I’ll have John take him to the bin. Or perhaps we’ll burn him. They roast them as a delicacy in the bush, you know.” She is delighted with herself.
This herbivore has immediately made quite an impression upon me. I’m sure he’s been the Night Thief haunting our downstairs and leaving ghost-like paw prints of red mud across the counter tops. Last week, something dragged the pet Biltong (a kind of jerky) into the middle of the living room.
Cane curiosity piqued, I start delving online. I Google said rat and discover that they are denizens of sub-Saharan Africa and can grow up to 10 kg (22 lbs to you and me) and two feet long. I’m very disturbed by a picture of a man holding a live one over his shoulder. The Cane could easily mistaken for a baby donkey, it’s that big.
What’s more, I find two outrageous links:
1) Cane Rats for Sale – London: “Many people do not believe that Cane Rats can make for good pets. Why not give them a try!”
2) Cane Rats – The Congo Cookbook [to paraphrase]: Whether considered fine dining, a favorite pet or a pesky species, the Cane Rat is a valued source of protein, known for its tasty tenderness. Usually caught in the wild, this herbivore is consumed in rural areas and sold in urban markets just like other bushmeat. The Cane Rat is commonly used in traditional African stews and soups.
But the Zaire cookbook, Where There is No McDonald’s, gives me the greatest pause. Here for your pleasure is a rat recipe not to be missed, but only if you’re stuck somewhere in the bush with no MREs in sight.
DEKU DELIGHT
Place a dozen smoked rats (the small field-rat type) in fresh water and soak for 30 minutes. Prepare a sauce of tomato, onion, pimento and palm oil in a large skillet. Drain the rats and remove skin and other inedible portions. (?) Fry for about 20 minutes, turning occasionally until well-cooked. A true connoisseur eats them piping hot, bone and all!!!
Serving tips: Usually offered as an hors-d'oeuvre, they also are delightful arranged on a platter of carrots, lettuce, and cauliflower. Or just slide them on a hot dog bun…
Friday, June 4, 2010
SUGAR BOY & THE PRIDE OF TIGERS
Since moving to Kenya in mid-November, I’ve been to more than my share of birthday parties for little ones, averaging about one per month. Each and every one has been an absolute carnival of candy, every parent’s worst nightmare as his or her child inhales with abandon what we refer to as kiddie crack cocaine. Tables bedecked with bowls of jewel-like candies (jelly beans, lollipops, etc.); cakes decorated with marshmallow animals and M&Ms; soft, lemony sugar cookies; and far too much chocolate (not that parents don’t regress at times and dive in too).
Ella’s third birthday party last Friday did not serve up this candy-store mania, but it did offer many of the traditional winning elements. Mothers clustered around the soft drink table, drinking tea and, in some cases, a much-welcomed glass of white wine. The occasional father or two supervised the Bouncy Castle and the equally bouncy trampoline. Streamers wove a web of color, laced through window guards, around columns, along the roof. Kids ran wild, screaming and laughing and knocking over clowns who were trying to catch them and smell their “smelly” feet. The face painter masked them with lions and tigers and bears, kitty cats and Spidermen. More tea, please. Make that a sauvignon blanc. Or, actually, make that a balloon. (There’s a restaurant nearby called Osteria where they serve wine in a regular glass, or in what’s called a Balloon, nearly half a bottle per serving.)
I only spotted midget-sized morsels of Snickers and Mars bars in the party giveaway bags. Instead, the table was laden with juice boxes, baby hotdogs, popcorn, artichoke dip and meatballs. And the cake was beyond belief, a Barbie doll head and torso decorated with pink and white icing in the shape of a ballgown. A hit, it tasted the way every birthday cake should -- cottony with frosting that reminded me of the filling inside Twinkies. One little girl told Mommy, “I want that cake for my wedding.”
The highlight of this party was Sugarboy, a lovely chestnut with a white blaze down to his nose, who’d been brought over by owner Annabella to entertain the kids. Gorgeous, elderly (23 years) and calm as a pond, he offered our kids rides around Charlie’s garden, a stunning acre of bougainvillea, yellow fever trees, cactus, passion lilies and sprawling lawn. The young ones were smitten with Sugarboy, sitting astride him as if he was their very own steed ferrying them off to galloping new adventures.
[The hostess and her daughter confessed to another neighbor that they were supposed to have Popeye for the ride-alongs, but he’d scratched his eye and wasn’t in a party mood. “Oh, no,” said our friend, paling and blushing all at once. (She is one of the most even-keeled, genteel persons I have ever met.) “No, no, not Popeye. NEVER Popeye.” “But he’s such a lovely pony!” respond the hostesses. “Oh no, he’s NOT. Popeye is a bad, bad boy. You’d have Popeye off a lead here and he’d wreak absolute havoc, charging the clowns, shying at the streamers, banging into parents, knocking over children. And he LOVES cake!” Ah, Sugarboy is all sugar; Popeye is a bad pickle on a good day.
Suddenly, not unusual for this time of year, the rain belts down in its invariable sheet, sending us scattering with lounge pillows under the terrace roof. It dampens all the decorations and makes a soup of the back garden. Still, the tiny partygoers slosh and scamper, making the most of a giant-sized rubber slide and harassing the clowns. (I hate clowns.)
While weathering the weather inside and talking with my wonderful Danish friend Annabella, Gladys rushes in. My son’s priceless nanny whispers, “Come see Tiger.” I spring outside. Surmo, with only three teeth spaced evenly along his top gums, is leading my toddler and Sugarboy around the lower garden. Tiger is mounted on the horse’s back as if he belongs there.
I have seen my son do many a splendid and fearless a thing in the nearly two years he’s been with me. Catapulting himself over the arms of armchairs; climbing onto tables and jumping into the pillowed unknown; settling himself, by himself, into the raggedy-muffin hammock for a swing-swing in our backyard; throwing himself with utter abandon into my arms as if I shall always, always catch him mid-flight. But never have I been so startled and pleased as I was watching him on Sugarboy.
My heart melts like fudge on a hot plate. Something hot and sweet spills through me. Tiger sits there, sloping into the motion of the horse beneath him, gripping the pommel lightly and waving to me. “Look, Mama, I riding!” he shouts. He pats Sugarboy’s neck and gamely insists on yet another turn around Charlie’s garden.
Pride, it dawns on me, thick and potent. I feel so proud of my son with his painted-on tiger face, part of the party ritual, his nose a button of white with black whiskers, stripes running down his orange-ish cheeks, his brows blackened and haplessly sinister. And the pride he holds in himself surges like something umbilical between the two of us. And I see him as he truly is in the world -- and in the embrace of my life thus far.
A pride of Tigers.
Ella’s third birthday party last Friday did not serve up this candy-store mania, but it did offer many of the traditional winning elements. Mothers clustered around the soft drink table, drinking tea and, in some cases, a much-welcomed glass of white wine. The occasional father or two supervised the Bouncy Castle and the equally bouncy trampoline. Streamers wove a web of color, laced through window guards, around columns, along the roof. Kids ran wild, screaming and laughing and knocking over clowns who were trying to catch them and smell their “smelly” feet. The face painter masked them with lions and tigers and bears, kitty cats and Spidermen. More tea, please. Make that a sauvignon blanc. Or, actually, make that a balloon. (There’s a restaurant nearby called Osteria where they serve wine in a regular glass, or in what’s called a Balloon, nearly half a bottle per serving.)
I only spotted midget-sized morsels of Snickers and Mars bars in the party giveaway bags. Instead, the table was laden with juice boxes, baby hotdogs, popcorn, artichoke dip and meatballs. And the cake was beyond belief, a Barbie doll head and torso decorated with pink and white icing in the shape of a ballgown. A hit, it tasted the way every birthday cake should -- cottony with frosting that reminded me of the filling inside Twinkies. One little girl told Mommy, “I want that cake for my wedding.”
The highlight of this party was Sugarboy, a lovely chestnut with a white blaze down to his nose, who’d been brought over by owner Annabella to entertain the kids. Gorgeous, elderly (23 years) and calm as a pond, he offered our kids rides around Charlie’s garden, a stunning acre of bougainvillea, yellow fever trees, cactus, passion lilies and sprawling lawn. The young ones were smitten with Sugarboy, sitting astride him as if he was their very own steed ferrying them off to galloping new adventures.
[The hostess and her daughter confessed to another neighbor that they were supposed to have Popeye for the ride-alongs, but he’d scratched his eye and wasn’t in a party mood. “Oh, no,” said our friend, paling and blushing all at once. (She is one of the most even-keeled, genteel persons I have ever met.) “No, no, not Popeye. NEVER Popeye.” “But he’s such a lovely pony!” respond the hostesses. “Oh no, he’s NOT. Popeye is a bad, bad boy. You’d have Popeye off a lead here and he’d wreak absolute havoc, charging the clowns, shying at the streamers, banging into parents, knocking over children. And he LOVES cake!” Ah, Sugarboy is all sugar; Popeye is a bad pickle on a good day.
Suddenly, not unusual for this time of year, the rain belts down in its invariable sheet, sending us scattering with lounge pillows under the terrace roof. It dampens all the decorations and makes a soup of the back garden. Still, the tiny partygoers slosh and scamper, making the most of a giant-sized rubber slide and harassing the clowns. (I hate clowns.)
While weathering the weather inside and talking with my wonderful Danish friend Annabella, Gladys rushes in. My son’s priceless nanny whispers, “Come see Tiger.” I spring outside. Surmo, with only three teeth spaced evenly along his top gums, is leading my toddler and Sugarboy around the lower garden. Tiger is mounted on the horse’s back as if he belongs there.
I have seen my son do many a splendid and fearless a thing in the nearly two years he’s been with me. Catapulting himself over the arms of armchairs; climbing onto tables and jumping into the pillowed unknown; settling himself, by himself, into the raggedy-muffin hammock for a swing-swing in our backyard; throwing himself with utter abandon into my arms as if I shall always, always catch him mid-flight. But never have I been so startled and pleased as I was watching him on Sugarboy.
My heart melts like fudge on a hot plate. Something hot and sweet spills through me. Tiger sits there, sloping into the motion of the horse beneath him, gripping the pommel lightly and waving to me. “Look, Mama, I riding!” he shouts. He pats Sugarboy’s neck and gamely insists on yet another turn around Charlie’s garden.
Pride, it dawns on me, thick and potent. I feel so proud of my son with his painted-on tiger face, part of the party ritual, his nose a button of white with black whiskers, stripes running down his orange-ish cheeks, his brows blackened and haplessly sinister. And the pride he holds in himself surges like something umbilical between the two of us. And I see him as he truly is in the world -- and in the embrace of my life thus far.
A pride of Tigers.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
CLOUD SOUP
When Mom and Dad retired to Ireland from California in 1988, you can imagine how the weather affected my mother even though she was from Minnesota, that dastardly state of snow and coldfronts. But she soon became weather wise with pert and pungent axioms: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes”, or “You get eleven weathers in a day here”. The latter usually referred to some version of fog or rainfall: Mist; mist interrupted by blazing, inexplicable sunshine; dense fog; soft rain (don’t even ask); hard rain; rain in buckets; rain and sunshine at the same time from a cloudless sky; grey rain; purple rain; cat-and-dog rain; and my absolute favorite, horizontal rain (I kid you not).
A word about two of the raining listings above: Once my friend Clare was driving in Dublin and came upon a stop sign. As she stopped, she noticed that the front of her car was in the sun while the back was in the rain. Once again, I kid you not.
Then there’s horizontal rain which I’ve never encountered anywhere else in my life but Ireland. This version of rainfall is complemented by wind. Huge, beating, bone-chilling wind. But there you go, looking out over a golf course, and Irish people couldn’t be bothered by the rain, vertical or otherwise; they’re strolling along, climbing out of sandpits, struggling up knolls, skirting newly-established lakes. And, in this particular situation, the wetness PIERCES all your clothing and body parts, even if you’re wearing whale skin, so there’s no escape whatsoever. No wonder they drink so much whiskey there, it’s the only thing that thaws flesh and bone back to a human (and humane) temperature.
But rain in Kenya has its own peculiarities, and we’ve been having a lot of it lately. While last fall the country was suffering gravely from too little rainfall, starving people and cattle, wiping out crops, now the wet of April and May is flooding regions in the south. “When will it stop?” we all ask.
In particular, I’m haunted by the Irish rain as I lived there for six years before moving to East Africa several months ago. There is a saving grace, however; during the daytime, there’s usually a respite of sun and heat. And once again, in a country far from my homeland in the States, I’ve encountered something I’ve never experienced before: rain so thick and steady and committed that it’s as if the sky was ladling it over us, over the red earth and the now-green hills of the Ngong.
It is usually at nighttime that we know to prepare for this full blast of the Kenyan skies. That is a blessing because truly, is there anything more cozy than lying awake at night and hearing that pelting drumbeat of rain on the roof? That’s what my son Tiger and I do. We lie snuggled together in my bed, listening to this drumming instead of our usual orchestra of tree hyrax screeching, monkeys playing, dogs barking. The weather sheets against the house; you can barely hear yourself talking.
I whisper instead to my son, who always seems to be listening, “Cloud soup.” He repeats it back to me in his silvery little voice, and we draw deeper under the covers as the sky weeps, only to smile in the morning with the lure of sunshine.
A word about two of the raining listings above: Once my friend Clare was driving in Dublin and came upon a stop sign. As she stopped, she noticed that the front of her car was in the sun while the back was in the rain. Once again, I kid you not.
Then there’s horizontal rain which I’ve never encountered anywhere else in my life but Ireland. This version of rainfall is complemented by wind. Huge, beating, bone-chilling wind. But there you go, looking out over a golf course, and Irish people couldn’t be bothered by the rain, vertical or otherwise; they’re strolling along, climbing out of sandpits, struggling up knolls, skirting newly-established lakes. And, in this particular situation, the wetness PIERCES all your clothing and body parts, even if you’re wearing whale skin, so there’s no escape whatsoever. No wonder they drink so much whiskey there, it’s the only thing that thaws flesh and bone back to a human (and humane) temperature.
But rain in Kenya has its own peculiarities, and we’ve been having a lot of it lately. While last fall the country was suffering gravely from too little rainfall, starving people and cattle, wiping out crops, now the wet of April and May is flooding regions in the south. “When will it stop?” we all ask.
In particular, I’m haunted by the Irish rain as I lived there for six years before moving to East Africa several months ago. There is a saving grace, however; during the daytime, there’s usually a respite of sun and heat. And once again, in a country far from my homeland in the States, I’ve encountered something I’ve never experienced before: rain so thick and steady and committed that it’s as if the sky was ladling it over us, over the red earth and the now-green hills of the Ngong.
It is usually at nighttime that we know to prepare for this full blast of the Kenyan skies. That is a blessing because truly, is there anything more cozy than lying awake at night and hearing that pelting drumbeat of rain on the roof? That’s what my son Tiger and I do. We lie snuggled together in my bed, listening to this drumming instead of our usual orchestra of tree hyrax screeching, monkeys playing, dogs barking. The weather sheets against the house; you can barely hear yourself talking.
I whisper instead to my son, who always seems to be listening, “Cloud soup.” He repeats it back to me in his silvery little voice, and we draw deeper under the covers as the sky weeps, only to smile in the morning with the lure of sunshine.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
20 PERSONS, PLACES & PRODUCTS I LOVE/LOATHE ABOUT KENYA -- Part 2
5. Blonde Bombshells: At KPS, Karen Provision Store, a staple among the ex-pat community set, you can walk in any day of the week, any time of day, and bump up against an entire sea of blondes of every ilk, age and shade. I grew up in California where towheads were the rule, not the exception, but this plethora of Karen blondes is overwhelming. At KPS’ butcher counter, in the deli area, by the bread stall – blondes, blondes and more blondes. Most of whom I seem to know, as if we are Team Blonde, some sort of competitor in an Olympic Games for hair color.
Of course, as only 1% of the population here in Kenya is white – approximately 40,000out of four million – you will often find that you are the only blonde amidst a sea of stunning Africans when you go anywhere else in the Nairobi area. (It’s quite heady and quite wonderful to be the minority for a change.)
6. Bedtime & the Bubble Factory: Tiger, both like and unlike a lot of toddlers, loves his bedtime routine. Around seven o’clock, after supper and gogurt (yogurt) for dessert, you mention lala (Swahili for sleeping, naps and related escapes), and he’s off and running with a whoop upstairs to the bathtub.
Here is where fun really happens for my son, swimming like a frog in the long, deep tub; playing with styrofoam pirates offering plenty of “Ahoy, mateys!”; cleaning his toes and fingers with a small ladybug brush; and, best of all, creating beards and arm animals and face monkeys with bubbles. And I mean TONS of bubbles, soft mountains of percolating white which create a fantasy of clouds, shaped by hand in our wet and wild universe.
When the Bubble Factory has closed for the night, Tiger gets a massage with baby lotion to the tune of some sort of Canadian Mounties song I remember from my own cartoon days. Lots of laughs and much drama as Tiger covers himself with the rosy pink lotion, something he particularly enjoys since discovering his gee gee. (I nearly fell over with guffaws the first time he decided that’s the place for idle hands.)
Within a minute or so, Sir Sleepyhead asks for mama beddy, to go to sleep for the night in my room rather than his own. Sometimes I let him do so, and when I come up a couple hours later to read before bedtime, I then carry my son, who never seems to awaken from where angels love to tread, across the threshold and into his own beddy. And, from the look of him, I can now swear that no one but a child has the sweetest of dreams.
7. Skies for Days: There’s a luxury lodge in the Great Rift Valley, about a 45-minute flight from Nairobi, that I’ve never liked very much; it is quite gorgeous, but hot, hot, hot, bugged by bugs and haunted by a confusing undercurrent of mismanagement. That said, when I was there a couple of months ago, we – Alekis, John-John, Peony, Marcus, Aurelia, myself and our guide Innocent -- all went out onto its grassy plains in the Land Rover for a simple sundowner of white wine and roasted cashews. Moments before, we'd been following a cheetah with her two cubs, but then something started to happen before our very eyes, something none of us had ever quite seen before.
A sunset. But not just any sunset. One that seemed to both terrorize and tenderize the sky with color. Vivid, pure, unadulterated colors. Oranges, pale as a Parisian silk wrap and bright as a tangerine. Shades of black, from silver to steel to soft gray. Fading blues. All of which served to paint the clouds, whether thunderhead, or cumulus, or mist, into a smear of eye candy. And these clouds, in amazing shapes like a mawing mouth licking the horizon to a giraffe face to wings on a prayer, were lit from within -- not from underneath by the sun which had already vanished from the heavens. A place I had never been to before then.
8. Freddy Face Meets the Weebiscuit: In the laws of attraction, nothing compares to four-legged jealousy.
One of the men in my life these days is Freddy. Well, his real name is McFlinty after an Irish pub, and he lives next door to me, but my friend Elise nicknamed him Freddy long before we lived here and it’s stuck. Add to this the fact that he resembles nothing less than a Celtic chap with a whiskery face, an affectionate nature and a twinkle in his eye (all he’s missing is the tweed golf cap), and you’ll understand why I’ve been a goner these past few months.
More and more often, usually around happy hour, Freddy trots over to hang out on our porch, watch the sunset, wrangle a bit with the Ridgeback called Sandy, and enjoy a few treats or two. And more and more often than not, after supper, he sneaks upstairs when I’m not looking to settle in at the foot of my bed for a long night’s cuddle.
If only he didn’t have fleas. In fact, Alekis, my friend from Florida who stayed with us until recently for a couple of months, has alternately dubbed my darling Flea Bag, Death Valley, and Old Man and the Sea. But you have to understand, until very, very recently, Freddy was the one for me. (He still is, but as his adoration of me would now have it, I'm no long riding shotgun, I'm stuck in the back seat like a quarrelsome child.)
Everything changed for Freddy two weeks ago, and now my furry, four-legged beau-friend, a wire-haired Jack Russell terrier without any competition in sight, is facing the music. Because now we have Weebiscuit (Bickie for short), a little girl I got for my son, who, it happens to be, is part Jack Russell (the other half is Westie, so she’s a breed apart, or so I’m finding out). Sandy ADORES Bickie, a four-pound ball of fire who puts the Ridgeback properly in her place. But they have fun. Capital FUN. And it’s a riot to watch Mini-Me having her way with Maxi-She (Sandy is the size of a Shetland pony) on the playground.
Freddy is having none of it. Curiously enough, he’s a fellow who doesn’t have much bark or bite, but whenever Bickie runs up to lavish him with kisses, there’s a low-throttle snarl. He treats our new addition to the family with utter disdain, turning away from Bickie’s advances as if she doesn’t exist. And I swear I can see it written all over him -- an emotion of loss, maybe even grief or condescension or accusation, flickering across that whiskery face I’ve come to know and love, through those chocolate brown, sparkling peepers of his in which the light has now dulled when it comes to me.
Ah, if only Freddy knew: Dogs may be a man’s best friend, but they are a woman’s soulmate.
Of course, as only 1% of the population here in Kenya is white – approximately 40,000out of four million – you will often find that you are the only blonde amidst a sea of stunning Africans when you go anywhere else in the Nairobi area. (It’s quite heady and quite wonderful to be the minority for a change.)
6. Bedtime & the Bubble Factory: Tiger, both like and unlike a lot of toddlers, loves his bedtime routine. Around seven o’clock, after supper and gogurt (yogurt) for dessert, you mention lala (Swahili for sleeping, naps and related escapes), and he’s off and running with a whoop upstairs to the bathtub.
Here is where fun really happens for my son, swimming like a frog in the long, deep tub; playing with styrofoam pirates offering plenty of “Ahoy, mateys!”; cleaning his toes and fingers with a small ladybug brush; and, best of all, creating beards and arm animals and face monkeys with bubbles. And I mean TONS of bubbles, soft mountains of percolating white which create a fantasy of clouds, shaped by hand in our wet and wild universe.
When the Bubble Factory has closed for the night, Tiger gets a massage with baby lotion to the tune of some sort of Canadian Mounties song I remember from my own cartoon days. Lots of laughs and much drama as Tiger covers himself with the rosy pink lotion, something he particularly enjoys since discovering his gee gee. (I nearly fell over with guffaws the first time he decided that’s the place for idle hands.)
Within a minute or so, Sir Sleepyhead asks for mama beddy, to go to sleep for the night in my room rather than his own. Sometimes I let him do so, and when I come up a couple hours later to read before bedtime, I then carry my son, who never seems to awaken from where angels love to tread, across the threshold and into his own beddy. And, from the look of him, I can now swear that no one but a child has the sweetest of dreams.
7. Skies for Days: There’s a luxury lodge in the Great Rift Valley, about a 45-minute flight from Nairobi, that I’ve never liked very much; it is quite gorgeous, but hot, hot, hot, bugged by bugs and haunted by a confusing undercurrent of mismanagement. That said, when I was there a couple of months ago, we – Alekis, John-John, Peony, Marcus, Aurelia, myself and our guide Innocent -- all went out onto its grassy plains in the Land Rover for a simple sundowner of white wine and roasted cashews. Moments before, we'd been following a cheetah with her two cubs, but then something started to happen before our very eyes, something none of us had ever quite seen before.
A sunset. But not just any sunset. One that seemed to both terrorize and tenderize the sky with color. Vivid, pure, unadulterated colors. Oranges, pale as a Parisian silk wrap and bright as a tangerine. Shades of black, from silver to steel to soft gray. Fading blues. All of which served to paint the clouds, whether thunderhead, or cumulus, or mist, into a smear of eye candy. And these clouds, in amazing shapes like a mawing mouth licking the horizon to a giraffe face to wings on a prayer, were lit from within -- not from underneath by the sun which had already vanished from the heavens. A place I had never been to before then.
8. Freddy Face Meets the Weebiscuit: In the laws of attraction, nothing compares to four-legged jealousy.
One of the men in my life these days is Freddy. Well, his real name is McFlinty after an Irish pub, and he lives next door to me, but my friend Elise nicknamed him Freddy long before we lived here and it’s stuck. Add to this the fact that he resembles nothing less than a Celtic chap with a whiskery face, an affectionate nature and a twinkle in his eye (all he’s missing is the tweed golf cap), and you’ll understand why I’ve been a goner these past few months.
More and more often, usually around happy hour, Freddy trots over to hang out on our porch, watch the sunset, wrangle a bit with the Ridgeback called Sandy, and enjoy a few treats or two. And more and more often than not, after supper, he sneaks upstairs when I’m not looking to settle in at the foot of my bed for a long night’s cuddle.
If only he didn’t have fleas. In fact, Alekis, my friend from Florida who stayed with us until recently for a couple of months, has alternately dubbed my darling Flea Bag, Death Valley, and Old Man and the Sea. But you have to understand, until very, very recently, Freddy was the one for me. (He still is, but as his adoration of me would now have it, I'm no long riding shotgun, I'm stuck in the back seat like a quarrelsome child.)
Everything changed for Freddy two weeks ago, and now my furry, four-legged beau-friend, a wire-haired Jack Russell terrier without any competition in sight, is facing the music. Because now we have Weebiscuit (Bickie for short), a little girl I got for my son, who, it happens to be, is part Jack Russell (the other half is Westie, so she’s a breed apart, or so I’m finding out). Sandy ADORES Bickie, a four-pound ball of fire who puts the Ridgeback properly in her place. But they have fun. Capital FUN. And it’s a riot to watch Mini-Me having her way with Maxi-She (Sandy is the size of a Shetland pony) on the playground.
Freddy is having none of it. Curiously enough, he’s a fellow who doesn’t have much bark or bite, but whenever Bickie runs up to lavish him with kisses, there’s a low-throttle snarl. He treats our new addition to the family with utter disdain, turning away from Bickie’s advances as if she doesn’t exist. And I swear I can see it written all over him -- an emotion of loss, maybe even grief or condescension or accusation, flickering across that whiskery face I’ve come to know and love, through those chocolate brown, sparkling peepers of his in which the light has now dulled when it comes to me.
Ah, if only Freddy knew: Dogs may be a man’s best friend, but they are a woman’s soulmate.
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