A Tale of Three Hagglers

When we entered the market in Nakuru, we were no longer Bruce and Sarah. To the hawkers we were “Papa and Sista” or “Bush and Sista” or least affectionately and never spoken aloud, “dumb Americans with lots of money”.  The exchange of goods and services in Kenya is, like many countries, based on bartering. This is good news for Bruce who is both cheap frugal and an accomplished negotiator.

On my first trip to Kenya I bought a wooden giraffe. I haggled with the shop’s proprietor, who undoubtedly told me a bogus story about the superb craftsmanship of the piece, which was made by his mother. He probably told me how many children he had to feed at home and how expensive their school fees were. And when I scoffed at his original price, he likely offered me the “student price”.  I don’t remember exactly, but that is generally how haggling goes in Kenya- lots of back and forth, personal details meant to elicit sympathy, phony discounts and inflated opinions of the quality of the artwork.

When I got back to America I saw the exact same wooden giraffe at Hobby Lobby.

I tell you this story because I want you to understand that most of what is being peddled in these markets is nothing more than mass-produced junk that originated somewhere other than Africa- probably a factory in Taiwan. No lie is too absurd for a hawker to tell you. When they offer you a price, you can guarantee that they have inflated it to three or four times the object's value. They love taking advantage of unsuspecting white people. For these reasons, I don't care much for haggling and Bruce absolutely loves it.

His knack for negotiation is really admirable. Bruce or "Bush" is legendary around the market in Nakuru and on a first-name basis with many of the shop owners (although they cannot pronounce his name). I watched Bruce make a few deals, but not too many because he moves at a glacial pace as though savoring the process. What I did observe was that his negotiations encompass the following: jokes, laughter, friendliness, and mutual respect. Bruce's negotiations result in smiles, two parties equally pleased with their business transaction.

Bruce and his friend, Anita in front of her shop. 

I wish that I had just a bit of Bruce’s flair, his finely tuned joke-making ability and easy way with people. Make no mistake- I am a shrewd barterer. But when I haggle, I get steely-eyed and hard-hearted, my patience evaporating in the African sun. I get a decent if not excellent price, but the wash of white guilt I experience afterward negates any momentary satisfaction. 

There was a German girl who came to stay with James’s family and do sort of an internship at the school (read: see what partying was like in Africa).  Her name was Anne  (pronounced Anna) and I could write an entire book on her alone. Perhaps some day I will. Anne was young (22ish), naïve, and not well traveled. She carried a stuffed elephant with her everywhere she went, but she also smoked cigarettes and drank beer at every opportunity. That is to say she was a very confusing person and we were quite concerned for her safety.

This is the only picture I have of Anne. She's the other white person.

We took Anne to the market one day, for what would be our last trip there and her first. We offered to haggle for her, and when that offer was declined we gave her some advice on how to go about it and how much to pay. But as with every other piece of advice we had dispensed, it was promptly disregarded.

We were waiting for her in the car and I could see her negotiating with a shop owner from a distance. As they wrapped up the negotiation I saw a wide smile spread across the woman’s face. A “wide smile” is inadequate.  She was positively beaming as she enthusiastically shook Anne’s hand and took her money.  We knew that Anne had grossly overpaid.

Anne returned to the car and showed us her purchase, a banana leaf picture and a piece of cloth. “How much did you pay for it?” Bruce asked.

Oblivious to the fact that she had been taken advantage of, she proudly responded, “Only 1500 shillings! I talked her all the way down from 1800.”

We howled with laughter. “Ay! That lady is having chicken tonight!” James said. 

“What you should have paid was about 500 shillings. 600 at the most.” Bruce explained. Anne looked momentarily crestfallen, but soon shrugged it off. She had money to spare and could stand to finance a woman's chicken dinner.  

I smiled. That was the most fun I ever had at the Nakuru market.

Sweater Weather

This is Nellie.

Nellie runs an orphanage in Nakuru. For more information see here. I like Nellie because she enjoys discussing politics and does not discuss her age- both are the marks of a true lady. We became very close in a literal sense during this trip, in which we sat four deep in the backseat of a Toyota:

Please, please excuse my face.

We visited the orphanage twice during our stay. The first time we arrived the children were playing in an empty lot down the street from the premises. Bruce immediately found an old friend:

This is Joy, possessor of the most infectious smile you will ever encounter.

Meanwhile, I made a new friend:

You may not be able to tell from this photo, but he was wearing about three sweaters. He sat with me silent and unsmiling, the epitome of seriousness for a good twenty minutes. I knew I had found a kindred spirit. In hindsight, he might have been lethargic and on the brink of heat exhaustion, due to the three sweaters. Side note: Most Kenyans are absurdly overdressed for their climate. And they are always saying the weather is too cold.

Somehow when I pulled out my camera, he was all smiles. 

Well, all smiles and this face. 

The second time we visited the children were watching Brother Bear (that's the name of that Disney movie right?) and eating dinner. 

They were eating my favorite Kenyan meal- githeri. The look on my face is one of jealousy. 

During that visit a child with wet drawers may or may not have sat on my lap. 

The end.

Adjusting to The Climate

I cannot recall if I have been clear about the fact that Bruce took my sister, Rebekah to Kenya last February. I was unable to go because of school and work obligations. Thus, our trip included many of the same elements as their previous excursion. (One glaring exception being that I was never afforded the opportunity to attend a funeral and make a speech as my sister did.)

Rebekah had told me many wonderful things about Lake Baringo. They took a boat tour there with a guide named Fox, which she assured me was a cannot-miss experience. I was ready.

The trip itself to Lake Baringo was very scenic. We pulled over to take in this spectacular view of the Rift Valley.

Photo courtesy of Bruce.

It was evening by the time we reached our hotel, which to my delight had both toilets and electricity.   However, there were not enough rooms/beds available and so James went down the road to a somewhat less modern establishment, which he assured was quite satisfactory for him. We feasted on fish and chips and went to bed.

At this point I feel obliged to warn you that the rest of the post is mostly an account of Bruce and I becoming sick. I have left out the more graphic details as so not to offend the sensibilities of anyone in my small readership. However, if you are particularly sensitive to these types of things you may stop reading here, pretend that we had a wonderful time at Lake Baringo and did not encounter food poisoning of any kind. I like to pretend that too. 

The next morning, Monica and I met James for breakfast at the hotel restaurant but Bruce had not emerged from his room. James finally went to check on him and discovered that he was ill. A boat tour was clearly out the question for him, but he urged us to go on without him and find Fox.

We found Fox, settled on a price for the tour, strapped on some life jackets (the purpose of which the Kenyans were certain I did not know and were careful to explain) and climbed aboard the boat.  Just as we pushed off from land I felt an unwelcome twinge of queasiness in my stomach. It was beginning.

Our fearless captain Fox and James, the first mate.

Let me start by saying that the boat tour was awesome. Fox is a very knowledgable tour guide and Lake Baringo is beautiful and full of wildlife and unique cultural experiences. However, I can't help but think it might have been a more enjoyable two hours had the threat of diarrhea-ing in my trousers not seemed to becoming more and more imminent.

I bravely soldiered on and captured the following pictures:

This is the crocodile we fed, the sight of whose jaws snapping almost sent James tumbling out the other side of the boat.

Pretty tree full of pretty birds and nests. 

Fox called these the "tuxedo birds". 

The tour finally concluded, we docked the boat and headed back toward the toilet hotel. But then someone had the wonderful idea that we should visit the snake park before we went back. I tried to protest in a polite, Midwestern sort of way.

"I'm really not feeling well, maybe you could just leave me at the hotel."
"Ahh, you will feel better."

Snake park it was.

I have no pictures of that part of the day. All of my energy was focused on keeping the contents of my stomach from escaping.

Bruce was not feeling any better when at last we returned to the hotel. I made half a dozen trips to the bathroom and still felt awful. Finally we decided we needed to leave in order to get back to Nakuru at a decent hour. Our Kenyan hosts assured us that we were just adjusting to the climate.

At one point on the way back, Bruce made James pull the car over so he could vomit on the side of the road. "Now you will feel better!" the Kenyans exclaimed. It most have been somewhat true, because Bruce decided we should stop and take our picture by this equator sign. I felt and looked terrible. We were bombarded by hawkers trying to sell us their goods. My feeble smiles and "no thank you's" quickly deteriorated to "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I DO NOT WANT TO BUY ANYTHING!"

Bruce was feeling somewhat refreshed after puking out his guts. 

When we got back to James's house, Sharon was preparing what must have been the equivalent of a Christmas feast. I feverishly stumbled to bed and buried my face in a pillow in a futile attempt to escape the aroma of food cooking. An hour or so later there was a knock on our door. 

"Sarah! Come eat!" Even in the face of great illness Kenyans never lose their appetites, nor their sense of hospitality. 

"Uh, no thank you," I mumbled.

"Eat! You will feel better!"

At this point Bruce kindly bellowed something to indicate that we were incapable of food consumption and that sent them on their way.

Periodically, I ventured to the squatty-potty for another bout of diarrhea. I wanted to throw up in the worst possible way. I am sure that it was equal parts comical and pathetic to see me crouched in the front yard in the middle of the night, a soft rain falling, as I quietly moaned every disgusting thing I could think of, hoping that it would help me puke. "Bologna!" "Brussels sprouts!" "Vodka!" Alas, nothing. 

The next day our sickness had subsided to minor queasiness. My middle-of-the-night trips to the squatty potty had left me with a sense of mastery over the system and for the remainder of the trip I hardly noticed the absence of porcelain toilets. While the whole ordeal seemed pretty terrible at the time (Bruce stated that on the road back to Nakuru he would have given $20,000 to be teleported back to Kansas), we survived. Not only that, we survived with clean pants. And in Africa sometimes that's all you can hope for.  

Bright Futures

Sometimes when I am feeling as though I have no direction in my life, I fondly recall Monica, who at one year older than me has already established her own school. It does nothing to ease my anxiety. 

Monica has always dreamed of being a teacher. She is a very good one too, as she demonstrated by drilling her class on domestic animals for our benefit. Her eager pupils' hands shot up at once. "Horse!" "Pig!" "Cow!" "Rat!"

Due to poor planning on our part, we arrived in Kenya just as the private schools were closing for their break. When Monica told her students that we were coming, but they would be on holiday they begged her to keep the school open a few extra days. Being the nice teacher/school director she is, she extended the school term. Some of the kids stayed home, having already completed their exams. Let's be real, in those circumstances I would have been right there with them. I was astonished by how many came voluntarily to see "the old white man" and his daughter.

As is typical of everywhere you go in Kenya, Monica had the students perform some poems and songs for the entertainment of their visitors. I always marvel at the sharp memories of Kenyan students- they probably know more poems than Robert Frost.  Here's a small sampling of what we enjoyed at Bright Futures Academy.

Please note the sour expression of the third child from the left. His face never changed. He was a boy after my own heart, but I could not stop laughing at the pictures.

Here's a shot of the entire school, guests and teachers. And yes, those are the classrooms behind.

Adorable little girl recites poem. See if you can spot our gloomy friend.

Another poem reciter and her captive audience.

The next leg of the journey was without question the most harrowing, but of course we did not anticipate that at the time. Had I known what was coming next, I probably would have staked out a nice spot on that grass and listened to poems for a full week. But I didn't know. And so I got into the car with James, Bruce and Monica and headed for Lake Baringo. 

The Not-so-Exciting Blackout

We arrived unceremoniously at Nakuru, bought some groceries and then took a windy road to the countryside where SOAR-Kenya (the school) is located. I use the term "road" rather loosely. It's more like a washed out path that unbelievably manages to accommodate motor vehicles. 

Anyway, this is the school and that's James standing in front. 

This is James's daughter, Mary who was a bit shy around the wazungu- the Swahili word for "white people".  If you want to read the fascinating context of that word, click here. 

And this is Elvis, Mary's older brother, who is not shy in the slightest. 

I would be remiss if I didn't show the garden and the drip irrigation, as Bruce is particularly fond of it. 

James lives with his children and his wife, Sharon, just up the road from the school. We stayed with them while we were in Nakuru. Here's a shot of everyone on the day we left:

When we first got there, however, we only spent one night. The next day we traveled to Eldoret to visit Monica's school. We took, what I am told, was the most dangerous road in Kenya. I believe this claim because at one point we saw three lorry accidents in a span of five minutes. 

There was an intense downpour when we arrived that evening. The electricity was out in the hotel, a problem we were assured would be fixed at any moment. That moment never came. Thus, this is the only picture I have from the Eldoret hotel: 

Just kidding. Actually I took this picture of the candle holders they gave us so we could see in the dark:

I've never had strawberry fruit wine, but it looks terrible. 

I'm not complaining however, because that hotel had porcelain toilets, albeit ones without seats. Even so, after using a squatty potty a toilet bowl was about the most welcome sight I could imagine. 

Bruce and I spent a long evening chatting with Monica and James at the hotel restaurant. James did some hilarious wazungu impressions. Monica told us all about her school. I ate a stringy unidentifiable piece of chicken. Finally, our candle burned out and we walked back through the rain to our cold, dark hotel rooms. It was undoubtedly one of my favorite nights in Kenya. 

And now back to our regularly scheduled trip recap

While nothing could outdo the Elephant Orphanage, the Mamba (read: Crocodile) Park certainly put up a valiant effort. The Crocodile Park includes turtles, ostriches, and you guessed it- rabbits. Oh, and also crocodiles. Seen here:

American Crocodile Hunter

I didn't want to post this picture because my face is still recovering from lack of sleep,
but I also wanted to provide photographic evidence that I held that little twerp. 

This is James, the school director at SOAR-Kenya triumphing over a moderate-severe crocodile phobia.

This is Carol, friend of James and our Nairobi tour guide. She clearly has no qualms about snuggling up with this guy.

After the Mamba Park, we went to visit Bruce's other favorite Nairobi tourist attraction. 

Have you seen Out of Africa? It stars Meryl Streep and Robert Redford and is based on the real-life story of Karen Blixen, a Danish coffee farmer turned author who lived in Kenya. If you haven’t seen it, don’t tell Bruce as he will take personal offense.  (Not that I’m speaking from experience.) I bought Out of Africa to read on the trip because I have a severe aversion to watching movies before I’ve read the book.* The story is beautifully written, but in such a poetic way that it lulls me to sleep almost instantly. At this rate I’ll finish it in 30 years or so, at which point I will watch the movie.

Anyway- we went to visit Karen Blixen’s home in Nairobi, which has now been turned into a museum. Photos are not permitted inside the house, but here’s the exterior.

 The next morning we would leave Nairobi and head to a place less touristy and with fewer toilets. But I'll get to that.  

*Helen, I promise to read The Help soon. Sorry I ruined your birthday.

I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 27

A couple weeks ago I turned 27- not a particularly momentous milestone as far as birthdays go. At 25 I could rent a car and at 26 I was kicked off my parents’ health insurance plan, but 27? No big deal.

However, within forty-eight hours of my birthday I had purchased a car. This was significant for several reasons:

1.    The car had four doors.

2.   I did all the negotiating myself, with only minor consultation with my father- a feat I firmly believed I was incapable of until the frustration of being confined to my house superseded my car-buying anxiety.

3.   I met the dealer at McDonald’s in Junction City (the halfway point between us, but admittedly an odd place to broker a deal), signed all the paperwork and wrote a check for the entirety of my life savings.

Hello adulthood.

If I needed further proof that I am practically a real adult I found it in droves Friday night. My friend Kimberly and I went to outdoor concert that included a dozen or so bands and 18,000 audience members. After the first two bands my feet were achey and I wanted to sit down. Or perhaps lie down for a short nap.

I noticed immediately that we were surrounded by youths. As in high school students who looked like they were eleven and were complaining about their moms. And I found myself thinking the following thoughts:

Where are your parents? Why would they let you come un-chaperoned to an event where there are DRUGS and statistically speaking MULTIPLE REGISTERED SEX OFFENDERS?

Although we had an awesome time, we left before the final band because that seemed preferable to waiting for the 45 minutes it would take for them to set up the stage.  Plus, our feet were very tired.  Plus there was a very dramatic (read: intoxicated) woman behind us who was inciting violence and it became stressful.

The good news is that I got home with plenty of time to watch a couple of episodes of New Girl on Netflix before bed.

Hello old age.