I love trees so feel obliged to share a few notes on the incredible, iconic Baobob. While on the Kenyan coast at the Watamu Treehouse, I paid a visit to one of the two grand Baobobs on the property. Paul Krystal, the owner/founder of the TreeHouse Resort shared with me last year how much these two trees mean to him personally, and are symbolic of the service-oriented mission of the resort. I’d guess the massive triple trunk of the one I touched was over 40 feet in circumference. It may be 1,000 years old or much more (they can live up to 5,000 years!)!

The species, like the Ginkgo Tree in the US, is prehistoric; meaning it evolved before the North American and African continents split, over 200 million years ago. It’s native to the savannah and is a succulent, evolving to survive drought and long arid seasons by storing water in its huge, porous trunk. 

It produces large, extremely nutrient-dense fruit, which naturally dry on the branch (instead of dropping and spoiling), yet they retain their essential nutritional value, making it especially important during a season when few other harvests are available. 

Besides the potent available fruit powder, “every part of the baobab tree is valuable - the bark can be turned into rope and clothing, the seeds can be used to make cosmetic oils, the leaves are edible, the trunks can store water and the fruit is extraordinarily rich in nutrients and antioxidants…” It can aid digestion, skin health, energy balance, and our natural immunity. 

“Unlike many other supplements, baobab powder does not have to be spray-dried, freeze-dried or transformed in any way. It is 100% pure fruit in its natural form. Incredibly, the fruit has a natural shelf life of 3 years so there are no preservatives or additives whatsoever.”

The striking silhouette is unmistakeable, and a familiar site to anyone across 32 countries in rural Africa. The Baobob legacy is integral to  tribal myths and extends into popular culture (The Lion King, The Little Prince, Avatar). The trees are so large and fruit is so abundant even in the very dry areas much of it goes to waste. The tree and products from its fruit have the potential to uplift communities across the continent, regions of Africa. 

As well as its abundant health and beauty benefits, sustainable products from the baobab could also transform millions of lives. Baobab trees grow in some of the driest, remotest and poorest parts of rural Africa. There is no such thing as a baobab plantation; every tree is community or family-owned and wild-harvested. So far it’s yet to be corrupted by corporate agriculture (we’ll see how long before Mr. Gates and Bayer find an avenue in), and plantation farms seem irrational, as the trees are so old and productive, they defy such concepts.

In many ways The Tree of Life here offers some genuine hope to this burgeoning part of the world hungry to provide for itself, while gaining a foothold within modern culture. 

https://aduna.com/blogs/aduna-world/aduna-the-great-green-wall

​I’m on holiday  in Kenya, at once a magnificent and tragic and gorgeous  place. I can’t help notice the economic divide between the ex-pats and wealthy here, and the local folks living tougher, spartan, non-commodity-filled, far less luxurious lives. Not surprisingly, the latter has a stronger sense of community. A few days ago I was working with kids in a slum, now here I am in a bougie resort. I was wrestling with the contrasts as I strolled to the pristine Watamu beach. 

I walked forward to the beach and felt the seldom-used muscles in my arches relishing in the flex, enjoying the sandy trail underfoot. The air slightly cools as the path approaches the beach. The salty scent in the humid air also becomes more potent. 

A uniformed young man is assigned to oversee this stretch. We traded “Hallos” and smile. I engaged in a chat, asked him what the name Watamu means. He says “Tamu” means “sweet” so the expression suggests the area, the people, the fish, the foods, the beach, are all very “sweet” and pleasant. Perfectly fitting! I suggested it’s like the Italian expression “La Dolce Vita!” And he seemed to understand, as there are many Italians who frequent the region. I ask if he is from here—“Yes, my whole life: born and schooled and now working here.” Ahh, nice, and guessing aloud his age…maybe, 22? 25 years? “Hahaha! I am 38!” Wow! I am certain there are hardships here, yet also undeniably, there’s something in the attitude and sweetness here that keeps one young. 

My head and heart now even more full of thoughts and feelings as I waded forward. The rhythm of the gentle waves quickly calming, lulled me into a soothing reverie. It’s so potent and all-encompassing that without effort I let go of my concerns and troubling emotions. My body too, is so readily at one in the warm saline water, that my lean form releases effort and seems to merge, neither sinking nor floating, rather, suspended within the surrounding balm.

My art-trained eyes identified variations of steel gray, cyan blue, aqua, pale green, neon pinks, vivid oranges, bright glints of gold, pale sulphuric yellow, and blends of all these. A flowing mosaic that shifted with the slightest turn of my head, tip of my view, or blink of an eye. This light-dappled twinkling made it hard to discern the surface. 

Surface: whether smooth or rugged, a “cover” or plane of sorts, something we like to think of as “solid.” Yet this is liquid, and so the contradictions and inadequacies of our language begin! Further, it’s shifting every second, every fragment of a second, so it’s never one fixed solid “thing.” 

Expanding my intellect’s view again, it’s suddenly murky where and how we define the limits of this evolving expanse of liquid, the “sea or “ocean” that we demarcate as a particular “body” of water. Defined from where, the place it meets the shore? Ah yes, and at what hour of which day do we set the line and mark that boundary? The tide rolls in and out ever-redefining such arbitrary lines, not only by the season or day, but by the hour and minute. 

And even so, what of this merging plot of sand and sea that we name a beach? And the sound, and the mangroves, and swamps and pools seemingly separated to our view, but flush with sea-water percolating in the soft soils below? 

And how can we account for the “size” of the millions of undersea springs, overland creeks, and river deltas pouring trillions of gallons of replenishment into this vast ocean, itself a part of an interconnected system of liquid life? Lakes, seas, and oceans which continuously shed their “skin” into the air through evaporation and winds, to be dispersed somewhere beyond our silly abstractly defined boundaries?…

As I drift up and down, half afloat, a seemingly minuscule blip of being in the throes of the relentless flows on all sides of my body, unthinkingly I dip my head under, freely plunging my form into the immensity. It washes my mind clear; I don’t resist: effortlessly I sink down into an untroubled state of being. 

For the briefest instant my awareness opens upon a pervasive peace beneath all the distractions of sensations, emotions, perceptions, and habitual thinking. I linger in the complete calm for a timeless moment, sense a thoughtless knowing that I am one with it all. I come through that undefinable surface, and the old habits of thought and feelings flood back in, limiting and re-veiling the oneness. Yet I’ve tasted a familiar sweetness, and commit to allowing this expansive awareness of being the space to be known again.

Surely we can find beauty anywhere if we try. Sometimes it glows in such a way that whether we’re seeking or not, we can sense it radiating. 

There’s a conspicuous class split here in Kenya. Due to colonialism, it’s more entrenched and socially pervasive than the economic divide in the US. At times I feel awkward and somewhat guilty, staying at airbnbs which for the same cost in the US might offer a tight one room studio apt and basic amenities, while in Kenya the same price provides huge, spacious settings, often with grand gardens or amazing views in gated neighborhoods. The disparity registers more when I take walks locally to do errands, and I intermix with the majority of the lower economic Kenyan populace who also walk because everywhere the roads are lined with those working hard or vying to sell crafts, plants and handmade goods.

It’s impossible not to notice how much hand labor is relied upon here. In almost every instance where Americans would have a power tool or use motorized equipment, there is someone doing it in a more physically demanding way with a simple tool. Everything from brushing sidewalks with a stiff-weed broom (often 1 meter or less, obliging the sweeper bend over!); or sawing off 6” x 6” beams with a hand saw on a new building; breaking concrete with sledge hammers; or tossing massive piles of rough mulch through a rickety natural-material lattice in order to generate finer mulch to sell to the upper class. We are often more efficient in the moment but we squander a tremendous amount of resources long term. And I can not say we are necessarily happier. 

Wherever I stay I like to get to know the house managers, gardeners, or security personnel and learn a bit about them. I’m not sure they comprehend or believe that I also do a fair amount of physical labor. The difference of course being I am compensated far more and am in control of my time and work choices. 

Jonathan is the general groundskeeper/carwasher/gardener at the place I’ve been staying for the last two weeks. Seen in the photo above, he’s proudly sharing a fresh-picked guava from one of his carefully tended trees. I haven’t learned his age but would not be surprised if it’s near mine. The lines on his face reveal decades of hard work, as does his lean, sinewy frame and especially his impressive hands. He’s always joyful, not uncommon among Kenyans, and speaks passing English—enough that we have brief chats, and he delights in my trying to learn a few phrases in Kiswahil. It’s painful to consider the things he’s been through, even if he’s only 60, but all the more if he’s older. To me it’s remarkable he retains such joy. But maybe that’s partly what has allowed him to endure. Within the deep creases and all he has witnessed, his cloudy eyes still sparkle with a genuine kindness transcending traditional concepts of beauty. 

The “house manager” (aka “House Girl”), Agnes, cooks, cleans, launders, and keeps up the huge mansion above where I am staying. She lives on site, and in addition, attends to her boss’s many medications. I’ve been happy to do my own dishes and minimize how often she needs to clean my spartan spaces, and sense she’s very grateful to have a bit of relief from her many duties. 

There are so many stories of heartbreak here. I can’t say if I’m sensitive to it or it simply is more common in traditional cultures esp as they jaggedly adapt to modern ways. Many are also now further impacted by technology, fresh social justice ideas, and ongoing corporate and political corruption. 

Agnes is from a rural area near the coast, five+ hours of rough public transport from Nairobi. She has one day / week, partly off. She took the position less than a year ago. Her irresponsible husband left her with two children, four and ten. She seems conscientious and kind and says her father warned her about him, but she was young and headstrong choosing to mistakenly believe he would change. (Who among us hasn’t been there?) She had been working part-time and his sudden departure forced her to figure things out. She had established her own business, and was doing ok, but then it went under as the new president here (consistently declared corrupt by every Kenyan I’ve met) initiated so many new taxes it has handicapped the economy within less than two years in office. So her business venture failed. A friend in Nairobi knew of this position and suggested she come. 

When I asked what of her children (now six & twelve), she said they are with her mother. “How often do you see them?” She looked down, put her hands out in light fists and in a determined, not pitiful way said, “Right now, I do not.” “Can you at least FaceTime or speak on the phone?” “Ahh but you see my mother doesn’t have Wi-Fi, or even cell phone...Once in a while she maybe borrows someone’s phone outside of our village, and says she’s available—then I must rush to call her back.” My pained face prompted her to respond: “It’s ok. It’s what I must do right now. For my children. I will make it!” she said with deep conviction. 

I suggested maybe they could find someone at their school who would allow a brief interaction on a schedule.. just to keep in touch. She said for now they feel maybe it’s better because they would miss me more if we did so. I recognize this may be part of what many people who have immigrated to America do as well. Somehow it doesn’t hit home until you come to know someone whose family is sacrificing at this level. We may squabble about some things legitimately in the US, but we also take so very many things for granted. Occasionally I hear her working above me, singing softly as she attends to her many duties. Since learning her story, the strength and resolve beneath her soft features makes all the more apparent her profound inner beauty.

How can I begin to rationalize the path that led me to Isiolo [pronounced E - C - O - low], a large, rapidly growing, economically teetering 100,000 person town, northwest of Mount Kenya? There really isn’t a logical explanation. Much as we may want to believe we are plotting out our lives, I feel most of our journeys are in the mysterious hands of Fate and Grace. 

It was mid-winter 2020-21. I was frustrated and deterrmined to get beyond the perhaps well-intentioned but to what I now see as unhealthy social isolation promoted during covid. I’d had enough. I connected with a friend in Rwanda, another I’d never met but been corresponding with in Kenya, and made plans to travel overseas in August 2021. That summer, a new variant prompted another set of restrictions, and my plans were forcibly delayed until Feb. 2022. 

Among several light plans, I knew I wanted to experience working with Alfajiri, a non-profit that I’d learned about through my ex-pat artist friend Olivia Pendergast. She’d volunteered with them for some time, and I’d become a supporter from the US. When I came, we did art workshops with a group of “Street Kids”, orphans from the Mathare slum. It was essentially art as therapy, allowing them a few hours reprieve from their otherwise very harsh world. I drew with them, learned a few names and to their delight even drew a few of them. it was a sweet and intense experience. By invitation of the Founder/Director, Ann Lenore Boyd, I accepted going into the slum itself to meet these homeless boys at their “base.” We went along with her super capable and compassionate Deputy Director John Paul Wasiro. 

I’ve written elsewhere attempting to describe that visit; suffice to say unless one is completely insensitive to others, it’s a life-changing thing. We were led to the base, a tucked away corner between shacks that served as the boys’ momentary spot. They’re often victims of abuse prior to becoming “street boys” and this continues after they get out of their tragic home situations. They have to keep moving like nomads as everyone else in the slum (and authorities outside it) despise them and routinely will beat them, in part because they have to connive and steal to survive, but also understandably because living in the severe poverty within a slum exacerbates all sorts of angers, mental illness, addictions and suffering for everyone. 

I saw some familiar faces from the workshop, and they were thrilled someone who said they would come considered them enough to actually enter their world, however briefly. Among them I noticed one named Ibrahim. I recalled he’d done an incredible drawing with no reference image, of a very detailed three-dimensional automobile. I’d also happened to draw him. There was something about his quiet focused presence that struck me and contrasted with the mostly extroverted kids. 

When I approached him in the slum, like some others he was holding a clenched fist to his chin.  I learned that moment they were sniffing jet fuel to sustain a high, which no doubt helped them cope with their tragic circumstances as well as relieve their constant hunger pangs. I gave him my attention and asked him to show me what was in his hand. He was hesitant, but for some reason eventually relented. I gently suggested he could do without it, and that he toss it into the open sewer trough in front of us. After a delay, he agreed and tossed it. I was glad in the moment, but truly the incident was among dozens I took in that day, and hundreds on that first trip to Africa. I learned later that as an infant he’d spent a year in hospital with a severe concussion, was not expected to survive after being thrown against a wall by a male in the household. Like so many here, it was near miraculous he was alive. 

To my great surprise and happiness, when I was back in the US months later, John Paul and Ann let me know Ibrahim had indicated he wanted to try and find a way out of the slum. They credited my “influence,” but he and the entire Alfajiri staff all deserve great credit for their courage, patience, and perseverance, even amid some back steps, as eventually they were able to get him back to his hometown Isiolo, a four and a half hour drive from Nairobi, where his mother lived with two younger siblings. As crucially, they got him back in public school, which means the world to young Kenyans in ways Americans can barely comprehend from a distance.

Even so, not surprisingly he still faced many challenges, related to abuse from older men in the household, and his previous yet understandable distractions of the street and addiction. Slowly, through the efforts of people like John Paul and a few big-hearted teachers, things stabilized about a year in. Then, his mother became ill and due to the circumstances of her poverty, was unable to receive good medical care in time and sadly died. Ibrahim had been so devoted to his mom, was suddenly tossed into the terrific grief of losing the mother he had just recovered. Amid all this he bravely said he wanted to quit school, because he now needed to take care of his younger siblings. Yet again, Alfajiri staff and others stepped in to guide and support him, and found ways he was able to stay in school.

At the same time, late summer in the US of that year, my beloved brother in law had passed unexpectedly, and soon after my own mother. Although there was no way to directly communicate with him, through John Paul, I was able to convey my condolences as well as our now shared loss. Ibrahim hung in there. Every few months I would check in and ask about him, or get a report from Ann or John Paul on how he was doing. They always conveyed that he kept me in mind and was very grateful. Months later, I was extremely happy to learn he had graduated primary school. 

When I visited last year, 2023, he was still doing well but I was unable to fit in the long trip to see him and he did not have the time nor means to catch the arduous public bus ride to Nairobi. In late 2023, I received a photo of Ibrahim, revealing he was now taller than John Paul! The diminutive, quiet kid I’d met had begun to sprout and his beaming smile verified he was feeling more confident. John Paul said they often see such growth with the kids they rescue and empower — the result of letting go of drugs, access to a steady diet, and a bit of security and care. I made the commitment in my mind I’d have to see him on my trip to Kenya this year. 

So this week a trusted friend and driver Paul Goto, whom I’ve had the good fortune to get to know took John Paul and I on the full day journey to Isiolo and back. It’s hard to convey the differences in how time is perceived in Kenya (and I suspect many less-developed parts of the world) compared to the US. Kenyans generally are on what I might call “life” time — things take as long as they require. In many ways human interactions and relations are still a priority over getting to a meeting (or any planned location) at a certain prescribed time. One can fight it here or embrace it; even in the US, I’ve always been more at ease with the latter. 

Isiolo was vaguely like Nairobi, but I felt much more Muslim influence, the merger making it unique unto itself. After the long drive, we met Ibrahim’s stepsister Farina, at a local restaurant. She’s only 22 and has kids of her own (Ibrahim is now 16), but had agreed to help him and his siblings as she was able. She was dressed in traditional garb, and understandably shy, being a young Muslim woman dining with two male strangers, having only met John Paul beforehand. 

We broke bread, and then she guided us to Ibrahim’s former school where his younger brother was now a student. The “roads” were extremely rough, barely navigable dirt alleyways. We wound through a veritable maze for 20 minutes. Paul, our driver, fielded everything with typical patience and skill.  I was happy to meet Ibrahim’s 13 year old brother, as all the kids at the school stared wide-eyed at me. It occurred to me that from 6 AM when I left the airbnb, all along the route, and even within the bustling town during lunch time, thousands of people milling in all directions, through the economically-depressed rambling neighborhood that led to this school, I had not seen a single light-skinned person. So yes, no surprise these young kids were all excitedly trying to figure me out. Some were cautious, many giggled, others boldly shouted “Hallo!” or “Jambo!” As always our shared smiles quickly softened things and soon they were laughing at me and with me. 

After discussion with the teachers, we headed with him and his step-sister to Ibrahim’s new school. The classrooms are spartan, open-air block buildings, as the climate in Kenya generally allows. This was a trade school, teaching several professions: hairstyling, dress-making, woodworking, mechanics, and welding, which is what Ibrahim’s just begun studying. On arrival, we learned it was lunch break, and Ibrahim had gone out. We waited about 90 minutes, John Paul doing his best to locate him. Admittedly, lack of reliable cell service and accessibility to devices also contributes to accepting life as it unfolds. Farina found some shade under an acacia bush and I sat on a rock next to her. We traded smiles a few times and settled in, trying not to waste energy in the hot midday sun.

Finally, over nine hours after leaving my lodging in Nairobi, I saw Hussein stroll into the compound. He looked so confident and was now approaching 6 ft! We greeted each other with huge smiles and a hearty hug. The headmaster graciously allowed John Paul, Ibrahim and I the privacy of his office and we had nice visit. Although we now share in this mysteriously manifested relationship, Ibrahim and I have barely ever conversed. In addition, he’s not fluent in English, nor I in Kiswahili although, as I told him, he’s far more advanced in it than I in his tongue! John Paul interpreted for us and helped retain the nuances of what each of us conveyed.  

Slowly the chat warmed to where we were tossing bits of humor back and forth. I was grateful to be able to share my condolences directly about his mother and my own losses. I tried to impress upon him my great happiness in all his achievements: climbing out of his circumstances, shedding his addiction, helping with his siblings, holding on through very challenging situations at home, and working hard in school. He told us he found football (soccer) to be a great discipline that he really enjoys (and apparently is very good at). We all agreed he had to keep focused on the first year of welding as the headmaster told us it was crucial to lay the foundation for completing the certificate. Yet then he laughed and said his football coach tells him he needs to focus on football! So we suggested balance was going to be very important this next year. He insisted he would not let me or himself down. I tried to convey he couldn’t disappoint me, as I was already so very proud of him. 

Our brief time was filled best we could. I don’t know that I’ll be able to communicate with him directly (possibly via email or FB) but that’s another challenge we hope to sort out. All I know is during this long-anticipated meet-up and conversation in that headmaster’s office at the spare trade-school compound in Isiolo, I felt the presence of both of my parents. 

As we headed to the car for the journey back to Nairobi, Farina was still patiently waiting in the shade. I spontaneously reached out my hand to help her up. Only after she grabbed it and we had walked many paces hand in hand, did it occur to me what a special, very sweet, genuine gesture of trust this was.  

In our chat, Ibrahim mentioned to John Paul he’d outgrown most of his clothes and had passed them onto his younger brother. I laughed and told him the same had happened to me years ago! By intuition I’d brought a hoodie and long-sleeve T-shirt to give him, and handed them to him as we parted ways. He was very appreciative and thankful. “I love you,” I said as we departed. “I love you too,” he said. 

On the long ride home, several times I felt tears well up, as I marveled at our meeting, and the grand and beautiful mystery of how such utterly different life paths might never have crossed if any small aspect of the last three years in the lives and actions of everyone involved had been slightly different. Yet a thread of love pervaded all. We are indeed inextricably intertwined far beyond our capacity to comprehend. Ever abiding love is always there, behind the distractions, and with just a bit of opportunity is revealed, blossoms, and unites us.

Alfajiri.org

Hell’s Gate National Park is in the great Rift Valley region of Kenya, northwest of Nairobi. It’s on the southern border of Lake Naivasha (Maasai for “that which heaves” — a body of water that has waves.) and the town of Naivasha is on the northeastern edge of the lake. Typical of so many African urban areas, the population of the town of Naivasha has grown from 30,000 in 1999 to 90,000 in 2009, to well over over 200,000 today. I rode in a car along with my tour guide from Nairobi, about 90 km (60 miles) on a very heavily trafficked two lane road (see my previous posts #4 & #5). We left about 7 AM and arrived just after 9 AM. The elevation is about 6,000 ft so it was already feeling hot. 

The one other participant, Vanessa, a young student who hailed from New Mexico, arrived in another vehicle. She was visiting Kenya for one week, while “studying abroad” for her final semester in bio-chemistry, on a cruise ship turned into a university! They had been all over (Malaysia, India, now Kenya, next Egypt) and had a full slate of classes on the ship amid bits of free time to visit each nation where they made port. She admitted it was challenging to do both but at all of 21 was determined to make the most of it Her goal is to become a pediatrician and maybe one day work for Doctor’s Without Borders. Hard not to admire the ambitious and earnest young folks I’ve encountered. 

We quickly were invited to choose our bicycles from a small and rough selection (especially for a tall person). The seat was low and wide, chains were loose, the tires a bit soft, and the brakes barely gripped the rims on full squeeze; essentially we were good to go.  

It’s the first time I’ve biked a wildlife park in Kenya. In almost all others visitors are allowed to leave vehicles only in very select picnic areas or at facilities, because there are several species that are literally a threat to humans. Kenya is wise about this aspect of preserving their tourists. 

The rugged, hard-pack road winds through dramatically beautiful geologic formations from the entry and throughout the 16 km (10 mile) trip. It was breathtaking and wonderful to experience it at a pace where it slowly unfolded while also allowing one to take in the details. Most of the road was good distance from the cliffs, making it difficult to convey the scale in photos, but like so much in Kenya, nature tends to put humans in our place. A few “pillars” of rock (not sure the precise geologic cause) added intriguing accents. The first one (according to our guide) incorporated into Maasai mythology as what became of the bride who looked back. Patriarchy or not, the lesson being once married one should only face forward. We had the offer to climb this with ropes and a guide, but we both declined in favor of biking. 

We were fortunate to get there before the severe midday sun, and so several species of animals were out. The soft crumble of bike tires on the obsidian hardpark mix is far less disturbing to them than vehicles, so it was fun to find our selves up close to Zebra, Giraffe, Wildebeest, Thomson’s Gazelle, and Pumbaas. Pumbaa is what the Maasai call wart hogs, which means “foolish, silly or dumb”, so named because “they run for 60 seconds and then forget why they were running.” Like so many in this park, they are robust in form because there are no longer any large predators. I read one source that stated buffalo and baboons were in the park but we didn’t encounter any. 

Several species of birds mostly soared in the bright blue skies or landed off in the distance. A special moment was when we suddenly came upon a large falcon perched on the low mound bordering the road. It stared at us quizzically for five seconds, even as Vanessa and I screeched our bikes to a dusty stop. I scrambled to get out my cell phone but it flew off just as I did. We’d been within ten feet of a wild peregrine falcon! 

​As we departed the park with our driver Patrick, I mentioned I noticed a few times our young guide Frank (who I’d come to know was eager to connect with a white woman through conversation on the two-hour car ride to the park), several times was keen to offer to carry Vanessa’s camera and bag, which she readily obliged. As we pulled out of the gate, I cajoled him for not offering to carry the pack of this old Muzungu at any point on our bike ride. “But I understand,” I said, “you are attempting to be a good fisherman. I was once 22 myself.” He smiled, Patrick, Frank’s senior by 20 years and happily married, laughed aloud, and said “In fact, just yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that said: “Don’t Hunt What You Cannot Kill’” With that, we all headed back to Nairobi. 

It’s telling when you sign up for a full day tour two hours away, and discover you are one of only two people doing it. To me it reveals the tour service has set itself up to make a profit regardless, but also that the driver and guide are in need of their small bit of compensation despite the lack of participants. Frank (aged 22) was my guide, and Patrick (42) the driver. Both were engaging and informative. They gently felt out if I was open to conversation and once I established I relished the exchange, we had a fun drive. 

They asked about the US, and my family, and personal interests, and I returned the favor. I asked what they thought of their new president, who came in last year. An instant “TSkkk!!” (A Kenyan exclamation of deep disgust) was followed by an impassioned: “He has done NOTHING he promised, and in fact the opposite! He is more corrupt than the previous one!” 

Yet the situation is familiar, revealed by some questions in our exchange: “John, what do you think of Mr Trump? How is it so many in America cannot see how he plays directly into Putin’s hands? Even here in Kenya, we can see he is a buffoon, pulling his followers along with lies but only out for his own benefit!” Ummm, yes. 

But we also spoke of family and loves. Patrick has four children and seemed grounded and devoted to his spouse. I’ve been glad to hear most of the drivers (perhaps because they are not living the rural life) are choosing to have smaller families. Four is small by the Catholic majority standards of the previous generation here. Given that five out of ten of the world’s most populated cities will be on the African continent by 2030, and we are globally straining resources everywhere, this was a good trend to me.

Frank asked if I was religious, and I told him I’d been raised Catholic but was no longer. I said my family was middle class, but more so was very rich in love, which is true. Most Kenyans understand and appreciate this, as there remains a strong sense of community that begins with family and extends far beyond, in subtle, good ways still affecting much of their society. I’d even suggest to a degree in the driving habits, where despite seeming chaos there’s a polite communal undercurrent. IE: Horns are mostly lightly tapped for communication (very rarely in anger). Generally there’s an assertive yet also mostly kind, organic flow as traffic weaves in and out. No middle fingers and little energy expended on anger; drivers just shrug, “tsk” softly at foolish moves, and move on. 

Except for the aggressive Boda badas (motorcycle courier services that deliver people and all manner of goods) which blatantly act as if they are infallible and irritate all other drivers. It’s amazing what I have seen being carried on these (sheets of plywood, 8 crates piled well over my height. Yesterday it rained on return from Hell’s Gate. I saw a moto with a bundle of goods over two meters high roped tightly under a tarp, with another man riding atop all this, as the motorcycle driver climbed the wet bumpy pavement amid semi-trucks in a downpour. 

Perhaps because there are many pedestrians crossing traffic (and even some animals) most drivers seem to have an especially keen awareness all around them, including the centimeters between the edge of their vehicle and others’. At first it made me cringe, but now I trust it as I’ve never been in a vehicle that touched another. Even on this very busy two-lane road, during our constant passing of the big slow trucks, cresting hills, other vehicles always allowed our car to merge back in ahead of the oncoming vehicles — albeit often with a second to spare.

When I asked if he was religious, our driver Patrick pointed to the cross hanging from his rear view mirror. “Catholic.” I asked why the Catholic Church was so prominent since the Brits were a Protestant people, and he said it was their insight to establish schools throughout the country in colonial times, serving the non-wealthy Kenyans, usually with a church as well. In this way people of all tribes became more loyal to their Catholicism generations ago, than the government which was and still is corrupt. 

Realizing it was a Sunday I told him I felt Catholic guilt. “Why?” he asked. I said not for me, but because I was keeping him from his church services. He laughed and said “John, I had a conversation with God. He said this man John visiting Kenya was in need of asssitance, and I want you to go and help him!” I saw a twinkle in his eye in the rear view mirror as he said “My wife and children in fact will pray for me this morning, and I assure you we are all ok in the eyes of God.” I said I was sure God also didn’t mind him earning some income, and thanked him for relieving me of my guilt. 

His younger colleague, Frank was a senior in college studying tourism. I learned through Patrick’s cajoling he had dated a white woman and now decided finding a white partner was his new goal. Frank absorbed the teasing of his older coworker, and shyly owned up to his quest on my prodding. I suggested to Patrick he was young and “fishing” which elicited the familiar spontaneous Kenyan laugh that I’ve come to very much enjoy. It’s been fun to discover my humor meshes very smoothly here. 

To Frank’s “fishing,” It’s hard to underestimate the entrenched generational class system still lingering here. I expressed how I was the odd Muzungu who liked to walk places — usually the only light-skinned person on the main thoroughfares and sidewalks anywhere in sight. Further unique as I didn’t have a cross necklace, bible, or diplomatic tags, and was too old to be a student. 

The vast majority of those who walk here can’t afford a ride. Except maybe public busses, which they may understandably wish to avoid. Often with music blaring, these busses and expanded vans are always packed tight, people literally hanging out of open windows and doors, even as they careen around curves on tight two lane roads. I suspect it may be a bit confounding to many why a white person (= wealthy) would walk the sidewalks and rotate clay paths of the common folk. I greeted people of all ages eye to eye, which elicits different responses. The older teen boys often attempt to look tough (same everywhere!) and the women in general are modest but (I hope) sense I’m simply being friendly and usually return a warm greeting. Of course I’m always at ease with children anywhere, and they me. But I feel I especially surprise the elders, who, after sensing my sincerity, openly return a smile, “Hallo!” or “Jambo!” and seem genuinely appreciative of the encounter. Considering what they have seen and endured in the last 70 years here, so am I.

Everything is comparatively inexpensive here in Kenya. By ordering groceries (also cheap—even for organic, excellent quality, good selections, online delivery service) and making the majority of my meals, it allows me room to “splurge” on some guided tours. Tours of course are catering to tourists and charge accordingly, but I feel some of the money goes into the economy and the tips go directly into the locals’ hands. 

My driver and a guide picked me up at 7 AM for a biking, hiking, boating tour at Hell’s Gate National Park, including a lunch and boat ride at Lake Naviasha. Hell’s Gate is about two hours from Nairobi, in the Great Rift Valley, part of a massive rift stretching 4,000 miles and averaging 30-40 miles wide. It is defined from Jordan through East Africa all the way down to Mozambique. It’s punctuated by ancient and dramatic volcanic features. The panoramas are breathtaking. In the distance we could see plumes of steam rising in the cool morning sky from the hot springs at our destination (in background of the second vista photo). 

As we headed northwest, just beyond Nairobi the city expressway narrowed to a two lane road that was packed with trucks going both ways. This international artery road connects Congo, Uganda, Rwanda and Kenya (via the cities of Kisimu, Nairobi, and Mombasa) to the primary East African port on the Indian Ocean, and so, the exchange of goods from all the above with the rest of the world. 

We pulled off at an overlook site halfway to the Nat. Park, ostensibly so I could by souvenirs for my family in America, but mostly so the driver might get a cup of coffee while I visited the trinket tent at the stop. I forewarned the driver I was the unusual American, and not into collecting things, but would oblige the sellers by looking. Another car or two had stopped and a few other tourists were milling about. I could see a dozen more similar shops up the road. 

A quietly pushy salesperson quickly met me as I snapped some photos of the view. He insisted on showing me a dozen carved stone pieces of animals, paperweights, etc. He wore me down so much, I asked the price of one. “You are my first customer, so I make you a deal…400 shillings!” I said his work was nice but I was not interested in collecting any, however I’d be willing to just outright give him 500 shillings (about $3) if he had change for my 1000 KShs bill which he happily took. “Yes, yes, come!” But I sensed my offer didn’t compute. He then walked me into the tent, packed with the same replicated trinkets (beads, Jewelry, small animal carvings of stone and ebony, soap dishes, spoons, etc,) that one sees at every one of thousands of these shops and in so many American homes. I asked again about my change, and again restated I didn’t care for any carvings. 

He pointed out several things, picking up a few, had me hold a carving of ebony to feel the weight. The density of ebony is wonderfully evocative. By chance he then picked up a piece of raw uncarved ebony, about the size of a softball “From this is where we begin.” “Ahhh,” I said, “how about if for my 500 kshs I get this!” For an instant he was totally befuddled, and completely thrown off his pitch. 

He tried to refocus me on the trinkets. “Good, good work, very nice carving, no?” I again said, yes, but I don’t want these, I only want this raw piece of ebony. He looked perplexed. “It is my only piece!” “Don’t you carve here when it is slow? You must have more around…?” “No, this is all.” 

Exasperated, he checked with his partner and after a brief exchange in Kiswahili, his partner again clarified, “You want THIS?!” “Yes, yes.” “Ok, we split it.” I said it was a great idea. “Asante!” (Thank you!) 

He wedged his machete in and then split the piece by smashing the back of his knife with a stone. As he handed me the piece, he said “1000 kshs.”  I didn’t flinch. “500.” We each restated our lines at least five times. 

“Ok, then give me back the 1000kshs bill,” as I grabbed it from his partner’s clutch. “I don’t need this. It’s very simple: 500  kshs, or nothing. Your choice.” He kept insisting, following me to the car. “No!” I said firmly, as I got into the car. I was trying to shut the car door and still he leaned in: “1000.” I waved him back. “No! No thank you. I’m done.“ I shut the door and he looked mournful. By this time the driver and guide were both in, the driver asked if there was a problem. 

“No. I made it very simple. And then he got greedy. I’m fine leaving with nothing. Hakuna Matata.” “Ok,” the driver said, “Let’s go.” And so we hit the crowded road, and left them to debate who was to blame, them or me, and as we slid into traffic, I recognized I’m becoming less a tourist, and feel a more capable Kenyan with each visit here.

With a minimal of investigation, it’s easy to become cynical or feel hopeless about the many environmental crises we’ve set in motion on the planet. 

Months ago, I came upon a few posts by someone in an environmental FB group I’m in whose name appeared African. Later I noticed he made a few earnest and insightful comments on other posts I was also reading. I glanced at his profile and saw he was in Kenya, where I happened to be headed in February. One project he was working on was guiding young people in sustainable agriculture, another was tree-planting—both keen interests of mine. My instincts suggested we meet, so I friended him on FB and made loose plans to do so. 

I was delighted to meet up with Jack Mazingira this week. It’s very heartening to come across young people who embody so many good qualities. Jack is sincere, bright, and has a noble vision tempered with a realistic awareness. He struck me as passionate, sensible, and wise for his thirty years. We spent several hours in an engaging conversation--sharing ideas, information, and getting to know each other and our cultures. All of which were interwoven with our views of the global situation.

Although there are aspects of Kenya similar to many industrialized democracies, and it has modern cities with contemporary cultural features, it’s difficult to convey the vast differences of a nation in such radical transition. Just as America is still struggling with our Puritan religious heritage, racist history, and misguided embracing of “consumer culture” rather than an open-minded, tolerant society based on community and love, Kenya also has traditions and a history that often handicaps and hinders its healthy evolution.

A primary virus now become global is the misleading concept of never-ending, unrestricted economic growth as a goal — despite the absurdity this  requires an infinite supply of our finite natural resources. 

To this end, Jack has taken on the term “de-growth” as an economic model. Not a cessation of all technology or all modern conveniences, but a recalibration; a reframing of what is necessary, sustainable, and enough. 

Living in Kenya, a nation eager to catch up to the economic status of more developed countries, you can imagine the challenges. But I agree with him in all ways, including it needs to be a concept taken to heart by America and other major powers if we are to begin to lessen the current crises and larger ones looming. Like it or not, our way of life is gobbling up resources and causing suffering of humans (and all beings) far more than less-developed nations. The great irony of course is even as others are striving to be like us, I’m unconvinced our way of life makes us any happier. 

Jack was spurred to recognize and address the impacts of the environmental crisis through personal experiences — within his lifetime his village near Kisumu has endured steady floods on a scale it never before experienced. The results of these exacerbate the already frail farming and fishing communities and their lifestyle. 

Sometimes life seems to conspire to guide us toward things that impact our outlook on life. Over three years ago I learned about Alfajiri.org through a fellow artist in Kenya, Olivia Pendergast, who volunteers for them. It’s a small non-profit founded by an artist, with a very dedicated and smart staff, that empowers orphaned street kids through the arts. I’ve proudly supported them since, and make a point to visit and offer some time whenever I’m in Kenya. 

They offer workshops in visual art, dance sessions, music, and even have a wonderful Karate expert who gently but firmly mentors these abused and unwanted young people. In my brief involvement I’ve already met several young people who, through Alfajiri’s guidance, earn their path out of the unspeakable poverty of the Mathare slum. It’s very hard to articulate in words the depth and richness of these experiences. For sure, it’s a two way exchange that benefits both sides. 

Although the arts are the vehicle used to begin the connection, it is far more complex than teaching art. It’s impossible to fully know the kids’ stories, but the amazing and patient Alfajiri staff has a sense of the violence the kids have endured, abuses they try to evade, the daily hungers, the allure of glue-sniffing and other addictions that mostly begin to make emotional traumas and life in general tolerable. Those engaged and “in the trenches” with the circumstances of these kid’s lives get a small glimpse of their reality. If the children attend the Alfajiri workshops, behave, are open to taking ownership in improving their situation, the skilled and compassionate staff work to offer them paths out of the slum. The importance of education, so taken for granted in the US can not be overstated here. ​

I’ve now met young adults that told me five or six years ago they were spiraling down, caught in traps of circumstance and tragedy. Through Alfajiri (directly and indirectly), they’ve become proud young men with truck-driving licenses, produced musical CDs, learned fine cooking skills, and how to attend to flocks of hens or manage a productive garden. The numbers are not large but the impact of each transformed life is exponential.  The “graduates” not only have reversed their fate but are now self-confident adults, who can actually envision a future, most also see beyond themselves. (What more can you offer anyone?!)  Several have made return visits that further inspires others. 
 
On the first visit of this Kenyan trip I had a great discussion with the staff and founder Lenore Boyd. I learned more details about their many challenges, and tried to offer an objective perspective as they aimed toward the best paths forward. They updated me on some new directions they are headed, including working with juvenile correction centers and women’s empowerment, as well as a sustainable farming operation. The latter will be a teaching tool while allowing the organization to become more self-sufficient.  

We then went to an art workshop Alfajiri offers within a Catholic Church campus in Mathare where the organization began. These weekly gatherings provide a brief oasis from the survivalist mode most kids are obliged to adopt 24/7 in order to stay alive. Respectful adults are not turned away, often seeking a few hours of peace. Harsh as their circumstances are, I’m always struck by the kids’ joyful spirit, and the incredible attitude most of them embody. It always recalibrates my own petty troubles. Beyond that, they remind me through their curious questions, their smiles and teasing, and the sparkle in their eyes that despite everything they face on a daily basis, they’re still just kids who simply want to be happy—and in this way they literally pierce and melt one’s heart, as we recognize our shared being.

I’m convinced it’s far easier to ignore such poverty (or worse, blame those caught in its snare) when we never allow ourselves to actually meet it, face to face, eye to eye. Doing so is still not the same as experiencing it, nor does it “solve” anything in the future, but it’s the start of the unveiling of our bond and our interwoven energies. Put simply, the exchange awakens profound love, in the now. 

As an extra bonus, on our return to the Alfajiri campus outside of the slum, a soft-spoken, passionate young man was using their spartan set-up to dig into a painting he’s been working on. Ann Lenore suggested I offer him some guidance; this was a very different thing from the therapeutic workshops. We had a wonderful couple of hours, one on one. At first shy, he quietly asked me questions about the painting he was working on, I offered some gentle suggestions, showed him several techniques, we sensed our common love of color, and the time flew. 

At some point I began pulling up images by masters I felt might be of interest to him. I shared Monet, Van Gogh, and Matisse, and wrote each name down for him to continue to study. As he peered intently at his cracked-screen, borrowed old iPhone, opening each photo and enlarging details, moving slowly from image to image, he softly uttered in complete sincerity: “Oh wow… Oh wow!… Oh this is great! Really great!” 

Few things are more moving to an art teacher than revealing the work of a great master to a student who has a similar sensibilities. It was absolutely delightful for us both—he was an ideal student, enthusiastic, curious, and very focused. By the end he was proudly taking me to the storage closets to show me his paintings, stacks of which were everywhere. He was very polite, and thanked me several times for my suggestions, and again as we parted. He reminded me how much I loved teaching, and in this way, taught me something very important as well. It was a very good first day back at Alfajiri.

Travel doesn’t force perspective, but it affords the opportunity to enlarge it. The initiating point for me is in the airport. Walking in, bags in hand, passport and tickets at the ready, of course we all retain a wish everything will go smoothly. But if I approach the experience with an attitude that leans toward “this is where the adventure begins” it both softens and brightens everything. I’d put the light goal in my mind that on this trip I’d get more in touch with my intuitive sense, often a compass in my life that I’d recently realized had not been given much attention. 

In a way, I might say my departure was uneventful. Yet the richness that is life is not entirely made of physical excitement in the moment. I was in line waiting to board the first 8-hour leg of my trip, a flight to the airport in Paris, when a bright, composed-looking lady in front of me smiled and asked if I’d hold her place for a moment. “Sure.” She stepped out and put on the long compression socks I’d remembered to put on earlier in the morning. “Already got mine on this time,” I said. “It’s just so hard once you’re in those tight seats surrounded by other passengers” she replied. 

We struck up a conversation, discovering we both were headed to Nairobi on the connecting flight. She had been born there and moved to US over a decade ago. My trip was about joy, adventure and fun. Although it was not conspicuous, hers was related to the deaths of two siblings, each in unexpected circumstances in the last two months. In addition, her mother had passed within the previous year. She was in fresh grief, though barely a hint of her tragedy showed. She acknowledged feeling numb as new responsibilities had not allowed room for the sorrow to sink in. My mother had passed 18 months ago, and I further related to the indescribable feelings flushed up through the unexpected loss of a beloved brother in law around the same time. 

Standing in a long line in a busy airport, literally thousands of folks rushing past, we might have each endured the wait in silence. Yet here we were, within minutes, perhaps prompted by stockings (perhaps not), vulnerable and connected far beyond words. Amid all this, she was now assuming responsibility of one of the adult children her sibling had left behind and for the near future would stay in Kenya. Somehow, within everything, perhaps through the sincerity of her loving sense of purpose, her presence had a glow. Our seats were not near but we both sensed we should try and connect again in Kenya. 

Her family was on my mind as I settled my 6’5” frame into the middle aisle, in a middle seat which the airline had graciously gifted me. I was headed out on a long-planned adventure, in that liminal space between excitement and feeling I ought to try to get some sleep while spending 15+ hours in an airplane. Barely into the flight, the fellow next to me couldn’t get his seat to keep upright. We joked briefly and this led to spending the majority of the flight chatting. 

He was Rwandan, headed to Burundi and Mali this trip but traveled all over Africa. As I’d been in Rwanda in 2022, it opened the door on several topics. He laughed when I told him he was the most extroverted Rwandan I’d met, so we discussed his homeland. He offered a very different view of the Rwandan “president” (aka “benevolent dictator”) than I had heard while there. “Of course! They will not speak about things while they live there. They can’t!” 

I asked him what his passion was and if his profession was the same. He was intrigued and delighted to tell me his passion was music but his profession was in accounting, of late mostly in the medical field. He’d worked with the great humanitarian Dr. Paul Farmer, knew and deeply respected him, and thought it wonderful I had a friend who worked at the University of Global Health Equity. 

Currently he was working for companies offering traditional vaccination options in several countries in Africa. I cautiously broached the topic and learned though he’d recently worked with the Gates Foundation he “could see the bigger view because I could see where the money flowed.” He did not agree with many things about their approach to several issues, such as what they promoted in agriculture, nor especially the rubber-stamped view of the pandemic accepted without question (and even denied any civil discussion) by so many otherwise thoughtful folks I knew in the US. In a wide-ranging discussion, he was eager to share about politics and corporate influence and AI and natural resources and wars and ecological collapse. He shared a memorable phrase he’d gleaned from his economics studies that applied to many of the topics: engineered consent. It was a lengthy, rambling conversation that certainly shortened the flight. 

Something that I’ve come to appreciate and be heartened by among many I’ve met from across the vast African continent is their healthy skepticism of power and the ways it is wielded. Perhaps it’s related to old and new forms of colonialism. We agreed we had the answers to all the world’s problems, if only the world would listen to us.  

Despite all his earnest and articulate conversation on social issues, the highlight was when we broached music, and families. He had pursued music with great passion while young, even though no one in his extended family approved. He’d made a few CDs but the heavy hand of the Rwandan govt. promoted only propaganda and not free expression. So he had accepted getting a degree in accounting and working his way to self-sufficiency by coming to the US. 

Beyond music he was even more passionate about his child. Now in his mid-40s, after 12 years of marriage, he and his spouse had their first child during Covid. Clearly it had been challenging, giving birth then. But particularly troubling to him was how even after their slightly premature son was stable, rules trumped love. He was very frustrated by what he felt was a perverse notion that did not allow him or his wife to hold their new child skin to skin for weeks, based on fear-driven protocols. I utterly agreed, relating stories of my mother being in forced physical isolation in her 90’s, and how I’d defied the rules and hugged her on visits. 

We both felt strongly that touch was a foundational aspect of being a healthy human. And we were equally incredulous how, intentionally or not, even this most basic need could have become a tool in a playbook for psychological/social manipulation. It was hard not ponder if our misguided notion that technology is always an improvement for society was encouraging this regrettable slide into evermore distant, “acceptable” abstract interaction. Online teaching an obvious case in point. 

We emphasize the intellect at the expense of “being” while very few question the trade-offs. Maybe all this is just more conspicuous to two people rooted in the sensual experiences the arts promote. I hope the lessons learned from the last few years include awareness of the unhealthy dangers of over-reacting and the crippling effects of acting out of fear rather than love.

Mostly though, without saying much for the first time in hours, he simply radiated silently as he shared videos of his now 18-month old: his son taking his first steps; wide-eyed gazing with awe in the vast space of Union Station; and gleefully banging away at piano keys. It’s clear to me that recognizing our innate connection to others, usually revealed through those we care about and love, transcends language and thought, time and place. Our underlying unity is always there, hidden in plain sight by our focus on a million distractions. 

I did finally find some shut eye on the second leg of my flight. I was weary and bleary-eyed on arrival in Nairobi. After collecting my checked bag, I hunted several minutes for the woman I’d met in the boarding line. Resigned we wouldn’t sustain the connection, as we’d only exchanged first names, I headed toward the exit. But just before approaching the security line, I instinctively looked back one more time and spotted her. We chatted a bit more, traded contact info and hugs, then parted, feeling a bit more closure while leaving a bit more room for fate to choose whether we’ll meet again in Kenya.