Top image, the view from deck of my rental lodging in a gated community, Nairobi. It reveals the luxurious scale of the estates, and to those who bother to look, the disparity among the haves and have nots. My apartment is a basement unit below the main residence yet still grand and spacious. Lower left is the view from my entry onto my private deck. The right is another view from the deck. 

The freshly painted door by Patrick to the newly renovated  “Gallery” space on the grounds of the Alfajiri campus.  

Last year I was encouraged by my friend and art dealer, Carol Lees, to make a visit to RedHill Gallery, about 15 km outside of Nairobi. The gallery is a retirement project of a wonderful couple, Erica Musch-Rossler and Hellmuth Rossler, who each spent decades working in healthcare NGO’s throughout Eastern Africa. They met through their professions, and selected Kenya as the most suitable place to settle in. Along the way, they both had a sincere interest in the cultures of the people they served, and developed keen aesthetic eyes. 

They were aided in locating a rambling estate with several structures in need of repair by an artist/entrepreneur they’d met at an art opening over fifteen years ago. Their smart and beautiful refinements to the original design have transformed the living residence into a lovely blend of private areas and open spaces. There’s an especially nice semi-enclosed sitting porch where I would easily spend most of my time, given the comfortable Kenyan weather 8-9 months of the year. Stone pathways and thoughtful plantings and maintenance of the grounds all enhance the visiting experience.

They’ve wisely set aside a few acres for gardens and use by local folks to grow a fair portion of their foods. (I can attest to the richness of some of their farm to table ingredients!) As they traveled they collected art works by many contemporary African artists, often lesser known ones. To further share in their passionate appreciation, they turned an old farm building on site into an open-air gallery. Through their careful curatorial discretion, the gallery has earned a reputation for showcasing exceptional new talent and broadening the opportunities of dozens of East African artists. At this point, they are working diligently to catalogue their beautiful and generous efforts.

Each visit has been a delight, and I now consider it a given to make time to see them and RedHill Gallery. Beyond the abundant and tasty lunches Erica has offered, as well as her delicious cookies, coffee, and teas, it is the conversation and sense of community they create which stands out. While there I’ve met visitors from all over the world, and always interesting discussions evolve which I very much value. This is, I feel, largely due to their informal, open, and welcoming presence. 

As they travelled so much during their careers, they mentioned how they now are content to cut back on excursions beyond seeing family abroad, or visiting Nairobi or nearby locales. As Hellmuth has expressed, now the gallery brings people from across the world to them! They are kind, gently inquisitive, insightful, and readily share in a warm sense of humor, all indispensable qualities earned working among and living in what are often extreme societal conditions. I admire them, aim to emulate their many fine qualities, and feel very fortunate to call them friends.  
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​Few things can bring one as much joy as being able to see someone grow toward their potential. Whether as a parent, elder, sibling, teacher, or mentor of any age, witnessing another blossoming is an extraordinarily beautiful experience. 

As I’ve written about and happily updated for the last few years (see my website essays on Alfajiri in Feb. 2022, 2023, & 2024), my young friend Ibrahim continues to take steps forward against all odds. As an infant he was born into a terrible circumstance in a slum; abused as an infant he suffered a head injury that put him in a coma and he was not expected to live. Defying all, he then had to survive the poverty of his world, and find his way beyond still more abuse, destitution, and starvation, followed by understandable addictions which gave him a means to cope with the deep injustices he had endured, all before he was even 14.

We met in 2022, when he was about that age. Something about his quiet focus and gentle presence impressed me then. Through exemplary efforts by my friends Ann Boyd and John Paul Wasiro of Alfajiri, despite some setbacks, he has steadily gained his footing. So it is my great joy to make the effort to visit him in his hometown of Isiolo, Kenya. It’s a small crossroads city about four hours north of Nairobi. 

Once again my stalwart friend Paul Gene Goto agreed to drive John Paul and I on the long journey, up and back in one day. This included a final route on a meandering maze from a school, over storm-drenched and deeply pitted, soft-mud roads that rarely support vehicles. The two of us in the front seat barely contained our mutual anxiety through the labyrinth. As he put it: “If we get stuck, we are walking and getting a room for the night, because we will not locate a vehicle anywhere nearby to pull us out!” Only his very skilled handling of his Prius through terrain that might have put a Land Rover to the test, extricated us (amazingly!) without incident. 

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Journey aside, it made my heart soar to be able to sit next to Ibrahim, a once dminutive, soft-spoken young teen, and recognize he’s turning into a tall, solid, responsible young man. Alfajiri deserves great credit for guiding him, but largely Ibrahim, who never knew his father and lost his mother two years ago, with minimal support from extended family members, has done the hard work. Day after day staying disciplined amid not only typical teen age distractions, but basic living challenges few of us could begin to handle. 

And now he is moving beyond all his impediments. He is in trade school, learning the basics of welding, and soon carpentry, window work, and building gates. I could not be more thrilled for him! He continues to impress and inspire me. He has touched my life in a very special way. 

We also were able to go to his former primary school, adjacent a severely impoverished neighborhood, and visit with his younger brother, who Ibrahim has stepped up to look after best he is able. I wish more people who live in modern industrialized nations like the US could experience these settings. It is so enlightening to see the bare block buildings with spare interiors, daylight from windows the primary light source, dirt courtyards and sometimes floors, too many children packed into one room, many of whom are going without substantial meals on a daily basis. 

But imagery doesn’t reveal the whole story, either, because, as I have experienced again and again, these young people getting by in situations we can barely fathom, are as often as not incredibly appreciative of the chance to learn. They are delighted and positively beam at the sight of a Muzungu coming to visit — and nearly fall over one another with excitement, waving to get my attention or a response to their shouts of “Hallo!” “How are YOU?!” 

Their genuine joy in the most simple, unmarketable, non-purchasable experiences pierces through the falsehoods of so much of what we are told (or unconsciously trained) will bring us happiness. And also deeply touch one’s heart. The whole experience recalibrates one’s world, and reframes the idiocy of our consumerism and the divisive attitudes being promoted right now by too many in our society, especially tragically, by our so called “leaders.” 

These are the experiences that refine and reshape my life, and help me gain perspective on what is real and important and deserving of my energy.
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Every place, every culture, has its own unique palette; Watamu, Kenya.

About a year ago, I saw an interesting painting at the home of Hellmuth & Erica Musch-Rossler, gallery owners and art-loving friends in Kenya. It was by a Kenyan artist, Camille Wekesa, and I learned that she also was involved in promoting conservation. Art and ecology are two of my primary passions, so I looked into her work. It was fascinating — I wanted to meet her, but my trip was ending and I could not make it happen.

Months later I reached out from the US, and she welcomed meeting me this year. She’s in a rural region about three hours north of Nairobi, which gave me an excuse to visit a new part of Kenya. Camille is warm and thoughtful. She has the quiet confidence of someone who has earned mastery in her discipline. This is paired with the geninue curiosity and attentiveness of a wise person who still humbly learns from others. I quickly saw the many ways she generously gives of her time and energy.

Her father is Kenyan (a former veterinarian surgeon) and her Scottish mom managed the household. Camille and her two siblings grew up on the large family farm, with animals and a memorable acacia tree forest on the property. She fondly recalls camping trips, and visiting parks as a child, and credits her parents for encouraging a healthy relationship with the natural world. 

She was creative early on and her parents supported her pursuit of art. She did her university studies in Florence, Milan & Rome. After graduation she began doing mural work, which led to a six years as a creative professional for hire living in London. Eager to return to her own art, and out of the urban setting, she returned to her homeland, Kenya. Though Nairobi was greener than London, after a bit she felt a pull to be in a rural, more spacious setting. 

Through mural commissions she became familiar with Nanyuki, and the many nearby preserves and conservatories. It’s a small city of about 30,000 mostly native Kenyans, with a number of old estates established largely by Europeans or adopted by recent expats. She became fond of the eclectic small town, about 30 km northwest of Mt. Kenya, and settled in Nanyuki over a decade ago. 

We have similar interests in the natural world and each recognize preserving what’s left must involve revising the relationship of people to the geography and environment in which they live. We both appreciate the simple lifestyle of communities in rural settings. Camille’s place is a short drive along an inconspicuous, rutted dirt road lined by local dwellings and shops. Her homestead reflects her aesthetic: one of humans in harmony with the earth. 

Intertwined with her mural work, she quickly established herself a few decades ago among the first generation of landscape painters in Kenya. Her earlier paintings were a more direct “documentation” [her word] of Kenyan lands and sites, surprisingly, something rarely being done by Kenyan artists. In the few of her early paintings I saw, I could feel a nod to Italian light and depictions of vistas as in the 16th century, as well as a certain precision of craft. Always open to influences, she has also studied Asian landscape traditions which are a bit less literal and aim to present the feel place. She admitted it was difficult to pin down prominent artistic influences because so many had affected her perspective, and she continues to learn. 

Of late, her paintings are more abstract and evocative, less directly descriptive of objects, and more suggestive of the character of a forest, a cluster of trees, or a section of branches. I feel they might be seen as depicting the forces of nature. She has a lifelong love of trees and branching forms have taken prominence as one of the primary vehicles of expression in her imagery. These could also be interpreted as sprouting organic growth on a microscopic level, or the ever-expanding cosmos. 

She told me this motif has emerged unconsciously, which is fitting. The layered colors and sinewy yet elegant tendrils project a vitality that is at once felt in each individual form striving, yet also as a fully integrated, pulsing whole. To me they can be sensed as a glimpse into the dynamism of all life forms, whether observed in micro or macro scale.  

Due to her love of the land and all beings, Camille has a longheld interest in conservation. She also recognizes the value of engaging with the human community, both in it expanding her own creativity and empowering all involved  in the achievement of larger goals. 

Toward this end, she’s remade several of the structures on her small estate to suit this vocation. A small barn once used to store feed has been transformed by raising the ceiling, pouring a concrete floor, and adding several large windows. It’s now her welcoming, comfortable, efficiently laid out, light-flooded studio. A couple of old building spaces formerly used as stores have been remodeled into a simple two bedroom apt. She can now host artists-in-residence. She’s recently secured support to set up a couple of wonderful “tiny studios”, these are set amid a copse of trees, and used for intimate art workshops with small groups of kids, or as open-air studios for herself or visiting artists. 

In a brilliant wedding of intentions, Camille has married together her ecological concerns with her creative profession. In tandem with art camps for kids, she co founded a non-profit conservation association. This local women-led, primate preservation project is working to preserve the riparian buffers on a local river. The primate issue and the rivers are connected because farming and grazing along it can cause disruption of the river and vegetation along its banks. Such “breaks” in the natural corridors impede or can prevent the natural flow of the wildlife, in particular several species of primates particularly the black and white colobus monkey. Sadly, like so many species across the globe, both their numbers and habitat are rapidly declining so such pathways are evermore crucial to their survival. 

The group is Ontulili Primates Protection Project. https://oppsite.wixsite.com/ontuliliprimates/about-us . Wisely, by empowering these determined and dedicated women (always a powerful resource but especially in many African cultures), they ensure commitment and sharing of the understanding among the broader community. In addition it’s an effective way to get local farmers to adjust their behavior toward more sustainable practices as trust is more easily established via the local folks.

The source of the Ontulili river begins on Mt. Kenya and the path of the river flows adjacent her land. The collective meets on site and some of the childrens’ workshops tie simple creative projects with ecological issues. The kids are both directly and indirectly guided to a better understanding of the scientific and holistic reality of the human place within the earth’s systems. A crucial key to stemming the wasteful and arrogant path our modern way tends to encourage. 

Beyond these noble ventures, Camille’s laying the foundations for an eco/art venue on another patch of her land. She has served on the board of several organizations including the Karura Forest and The Great Rift Valley Trust, among several others.

She established her own foundation, https://www.orkedifoundation.com , to promote this evolving initiative. Plots are awaiting use as functional gardens, gathering places, and art installations. On site she’s planned a series of eight unique circular concrete “gathering spaces” echoing traditional mud huts of the region. In each one she intends to design and paint wrap around murals illustrating one of Kenya’s ecosystems. I was able to visit the first completed structure (the interior lighting and a few small details not quite complete). This mural features the ecosystem of the Aberdare’s Forest, one of Kenya’s primary water sources. 

There’s something special about being in circular dwellings, as my yurt-familiar friends can attest. They become all the more magical when one is literally surrounded by a glowing painting that embodies the colorful diversity of an ecosystem. The mural’s composition and design are enhanced by a skillful and beautiful sense of pattern, flow, and rhythm. The whole effect subtly yet powerfully reinforces an awareness of the interwoven cycles of this thing we call life. Her longterm goal is to use these spaces and the two acres of land as farming/gardening/artistic sites, merging function, beauty, and educational opportunities. 

As she expressed, part of the appeal of Nanyuki is “…In rural Kenya, if you have an idea, you can still just dive into bringing it into reality, without too much bureaucracy or expense.” Hard work, a noble community-oriented vision, creative skills, compassion, courage, and a strong dose of Chutzpah certainly help!

https://camillewekesa.com/paintings/
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Above: From Camille’s website, an earlier landscape “documenting” her homeland. 
Below: (Left) The renovated store buildings turned into two-bedroom apt for guests/artists in residence. The mural was painted by a visiting artist. (Right) Camille and guest local artist Boniface guiding young on es in a workshop in one of the mini-studios on the grounds. 

Camille merging within her glowing mural in the first completed circular building in the evolving eco-art village. 

About a year ago, I connected with a Kenyan artist who happens to live in Nanyuki, about three hours north of Nairobi, near Mt. Kenya, the second highest peak on the continent. We set up a meet, and I booked an airbnb in the region. It met all my basic criteria and seemed interesting. My friend Paul kindly drove me. The last leg included a stretch of very rough dirt road—about 7 km of what we used got call “washboard” road. When we finally reached the google pin drop, we found the final turnoff drive to the home was also very rough, and only skilled handling of his Prius enabled us to climb the steep, rocky, fragmented path. It was a minor test of our perserverance before a lovely surprise. ​

We crossed under the lintel of a large gateway and suddenly we were on a luxurious and bountiful plateau. A large seemingly colonial-era mansion was on the left, front door open. All manner of richly colored blooming plants and vines were cascading from the structure. Tended gardens (that seemed to have been allowed to ramble) loosely framed every visible structure. I heard a horse snort, and noticed a barn and stable across the way; another building appeared to be housing for the staff. At last I recognized the RiverStone cabin of my booking.

Note my stalwart sentinel guarding the entry to my lodging. 

The airbnbs I stay at usually are on estates, which means they are walled residences with guards that control the gate. Usually there are others gardening on site, and often a house-keeper lives in separate quarters on the grounds. In addition, often the entry avenues leading to the houses have a pole across the road, with a security person manning it at all times. Such is the reality of an old caste system, only slowly altering as Kenya struggles to create a middle class. 

Because I like to walk, I often meet my Uber about 1/2 mile up the hill where George is the day-guard at the road to this property. Due to unplanned growth, bottlenecked highway infrastructure, and a general hakuna matata about time in Kenya, I usually wait a bit beyond the planned time for my drivers to show. So we’ve had room to chat. 

He’s 32 and has a 15-month old son. He has “not had much schooling” he says, clearly a bit shy admitting this to me. I do my best to assure him there are many forms of intelligence besides the academic route. For instance, I point out, you always ask me very good questions, and this alone is a sign of a keen mind. 

He tells me for his son, Trivon, it is his “great desire one day he might be able to afford getting him to private school” (essentially public schools offer mostly dead-end, manual labor job options for graduates here). I try to assure his son can do well no matter, that by guiding him at home it will help his son grow bright. He’s skeptical—and perhaps accurate given the system here. I try again: George, you always ask wonderful questions, allow your son to do the same and be patient with your answers, so he may grow. Do your best in giving him as much time as you can. This can be more crucial than classroom learning. 

I tell him about my father having to quit school, to work for his family and this resonates with George. I tell him how proud my father was we were able to attend school because of his sacrifices. And of my own son becoming an engineer, in the space industry no less, and how I would never have been capable of getting through such studies. It seems to sink in as several minutes pass. 

A jet flies overhead. Our chat has created an opening. Never having been to an airport himself, and aware I’m from America, he correctly assumed I took a flight. “Mister John, tell me, how big is a jet plane? As big as a lorrie [a small truck]?” Oh, you’d be amazed I tell him, there are small ones this size, but the ones I was on carried 300 or more people. “What!! How can this be so?! 300!!” He exclaims. I tell him about the one I was on a few years back that actually had two levels within the seating area and he is incredulous. “I had no idea they were this large! They appear so small in the sky!” 

I share my own amazement that such a heavy thing can fly, and how I don’t really understand the way a jet engine works, or how they can carry so much fuel that we cross an entire ocean on one fill up of petrol (“gas” to a Kenyan). All the while he’s listening intently. 

I suggest jet fuel is lighter yet more potent than diesel fuel, but it all still seems hard for me to fathom. “So, jets do not use diesel petrol?” No. Only jet fuel. “Ahh…” I can feel his wheels spinning. “So, this is good information. If I go to the airport, and need a fill up, I must be sure to request diesel so I do not get jet fuel!” 

Well, I smile, George, this is excellent logic but you do not need to worry. Jet planes will not be in line next to you for petrol at the airport. They would break off their wings! They have separate filling areas set aside for the jets. Realizing the mistaken vision within his otherwise good logic he laughs heartily. “I see, I see!” 

Yesterday, as I passed him to go for an evening walk, he says he is ready to go home and the other guard will be coming soon. I inquire what his name is. “He is named Hillary.” I repeat myself and try to understand that he is a man, and whether George meant female? “No!” Likely thinking of his colleague “For sure he is man!” He looks at me dumbfounded. I return the look. We do a verbal dance, each carefully repeating the spelling twice from our cultures, and it’s precisely the same. 

Hmm. I say, in America, Hillary is only used for women. “Really?!” Yes! Maybe you have heard of Hillary Clinton. “Ah yes, I have heard so. I knew of President Clinton, and then this one, Hillary.” Well, SHE was his spouse! “What! No way!” Yes! By now I’m determined to figure this out, as we both hunt for the disconnect. 

Apparently George never SAW an image of Hillary (I judiciously avoid any comment about pantsuits): “I thought always thought Hillary was maybe Bill’s brother! Finally now I understand!” He tells me with a big smile. I imagine he tells his spouse when he gets home—“Honey, can you imagine— Hillary Clinton— this is a WOMAN!” 

I tell him I also have learned from him, Hillary in Kenya obviously is used for men, and might possibly also be used as a female name. In this way, I gain insights into his experiences and cultural norms, and he learns a bit about ours. We shake hands as I depart, and I thank him, sincerely letting this man of “not much schooling” how much I appreciate him as I always learn from our discussions. 
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I met up with Yusuf, a young Kenyan artist I’ve befriended Tuesday afternoon. We had a wonderful, long dinner conversation, and after, an Uber driver delivered him to his lodgings, then we headed to mine. I decided I could use a few groceries and so dropped off at a store before heading to my airbnb. As the next driver picked me up, he casually asked if I might have a small bit of change for the parking fee. I said sure and plucked a bill from my wallet, handed it to the attendant and we left the mall. 

I put away groceries, made myself a snack, de-shoed and un-socked my tired feet, and settled into the sofa for the short bit of evening that remained. About to nod off an hour or so later, I began unloading my six pockets to head to bed. I pulled out my two phones (one with a Kenyan # and provider for local calls, another that allowed for my US needs), paper scraps, pen, lozenges, charging cord, etc. But when I slapped my left thigh pocket, all at once I realized my wallet was not there! 

I quickly scoured the apt. and, heart-racing and stomach aflutter, began re-thinking my steps of the few last hours. I knew I’d purchased that late lunch with my debit card—but did it fall out when I was trying to catch a signal to reset the Uber ride to my route after we dropped off Yusuf? Or did I leave it at the grocer? But no, I remembered the parking fee moment, and was certain I had it all the way until that final trip home. 

I called the guard on the grounds of my airbnb, and with bright lights we diligently retraced my steps to no result. I quickly called the two banks corresponding to the debit and credit cards and had each put a temporary block on them. Thankfully no new charges had occurred. I plodded through the Uber app “Directions for Lost Items” which connected me to led to the HQ in the USA. I provided them my number, and was assured they would contact the driver (whose number I never had) and he would call me to sort this out, and theoretically resolve things.

On that final ride we’d had a nice chat, I liked him. I’d tipped him well and had given him five stars. Thankfully, as is my custom here, I sat in the front seat—which few folks do here—so that lessened the likelihood a follow-up passenger had surreptitiously collected it. The cards were blocked, and there was less than $40 in cash in the wallet, and I knew I could replace my driver’s license. I did have a family photo I’ve carried for decades in there; I would regret yet could accept its loss. 

I was to be abroad another three weeks, and all at once felt the perverse fear that I had no means to get cash from my bank account. A cursory search online suggested sending a new credit card might be near $200 for DHL delivery, in about a week. But regarding my debit card, from a more regional bank, policy was they would only mail it to my residence in VA. Besides all this, Kenya is notorious for “middlemen” holding recipients hostage with delays and obscene, unwritten “fees” on delivery of items. 

I could do some things with PayPal but Venmo’s (not used here). Plus I needed a way to access my bank account to obtain cash which one then puts into M-PESA ( smart phone money app) at a facilitator. It’s THE standard non-cash exchange method for payments of all kinds here. If I cancelled the debit card it also meant some hassle sorting out which things were on auto-pay using it—of course feeling like a larger headache as the embarrassing shock of my blunder was still throbbing. 

My little brain spun hard concocting various versions of plans A, B, & C as I awaited the driver’s response. I began plotting how frugal I could be, and though a few excursions were somewhat paid for, and I’d still require some funds over the next 20+ days. 

An hour passed, and no messages came. I wrote Uber again. “Yes, your note has been forwarded to the driver. Rest assured we are working hard…” the logarithmic blurb stated. Another hour, zilch, and again I wrote. A message clarified, “We are working hard…” and at the end of the script: “If you have no results in 24 hrs we will step in to resolve the issue.” In my anxious mind, every hour meant more possible passengers to pilfer the wallet!

Despite full awareness there was no major crisis if it was lost, I still fell asleep exhausted and a bit anxious, wishing with heavy lids I’d wake to a call. At pre-dawn I grabbed my phone and looked— still no messages! 

With little recourse, I prepared for my planned visit to my gallery dealer Carol, and awaited my trusted friend Paul (a driver who I’ve cajoled to work for me in addition to his Uber work). He expressed concern about the lack of response and immediately began trying to help. Before we reached the gallery he’d brilliantly suggested we go to the local Uber office in Nairobi and they would have to have the driver’s name and number on file. 

I spent a lovely morning and early afternoon with Carol at her gallery. She of course heard of my situation, and generously offered any assistance I might need. In addition, by fate, she’d just recently sold a painting of mine, her first sale of my art, two years after graciously giving me a shot in this new-to-me market. She quickly recognized she could transfer my payment directly into my M-PESA account, which greatly reduced my sudden fiduciary drought and the knots in my gut. 

Paul had to deliver another scheduled ride but made the extraordinarily kind effort to stop at the Uber Office and try to move the process forward. Soon after he texted to let me know they were expecting me and gave me two names of personnel to whom I was to speak. 

A Kenyan minute later (about 60 in real time) I had secured a driver and finally arrived at the office. The named staff people had departed, and they asked me to wait in the seat and “take a number.” I cringed and looked at the clock nearing the closing hour of five PM, but held my composure. Finally I was waived to the counter and a kind woman listened carefully to my issues, asked some good questions, and in short order got the driver on the phone. I practically was atop the counter, leaning hard to hear his response. 

“Ah yes, I remember John! He was a nice fellow! I am at my workplace now, and I have his wallet. I intend to deliver it to his residence tonight after work, as I know where he is staying!” A self-created weight melted off my shoulders. “No—I saw no messages as I have been at work. Here I am not able to access online. I can bring it to heem tonight, or he can meet me here at work.” 

I chose to meet him eager to simply have the humble bifold in my pocket. Turns out he is doing at least two jobs, this second one in Methare, a very rough impoverished section of Nairobi. By chance it’s directly across from slums I have been within, because the non-profit Alfajiri holds their healing and empowerment workshops there. Certainly not an area one would choose to earn income, if one had options. He was very sincere and extremely apologetic as he handed me the vehicle of my lesson.  

I had my new driver deliver me to a local eatery and my energy-depleted body enjoyed a much-needed hearty meal. I ordered myself a celebratory Guinness, and sipped it as I pondered and smiled about the fascinating twists and turns of karmic fate in this most recent 72 hrs of my experience in this comical, mysterious human form.

​Being curious and open to learning allows travel to greatly expand one’s view. A side benefit is experiencing unique architecture. In Kenya, the Airbnbs offer an interesting mix of European expats’ aesthetics and the clean, indigenous design. I look for intriguing sites and “mix it up” by not staying in the same ones on every visit. I began this trip with one listed as Nairobi Treehouse. Because I’ve learned a few neighborhoods, I could see this was in a safe, reasonably convenient location for some of my planned excursions. 

It’s off a two-lane thoroughfare, Ruaka Rd., which I mention because I so enjoy the sound of the words here. Although my Swahili remains limited, I’m getting the hang of rolling my “Rs”, trilling my Os, and beginning to enunciate all “A’s” into short “O” sounds, in an effort to sound like a local. In addition there’s a special sing/song melodic sway to the phrasing, merging crisp British English and the joyful birdsong-like tones of Swahili.  Also in Swahili all vowels are sounded out. Hence “Ruaka Road” phonetically is Rrrooo-AH-kah Rrode, with a softly emphatic “Dh” on the end.

From Ruaka Rd. an unnamed dirt and gravel lane leads to this place (bounded by a local police substation property on one side and Cheleta Public School opposite). This estate shares a gate with one residence, and only one other home is on the lane, all built within the last few years. Each of these are within walled compounds (topped by barbed wire or electric fence) with another 24 hr guard allowing access. This is a norm for any “estate” throughout Kenya - physical reminders of the caste system. (Hard not to wonder if America may be similar in a generation or two.) The school nearby means that every time I await my rides I get the great pleasure of seeing hundreds of uniformed students with brightly shining faces eager to see the tall Muzungo, often clamoring to get a wave from me. It’s a toss up which of us enjoys the attention more!

All three estates are at the base of a 1/4 mile long drive. I like to walk to meet my rides because in addition to the kids, there’s often a troop of Sykes monkeys hanging out. Strangely they don’t seem to have them on the estate grounds, perhaps because there’s a Rottweiler and a Rhodesian Ridgeback roaming in the fenced yard(?). As is my norm with critters, we quickly befriended each other. There’s a few empty plots of land in sight, the one nearest my entry gate has a row of old concrete block buildings. I was told by the security guard Earnest that these were for coffee harvests and roasting, suggesting this land was farmland before these three estates were built. 

My lodging is in the rear corner of the large, neatly kept yard, private and very comfy. It’s an elevated structure on 8 ft. stilts, and surprisingly tall beyond that, wrapped in charcoal gray vertical metal siding. The side facing away from the main house has an amazing bank of five large windows, each 4 x 5 ft, as well as the standard glass-panned metal double door, also over-tall. Connected side and back decks overlook the flowing creek known as the Karura River, which is one of the defining borders of the important inner city preserve Karura Forest. 

This is a preserve I’ve often enjoyed, heroically saved from development by the Noble Peace Prize activist/biologist Waangari Mathai, who for this and other defiant conservation and social justice stands against the unlawful political dealings endured beatings and imprisonment. Day and night there’s virtually no city sounds and I can hear the soft percolating stream, and enjoy many little birds feeding on the abundant blooms in the yard. A cluster of metallic blue and lemon yellow, pollen-sipping hummingbirds routinely entertain me. 

The interior space of my airbnb is extraordinary. Roughly 20 x 24 ft, the ceiling is about 20 ft high, with a loft just big enough to accommodate the queen bed. The walls, floor, ceiling, cabinets, and built-in window tables are varnished plywood. There’s a sweet little wood stove (which I took advantage of on a couple of chilly mornings for heat and ambiance). The contrast of simple wood tones and vast glass wall set off a tasteful, simple modern style. All the furnishings are of clean, simple design. 

The owners/residents are an architect from Holland and his Romanian spouse. They live in the “big house” with two boys, and are my hosts. Twin homes with separate yards share the same style, and both are grand places. From the outside they appears have cathedral ceilings and also uses similar window walls across the entire backside, with broad verandas or porches. The front entries have clean slate gray-toned concrete staircases and walls, softened neatly by greenery, gorgeous flowers even in this relatively fallow season, and light radiating through windows and metal gates. There’s another large building off to the side (which I assume the staff uses), as well as a gatehouse at compound’s entry, and a broad, simple concrete fire pit in back yard, with manicured gardens all around. 

I make my way here food-wise by ordering basics from an organic grocer that delivers, enjoying foods as good or better than home for less cost, and eating out occasionally. The weather’s near perfect, 55-85 year round with a few months of wet & dry seasons. The geography and landscape are often breathtaking-taking. I find the people and their generous spirit, creativity, and quick sense of humor immensely appealing.

Yet amid all this beauty the contrasts of Kenya challenge me. It’s rapidly growing population struggling mightily to transform within a bustling wanna-be modern society. People from farmlands are flocking to urban centers, convinced they will find a “better” life via our conveniences, unaware of the trade-offs. I’m very doubtful we are more happy, and frankly suspect we’re far less. But how to convey this to one who has worked back-breaking manual labor for decades, eaten the same simple foods, lived in a spare structure with almost no possessions, and is now bombarded by the glitz and glamour of smart phones, modern advertisements and seductive technologies? 

Nairobi boasts slick skyscrapers, universities, open-air malls rivaling ours, nightclubs, fine eateries, tourist glam-safari trips, and penthouse apts. These are within view of great poverty and depravation, including several entrenched and huge slums. On roadsides everywhere there are just-surviving folks in subsistence shack shops, selling edible goods and crafts. Land Rovers and Mercedes SUVs share the roads with questionably road-worthy old vans packed to overflowing with locals. Driving includes awareness of ragged-clothed Boda-bodas (motorbike taxis) that zip between vehicles, and pedestrians hustling across roundabouts. In many areas of this city of 6-7 million, farmers are walking their herds of cattle or goat along the shoulders and onto edges of roadways as they’ve done for generations. 

Kenya’s exploding population and “kickback style” governance creates a struggling to catch-up infrastructure: there’s some decent roads (esp. the new Chinese built toll ways), but roads everywhere are worn with pot holes; a  shoddy electrical and Wi-Fi grid challenges businesses and modern life; public schools are barely-supported; and there are few social safety nets. An entrenched and maddeningly-slow bureaucracy, and corrupt police and “officials” at all levels of govt. stifle the transition from village ways a few generations ago into a modernized society. Like too many nations on this huge mineral and resource-rich continent, Kenya is ripe for manipulation by foreign and corporate interests, with the big three (USA, China, and Russia) all eager to access her inherent wealth. 

The immense natural beauty of the Kenyan lands and people is intermixed with a society hallmarked by the vast economic disparity, spurred by wanton pilfering, hoarding or waste, and hovering vultures after her resources. The economic class split here is impossible to not see. It’s a source of inner tension for me. I do my best to stay humble and kind, and try not to impose western arrogance into my discussions with Kenyans. 

It’s encouraging to hear most Kenyans I engage with see clearly the causes of their circumstances. This at least gives me some hope for their future. Young adults and students are protesting the very corrupt govt (and being ruthlessly shot, “disappeared” or imprisoned) by a new President who campaigned on “anti-corruption” and, as one driver told me only half way ointments his first term is already ranked #1 or #2 as “most corrupt leader in the world.” (Take note, Americans!) The educated classes want to shake off the vestiges of colonialism, and there’s a slowly emerging middle class. All I interact with ache for a less corrupt, viable democracy. 

Yet they must do so while battling the poisonous seeds of selfish modern life that helped foster the current mess. Considering what the USA’s Clown Prince and his Goons are doing to my own democratic republic, Kenyans and I find ourselves in similar boats flowing along the currents of our contemporary world. I hope a few of us are able to navigate these rough waters to safe shore.