Wednesday, September 17, 2014

A year later....Westgate revisited

Today marks the 1 year anniversary of my arrival to Nairobi. Mike and the kids had been in Nairobi for some time before I arrived, so it was just me and the baby. It's a tough transition to have to endure as it is, but only 4 days after arriving, a terrible terrorist attack happened. Below I have attached an essay I wrote as my personal experience: "The Day of Westgate" We are reliving this day because the one year anniversary is coming up and HBO recently released a documentary on that terrible event, which we've now watched and I can't help but feel thankful, angry, relieved and so so sad. We were in that mall just an hour before the attack started with our 4 children, one of whom was only 2 months old. It is such a scary feeling to think what if... but also to think of all the people who have suffered from this event.

The Day of Westgate:
Arriving home, she stomps up the stairs and calls down to her husband, “I just need a nap.”  It was a long night with the baby and she hasn’t quite recovered from the 32-hour journey from Arizona. The days have been long and the nights even longer.
Her husband enters the bedroom apologetically, “There was a shooting in the mall we were just at. I might have to go to work, I’m sorry.”
Rolling over, she pulls the covers off and glances at the time; it’s only been 20 minutes since they arrived home.
Padding down the stairs, the baby is crying and the TV is on full blast, she feels more annoyed. “What happened?” she huffs as she walks into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water that is sitting on the counter.
“They say it was a robbery,” he responds.
Her husband receives the phone call, yes he has to go to work, which leaves her to set up for guests arriving, none of whom she knows and play hostess on less than four hours of sleep.
The house is prepared; food is set out, the beer is the cooler, the doors are open wide to let air in and her kids are running around outside.
 “Do you think anyone will come?” she asks.
“I sent an e-mail explaining that I had to bail out, but people were still welcome to come.”
This was not the answer she wanted to hear. She relied on her husband in social situations, how could he expect her to host a party without him? Her annoyance level increased as he walked out the door and drove off. She could see dark clouds in the distance, maybe there will be another storm; the weather has been so dreary since she arrived.
The kids are happy in the yard and it’s now 30 minutes past the posted start time of her Welcome Party, an appropriate time to pour a glass of wine and check the news online as no one has arrived yet, perhaps no one will come. The police are asking people to stay away from the mall and the Embassy has sent an urgent message asking people to shelter in place. The knot in her stomach is growing, but not from the fear of hosting a social gathering; the news coming out of the mall is that terrorists have taken over and have hostages.
She looks out the window to watch the dark clouds roll in and spies her first guest, on his cell phone, holding a bottle of wine. He has a little girl in tow, must be the neighbor from across the street. The kids run through the house screaming excitedly.
Throughout the evening more guests come in and out of the house, welcoming her to her new home. “Sorry you got here at such a horrible time,” was the typical thing people said. Wandering from one conversation to another, all the talk was about what was happening.
“My co-workers wife was shot, she didn’t make it.”
“I hear there are 20 people in there with guns.”
While most people are being chatty, no one is without their phone, checking the internet, receiving phone calls from worried family members and friends.
Before the end of the party the computer starts making a noise. “I think that’s your Skype,” someone calls to her.
She approaches the computer with a guilty feeling, she wanted to answer and talk, especially since most of the people around were on their phones, but she was host and knew it’d be inappropriate. She ignores the call and sees her guests off.
Once everyone has left and the children are in bed, she walks through the house locking it up and turning on all the lights. Her husband is still at work and doesn’t know when he’ll be home.
Sitting at the computer she reads the news for hours. The longer she reads, the more she can put the timeline of events together; it seems that the sleep she so longed for got them out 10 minutes before gunmen entered the parking lot and started shooting. Her heart is heavy with grief for those who are suffering inside the mall and out.
She turns out the lights and walks up the stairs; it feels like a hike up a mountain, the events of the day have left her exhausted.
After checking on each kid and giving them a kiss she checks her phone, her husband called to say he would be coming home around 2 a.m., it’s only 10 p.m.  She sinks into her bed, letting the day’s events run through her mind as she falls asleep, the fan in the background and a light breeze blowing through the window.
She wakes with a start, it’s her phone ringing. Her husband is locked out of the house. “I’m in the backyard, can you let me in?”
Walking into the backyard she notices that it rained while she slept. The air is fresh and cool and everything in the yard is damp. The wind blows her hair gently. Her husband looks up from his phone, “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she says looking down at her pajamas and  sits down on a chair near him.
He lights a cigarette, the first she’s seen him smoke in over a year. “There will be a meeting tomorrow to determine if we will become a voluntary evacuation post.”
She gives him a serious look, “I won’t leave.”
“I didn’t think so, I just wanted you to know,” he says. “I have to go back in early tomorrow.”
Knowingly, she stands up and walks up the dark stairs.
 As he settles into bed he pulls her close, hugs her tight and kisses her head.

Lying in his arms, she forgets the anger she’d felt earlier in the day over her lack of sleep. They fall asleep, thankful to be alive and together.

This essay was written just after the event. With an educated timeline, we now know we left the mall at least 45 minutes to an hour before the attack happened. 

Below you will see a picture taken from our house of the mall burning and also a picture of the book our son made for himself. He was 6 at the time and I decided I'd rather have him home until everything was resolved, he took it upon himself to make a picture book out of the stories he was hearing.

View from our guest room. The siege was 4 days...

Finn is a smart boy and this is what he came up with to deal with what he was hearing and feeling



Thursday, September 11, 2014

Camel Derby, Maralal, Samburu, Kenya

My lovely husband has taken to my new job as the post newsletter editor and CLO admin, so much so that he provided a story of our most recent adventure here in Kenya...This is the unedited version. Enjoy :)


Even before moving to Kenya, I had heard about an annual camel race in Maralal, a sun-baked, dusty outpost in the Northern Frontier District. It sounded, fun, exotic, and sightly preposterous. I decided I would check it out if I got the chance. 
There was virtually no information about the 2014 edition of the race. I wasn't even sure it was going to happen until a week before, when finally an inn-keeper in Maralal confirmed the dates for me through e-mail. It  wasn't much to go on, but I didn't care. I was somehow able to convince my long-suffering wife to agree to the trip, and on Aug. 29 we piled our four kids into the car to make the five and half hour journey north to Maralal.
It was a nice, smooth ride for about four hours, until we passed Nyahururu and the tarmac road abruptly ended. We kept bouncing down the dirt road for a while, and then - to my great surprise, considering we were in one of the most drought-stricken areas of Kenya - the skies opened up and started dumping rain on us. Although there were only about four other vehicles on the whole 150 km stretch of road, they all immediately got stuck in the mud. On a single-lane road, that's a problem. Everybody got themselves unstuck eventually, but the delay cost us a couple of hours and we didn't roll into Maralal until it was almost dark. I then made the rookie mistake of asking a random Boda Boda driver if he knew the way to our campsite. He led us on a wild tour of seemingly every corner of Maralal, before finally admitting defeat and puttering away in the rain. Somehow, we finally found the campsite and pitched our tent. That night at about 2 AM, in the cold and rain, with my 1-year-old boy screaming his head off in the tent, my wife looked at me with pure hate and said "I am never going $#&@ camping ever again!" It was a real family bonding moment.
In the morning we got up early and drove down to the actual site of the camel derby. I still had no idea what to expect. What I found was a poop-strewn enclosure with about two dozen filthy camels and about the same number of nervous looking expats who were all probably having the same second-thoughts I was. Yet, insanely, we all agreed to pay 5000 shillings for the privilege of humiliating ourselves in the 10 KM race. Having never ridden a camel or spent any time around these beasts, I was a little put off by how irritable and mean-tempered they seemed. Plus, the sounds they were making were horrific, kind of like gargling and vomiting at the same time. Nevertheless, I mounted up and we were led over to the starting line.
By this point a good portion of Maralal town had come out to watch. Most folks were in their traditional Samburu outfits - big beaded necklaces on the ladies, bright cloaks and daggers on the guys. They seemed to be getting a big kick out of watching us try to control our unruly camels. The governor of Samburu appeared, and gave a little speech for the TV cameras. Then he started to give a dramatic countdown: 10, 9, 8 . . .  But before he got past 7 all the camels erupted across the starting line in a wild, grunting stampede. 
I didn't know what I was doing but I figured if I just held on tight I would do okay. Plus, every camel rider also had a young guy running behind him swatting the camel's behind with a stick to get him to go faster. Truthfully, these guys were the only athletes in the race, since they had to run the whole 10km.
After a few kilometers, me and my camel were starting to get into a nice rhythm. I decided to stand up in the stirrups the whole way, instead of sitting in the saddle and having my butt and other important areas smashed to bits. This seemed to work pretty well, and we started gaining speed. At first, I only entered the race for the novelty of it, but suddenly the thought popped into my head: "I can win this God-damned camel derby!"  
We passed through the center of Maralal town where people on the streets watched us pass by with only the faintest interest. "Oh, it's that time of year again when stupid Wazungus ride through town on camels."
As we rounded the town traffic circle and came out on a long straight-away heading for the finish line, I was feeling confident. There were two camels ahead of me, but I thought I had a chance of catching them. But then my camel started to tucker out. I called out to a bunch of school kids sitting by the side of the road to come help. They came running over shouting encouragement and my camel started to perk back up. For the next couple of kilometers I ran with an entourage of about 20 kids, plus a guy on a motorcycle constantly beeping his horn to inspire us (or maybe just to be a jerk).
I was getting close to the finish line, but by this point I could tell that the two camels ahead of me were too far off to catch. "Well," I thought, "I'm still in medal contention." Third place would still be pretty good. But just then a riderless camel came galloping past me on the left-hand side. It was really moving fast. I was wondering what had become of the rider when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a motorcycle come roaring up with an expat woman on the seat behind the driver. She had a race bib safety-pinned to her shirt, meaning she was one of the contestants. It was the old switcheroo - she had dismounted way back at KM 2 and was planning to jump back on just before the finish line. 
I was calling her every filthy name in the book to no avail, but luckily when the motorcycle pulled over and she tried to re-mount her camel, it refused to move. Good sportsman, that camel!
So now third place seemed right within my grasp. I was in the home-stretch. I could hear the roar of the crowd as the finish line grew closer. I was almost there, but behind me I could hear another rider on my heels, gaining fast. We were neck and neck for a moment. It was a duel. I shouted encouragement into my camel's ear and we seemed to pull ahead. I looked over and saw my wife and kids on the sidelines, faces beaming as my moment of glory approached. The finish line was there . . . 
And then my camel decided to stop moving. I screamed, pleaded, and cried, but nothing worked. He just stood there as the rider who had been behind us came rushing past and crossed the finish line to a huge roar of applause. I couldn't believe it. I had come so close!  Eventually, some dude grabbed the reigns and dragged my camel across the finish line. No one seemed to notice. Bummer.
Ultimately, of course, I could give two craps that I didn't win the race. It was a lot of fun regardless, and something I'll always remember. If you are interested in participating in the Maralal Camel Derby, start searching for info next year around July. The derby almost always takes place in mid-late August. Even if you only go to watch and not participate, it's still worth it. Samburu culture is fascinating, and the landscape around that part of Kenya is incredible. 

Camels don't seem to like having riders, but Maggie didn't care, she was riding that thing!

Our 4th place daddy!




As the sky's opened up.