MY TRAVELS IN EAST AFRICA

                     TRAVELS THROUGH KENYA 1989
LONDON.

Racism  is  endemic  in  London.  The  British Empire has created
a  situation where, after colonizing India, Africa, the Caribbean
and  Hong  Kong,  the place is flooded with Pakistanis, Africans,
West  Indians  and  Chinese.   All  this  is what makes London so
exciting-  at  the  very  least  there  are  some  decent  ethnic
restaurants  available,  but  it  drives  the Anglo-Saxons up the
wall.

ITEM:  A  Pakistani  was  making  a perfectly legal right turn in
St.  Jame's  Park,  when  an  Anglo-Saxon on a bicycle, wandering
on  the  wrong  side of the street, ran into him. Both were going
slowly,  and  the  Pakistani's  car  merely  brushed  against the
Anglo's  leg.  The  Anglo  was incensed. "Are you fucking blind?"
he  screamed.  The  Paki  took  off, but not before the Anglo had
smashed  his fist on the boot of the other's car. Two Very Proper
Englishmen,   complete   with  umbrellas  and  bowlers,  who  had
witnessed  the  scene,  after  a  second's conversation, took off
like  lightning  in  search  of a Bobby, gesticulating accusingly
at the now disappeared Pakistani, who had done nothing illegal.

ITEM: A Pakistani lady, owner of a news agency, refused to change
a  50-pound  note for  two cigarette packs purchased by an Anglo.
It was  6  am  and  the  lady  had just opened, and therefore had
no change.   "I   don't  have  any  change,  luv,"   yelled   the  
man impatiently.  When  the  lady  protested  she  didn't either,
he screamed;  "Here's  your bloody cigarettes,  you  fucking wog,
give me my money" and stormed out.

ITEM:  On  British  Airways,  the  attendant served dinner to the
passengers,  skipping  a Kenyan, who was asleep. After the plates
had  been  picked  up, the African awoke and demanded his dinner.
The attendant, instead of bringing the dinner, called the purser,
who  started  screaming  at  the  African  that  he  "couldn't be
wakened,  that  he had been sleeping with a blanket over his head
(the  air  conditioning was on full blast), and that "he'd better
stop  acting  that  way  or  he would get into trouble." The meal
was  brought,  but  not  before  the  African had been humiliated
and treated like a child.

NAIROBI.

Every  city  has  its  own  smell,  from smog-ridden Los Angeles,
to  spicy  Tijuana.  Nairobi,  too, has its own ineffable quality
that  bespeaks  East  Africa.  Start with the pristine air, spray
a  dash  of  curry,  squirt  a  bit of wood smoke from the nearby
hills,  laden  with  aromatic  resin, add a soupcon of that sweet
smell  people have, top it off with a permeation of wild jasmine,
and  you get the idea. Nairobi bustles and hustles with an energy
lacking  in  Southern  California.  It  is  replete with cars and
throngs.  To  cross  the  street,  you must first make a Faustian
pact  with  the  devil;  "Spare me and you can have me." Everyone
drives on the left side, so they come at you while you're looking
the  other  way.  The  ebony  crowds scowl until you speak, and a
friendly  Swahili  greeting  is  returned  a  thousandfold with a
bright  smile  and  impeccable  teeth. People dress modestly, yet
fashionably.  No  nudity  here,  worse  luck.  There is no racial
discrimination,  since  no  one  is  denied entry or consort, but
there are rigid class lines, the seeds of future strife.

At  the  top remain the English. The banks and most international
capital  are  in  their  hands;  profits  without the bother of a
colonial  administration.  The  administration of the country has
fallen  to  Kenyatta's  heirs,  around whom a cult of personality
is  growing.  This is their opportunity to get rich, but a price,
that  of  keeping the bureaucracy reasonably well fed and housed.
The  whole government bureaucracy are African. The lower echelons
are hanging by their fingernails lest they slip out of the middle
class  as  a result of inflation and shilling devaluation. Better
off  than  these  petty  bureaucrats,  but  not  members  of  the
exclusive  Club,  are  the  Asians,  a mix of Hindus and Moslems,
Indians  and  Arabs.  Their  beautiful  daughters  attend private
schools, maybe even in England. The Asians are found to be owning
every  single  shop.  The  Exclusive  Club are a mixed lot, often
in  conflict  with   one  another.  The  Americans have succeeded
with  military  bases to put their finger in the pie, but Britain
is not about to hand over its influence and profits to the Yanks.
Following close behind are the Germans and the Japanese.

Next  in  line  are  the wawanchi, the people. Doing backbreaking
work for a pittance, they are found in town and country, wherever
manual  labor is required, often under the heel of hateful Asians
or  Europeans, who seem to have no idea that Colonialism is over.
Should  they  lose their pitiful jobs (at $40 a month), they have
no  choice  but  theft  or  prostitution,  thus  giving rise to a
repressive  police  State (the infamous Youth Wingers), dedicated
to the protection of private property and "morality."

In  1959,  Michael  Blundell,  the  leader of the racist European
Settlers  in  Kenya,  said  in  a  speech  that Kenya needed "the
ability  and  integrity  of  the  Europeans,  the adaptability of
the  African,  the  thrift and industry of the Muslim and Indian,
and  the  tolerance  and experience of the Arab", to which Oginga
Odinga,  then  in  the  Legislative  Council,  retorted that "Mr.
Blundell  wants  a  Kenya  where  the  Europeans govern, Africans
follow,  Asians  supply  the  wealth  and the Arabs sit musing in
tolerance."1  After  Independence little has changed, except that
Africans  run  the  government  and Monopoly Capitalist Europeans
hold the big money purse strings.

Mirella  Ricciardi,  a  Kenyan  born writer of an Italian family,
said  it  best;  ".  .  .the  indelible stamp of British Colonial
rule  has  survived  in  Kenya  and in Government House. Only the
pigment  has  changed;  the  pomp and ceremony remain essentially
British.  In  the  law  courts, white wigs now frame black faces,
but  the  High  Court  judges  continue  to  be  English. . .with
apparent  ease  and  confidence  the  black  government officials
endorsed the habits of their white oppressor. The African slipped
into  the  white  man's  role  and  a new type of colonialism was
born.'2

Currently  "A  Fish  Called Wanda" is playing at the 20th Century
Cinema. When Otto says to John Cleese, "You English. You pompous,
hypocritical,  smug  dickheads." the African audience howled with
laughter  and  recognition.  Colonialism is a two-way street, and
it   takes    a   colonized   mind   to   accept   the   imagined
superiority  of  others.  Kenyans  are  still too polite to fully
take  over  the  running  of  their country. The irony is that it
takes  a  British  film  to  touch a nerve on what everyone knows
and  no  one  dare utter, namely that English (and other foreign)
capital  must  become  Kenyan  capital,  and  that the money must
be  used  to  guarantee jobs, housing, education and medical care
for every citizen.

My  mother  once told me an apocryphal story of an African tribal
chief  who  would  stuff  himself  with garlic and beans. Then he
would  summon  his  courtiers  and  emit  long, smelly farts. The
courtiers,  if  they  knew  what was good for them, would breathe
deeply  to  get  rid  of  the  smell.  Coincidentally, there is a
Swahili  saying,  "Shuzi  la  tajiri halinuki"; a rich man's fart
does  not  smell.  This  is  an  apt description of life in Kenya
today.  The  heads of government can do no wrong. The president's
picture  is  in  every shop, even every minuscule roadside stand,
and  may  not  be  removed  on  pain of jail or fine. Streets are
named  after  him, and everyone, citizens and non-citizens alike,
are  required  to  stand  in  his  presence, even when he is only
on  the  screen  at  the movies, where his appearance is preceded
by the National Anthem and Flag, for good measure.

He  is  beyond  criticism.  The  road to Limuru, where he has one
of  his  houses,  is  in  excellent condition, whereas others are
not. Shuzi la tajiri halinuki.

A  friend,  David Obed Sande, had to go to his probation officer,
and  I  went  with  him.  Obed's  crime had been to shyly ask for
payment  of  his  services  from  his employer, and Indian woman.
She  had  put  him  in  jail, (!) where he was beaten. There were
never any charges filed. When we arrived at the imposing District
Commissioner's  office,  there  was  a  small  room  with a still
smaller   bench   for   the   people  who  were waiting for their
P.O.   Two Gikuyu women were sitting, three Luo men were standing
by  the  window  (there  was no more room to sit), and two Luhyas
were  by  the  door. Obed, a Luhya, easily fell into conversation
with  them.  I loaned him a Drum magazine, and the others thought
nothing  of taking it from him without asking. They gave it back,
of  course,  but  it  was as if they were family. The Gikuyu, Luo
and  Luhya  languages  were  interrupted  by  a social worker who
asked  in  Swahili what each person had come for. She then turned
to   me   and   automatically  asked  me  in English, "May I help
you?"  When  she  spoke  to  the Africans her face was severe and
her  tone  rough,  but  when she spoke to me she smiled and spoke
softly.

Obed  wanted  to write down his P.O.'s name (a different one from
last  time),  and  I  lent  him a pen. He started to write on the
shiny  cover  of  the  magazine, and I suggested that he write on
the  inside  where  the  ink  would take better. The Luo standing
next  to  him  could  bear it no longer and spoke roughly to him.
"Write  it  on  the inside. What's the matter with you? Can't you
remember  a  simple  name  like  Mwangi?"  He  fell  silent. Some
Africans  are  ashamed  of  their  brothers,  and cannot stand to
see them make the simplest mistake in front of a European.

Obed  has to go 3 more times, a total of twelve. He told me later
the  P.O.  suggested  he  "pay for his lunch" and he would cancel
the  remaining  visits.  Obed  refused,  not because he wouldn't,
but  because  "lunch"  would  be too costly. The bureaucrats have
nice,  new  little  houses  in  the  suburbs,  medical  care  and
pensions,  but  their  salary doesn't cover their life style. The
public has to make up the difference.

I  have  learned  a  lot  about  what people think, since English
is  one  of  the two official languages, but this is an illusion.
Only  a local language speaker can penetrate the private thoughts
of  his group, only an African, only a member of his tribe. There
is  something unfathomable, atavistic, but it is there. Something
that  goes  back a  million years, something an outsider can
only guess at.

Kenya  as  a  country  has  detribalized  many groups. Instead of
being  Gikuyu,  Luo,  Hindu,  Kissi, all are Kenyans. In the same
way,  Swahili  has  detribalized  them. All are Swahili speakers,
whatever  else  they  may  speak.  English  is  reserved  for the
educated, the bourgeois, the European. Swahili is for the masses.
Because  of  its  class  character,  English is as much a barrier
as a form of communication.

Other  barriers  exist.  The  Masai  occupied  the  rich  central
highlands  for  centuries,  until  displaced  by the Gikuyu. When
the  Europeans  came,  the majority of these fertile Gikuyu lands
were  appropriated  by  the Whites. The struggle for Kenya (there
is  no  such  word  as  Mau-Mau,  a  disparaging word invented by
the  Whites--the  official  name  of  the guerrillas was Land and
Freedom)  was  the  struggle  to  recuperate  the Highlands. When
the  Africans  achieved  victory, it was the Gikuyu who recovered
their  lands,  and  who,  as  a  product of Mission schools, then
later  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  were  in  a position to take over
government  administration.  This  did  not  endear them to their
ancient  enemies the Masai, nor to the Luo, the largest minority,
many  who  fought  bravely for Independence and who received less
afterward.  By  playing  one  group  against another, the British
colonials assured themselves control even after Independence.

I  was walking through the Nairobi Hilton, between Watalii Street
and  Mama  Ngina,  when a friendly voice hailed me. He was young,
attractive,  well  dressed.  "Hello,"  he  asked,  "where are you
from?"  Lack  of guile. "Los Angeles," I replied. "Would you like
to  go  for  a  cup  of tea?  We can talk about your country, and
I  can  tell you about mine." Sounds like the perfect high school
text  book,  I thought,   probably  wants to be a tourist guide.
"I'm  from  the  University."  Well  and good. But why get tea so
far  away?  Cross  City  Hall  Way,  down Aga Khan walk, past the
Nairobi  Cinema.  Just  a  little  farther, he reassured me. When
we  arrived  at  the  elegant  chai  house, I saw why. Two others
were waiting, definitely waiting. They jumped up politely, warmly
shook  hands.  What  the  hell.  An  adventure.  I  was ready for
anything.  "Mr.  Kimani,"  introduced  my  new found friend. "Mr.
Omboga. I am David Mugambi." The amenities over, we sat down.

David  started  in  right away.  "We are University students from
South  Africa.  We  have  arrived  in  Kenya  illegally,  but the
religious  group that has interceded for us, and the government,
have given us permission for a limited stay."

I  looked  at  Kimani,  sitting across from me. Good looking, not
tall,  older.  Slouching  in  a confident, relaxed manner. Omboga
seemed  a  little  bit  more  tense, more hunched over the table.
Dark chocolate. No café au lait here.

We ordered tea.

David  continued,  "We  are  fighting  against apartheid, and had
to   leave  clandestinely.  The  African  National  Congress  has
interceded for us, working with the church."

The  ANC?  I  was  impressed.  "All we want is to get back to our
country  to  a  free  South  Africa," his voice quivered, "but we
are  facing  exile.  The  church  has  looked  around to find the
cheapest  passage  out  of here. We are trying to get to Djibouti
by sailing up the coast."

"What were you studying in South Africa?"

"I was studying engineering," replied David without hesitation.

"Political  science,"  volunteered  Omboga.  "At  the  University
of Wirtwatersland."

WirtwatersLAND?

The  Gikuyu,  like  the  Chinese,  have trouble with the "r". The
University  of  Wirtwatersrand  is  famous  enough to be familiar
to many people. I studied my hosts. Or were they my guests?

Limuru,  Mwangi,  other names here were no different than theirs.
Faces.  Dark,  roundish,  slight of build. Not the reddish Masai,
not  the  tall  Nilotes  of  the  north, certainly not Zulu. What
were Gikuyu doing in South Africa?
I looked at David's round open face and waited.

"The  church  has  helped us all it can," he continued earnestly,
but it can do no more. The government has given us until tomorrow
to  leave  the  country  or  it  will put us in jail. We need 400
dollars to buy the boat tickets. It sails tonight."

A  silence  fell  over  the  table.  They didn't quite hold their
breath,   but   this  was  Academy  Award  time.  Had  they  been
convincing?  Was  this  European  as  dumb as he looked? They got
up  every  morning,  agreed  on a plan, dressed fastidiously, and
went  to  work.  In  a  land of 40% unemployment, a man had to be
creative to make a living.

If  I  had  had  thousands, I would have been tempted. A labourer
makes  40  dollars  a  month.  Four  hundred, if you are rich, is
not  that much.  All I had, however, much to their accursed luck,
was enough for the tea.

MOMBASA.

On  the  way  to  the  airport  the driver kept complaining about
the chuckholes in the road. "I guess President Moi doesn't live
on  this  road,"  I  said.  He  laughed so hard I thought we were
going  to  have an accident. At the entrance to the airport there
was a statue of a Rhino with the legend, "My horn is my dilemma,"
and a box asking for donations.

The plane was going to be three hours late. Everybody immediately
queued up to make telephone calls, but no phone worked. I finally
called  from a travel agency. A young man offered me a cigarette.
Since  we  had  three  hours,  we decided to spend them together.

His  name was Neil, born in Kenya, currently in Form A in London.
He  had lived two years in Houston. We all trooped into the first
class  restaurant  for  a  free meal overlooking the airport. The
people  next  to  us  were French. Neil hated Kenya and wanted to
get  back  to  London  as  soon  as possible. The West End, Soho,
the  birds.  I  told  him  about  the racism I had witnessed, and
he  agreed,  but this made no difference. He was going to Mombasa
to visit relatives, but only out of duty. Finally the loudspeaker
announced;   Kenya  Airlines  Flight  457  leaving  for  Mombasa,
Khartoum  and  Cairo at gate three." We boarded in a strong wind.
When  the  plane  took  off  it  leaned  this  way and that and I
wondered aloud to Neil if the pilot were not an unemployed matatu
driver.3

If  Nairobi  is  puritanical,  Mombasa  is Sodom and Gomorrah. As
soon  as  I  looked  out  the  plane window I knew I was going to
like  it.  It  looked  just  like  Acapulco. Neil trundled me off
to an airport bus and spoke to the driver, a Hindu, in a language
new  to  me.  I asked him what it was, and he said something like
Chapati,  which  couldn't  have  been  right,  since a chapati is
a  tortilla.4  I  got  off  at  the  Castle  Hotel  and  began my
adventure.

The  hotel  was  30  dollars  a night for a single. This included
2  beds,  air  conditioning,  color  TV, complete bath, telephone
and  verandah.  Outside  were  bougainvillea,  banana  plants and
a baobab tree. The restaurant is on the ground floor and services
an   outdoor   cafe   under   a   hanging  roof.  At  tables  are
self-conscious  Europeans  and even more self-conscious Africans.
After a good night's rest I got out of there fast, not forgetting
to  take  my  daily  malaria  pills.  I moved to a hotel down the
street  for  ten  dollars  a  single and no Europeans. There is a
little  park  with  a  mosque on one corner, and as I stepped out
in  the  evening  the  Muezzin was calling to prayer. I got goose
bumps.

Mombasa  is  straight out of the Arabian Nights. Sloe-eyed Moslem
women  walk  about,  veiled  to the chin, their silks fluttering.
Hindu  women  walk  about  showing  their  navels. Men wear robes
and  turbans.  All  are  totally  friendly.  Along Digo Road is a
shop  that  mixes exotic perfumes from the East. A little further
I  found  a  public  market, just like the one in Aguascalientes.
I crossed it and came into the Medina.

El  Medina  is  the  Arab  quarter.  From one point of view it is
a slum, from another it is the beloved barrio of several thousand
people.  Originally  built partly as a defense against Portuguese
invasion,  the  streets  are  one  meter  to  three  meters wide.
Overhanging  balconies  are  carved so that householders can look
out  and  not  be seen, silver shops, textiles, old people, young
bearded  Moslems,  all  appear  and  disappear around corners and
through  alleys as if parts of a dream. Music of Asia Minor fills
the  air,  along  with  spices and frying lunches. Trying to make
my  way  through  the  labyrinth,  I wound up where I started, at
the   Aga  Khan  library.  I  tried  again and after half an hour
and a few hundred yards I finally reached it -- the Indian Ocean!
Lapis  Lazuli  blue,  with  a  steady  stream of white caps and a
refreshing  breeze  that  never  let  up.  This  is certainly the
Koranic  paradise.  Making  my  way among the trees (hanging with
eight-inch  spiders)  I  finally  came  to  Fort  Jesus,  and the
tourists once more.

By  this  time I was ready for the heavenly coffee6 and something
that  sounded  like chicken chapati7, chicken marinated in chiles
and roasted over coals. Most tourists were now asleep and Mombasa
was  coming  into  its own. Warm nights, cool breezes, shimmering
lights  in  the  distance. Young people walking about looking for
something  to  get  into,  some  so  black in the night they were
invisible  except  when  they  smiled  an eager "jambo", "umzuri"
or  "salama".  Some  exquisite  Moslem  prostitutes with penciled
eyebrows,  who  had traded their traditional black veils for gold
lamé  and  saffron  silk,  stood  on the corner and waited. A car
full  of  Moslem  youth came driving along slowly, the boys wide-
eyed  and  practically  salivating.  A  nineteen year old African
wanted  to  "escort"  me to the discos, or sell me some bhang for
ten  shillings.  Tourists  might  balk at walking among thugs and
hashishin,  but  I  ask  them;  Would  you rather walk around the
lower  East  Side at midnight?" Give me Mombasa any time. I could
walk around until dawn.

Next  day  I had breakfast (included) on the roof garden and went
back  to  my  room  to  look out the window, as everyone else was
doing.  Across  is  an  apartment  building  inhabited by Hindus.
A  family  of  huge crows lives on the roof, and they immediately
spotted  the  Masala  sticks  I  was  eating (shoestring potatoes
fried  with  sugar  and  chile). I fed them a while. An old White
egg man came to deliver eggs to the Franco-Swiss bakery opposite.
He  must  have  been  here through Independence, I guessed, owned
a  ranch,  refused  to  give  it  all up, and became one with the
masses.  Just  one  more  person  among the color and variety. He
had  a  beat  up  truck  in  which he delivered the eggs, neither
richer  nor  poorer  than  any  other small merchant. He survived
at the price of giving up his privileges.

It  was  time  for a quick visit to the perfume man, and to catch
an  airport  bus.  At  the  airport  I met Daniel Ngala, a midget
with  a  normal  sized  torso  and  a lovely smile. He ostensibly
was  part  of  a  clean-up crew, but found it more interesting to
talk to me. I promised to write.

Kenya  is  a  young  country  on the threshold of maturity. There
is  a  new  synthesis  arising  out of the extraordinary richness
of  it  culture  and  peoples.  The  process is not easy. Kenya's
foremost writer, Ngugi Wa Thiongo, now in exile for his outspoken
criticism of the government, put it this way:


          For  (the  people  of  Kenya)  the  quest for relevance
          is  not  a  call  for  isolationism,  but a recognition
          that  national liberation is the basis of an internati-
          onalization  of  all  democratic  and  social struggles
          for  human  equality,  justice, peace and progress. For
          them,  the  neo-colonialist  state  is  the negation of
          Africa's   progress  and  development.  The  defeat  of
          imperialism    and   neo-colonialism   and   hence  the
          liberation  of  natural  and  human  resources  and the
          entire  productive  forces  of the nation, would be the
          beginning  of  Africa's  real progress and development.
          The  national,  viewed  from  the  needs and activities
          of  the majority-peasants and workers- is the necessary
          base  for  a  take-off  into the world of the twentieth
          and    twenty-first    centuries,   the   international
          democratic and socialist community of tomorrow.8




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