A Scary Escalator

Airports. Its amazing to look around airports, especially in Africa. All colors, shapes, ages and sizes. Different traditional and urban clothing. You wonder where people are going. Where were they are coming from. And you wonder their story. At the Nairobi airport recently I checked in for an early am flight. In the passport control area there was a Somali Family of about 12. They represented all generations, a young baby, toddlers, a young couple, mother, father, grandmother and grand father. They were dressed in nice robes and traditional wear. You could tell they were wearing their best clothes. Two young boys, one about 3 years old and the other 8 were dressed in crisp shiny suits. One of them silver and the other gold.

The 8 year old and his father and another sibling passed through the passport check point. The father got on the escalator to go to the gate area and the 8 year old boy stopped at the bottom. The boy looked in freight at the escalator and slowly stepped forward. As the stairs pulled him forward, he leaned backwards and nearly fell on his back. Legs in the air, he shuffled back quickly to safe ground and stared up at the silver moving stairs. He tried once more with great trepidation, but nearly fell again and quickly backed away. The escalator to the right was broken, not moving, yet the boy had no idea whether it would suddenly start, so walking up these stairs was not an option. His father looked down from the top urging him to get on, waving his arms and shouting instructions, but the boy would not move. He was shaking and tears welled up in his eyes. I was behind the passport check point so could not assist. Finally his dad walked down the other side, and they walked up the broken escalator together.

The rest of the family was going through the passport check point, and after getting my passport stamped the grandfather, the 3 year old in the silver suit and a young girl probably age five approached the escalator. The girl had a shiny gold dress with gold pants underneath. I asked the grandfather if he needed my help, he nodded. The young girl looked up at me with big brown eyes, put her little hand in mind, and together we stepped on the escalator. It was like pulling a child onto a chairlift, I lifted her onto the stair and then at the top did the same. She stood still on the entire ride, looking forward with her eyes wide open. At the bottom however, her brother was petrified of this moving snake. There was no way he was getting on and he cried in terror. I waited at the top with the young girl, as the grandfather gave up on the moving escalator and pulled the young crying boy up the broken escalator. At the top, I handed over the young girl, and we parted ways.

Where were they going? Where had they come from? Often times you see families like this moving, but they did not carry a lot of baggage, so it appeared that they were on some sort of a trip. But then again, how had they arrived having not encountered an escalator. I will never know their story, but what I do know is there are still so many people living so remotely in this world that the site of an escalator brings one to tears.

Living in Extremes

Kenya had one of the worst droughts last year. Approximately 10 million people were facing critical food shortage, the country was rationing electricity and water, and the Kenya Wildlife Service was bulldozing dead animals out of Parks because it was unpleasant for tourists. Small businesses went under because they could not afford generators, tourism lodges laid off thousands of employees because of lack of occupancy, pastoralists moved and fought over grasslands for their livestock, and security issues increased as unemployed and hungry people turned to crime for money. Flying over the landscape during the drought the soils were cracked and hard panned, trees crispy, grass non-existent, and the river beds dry. People and wildlife suffered. The implications of drought are complex and impact every aspect of society: businesses; tourism; crops; electricity; health; and the environment.

When the rains came in April, everyone celebrated. Thank goodness—finally. The earth was in desperate need for water. However, the rains have been so severe, it is crippling the country. Traffic has come to a standstill. Crops washed away. Power is often out. Floods have blanketed the country, washing away people’s homes and even lodges. The massive amount of water accelerates the spread of disease, as hygiene becomes problematic. Like drought the implications of massive amounts of water all at once is complex and permeates all parts of society. Our house girl pays twice as much to get home because the traffic is so bad; therefore, public transport matatus and buses charge more. Young livestock cannot survive such wet climate, seeds are washed out of the fields, people are homeless and business suffers. The fact that Kenya has experienced such extremes within a six month period is staggering. As Kenya tries to get back on track after post election violence and its citizens strive to improve their lives, fighting against nature makes life even more challenging and is emblematic of what lies ahead for the world. Extremes.

The Guards of My Life

My morning starts by leaving the house through the gate at the end of the driveway, which is opened by our askari (guard). He is on duty from 6pm – 7am. He has a round face and a brilliant smile, and wishes me a good day. I then drive out of our street compound, by passing through another gate, opened by another askari. The askaris change shifts often, but most mornings, the askari who lets me out is tall, thin and in uniform, like all the others. This askari has a laughing smile, he is missing a few teeth and he waves enthusiastically. Bending down to make sure I see him through the window, you have no choice but to laugh and wave back passionately.

Guard, Zimbabwe

To get into our office complex at work, I go through another set of guards. In the evening, when leaving work, I pass my favorite askari. No matter how bad my day, this older gentlemen, with a sweet little face and caring eyes simply makes my day. “Good evening madam,” he always says. “How was your day?” He always says that he is fine and “see you tomorrow.” Our conversations our short, but you just want to roll him up and put in your pocket, so that when things are going bad, you pull him out and smile. Little does he know the joy he brings me with his simple greeting. Its the little things in life, right?

Ocampo in Town

Many people heard about Kenya’s 2007 election violence. But, what happened after? Who was held accountable? Nobody.

Accountability—a simple word, fraught with complexities. The lack thereof is one of the greatest problems here.

This morning Louis Ocampo, a chief prosecutor for the International Criminal Court, arrived in Nairobi. After the election, the cue, the violence and the peace agreement that was brilliantly negotiated by Kofi Annan, a Commission was formed to investigate the violence. Following the “Waki” (name for Mr. Justice Philip Waki) Commission report, little was done. A local tribunal was to be formed, a truth and justice commission was to be initiated, but no true progress was made.

In addition to the report, the Commission gave Kofi Annan a sealed envelope containing names of potential suspects and evidence implicating them—members of parliament, business men etc... Annan brilliantly said to Kenyan leaders “do nothing and I will hand the envelope over to the ICC.” Well, after months of excuses by Kenyan politicians, Annan did just that. After presenting initial briefs, the ICC gave authority to Ocampo to pursue the case of crimes against humanity in Kenya.

Ocampo is most known for the work his did in his native Argentina in prosecuting those responsible for the “Dirty War” of the 70’s where thousands of people “disappeared” and were killed. More recently he led the conviction against Omar Al-Bashir, the President of Sudan, for crimes in Darfur.

Ocampo will be here for five days. He is gathering evidence, interviewing witnesses and visiting post-election violence sites. He suspects to have those responsible arrested within six months.
We watch anxiously, secretly cheering Ocampo on his quest for justice, hoping for some accountability. The people whose homes were burned, family members killed, farms abandoned—they deserve nothing less.

Zimbabwe

Pay taxes, not bribes. This is the T-shirt the immigration officer wears on the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia.

A sign in the office requires all vehicles entering Zim to have Zimbabwean insurance. Guess where you buy it? Classic.

A man has a stack of Zimbabwe money that he is selling. The currency is no longer valid after Zim’s hyper-inflation. In 2008 the inflation was approximately 89.7 sextillion percent. Despite my hardest efforts, I still have a hard time grasping these figures. Zim now uses the USD as its official currency and the old currency is invalid. I purchase a Fifty Trillion Dollar bill, 50000000000000, for $2, a souvenir. Because of the rapid inflation, by the time these new bills were printed, such as a 10 Trillion Dollar, it had lost its value and one could not even buy a loaf of bread with it.

Harare, the capital. Put aside the fact that Mugabe has been President here for 23 years, and that Zimbabwe’s record inflation killed the country, this city is lovely. The streets are wide and lined with magnificent trees. The homes are quaint, colonial homes with serene gardens and great open space. You can picture a vibrant, cultural city.

It is required in most African countries that the picture of the President hangs in your hotel lobby, office and/or store. That said I am still taken aback when we enter the lobby of our hotel in Harare and there is Mugabe, staring down at us. This man symbolizes so much around the world.

After meetings in the city, we drive north to the Zambezi River, where Zimbabwe meets Zambia and Mozambique. The landscape is breathtaking. It is lush after the rains and rolling, with massive rivers and impressive mountain ranges. Vast fields lay fallow, but you can easily picture the farm industry that once made Zimbabwe the bread basket of Africa. The infamous land grabs, Mugabe ordering the seizure of all white owned farms, lead to the demise. What most people do not realize is that the whites only owned about 13% of the country, yet their farm production resulted in about 60% of the GDP. Now the Zimbabweans, who have been given that land, are leasing it back to the whites to farm. A clever move to make money. Mugabe is not pleased and has recently stated that he will seize land that is not being used by Zimbabweans. Tragic how one man has not only killed a country, this has happened in other places such as Taylor in Liberia, yet, Mugabe has truly tainted Africa’s reputation.

The narrow dirt road heading towards the River is blocked at one point by two lovely female lions. One ran off when we approached, but the other held her ground.

We met with Zimbabwean and Zambian fishing and farming communities to whom we have provided support. These communities are extremely remote. In one meeting, a nurse who was about 65 years old shared that he is the only nurse in the entire district. He wore a white button down shirt and he had safety pinned a patch of blue material with gold stars on his shoulders, making him look like an admiral in the navy. He looked great. He said in his district only one person is open about their HIV status. He asked earnestly “How can I help people if I do not know they are sick.” An ambulance had been given to the district; however, it was swallowed up by the Ministry of Health. He asked “Do you know how horrible it is to have people die in your arms because you cannot transport them?” What do you say?

Two teachers from the primary school presented their needs for education. They were dressed in button down shirts and ties. These are the people we should be commending and the people who should be in the news. These tireless teachers who are trying to give hope to young children living in dire straits.

Children. Adorable children throughout villages. You smile, wave, and then wonder how many are Aids orphans.

We travel by boat across the Zambezi River to Zambia to sleep for the night. We cross as the sun is setting and the glow on the river is glorious. It is peaceful and serene this massive river at dusk. Crocs and hippos hug the shoreline. The Zambian shore is bustling with fisherman. They are wrapping fish in grass bales and loading them onto trucks to go to Lusaka and Congo.

Some of my colleagues are Zimbabwean. One colleague was a strong advocate for the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC). MDC is the party now in a power sharing agreement with Mugabe’s party, Zanu PF, since his party would not relinquish power despite their loss. My colleague had MDC t-shirts stored in his house His wife urged them to leave the country for fear of retribution from Zanu PF. “We cannot leave, this is our country. How could we?” he asked. Another colleague is 25 years old. He just received a Masters Degree and is working for us in the field. He is the emerging generation, the hope for the country. This country has suffered years of violence and suppression under the current regime and I ask him what it is like living here and seeing his country spiral. He said “Hectic. People just want to get on with their lives.” Makes one wonder what life will be like for him when he turns 35.