Nema

I had just run on the treadmill. My clothes were soaked through. I was weighing my options between a swim in the pool or a cold shower.

I looked to my left and saw Constance and Nema walking down the beach. Constance wore a gold-chain necklace, tight jeans. Her hair was in exquisite and perfectly placed long braids. She had a soft smile on her face, high cheek bones. She carried her small mobile phone in her slender left hand.

Nema was wearing a worn t-shirt that showed the face of a woman who had run for Kenyan Parliament in 2013. The t-shirt was stretched, faded from the Mombasa sun, and Nema’s hair was much like mine, dancing wildly in the humidity. She looked like she had been walking for miles. Her feet were cracked, her legs scratched.

Nema motioned to me, holding an imaginary water bottle in her hand, tossing her head back quickly and pretending to drink. I realized she was motioning for the water bottle I held in my own hand. I had just filled it with delicious, cold, filtered water at the gym. Nema walked toward the rope that separated the luxury resort where I was staying from the public beach where she meandered.

I handed her the water bottle, and her hard facial expression broke into the most glamorous smile.

“Asante (thanks),” she said quietly.

We made acquaintance, and of course, as a foreign object of great interest to the girls, they asked if I wanted to hang out. And of course I did.

I gave Constance my contact and told them to return to the same spot tomorrow.

I had expected to receive a “What’s App” message from Constance if our date was still on, but never did. The next day, I walked outside to relax after conducting an interview in Mombasa. And there she was. Nema was sitting, alone, in the bright sun, near the rope divider, motioning again, fake water bottle in hand. Her hair was dancing even more wildly than yesterday, her face harder, and her legs covered in sand.

As I approached, there it was again, that glamorous smile – perfect white teeth and bright eyes – a different person than the moment before. I asked if she still wanted to hang out, and she said, yes, strongly, affirmatively. So, I took her hand and we ducked under the rope, both of us smiling brightly.

One lone security officer stands post between the public beach and the resort, and I soon saw he was following behind us, quickening his steps to catch up.

“You can’t bring her in here,” he said.

“But this is my Rafiki,” I said, my face hardening like Nema’s. I had been proud to use my favorite of the Swahili words I had learned in Kenya. Rafiki means friend.

The guard started to look stressed.

“She is just a girl,” I responded to his facial expression.

To settle the dispute, he called in his comrades. Three more security officers headed our way.

“I want to take her swimming,” I said.

They smiled, amused by my adventure with the teen, not taking me seriously. So, I then left the negotiations to Nema. After a few minutes of conversation in Swahili, they returned to English.

I was granted public places in the hotel only, and no more ducking ropes. Nema had to come and go from the front entrance where the majority of the security guards are posted. There would be no swimming.

The deal had been brokered.

Nema and I ate dinner together, next to the fake waterfalls falling into a pond covered with lily pads. She stared at her fellow African ladies with full make-up, polished nails, and nannies to watch over their plump and rambunctious children. She listened as a man with whom I shared a taxi from the airport complained insensitively, as he walked by, that the beach here was too dirty for his little girl to build a sandcastle.

“You need to visit South Coast,” he said. “Much cleaner there.”

I showed Nema my iPhone. Her eyes were wide with delight. We opened Spotify, which unleashes the world of music to anyone with access—a new world for Nema. I asked her about her favorite song—“Despacito” by Justin Bieber. She ate her plate of chicken and fries ravenously. We listened to Bieber sing. 

“Turn every situation into heaven…oh yeah…”

For the most part, Nema was quiet and hard, but sometimes she opened up and relaxed. When she did, I learned that she has been in and out school, sometimes with the school fees to go and sometimes not. She loves to play football (soccer). I learned that she never knew her father. Her mom died from cancer when Nema was 11. She lives with her auntie who sells some sort of Swahili food by the road. She has four brothers. Her family is Islamic. She is not interested in boys. One of her brothers builds beds for a living when he can afford the wood. She sleeps on a mat on the floor.

I asked her what happens when she doesn’t have her school fees. She said she “hustles."

The word “hustle” could mean many things, and English is Nema's second language. But somehow I knew: that was the hard look. Maybe "hustling" is how she got back to her spot on the beach the next day. I couldn't be certain. She told me she had taken a Tuk Tuk. In this area, it is quite well known that Tuk Tuk drivers are men, and they are men who accept sex for their services. Thirty percent of teenage girls, here, become pregnant before they become adults, and sex work for many young girls is a way of life.

Now, I am making assumptions, like I am forced to do when I write about my experiences as I travel. But I was not about to ask Nema her full story. We had only just met. I didn’t want her to go there, to break her short-lived smile. I wanted her to love the moment.

I closed out our bill, and I could  hear a sort of desperation in her voice.

“When can I come tomorrow?,” she asked.

I know myself. I’m too soft, too trusting, but I needed her to smile again.

“Same time, 4 pm.”

I sent her home in a taxi with Minnie, a large Kenyan woman, with a nose ring like mine and an infectious laugh. I asked Minnie to pick her up again tomorrow and to bring her back to the same spot.

I slid the door closed to Minnie’s taxi. I slowly waved goodbye. Nema's smile disappeared, but I knew I would see it again tomorrow.

Nema wouldn’t be taking a Tuk Tuk tonight.

Listening to Daniel

Disclaimer: As all my blog posts do, this post reflects my limited perspective. I spent only a snapshot of time in Nairobi. While there, I visited a university, stayed at a lovely hotel, and toured around with my colleagues. I by no means profess to know a thing about Kenya or Kenyan politics.

The ride back to the Nairobi airport took about 45 minutes, but felt more like 20. Traffic was moving at a healthy clip, much smoother than the three-hour trek across Nairobi from Kenyatta University to my hotel yesterday. Daniel was driving and sparking some good conversation, and I was listening.

Daniel told me why my ride by the State House took hours yesterday. Kenneth Matiba had died, and Kenyans were out in droves to mourn him. Matiba was known for his struggle to create a multiparty democracy in Kenya. And the sitting president Uhuru Kenyatta is the result.

Daniel professed his love for Uhuru. Uhuru has a penchant for shaking his security detail, jogging through the streets of Nairobi, driving himself around against the wishes of the State, and drinking beer. He is known for being a real person, not a politician, and for his free spirit. Daniel didn’t mention any of his specific policies, but he did mention his respect for a president who had recently calmed political tensions in his country by offering his rival a seat as Deputy President in his administration. He offered a hand of peace in the name of unity.

As an American, it was hard to imagine.

I learned about the 42 tribes in Kenya from Daniel, himself a Kikuyu like Uhuru. But, he promised, he does not admire him for their tribal allegiances. He admires him for his candor, and willingness to listen, not to the rich and powerful, but to the everyday Kenyans. He smiled widely as he recalled stories of Uhuru, the son of the legendary President Jomo Kenyatta, who as a child used to sneak out from the home in his village in Central Kenya to play with the village children. Even then, he wasn’t the son of the great politician, he was Uhuru, a small boy just like all of the others.

Daniel’s stories confirmed what I learned the day before. As we moved by the Kenyan State House at a snail’s pace, where all sitting presidents are meant to reside, I was told a story about how Uhuru had opened part of the grounds to a girls’ school that didn’t have space to play sports outside. I was told another story about how a small child kicked a soccer ball over the wall of the State House and found his President standing there above him with the soccer ball in hand, smiling. I saw Uhuru’s “private residence,” where he sleeps, close to, but outside of the State House grounds.

In my 36 hours in Nairobi, I’ve done a lot of listening. And I’ve learned a small bit about Kenyans in Nairobi: They are open. They are intellectual. They love to talk politics. They are friendly and welcoming. They are patriotic.

I’ve learned a few things about the country too. Kenya has banned plastic bags. Its constitution has made addressing gender disparities paramount. One-third of jobs in every sector must go to women.

I imagine there are quite a few young men and women like Daniel: forward-thinking and smart, who are open to sharing and listening. I could see Barack Obama here, listening to Daniel. I also know, of course, that Kenya has a slew of problems, like all countries, especially in this region. But listening to Daniel, I felt hopeful.

“Tat-wa-masi.” I am you. You are me.

Eight years since I had walked these streets. Everything had changed. The smallness, the peace and tranquility of Ubud had been invaded by high-end stores, throngs of white people, and so. much. traffic. The temples and the offerings were still there. The smell of incense still wafted around. But there was more aggression: stumbling tourists who wouldn’t give up their spot on the sidewalks. Motorbikes, so many of them, speeding up instead of slowing down as you crossed from one side of the road to the other. Sidewalks crumbling under the weight of the crowds. A Starbucks.

The monkeys made their sanctuary in monkey forest and didn’t leave. You no longer saw them hanging roadside, indulging in offerings to the gods. Instead, they were trying, their very hardest, to maintain their own peace and tranquility among herds of voyeuristic humans. I walked through monkey forest and watched as one little boy taunted a small monkey with an injured tail. The end of the monkey’s tail looked raw and painful. He dragged it behind him listlessly as he crawled around. When the monkey realized the little boy was laughing at his misfortune, he temporarily lost his mind. He ran at full speed after the boy, jumping up and tackling the boy from behind. The boy screamed in terror. The parents watched in horror. I was rooting for the monkey.

Just as I was rooting for old Ubud, when the monkeys chilled roadside. When magic instead of motorbikes emanated from the streets. When the temples were quiet and the few stores there were those of local artisans: the woman with the silk scarves, the painter, the wood maker, the sculptor. I remember hiking right out of Ubud to the rice terraces, through villages where I watched art in action. But those rice terraces, at least the ones nearest to downtown, have been razed. They’ve built new hotels to mimic the old. But you can’t fool the feeling they give you. The new hotels – the wood is too shiny, the carvings too sharp.

But, of course, with the bad, comes good: a boom to the local economy, an economic boom to local families.

Despite all the change, I found solace in Hotel Okawati. Nestled down a brick alley, away from the crowds, Okawati was still the quiet, peaceful space it was eight years ago. The same ornate fixtures and statues welcomed you home. There was solitude around the pool, slightly green from the algae at one end. The same cool tile floors welcomed your feet in from the humidity. The sheets were still paper thin. There was no shower curtain and a single bar of the same type of generic soap sat by the tub. The same light green tea cup was turned upside down on the table outside my door. I ate the same breakfast: a fried egg, pineapple and watermelon sprinkled with coconut, and  small bowl of yogurt and honey. The staff came by and set offerings near the statues on my porch each morning, incense blowing into my room and out toward the alleyway. Okawati was still simple. And in its simplicity and aversion to change, I found peace.

On the drive back from Ubud, I learned the Indonesian (Hindu) term for the feeling Okawati gifted me. “Tat-wa-masi.” “I am you. You are me.”

I felt like Okawati understood. In the midst of so much change, some things need to stay the same. This is the grand paradox for the nomad: finding so much peace in

inertia.