Saqib Goes Home To Kenya, His Mother Land :)

I am writing this at my grandparents farm in Mtwapa, Mombasa surrounded by family and being eaten by mosquitos. I’ve been living on fresh fruits, meats, boxes of mithai (Indian sweets) and most of all, fresh mangoes and madafu (coconut). It’s sunny, warm and the mangrove in the front yard is just as magnificent as it ever was. I can’t believe it’s been over 6 years since the last time I was in Kenya. I’ve missed this life so much!





Flight in:

Oh, the glory that is charter flights! This flight could have been the poster child for stereotypical bad flying experiences! I was sitting in the 4 across middle row of the airplane, shoulder to shoulder with my uncle and the English guy on my left. I tried to put my elbows down but couldn’t get them past the arm rest that were sufferingly close to my sides. In front of me was a small child who would stand up in his seat at whim and stare at me. Throughout the night he would stare and stare. And stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare…………..well, you get the idea. It was fun and first, I made faces at him, thinking that he would smile….but he didn’t. He was stone faced the whole time and that scared me. I soon ran out of faces to make and he still hadn’t cracked a smile. It was unnerving! Not too long into the flight, I realized that my iPod battery was dead and I would have to entertain myself for the duration of the flight’s 9 hours. Everyone was asleep around me and I wanted to join the club. I tried to settle down into the slot of the seat I was in and made a stab at sleep…but I was thwarted by one of the most stereotypical miserable flight experiences of all- the passenger with the crazy snore. I’m sure many of you are familiar with this passenger but this was my first experience with him. The cabin was dark and there were the obligatory chorus of mild snoring and heavy breathing but all of it was trumped by the man sitting in the row in front of me and his unholy collection of gapless snores. It was comical at first, much like the starting child, but after 15 mins of it, I was giving him the best evil eye I could, imagining his head bursting and a calm silence falling over the cabin letting all of us red-eyed travelers lull into a deep sleep. There was cheering at first, but then everyone happily went to sleep. His head didn’t explode and I never got to sleep. Instead, I angrily listened to his snoring all night long, wishing misfortune (or overhead luggage) to fall on him silencing his snores. I wandered the cabin for a while and eventually found myself drinking glass after glass of water in the crew’s quarters in the back of the plane. Standing there staring out the window I had the treat of experiencing another great airplane conversation. A portly white well-to-do looking man was animatedly talking to the flight stewards telling them about how he probably thwarted a terrorist plot at the airport at wanted to know if they had heard anything about it. Keep in mind, I was blatantly staring at this man the whole time he was talking, not hiding the fact at all that I was listening to this conversation. He told the stewardess that while he was waiting for is flight there was a man anxiously pacing up and down the isle of the boarding gate muttering to himself. The English man made a point to describe the appearance of the pacing man, prefacing it by saying “I don’t want to offend anyone but the guy was clearly of Arabic or some other Muslim looking decent and was probably doing some sort of prayer.” Needless to say, the English man, being the patriot and terrorist-spotting expert that he was (im surprised this man wasn’t an American, he would make such a great one!), called the security guards at the airport and had the man taken away from the boarding gate on the premise that this “Arab looking man” was making the other passengers nervous. The flight attendants were very proud of him and kept saying what an admirable thing it was that he’d did and how most people wouldn’t have the courage. I wish I’d had the courage to slap all 3 of them, but I guess not all of us can have the bravery that this fat white English guy has. I left them and went back to my seat to be greeted by the kid staring at me (he apparently couldn’t sleep either), the man snoring, being elbowed by the sleeping English traveler guy on my left and my dead iPod.

We got into Mombassa, flying from the extreme cold of the U.K. to the blanching heat of Mombassa. My cousins started turning red from the heat as soon as they got off the plane. We waited in a long line to pay our visa fees and finally made it out of the airport to be greeted by another cousin and the family car, waiting to take us to the farm after so many years ☺

My first day back in Kenya:

My family! I am back on the family farm in Mtwapa and am once again with my mom, my cousins, my grandparents and the absolutely beautiful farm. The shamba (“farm” in Kiswahili) is just like I remember it. Green, filled with family, mangoes and coconuts. What more could I want? I can’t even begin to describe how wonderful it has been to be with my family again and we are all looking forward to my cousin’s wedding coming up at the end of the week.
Also,
It’s hot! Really really hot! I was looking forward to make it out of Aix’s winter cold (why is the south of France cold?! And why wasn’t I told about this cold before signing up for the program?) and into the island tropical warmth of Mombassa but this is too much! I’m sweating from parts of my body that shouldn’t be sweating and I crave for cold water. Unfortunately none of us are patient enough to wait for the water to get all the way cold.
We went into the town market today to pick up some things for the wedding feast. Covered in sweat, we wove our way through the streets of the market picking up fruits and being conned into buying Achari (a pickled mango sweet of sorts). I let myself be convinced by my mother to get a haircut after I got my straight blade shave (don’t tell anyone but the straight blade shave was one of the things I was looking forward to most about Kenya). Long story short, the shave was a painful disaster with the barber repeatedly complaining to me how my thick facial hair was ruining his blades, me ending up with a haircut that bothers me every time I look in the mirror and me losing a lot of trust in my mother. Moral of the story: When mom says get a haircut, don’t. That night, we went to Lighthouse (the hot spot at night for people to hang out and show off their new clothes) where we had bags of fresh Mogo Crisps (Cassava chips) and grilled sweet potato with chili and lime on top…SO DELICIOUS!!! If you know what I am writing about, you’ll know what a big deal it was to eat it at the lighthouse. If you don’t know what im talking about, buy the next ticket you can find to Mombasa and get yourself some hot fresh mogo!

Day 2:

We woke up late today and after an amazing breakfast (my grandmother cooked, enough said) then made our way back to Old Town mombasa to do some more shopping. My cousin Nadia is a bargainer and haggler unlike any other and she lead us all around the market, from one stall to another, to pick up things for her wedding and various gifts for folks back home in the U.S. Later that day, we bought chickens from another part of the farm so we could have barbecue that night. There is nothing better than having fresh meat ☺ We also bought goats in preparation for Eid the next day. When we went to the goat herder to pick the ones we wanted, a bunch of the goats (all male goats btw) started to madly have sex with each other. Either Mombasa has a higher than average gay goat community or the goats knew the end was near and had let go of their socially imposed restraints (can animals be gay? I wonder…)

That night we all sat and cooked some Nyama (“barbecue”) on the side of the house. We were out there talking late into the night, all very excited to be back together again after so long. Late that night, 2 of my cousins introduced me to Mombasa’s awesome beach night life.

I am enjoying myself so much on the farm! Its so relaxing ☺ Also, I’ve been sneaking Pedas (Indian sweets) from the fridge, I hope nobody notices how quickly the desserts are disappearing.

Day 3:

Today we celebrated Eid-ul-Adha and went to the early morning prayers at the small mosque on the farm. We came home to a delicious traditional Eid breakfast (im not going to describe the magic of this breakfast, but know that it was more than amazing). After breakfast, we slaughtered the goats (in accordance with Eid tradition) and had them for a nice lunch biryani (a decadent and work intensive rice and meat dish). We all felt very lazy today and throughout the day we took naps and ate desserts when we thought nobody else was watching (maybe that last bit was just me….once again, I hope nobody notices the fast diminishing dessert collection in the fridge). I went for a walk on the farm on my own to take some photos and ended up back at the farm’s school that I had been to with my family the last time I was in Mombasa. Even though the students were on vacation, I was able to walk around the school and got a chance to wander in and out of the classrooms having reality check after reality check about the immense privilege that I have been raised in/with. The classrooms have no windows or doors and desks are made out of rough scrap wood and shared by 2-3 students. The blackboard is peeling black paint on the wall and is covered by Swahili verbs and their English counterparts. After returning home, we went to see some other relatives and wish them Eid Mumbarak. It really is wonderful to be seeing my family again.

Day 4:

After waking up at an unreasonable time (anything before 10 is unreasonable), my mom and I got a lift in the sole family car (a white station wagon which we can fit a seemingly infinite number of people in) to the nearby White Sands beach. We walked through the hotel straight to the beach and started to walk down the beach. The sand was perfectly white and under the cloudless sky, the water a warm blue. The beach was dotted with “beach boys” pitching things like Glass bottom boat rides, Camel rides, keychains, paintings, coconuts, chili mangoes, and everything in between to the tourists who were wandering on the beach. It was clear that we (I) stuck out like a sore thumb because the beach boys passed my mom up and would keep trying to sell me their various wares. Once we told people we were just on a walk, they left us alone. Finally we ended up staring at rows of paintings planted in the sand. As we walked in and out of the rows, the beach boy selling them would bring more and more paintings out like the ones we would stop to look at. My mother and I were talking in English, and then changed to French when we realized the beach boys were listening and understanding everything we were saying. Unfortunately the beach boys also understood the French, so we switched to kutchi. My mom was talking in Swahili to the man and told him that I was a guest who she was taking out on a tour. She told him that I was a client who was only able to spend so much as I was a student on a tight budget. They were surprised to hear that my mom was from Mtwapa and as they entered the complicated haggling process, this information and a native fluency in Swahili definitely came in handy to my mom. They haggled in Swahili with the occasional English words and I followed along as best I could. The beach boys kept demanding the outrageous tourist price given to the wealthy Europeans who stayed in the resorts along the beach and we kept walking away until our price was finally met and we bought the painting. While this haggling was going on, another beach boy pulled me aside and offered to trade me something for my pen and after that asked me if I wanted to buy anything from his “special sale” which was a rolled up cloth sack laying behind one of the larger paintings. He told me that he would sell it to me without my guide (aka my mom) knowing and that he had everything I wanted. I declined and tried to get him to make the same pitch to my mom. We walked down the beach and were offered these “special sales” many times, sometimes the beach boys asked me and sometimes they asked my mom (usually because I would point at her behind her back). The majority of the beach boys were very nice and we talked to many of them as we walked down the beach. We stopped for a coconut and while I drank the coconut milk from the hole cut in the coconut, a womyn asked if we wanted our hair braided. As tempting as it was to have matching hair braids with my mom, we passed it up because of the upcoming wedding. We eventually found some lounge chairs and ordered some fruit drinks. With colorful lizards running underneath the chairs and Chameleons on the palm trees on top of us we lay and watched dhow boats sail past in the low tide and the seldom camel led down the coast by a brightly dressed beach boy. We left the beach deciding against taking a taxi home and opted for the local public transportation instead, the matatu. For those of you who haven’t seen or witnessed for yourselves the wonders of the Matatu, let me describe it to you the best I can.
The Matatu is usually are old Nissan, Toyota and Mitsubishi minivans modified to hold 14 passengers (but usually hold way more). These vans are brightly painted with slogans like “Mr. Boombastic” Or “Manchester United 4 Life” scrawled across the sides with neon lights flashing to the beat of blaring reggae or hip hop music. There are fleets of these zooming across town with no care for traffic laws or the safety of their passengers. The owners make deals with the drivers demanding a set amount of profit each day for the owner and the rest for the driver and his helper. The helper hangs out the door of the matatu shouting its destination at the people it passes, collects money and tells the driver when to stop. This helper often only has one arm and one leg inside of this speeding van as the driver navigates around traffic, livestock, people, and the car eating pot holes that Kenya’s roads are all to well known for. Laws were passed recently to bring some law to the matatus but all this did was make all matatus have matching yellow stripes along the side and make the Helper not lean so far out of the matatu. Supposedly it was supposed to get drivers to only allow 14 people (who would presumably all be wearing seatbelts) into the matatu, but you still see upwards of 20 people crammed in, sitting on top of each other’s laps with their luggage in their own laps. We were lucky in that our matatu was not crowded like this and we had no problems with pick-pocketers. We got dropped of at the main road exit for the farm and walked for 2 miles to get back home.
That afternoon my cousin, Afshan, who is more like my close sister and friend because we were raised together, arrived from Elk Grove. I’ve missed her so much while in France and seeing her was a real treat. We stayed up late that night dancing and talking around a bonfire underneath the palm trees. As people started to go to sleep, another one of my cousins and I sat by the dying fire catching up and eating Miraa (aka Kaat- as its known in the U.S.). Every so often the night guard would walk by and we would shoot trees with his Masai bow and arrow. Miraa is a mild socially accepted amphetamine of sorts that is very popular in East Africa. One buys bunches of miraa plant stalks rolled up in newspaper and packs of “Big G” bubble gum. Bite of a piece of gum, and then peel off the outer layer of the Miraa stalks with your teeth, chewing them with the gum. I know it sounds complicated but its easy once you get the hang of it. People sit around for hours talking and chewing miraa. It’s a big part of the culture here. Miraa is a stimulant similar to caffeine and I am told that sometimes it also works as a natural Viagra.

Day 5:

Today was a mad rush of cleaning and cooking in preparation for Nadya’s Mehndi party in the afternoon. Farm workers wove palm fronds to make archways for guests to walk under, while I helped making palm tree bark into decorative boats to put on tables during the Nikha (actual wedding ceremony). The patio was decorated by Nadya and Afshan in preparation for the Mehndi party and the kitchen was full of people cooking for the Mehndi party and for the Nikha. At around 4 when we were expecting the guests to show up we heard drums and singing coming from down the dirt road and when we ran out to see what it was, we saw that it was the Imam from the farm’s mosque leading a group of children who were playing drums and singing various prayers. To my surprise, they turned into our farm and continued to the lawn where they sat on carpets that had previously been layed out. It turns out that they had been called to perform the Moulid (a muslim group prayer ceremony) to bless the wedding. At home in Elk Grove when we perform the moulid, we all sit down and repeat after a scratchy and worn out 40+ year old cassette tape recording of some moulid years ago that often breaks and has to be switched mid-prayer, in contrast, in mombasa when they have a moulid, they have matching outfits, a percussion section and they sing the prayers in harmony. At one point some of the children started to play flutes. It was beautiful and made me jealous.
In accordance with Indian Standard Time, the guests arrived 2 hours late. The mehndi artist was almost done covering Nadya’s legs, feet, arms, and hands with intricate Arabic mehndi wedding designs and the mehndi ceremony was ready to begin. The groom’s family presented the bride’s family with brightly decorated platters of mehndi, fruits, and sweets and eventually walked up to greet the bride. Eventually the womyn separated and danced in the room the bride was sitting while applying mehndi to each other. The men sat outside under the trees eating, talking and drinking tea. Eventually when many of the guests had left, the rest of us had dinner and kept talking outside under the trees and the full moon. I set up my cousin’s hookah and my cousins, uncles, some aunts and I sat around smoking and talking. My mother shook her head at me and told me my smoking wasn’t appropriate but she was trumped by my grandmother who gave me the go ahead. Needless to say, I love my grandmother. We sat outside talking late into the night, my uncles and grandfather telling me stories of their childhoods, past travels, and life growing up in Kenya.

Day 6:

Today was a relaxed day mostly filled with final preparations for the wedding, lazing around the farm and throwing a Frisbee around under the beautiful Mombasa sun. We set up tables, wove more palm frond arches, decorated the wedding platform, set up the sound system and emergency lights (for the strong possibility of a power outage during the wedding). My Uncle went to secure armed police officers to guard the guest parking lot because theft was another strong possibility during the wedding. More family came to visit and we eventually decided on going to our favorite Nyama Choma (barbecue kebabs of sorts) restaurant that night. Even though my grandmother was making Nyama at the farm it would have been shameful for me to leave Mombasa without making the obligatory visit to the Vipingo Nyama Choma Mshikaki Restaurant. Vipingo is a small shack of a restaurant about 20 minutes away from the farm. There is no sign pointing to it off the main road and has been run by the same greyed old man behind the counter for as long as my Uncle can remember going there. This place is by far one of my favorite restaurants in the world. Barbecued beef skewers are ordered here in the hundreds along with Blackcurrent Vimto’s (a soda drink I have only seen in Kenya) and Fanta’s. The restaurant was out of Vimto so the 6 of us ordered Fanta’s (the real kind, in the glass bottles. Not like the crap we get stateside) and 150 skewers. We had to eat lightly because we had promised to eat at the farm too and nobody was willing to pass up on grandmother’s cooking, even if only for a night. The Nyama was skewered on bicycle spokes and cooked on barbecues made of metal troughs filled with charcoal covered with wire grills. The barbecues reminded me a lot of the barbecues I had bought so many snacks from off the streets of rural China and Tibet. The flames were fanned by a man holding a piece of a cardboard box while another person constantly ran skewers from bbq to the various tables. Plates were put on tables with about 10 skewers on each one and barely lasted long enough for the server to walk away from the table. 3 plates were put on our table first with a plate of diced onions and tomatoes, 2 plates of chili sauce and a plate of toast. The meat was still sizzling and silence befell the table as the plates were cleared in a matter of seconds. The same scene replayed itself as more and more plates were brought to our table. Eventually we had finished our skewers and after the usual pressuring of which uncle was allowed to pay the bill (the uncle who won was the one who had previously made the owner promise to only take his money when it came time to settle the bill). Back at the farm we ate tropical fruit flavors of ice cream that I have only tasted in Kenya and lounged around with the family. Music was blasted with the sound system that had been set up for the wedding the next day and all of us danced and goofed off in the patio room late into the night.

Day 7: The Wedding Day and my last full day in Mombasa

More decorating, cooking, and other final preparations for the wedding. The palm tree boats were put on the tables garnished with flowers and lit candles, walkways were lined with bags filled with candles and the palm frond archways were decorated with Birds of Paradise flowers. The guests arrived in the afternoon and I was surrounded by family and friends that I hadn’t seen for years. It was wonderful!

The groom and his family showed up with all the proper ceremony and the nikkah (wedding ceremony) was ready to begin. With the crack of my mother’s whip I was stuck with the task of wedding photographer (thank you mom), and throughout the wedding I ran around taking photos and videos, often with a camcorder in one hand and camera in the other. The wedding ceremony was beautiful and although I don’t think anyone stole the groom’s shoes, my cousins and aunts did block him out of the room where he was supposed to take the bride’s veil off, demanding a monetary fee from him (I don’t know if they ever collected or if a fee was agreed on, they did let him into the room though). The groom’s brother was the emcee and he led the guests through cake cuttings, blessings by the elders and a short history of the bride and groom’s long history together. The elders were always guiding the emcee and the bridegroom around telling us all how the wedding traditions were supposed to be performed. Eventually the wedding came to a close and the bride tearfully left with the groom’s family. That night we danced more and my cousin’s and I went to a club with the groom’s brothers to celebrate the wedding and my last night in Kenya.

Day 8:

I woke up early and left for the airport with Afshan, my mother and the driver. Lugging another suitcase full of things that my mother had brought for me from the States and things that I had bought in Mombasa, I boarded the plane for Manchester. The charter flight was nowhere nearly as As I was flying in on xmas day, a relative had volunteered to pick me up from the airport (which was 2 hours from his house), take me to his house and drop me off the next day at another airport (1.5 hours from his house). He is an uncle of mine who is a friend of my dad’s and when I asked him why he was going through all the trouble for me he simply responded that I was family and that’s what family does for each other. I stayed the night at his amazing house in Leicester and the next day I boarded the plane for Amsterdam.




Overall this trip reinforced the importance that family and culture play in my life. Having limited contact with either since coming to France, being back on the farm surrounded by family from all over the world really showed me how much I missed it all. I realized that my family, no matter how distantly related, will always be there for me, willing to do whatever to help me on my way. And I will always be there for my family to do whatever needs to be done. It’s a nice feeling ☺