The gods must be crazy

Despite my best efforts, I remain a victim of jet lag. I will admit that time zones have never been my forte; I am forever mixing up usage of terms like “ahead” and “behind” or calling people at inappropriate times. Forget about me remembering details like how to combat jetlag when flying east or west, when it should be worse, etc. I usually just force myself into local time, trying to wake up when appropriate, stay awake all day (no matter how tired) and go to sleep. Yes, I know. Not the most brilliant of plans, easily interrupted by impromptu naps. Yesterday was perfectly executed, though. And still, after two hours of sleep, there I was, wide awake for four hours, reading a novel by flashlight under a mosquito net. I felt like I was ten again, hiding under my blanket at home trying to read without disturbing my sisters or alerting my parents. An image that wasn’t hurt by the fact that I was reading the Anne of Green Gables series.


When morning finally came (some say noon, some say morning), I once again decided to ramble to streets of Kisumu. A few things struck me as I was out and about today. The first being that I can take my time, there’s not all that much to see in Kisumu and I have three more weekends in which to do it. The next thought is that, no, I actually have two weekends, because I did the math, and the solo safari is <$200 for a day trip to Lake Nakuru. And I am NOT coming back from Africa without seeing a rhinoceros to describe to my niece. She is in love with “ni-nos”, thank you Busch Gardens Tampa. I’m gonna ask the first rhino I see how old he is… (Sea turtles? Anyone? Nobody? Fine.)



The other thing that struck me was that I was wrong before when I said/thought/emailed Kisumu wasn’t a tourist town. It’s not, in the American sense of the word. It’s not full of stores selling the same over-priced trinkets. It hasn’t any billboards promoting hotels or theme parks, not even safaris. It’s a tourist town for East Africans. For people coming in from the villages, to do their shopping, to trade their crops. They have no need to “go see the real Africa”; they are the real Africa. The closest American reference I can imagine is something I’ve only read about in books, when farmers would put on their best clothes to take a monthly trip into the city. Something like Will Parker’s “Kansas City” from Oklahoma. [I think I went four whole days without a musical reference!]

Selling beans and things, roadside.

I want to think about it some more. I know you’re shocked. ;)



So, what did I do with my day? Decided to walk to the Kisumu Museum (about 2 km away), turning down multiple offers of bike and scooter rides because I needed the exercise. Despite all my earlier haranguing about simulacra and how they distill experiences into something palatable and safe, I was drawn to the fact that the main exhibit is a typical village homestead of the Luo people. The museum itself is an odd amalgamation of museum, zoo, aquarium and conference space. Filled, of course, with stuffed things.

I would say no animals were harmed in the making of this picture, but, c'mon.. they clearly were...

I hereby submit the following disclaimer: I knew nothing of the Luo people or their customs before visiting this museum. Any information listed below is a regurgitation of posters, display exhibits, etc. at the Kisumu Museum. I, therefore, cannot be held responsible if you repeat any of this to native Kenyans and they laugh at you ;-)



The Luo people. A tribe that expanded from the Sudan and Uganda as the Nile delta valley started to dry up. They met/conquered/intermarried with the Bantu that were here and slowly won territory that now includes the Kenyan coast of Lake Victoria. They were not always called Luo, however.



A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away…. Sorry, wrong story about sons and fathers. Although, from what I read, Koma (the son) probably sounded just as whiny as Luke when he wanted to go get the power converter..



Koma was the 3rd son of a Didinga king during this expansion into what is now Kenya. [Quick anthropology note, the term is “expansion” and not “migration” because the tribe didn’t leave its former lands at that point, though looking at today’s maps it would seem as though they had.] Being the third son, he fell victim to the same issues and problems of similar men today. Neither the heir nor the spare and forced to wait for his elder brothers to leave the homestead before he could establish his own home. He developed a reputation for being lazy and fearful. His nickname, Lwo, meant “fear” or “coward” in his tribal language (Acholi).



The Didinga were in pitched battle with the Lang’o tribe for control of land. Wanting to please his father and erase his reputation, he attacked Lukok, the mightiest of the Lang’o warriors. All were surprised by his charge, including Lukok, who knew of Koma the Coward. Koma was able to slay Lukok, winning the battle for his people and was awarded one of Lukok’s daughters to take as his wife. When his wife bore him a son, he cheekily named the boy Luo. His people so respected him after the battle, that when his father died, he was named king, and the people changed the name of their tribe to Jo Luo (the people of Luo).



I’ll get back to the Luo people tomorrow, for I have now whetted my appetite for story-telling and so will tell you of the homestead exhibit my way.



The rest of the compound was on par with what I expected. The aquarium was not the Shedd variety, but a smattering of 20 or so home-sized freshwater tanks with species of fish from Lake Victoria. The snake pit was of similar ilk, with glass-fronted cages for some vicious looking creatures. I’m no Parselmouth, but it just looked like they were thinking mean things. Every single species was listed as “very venomous”. Seems like either you are or you aren’t. Not much middle ground there. Mamba, python, puff adders. I didn’t stick around there very long. They had a tortoise pen, and I got a laugh watching the largest of the group scrambling around, stepping on the shells of the others. Moved a lot faster that I would have anticipated. Giant tortoises always remind me of Atreyu in the swamp, thank goodness this one didn’t sneeze. Also on hand were some African crocodiles, much, much closer than I’d seen one before. Too close, in fact, given that there was chicken wire between me and it.

He was pretty quick for a tortoise.

Yikes. Teeth!

The most beautiful part of the day? There was a wedding going on at the conference center. And if it weren’t for the Kiswahili speeches on the microphone, it would have looked like a good ol’ fashioned American wedding. There was a white tent. The chairs were covered in white fabric and adorned with sashes and bows of yellow silk. Lime green bunting swayed gently in the breeze between poles festooned with yellow and green balloons. There were silver chafing dishes perched above glowing Sterno cans. The only nod to the location was the street urchins hovering nearby with coolers and can openers ready to sell Fanta to anyone who strolled by. I didn’t have the heart to be the intrusive white person taking pictures, but it leaves some “scope for imagination”, doesn’t it?



On my walk back, I was passed by a bicycle carrying one of the guests. The man, in a tattered shirt, loose work pants and blue plastic flip-flops that revealed dusty, callused feet was pedaling with all his might. The woman in a lime green silk sheath, neck encircled by a cream colored scarf was perched side-saddle on the back of his ramshackle bike, flexing her feet to keep her rhinestone-studded heeled sandals in place and talking nimbly on her mobile phone. A land of extremes, indeed.



The most refreshing part of the day? Sweet nectar of the gods.

I had two...

Tomorrow, a story set in the land of the Luo…



[There are at least six deliberate movie references and a novel allusion, indulge me, find them ;-)]