This title is somewhat inaccurate - My Uncle Alan and Bennett do not (or maybe will not :) consider themselves an official "Kelly". Although there is no denying that we Kelly's have affected their lives forever...
I couldn't entitle another blog ‘time flies’, so I guess I will just say ‘where did the time go’.
February swept through here, came and went as quickly as the short rains did here in Kenya. My Aunt Maureen and Uncle Alan’s visit, I think, was a very successful visit. They joined us at the Daraja Academy and the girls warmly welcomed them: they were showered with an unexpected amount and frequency of hugs and the girls sang happy birthday to my Aunt on her big day. We then puttered out to the bush house where we did a lot of relaxing, I think Alan read about twenty-five books while he was out here :) To top of their visit we embarked on an adventure outside of our home turf to the Lake Naivasha region, located west and south of our niche in the Laikipia Plateau. The seven hour matatu ride out to this region was an eventful one, beginning with a somewhat ill-thought out plan to stop at the local coffee shop to acquire some to-go warm drinks to wake us all up. Bennett and I failed to think of the rarity of seeing a to-go cup on the streets, and we soon discovered one of the probable reasons for this state of affairs: the to-go cup manufactured in Kenya is not really equipped to-go-out in Kenya. We hit the first bump of many in the matatu, and my twelve ounces of scalding milk jumped out of my cup, knocking the lid out of its way, and then slowly oozed across my chest and torso, taking some time to hang out in my bra. Luckily my Aunt and Uncle are very prepared medical professionals (yes they carried with them a burn cream). The pain subsided and the blistering did not hinder our progress.
The Lake Naivasha region provided a much wetter climate and some glorious rain! The view of the actual lake was obscured on the drive up to our campsite by row after row of giant greeneries - here referred to as ‘Flower Farms’. The Dutch own many of these conglomerates. And unfortunately, despite producing and abundance of pretty flowers, they suck up all the water from local rivers and pollute what remains with the discharge of their fertilizer and pesticide chemicals, often leaving the neighboring peoples with poisoned vestiges of their much needed water source. They attempt to make up for this fact by building hospitals, schools etc. for the local community. These communities are practically forced to seek employment with them so that they may somehow benefit from the same circumstances which caused the usurping of their land and resources, hence eliminating options for previous modes of employment and opportunities for subsistence strategies. Well at least they treat their employees well (this is sarcasm)! One of the mother’s of a new Form 1 Daraja girl is bed-ridden due to a spinal cord injury that occurred while working in one of these farms. She did not receive any compensation or support following this tragic episode. The older sister is now the only one capable of supporting the family; she has forgone an education to feed her mother and her younger siblings. Outrageous story #2: A certain new flower-farming neighbor of ours is building a house in an adjacent town (although he owns a farm hours from here). He is choosing to reside at such a great distance from his work because on multiple occasions his laborers revolted and attempted to assault him, actions emotionally charged by his extremely poor treatment of the people! Wow, I think I just went on a rant :) I do apologize.
Anyway, or campsite was located immediately adjacent to the lake’s rim and the grounds were shaded by an expansive canopy of fever trees. Black and white colobus and vervet monkeys bounced around, publicizing their ownership of the property. At night we could hear the bellowing of hippos grazing on the lakeside marshy grasses. A huge highlight of this excursion was our bike ride through Hell’s Gate National Park (a latter-discovered deserved name). This is the only National Park in Kenya in which you are permitted to either walk or cycle (due to the risk of being wounded by one of the more dangerous animals). It was a so much more enchanting experience to slide up right next to giraffe and zebra, as opposed to peering at them through a hole cut in a steel barrier. We opted for an alternative route for our return trip through the park. A trip that proved frustrating, but I think left us feeling triumphant. The approximately sixteen-kilometer trek began with an eight-kilometer too-steep ascent (which at the time we had no idea if the ascent would last one kilometer or the entire length because they map proved to be highly inefficient, including the presence of inaccurate altitudinal markers). The self-proclaimed “Buffalo Circuit” provided not a stunning view of herds of buffalo (a congruent scene that would have tempered the eight kilometers of seemingly never-ending clamber) but rather a depressing ambiance of smoke-puffing mills (which I am quite sure do nothing to attract wildlife). But once we reached the real summit, our stomachs now empty of our two-banana lunch, we regained our oomph. The final eight kilometers was a fantastic breeze down the mountain’s better half. We zipped by giraffe and an elusive hartebeest, coming to a full stop at the exit gift shop to purchase bumper stickers to commemorate our will to endure what did seem like a rather hellish test.
We then ended our tour. Bennett and I accompanied my Aunt Maureen and Uncle Alan to Nairobi, passing through the Ngong Hills along the way (the scene of Karen Blixen/Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa), where we bid them farewell. It was great to really get to know them and we look forward to many more adventures!
Hope all is well with everyone out there. Perhaps I will run into a few of you in April when I return to the U.S. for a brief leave. Six months is too long to go without one of the Red Onion’s Gold Cadillac Margaritas!
Maria
The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea. - Isak Dinesen.
