Pursuing praxis

An incomplete list of road hazards I experienced in the last week:

Herds of: goats, sheep, cattle, donkies, chickens, zebra, impala, gazelles. Tortoises, ostriches, dogs, speedbumps, countless unmarked very large speedbumps, cars in the wrong lanes, diesel fumes so thick you can’t see through them, crazy matatu drivers, crazy bus drivers, torrential rains, flocks of school children, loaded down bicycles with centers of gravity a dozen feet in the air, streetside vendors, potholes bigger than any pot I’ve seen, bridges without railings, traffic cops and their tire-spiking barriers, other road barriers, diversions, punctured tires (7 punctures in one day), car-jackers and highway bandits (potential, not personally experienced, thankfully), and more.

I’m back from my big week-long trek around central Kenya. It’s been…. an adventure, in both the positive and negative senses. But, after the fact, it usually all just becomes positive. Chronicles coming, but in the meantime I’ll just upload more photos. This week: back to digitizing.

… till we were in sight of the front end of the herd. Then he turned off the car and we waited. About 45 minutes, while the bovines trickled across the road (towards the creek a short ways away). I got about half a gig of photos, all told. I also learned that they travel fairly close, within about a minute and 15 seconds’ walk of each other.

By the time I decided we could go, there was a rather disturbing rustling in the bushes, and huffing, and other signals of buffalohood. Damn, I thought. But, the critter(s) weren’t getting any closer, or sounding pissed, so I said let’s go. Andy turned the key in the ignition, and… click, click. Double damn. He slid out of the car with a suave smile and scooted around the front of the car, like he was trying to be inconspicuous in New York City an not the Kenyan bush. In 10 seconds he dropped the hood closed, and 5 seconds later he started the car and we were off, without catching the especial attention of any buffalo. We passed a couple bulls chilling out under a tree about 20 yards from the truck, which are the ones I assume were making the noise, and then a few stragglers hanging out in bushes on the left of the main thoroughfare to the creek farther up.

Driving north through the park we passed the creek area where the buffalo had gathered. But, the view being mostly blocked by trees, I only caught glimpses of single buffalo here and there. I got some good pics of one in the water, framed by trees. I looked closer, and what first had looked like nothing, and then junk in the water, slowly started looking rather hippo like. I fiddled with my camera a bit, and then at Andy’s exclamation I looked up to see a hippo chasing a full sized buffalo out of the water, water going everywhere, and trotting after it along the shoreline under the shad of those very African looking umbrella trees. That was pretty cool. Two of the most dangerous (and herbivorous) large animals in Africa, and the one lacking sharp pointy weapons, a hundred companions, and foot speed totally won the contest. It’s like saying: Sausage 1, Swiss Army Knife, 0.

From there it was pretty much a straight shot out, and middle of the day. I considered going to Nairobi National Park on the way back in, which guarantees game viewing a fair bit more than the distant Tsavo Parks. But, plains game can be had other places as well, and I don’t exactly thrill at the $40 entrance fees for foreigners. So, I got in earlier than planned, picked up my computer from work, and headed back for an early breakfast-for-dinner, a shower, and work.

And tomorrow: BONGOS!!  

I have my microscribe, in my own hot little hands. AND it works! It passed all its accuracy tests with flying colors, despite my extreme skepticism given the small size of the box, the 20 days of transit, and the fact that it was packed upside down. I now store it behind three locked doors (two of which I have the only keys to) and today I can start on the backlog of specimens cluttering the aisles of the osteology department.

Now that I have your attention…

My trip to Tsavo West was in many respects similar to Hell’s Gate last weekend, just over two days instead of one. Hot, dusty bush, few critters, and a driver wearing loafers, slacks, and an ironed collared shirt despite the knowledge we were going into the field. I guess it’s a professional standard thing, but it stops making sense when you’re covered in dust and slipping over the volcanic rocks in your tractionless shoes.

Anyway. In bovid-news, according to some taxonomists the Damara dik-dik is the same species as Kirk’s dik-dik (no Star Trek jokes, please), the distribution having two isolated patches - one over southwest Africa (including Etosha) and the other in East Africa, where I am now. And not much in between. Funny I see the little guys in both places. They’re quite small, probably in the 10lb range, and at least superficially appear to occupy the same niche as bunny rabbits back home, but with a little mowhawk of orange hair between their ears and a somewhat droopy nose.

Mzima Springs at Tsavo West was notable for its sheer volume and force - the water pouring over the rocks, gushing forward, streaming over plants and boulders alike, originated right there. It really just springs from the ground! And the place had probably a dozen hippos in the water, mostly submerged, but doing the nostrils-and-eyes view regularly. THere was even a baby, all small and short-nosed (a hallmark of babyness, afterall…). No crocs.

The highlights for me, though, were the yellow-headed blue-bodied foot-long lizards (I’m not a herpetologist, and I can only carry so many field guides with me), and a few monkeys of a species I still haven’t looked up yet. Lizards for color, monkeys for personality. Not bad. But the throngs of tourists fresh off the bus (but evidently not freshly showered) kind of put a dent in my experience of Mzima Springs, apart from the fact that there weren’t any kudu to be found.

Back on the road, saw some more zebra, a pink-and-black osterich (no doubt from the very red dirt making his white parts pink), some impala (good for comparing with the black-faced sub-species of Etosha). No kudu… no kudu…

I got a campsite about 11km from the main gate (the closest campsite available), dropped my driver there with plans to meet at 6am and get an early start for kudu. In the receding evening light I passed a small group of cow and calf elephants roadside, though obscured by the thick bush, and watched a weak and watery sun descend beneath the escarpment in the disance. 

The campground was deserted save two dik-diks dicking around, and some impala. THere appeared to be a one-horse stall/shed built next to the bathrooms, with hatched doors and all the rest. The toilet was a porcelain hole in the ground, but the taps were functional so I called it a success. Given the "man-eating lions of Tsavo" and the very sane park rules of "don’t get out of your car" while driving around, I opted to "camp" in the backseat. Lions, mosquitoes, cold, dew and dirt (and my greatest concern - the wiley Homo sapiens) more than sealed the deal. I sucked down a melted chocolate bar and had some crackers and water and called it good. 

ALthough I reasoned they wouldn’t clear a campsite and allow people to buy camping spots if it wasn’t relatively safe, I made some provisions for what-if scenarios, apart from not leaving my sushi-like body laying on the ground at night. I locked the doors (despite the heat), put the keys in the ignition and the gear in first, and kept the front seat clear in case I needed to make a speedy getaway, be it elephant, buffalo, lion, or human threatening my wellbeing.

It’s funny how being alone makes you more wary of people in general than if you’re accompanied by another human. A truck passed by on the bumpy road, and the instant I heard it I switched off my flashlight and my eyes and ears felt twice their size. I decided taking my daily notes was not feasible with my adrenaline levels as they were, so I sat and watched stars. Yeah, I know, they don’t move very fast, but they really do twinkle, and I watched what was either the ISS or a satelite pass relatively quickly by. I’m not any astronomy buff by any stretch of the imagination, but I"m pretty sure there was a planet out - maybe Venus? it was very bright and beautiful - and I kept my rational faculty going full tilt as I tried to make sense of a twinkling, non-moving light showing through the bushes by the bathroom. Probably just a very bright star low on the horizon, I reasoned.

Soon, a second vehicle bumped down the road, headlights bobbing with the potholes and ruts, and bobbed right into the campground and straight for yours truly parked under a tree. It was a big white pickup, and pulled up unhurredly next to me. Doors slammed, and a couple people piled out. I caught a glimpse of a KWS decal on the side of the truck, but my red flags were flying high and skepticism and caution were the foremost attitudes governing my mind. But, knowing that polite friendliness and humor grease a helluva lot of wheels in Kenya (while suspicion, reticence, and rudeness will raise everyone’s eyes and guard) I unlocked and opened my door (but just that one), without getting out of the truck. The fellas standing there weren’t too near, and had non-threatening "just doing my job" body language, but were most alarmingly wearing camo and sporting automatic guns at parade rest.

The driver, whose face I could not see with the headlights on, greeted me with a friendly tone and asked if I was alone. No, I said, I have a driver. Is he here? he wanted to know. Yes, I said. Where? he wanted to know. Why, in the accomodation for drivers outside the gate, I said. So you are alone, he concluded. No, I insisted, I have a driver and we spent all day in the park.

I beat around the bush long enough to see what the reactions were, and where the line of questioning was going, and nobody made any moves, or peered into the car, or got impatient. He asked if I had any protection against the animals, and I said I was sleeping in my car, and my foremost weapon was an active brain. They laughed easily, and I said I was more worried about being visited by armed men in the night than being attacked in a locked car by a lion, and gave the guys standing nearby a direct and toothy smile. They laughed again, and after another round of phraseology-challenged questions indicated they were from Kenya Wildlife Services, and their mission was not just to check up on me, but to have a couple rangers guard me through the night.

At this point in my stay in Kenya I am pretty accustomed to the differences between Kenya Wildlife Services and the (comparatively humble) Park Service back home, with their military dress, replete with automatic rifles (for people or animals, I’m still not entirely clear), berets, camo, and pants-tucked-into-combat-boots look. I asserted that they’d better be ready to sleep under the stars, because they weren’t staying in the truck with me (more laughs, as was my aim, though my tone told them I was quite serious about it), and I did they have any badges or IDs I could see? As is the Kenyan habit, it seems, they assured me everything was ok, they were for real, I could trust them. I played the I’m-a-foreigner card and asked to see their IDs again.

By this time I had been introduced to two of the guys, Peter and Haron, and Haron produced, at length, a rather worn looking KWS ID card that looked quite legit to my eyes. Peter had evidently forgotten his, so I bantered about a bit more trying to get a better feel for their intentions, attitudes, and expectations. They didn’t move an inch from their first spot on the ground, I saw no prying eyes, or leering smiles, or really anything to indicate this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill operation for them, yet another camper to watch, whose exact identity and circumstances were neither part of the job description nor particularly interesting, for that matter.

Finally I consented, shook Peter and Haron’s hands again (shaking hands is a cultural staple here), and watched the other couple men get back in the truck and pull away just as they had come. I promptly closed and locked my door and watched my watchers set up camp next to the big tree trunk. It was a minimalist affair, with white-blue headlamps illustrating their few movements. Soon they were settled, and I heard some low and relaxed conversation, a couple chuckles, then all was quiet and dark. I heard nothing, saw nothing, and slowly my adrenaline was re-uptaked by the appropriate ligands, and I laid down in the backseat to battle the heat instead of my worries.

In truth, I really did sleep easier with a couple good humans nearby, though still quite lightly (and with the keys in the ignition) and I stopped thinking about dextrous lions and rabid elephants and Jurassic Park, and passed the night one handful of minutes at a time, instead of one second at a time.

I awoke at 5:40 am relatively well-slept, and greeted the guys with a cheerful good morning - because it’s always easier to be cheerful in the morning after potential danger has passed. They goodmorning’ed in return, and in 10 minutes all our stuff was in the back of the truck. I gave them a lift to park headquarters, just a few km down the road, thanked them for their services, requested a pic, and bid them goodbye. The pic’s blurry because it was 6am. The guys looked a lot better than I did.

The morning drive was a comparative success, sighting three lesser kudu (one subadult male with about 10" horns, one female, and one juvenile). All of them were gone before I could raise the camera and get it auto-focused, so I have no proof, and I didn’t have time to sex the juvenile. But, I saw them, and those dozen or so body stripes (a hallmark of the tragelphines) and white throat patches were utterly unmistakable, and a real thrill after so many tragelaphine-free days of critter viewing.

A bit later on we went down an obviously unused road that looks like it doubles as a gully in the rainy season. The word "pothole" suggests that there’s an average level surface from which it is deviating, and no such surface existed on this road. It was either mostly-level or distinctly-not-level. A couple km down the track and we came upon a large group of buffalo (I’d only seen my first buffalo the day before, and he was in very sorry condition indeed). I snapped some quick photos of what juveniles I saw (and there were a few), and urged Andy the Driver to move on as a couple of the bulls kept their attention focused on the car. I’m told buffalo will totally charge a human (this mainly goes for the solitary bulls, but precautions are spread to the entire species, reasonably I think), but they don’t really key into vehicles. Nevertheless, I didn’t fancy being the center of attention of a ton-plus horned, stupid creature with a herd and babies to be protected, so we moved quickly on.

Soon we came across the back end of the herd - of utterly unknown size given the density of the bush - which was slowly moving in the direction from which we had come. Andy deftly turned us around in the one-lane gully, and we crawled forward till we were in …

To be continued. It’s dark out! 

“Hello? May I please speak to someone with a functioning brain?”

Such is my Microscribe Saga – the month and a half exercise in frustration that began with Virgin Atlantic breaking my microscribe (a bit of computer equipment for recording and importing shape data from objects – antelope skulls, in my case), followed by a week trying to wring a repair/work-order number out of the parent company before I could ship it, followed by a $500 bill (paid by yours truly) to mail it back to the US for repair, followed by a $2000 bill (very kindly covered by my advisor’s research funds) to upgrade it to the new model because they don’t make some parts for the old model anymore. (And mind you, when I asked about the difference between the new and old models, I was told: color, and a USB port, neither of which was broken on my otherwise mangled microscribe). Finally, after 2 weeks to diagnose, and 2 weeks to actually fix and calibrate it, they posted my microscribe on Feb. 28^th, by FedEx International Priority, to arrive in 2-3 days’ time, at the museum address I had provided.

Now the fun begins. First, the FedEx contractors (a courier service at the airport) failed to reach me on my cellphone, which has been in service continuously since Jan. 19^th. Did they leave a voicemail? No. Call back, try again? No. Try the ubiquitously popular text message? No. Call the museum, the name of which was on the box and is a well-known landmark in the city? No. Call the other fellow, head of department, whose name was also on the box? No. Do anything besides sit on their hands and wait for a bolt of lightning or burning bush to tell them what to do? No.

And, thanks to FedEx’s backlogged tracking number service, I was under the distinct impression my dear microscribe had been sitting in some British town for a good six days. After 2 days of phone calls and emails, I learned it was actually in Nairobi, and likely had not spent an inordinate amount of time in Britain at all. In fact, it had probably been sitting in Nairobi for nearly a week at this point. Remember also, I came out here in large part to USE the microscribe in the collections. All my work to date has been second-priority stuff, with a ruler, string, and notebook, which doesn’t justify the $400 research permit or the daily bench fees – not including the plane tickets, housing, paperwork headaches, or the bureaucratic bullshit I’ve been putting up with for the last several months.

But what of my dear MS? The holdup was due to its declared value - $2000 (about a third of the replacement cost, actually). High-value items of this sort need a PIN number for delivery. (I’ll hold off on asking Why??) Who knew? Not the company in California, for sure. Nor FedEx International, apparently, nor the museum whose missing PIN jammed up the delivery works. And of course, the museum person with PIN codes was out of the office last Friday, when I figured all this out. The secretary kindly passed it on in his absence (probably a no-no), and I phoned it in to the FedEx guy, leaving it in a message with a co-worker, and a clear request that he call me No Matter What, Today.

Nothing. So I nagged him again Monday morning. Did he have the PIN? “Huh?” The PIN and message I left last Friday. No, of course not. So I gave it to him, and asked when I might expect the delivery. This afternoon, perhaps? “No, it will take 2-3 days to process the PIN.”  

WHAT?!? … Apparently it takes a long time to crunch through a string of nine letters and numbers. But what could I do? I told him in no uncertain terms that that was Ridiculous, the package was Urgent, and to please deliver it As Soon as Humanly Possible.

Speaking with the head of supplies at the museum on Monday (because of course no one works on Saturdays, or before 9:30am, or really after 4pm, and certainly not during lunchtime, from 1-2pm, or really the half-hours bordering that time), I learned there was also an issue of a clearing charge. For what, exactly, I am still ignorant. For delivery? But I already paid for that. Apparently, if the goods are for research by museum staff, the museum will cover it. If it’s for personal use, I have to pay it (and it’s about a hundred bucks, I think, to get it across town, which is nearly half what it cost to ship it to the other side of the planet – and in 1/7^th of the time!).

One of my contacts here volunteered to write a memo to the supplies guy (by hand, since there was no power that day), basically lying that it was for use by various department staff so I could dodge the fee, because he fully understood it’s mine, and for my use, and while I’m happy to demonstrate and share knowledge, I haven’t any mind to let others risk breaking it – not that I really have time for that now, I’m so pressed as it is. So, memo written and submitted, I should have had it Tuesday. I gave the supplies guy the FedEx guy’s info, the tracking number, the situation, everything. I passed it off as cleanly as I knew how. Full information disclosure. Cards on the table.

Two days later I called the FedEx guy to see what the heck was up with my still-missing package. He claimed there was an issue with the clearance fee. I said it had been handled, the museum would pay it. He then dodged to a problem with the clearing agent – hadn’t heard from him. So basically, one or both parties failed to get my baton in the hand-off of the Delivery Fiasco. I went to bug the supplies dept guy. The secretary assured me the clearing agent would talk to FedEx today. Hopefully I should have it tomorrow. That is, Friday, March 16^th, 2 weeks later than expected.

Evidently by “tomorrow” it’s understood here to mean “Sometime this week. Maybe. Be sure to remind me at least a half dozen times. Then I’ll see what I can do about it at the 11^th hour, by which time it will probably be too late to do anything about it until tomorrow.”

So, I have ranted to various individuals about the mess, including taxi drivers, the guesthouse cook, the receptionist, my travel agent, and now a recurrent boarder at the guesthouse here (a civil engineer working near the Ugandan border), who has been very kind, and perhaps the most conscious and intelligent person I’ve yet met in Kenya. Instead of chuckling softly and shuffling away (like one prominent museum staff member today), or shaking his head and smiling (like the taxi driver), or feigning sympathy and indignant outrage without effecting any change at all (like the other museum staff member), this guy actually looked me in the eye and listened, then offered novel suggestions about what to do.

Like call the US embassy tomorrow, or even the head of the airport. The embassy? I don’t need a stamp or to be med-evacked, thanks. No, he insisted, this was a real problem, and right up their alley. They can talk to the blooming idiots at the delivery company, and get the wheels rolling, because it’s patently ridiculous that as a student and researcher here to do work, I’ve nearly wasted a third of my time because of administrative crap and blatant ineptitude and poor service.

So, if my dear microscribe isn’t waiting for me tomorrow morning when I arrive, I will call the FedEx guy, give him hell, make a trip to the supplies office (because face-time is how things work here, if they work at all), and then call the embassy, give them my sob story (in as professional a tone as I can muster), then try to forget the whole issue so I can measure as many eland skulls as humanly possible before closing time (to the tunes of KMFDM, drowning out the static-clogged Indian music and references to Allah being piped over the lab radio) and tomorrow take off for two days of sunshine, driving, and hopefully lots of bovids. And hopefully on Monday I can finally do what I came here to do.

And if my microscribe has not survived over two weeks of transit… well…. I just might give it up, cry for the first time in my professional life, and resign myself to doing a PhD with old, unsophisticated, second-rate methods, supplemented by suggestive but ultimately inconclusive microscribe data taken from too few of the wrong specimens to really be of any use at all.

But by golly, I plan to see lesser kudu this weekend. Crack of dawn, there I am, binoculars and camera in hand, tracking down the wiley wascals of the northern bush of Tsavo West Nat’l Park, some 50 miles northeast of Mt. Kilimanjaro. My plan is to see all those bovids that can most reasonably be seen in Kenya – lesser kudu having a fair distribution through Ethiopia, Somalia, Kenya, and Tanzania – thereby removing any reason I might have of visiting this country (or region) again in the next 20 years, if ever.

–3/16/07. PS: On the brighter side of this bureaocratic nightmare, the US Embassy got back to me right away, although the fellow was not terribly helpful, saying "Welcome to Kenya. Their bureaocracy is not as evolved as ours." Well, it’s too evolved, in my judgement, but that’s largely an issue of semantics. I threatened the FedEx guy with harassment from the US Embassy, and paid a special visit to the supplies department at the museum, and was told it should arrive this afternoon. Although my outlook now mainly consists of "The proof is in the pudding," the good news is that they haven’t yet promised to deliver it by a specific date or time. The fact that they said ‘this afternoon’ is therefore a ray of hope in an otherwise bleak landscape for science (and business in general) in Kenya. We will see. I am considering returning to Kenya (red tape depending) after Egypt if I cannot get the minimum amount of work done to justify my trip. Better to shell out a little extra, then have a heap of only semi-useful data to struggle with for the next two (or ten) years.

I’m staying just down the street from a Hare Krishna temple and school. And the Aga Khan hospital is very close. There’s a noticeable minority of East Indians here, and I’ve seen one young girl (18?) in a burkha. Pity. But most young people dress as in the states, and at the more upscale shopping areas (though not mind-blowingly five-star or anything) it’s obvious that Nairobi is the place for very hip, trendy, beautiful rich young people, however many (or few) of them there are.

Perhaps I’ve unknowingly dodged a majority of US bureaucracy, but I came face-to-face with the Kenyan kind yesterday. I had a minor errand to do - show up at the Ministry of Education at 11am with my receipt to pick up my permit which they had started processing the day before. Relatively little problem on that front - except that I show up to office #1 and wait 5 minutes, then get funneled to Office #2, where after waiting 5 minutes, talking to the Under Secretary of Science and Technology, am told to wait (another 20 minutes), I explain my case, wait another 5 minutes, he tries to funnel me back to Office #1, I resist, I wait some more, then upon finding my file discovers that he does remember my application, there was a problem with the photos (I have them), but wait - the secretary didn’t type a letter for it like she was supposed to, I must come back after lunch (an hour and a half later, 2pm). I ask if I can pick it up tomorrow morning, easier for everyone, and am flatly told no, I must come back at 2 o’clock.

So, that pretty much shot the best part of the day, and I sat at a deli counter and wrote philosophy stuff - compelling, but not the research I came to do. Oh, and the hassle doesn’t count the guards at the parking lot gate, which incidentally is the only way into the building, the necessary visitor’s pass, the pea-green uniformed and bereted soldier to tag and watch my luggage, the massively overcrowded elevators, the noise and clutter of on-going construction, or the fact that all the toilets lack seats and toilet paper - I guess they don’t want you hanging around too long.

Things got a little better when I headed up to Sarit Center, a pretty inclusive shopping center a couple kilometers from the guesthouse. I think this is where the white people shop. I didn’t see a single white person in all of downtown Nairobi - but race doesn’t seem to be much of an issue here, not compared to crime and poverty. When I’m not advised to go places, the explanation usually includes a clause of "Not even people living in Nairobi go there, it’s not safe for anyone." What stares I get are more the curious kind any apparent oddball attracts, and not malicious or derogatory (in my experience yet).

Sarit Center has quite decent, if expensive, internet (4Ksh/minute, which amounts to a little over $3/hr). I’ve hooked up with a travel agent there who has given me great advice, and has been the middle man for getting me a Kenya cell phone (people aren’t likely to call my south african number because it’s so expensive to call internationally), and a taxi to Hell’s Gate this weekend. The phone thing in particular was pretty much under the table, as I haven’t technically bought anything from the travel agency yet. It’s quite evident that people, in an effort to get ahead, do a lot of business "on the side." Apart from the fact that it was a personal transaction, it was quite on the up, and he gave me the receipt for his purchases, and I paid him back with a tip. Beats the pants off me trying to figure out all this stuff myself. The approach to cell phones is foreign to me, the whole concept of taxicabs was utterly opaque to me at first, and I’m quickly learning the best way to get something done - cheaply, safely, and quickly - is to ask if someone knows someone. Transactions between strangers are apparently a huge risk for getting ripped off, stranded, or whatever. If someone suggests a vendor to you, it’s a kind of insurance if something goes wrong - you rattle their social network, and that’s bad for them.

I’m on the fence as to whether I think this is a society based on pull or not. Relations and reputations are valid considerations. On the other hand, if there’s not an objective product, endpoint, or standard at the end of the day, some aspect of reality you’re dealing with, it’s all a house of cards in the sky. I think the government people fall into the latter category, with some exceptions. I think most people on the street, being closer to hard money and needing food today, are closer to reality, but tend to move away from it as they climb the ladder.  

Here, "Taxi" = guy with a car who’ll take you where you want to go if you pay him. And they’ll go pretty much anywhere, and depending on the trip, they’re happy to wait for you. For example, a taxi to Hell’s Gate Nat’l Park, about 1-1.5 hours north of Nairobi, will cost me US$125. That is, a trip there starting at 6am, he waits for me all day, and a trip back before sunset. Renting a car and driving myself would cost $135, not including the hassle and risk of driving myself. Insane, the way that works. 125 bucks is still quite a bit, but I’m happy to shell out for a safe and secure first trip out of the city, and when I figure things out a bit, I’ll work on saving money.

Oh, and I get to hire an armed ranger at the gate to walk around with me - more for protection from wildlife than other people. Hell’s Gate is one of the few parks where you can walk around on foot - the predators are largely absent for some (natural or unnatural) reason. But, there’s still the odd chance, plus old buffalo bulls are nasty critters, and I won’t mind the company and assistance.

Oh, and the national parks here aren’t fenced - critters come and go as they please. Which also explains some of the trouble with poaching. Critters quickly learn what’s park and what’s not, and the non-migratory types take up residence. Elephants seem to be a major problem here. On the one hand, it’s good to make sure elephants continue to exist, which means fighting poaching and protecting habitat. Being a keystone species, they are also vital for the survival of many other kinds of organisms. On the other hand, they move around a lot, have a penchant for seasonal migration, eat a ton of different things, and are devastating to their environment. Naturally, that’s a good thing - that’s part of their role as keystone species. Next to farms and ranches though, it creates huge animosity between farmers and the elephants and wildlife service. Farmers are as likely to bump off a pachyderm because it’s destroying their crops (by eating or trampling or both) as someone after its ivory. But anyway. Not my present concern.

Funny thing: yesterday, crossing a street with John the Travel Agent to meet my cabbie Francisco, we were predictably hassled by street vendors peddling wares. That is, guys standing on the dotted yellow line trying to sell you stuff as you walked by or drove by. I was approached by one grimey looking man who, one hand holding his jacket closed, eyes shifting left then right, held out his cupped hand to offer me a… palm-sized white fluffy bunny rabbit. A live one. I shook my head and held back a laugh. I asked John if he was selling bunnies because Easter is coming up. He said no, they sell them all year, but the guy would get in big trouble if a cop caught him. How there exists a black market for bunnies is beyond me. You probably burn more calories cleaning it than that thing packs in its entire body. I’d buy one if I had a pet boa constrictor.

After the collapse of the Taggart Bridge, the explosion of Project X, and the blackout in New York City, many of the leaders of Washington emigrated en masse to a promising region of tribal Africa, rich in resources and authentic culture, free from the shackling traditions of narrow-minded, cut-throat capitalism and shallow American culture. There, with moving speeches, kindly smiles, and confidential discussions with chiefs late into the night, they worked to bring the enlightened perspectives of multiculturalism, environmentalism and liberalism to the people of the region. They introduced the novel concepts of welfare benefits for the poor and social responsibility for the few arrogant and wealthy proto-industrialists.

Though slow to initially take hold, these plans of social reform (popularized with the slogan, “Health, wealth and rest for all: Giving for a better tomorrow,”) percolated into the culture like sewer runoff into a parched and fruitless earth, giving rise to the first generation of political leaders of the new Better Tomorrow Party. Over the following decades, these social servants, as they preferred to be called, oversaw the construction of urban infrastructure, implemented a modern curriculum in the new public schools (sensitive to the diverse racial, cultural, religious, and gender differences of its students), and took to task the exploitative CEOs and industrialists, (mostly foreign investors and capitalists, but also a few natives who had risen from the ranks of dusty, penniless bums that littered every thoroughfare and intersection). Through the redistribution of the money expropriated from their customers, these leeches of society were finally made to give back to the people they had profited from for so long.

The efforts and results of this People’s Government (as the unopposed Better Tomorrow Party was referred to), can be seen today. The capital is the commercial hub of the region, with a new 30-story international conference center built by the government to showcase the country’s wealth and attract foreign businessmen and tourists, with the hopes that the added revenue will fund underground sewer systems for the peripheral residential areas. The stately Museum of Science, founded by the imperial colonists over a hundred years ago, attracts researchers from all over the world with its century-old collections of natural and cultural artifacts. A 5-year Museum Beautification Project is currently underway, the resulting unavailability of plumbed water and electricity comically giving the bathroom and laboratory facilities an historical atmosphere. It is hoped this project will spawn a trend in gentrification in that part of town, which is prone to regular power outages and has family incomes well below the national average.

In line with the Dignity First Bill, they city’s residents have the smartest wardrobes on the continent, with the government providing every resident with two Oxford shirts, 2 pairs of stylish trousers, and a pair of loafers (for men), or three blouses, two skirts, and a pair of pumps (for women) each Christmas. Residents are understandably fined for appearing ragged, dirty or unkempt in such clothing (it belongs to the People, after all), which also helps educate and motivate stubbornly lazy individuals, especially those whose homes lack running water, indoor toilets, raised floors, and rain-proof roofs.

Mysteriously, crime has crept upwards, dramatically in recent years, despite three decades of increasingly progressive education. Results from the recent overhaul of policies and regulations to remove the “loopholes,” by which individuals circumvented the law, have evidently yet to become noticeable. Nonetheless, a “tough stand on crime” remains a top priority for citizens and politicians alike, and following the upcoming expansion of the jails and a new military police force (sporting fatigues and berets with their automatic rifles), criminals are sure to think twice before hijacking your car, kidnapping children for ransom, poaching elephants (an official National Treasure), or polluting the air with their 30 year old, diesel-guzzling tin can of a car.

Amidst the tension surrounding the upcoming presidential election (replete with the customary charges of corruption, upsurge of tribal warfare in the rural districts, and threats of terrorism) one may rest securely knowing the country is in good hands, no matter the election outcome. All the candidates vying for the title of Honorable High Chancellor Commander-in-Chief His/Her Excellency The President share a commitment to protect the now-universally recognized human rights to safety, food, shelter, clean water, clean air, health, insurance, education, employment, and retirement pensions. With this unified front against crime, poverty, disease, and ignorance, the future looks bright indeed. Although they have long since passed on, Mr. Thompson, Mr. Mouch, Mr. Chalmers and their brethren in history would be proud of this burgeoning nation.

- by Jim T. Scudder

My first evening in town (after arriving at 6am), a fellow stopped me on the street where I’d bought a roasted ear of corn to munch (tastes like popcorn without the grease), and said he recognized me from the museum. Turns out Jeff works in the herbarium, has a masters in botany, and is gunning for PhD programs in the US. We talked a lot about that, and about more basic things, and he’s a fine individual indeed, who is unapologetic or modest about his goals, his desire for them, and his utter willingness to work for them. That kind of candor about ambition is pretty rare in the US these days. He then offered to escort me into town to show me the ropes and help me buy groceries (there being nothing but veggie and fruit vendors in my neighborhood, and instant coffee and dark chocolate being in lower demand than bananas, shoes, and cell phone minutes.

We walked down Ngara road (one of the two-lane thoroughfares of my neighborhood) to the bus (matatu?) pick-up area on the major street. Holy moley. The traffic is insane and filthy (which I’d already seen during my sleep-deprived taxi ride from the airport), and most cars are jammed to the gills with people – and the roads are still totally packed! Probably half the vehicles are 8-20 person buses, all full, and all tailgating. I learned today there are no driving laws in Nairobi, which explains a lot. Actually, it’s pretty impressive how organized everything is. Conversely (or perhaps consequentially) there are countless driving schools, and you’re always passing vehicles with Student Driver painted in foot-tall letters. Emily (U of O, one of Steve Frost’s students, currently living in Nairobi) told me today they’re picky about drivers’ licenses, and you can pretty much count on getting stopped by cops on a regular basis, with the ensuing bribe-or-dangerous-hassle shtick.  Oh, and the guard at the security gate to the airport had an automatic rifle, though he held it as thoughtlessly as a fishing pole.

I stuck close to Jeff amidst the packs of people (backpack locked three ways and pockets empty). The matatus look like bigger versions of the VW bus, thankfully with an aisle down the middle. A dude hangs out the doorless door, banging on the side, calling for riders, and then banging again to signal the driver to leave, who often doesn’t quite stop the vehicle. You pile on, plop down, and dash off down the street as far as you’ll go for just Ksh10 (that’s about fourteen cents).

Now, before you picture some beat-up farm vehicle recently co-opted into urban service, let me sketch a more accurate picture. The buses are beat-up inner-city vehicles (which could be 2 years old or 20; I have no ability to judge the age of African vehicles, even familiar brands). They are pressed into near round-the-clock service (5am to midnight at least) seven days a week, and the various circuits around the city must eventually feel like a merry-go-round for the drivers. They are painted with wild … well, “schemes” would suggest plan or organizing principles, but I can detect none, except a preference for darker colors. They are plastered with brand logos and artist/band/culture stickers. The route numbers are often worked into the mosaic on the hood or windshield, making them very hard to pick out unless you know to expect one. Inside, the seats are cloth and comfortable enough, and what sounds like American rap and hip-hop blasts at conversation-stunting levels.

The high volume strikes me as a bit strange given that I’ve noticed most people talk rather softly here (I’ve caught myself almost being a Loud American in my enthusiasms on a couple occasions, and had to willfully rein myself in). On the other hand, the radio is absolutely obnoxious (the guesthouse manager keeps it piped throughout all day), where it sounds like they specialize in musicless hysterical soap operas and phone-in talk shows only permitting callers with bad service and a belief that yelling improves the connection. I keep hearing “Jesus Christ”, so maybe it’s the Kenyan version of raving evangelism with its penchant for hyperbole.

We hopped off downtown near the Hilton, the National Archives, and the Standard Bank, and I got a bit of shopping done, including 5lbs of flour and a pound of salt (give or take metric adjustments) for my damned play-dough. Damned because that stuff is heavy when part of a larger grocery run. Praise be to Skippy Extra Crunchy, I can be sure not to starve to death for at least a week if for some reason it all goes to hell in a handbasket. Between that, some caffeine tablets, the contents of my purse and a credit card, I could extract myself from most situations falling within two standard deviations of the mean.

I have decided to attempt the humanly impossible over the remaining 5.5 weeks in Kenya. Scouring my travel book and two field guides, I realized that I can see all the tragelaphines save nyala (South Africa, and on my radar), mountain nyala (Ethiopia; I’ll pass, thanks), and Derby’s eland (Chad, Sudan; I’ll definitely pass). But they’ve got sitatunga on easy viewing at the Saiwa Swamps (has the sun reversed its orbit?), greater kudu are breeding like rabbits over at Lake Boringo, lesser kudu east at the huge Tsavo National Park, eland all over the place, and bongo in the Aberdares, Mt. Kenya, and the Mau Escarpment (though apparently some wildlife enthusiasts have seen Santa Claus more frequently than bongos). Bushbuck aren’t flash enough to be mentioned in my guidebook, and too widespread to merit mentions at particular localities in the field guides. But I get the impression that their shyness makes them exceedingly hard to spot, and they’ve got them in the Aberdares at least.

As for gazelles, I’m gunning to get my fill of both Grant’s and Thomson’s without setting foot in or near the Maasai-Mara NP. I hear it’s like Disneyland down there, and I’ve had my fill of elephants and giraffes and lions for the time being. Plus it’s a long drive, with exceedingly crappy terrain and a high probability of needing to be towed out, especially as it’s the rainy season. No bueno. So, I’m thinking perhaps Hell’s Gate park this weekend for some on-foot, sans-predator, 360-degree bovid awesomeness, then Tsavo next weekend, then a mighty 9 day jaunt to the Aberdares, Mt. Kenya, and Laurence Frank’s place on the Laikipia Plateau (two thumbs up for Laurence, he’s so easy going about all this) with my own wheels, nursing my budding career as a bovid paparazzo.

I plan to talk to Risky (mammalogy dept.; godsend) tomorrow about tips, tricks, advice, and words of wisdom for heading out into the field and seeing the critters I want to see, and coming back in one piece to do work at 8am each Monday. If I am exceedingly fortunate, someone from the museum will want to join me on one or more treks, and help with negotiating Nairobi traffic and streets, navigating the roads and culture of the smaller towns, sharing costs, and helping me in my quest to see bovids. But, that may be pie in the sky, and I’ll clunk through unglamorously and more expensively with hired guides and perhaps a hired driver (sounds glamorous, but the motivation is strictly practical). The good news is that it’s relatively cheap here (save the research permits, which amount to about two weeks’ total expenses plus weekend excursions), and I’ve got several lines of advice pouring in from people who live here (Kenyan and American), and top-rated national travel agency on speed dial.

So, as is my wont, I’ve got about a dozen ideas trotting around my mind concerning research activities over the next six weeks and two years (and twenty years). Mainly, and with no surprise, I could spend ages at the museum here. My goal is to simply take all the data I want on all reasonable (i.e. not pulverized) tragelaphines, and the two gazelle species. That’s it, though the roan, sable, blackbuck, ibex, watusi cattle, hirola (nearly extinct), and many others beckon. That amounts to a helluva lot of work, and even more wishing. There are easily 75 Derby’s eland skulls alone, probably 4-6 dozen Grant’s gazelles, a couple dozen Thomson’s gazelles, 4 dozen common eland, a dozen kudu, a dozen lesser kudu, a couple dozen bushbuck, and a perverse mixing of a half dozen nyala and sitatunga skulls in the far corner. The card catalog (“database”) sucks so bad it could dry out a jellyfish. As a result, I learned a crapload about male bushbuck, sitatunga, and nyala anatomy, trying to sort out which was what. Very good. But I’m pining for DSL, because I haven’t a clue what characters are used in phylogenies, or even the basic descriptions and monographs parsing one tragelaphine from the others. My little hand-made character matrix turned up a significant degree of variability in nyala, discounting horn length and shape altogether.

Oh! I didn’t mention bongos! They have bongo skulls here! 5-7 very good ones. They are MMMASSIVE!! They have the splay of nyala horns with nearly the reach of kudu horns, and the robusticity of eland and the largest of the large kudu, but without the hyper-bone-deposition look to their crania – they’re just smoothly, gracefully huge. Stunning. They are by far my new favorite critter.

–

Pics of bongos:

http://k43.pbase.com/v3/88/582688/1/48533715.0smwade5615.jpg

http://whozoo.org/Anlife99/karlaper/Bongo080102_4.jpg

http://www.cogsci.indiana.edu/farg/harry/bio/zoo/bongo.jpg

See, the trouble with all these photos is there are no humans in the picture. Bongos are beautiful, but they’re so cute it’s easy to think they’re small. Nope. Large pony, I’d say.

I haven’t the time or internet speed to upload pohotos (by shrinking them to a tenth of their size and emailing them one by one to the photo site…sigh) in separate batches for my various days in Etosha. So it’s all one big load. The picture numbers are chronological though, to give you an idea. I’ll do a massive photo dump when I get home. I’m talking thousands of pictures, gigs and gigs of space. If you’re not tired of blue wildebeest and black-faced impala after that, you might consider a trip to Africa (or a career in zoology :o).

Funny the names with colors:
Black-faced impala
Blue wildebeest (=black-tailed gnu)
Black wildebeest (=white-tailed gnu)
Red hartebeest
Gray go-away bird
Lilac-breasted roller (my favorite bird in Etosha, and common too)

The other good news is that I haven’t been robbed or mugged (or worse), and I’ve only been stalked once. I think he was trying to sell me something (in dockers, a crisp collared shirt and shiny shoes), but I disentangled from his contrivances easily enough and carried on. I do follow the dawn-dusk rule of thumb, and assiduously lock my luggage and backpack whenever I can’t keep an eyeball on its contents, viewers or visitors, and even then I stow stuff like a packrat. I keep my electronics invisible whenever possible, uniformly in town and most always in the guesthouse. My purse, when I carry it, doesn’t stray far from my armpit, and I’ve got money, documents and valuables scattered, hidden, and locked among my luggage and person.

This latter is a strategy I’ve hemmed and hawed about concerning stochastic probability and likelihood of loss. That is, it seems stupid to put something important in each bag because if someone takes just one, any one, I’m sure to loose something important. On the other hand, the only way I can loose everything with that strategy is if they steal everything, and at 28.5kg minimum, that’s less likely. It seems a majority of theft here is opportunistic, if brazen, with a minority of crime in the horrendous-scary category.

That said, for every hawker and slimeball I’ve passed on the street, I’ve exchanged genuine smile s and greetings with 10 other people. As soon as language can be managed, people are generally quite helpful, and happy to help. I think the old owner here has warmed to my unusual ways (comparatively high-energy, hard working, direct, and humorous), and even the receptionist has lessened her stony attitude. I think that kind of attitude might be a cultural thing, rather than a personal thing; women here tend to be quite cool, if kind in their words and actions. I haven’t met a single person I’d describe as perky, and I think the Head of Osteology (haha), who reminds me strongly of molasses in many ways, got a kick out of my bongo enthusiasms. (More on bongos shortly).

[Arrived Friday, 3/2/07.]

Monday, 3/5/07

My impression of Nairobi as a city and culture is more favorable (compared to South Africa, for example). It appears to sleep about 4 hours a night. Compared to the Free State, where everything quit at 4pm, and good luck getting coffee on a Sunday, Nairobi seems to be up and about from 6am to 6 or 8 or 9pm, every day. Many cynics would bemoan the shark-like attitude, the zeal for money, the degradation of “culture”, the shrinking options for traditional peoples, blah blah blah. I think the attitude is great (when not directed at harming other people, just trading with them and getting the best deal you can). To be driving a matatu at 5:40 in the morning, you’ve got to want to – not because you must love matatus, but because you’re after something, not least of which is money. One can’t simultaneously decry the culture fostered by people working to improve their lives and  the poverty that surrounds so many of these motivated people, and the impossibility of making a living by digging roots, spearing elephants, and supplicating rain gods with dead cows (or people).

In this respect, I like Nairobi for its ambition, and it’s no wonder Nairobi is the economic hub of east Africa, second only to Johannesburg for perhaps the entire continent. Still, the fact is that electricity and water are sporadic. I heard no cries of protest, jabbering conversation, complaints, criticisms, or even comments about either of these outages, with my guidebook saying electricity is becoming increasingly UNreliable in Nairobi. This reminded me, with quite a jab, that the forward march of overall knowledge, the track-record of application, and the slickness of technology, don’t guarantee anything for anyone, much less a right to them, including for “the basics”.

Other realities of being in a developing country are also significant and non-negotiable. Stick-thin youths, stick-thin elderly, banditry in the north and eastern deserts, illiteracy (50%), tap water that’s in an invitation for illness, barbed wire everywhere (no razor wire yet, like in ZA), gates on every door and grates on every groundfloor window, impassable and unmaintained roads, city streets so bad 4WD is a serious consideration, and major roads being gravel or dirt. Your chicken drumstick at dinner might well have had feathers that morning, and whole sides of sheep in meat shops look, to this anatomist-in-training, suspiciously not-fresh. Evangelist Christianity is prevalent, but not quite as in-your-face as in Namibia, though alcohol stores are surprisingly rare (the two appeared to be symbionts Namibia) and condoms are easier to come by than bottled water.

I take notice of a difference from what I’m used to, and wonder to what degree, if any, it translates into shorter, less happy lives for people here. The danger posed to you by exposed sewage, thick pollution, haphazard traffic, bad roads, lower quality medical care, proportionally greater expense on basics (safe food, safe water, safe housing), are significant. But these ultimately pale to the risk posed by other humans (directly and indirectly), with all manner of urban crime, violent crime, tribal wars and feuding, religious conflicts, lax security exploited by terrorists, banditry, corrupt politicians, corrupt police officers, military police, and more.

All these observations converge, like rivulets of water into a river,  into a general assessment of the health of a society and the prospects for the people that comprise it. Frankly, although I love the work I can do here, and I’ll likely be further astounded by animals and scenery away from Nairobi, the US is, without a doubt, better. It saddens me that the US has so many who are ashamed our greatness, or who work to destroy our means of being great. I have no patience for these apologists for the perspectives and programs and politics that entrench poverty, enable and motivate criminals, and guarantee strife between groups and harm to individuals.