Mbita

09/24/05

Woke up early, before sunrise, the house was stirring… I went back to sleep. I got up for real around 6:30am. Breakfast. A walk down to the shore with Robert that turned out to include a canoe ride on the lake (3 locals paddling), which turned out to be Robert's first time in a boat (he is 46.) We rowed around, next to some birds, some boys fishing, some men bathing, some women washing.

We came back to the house and met Mr. Kaundh's father and three of his wives (the first passed away.) This guy is adorable, estimated by his children and wives to be 100+ years old. Thick glasses, drinking a coke, holding a handkerchief to catch the spittle that came pouring out from where his bottom teeth used to be whenever he started talking excitedly. Which was frequent once I got him going about the past, especially old fishing techniques (they used spears or made cages out of sticks before they had nets and hooks.) He told me the biggest Nile Perch he ever caught was as big as his third wife. Who was a big lady.

We ate a big lunch on the veranda, fresh Tilapia and ugali. We left for Mbita. We stopped off at a lakeshore resort that Mrs. Kaundh wants to emulate for her Gille Memorial Resort. It was nice. Rooms are modern affairs built inside big traditional African thatched huts, they cost 1500/= a night ($20.) The only problem I see is market, the accessibility is just so poor that it must hurt business, despite how beautiful the area is. Everyone assured me that plenty of people come to visit, but no one was staying there currently.

We carried on to Mrs. Kaundh's father's homestead. This was, I guess, the true purpose of the entire weekend visit. Of the eight houses on the homestead, only two were inhabited, belonging to the youngest son and his two wives. The others have all been abandoned as their inhabitants died, and graves were sprinkled throughout the yard. A few of the houses were in terrible states of disrepair, and a few of the orphans were hanging out, shyly watching their visitor, and I said I wanted to a take a picture of all the kids in the abandoned house. This sent one of the kids running off to fetch the others, who were apparently working down by the lake, and by the time I took the shot there were 8 of them. Others were apparently working elsewhere. It was another one of those dichotomous experiences, the devastation inherent in taking the portrait of 8 children in the derelict houses of one of their dead fathers, but at the same time the laughter and joy that my presence and the camera and the attention seemed to give them.

I met the youngest brother (I was earlier informed that he is HIV+ but hasn't come to terms with his status.) He is given medications secretly by his elder wife. He was terribly drunk (it was midday.) He kicked his dog. Some friends came on a motorcycle and they shared a cigarette, pushed each other around a bit. It was a terrible influence on the kids, especially the eldest son, who was watching him with those absorbing eyes. Mrs. Kaundh was (understandably) very sad at finding her home in such a state, and especially with the state of her brother. When we were getting ready to leave, she asked him to check the cars battery and hit the hood release button. She told me he was a certified mechanic. It took him almost a full minute to get the hood open. I asked, "Are you sure you want him playing around in there?" And she laughed.

We made it home, and sat down by the lake to relax for a minute, and then I said I wanted to go take pictures of Mr. Kaundh's father. Robert and I went to Mrs. Kaundh, who gave us a cousin to show us the way to their homestead. We got there, sat down, they laughed at my attempts to speak their mother tongue (but it always seems to be appreciated) and then we went on to taking pictures. The difficulty of shooting the elderly (and sick) here, especially a 100 year old man and his three wives, is once you sit them down, you don't feel right asking them to get up and move their position. Its not like headshots were you can get some actor jumping up and down or standing on their head, anything for a shot. In any case, I did the best with what I had at my disposal and got some shots. A girl was there and asked for her picture. I thought she was maybe 14 or 15. It turns out that she is a mother of two (the elder was 6 or 7) and is HIV+. Her son is HIV+ as well.

When I got back to the house I sat down with Mr. Kaundh, an obese and friendly man, and started talking politics. I asked the right questions (all about Kenya's proposed constitutional referendum that is coming up on Nov 21st and is the cause of a lot of political heat in the country.) Mrs. Kaundh brought a glass of white wine, and when I was down two, Mr. Kaundh asked if I drank whiskey. I couldn't very well lie to the man, so the next thing I knew I was drinking Bond 7. Mr. Kaundh is running for the MP seat in Suba District in 2007. I've now eaten with two 2007 MP hopefuls. Mr. busted out t-shirts he had made up that say "Vote No!"

Dinner was served, a true feast, beef and nymachoma and ugali and rice and tomatoes and something called uchuli, which everyone warned me not to try. So of course I did. It goes with the goat meat. It tasted very bitter, about what I imagine battery acid must taste like. After I had mopped up the last drop, they told me that it was made from the goat's intestines, bile, and other ingredients that were better left unknown. I chose to leave it at that. Mr was served a small plate of the 'sweetest cut' of the goat, which he offered me a cut of. It was solid fat. Which starts to explain how a man becomes Mr's size (the number of sodas consumed in a day must play a role in that too.)

After dinner it was on to the Bedrock again. We took a table in the back and Mr started talking politics in Mother Tongue, and Robert was in another world, so I watched the Bold and the Beautiful in fuzzy B&W. Amber is pregnant with Ray's baby, but tomorrow she is marrying Rick, who thinks the baby is his. The big problem is that Rick and Amber are white, and Ray is black. Uh-oh! I was waiting to see one of the people that Lesley had shot when I assisted for her, but none made an appearance, maybe they've all been written off. After my 'stories' I went and shot pool with the manager of the sex workers (Mr's uncle.) He beat me, though barely, and as much as I would like to attribute it to the table or the cues or the whiskey or something, he was just better at pool. Being good at pool may be a requisite for being the manager of the sex workers.

Robert was out sleeping in the back of the Peugeot, and I went back to the table and was poured another glass of Bond 7. The bottle was suddenly empty, and the political discussion was getting heated (although, they were all on the same side of the issue, so I think the loud voices were just a product of fermented barley.) I was bored, I wanted to leave, but didn't see how I could drag Mr from his 'constituency talks.' Two sex workers came and sat at the table, someone at the table asked if I wanted to take them to one of the rooms, I declined. He said something like 'Mike, how can you come to Africa and not try Africa?' I almost launched into a diatribe about the absurdity of his statement considering the project I'm working on, instead I took out my camera and took his pictures. And then one of the sex workers. And then Mr and the empty bottle of Bond 7.

We finally left the bar at midnight, and got back to the house at 1am (we had to drop off the guy who has offered me the whores.) I was tired and drunk and passed right out.