Oh, Drunken Market Women

11/09/05

I spent the morning walking alone through the rat routes, looking to make some photographs. I have no help today because Robert is in Eldoret, Mzee Elisha and Shikuku are on duty for the church's 'week of prayer' (yes, a full week of prayer, 6am till 9pm everyday, which they look at as vacation.) Even Othies was gone, off to some market past Rongo, so it was just me. And time is too scarce to just sit in my simba and read and write and blah blah blah. So while I'm still not confident to just take out the DVX and start walking around pointing it at people, I was confident enough to walk through the back paths and greet people and ask for pictures here and there. I found myself a few kilometers from the A1 and Kanga Center and Mama Liz's, and there was a young man and his wife at a well hidden water hole doing their laundry and washing dishes. After I greeted them in Kiluo and asked for a picture in Kiswahili, suddenly we couldn't communicate any further… They spoke no English and I'm ready to admit that I'm pretty bad at learning foreign languages, and so after I had made the photos, and this guy kept asking me questions, I didn't know exactly what to do. I assumed he was asking him how he could get a copy, the only word I recognized was 'wapi' ('where') and I was trying to explain that would send them posta to Kanga Primary, but he didn't seem to get it, but it didn't seem to matter, we said goodbye (Kiluo) and then they laughed as I struggled up a hill of dead sugar cane.

Afterwards I went to Rongo to meet a guy Dave, who is Peace Corps. We had a few beers and chatted, shared experiences and the like. He's been here 18 months, and has another six to go. He seemed exceedingly anxious to leave. He had some stories, I told some of mine. We ate some ugali and beef and drank a few more beers. He offered to lend me a DVD (a bootleg 4-in-1!) so we walked back to his place. He stays in an apartment, not with a family, which if you were here for two years would make a lot of sense.

I left Dave's place around 7pm to catch the last bus. The interior residential section of this rural Rongo town was dark, almost pitch black, the moon wasn't out yet and not many of the homes have lights. I followed the path instinctively, turning this way, then that, following the sounds of the road in the distance. I walked quickly, with my shoulders back and my chest out, hoping that would help deter any of the shadowy figures from trying to rob me, knowing that it probably wouldn't. I didn't have much money on me, but I had my feed-a-man-for-a-year mobile phone and my put-my-children-through-secondary-school camera in my pockets. The closer I got back to the center, the more shadowy figures were brushing by my shoulders. I got to an intersection and turned left and it was a wrong turn! But I realized it quickly and turned around. I finally found the tarmac Homa Bay road and took another left. Soon I could see the activity up there on the A1. Now I got bold and took my ELPH out and held it tight to my chest, recording as I walked. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, pounding against my camera. I reached the A1 and turned right, towards the bus stage, and fortunately there were two buses remaining in the deserted matatu park. I walked quickly to the first, and found that it was packed, 22 people in the 14 seater. I walked to the bus behind it, and thankfully there were still a few seats in the back. I took my place in 'line' behind three market ladies with bags of produce on their heads, when my turn came, I struggled my way to the back corner seat. The lady sitting in front of me turned around, and when she opened her mouth I caught a strong waft of the distinctively powerful sour smell of chaanga, the cheap illicit Kenyan alcohol. She slurred, "Hey mzungu… Why don't you ever come and visit me in Nakuru? My kids would love it… They see a white man and it makes them so happy…" Sarcasm and resentment were dripping off every slurred syllable. I could feel her animosity simmering just underneath the glaze that covered her eyes. Before I could say anything, the lady in front of her started shouting something about me to the whole bus, in Kiluo. The ladies around her started shrieking with laughter, the older, more mature (read, less drunk) ladies looked at her accusingly, disappointed, then looked at each other helplessly, then looked at me sympathetically. When I didn't respond to the lady she became bolder, talking about me louder, with more hatred in her voice, now in Kiswahili too, now even a word or two in English. These drunken market ladies were insulting me, not to my face, to each other, right in front of me, in languages they knew I couldn't speak, and they knew there was nothing I could really do about it. They were having a great time. I wanted the bus to move. I wanted to tell the lady to speak quieter, to show some basic human courtesy, to not insult me because of the color of my skin. But I didn't want to start a fight, I didn't have the energy, there were 20 of them and then the touts were laughing right along with them. Every second that I ignored them they got angrier and louder, ruder, their shrill voices burned hotter in my ears, the stifling air became more suffocating, with every second that past I wanted more and more to just jump out of the window and feel the cool night air cool me down, walk back to Kanga or find a cab or something. But I maintained. Though I wanted the damn bus to move. The woman next to me, tired of the embarrassment she was suffering due to her 'sister's' actions, tried to get them to quiet down. The bus exploded into shouts, it seemed like a catfight was imminent. The noise was deafening. The heat was oppressive. The smell of bodies and alcohol was nauseating. Finally, the bus started to move. The velocity of the bus only seemed to increase the volume and speed of the drunken, slurred, insults. As I stared out the window, boiling inside, I realized, slowly, that I was experiencing racism. That when these ladies shouted 'mzungu', I was hearing 'nigger.' I was the nigger. The white nigger. I thought, 'oh, so this is what it is to be sitting in the back of a bus having a bunch of drunk women insult you because of the color of your skin, and not be able to do anything about it.' Then, almost as an afterthought, 'Awesome.' From then on out, I sort of enjoyed it. The harsher and louder and more belligerent they became, the more I could just stare out the window and smile. A part of me was screaming some pretty nasty things at these women, but a bigger part of me swallowed it. That part of me heard the words in my head but then turned and looked at the mature ladies next to me, weathered from a life of struggle, and realized that a few drunk market ladies on a bus, however obnoxious, weren't enough to deter me, to change my opinions about the general kindness and warmth and wisdom of the rural Luos. I decided that these drunken fruit sellers were just blowing off a day's steam, they had a found an outlet for a lifetime of disappointment and struggle. And I was the unfortunate target. Part of me wanted to rage, but a bigger part just told me to breath deep. To mark it down as another of life's experiences. I almost appreciated the fact that I was in the back of a bus being insulted because of my race. Because of the color of my skin. We got to a stop and a few ladies got off, but none of the drunken racists. I had been sitting in the back of the bus for 30 minutes or so, and we had traveled maybe half of the 20km distance to Kanga. I wanted the damn bus to start moving again. However novel is was to be the subject of indiscriminate hatred, I was ready to get home. The novelty was a thin veil. The driver got out and made a call on his mobile. The drunken ladies kept yelling, laughing, screeching. Mzungu seemed like every other word. Or Obiero, which in Luo means the same. MOVE BUS! It finally started again. We got to another stop, 10 more minutes up the road, and finally, finally, the drunk ladies were getting off, loudly throwing their last insults into t he air, me still sitting quietly, staring out the window. Now the bus was almost empty, just a few embarrassed women and the drunken tout who could barely keep his eyes open. God. Had the driver drank that much? Then there was yet another drunk guy, standing at the opposite window, shouting 'mzungu.' The mama sitting next to me told him to leave. He tried to talk back and she exploded, presumably saying all the things that she wasn't bold enough to say to the drunken ladies. She spoke in Kiluo, but the message was clear, 'Go away. He stays in Kanga. He came to help us and we treat him like a devil?' I am ashamed.' At least that's what I heard. I wanted to reach over and hug her. But now the drunk tout was coming back to life, picking up were the drunk girls had left off (though he lacked the mental cohesion and physical capacity to carry it off with the same passion.) I wasn't in the mood for much more of it; the veil had been lifted. I stared at him hard, my best evil eye. Trying my best to remind him, silently, that he was 5'6 and could barely stand. He stopped talking, looked away. I continued to stare. God, why wouldn't the fucking bus move?! The tout got an idea. It was easy to read as it flashed across his face. He stared calling for his friend, the one my Kanga mama had scared away, telling him to get on the bus. The mama started getting very nervous, and said something to the tout. He got furious and lashed out at her, I tried to throw my murderous look at him again, but he was already calling his friend again. He wanted two against one. Three if the driver was with them. I thought about moving closer to the door, but realized that if there was a problem, the window would be my escape. The tout kept calling for his friend, the woman kept looking at me like I was a dead man, I kept planning my escape. Finally the driver came back from wherever he had been and the tout gave up. I assume his friend had already followed the drunken girls into the interior to go swap STDs. We started the last leg to Kanga. The tout got one more idea. He made a phone call. He started whispering something to whomever picked up. I heard 'mzungu' and 'kanga stage.' They were going to be waiting for me. Motherfuckers. We got to the stage and I thanked mama and bolted from the bus, shooting one last look at that sorry motherfucker. I started to hustle the 300 m or so back to mama Liz's. A motorcycle with two men on it came up the road, too slow. It passed me at a crawl, and then came to a stop just up the road from me. Both men got off. Good god, it was it. It was going to happen fucking 50 feet away from my room. 50 feet from safety. The bigger of the two shadows started walking towards me. I thought about running, but for some reason, I didn't. I waited for the figure. It was John Onjoro, Liz's brother, coming back from work or something. He had just spotted me from the road, and made his driver stop so he could say hi.

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