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Loiyangalani
is perched between the base of an imposing mountain and the sand less shores of
a lake, the town lies silently, breaking the sloping base of Mt. Kulal into a
gradual flatness that drains into the vast Lake Turkana; the only noises
disturbing the silence is the drone of distant generators and those of speeding
NGO land cruisers. The many shops aligning the wide road on both sides form the
only street in the town. With two barbershops, two M-Pesa shops, one curio
shop, one wines-and-spirits joint, a famous ‘fashion boutique’ called Lo-meri
meri, two butcheries, one motorcycle and one vehicle garage, four restaurants; Vision,
Bamboo-inn, Hope ( which also serves as a church on Sunday mornings) and Cold
Drinks Hotel, famously known as Chongo’s because the Somali old man owning it
has a cast in one eye, a jovial old man, his restaurant is one of the oldest in the town and in his own words he had been
in the region from the time the sun died (1973 solar eclipse).
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| A part of the street in Loiyangalani |
At noon the town is sleepy; aside
from the School uniformed boys roaming the street, moving from shop to shop;
from hotel to hotel selling samosas
to earn ten shillings to buy two mandazi’s
and bean soup before returning to school, people hurry, almost dash from one
door to the other. At such times of the day the sun shines down with a purpose-
to scorch. The heat is unbearable; dogs run to water pools and lie in the mud
to cool their bodies. There are a few trees in the street- all serving as
meeting places for town Moran and those from the interior, or where lanky
youth- those that have embraced formal education woo young girls coming to town.
The only open market in the unusually
long street is the narrow verandah of a building – drab, with the green paints
peeling off, its four dirty doors permanently locked and the poles supporting
the roof over the verandah all turned black from constant human touch. This
market is not a conventional market; there are no groceries, no loud mouthed
women, and no earnest buyers jostling for goods or busy sellers haggling for
buyers, there is nothing more than half full charcoal sacks, a few firewood sticks
lying limply in the sun. White sacks spread on the verandah floor with very
neatly tied minute bundles of 5-shillings tobacco, 5-shillings magadi,
10-shillings bundle of sugar, 5 shillings curry powder- this feeds the little
pocket and economic capacity of the region.
The sacks with all these
paraphernalia run identically from one end to the other, with big stones
holding it firmly in place. Besides each sack sits the owner with legs spread
on one side of her wares. The owners not minding their buyers occasionally spit
from where they are sited, well aimed, tobacco stained spittle, coming out
through a hole made just below the lower lip, flying past the buyer landing
across the verandah to the dirt beyond with cobra like accuracy.
Women of all ages sit on the verandah
beside their white sacks; newly married ones, old and wrinkled faces, energetic
and playful ones with red ochre smeared over their partly shaven clean scalps,
the thin strip of unshaven hair forming a fancy Mohawk of antiquity-
fashionable in a traditional sense. The entire lengths of their earlobes all
pierced with several round coils of white aluminum decoratively aligning them.
Wide discs of beads around their necks almost submerge the women’s entire
shoulders; seemingly heavy, the discs of colorful beads sit on the chests of
the Turkana women, giving them a unique beauty, the artistic well from whence
the bead design sprung is visibly and richly full and alive.
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| a young traditionally dresses Turkana Girl |
One woman sits with a child strapped loosely on
her back listening listlessly, her sack, the most stocked with more and longer rows of
little bundles tied in transparent paper ; colorful curry, white sugar, brown
tobacco, red ochre, little traditional spices, crushed barks of rare trees- brown and dried bundles of traditional herbs
. Dressed in originally red shuka and
red leso all brown now with grimy unwashed
dirt (ochre and a mixture of oil and dust) strapped on her shoulder and tied at
the chest with a thick knot, the woman exudes resilience. Her feet are hard, in
equally hard akalas and her calves
are thick- she sits strong.
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| Beautiful Turkana ladies |
Young colorfully beaded girls stand
leaning on the walls behind the sitting owners and others taller, beautiful and
shapely clutch the verandah poles to their bodies like hooker dancers in a
nightclub- their necks, heads in new blood-red ochre and well oiled scalps
gives them an innocent newness. Their discs of beads unlike those of the sited
women are clean and colorfully new. They talk amongst themselves, conniving,
pointing at passing young government officers and throwing back their heads,
occasionally laugh unrestrained. Their
coy smiles, eyes hiding mischief, knowing looks on their faces and shy yet
defiant breasts peeping from under their shukas,
these girls gather here every day to idle, or display their beauty. Their
presence gives the dreary town an erotic tinge and a post card beauty.
International camera men have exploited this beauty; taking pictures of the young
girls with uncovered, ochre smeared red breasts and hold exhibitions in
European galleria; with such themes as Erotic Africa!!
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| a young Turkana girl dressed in a traditional style |
Their male counterparts less colorfully
and creatively dressed are bluntly drab. Black skin in green army fatigues-tacky
like boy scouts, the shawls tied around their waist ends abruptly just above
the knees- dark colors of maroon, violet and brown interwoven into one. The
Samburu Morans who also come out around four when a certain cool breeze from
the lake sweeps over the town stand with their legs crisscrossed and nasiggi- that potent traditional snuff is
passed around and tobacco calmly crushed
into finer particles. A mingling of friendly enemies is seen in this gathering
of young Turkana and Samburu Morans who talk and playfully joke with each other
like childhood friends. The Samburu Morans are dressed in a colorful
combination of bright red, yellow and white shukas-
authentic colors of African flags and there’s a lost state with walking sticks
and nut made rungus passing for guns. Their thick calves are hidden in long
stripped socks of football players and their feet in white plastic tanga shoes or well worn tyre-made black
akalas.
The elderly men in the town have several congregational spots; at the junction heading
to the DC’s house where an erected shade gives them a space, there they lie
talking, each of them with a little stool that also serves as head support- a
traditional pillow. These elders talk and talk, they do not go for lunch. They
disperse late in the evening and congregate again for the night, recounting
stories and more stories as they while away the years of their lives in these
prosaic way. Other gathering spots are scattered around the town; the airstrip
acacias, the road heading to the police station, just beside Molo Lodge.
The people lead ritualized
instinctive lives without necessarily understanding their role and
responsibilities to a sovereign state or claiming any of their deserved rights
from its formal structures both the government and the faculty of free market;
the fisher men everyday throw their fishing nets into the lake without any
appreciation that their catch will constitute a crucial part of an
international trade with a ready market waiting in Burundi, Rwanda and other
East African countries. They will pay the two shillings to the fisheries for
every fish caught and go home without complaining of no service or demanding for
better services. Young herdsmen tend their goats having little understanding
that the meat of their goats will somehow find its way to expensive
supermarkets in the Middle East states or in the capital- Nairobi as choma on barbeque grills in Karen or
other posh suburbs of the big city. Here, men just live as simply as they can.
A short walk towards the police
station behind Palm shade camp site and Moseretu lodge lays a small forest of a
few acacias and numerous palm trees and in this forest is a spring of warm
clean water called Maji moto (Warm/hot
Water). A noon or evening stroll to this site inevitably brings one into
contact with the carefree nature of the people of Loiyangalani, among the palm
tree fronds men and boys alike undress and shower side by side, all scrubbing
without a care for modesty or anything like fear with big black ‘members’
dancing as the splashing of water is frenzied and the water washes away their
dirt. These nature of carefree happiness is also seen in the town where naked
children stand under taps at designated public water points, with water running
over their bodies as they playfully splash, each tap with one child; slightly
older girls, either conscious of their bodies or aware of hidden, prying eyes
on their nakedness stand under the taps fully dressed, with water drenching
their clothes. This playing with water and public bathing sums up the water
affair, a handful of people know how to swim and the lake ironically lies just
outside town.
At night with stifling heat inside both
the traditional huts and modern houses, whole families are forced to move
outside; father, mother, daughters and shirtless sons lie on papyrus mats under
the stars with a thousand nightly insects chirping the night away and big
harmless spiders running all around. The parents talk and the children silently
listen asking endless questions after the stories before they all fall asleep, one
at a time. Old boys and mature girls secretly escape to agreed locations to
pluck forbidden fruits or boys cuddle their girlfriends in dark and narrow
paths as they hold long-promise-filled-emotive-talks with the night growing old
and the morning finds them seated under those fences.
Loiyangalani; one of the most populous
settlements around lake Turkana has a total of sixteen villages, populated by
huddled settlements of circular huts, with a sound roundness to every aspect of
the hut, arcs of circular short reeds and pliable palm fronds forming elaborate
patterns and parts of the circular huts. The final artistic work ends in a
complete dome shaped structure jutting out of the ground. The inside feels like
a freezer box shielding people from the heat of the outside world. The sixteen
villages spread across the vast space were identified, each by the most
descriptive traditional name but now that animal that has been robbing Africa
of its authentic originality; civilization has caught up with this quarters and
is renaming each village by exotic holy and saintly names; (find the list of
each village’s name at the end)
In 2013 the usual Bamba 20 across
Kenya goes for 25, Bamba 50 goes for 55 and Bamba 100 goes for 110, the freedom
and equal prices that the market is supposed to provide is not there in this
outpost of the Kenyan empire. The kikuyu shop keepers fleece the shuka clad Moran without any care for or
appreciation for the ethics of a free market. The corporate mega bodies like Safaricom
do not respond to the cries of these people. In Mt. Kulal the same Bamba or
airtime scratch card goes for 30, 60 and 120 respectively. One tomato goes for
Ten shillings; a one litre bottled mineral water goes for 100 shillings, elsewhere
that buys five litres of bottled water. The extra 5 shillings charged on every
airtime card not only discourages communication, but will buy enough curry from
the verandah market to spice up the meager meals in the kitchen of the Turkana
women, the 10 shillings fleeced from the uncomplaining people will have catered
for the unavailable treatment by buying the herb bundles in transparent paper,
but the market of exploitation does not care for the needs of the lowly.
Despite the numerous challenges and
desolate hopelessness of the place, there is a new talk in town, an indefinably
hopeful spirit of opportunity, of oil, of investors- Kenya’s future; the Oil wells
turning heads and interests in the western powerhouses lie in this desolate
vastness. The spirit and wishes of people here are Electric, with an expected
employment of 200 watchmen/guards in the biggest wind power project in Africa.
The women whose expectations have been raised beyond what they had ever dreamed
of are somewhat impatient; they talk at the drab open market, the reed made
stalls where they sell miraa and
others design bead art and many more just sit gossiping. The old men sleeping at
their congregational spots have no worry disturbing their relaxation- knowing that
the future of their children is an assured prosperity.
The region has for six consecutive
years held successful annual ‘LAKE TURKANA CULTURAL FESTIVAL” – a colorful week
of festivities and unrestricted partying both for visitors and the locals.
Between 23rd and 27th May each year, the town fills with
local and international tourists dressed in grey cowboy hats, three quarter shorts
and expensive open shoes. Investors and business people in branded polo shirts with
big names like Sarova, KCB, Equity Bank stream into the town with planes,
private Safari land cruisers and expensive PSVs. sponsor banners are setup giving
the town a new look.
Young men with Smart specs, big headphones, expensive cameras accompanied
by young, overworked media interns interview wanna-be traditional experts as
grey haired mzungus with big sun shades, fancy cameras take pictures. Young
white blue eyed blondes, oriental tiny eyed, slit Japanese ones or are they
Chinese? Socialize with each other.
Note taking tall folk- the BBC, CNN type, Alex Perry like walk around the
erstwhile sleepy town with notebooks as they scribble notes on virtually
everything. Government officers, foreign anthropologists, policy makers,
Ambassadors, Nairobi folk meet in Turkana to talk about Development, Potential,
Economy, Reconciliation as the indigenous communities sit some distance away
enjoying the excitement, many many pictures will be taken, 200GB of video is
recorded for posterity and publicity. The Camera shutters constantly, long
speeches are made by Nairobi people and the locals Clap clap clap clap and
clap, then shirtless hollow chested shy morans, fancy hair styled ones are
paraded before the audience of white camera flashing tourists…shutter shutter
shutter….camera flash flash flash.
People trek back to the show ground; the original arena of cultural
custody; traditional songs are sung with a renewed energy and samburu/Rendille
morans jump with an energized valor as dread locked ladies appearing as if they’ve
been here all their lives rush out as the participants leave the stage to give
t-shirts to the group leaders to distribute among their team. Stakeholders and town Moran holding PC
tablets record history!
Mr. Duchler, the racist irate German man running the posh millennium hotel is an old scrawny thing, drinking himself silly and smoking as many cigarettes as he can. He walks arrogantly with his protruding belly presiding him wherever he goes. He is a sorry site and the local Morans laugh the few times they see him and he shouts at them
‘Monkey’, ‘Baboon’
‘Gerr off my property before I shoot you!
Bubble gum chewing, Samsung S4 phone and classy hair styled Nairobi
development pundits grace the day! As BiiiiigggGG government and development
folks come to discover the region and its people! Imagine that! The biggest
untapped resource, it’s going to cost billions, not millions, it will create
employment. The minister even mentioned bill gates in his unrestrained
eagerness! Stakeholders and leaders shall plant a tree or two….people will
drink beer, swim in the lake and eat from the hotels that now have more than
doubled their food prices!
The festival ends! As the town lives through a long dreary wait for the
next big annual event.
Every evening a spectacular scene beholds and transforms the region into
a picturesque beauty as the undying eye of God, a big ball of orange lingers on
the lake as if floating briefly before it sinks rapidly and a new darkness
engulfs the town.
The sixteen villages of Loiyangalani, the meaning and their
new Christianly names;
- Soweto - st. Paul
- Town - St. Paul
- Kula pesa – carol lwanga
- Kula samaki- Alamano
- St. martin
- Kula Mawe/ kokote- Magdalen
- Kilama mbogo – consolata
- Nakwa Mweki (white thorns)- Teressa Villa
- Dikil Kimat (wayward women)- Legio or Veronica
- Nawapaa- Bernadette
- Nagaan- St. Peter
- . Kiwanja Ndege- Yohane Mbatisaji
- Nawei Torong (juu yam lima)- St. Joseph
- Layeni (El-Mollo)
- . Komote- Dominico Savio
- Nachukule (Inside a ditch)
This is experimentation
with words and development of observational writing from my visit to
Loiyangalani, a town on the sandless shores of Lake Turkana between 5th
and 27th May, 2013
