Encounters with Urban Livestock

 

One of the things I have to watch for when I’m out on my daily walks with the dog is cow pies. There is a certain irony to this, considering that I spent several months last year traveling to remote parts of Africa to find indigenous African cattle. Now I run into them in our neighborhood.

Though we live in a fairly densely populated part of Nairobi, it is not at all unusual for us to encounter herds of cattle. We also come across goats, sheep, chickens, and even the occasional camel. One day, the dog and I stumbled across two little piglets rooting around in the ditch. They did not seem to be accompanied by anyone and did seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. The dog was mystified.

Encounters with urban livestock are hardly unusual in Nairobi, as they are a primary source of wealth, livelihood, and food for its poorest residents. Exact figures for the numbers of farm animals living within city limits are hard to come by, though estimates suggest they are far higher than expected by policymakers and members of the general public. Most city livestock keepers are tucked away in informal settlements (aka slums), where they are totally ignored by official counts and services. So you can imagine how difficult it is to get a read on real numbers.

The first major study of urban agriculture in Kenya was undertaken in 1985 by the Mazingira Institute, which concluded that there were about 1.4 million heads of livestock being raised in urban parts of Kenya, worth some 3 million dollars in assets. Since then, the number of people living in Kenya’s city slums has more than doubled. So, we can presume that the growth in urban livestock has followed a similar pattern. In fact, more recent research by the Mazingira Institute suggests the raising of livestock in urban centers is increasing faster than the rate of urbanization.

Because of their need to graze and penchant for the green grasses found along the edges of city streets, cattle are fairly ubiquitous in both commercial and residential neighborhoods of Nairobi. As you can imagine, this creates some interesting traffic issues. But luckily, the bazillion-page Kenya Driving Code has this covered:

First, the code defines the term “cattle” to avoid any confusion. Interestingly, the definition includes not only oxen, bulls, and cows but also horses, camels, mules, asses, sheep, goats, and swine. There’s nothing about chickens.

Second, it describes how “cattle” should be given the right of way:

Section 52. Signals and signs to be obeyed

·       The driver of a vehicle shall at all times—when any person in charge of any cattle raises his hand or in any manner gives a signal to stop, forthwith stop his vehicle and keep it stationary for as long as it is reasonably necessary.

Finally, it outlines the penalties for failing to “forthwith stop” in the presence of “cattle”.  These include a fine of up to 50,000 Kenya Shillings (about US$540) or 6 months of prison on a first conviction. A repeat offense can result in a 70,000 Shilling (US$760) fine or 1-year prison term, along with the potential of 2-year driving license suspension.

The steepness of these fines does not correlate with much appreciation for the benefits and values of urban livestock. According to people who research these things, urban livestock are largely viewed in policy and practice as dirty, unsafe, and decidedly unmodern. Federal and local rules tend to be stacked against citified farm animals due to concerns about waste, disease, and traffic accidents. The result is that most urban livestock keepers function off the record and without the benefit of modern sanitation, veterinary care, refrigeration, water, or electricity.

In spite of this, studies show that urban livestock have a hugely beneficial effect, especially in terms of child nutrition. They offer a source of protein and nutrients that are otherwise largely lacking from the traditional subsistence diet of ugali (a sort of corn meal) and chopped greens.

And for the more industrious keepers, urban livestock can provide a hefty source of income that would be otherwise unattainable. Public Radio International’s The World Program featured a story in 2013 about a woman named Regina Wangari who raises chickens, rabbits, and goats in one of the Nairobi slums, earning $1,000 per month from the sale of chicks, eggs, and meat – a truly phenomenal sum.

While her success may be exceptional, her strategy is not. Which is why I expect the sight and sounds of urban livestock will continue to enrich the colors of our daily experiences out and about on the roads of Nairobi.

Graduating from Home Economics

Home economics class was mandatory for girls when I was in 7^th grade. Boys took shop. It was the 1970s, and I lived in Middle America. There we were at the height of the feminist movement, and what were we doing? The boys were making bookshelves and using a soldering iron, while the girls were making white sauce, pulling an elastic through a skirt waistband, and making sure our soup was served “piping hot.”

As it happens, my mother, grandmother, aunts, and cousins were all remarkable cooks and seamstresses. So, long before I’d walked through the doors of West Junior High School, I’d learned how to sew, cook, and knit.  More importantly, I could make a multicolored vest out of crocheted squares. This was very hip.

So, I really resented the fact that I had to take home ec. The teacher was a priss, and though probably in her late 20s, she seemed to cling to a vision of womanhood that was at least two decades behind the times.

Reforms came a year or so later, when pressure from the girls convinced the school administration to drop the gender requirements and let everyone choose between shop and home economics. By the time we got to high school, things had really improved. The domestic science classes had become electives, more practical, and open to anyone. They also touted perky new names like: Know Your Auto (a hit with the girls); Let’s Cook! (surprisingly popular with the boys); and Ready, Set, Sew!

The irony of all this is that historically, home economics was an incredibly progressive and feminist field of study, developed to get women into higher education and leadership positions. Known initially as domestic science, it became a real stepping stone for 19^th century women’s entry into serious careers (e.g., teaching or work in agricultural extension services, state and federal governments, industry, hospitals, restaurants, and hotels) thanks to the establishment of the land grant college system in 1862. Unlike private colleges, which largely excluded female students, the land grant institutions were coed and publicly funded. Courses in home economics were targeted at farm wives and focused on household management. The instruction was far more interdisciplinary (and interesting) than the kind of stuff they were serving up in my day. Topics included budgeting, consumer economics, nutrition, child development, fiber science (!), and agriculture.

In the mid-1990s, the term “home economics” was dropped in favor of a new term, “family and consumer science.” The change is supposed to reflect the fact that the field has once again moved beyond cooking and sewing to regain some of its former relevance.

Meanwhile, I’m now in my fifties. In all the years that have passed since my 7^th grade home ec class, I have never worried about whether or not the soup I was serving was “piping hot”.  I’ve cooked meals, hosted parties, sewn lots of Halloween and other costumes, accumulated advanced degrees, balanced work and family life, and served in senior management positions.

But now, more than ever, I could use guidance in the domestic science department.  I could use the steady, stern hand with which my grandmother, and even one of my aunts, used to manage a part of their household that I’ve only encountered in recent years – the domestic staff. Until I moved abroad, it just wasn’t part of the curriculum, in school or in life.

Hiring and managing household staff comes with the territory when you are an expat in a developing country. Labor is cheap, and you are an important source of employment. But to me, it’s very different from managing staff at work. It’s literally close to home, and far more invasive than office politics. So I’m learning by doing. And if I occasional blunder, well, at least I can make a white sauce.

Our expat kitchen

Playground Bullies

Most of the time, I try to stay positive about living in Kenya. You meet incredible people. There is a remarkable drive, level of entrepreneurship, and energy for modernizing this country and making it better. The land is beautiful, and the potential for wonder and adventure is huge.

But then there are times, like earlier this week, where frustration and despair take the forefront.

On January 19, Kenyan police fired teargas at a group of young children in Nairobi, who were protesting a land grab scheme that was taking away their school’s playground. The story made the international press. Here was a situation so egregious and disgraceful that not even the heavy hands of corruption and power could put a lid on it. 

According to the news stories, the children returned from Christmas break – prolonged by a two-week strike by underpaid teachers – to find that walls had been erected to block their access to the empty field that constituted their playground. Presumably, some wealthy, private individual (some say a leading politician) had acquired the land to make a parking lot. 

source: http://www.sbs.com.au/news/article/2015/01/19/kenya-police-tear-gas-school-children-playground-protest

 The kids, their teachers, and some other concerned adults began banging on the wall in protest. Ultimately, they managed to push down a section using sticks and sheer will. But this was not before armed police had been called in, and decided to shoot canisters of tear gas at the protestors. They also brought in fierce-looking police dogs. Mind you, we are talking about a primary school, where the kids are aged 6 to 13 years. Ten or so of them ended up in hospital. Many more could be seen crying, choking, and trying to rinse out their eyes. If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of tear gas, you’ll understand. It’s nasty stuff.

The disputed land is public, as is the primary school that sits on it. The story of public land getting into private hands through dubious means is hardly new or unusual here in Kenya. It’s just that this case was a particularly nasty and obvious example of greed, corruption, and abuse on the part of the power elite and heavy-handed police force – ills that all too often come down hardest on the backs of the poorest and most powerless.

Because of its high visibility, this story has a positive outcome, at least for the time being. After the requisite finger pointing and gnashing of teeth – not to mention attempts to blame the parents and teachers for “inciting” the protest – government officials from the president on down condemned the actions. They suspended the police officer in charge of the tear gas decision and issued formal apologies. The Land Ministry has officially declared that the playground belongs to the school and brought in grading machines to make it more usable.

According to several news venues, including an NPR report by Gregory Warner, this story is being seen as something of a triumph for the little guys. Noting that it’s not how these stories usually end, Warner sites an example of potential positive spillover from this ordeal:

“(…) In a different part of the city, I saw another victory for the public. I passed another prime piece of real estate with a private developer's illegal fence around it. Government bulldozers were destroying the fence, reclaiming public land, to a surprised and swelling crowd. It seemed that, at least for now, the school kids in Nairobi had won more than just their own playground.”

But questions remain. How many other land grabbing schemes remain under the radar of popular outcry. Who is paying for the health and hospital care of those injured by the teargas? Will the team of 11 lawyers set up by the Law Society of Kenya to try to prosecute the perpetrators of the police brutality make any headway?

If the aftermath of the incompetence and violations displayed by Kenyan military and law enforcement officials during the Westgate terrorist siege is any indication, truth and fairness will remain elusive.  Secrecy and cover up will continue to rule the day. And #Occupy Playground will be graded over like so many uneven clumps of grassy fields. 

Eating Baba Ghanoush in Burkina Faso

Burkina Faso

Lebanese food. It’s not quite what I expected to see on the menu. We are in a charming hotel, the only one in Gaoua town, tucked away in the hinterlands of southwestern Burkina Faso. The Hotel Hala is airy and unpretentious. The rooms are basic but mercifully equipped with running water and AC units. The food we order – an assortment of appetizers that my colleague and I share for dinner – is fresh and delicious. We are content and delighted by all the pleasant surprises we keep encountering in this flat and smallish land-locked country.

It is late June. The rains are late, and the FIFA World Cup is going strong. Our evening activity includes not only writing up notes of the day but also watching soccer matches on plastic chairs, gathered with locals in front of an old television that’s been in use since well before the advent of HD and flat-screen TV.

Our days start early, around 4:30 am. I get my obligatory caffeine fix by scooping a local brand of instant coffee into my small water bottle. A few vigorous shakes are enough to create something brown and strong and room temperature that doesn’t taste great but does get me moving. I eat a few handfuls of cashews (my African travel survival food), and I’m good to go.

 

Up with the sun to start the milking

We hit the road and arrive at our destination before sunrise. The farmers and pastoralists we visit are already busy starting the day’s activities. Women prepare food. The cows are let out of their pens for milking, after which they will be herded a dozen or more kilometers to the nearest watering hole. It’s a daily ritual that we have seen across numerous cultures and countries of Sub-Saharan Africa as we travel to see and discover the continent’s indigenous cattle.

Lobi cattle: small, humpless, and made of tough stuff

But these cattle look very different from the others we have encountered. They are a dwarf breed, beautifully proportioned, but only about ¾ of the size of other indigenous cattle. Called Lobi, after the tribe of people who own them, the cattle descend from an ancient lineage, the Bos taurus, which arrived in Africa some 10,000 years ago. Unlike the zebu cattle, descended from the more recently introduced Bos indicus, the Lobi have no hump.  And while you encounter zebu breeds all over Africa and Asia, the little Lobi cattle are a rare sight, found only in this remote corner of Burkina Faso and in a small area across the border of neighboring Cote d’Ivoire.

 

At work

We speak with cattle owner, herders, and researchers about the Lobi cattle and their remarkable hardiness. Though pint-sized they pull ploughs and fend off diseases, like trypanosomiasis, that devastate cattle herds across the continent. They require less food and water than bigger breeds, and pound for pound are much more efficient at producing milk and meat. But appearances are deceptive, and their diminutive stature means that the Lobi cattle are vastly overlooked and underappreciated.

Meanwhile, we are enchanted with these small animals and the people who care for and rely upon them. The stewardship of Lobi cattle is split between the Lobi farmers, who own the animals and use them to plow their fields, and the Fulani herders, who take care of them in exchange for payment, food, and the use of the animals’ milk.

A welcome as warm as this woman's smile

We spend a few days here. We talk, we walk, we listen and learn. We take photos. Mine are amateur, and mostly a way to connect with the people I interview. My colleague is the pro with the big backpack full of equipment, the eye for lighting and dramatic angles, and the years of experience working in the bush.

One late afternoon, we sit in the shade of a thatch hut waiting for the cows to come home and listen to the mischief making of a group of 3-year olds playing inside. Their giggles are contagious and remind us of the universality of childhood laughter and delight.

We are far from our familiar, and yet connected by the small moments and gestures that define human life. After a few days on the ground, we go to say our farewells to the Fulani pastoralists, who watch the cattle so assiduously that they will spend the nights by the animals’ pens to safeguard them from potential marauders. Their lives are basic, their food security is fragile, and they survive very much on the margins of modern ways. But their parting gesture is a gift– eight guinea hen eggs, oblong and slightly bluish, holding all the delicate and precious promise of life and sustenance.

 

Drinking the morning milk

Epilogue

In late October, normally quiet Burkina Faso hit the headlines.  Several days of civil protests successfully brought an end to the 27-year presidency of Blaise Compaore in Burkina Faso, who was trying, through an act of parliament, to further extend the number of terms he could serve. Protestors burned the parliament building. Compaore resigned and fled to Cote d’Ivoire. A military government filled the power void and is supposedly in talks with civil society and opposition groups to set up new elections in November 2015.

Encouraged by this momentous change, hopeful pundits began talking about the possibility of a Black Spring that might ride a wave to end the limitless terms of Africa’s presidents-for-life. However, that trend seems to be stymied, and in the meantime the list of ensconced leaders is impressive. For example:

President	Country	In office since
Paul Kagame	Rwanda	2000
Denis Sassou-Nguesso	Congo-Brazzaville	1997
Idriss Deby	Chad	1990
Robert Mugabe	Zimbabwe	1987
Yoweri Museveni	Uganda	1986
Paul Biya	Cameroon	1982
Jose Edoardo dos Santos	Angola	1979
Teodoro Obiang Nguema	Equatorial Guinea	1979

Meeting Khal Drogo in Turkana

Turkana landscape

We’re several hours into the purported short cut, a dusty set of rough tracks so rugged they send us bouncing to the roof of the car despite our seatbelts. Once again, the ride we were told should take only 3-4 hours is stretching into many more. And although the driver is from the area, he’s finally admitted that he’s lost. I try to hold back an “unph” as we hit another hard bump, but it escapes my mouth anyway.  My colleague S. looks at me with a wry smile. “This is what we call an African massage,” he says.

The views are spectacular. We are driving through the arid landscape of northern Kenya, on the western side of Lake Turkana. We’re only a few dozen kilometers from the Ethiopian and South Sudanese borders in an area known as the Ilemi triangle. Because of violent disputes over this land, along with the presence of bandits, cattle raiders, and far too many automatic rifles, we are traveling with a second vehicle that holds two armed guards. They are not particularly convincing, however, and seem more interested in catching a nap than watching for trouble. 

Hills and dust

The region is far hillier than I had expected, and it holds an austere beauty. Locals will tell you that 20 years ago, the area was covered in grass that grew knee high. But a decade or more of failed rains and persistent drought have decimated the vegetation, along with the pastoralist lifestyle of the Turkana tribesmen.  Without grass and vegetation, their animals are dying off. Used to living off the milk, blood, and meat of their livestock, the proud and fiercely independent Turkana are increasingly relying on food aid and income support programs from government, international, and faith-based organizations. 

Food aid

When we first arrive to interview and photograph the Turkana and their cattle, we run across a massive scene of food distribution. Tribal elders oversee the process from the shade of large huts made of wattle and daub. Rations are divvied out from 90-kilo bags of maize, large piles of beans, and plastic Jeri cans filled with cooking oil. The atmosphere is calm. Men and women wait patiently for their portions. Some of the older women are dressed in traditional leather skirts, while many of the men wear AK-47s strapped diagonally across their chests. Once they receive their rations, the women carry the goods off on their heads with sweeping, graceful strides.

And then we see him; one of the biggest and certainly most imposing men I’ve ever encountered. Turkana adults tend to be long and lithe. But this man is a head taller and considerably broader than any of them. He is all muscle and clearly as strong as an ox. His legs are like the trunks of a sturdy, mature tree, and we are told he eats an entire goat each day. We’ve met Turkana’s version of Khal Drogo. He is the community seer, responsible for predicting when they should move the cattle or launch a cattle raid. If he blows it, the punishment could be death, his, though that’s hard to imagine. Like the fictional character from Game of Thrones, this man is fearsome and feared. Hundreds of scarification marks decorate his torso, one for each man he’s killed in livestock raids. When I ask him a question (through a translator), he looks down at me with disdain and tells me to give him my hat. I don’t. He snorts, tells us not to take photos of him, and moves on. 

I turn to interview a group of men, more willing to talk but reluctant to be photographed, because of the condition of their worn and dusty clothing. I take a few portraits, only headshots, and elicit smiles as I show them the results. Later, we meet beautiful Turkana women, whose heavy piles of brightly colored necklaces define their wealth and beauty. They are worn day and night, through sickness and childbirth, and are only removed in times of mourning.

We accompany young herders and their cattle to the nearest watering hole across a hilly landscape scattered with dark, volcanic rocks. We spend the night at a local Spanish mission, staffed by young professionals, foreign and dedicated, who have left more comfortable lives to work in this desolate, isolated place. They make the best of meager surroundings and share stories full of humor, wonder, and admiration for the fierce and resilient people who make this land their home.

Lake Turkana

Before our visit to gather material for the Turkana chapter of our book project on indigenous African cattle diversity is finished, we dip our feet into Lake Turkana. We spend hours pushing and digging our truck out of the beach’s soft sand, helped by a large group of men, women, and children that emerges to help. We drive off only to watch the truck’s back left wheel go bouncing by as we try to make it back to town.

A crowd forms. The sun sets. The adventure continues.  Stay tuned.

Speak softly and avoid the big sticks

Our colleague, JD, turns to face us from the front seat. He has that sparkle in his eye, the one he gets when he’s about to launch into a good story.

“Did I ever tell you about my fellow student at Oxford? He was a fairly prickly character, not known for his diplomatic prowess. He came to Ethiopia to do research and was speared to death by some local tribesmen. There was a certain irony to the story, as he was quite an accomplished darts champion.”

We are driving through the amazing landscapes of the Ethiopian countryside. We have passed the golden savanna of the Rift Valley, dotted with acacia trees, conical huts, and haystacks shaped like loaves of bread. We’ve driven past the green highlands, through a torrential rainstorm. We’ve seen jagged mountains, green hills covered with coffee and banana plantations, and vast lakes. We’ve visited Borana herders near the border with Kenya. We’ve criss-crossed the country towards the Sudanese border to meet with Mursi pastoralists. They are famous for their elaborate body decorations, including painted designs, scarring, incredibly creative jewelry, and earplugs. Mursi women also are known for the large lip plates they wear, made of ceramic, as a sign of status and value. They start stretching their bottom lips at puberty, with increasingly larger disks, the size of which at marriage will determine the bride price their family can claim.

It’s as though we’ve stepped right into the pages of the National Geographic magazines of my childhood.

I’m working on a fascinating project, which involves photographing and learning about the indigenous cattle of Africa, and their importance to the culture, lives, and livelihoods of the people who keep them. So I am traveling with a photographer and a fellow writer to some of the most remote bits of various African countries.  I am also speaking with researchers about the scientific importance of the genetic diversity and resilience of these traditional cattle, many of which are at risk of disappearing.

It’s an incredible experience, which involves long days that start before sunrise, exotic foods, and the need for a strong bladder. Creature comforts are few and far between, but the rewards are great. Though our time with local herders and farmers is brief, it is intense and striking. We start at dawn with its milking and early morning activities, all bathed in the light of the rising sun. The middle of the day is reserved for following the cattle to water, and late afternoons for interviews and photos as the light turns golden and cows come home.

The result will be a gorgeous coffee table book. The photos will be amazing, drawing out the beauty and dignity of the people, animals, and landscapes we meet. The book will speak of tradition, but also of change.  It will highlight diversity and adaptation. What it won’t show are the behind-the-scene moments; the time we had to break our colleague out of his hotel room, discussion of how many camels I would be worth, or the time an irate pastoralist chased our photographer with a stick.

We have several more countries and encounters to go. So stay tuned.

Can do-gooders do good?

William Hamilton cartoon, New Yorker

There have been numerous articles lately challenging the notion that wanna-be do-gooders in developing countries actually do any good. The criticism is primarily aimed at white, middle-class volunteers. And the image is that they do little more than pop into some rural village just long enough to feel smug and take selfies with small, smiling brown children.

One article describes how the author, while volunteering in Latin America, discovers that the brick wall she and others are trying to build has to be torn down and redone properly each night by the villagers they are supposed to be helping. She ends up concluding that her volunteer time is better spent raising money for good causes, rather than trying to do work on the ground. Another story in the Guardian quotes a study concluding that, "voluntourism is more about the self-fulfillment of westerners than the needs of developing nations.”  The Onion also gets into the fray with a satirical story about a supposed volunteer describing how her 6-day stint in a rural Malawian village has totally transformed her Facebook profile picture.

Well, that’s all very fine. I agree that voyeurism and selfies may not seem like appropriate motivations for volunteer work. And I’m sure that not every volunteer project is valuable.

But I also think it’s easy to be critical. 

Living in Peru and Kenya has shown me multiple examples of places where well-meaning, foreign volunteers actually do make a positive difference.

Our older son was involved with a group that spent years building houses for people who had lost everything following a dramatic earthquake and tsunami in southern Peru. Staffed almost exclusively by short-term, foreign volunteers, they not only laid the bricks properly but also successfully moved countless families in need from shacks made of straw and scraps to solid, if basic, housing. Was it enough? No. But it was a step in the right direction. What’s more, they filled in where no one else would. The government’s response was negligent, at best. And the town suffered a fate similar to poor parts of New Orleans or Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina – left in the wake, while wealthier and more touristy areas were rebuilt.

Here in Kenya, government investment in human capital and potential is meager to non-existent. I had lunch with two Kenyan women recently, who argued that the only working health and education services are either private and expensive or run and supported by NGOs. That might not be 100% accurate. But it’s clear that large swathes of the population lack access to basic services, such as decent schools, sanitation, clinics, roads, power, clean water, and anything resembling a social safety net. 

So it’s the private sector that fills in many of the gaps, including not only the entrepreneurs and NGOs, but also lots volunteers.

In our year and a half of living in Kenya, we have met an impressive array of people who have mounted schools and businesses and organizations aimed at helping to improve the lives of those the government leaves behind. It is a testament to the incredible potential, energy, and enterprising spirit of this country.

But the task is great. And in some cases, it benefits from the help of foreign, wanna-be do-gooders.

In February, I visited an orphanage just outside of Nairobi for children whose mothers are in prison and have no fathers or other family to care for them. I was with a small group that was bringing them donations of food and art supplies. The center has a school, dorms, playgrounds, and kitchen, eating, and cleaning facilities. Everything is very basic, but also bright and cheery.

While the staff and teachers are Kenyan, the center also uses the help and hands of non-Kenyan volunteers (many of them white, middle-class foreigners), who come for periods ranging from one month to one year. The volunteers live on site and help feed, bathe, clothe, teach, and play with the kids. Some have further professional skills, like a physiotherapist we met. But mostly, they offer affection and support to children whose experiences of trauma and challenge seem so much bigger than they are.

Critics of volunteerism, and voluntourism especially, will site examples of projects that are ill-advised, exploitative, and more likely to deepen divides between the haves and have-nots than to build mutual understanding. This really gets to broader issues of what it takes to create programs that are actually useful, appropriate, and effective. Development specialists have been arguing and struggling with this question forever, though most agree that you have to listen and learn from local stakeholders about what they see as the key problems and potential solutions.

Clearly, being paternalistic, patronizing, or self-promoting is not the ticket to successful volunteerism. But all I’m trying to say is that not every volunteer’s selfie represents a portrait of selfishness and superficiality. Sometimes, there is a measure of good in do-gooder efforts, even if it comes in pint-size packages.