Nomad's Pub

Marsabit Living

I suppose there may be some of you out there wondering… what exactly is that girl up to these days, anyways? It must be either quite a lot or quite dull (or both!) since she has barely written a thing!

Well, the former is true—there has been quite a bit going for me since my arrival here, and it has been an amazing experience I would not trade for anything. Finding a way to put it into words seems rather daunting just now, but I will try here to share some of this experience with you.

Marsabit town is perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, and for all the time I have spent in Uganda these last few months, I feel most at home here. Built into a mountainside about halfway up, the town consists of two main streets made of dirt (or mud depending on the weather) and an “Old Town” and “New Town”—the latter having been built up in the last 70 years. Here Christians and Muslims live side by side, but not always in good peace.

There is a prayer war going on right now here; always the Imam of the Muslims calls out the prayers from the mosque by loudspeaker. Now, however, a converted Muslim has set up his own loudspeaker system and at the same times as the Imam, prays loud and long and follows this up with at least a good hour of blaring music. This, when awaking you at 5:30 in the morning, is not particularly appreciated. Not only is the whole town disturbed by the racket, but the Christians are divided among themselves over it. Formerly, they could tell their Islamic neighbors that the reason they do not call out their prayers in the same way is because they don’t need to shout for their God to hear them. Now, however…one of their own is doing just that—shouting. When other Christians have approached him to ask to turn it down a little, he wants to know who can tie down the Spirit? And when the police were called in… well, the entire set up is on his property, and so because the law for freedom of speech, they say they cannot do anything about it, either.

Aside from the distinction between Muslims and Christians here in this town, there are also many different tribes which make up the people living in town and the entire district of Marsabit, which is actually quite large. There are the Rendille, the Samburu (accidentally called the Meru before), the Borana, the Gabara, the Turkana, and more. These whom I have listed are all ones I have personally interacted with already. I have visited their homes; played with their children; danced with them; cooked and eaten with them; seen their workplaces; recorded some of their stories and songs and proverbs; witnessed a marriage; observed a death; taken holy communion with them; and so much more.

But these tribes do not always get along with each other, either. Here there are also ancient rivalries and new rivalries. Security is a question and it changes the way that things are done here. Instead of celebrating a wedding until midnight; all the guests leave early in order to arrive home before nightfall. When we hear shooting in the night, we are told not to fear—it is only a revenge killing somewhere and should not affect us directly.

And what of Marsabit’s appearance? I have already commented now on the rough dirt roads—all of which are strewn with garbage and plastic bags drifting about—but Marsabit is so much more than dirt and garbage. Even that dirt, though… in the town and on the whole of the mountainside it is a deep, rich red which stains your feet and sticks to your clothes and body. Once you go down into the lowlands, however, the ground is rough and rocky—an arid, volcanic terrain where death is not uncommon to those traveling about there.

Here the colours are vivid and everything is extreme. Textures and colours both run together which you would not expect—here a satin skirt combined with a worn woolen jumper; there yellow painted on a backdrop of turquoise. Women in town dress in scarves and long flowing dresses, and those women who wear modern business suits still wear a head covering as well as a scarf draped around their shoulders. Outside of town, they wear beautiful beaded necklaces and, if married, headpieces, and all wear colourful skirts. Men; they may wear a modern business suit or wear a long tunic and Turkish hat or wear a man-skirt and have ochre in their hair. Those wearing a suit may even still walk around with a spear; those in a man-skirt may ride in a truck.

Goats, sheep, and children with huge eyes and quick smiles rule the streets. Often a herd of cattle will be moved slowly along with whips, or donkeys trod past you weighted down by large jugs of water their owner spent all day at the well to collect. As they say here, Marsabit has everything—everything except water. That is a constant shortage, and the people work to make themselves hard to thirst, as it lurks about as a constant companion.

Flamboyant, hibiscus, bougainvillea, papaya, mango, lemon, and so many other trees shade the town; as you go further down the mountainside they thin out and you come to see only cheebi cheebi trees and further still when you see only bleached dirt and black rock all the way to the horizon.

I love this place and these people with every day and moment I come to know them more.

There is something here which lacks in so many other places, something about community and fellowship. Here no one has ever conceived the idea of not knowing your neighbor; the thought remains unfathomable to them. I love walking down the streets and greeting everyone along the way. Habari! I might say in general greeting, shaking hands, raising eyebrows, tilting my chin or smiling from afar. At the death of the wife of a community member, the entire town comes to sit with the bereaved family for three days. Muslim or Christian—it does not matter which; you have a responsibility to one another, whether you be neighbors, friends, or the most distant of relatives.

Here I have acquired several names and titles. Where in most areas we have traveled thus far, our title has been “Mzungu! Mzungu,” here we are called “How Are You!” by the children of the town. They do not know it is actually a greeting; to them, it just means “white person.” As we traipse about the streets, the children take up a chant of “how are you! How are you! How are you!” and carry it the entire time we are within eyesight, with children on down the way picking it up like the Olympic torch and carrying it along. Please note, though, that “how are you” is pronounced like “How Aaaaa Yew!” and shrieked out at a very high pitch as an exclamation and not at all like a question.

Living here does, of course, have its negative aspects, such as my personal collection of fleas which I now carry about with me… or the fact that we eat so much here our gut simply hurts though the food itself tastes delicious… or the fact that we are not clean and begin already to wonder just what that must feel like?

But those things are nothing, really, to the overall experience of this place. Sure, I would not trade any of this for anything. Well, maybe the fleas, but… In all seriousness, I find myself so completely at home and content among these people and within this community. Not only that, but I love the family that I am staying with so much. Mama Stevens is such a vivacious, caring woman who never stops bustling around and fussing over you, and Baba is such a gentlemanly man—something of a king with his great wisdom and his great love for his family and his people and even strangers such as myself. He prayed over us and blessed us and adopted us into his family as his children; Mama introduces us as her daughters whenever we go about and meet new people. They have seven children of their own, most of whom are also married and some of whom have their own children, and they have already become like brothers and sisters to me.

Just the other day as the four of us “how are you’s” were walking back home, this one man about our own age fell into pace along side us. “Eeey!” He exclaimed. “Aaaa yew in de rong place? (are you in the wrong place) We just laughed and said no, not at all! And it is true. We are indeed not at all in the wrong place—in fact, I know for myself I couldn’t be in a more perfect place than where I am today; living, working, and learning in Marsabit.

posted by Lada @ 3:11 AM