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Kakuma
My visit to Kakuma, a town located in Turkana District, in the northwestern region of Kenya.
Angelina Jolie must have thought that this was an ideal place, too.
Craggy mountaintops dip, soar, and every so often, plateau out in the distance. Even further still, the mountains of neighboring Uganda are a mere dark outline on the best of clear days. The hot wind creates blusters of sand that sweep across the plains and dry riverbeds, coating scraggly bushes. Turkana tribesmen herd their spotted goats, a bell jingling on the leader. The Turkana\'s faces are a starless night color, angry almost. Women shave their heads into mohawks and wear layers upon layers of brightly colored beads to adorn their necks. The men wear short miniskirts of checkered cloth and often carry AK-47s. Earrings sparkle and dangle. They walk tall and proud with ritualistic scar markings on their faces. Nearby I hang off the side of a rock face on a late Sunday morning. The sunglasses block the sun as I scramble for a foothold; flakes of rocks crumble down to those watching me from below. As I reach the small pinnacle I sense my head clear. The breeze picks up, bringing the scent of the land to my nostrils. I see young Sudanese refugee men bounding over rocks in the distance. I hear singing from afar swirling up to me in indecipherable bits and pieces between the lengths of silence. And I am reminded why I love grit in my fingernails, sweat on my back, and sun in my face. Natalie and I descend the hill of rock and almost stumble on a den. We wake a scruffy hyena from its midday slumber. It bounds down the rocks before I can even give it more than a quick glance. The hyena races in the plains, a white UN Land Cruiser screaming a long pressed honk as it darts in front and heads to a herd of goats. The Sudanese men point and yell from above us. And maybe this is why Angelina Jolie thought it was a picturesque place to build a school for refugee girls. Every morning on our way to work in Kakuma Camp, we pass the chain linked fence around the school. The buildings have clean turquoise rooftops and are made of cement blocks. We visited a restaurant in Kakuma Refugee Camp 1 for lunch on our day off. Franco, an Ethiopian refugee, is the owner. A restaurant in the middle of the desert in a camp has nothing to do with World Food Program (WFP) rations where half the supply is siphoned off to sell in Somalia, cholera infested water, or skinny starved children. Instead there is DSTV satellite TV on big screens, bottled water, and a tree left over from Christmas in the corner. Three gigantic dishes of njera (fermented sort of crepe Ethiopians eat daily) with meat curries, lentils, and salads laced with chilies are placed in front of us. Dessert is strong, sweet coffee served in tiny cups. An Ethiopian family sits across the room enjoying their lunch. Tall, lanky Sudanese men gracefully fold their legs and arms into a chair. A few Somali women in their hijab scarves watch MTV. Beer bottles line the back of the bar. I am told that UN officials frequent this place. It is better than any thing in the town where Turkana men squat on their wooden rests that serve both as a pillow and as a chair and evangelists scream into microphones on late Sunday afternoons. Did Angelina Jolie ever visit Franco\'s while she was here? In the evenings I walk and run laps around the UNHCR compound. Tighter than normal restrictions have been placed upon us as the UN is still in "Phase 3" of their security alert despite the most recent power-sharing agreement made between Kibaki and Raila in Nairobi. I wonder if Angelina Jolie would ever survive this sort of job. She is more literate in refugee affairs than most. She is a strong, beautiful woman. But inside I feel frustration – for being stuck, for continuously eating peanut butter out of the jar, for listening to story after story until I could ask the required questions in my sleep. On top of my more than full time job, I have the part time job of keeping myself mentally sane while carrying my life in a small suitcase and duffle bag. While I walk, flies constantly buzz around me, trying to land in my nose, eye corners, and mouth. All I want is peace at dusk. There are moments of this much sought after peace: at the top of the rocks today, when I wake up in the morning before it is light and hear the pigeons quietly scratching from their roost on top of my window frame, the warm wind flapping of my scarf as I walk to the outhouse to take a break from interviews. Perhaps it is too much for any of us to ask for peace continuously. The moments of peace without the normal chaos, questions, and frustrations would not be worth stowing away in a treasure box otherwise. Deep peace of the running wave to you. Deep peace of the flowing air to you. Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. Deep peace of the shining stars to you. Deep peace of the God of Peace to you. -Celtic blessing Looking for flickers of peace, Merica Blog Images
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Blogs - Jan 2009 
