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NAIROBI, KENYA - "Road trip: September 2004
Aamena
JiwajiMy religious leader, Syedna, arrived in Dar [As Salaam] last week Wednesday for a few days so everyone from East Africa -- stretching as far up as Mauritius and Madagascar and as far down as South Africa -- gathered together for four days. Even for those of us who just had to hop across the Tanzanian border, it was an extremely long trip. I left Nairobi on Thursday morning at 6:30am and reached Dar at 2am the next morning ä slow driving, punctures, police checks, corrupt police officers, the typical Indian pace of stopping everywhere to go to the loo or for a quick cup of tea ä and the worst of it was our bus' lights were discovered not to be working just as the sun set so a quick repair job was taken on with borrowed pliers and a fruit knife -- absolutely exhausting.
Tanzania has a very safe policy of no public vehicles being allowed on the road after ten at night. Very safe that is if it worked but with the cavalier police attitude in Africa quite a few vehicles were on the road after ten, having slipped the cops twenty thousand Tanzanian shillings (around US $25). Those vehicles included our bus; corruption and bribery is mother's milk to a Kenyan.
But it was all worth it - two days of physical exhaustion but spiritual rebirth. It's the kind of experience one cannot describe -- seeing the Syedna, praying with him and with thousands of other Dawoodi Bohra Muslims, listening to him talk about our history and heritage. The community spirit was incredible.
My sister, Munira, came up on Tuesday evening from South Africa. Her and mum left for Dar on Wednesday morning with Akamba. It is a big black and yellow 40-42 seater bus renowned for reaching out of the way East African destinations that other bus liner s rarely cover.
I chose to travel with the Dawoodi Bohra community bus and that on its own was an experience. For once I lost my inhibitions of being a member of the weaker sex and loved every minute of the community men controlling and handling everything for us "innocent, incapable women". Everything from passports to luggage to supervision of children was taken care of and we were literally treated as princesses without a worry in the world.
I got thoroughly sucked into the whole community feel[ing]. People who you normally just smile at politely at the mosque are suddenly chatting with you for 18-20 hours. And then of course there is the food - Indians and food. There was something being passed around every hour or so -- from samosas to cake to tangerines to peanut brittle -- and then stops for tea and prayers, at which, magically, more tins of food appeared from fried chicken to pizza to spring rolls.
Sitting in the middle of rural Tanzania, inhaling diesel fumes from the passing buses while munching on pizza and looking out at Mount Kilimanjaro. It was incredible.
The best part about road trips is that the culture of the host country is allowed a chance to soak in gradually. We passed through many towns in our 20 hour trip: Arusha, Moshi (practically mini-cities) and tiny little towns with locals milling around every newly arrived bus, plastic buckets perched on top of their heads filled with oranges, tomatoes, passion fruit and "ndimu tamu" (which means sweet lime and are apparently delicious).
And then of course there were miles of road when all we did was stare at Kilimanjaro on the horizon watching it draw closer and closer with each mile traveled, then further and further away as we chugged closer to Dar.
But the Namanga border was the most interesting part of all. Literally just a fence and a gate separating two countries. People and livestock crossing randomly. Buses to-ing and fro-ing. And the Namanga hills -- like a wall dividing two countries -- so I suppose, for that border, the colonialists didn't just draw a random line but relied on the naturally drawn borders.
Tanzania (TZ) is incredible. It is very East African but with a strong Swahili flavour. Dar in particular reminded me of Mombasa because of its Swahili-Arab influence, the intense humidity and the prominent coast line that blew fragrant sea breezes inland throughout the night. But it was nothing like a capital city, and in no way imitated the frenetic pace of life in Nairobi.It was so relaxed and laid back. Even the locals seemed more mellow. Their Swahili lacked the pace of sheng (the Nairobi street equivalent of pidgin Swahili) and instead had an element of lyricism in its lazy drawl. A distinct sweet and guttural aftertaste.
Rather than the Nairobi matatus [urban taxis], there were saloon car taxis that populated the streets of Dar which drove at a break neck speed. And yet the roads were totally un-African in their organized and efficient grid-like structure. They had working street lights, and traffic lights; were more road than pot holes and even at ten at night there was a strong police presence monitoring traffic and unsafe areas.
And despite its very weak currency (13 Tanzanian shillings to one Kenyan shilling. The exchange rate, for means of comparison, is around eighty Kenyan shillings to one US dollar), Dar has maintained an interesting cultural mix; somewhere between the Zanzibar style of old town and the flashy modern areas of Dubai.
All three of us, Mum, Munira and myself, returned yesterday (Sunday), although in two different buses. Mum and Munira traveled on the Scandinavia this time, a luxury liner supposedly with the perks of a bathroom and a DVD presentation. But from what they tell me, there was nothing luxury about the experience -- the same stiff granular seats of Akamba, no bathroom and two very tacky kung-fu movies.
And wouldn't you know it, they were on the faster bus again even though their scheduled departure time was 90 minutes after mine! But I am back now != bone weary and late, but rejuvenated, which is exactly what I needed.
Work has been Hell recently -- attitudes that I could handle when I first joined are beating me down and am finding that I just don't have the strength to fight the prejudice and aggressive ambition anymore. Maybe I am mellowing with time. Also I feel the desperate urge to return to writing and the media. Wish me luck, all.I am thrilled to be back in Nairobi. The Kenyan capital has a way of growing on you like the silent friend who stands by your side all your life and then one day winks at you and changes your entire life.
But the romance between my city and me is not to be, it seems, at least not yet. A few of us from work are going down to Mombasa tomorrow till the end of the week for a conference. So I shouldn't have unpacked my bags last night after all. And from the itinerary it isn't going to be a beach holiday.
Government Perk: September 2004
Kenyan streets are filled with 4x4s and the latest Mercedes models, all carrying Ministers and Judges and glorified public servants. They cut off other traffic and jauntily fly a Kenyan flag on the front left of their bonnets no matter what the weather. Down trodden tax-payers, depending on their day, look at them either with longing for the day they shall own a car like that or with resentment at a society that funds luxury cars for 10% of the population at the expense of the 80% [who support] the economy.
The Mombasa conference that I attended was my chance to metaphorically sit in an air conditioned chauffeured Lexus 4 x 4 with tinted windows.
Let me explain the metaphor. A group of around eight of us from Nairobi flew down to Mombasa on Tuesday afternoon and stayed at Mombasa Beach Hotel. [The hotel] is on the North Coast of Kenya, half an hour's drive from Mombasa city. Each of us was given a single sea front room, with TV and air conditioner and our meals were paid for, as was our return flight to Nairobi on Friday evening. Lexus!
I was asked along as a rapporteur, in charge of taking notes at the meetings and preparing the final report at the end of every day for review the next morning.
Mombasa Beach Hotel is one of the hotels at the Coast that has caught onto the bid to promote local tourism in the face of a struggling international tourism industry which has been hard hit by the Kenyan encounters with terrorism. Its aggressive campaign to entertain its guests was audible in its local music disco and visible in the jumping Maasai dancers and acrobatics. Aside from the European tourists, mostly German, I was surprised by how many conferences were being held there that week, three to four apart from ours and most of them were government-funded.
The conference scheduled a full day of work, from 9 to 5, and I worked a few additional hours in the evening preparing the report. Yet the entire experience, in my memory, is that of a holiday. I woke up to sunlight streaming in my window and the sound of the waves crashing on the reef and I was lulled to sleep by the Indian Ocean and the chirrup of crickets.
I savoured each moment -- with a tinge of guilt at the thought of how much of [the] taxpayers' money was being spent on such a function.
I consoled myself with a reminder that I, too, was [one of the] downtrodden who paid taxes and that this trip was, in a way, a payback for me.
Not quite martinis on the beach but close enough.
Identity Change: October 2004
There is a tradition that is followed by the Dawoodi Bohra Muslims when it comes to naming a child. Unlike the Christian tradition, where the family chooses the name, or the traditional African one, where the child is named after an ancestor or a grandparent, with the Dawoodi Bohras it is believed that the child's name has an enormous effect on character and hence the child's future. And so the religious leader is asked for a name or, if one has al ready been chosen, approval is sought.
I was born into a family that did not place much importance on this practice and so I was named by one of my father's sisters, as was my sister.
I don't know how the names were chosen but I became Aamera and my sister was Meesbah. Being Arabic names taken from the Quran, spelling could vary.
Take my name for example. It could be spelled in any number of ways and pronounced in even more. Amera. Ameera. Amira. Amirah. Aamera. Aamerah.
When my sister was around 5, Syedna changed her name to Munira. Of course it met with a lot of resistance from my father's side [of the family,] being seen as a challenge to their authority. So "Munira" never really caught on -- that is until last year when our re-entrance into the Bohra community made the transition easier.
My mother believes that the hurdles I have faced in my life are a result of the unlucky naming process to which I was victim. Thus, for a while she has been anxious to ask Syedna if he approves of my name. This year I finally had the opportunity to personally ask Mola if he was happy with my name.
Mola changed it to Aamena.
For two to three weeks now I have been Aamena. It's just one letter but it is difficult to be a grown person and have the one point of consistency in your life, the identity given by your first name, altered. I still have to consciously remind myself when writing my name to grow the stunted "r" into a flowing "n". And then, of course, there's the female sentimentality which hates to let go of anything.
Everyone that I have told within the Bohra community has accepted the name change and adapted quickly. After all, many of them had to adjust to the same change. My non-Bohra friends, however, find it difficult to understand. They keep asking me why it was changed, what was wrong with the old name and how the new one was chosen. Honestly, I don't know. All I can do is rely on Syedna wisdom and guidance.
Ironic, when I think of how a few weeks ago I found out that, in the 1300s, there was a publishing house in the Islamic speaking world that was called "Aamera". Same spelling, everything. It gave me a shiver when I thought of my current journalistic career and involvement in the Judiciary's publishing department. The implication that my name may have subconsciously led to my career choice [was eery].
And now it is Aamena. I have to wonder what drastic changes my life holds for me now.
My name change has made me aware of how attached I am to the material possessions in this world. My name is just a way of identifying myself in this world, nothing more, and yet now that it has been taken from me I have become strangely possessive of it.
Spiritual Bonds: October 2004
If the worldwide identity of Islam did not carry the stigma of terrorism I believe its strongest association would be that of Ramadhan/Ramzan, a month when Muslims sacrifice worldly pleasures, break destructive habits and forge a strong brother-/sisterhood through hours of silent community prayer.
I spent Ramzan this year in a stronger spiritual place than ever before. I committed to a greater number of spiritual deeds and acts and worked harder to keep my thoughts spiritually pure. I read more of the Quran and performed nearly all of my prayer obligations.
The most important night in Ramzan is Lailat-ul-Qadr, the night of power, which is equivalent to more than a thousand months of worship and prayer.
It is believed that on this night the angels and spirits descend from heaven on Allah's command and not only do they listen to all Muslims' prayers and carry them heavenward but they also spread peace until the break of dawn. It is also believed that he who asks for forgiveness on this night shall not be denied by Allah, no matter how great the sin. And so Muslims spend the entire night in prayer and confession, not prepared to lose a single minute, in case that is the one when Allah is listening.
It is a beautiful night -- not only because it is an activity that an entire religious group carries out together but also because people are so focused on Allah for those few hours that they forget the inherent pettiness that is characteristic of human nature.
The night of Lailat-ul-Qadr is a microcosm for the month of Ramzan.
Unfortunately, the unity that grows between the variant Islamic sects during the month of Ramadhan, fed by a united sense of hunger and physical weakness, is shattered on the last evening, the night of Eid-ul-Fitr, with the discrepancies and quarrels as to the sighting of the new moon, a sighting that signifies the end of the month of fasting. Strangely enough, the unity that binds the members of the Islamic religion together is strongest in Ramzan when its members are hungry, fatigued, physically weak and most fragile when their bellies are full.
© 2004, GENERATOR 21.
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