Kenya

Immigration policy should discriminate

Many years ago, a friend described one of my serious literary novels as “clever.” I was offended – but I shouldn’t have been. The friend was from across the pond, where I now understand “clever” means smart. For Americans, cleverness implies a shallow, facile intelligence. Applied to people, it hints at sly, calculating deviousness or cunning. It has no positive moral qualities, as westerners understand them. Tax evasion can be “clever.” Let’s move on to “culture” – a big, fuzzy word we throw about with careless abandon, that often summons images of traditional clothing and cuisine. But parsed in its most profound sense, culture might best be defined as “what a people admire and what they deplore.

I Dream of Lamu

An hour after the propeller plane lifts away from Wilson, Nairobi’s regional airport, it is arching over the blues and greens of the Lamu archipelago; a pattern of islands that extend 130 kms to the Somali border. Views of Lamu, which is also the name of the island and the stone town, have the dreamlike quality of an acid trip; the candy-pink minaret of the main mosque rising over coralline houses in the oldest, continuously inhabited, settlement on Kenya’s Swahili coast. And beyond the hazy shoreline, confetti-scatterings of white are the dhows that powered the fortunes of this former hub and deep-sea port. These criss-crossed the Indian Ocean on seasonal monsoon trade winds swapping ivory and slaves from the African hinterland for silks and spices from India, Yemen and Oman.

A tale of two safaris

To grasp the untamed vastness of Samburu County, it’s necessary to get high. Above the thickets of acacia trees, thorny branches like barbed wire against the cloudless sky. Out of the Rift Valley’s rubbly trenches, dotted with bleached animal skulls and groves of candelabra-like doum palms clustered around some-time watering holes. To the peak of Sundowner Rock, for instance. After scrambling up its boulder-strewn slopes — wishing for the agility of the bug-eyed, Bambi-like dik-diks that prance about this terrain — I flop down on a sun-warmed granite slab and savor an eagle’s eye view of the bushland below. Legions of acacias and wiry shrubs mottle the red earth.

safari

Who killed Dicky?

Local chief Panta wore a government-issue khaki uniform with epaulettes, beret and swagger stick. On a pleasant stroll to our farm springs, he observed how plenty of blood had been spilled over this water. We sat on the glassy-smooth black rocks around the water pools and the chief retold for me a story more infamous in its day than the Happy Valley tale of Lord Erroll’s murder, but now completely forgotten. Welshman Dicky Powys, from a family of authors and philosophers and cousin of our ranching neighbor Gilfrid, arrived in Kenya in 1931 to farm. Young Dicky learned the local Maasai vernacular fluently and got on with everybody. His employer had rented pasture in Laikipia around our springs for a vast flock of sheep and Dicky pitched camp here.

dicky