Picture Found From the BBC: This cow could not stand without the Maasai's help
It was just yesterday that we were heading back to Nairobi from the Maasai Mara on what we expected to be a mindless four hour drive. We jumped into the small SUV and began our drive back to Narok where we would transfer to a matatu to take us the rest of the way to Nairobi. Relaxing into my seat, I, for once, did not have a care in the world. I was perfectly content with where I was at that moment, or so I thought I was.
No more than five minutes after we left the gate did we begin to see the realities of the drought in Kenya. I noticed that the Mara was dry but I didn’t realize what kind of impact it was making on the local people, their cattle, and the wildlife. The vegetation was brown and the creeks were completely dry. There were several cow carcasses strewn about the land; some of which had recently died while others we just skeletal remains. The drought’s destruction was endless. Local Maasai were making their daily treks through the scattered carcasses and not even giving them a second look. It hit me that this had become everyday living for them. It was no longer about finding the greenest pasture for their only source of income (their cattle), but it was now about finding any pasture that their cows could feed on. The situation has become survival of the fittest for both the people and the animals. At one point along our drive, three Maasai were walking their cattle across the barren land to find a place to graze. They had around 100 head of cattle moving forward, yet just 500 feet behind them, they had already lost 6 cows. The weak cows were lying down too weak to hold themselves up. They would certainly die over the next 24 hours. There was one cow that two Maasai walked back to save. It took them all the strength they had as they fought gravity to lift this deathly skinny cow from the red chalky land back to its feet. It staggered around for several seconds having no food or water in its system to help it move forward. Our driver, a Maasai himself, explained that this particular cow would only last three more days at the most. He mentioned that in one month, the drought will take a head of 100 cattle, down to a group of three or four.
My chest tightened and my throat closed as I fought back my tears. How could this be happening while I along with most people around the world had no idea?!?!? What would these people do for income? For food? For survival? The driver then explained the following bits of information which I have confirmed:
90% of cattle will die as a result of the drought
Maasai rely on their cattle for 100% of their income
While locals once sold their cattle for anywhere between $125 to $375USD, their famished looking cows are now selling for as little as $13USD. Despite these prices, they are still selling cattle and using all of their income to buy feed for the rest of their starving heard
Locals are having to kill their own cows to provide food for their starving families
The government has declared a state of emergency in most Kenyan regions however most of the aid money is vanishing before it hits the villages due to corruption
Schools in Kenya are proving to be the only place some children can get food
Since the cattle are so skinny and unhealthy, when the rain finally does come, the cold and wet weather often kills off the weakest cattle in the group
I was no longer content. Instead I sat there completely perplexed, disturbed, saddened and shocked. The drought is currently a huge problem, not only for the cattle and the people, but also for the wildlife alike. Animals such as monkeys, leopards, and lions are becoming for vicious with Maasai and their cattle because they are desperate for food that they would normally find during a normal days hunt. I recognized that Chris and I could not solve the problem on our own but I was not ready to ignore the situation.
Later that day, we met up with Joseph Lekuton, a key member of the Kenyan Parliament (formerly Chris’ 8th grade teacher). We were telling him the story of our drive home and his eyes widened as he said, “You think that’s bad? You should see the people up North. Everyone is starving. The cattle are dying off and many people haven’t eaten in 4 days. They don’t even know where their next meal will come from.” Chris and I sat there silent. Just when I thought it couldn’t be worse, it was. Joseph wanted to take us up North to show us his province. It was then that it dawned on us. We already committed to using a percentage of our donations to a charitable cause, and what is better than saving people from slowly starving to death? We couldn’t walk away from the opportunity to help. Then Joseph said he would give us a driver, an interpreter, and mapped out areas that need the most help if we could buy the food and deliver it ourselves.
We quickly changed our flights and committed to buying at least $1,000USD worth of food (we’ve increased our goal, see below). I know this is very last minute, but we will be purchasing and delivering food through Monday, October 13th and 100% of the donations that come through the link/button below will be put towards feeding those hit hardest by the drought in Kenya. Please feel free to donate whatever you can as every dollar will help. Thank you in advance for your support and contributions. UPDATE: An anonymous donor has agreed to match our goal (up to $1,000) if we reach it, so we’ve raised our goal to $1,000 USD UPDATE 2: In less than 24 hours, we’ve already reached our $1,000 goal, and thus have also received our matched $1,000. Thank you all for your support! We will be on the road delivering food until October 13th, so we will gladly accept further donations and use them to buy more food along the way.
According to the World Health Organization there are 300 to 500 million clinical cases of malaria each year resulting in 1.5 to 2.7 million deaths. It is one of the world’s deadliest diseases and one of the leading causes of sickness and death in developing countires. Therefore, when I grew ill for several days in Tanzania (an infected area), I became nervous knowing the possibility of it being maleria was real. I convinced myself it was the flu at first but when no one else grew sick around me and the researched symptoms sounded similar to malaria, I was easily convinced that I should go to a clinic to get tested. As for getting tested, I didn’t know what to expect or how long it would take, but I knew that the longer I let it persist, the worse off I’d be.
I had just taken the ferry over to Zanzibar that morning and I felt sick as a dog on the boat. Upon arriving, we quickly found a place to drop our bags and immediately set out to find the clinic the guide book suggested for travelers wanting to be tested for maleria. After walking around in the scortching sun for what seemed like entirely too long, we popped our heads into a hotel and asked the owner if he could assist us in finding the clinic we were looking for. He had never heard of it however, coincidentally, he mentioned he felt as though he may be infected with maleria as well and that he’d walk us to a clinic he knew close by so that we could both get tested.
We followed him closely, winding through the narrow, maze like streets lined with archaic stone buildings and shops. Within 5 minutes, we arrived at the clinic. It was what I was expecting for an African building: a small, old, and somewhat rundown building with a sign at the top of the door stating that indicating it was a clinic and drug facility. The nice hotel owner walked me inside where we both quickly filled out a small form giving our name and date of birth. I followed him back to a small room where I went inside facing a doc sitting in a white lab coat. He didn’t speak much English but I said “malaria test” and he knew right away what he was doing. He opened a small metal needle from a secure wrapper, rubbed my thumb with alchohol and gave it a good prick. As the drop of blood on my finger grew larger, he collected it on small glass try, put it under his microscope and told me to wait in the hall outside.
I sat there on the bench next to another man waiting for his results for only a few minutes when the doc called me back in to his office. He handed me a blank paper with one scribbled word on it… ‘NEGATIVE.’ As crazy as it sounds, I had mixed feelings as I stared at the note in my hand. If I tested possitive then I would know what I had and I could be prescribed medicine to treat it promptly. On the other hand, testing negative proved that my anti-malarial pills are working and that my immune system would get stronger.
I went to pay at the front counter and when the woman told me the amount I owed, I was completely shocked. It equated to a little under $1.50 USD!!!! How could it cost so little, yet millions of people don’t get tested when they come down with symptoms? Up to 2.7 million people die EVERY YEAR because they don’t treat their malaria in a timely manner. I understand $1.50USD is equivalent to much more in developing countries but it disgusts me to think that while we throw money around like chump change, other people live off of less than that per day. It has made me appreciate the value of $1.50USD and I will forever sympathize with those who debate whether they should get tested and increase their chances of survival or feed their family.
“It is tradition to cook a chicken for Neema’s dad when he comes to visit us tomorrow,” Baraka said to us. We were staying with Baraka and his wife Neema in their Dar es-Salaam home having dinner at the dining room table when this conversation came up. Neema had not seen her father in years and since he would be gracing their house with his presence the next morning, Baraka was explaining the importance of cooking a whole chicken. “We’ll be heading to the market tomorrow to get one,” Baraka stated.
“Where is the cheapest chicken?” I asked thinking it was going to be at one of the larger grocery stores. There was a moment of silence and then Baraka said with a slight smile, “We will be picking one out at the market and then we will bring it home and slaughter it.” WHAT? Did i hear that correctly?? That’s crazy! Then again, did I really think they bought frozen chickens in the grocery store when most people here don’t even have freezers? Of course they would slaughter their own chicken just before the big meal. Baraka could tell I was intrigued and invited us along for the experience.
The next morning, while Neema visited with her estranged father, Chris, Baraka, and I headed down the road to the market. When we arrived at the chicken coops, Baraka turned to me and said, “Choose the chicken we will eat. And make sure you grab a hen because they taste better.” I gave him a look of horror and bewilderment as I quickly turned my head to my prey. I actually had to grab the chicken out of the big cage? Baraka opened the door and I slowly put my hands in, trying to figure out which bird would put up the least fight. Sadly, I’ll admit that I was somewhat scared that one would turn and bite me and I would come down with an actual bird flu of some sort. Then, when I finally committed to grabbing one, I missed her. They are fast little suckers! Finally, the chicken coop owner became annoyed with my shenanigans, pushed me aside, and grabbed one of the hens by its wing, and shoved it towards me to hold on to. I positioned both of its wings behind its back to be sure it wouldn’t escape, and I followed the guy behind the chicken coop to the slaughter house. Surprisingly, the chicken squawked but didn’t put up a fight. Thank you Miss Chicken for not making me look any dumber than I already looked.
I knew we were getting close to the slaughter house when the putrid smell of raw chicken, blood and guts roasting in the mid morning sun caught my nostrils. Whoa… it was nauseating! The shack that housed the men working was tiny. The roof consisted of rusted sheet metal and small, aged branches. There were two of four walls built holding the roof up. There was a sign above the shack with pricing on how much it cost to hire the guys to slaughter the chicken. Luckily it was cheap (~ $0.25 USD) so Baraka decided to hire them to do it quickly instead of us doing it at home. Baraka still wanted me to help after he realized that I had never slaughtered a chicken. I was up front and center when I handed the chicken off to the axe man. He took the chicken, threw it down on the ground and with one swift swing of the axe, the chicken was now two. Ugh, there was blood covering the walls and I quickly glanced down at my legs to make sure the blood hadn’t hit me as well. It was creepy seeing the body move without the head but that didn’t stop the guy from grabbing it’s neck and throwing it into a steaming pot of water. He stirred the whole bird (sans head) around with a large wooden spoon to loosen the feathers. After soaking the bird for 30 seconds, he pulled it out of the pot and threw it to another guy who began stripping it of its feathers. I was surprised at how quickly the feathers came out after soaking it. I had to give the guy credit, he de-feathered the chicken in 5 seconds time…no joke. The last guy was waiting for our prized hen, and when he got it in his hands, he showed that bird who was boss. He had the stomach and guts emptied from the chicken in no time and suddenly it was back in my hands once again; this time, in different form.
It was an experience. A true African experience. I am not currently a vegetarian, but after witnessing the kill, it made me want to reconsider.
Our small 2-wheel drive Yaris was driving down the back country Namibian dirt road when we came across a camping sign. All four of us (the two Swedes we were traveling with and us) were exhausted and looking for a place to stay anyway, so we cruised up the long residential, narrow, dusty road when we came upon a house nestled amongst several trees. There was a young Namibian in his mid 20′s who we first spoke with. He stood about 5’10″, had extremely pronounced cheek bones, and through his tattered clothing I could see his small set frame. We let him know we were looking for a place to rest and were wondering the price. He didn’t speak much English, but we were able to agree on the price for camping on their land. Upon our agreement, he set off on a quick jog toward a large area of bushes and trees 800m away. We couldn’t understand where he was going until 15 minutes later, when he back back with two women. It was then that I realized these people didn’t live in the house that we pulled up to. Their house must be hidden beyond the bushes.
After speaking with the woman who spoke English best, we realized that they were caretakers of the land. They watched over the main house while the owner, an older German woman, was away. Chris and I wanted to understand their lifestyle better so we invited them for dinner. The head woman rejected since they had three children in addition to four adults, but we insisted they join us and finally they agreed. We would all meet in the owner’s lodge for dinner at 6:30pm.
We didn’t have much time to settle in, set up camp, and begin cooking before 6:30pm rolled around. The Namibian’s began to arrive around the lodge table. They were quiet but seemed eager to have the company. The women brought juice for the table while the main man of the household, Sydney, helped us light candles for the table (we had no electricity). We all decided to make pasta with meatballs because it was one of the heartiest meals we had in our food supply and we imagined they would enjoy eating meat (even if it was from a can). Upon sitting down, we all awkwardly crammed around this non-geometrically shaped small rock table. Eleven of us remained fairly quiet until after we began eating our food. We had small conversations throughout the first serving of dinner however we could tell that dinner is not a social activity with them. It is a way of life. By their second and third helping of dinner, the family began to open up about themselves and their Namibian traditions.
Sydney and his wife were the main man and woman of the household. They had two small children ages 3 and 1. Sydney’s sister Bianca and his cousin George also lived with them in their apparently tiny house with Bianca’s small 1 year old. We learned so many fascinating things about their lifestyle:
They all survive off of Sydney’s income which he makes monthly from the German owner. Therefore, meat is rare in their diet and most of their meals consists of a traditional porridge.
When speaking with each other, they used their native language, which is a Khoisan dialect of the African Bantu language. It involves using different clicks of the mouth to communicate. It is truly fascinating to hear!
They do not own a vehicle of any kind therefore, when they make runs to the grocery store or post office, they plan it well in advance. The closest small town providing a post office and a market is 80km away so they only go to the market every 5-6 weeks. Usually, they can ask their neighbors for a ride or if they don’t have one lined up in advance, they can try to hitch a ride the day of. The only problem is that the road they live on in small and sparsely traveled, so often times they may wait all day for a ride into town and back.
They would like their children to go to school however with the school also being 80km away, it seems impossible to have them attend. Therefore, Sydney may decide to home school them which is common for many families in their area.
Later that evening, the Swedish med students asked about vaccinations and diseases and how they deal with them. Surprisingly, they were uninformed on the mosquito diseases in the area, how they are contracted, and how the body deals with vaccinations. It shocked me! I wondered how they dealt with sickness if they were uncertain of what it was but then they explained their holistic medicine approach. Should they have an upset stomach, headache, aches or pains in the body, they grind up an ostrich egg shell, oryx liver, and aardvark droppings, and consume the powder. They swore that that they’d always feel better the next day.
It dawned on me over dinner that while we lived lifestyles that were worlds apart, but they were still some of the most down to Earth people I have met yet. All of them were grateful, hospitable, and humble for what they had in life. They welcomed us with open arms into their home, their culture, their family and their lifestyles. In return, they soaked up the information we shared with them regarding US lifestyles, medical practices, education, etc. The night turned out to be more than I could have ever asked for.
I love driving, and even more, I love driving fast! In fact, back in the states, the only things I hate about driving are traffic and that the high cost of a speeding prevents me from cruising at my desired speed.
After renting our Toyota Yaris in South Africa, it never occured to me that I might be able to cut loose on the open road. You see, all over Cape Town there are signs warning of speed cameras ahead. Although I never actually saw one of the alleged speed cameras, it was enough of a deterant to keep me driving just more than a few kph over the speed limit.
Then we crossed the border… I had read in the Namibia guidebook that speeding tickets cost only $1 per km over the limit, which meant at a absolute maximum (given the Yaris’ performance) we’d be looking at a fine of ~$70. Combining that with the roughly 0.1% chance of actually seeing speed checkpoint (based on conversations with people who had driven through Namibia), I felt comfortable going whatever speed I wanted.
The first few hours were on an open paved road quite far from wildlife, so I could literally floor the gas pedal and go as fast as the car allowed. What an incredible feeling! Driving without constantly monitoring the speedometer is how it should always be. In fact, not worrying about my speed or police down the road made me even more aware of the road conditions and my surroudings.
About 10 days later, we arrived in Etosha National Park, where at the main building they had the recently revised speeding fines posted. Evidently the $80 ticket from before the guidebook was written now cost over $500 plus a court visit. I guess I was quite lucky we hadn’t been pulled over yet. Despite that we never once saw a police vehicle for the rest of the trip, we kept ourselves to a more reasonable speed.
I’ll never forget how enjoyable driving is when you don’t have to worry about your speed. Looks like I’ll have to wait until I’m on the autobahn in Germany to enjoy it that much again!
It has been our great joy to stay connected with family and friends along our journey. We are grateful to have such wonderful people in our lives, supporting us, keeping us connected with news and current events and enjoying our stories and photos from our site. There are a few people who have specifically ensured our blog’s successes through their generous donations. We would like to recognize the following people for their contributions:
John and Herwanna Sayre: Chris’ grandparents, our first contributors and frequent world travelers. Enjoy Mexico!
Don and Barb Hutchins: Chris’ parents and huge supporters of our around-the-world trip. So excited to be spending the holidays with you all in India!
Tom and Karen Fox: Amy’s parents, also #1 supporters of our travels. Can’t wait to see you all in Thailand in February!
Aaron and Ali Sayre: Chris’ cousins and great friends. They’re among our most avid readers!
Susan Athey: A faculty member at Colorado State University and one of Chris’s former advisors who has done a great job of keeping in touch with the College of Business Alumni.
Roger Karam: Chris’ former boss and good friend. We hope to see you in Lebanon!
Kari and Tuire: Great friends of ours from Finland who we met traveling in 2007. We miss you two greatly!
Andy Jimenez: Amy’s boss in San Francisco. He’s CEO of Evolve Discovery and he’ll blow you away with his industry insight!
Jeremy Behling: Amy’s sister’s boyfriend and pseudo-family member who’s been like a brother to Amy.
Matt Van Horn: Chris and Amy’s good friend from San Francisco, who with his girlfriend Lauren were among the first to welcome us when we moved to SF. (They also just took a trip to the Middle East and gave us some great tips!)
THANK YOU all for your kindness and generosity. We are extremely fortunate to have amazing friends and family and we look forward to bringing you many more interesting travel tidbits, stories and photos.
We followed him closely, winding through the narrow, maze like streets lined with archaic stone buildings and shops. Within 5 minutes, we arrived at the clinic. It was what I was expecting for an African building: a small, old, and somewhat rundown building with a sign at the top of the door stating that indicating it was a clinic and drug facility. The nice hotel owner walked me inside where we both quickly filled out a small form giving our name and date of birth. I followed him back to a small room where I went inside facing a doc sitting in a white lab coat. He didn’t speak much English but I said “malaria test” and he knew right away what he was doing. He opened a small metal needle from a secure wrapper, rubbed my thumb with alchohol and gave it a good prick. As the drop of blood on my finger grew larger, he collected it on small glass try, put it under his microscope and told me to wait in the hall outside.
The next morning, while Neema visited with her estranged father, Chris, Baraka, and I headed down the road to the market. When we arrived at the chicken coops, Baraka turned to me and said, “Choose the chicken we will eat. And make sure you grab a hen because they taste better.” I gave him a look of horror and bewilderment as I quickly turned my head to my prey. I actually had to grab the chicken out of the big cage? Baraka opened the door and I slowly put my hands in, trying to figure out which bird would put up the least fight. Sadly, I’ll admit that I was somewhat scared that one would turn and bite me and I would come down with an actual bird flu of some sort. Then, when I finally committed to grabbing one, I missed her. They are fast little suckers! Finally, the chicken coop owner became annoyed with my shenanigans, pushed me aside, and grabbed one of the hens by its wing, and shoved it towards me to hold on to. I positioned both of its wings behind its back to be sure it wouldn’t escape, and I followed the guy behind the chicken coop to the slaughter house. Surprisingly, the chicken squawked but didn’t put up a fight. Thank you Miss Chicken for not making me look any dumber than I already looked.
I knew we were getting close to the slaughter house when the putrid smell of raw chicken, blood and guts roasting in the mid morning sun caught my nostrils. Whoa… it was nauseating! The shack that housed the men working was tiny. The roof consisted of rusted sheet metal and small, aged branches. There were two of four walls built holding the roof up. There was a sign above the shack with pricing on how much it cost to hire the guys to slaughter the chicken. Luckily it was cheap (~ $0.25 USD) so Baraka decided to hire them to do it quickly instead of us doing it at home. Baraka still wanted me to help after he realized that I had never slaughtered a chicken. I was up front and center when I handed the chicken off to the axe man. He took the chicken, threw it down on the ground and with one swift swing of the axe, the chicken was now two. Ugh, there was blood covering the walls and I quickly glanced down at my legs to make sure the blood hadn’t hit me as well. It was creepy seeing the body move without the head but that didn’t stop the guy from grabbing it’s neck and throwing it into a steaming pot of water. He stirred the whole bird (sans head) around with a large wooden spoon to loosen the feathers. After soaking the bird for 30 seconds, he pulled it out of the pot and threw it to another guy who began stripping it of its feathers. I was surprised at how quickly the feathers came out after soaking it. I had to give the guy credit, he de-feathered the chicken in 5 seconds time…no joke. The last guy was waiting for our prized hen, and when he got it in his hands, he showed that bird who was boss. He had the stomach and guts emptied from the chicken in no time and suddenly it was back in my hands once again; this time, in different form.
We didn’t have much time to settle in, set up camp, and begin cooking before 6:30pm rolled around. The Namibian’s began to arrive around the lodge table. They were quiet but seemed eager to have the company. The women brought juice for the table while the main man of the household, Sydney, helped us light candles for the table (we had no electricity). We all decided to make pasta with meatballs because it was one of the heartiest meals we had in our food supply and we imagined they would enjoy eating meat (even if it was from a can). Upon sitting down, we all awkwardly crammed around this non-geometrically shaped small rock table. Eleven of us remained fairly quiet until after we began eating our food. We had small conversations throughout the first serving of dinner however we could tell that dinner is not a social activity with them. It is a way of life. By their second and third helping of dinner, the family began to open up about themselves and their Namibian traditions.
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