Tuesday, March 22, 2005

"Welcome to Kenya" ID part 3

Housekeeping: I changed the title back to the original as my thoughts really aren’t that nutty and this really is a chronicle of my journey back here. Secondly, I really don’t give a damn who’s looking over my shoulders as I log my entries in crowded cafes all over the city. Besides, most of my friends call me crazy anyway.

Another thing, the hospitality industry is something I’m trying to get an internship in, but a challenge I’m beginning to face in my being here is, how am I supposed to sell Kenya to others if it can’t even sell itself to Kenyans at this point?

Also, this entry is VERY long so save yourself some time, print it out and read it during a coffee break, at lunch, while in a meeting, in court, on the loo or like my darling friend Corinne who reads it on Le Metro on the way to work in Paris, take some time to laugh or cry or shake your head in wonder.

So I woke up Monday morning, determined to make some progress of some sort on getting the ID. I decided I wouldn’t be pessimistic or prematurely discouraged, rather I would be cautiously optimistic and hope I would make some progress. I stopped by the studio where I had my shots taken and explained to them that what was required as I’d been told the last time were two black and white passport photos not cut into individual shots but left as one. She told me it would take an hour so off I went in search of a cyber café to do some e-mail. My fave one’s server was down so I ended up at the one next to the butchery. (remember the one that gets the meat shipments in boxes with Arabic lettering?) I did my correspondence, checked the dismal performance of my bracket (Wisconsin-Milwaukee? Syracuse? Are you kidding me?) I went back to the studio and she handed me an envelope with the photos and I took them out and they were cut. I slowly lowered my face, shook it slightly and then patiently explained to her what I had wanted, uncut photos and she in turn explained patiently that the photos came out inverted when next to each other and not side by side. I asked why she cut them and she asked me why not? If they were going to be used on an ID they would get cut anyway. Can’t argue with that logic as that’s what I’d been thinking every time I read the haphazardly posted requirements, all of which contradicted each other and never explained why the passport shots must come joined at the hip.

She then told me that just around the corner was a photo studio that did Polaroid shots in black and white and it would be possible for me to get them done that way. So I glanced at my watch, about 9.30 and figured I could spend another hour while they got done. I went to the store in question, inquired whether it was possible, they said yes, I asked how much, about 300 shillings ($3.50), how long, 2 hours. I looked at them, said thank you and walked out and caught the next matatu heading toward the government office. At this point I was still calm, so calm that I figured I’d just go there and if they turned me away for lack of proper photos I’d first verify I had all the proper documents etc. I got there, went to father’s office first to get his ID again which he parted with, with much angst. I flew across the highway (6 lanes, divided, pedestrian walk which is a joke, no traffic light) I got into the line for (and I will kindly describe it) the initial processing office. This is located in the actual building but right near the entrance so the line snaked outside to the front and I was about the fifteenth person to join.

It was about 10.30 by now, and sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds. It had rained the previous night and the day had started out sort of chilly so I’d brought along my anorak. I didn’t care if it rained while I stood outside I was going to get something done with the ID. I had a brought a book along with me so I started reading while more people joined the queue. I was lucky this time, no one anxious to cuddle me just yet and baths had been a priority that day. All was going well although the line moved slowly but I had my book. The sun eventually came out and oh yes, because of the bleak forecast on the morning news, I had not bothered to slap on some sunblock or bring my sunglasses so I had no choice but to roast in the heat. I found a tube of lotion in my bag and basted myself, hoping it had some sort of UV protection factor in it. The line shuffled forward slowly, more people rushed to join from the back and I kept reading and tanning. I would look up when the light became too harsh on my pages and check out the progress on various queues that were forming all over the place at various tin doors. I felt sorry for whoever had to use the facilities, as there were none to speak of. I know the men always went behind the tin shack that housed the officers who would usher me along the road to registration. I went back to my book (Birdsong by Faulk), trying to engross myself in it while ignoring the mumblings of my fellow lines folk. This time the queue was more “civilized” (I hate that word but really can’t think of a better replacement right now). I recognized some of the people, as one’s who’d been turned away the Tuesday before because there was no film (I later found out what the film was for).

My queue moved forward slowly, I glanced at my watch and noted it was about noon by now and there were only four people ahead of me. I glanced back and the line had grown considerably. I rummaged through my bags; made sure I had my passports, dad’s ID & my birth certificate and copies of all these documents in order and the damn passport shots. I gave a short prayer, not for eventual success in obtaining the ID but rather to keep the sense of calm and sanity that I had maintained so far. At last! I was at the front of the line and I took out everything once again, made sure it was in order and the door opened and it was action. I walked in; the same man who’d turned me away was there. He smiled and greeted me politely and even shook my hand as I sat down. He asked whether I had everything and I said, “Yes, I think so.” He then asked why he’d sent me away the first time as he perused the documents I lay before him and I said it was for not having the copy of my father’s ID. He saw that I had it and said, “Good, everything looks like it’s in order. Do you have the photos?” I said yes and reached into my folder with trembling fingers to pull out the blatantly cut up shots but he said, “No, I don’t need those, they’re for later.” I sighed and figured I had gotten this far, let’s see how much further I can go. He took out a long yellow form and filled and another short yellow form. They were basically identical, asking my name, parents’ names and address information. The short form was more of a checklist of personal information while the long one was slightly more detailed requiring more background information. He filled out the forms and kept talking to me, asking me why I had come back, how long I intended to stay, what my plans were. He asked me where I was from and I told him where. (Ok folks, quick lesson, a lot Kenyans have two homes, the first one most likely is in the city, in my case, Nairobi and the other home is where your family originated from and most usually have built holiday homes and still have some family in the area). This man was also from my tribe and asked me if I intended to go back to the village. I replied that I did intend to visit at some point and he leered at me and said, “No, a girl like you needs to keep it in the family, eh? (family being tribe) We need to stick together, you should go home and find a nice man.” He chuckled, I forced a fixed smile and tried to change the subject. I asked him where I needed to go next and he wrote down the room number, which I’ll call 2B. No mention of what I had to do there, just to complete the forms and go to that room. It was about 12.30 so I found a desk near the main entrance and started to fill out the forms.

Like I said it required some biographical information but I had no idea the extent of what was needed. They wanted my name, family names, my constituency, district, division, my location, sub location, my tribe, clan and sub-group, my family clan name, village, sub-village and sub-sub village location. All this being asked of someone who has never voted in this country and on top of that, despite the fact I was born and raised in Nairobi before I left for the home of the brave, I was told by “keep it in the family guy” that my own info was not required and that it was my father’s information that was essential (Again, I pity the kid that’s an orphan.) Suddenly I was scrambling for my phone, texting my brother and asking him, what constituency I belonged to and the sub groups that I was part of and he had no clue. I looked at the back of my dad’s ID and thank goodness most of that info was listed there. So I hurriedly filled in everything but I had left some spaces blank and just hoped I’d get a kind soul to help me out. I went back outside and to my dismay, the queue for 2B resembled the chaos that was apparent the prior week. So I stood off a little ways away from the pack while I tried to figure out everything that was required. I stood wilting in the heat, hoping some sort of semblance would overcome the pack in front of me as they pushed and clawed their way to the front, all the while agitating the officials inside who would periodically appear to yell at them, urging them to get into two lines. Then the officials started picking people at random from the back so my heart soared thinking, my strategy to distance myself might pay off but alas, I’m short so it took a while. Finally one of them, and I’ll call him A. Hole came out with a bunch of white forms and started handing them out to people once he glanced at their documents. I decided to join the pack and pushed my way forward and thrust my papers in his face. He looked at them and said, “Kuja saa nane.” Come at 2 o’clock. So I sighed, gathered my things and walked towards dad’s office.

It was one already and I was thinking I would have to get another matatu and go into town to get a bite to eat as the places around that area looked fairly dodgy. I went to return the ID, which was received like a long lost child and as luck would have it, my father was on his way out to lunch with his grad researcher and invited me along. Pleasant lunch, I recounted what had happened so far, he called me impatient and said, “Welcome to Kenya, deal with it” (Patience is a virtue I have apparently struggled with from childhood. I don’t deny that as a somewhat true assessment but over here, it’s inefficiency and incompetence that have driven me to further lack it). Chat, chat, ok, almost two o’clock, so I head back to his office and collect all my things as I wasn’t sure whether I would be done early enough to come back and fetch them. I run across the highway of madness and find myself back at 2B. Again, people are packing themselves around the door, A. Hole coming out to yell and wag his finger at people calling them idiots. I got into what I hoped looked like the correct line but you couldn’t really see into the shack eh…office to know where you’re supposed to be. I tried to read but gave up shortly when my Right to Space was revoked and a grandma parked herself on my ass. This lady was right on me, almost climbing on top of me in an attempt to somehow absorb herself into my body if it meant she’d get closer to the door. I stood firm, trying to stick out elbows as I pretended to read, planting my feet firmly, slightly apart as though bracing myself for impact. Did this deter her? Oh no, in fact she was determined to use my now solid stature as a leaning post while trying to look forward between the crook of my jutting elbow.

I looked heavenward and squinted immediately as the sun was now out in full force. A. Hole came out again to yell and pick people at random. All in all, I gathered there were three men and a woman in this room. There was A. Hole (take a big guess as to what that means) who received the registration payments of about 50shillings (about 75¢), then there was Newt (this guy was on a power trip of epic mileage and would tell people that he wasn’t going to help them that day just because) & Newbie (because he was the only one who hadn’t picked up on the true nature of government officials in Kenya…yet) At about 3, I’d just about had it. A. Hole had come out and in between his rants and raves had asked who needed to pay for their registration. I pushed my way to the front and into the shack. There were about desks scattered all around, mountains of application forms piled in filing trays, and a Polaroid camera set up in the one of the corners. I eyed it suspiciously while fishing for change from my purse. I pulled out 50 shillings in coins as I thought convenience is what this man wanted. I had a hundred shilling note tucked away somewhere but jingled the coins anyway. A burly civilian dressed officer pointed me into a corner right next to the A. Hole’s desk and I waited patiently for my turn. When it came up, I put my paperwork on the table and he turned one page and said, “You need the Chief’s signature and I don’t want change, only notes.” I took out the hundred and he looked at me again, “I don’t give change.” He then scrunched my papers together and shoved them in my direction.

I walked out, looking at the queue that was now growing, tears prickling my eyes in frustration. I seriously thought about leaving at this point but there was no way I was going to come and burn again the following day. I went back into the main building and found a secretary and asked her where his office was. She pointed me to a closed door and I knocked on it and went in without waiting for an answer. Not being rude, I just realized I needed to start being a bit of a bully if I wanted to get anywhere. There was a man in there reading some files and I asked him where the Chief was and he said that he’d be coming in the next half hour. (The Chief is the administrator of a location and apparently he has to sign off on all documents) I waited for all of five minutes and then went to one of the nearby dodgy food places and changed the hundred shilling note into fifties so I could use the change for my matatu fare.

I went back to stand at the chief’s door and was joined later by this woman. I asked her whether she was waiting for the chief, she nodded yes. We stared at a couple of officers coming and going through the doors and one went into a restricted room and came out carrying a pistol rather carelessly by his side. I gathered my things and held them tightly in case the gun went off. He actually started to load it standing a few feet away from me while talking and laughing with his colleagues, pointing the gun in my general direction while he loaded the clip. I held my breath and inched away until he walked away with them and went into a separate office. I started chatting with lady and found out that she’d actually tried to get her replacement ID from another office and had to come to this one as she’d been asked for 200 shillings “to hasten her application”, by a government officer, money she couldn’t obviously afford. She said, she wasn’t sure this office would be any different but she had no choice but to try. We chatted for a bit and watched this woman whom I will politely assess as a call girl come through and she marched straight to me and asked where people got their ID cards. I pointed her in the direction of the first long queue I’d gone through three times in a row. She marched straight through the door ignoring the people who’d been standing and waiting for a long time. A short while later, she came out with the same yellow forms I’d sweated for the whole morning and off to room 2 B where she once again jumped the line.

I was now livid at this point but tried to stay calm and not become the hysterical, angry and frustrated mess that were my inner emotions. I gathered my paperwork, went back to the 2 B and badgered my way through. By this time the people in line had assumed I was making some progress so they let me through without much fuss. A. Hole was talking softly and laughing gently with the “pro” while I stood behind her and his eyes fell on me and he told me to wait outside. So I did, simmering slowly and in about 5 minutes, she came out holding an original receipt for her ID card, which he told her to come back for at the end of the week. I went in and put my paperwork on the desk, standing next to him (no such animals as chairs). I gave him the money, which he threw into a drawer that was filled with incredibly with notes of all denominations so I know he’d been giving change left and right.

I bit my lip and kept quiet, not wanting to aggravate him in anyway. He was putting coded numbers next to all the tribe, location etc. information that was on the yellow sheets, I’m assuming for census information. He then laughed and hit my arm with his pen (more playful not to hurt), “What’s wrong with you? Do you not know your sub-location and family name?” I had asked my dad what the family name was and he told me but A. Hole scratched it right out and did a variation of my last name. Then he hit me again, “Where have you been, why don’t you have a card? How do you not know these things?” The affidavit was right there but I had to explain why I’d been out of the country and perhaps that’s why I didn’t know a sub-village from a sub-location and etc. info a city kid has no clue about. “You are wasting my time you know that?” he said, pointing the pen at me at this point. I kept quiet, staring at a mark on his desk. He kept badgering me and poking me and then he started to speak to me in my tribal language….a language I have not spoken in complete sentences oh, my entire life as nobody ever spoke it with regularity at home. I told him quietly that I didn’t understand what he was saying. He stared at me incredulously and started to whale on me, “What do you mean you don’t speak the language? What if you are working in that region and you can’t communicate with the people? What if your husband (he assuming I’d marry into the tribe) is posted in that area and you can’t speak the language, eh?” At this point I wanted to ask what I worked in an area where that was not the primary language. I mumbled something about being out of the country, staring straight ahead fighting not to let a tear out of my eyes. He shook his head and went back to writing saying, “Usini letea maneno mjinga.” Which means, “Don’t bring me stupid stories” or “Don’t bring me stories stupid”, depending on his connotation and I will safely assume he meant both.

At this point I was so close to crying but there have been very few men worth my tears and A. Hole was not going to join that club so I bit down and focused on my determination to get this over and done with. Over and over my awesome brother’s words kept rolling in my head, “Just write it down in your blog, you’ll feel better.” So I concentrated on what the little shit was doing. He then made me put my left thumb on a flat ink-rolled block and then smeared the print on the yellow receipt paper, which he handed me. Then he called out for the next person. I asked him where I should go and he pointed me in the vague direction of two desks. One manned by Newbie and the other by a very bored lady. I went to Newbie who looked at my paper work and at first glance asked me why I didn’t have a Christian name. This is a question I’m commonly asked as to why I don’t have a Christian name like Joan, Sally or Cathy. I told him that it’s just the way I was named. He then asked me whether I was “saved”. I kept quiet at first, still stuck in the land of the free, I was/still operating on a separate church and state mentality. I wanted to tell him, “Isn’t that illegal you asking me that?” and then I remembered where I was so I shut up. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” I gave a little smile and said, “Why do you ask?” “Do you love the Lord?” he persisted. I realized I was going to have to answer this man or this was my stop for the day. I started to open my mouth and he laughed and then pointed me to the bored lady. I walked over to her, still in shock and she gave me a white form to fill out, with my name, address, d.o.b and signature. It had space for all my fingerprints and a four-finger palm print followed by individual thumb print boxes. I left the shack and went back to the Chief’s office to see if he’d returned and but he was still MIA.

It was about a quarter to four by now and the offices closed at five. I filled out the form and went back to 2 B. (by the way, there is a 2 A, not sure what happens there.) I walked back to Newbie’s desk and he took out yet another form, which I had to fill out with the same particulars as before but this one contained the actual ID card info and typeset. I was getting more encouraged because Newbie was actually telling me exactly what to do and talking quietly at the same time. He even didn’t chase me out of the office and just pointed me to a less busy part of his desk to finish the application. I think he’d overheard A. Hole berating me and may have been showing me some kindness.

Newt and A. Hole were chatting now quite loudly about the people still waiting outside and looking for a cut-off person for the day as it was four now. They would keep yelling at people telling them to move away or they’d close the doors and then they would single out individuals and laugh about them. Newbie called out to Newt who I know gathered as the photographer and told him that I was ready for my close-up. By the way, I’m not crying racism or favoritism but I did notice something disturbing. A Hindu man showed up with his daughter at about 3 while I was in line and I watched them be personally escorted through all the checkpoints such that she was done before I was. At first I thought he was a celebrity or something and asked but no one knew him but there were mumbles that money had indeed exchanged hands at some point to facilitate the hasty processing. I walked over to Newt and he asked me to sit and then almost shyly asked if I had any passport photos. I took out the ones I’d just done that morning, not really giving a damn whether I’d be sent away, I’d come this far already. He looked at them and threw them on the desk and said, “Poor quality, I’ll take my own.” I shuffled back to the stool, sat down and blinked away the thought of how much money I’d pissed on taking eight b/w passport shots as they were useless now. Could I get a refund? Before I sat down, he took all my fingerprints: Each finger three times on three different parts of all the different documents I’d managed during this odyssey. Then he took my shots, told me to wait and so I went to the dodgy restaurant and got myself a much-needed drink as I was dying of thirst. The idiot that I was of course didn’t carry bottled water or any liquid of some sort.

I walked back into the office and my shots were ready! This was the first thing that had been done quickly all this time, even faster than taking the now redundant photos. I stood next to the bored lady as she glued the pictures on the form. She tore out the precious receipt that I would need to pick up the ID later on. She then asked me for the now forgotten Chief’s signature. I told her he wasn’t there and she told me to just check in case he was back and if not she’d put it with all the other applications waiting for his signature. She pointed to a teetering pile that had now collected in a tray. I told her, I’d check and off I went to look for him. There were a couple of officers standing there and one was wearing a plain short-sleeved khaki suit. I went up to him and asked, “Is the Chief here?” He scowled at me, snatched my papers and walked into the office. It hit me that this was the guy, a bright shining civil servant, back to work at quarter to five, just back from a lunch he took at one. As I followed him, I caught the distinct whiff/odor/eau de booze coming from his body. He sat down heavily in his chair and glared at me with blood shot eyes then signed my documents. He had been drinking; at almost five in the afternoon on a Monday, a government official responsible for signing all the documents that come through the busy shacks where national IDs are issued was intoxicated.

He shoved the papers my way and I took them quickly and hurried back to the shack where the cut-off point had been marked. I found Bored Lady and gave them to her and said, I found him. She looked at me in shock, “You did?” I nodded and she turned to where he’d signed and she said, “yes, you did.” As though in wonder. I asked her when I should come get ID and she seemed in a daze as though finding the man was next to impossible which I’m beginning to gather is quite a feat. She mumbled something I couldn’t hear and I asked, “2 months?” as she’d told the person ahead of me. She nodded, “yes, come in two months.” It wasn’t until I sat down to think about it that I realize the 2 month mark must be for the people who didn’t succeed in getting his signature the first time around so I’m going to be brave and check back in 2 weeks.

I will also add, these workers must be overworked, underpaid and definitely under appreciated hence their behavior and dismal work ethics but it doesn’t necessitate treating people like animals and being blatantly mean. This is just one aspect of government here but imagine all the other sectors like Agriculture, Labor, Security, Foreign Office and what everyday people probably have to go through. On my way home, a friend of mine was on the same matatu and I was telling her about my day and she confessed that she’s never gotten her six-year-old daughter’s birth certificate. When she first went to get it, she’d been taken on the run around for two weeks and when she finally got the appropriate paperwork she was told brusquely that the certificate was lost because she took too long and she would have to start from scratch. Unless she wanted to grease some wheels by shelling out some TKK – Toa Kitu Kidogo (give a little something) or Chai ya Wazee (‘tea’ for the old men, tea being alcohol).

There is much corruption in Kenya and it’s blatant and it comes from the top and the trickle effect through the system is a source of much trial, angst and despair of the average to poor Kenyan. Honestly, the ministers are operating in the air up there and cannot see what’s going on at ground level with the ordinary folks and something’s brewing. People can only take so much. There's so much distrust about public officials as they are full of empty promises and this administration is beginning to look like a bit of a bad joke. I can only imagine Newbie, Newt and A. Hole as being just as frustrated with their jobs and having to process documents for people who make so much more money than they do and dealing with having to work in that office all day and not being paid much or enough. I wouldn't go as far as abuse people but I would be frustrated as well.

I'm much better now than I was before. All I have to look forward to know is trying to get my driver's license and I don't drive stick. Oh I wasted the opportunities to learn from an excellent driver (New Yorker's don't count) and I may regret that once I start.

Later darls.

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