The Comfort in Being an Outsider

If I had to choose, I would say my favorite place in New York City is Russ & Daughters, an 'appetizer' that has been on Houston Street on the Lower East Side for four generations. I found Russ & Daughters my freshman year, when I used to just walk. I had no idea what it was, but I loved the sign, especially the neon light-lined salmon. I went inside and I remember being sensorially overwhelmed. There were pristine display cases gleaming with foods I had never heard of before, smells of fish, pickles, chocolate, sounds of numbers being called, orders being shouted, the slap of lox on the wooden counter behind the cases, tissue-thin slices of brilliant pink fish crossing the counter, disappearing into waiting mouths, containers of cream cheese stacking higher and higher. The walls were lined with sardine tins, vintage caviar cans and photos of the neighborhood from the last 100 years. I sensed there was an enormous history here- and there was a sense of order I didn't want to disrupt. There were ways of doing things. There were certain items you did not ask for together. I felt like a stranger. Everyone else seemed to know what to do. What to order. How to order it. I hadn't even taken a number. I didn't even know what a bialy was.

But I wanted to be there. I wanted to find a chair and sit for hours, breathing in the smells of herring, whitefish and unfamiliarity. I was drawn to the difference. I wanted to learn and understand. As I stood, clueless, taking it all in, I noticed the workers behind the cases. They wore crisp white lab coats with embroidered name tags, but they didn't look like I expected they would. Some spoke Spanish to each other; one was named Sherpa. This drew me in even further-how do you find this place if you are from the Dominican Republic...or Nepal? There was something inherently welcoming. Something that said You found us. Come in.

I think I ended up buying a bialy that first time. And I was afraid to ask for cream cheese on it, because I didn't know if that was how it was done. But I knew, as I walked out, that I would be back. I wanted to learn how to be at Russ & Daughters.

Over the next four years, despite its distance from school, Russ & Daughters became an enormous part of my life in new York. I went pretty much once-a-week, at all times of day, and tried as much as I could. I took friends there, but only the worthy ones who I thought would 'get it;' who would feel, as I felt, that there was something about the place that demanded a closer look. I worked on a project for school about Russ & Daughters that introduced me to the current owners and the oldest employees. From then on, I was a known entity: I was recognized, greeted warmly: I belonged. I shot the shit, tasted new salmon and bought a t-shirt. I felt like I became a part of Russ & Daughters, but I remained just one in the sea of people that had their own, regular and distinct relationship with the place. Almost every time I went in, there was someone else also shooting the shit, buying their usual weekend lunch, their breakfast, their holiday fish. I came to love these interactions as much as I loved Russ & Daughters itself.

It was hard to leave Russ & Daughters when I graduated from college. Moving home meant I was farther away, but it remained a required stop every time I went into the city. When I found out I was moving to Kenya, Russ & Daughters was at the top of the list of things I'd miss, in New York or anywhere. I was content to say 'bye for now,' my hands full of pickled tomatoes and everything bagels with scallion cream cheese. It wasn't until my first discouraging day here that my thoughts turned back. I was feeling aimless and unrooted. I thought about what comforted me, and Russ & Daughters came to mind. I needed to find something here that made me feel that same way.

Last Saturday, I went to my regular fruit and vegetable place, but this time I saw it with new eyes. All of my favorite guys were working and I suddenly felt stirrings of the way, almost exactly five years ago, I had felt when I stepped uneasily into Russ & Daughters for the first time. I sat down with a heaping tin bowl of fruit salad, a bag full of produce at my feet and let the place wash over me: the lilting Kikuyu, the soft rumbling of shifting potatoes, music from the street. Customers came and went. The staff stood around, sorted carrots, piled eggplant, forgot me in my corner, and I had a sense of contentedness I haven't yet experienced since coming here. I find a strange comfort in this kind of pseudo-belonging. I'm not sure I will ever find my place, but being content with the interstitial is not a bad place to start.

so far, 25 is

WET.

rain in Loiyangalani...the first in YEARS.

a swim in Lake Turkana!

post-candle-blowing-out-soaking.

apparently this is a thing here.

I had no idea...clearly.

northern exposure

My first trip North was pretty outrageous, for several reasons. Among the more easy-to-articulate was the staggering climatic/topographic/biome/ecosystem variety. In the scope of 7 days, we encountered some pretty wild extremes: dessert lakes, volcanic rock, sand, quartz, downpours and dust storms. Here is an attempt to show you what I mean...

the approach to Lake Turkana.

high in my top 5 most-stunning-places

the lake shore at sunset.

post-birthday swim

driving between Loiyangalani and Kargi.

a real in-between space: the rock of Lake Turkana and the sand of the south Chalbi Desert

from Kargi to Korr.

pure Kaisut Desert

driving through the "white highlands" on the way home.

unbelievable that this is all within 548km (~340 miles)

It isn't that I didn't expect such variation. Certainly, the climatic and topographic changes in the US are equally as staggering. But the changes here are so extreme, within a comparatively short area, and often in the context of INTENSE dependence on the environment by local communities...you can't help but be sobered by the rain flooding an already-flooded field when only 5 hours before you were passing herds of thin goats engulfed in sand storms. It's wild.

Required Reading

Because not only does his new book have the greatest title,

but THIS needs to be read, and re-read, by everyone.

particularly, me.

[thanks Professor Slaughter, for shaking a brick loose.]

Cryptic fecal covering in aardvarks (Orycteropus afer)

In honor of a thrilling nocturnal wildlife sighting, in the middle of an EPIC all-night drive, I want to share my favorite assignment from my semester in southern Kenya at the School for Field Studies. With a few other contenders, it may be my best.titled.paper.ever.

Cryptic fecal covering in aardvark (Orycteropus afer)

Kilimanjaro Bush Camp//Kimana Group Ranch

6 February 2009

7:15 am

Weather Conditions: cool, slightly overcast

Observation: While on a morning nature walk, Daniel and Marias noticed a seemingly freshly manipulated area of dirt. Daniel and Marias began sifting through the dirt and exposed approximately 15 pieces of aardvark dung. They were rounded, smooth and relatively small (4 or 5 pieces were able to be held in Marias’ hand at once). When Daniel and Marias broke open the dung pellets, the interior was relatively dry, consisting mostly of dirt and termite heads. The dung pile was proximate to the opening of a burrow, possibly inhabited.

Hypothesis/Questions:Why would the aardvark work to conceal feces near its burrow opening when several other aspects of its behavior clearly indicate its presence?

Research: Alden et al. (1995) classify the aardvark as nocturnal and solitary. Despite the fact that the aardvark is active predominantly at night, there are several aspects of its behavior which indicate its presence. Stuart and Stuart (1994) describe the aardvark burrow as completely obvious with seemingly little or no effort made to disguise its existence. The entrance of the burrow can be up to 1 meter wide and is evident from surrounding areas (Stuart and Stuart, 1994). The aardvark’s physiology is also such that when it digs it uses its large, strong tail for support, leaving a distinctive marking in the soft dirt (Stuart and Stuart, 1994).

In addition to leaving signs indicating its presence, the aardvark frequently positions its burrow relatively far from its foraging grounds, thereby necessitating a walk each night between the 2 areas (Kingdon, 1997).

The aardvark does, however, simultaneously occupy several “camping holes” which are significantly less developed and more temporary than the full burrow (Kingdon, 1997). While aardvarks tend to generally be solitary, females are often accompanied by 1 to 2 offspring and in some rare cases more than 1 adult has inhabited a single burrow (Kingdon, 1997).

Rather than use feces as a territorial marker, aardvarks secrete a strong musk. Both males and females have glandular areas located on the elbows and hips. Kingdon (1997) suggests that this sophisticated olfactory system most likely regulates the spacing of individuals. Aardvarks make a significant effort to disguise the location of their feces, as they are deposited very near to their active burrow (Stuart and Stuart, 1994). Aardvarks dig a hole prior to defecation, which they fill with as much as 0.5 kg of feces (Shoshani, Goldman& Thewissen, 1988). After completing defecation, the hole is covered. The hole’s position, at a slight incline, makes the feces even more difficult to detect; not only are they covered, but if a predator were to dig vertically it could miss the fecal deposit. Shoshani, Goldman and Thewissen (1988) propose that this behavior contributes to predator avoidance.

Discussion: Despite their relatively obvious burrows, aardvark behavior is generally inconspicuous. Their nocturnal and largely solitary habits greatly reduce their exposure. As an individual aardvark can have several burrow options (a main burrow or one of several “camping burrows”) it may be further able to confuse predators about its specific whereabouts (Kingdon, 1997). As feces do not serve a territorial or larger social role, they remain merely an indicator of presence (Kingdon, 1997). Thus, it is logical for an aardvark to go to significant lengths to conceal its feces. Feces may then be the only temporal and spatially relevant indicator of an aardvark’s location and therefore a considerable danger to its survival.

Conclusion: Although it may seem unnecessary given the very visible nature of the aardvark’s primary habitation, cryptic fecal covering is a behavior of great significance. As feces are one of the few temporal and spatial locators of an individual, it is logical for the aardvark to minimize evidence of its presence as a survival mechanism.

References: Alden, Peter C., Estes, Richard D., Schlitter, Duane, McBride, Bunny. 1995. National Audubon Society Field Guide to African Wildlife. pp. 523-524, Alfred A. Knopf, New York.

Kingdon, Jonathan. 1997. The Kingdon Field Guide to African Mammals. pp. 294-295, A&C Black, London.

Shoshani, Jeheskel, Goldman, Corey A., Thewissen, J.G.M.. 1988, January. Orycteropus after. Mammalian Species, No. 300, 1-8.

Stuart, Chris and Stuart Tilde. 1994. A Field Guide to the Tracks& Signs of Southern and East African Wildlife. pp. 154, 194-195, 244, Southern Book Publishers, Cape Town.

A Sense of Where I Am

I just finished A Sense of Where You Are, a book about basketball and Bill Bradley by one of my mainest men, John McPhee. The title comes from a profound excerpt in which Bill Bradley explains his mastery of the 'over-the-shoulder-shot:'

He went on to say that it is a much simpler shot than it appears to be, and, to illustrate, he tossed a ball over his shoulder and into the basket while he was talking and looking me in the eye. I retrieved the ball and handed it back to him. "When you have played basketball for a while, you don't need to look at the basket when you are in close like this," he said, throwing it over his shoulders and right through the hoop. "You develop a sense of where you are."

McPhee, like the sage that he is, quietly presents this line as the focal point of the text.

It is a great place from which to consider my first week (back, in a way) in Kenya, my first week in Nanyuki, my first week of work in an office and the last days in which I can claim Neil Young's "Old Man" to be personally relevant:

"Old man take a look at my life, 24 and there's so much more..."

It is great to be back in Kenya, albeit in a totally different ecosystem, latitude and context. I'm glad to dust off my Swahili, drink chai, hear glossy ibis and "mzungu!," buy a new pair of Batas and follow the Premier League again.

Nanyuki is a pretty hilarious place, one that continues to surprise me as I see more of it. So far my favorite spot is our corner fruit stand, where offerings change hourly, I am always in the way, fresh fruit salad is available while you shop and prices are calculated on a large, plastic-covered calculator.

Work is excellent, thought-provoking and intense, but totally rewarding and exciting. I miss the tangible rewards of food production but it feels good to hunker down and make incomprehensible idea web/flow charts again.

As for the first quarter of a century, it has been quite a ride. I hear you have to get serious when you turn 25. For me, it will come on the shores of Lake Turkana, close to where we all began.

What's next?

Research vs. Action...how soon is now?

This drought/famine and first-hand 'development' experience has really made me aware of the (perceived?) dissonance between research and "doing," as my colleague put it the other day. We were talking about an organization that has been 'working' in northern Kenya, researching ways to make arid and semi-arid lands more productive. My colleague thought the organization was useless because it hadn't "done anything" for northern Kenya; nothing was different. Another of my colleagues suggested that perhaps the organization's function was simply to do research and not necessarily implement any changes. "We want to see people changing northern Kenya," my colleague replied, what good was it if they just collected data?

I have experienced this tension before. When I studied abroad in southern Kenya, we finished our semester with what was essentially a research project. We collected data on how land use systems impacted vegetation (how expanding agriculture and growing livestock populations depleted the amount of land covered by nutrient-rich, native plants) and then asked local community members for their insight into why vegetation composition was changing. We did vegetation sampling and conducted interviews. My time in southern Kenya coincided with an intense drought, stressing an already stressed landscape and pushing local human, wildlife and livestock populations to the edges of survival. Our survey asked questions like "Have you noticed a change in vegetation in the area?," answerable by a quick look around at barren, dusty pasture (see above) and thin, worn cows. After politely answering our often-redundant questions, interviewees were given a chance to question us. Almost always, they wanted to know 'What will you do with this research? Will it be used to help us?' I struggled to find an answer, saying we were writing reports and making recommendations, that we would present our research at an open forum, which they were welcome to attend...but the real answer was that we were researching for research's sake. My paper would not lead to any tangible, direct, immediate change.

I think what it comes down to is different metrics for progress...different concepts of work and of time. Ideally, research and theory inform action on the ground, but it takes awhile. For some people, that time is necessary. For others, it is gratuitous. And it gets in the way.

After being up to my eyes in theory at school, I thought coming here would be a breath of fresh air. I would be affecting clear and immediate change, I would be working on the ground. Instead, I find myself in research's corner, advocating for more time, more reading, more theory...

What We Talk About When We Talk About Drought

We have been spending a lot of time talking about drought. And thinking about drought. And reading about drought. The difference between thinking and talking about drought is context...and specificity. It is no longer just drought, but the drought. It is no longer an affected population but our affected population.

With distance comes an ability to think abstractly, to bring up scholarly articles and talk about diction-- things that are not possible (or are at least more difficult), when your neighbors are calling you from back home, asking how you will help, asking when you are coming and what you will bring, which is the case for our Kenyan Director of Operations. The ways he and I conceptualize drought are very different. I think it is best explained by our different comfort levels with TIME. My other American colleague and I are able to hang back, talk about the long-term impacts immediate drought relief will have on our organization, while he keeps getting phone calls...and thinking about home. Who is more reasoned in their response?

For more on the relationships between drought and famine, a key distinction not made nearly enough, check out the following knowledge from people far more educated than I. It is critically important to understand the relationship between the two terms, both for a better sense of the current situation in the Horn, and for an idea of how important long-term vision is in addressing these issues. When it is possible. Or useful. Which might be never.

1. drought does not equal famine

2. famine and drought

thanks, Texas in Africa. and Murakami.