Why Poetry Matters

It's Poetry Competition time again at First and SecondBorn's school. The time when parents spend hours searching anthologies for suitably (funny), suitably (short) poems, for their offspring to leaf through with lacklustre expression,
'No Mum, that's not quite what I was thinking of...'
'Grrr.'

Like any grooming exercise it gets somewhat easier with practice. This is our third year in the school, and First and SecondBorn have come to understand they can't avoid it. They might as well put their efforts into finding a poem they don't mind learning off by heart.  This year as I launched into my wellworn annual spiel of why I think poetry matters, they blinked and passed me their choices.
'Move on Mum, we get it'.
And their choices brighten my heart.

Today the International Criminal Court issued its judgement that there is a case to answer by four prominent Kenyans following the post-election violence in 2007. 1200 were killed and 600,000 had to flee their homes. Many have been unable to return.   Having a case to answer obviously doesn't mean you are guilty. But what will cheer many ordinary Kenyans is that prominent people, 'Big Fish', are called to answer to the same laws as the rest, - not something that goes without saying.

So this is twelve year old FirstBorn's choice of poem.

No Enemies?

You have no enemies, you say?

Alas, my friend, the boast is poor;

He who has mingled in the fray

Of duty, that the brave endure,

Must have made foes! If you have none,

Small is the work that you have done.

You've hit no traitor on the hip,

You've dashed no cup from perjured lip,

You've never turned the wrong to right,

You've been a coward in the fight.

Charles MacKay

 

It's not that, as a family, we OFTEN go around dashing cups from perjured lips, but I like the sentiment it matters to stand up for things, despite the cost to yourself.

 

Nine year old SecondBorn goes more for the humour card.  He brightened as he came across his choice, reminding of an ineffably uncomfortable family camel ride this Christmas holidays.

 

The Camel's Lament (exerpt)
Lambs are enclosed where its never exposed.

Coops are constructed for hens;
Kittens are treated to houses well heated,
And pigs are protected by pens.
But a camel comes handy
Wherever its sandy -
Anywhere does for me!

People would laugh if you rode a giraffe,
Or mounted the back of an ox;
Its nobody’s habit to ride on a rabbit,
or try to bestraddle a fox.
But as for a camel, he’s
ridden by families -
Any load does for me!

A snake is as round as a hole in the ground,
And weasels are wavy and sleek;
And no alligator could ever be straighter
Than lizards that live in a creek,
But a camel’s all lumpy
And bumpy and humpy -
any shape does for me.

Some poems reach the parts other language can't reach. Some poems linger and resonate and remind me I'm not alone, even when I feel it.  An acquaintance who runs a book club for people with mental health difficulties, described being invited to a finance meeting of their donor Primary Care Trust to explain why its small budget was a good use of their funding. She was accompanied by a participant in one of the groups, who said, halfway through the officious meeting,
'I'd just like to read a bit of a poem. I keep it with me every day. And when I feel really bad, I read it, and know I'm not alone.'
Carrion Comfort (exerpt)

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

And the room fell silent.

A member of our Quaker meeting in UK was one of the first relief workers into a major concentration camp in Germany after its liberation in 1945. Amidst the mindnumbing horror and tiring mass clearing, sanitation and feeding work of the first few days, he also describes opening a box of essential supplies, into which someone has tucked some lipsticks.  Described the reviving impact that a dab of lipstick had, how for many of the numbed, traumatised women, driven beyond. It seemed to start the process to help them return to themselves.

In a smaller way, in less extreme circumstances, poetry is sometimes like that for me.  May it be so for you too.

Herding cats and pincer movements

Learning project management, one of the key ideas was, what was the scarcest resource?  Identifying the bit in shortest supply, so you knew to focus the other resources around its availability and maximise its use.

It's been useful for life in Kenya.  Buy the essential but imported component for the Nigella pudding first, - marzipan for example, -  because if there isn't any in the first three shops you'll have to change tacks and offer bananas to the visitors instead. If you've found a parking space in the shopping centre, you set up camp and cluster together all manner of activities there.

But if its people you need, or their skills, there's another problem.  Skilled human resources don't stay, visibly labelled, in the same position on a shop shelf, either there, or sold out. Don't advertise in the yellow pages or local papers. Don't wear sandwich boards. Need to be uncovered through networking.

I've scored my successes since we've been here.  Tracked down a Chinese-trained Kenyan trampolining teacher before even we'd installed our trampoline.  Before his business took off, so in the early days we could say to SecondBorn, with some certainty,
'Do you know SecondBorn, I'd guess you're in the top ten trampolinists in Kenya.'

Loud was my crowing and jubiliation when I sniffed out an experienced cello teacher.  Kenya's sole cello teacher left the country the month we arrived.  SecondBorn and cello had breathed out a sigh of relief.  Till I stood in for a year, tried to adapt my violin experience for early stages cello.  We kept going, but it reminded me of my Socialist Worker mate from Manchester who moved to West Berlin the same time that I did.
'Really,' he said regretfully after a few months in the burgeoning city, 'I've discovered you need two Socialist Workers to sell a copy of Socialist News.  You need a pincer movement, one to approach, the other to engage in conversation.  And I haven't yet recruited anyone else.'
And so it is with music.  In my bitter experience you need one adult to set and hold the lessons, write terse notes in the practice book, and a second pincer to lasso the child to practice.  As a pincer movement its workable.

So SecondBorn had been with CoolExperiencedCelloTeacher for half a term.  CoolExperienced ticked all the boxes. Was male. Enthusiastic, experienced & encouraging. Had a ponytail.  Made duets sound in a different dimension.Taught  SecondBorn some rock cello tips alongside smoother bowing actions. Helped him to twirl his cello at the end of a more successful rendition. 

I'd been passed CoolExperienced's mobile number by a fellow parent. Lessons were arranged by text message.  I didn't have any other contact details for him, though I knew where he worked.  But two weeks into this term, my increasingly harrying texts to his mobile were still reporting undelivered.  I imagined a mobile lost on his Christmas trip whitewater rafting in Uganda. Or forgotten on his trip to his home country.  Couldn't he just contact me himself, mother of his potential star pupil? In my dreams.

Nagging doubts set in. Was it maybe only MY calls he wasn't returning. So I sent him emails via his employer. And then emailed the music teacher at our school.
'You know him don't you. Can you get a message through to him? Please.'

But it turns out he's done a runner. Left his responsible job at the end of term. Failed to return from the Christmas break.  Left the mother of his most reluctant pupil in the lurch. Without a peep or a squeak of notification. Oh woe. Back to the drawing board.

It all feels too much at the moment. It's not just the cello teacher.   FirstBorn is sitting scholarship exams for UK schools in a month.  Mistakenly I'd understood her school was preparing her for them. The illusion was only shattered when no one could locate past papers just before the Christmas break.
'Oh no, we don't prepare for THOSE exams, only these ones.  You've got to take the lead on them.'
'Who me?' (Looks behind, to see if anyone else is being addressed).

So the last few weeks have been sourcing past papers and mark schemes in UK, organising supply chains. Trying not to swoon, once I'd seen the standard. Coaxing my Mum, a former Head of English, to send me some poetry exerpts and English topics to cover. Tracking down retired teachers who've moved to lush tea farms up country far away from the din of the classroom, but who, possibly, potentially, might be willing to pick up their shield again for a few short sharp lessons over the next month.  

Because these exams are really, really tricky.  A level standard I'd say.  Not something you get 'right'.  More like whitewater rafting, something for which you buckle a lifejacket and helmet, pray a little prayer, and set off, fording rapids, hoping to withstand, drenched, not too battered. Some experienced teachers say
'Well you shouldn't prepare a child for them. The ones who should get them, will be able to do it on their own.'
But looking at them, in my opinion, a normal twelve year old (or forty five year old) encountering them in exam conditions without warning, would wet themselves, grow a moustache on the spot and escape to Mexico or another land with large hats and possible anonymity.

Even the simpler preparations are pretty tricky here.  A helpful teacher asked FirstBorn:
'Well for example, which plays have you seen recently?'
Good relevant question. But in Nairobi, there isn't a professional theatre, and its not that safe to go out after dark. You don't take underage children to the business district after dark.
Um. Well probably nothing since the pantomime in UK three years ago.....

Or
'Well which articles have you read about that?'
Well, reading round the subject is important.  But our post is so unreliable, we only got our Christmas cards last week. The one UK magazine we get, arrives anywhere between three and six weeks late, if it reaches us at all, rather than being nicked by someone en route.  Yes its the age of the internet. But browsing on a dodgy connection on a small screen to search for articles which might - or most likely won't - be of interest to a twelve year old - well I can think of far better things to do with my Saturday.

I know we're gettting different things out of our life here than preprepared articles and stimulating plays on tap. While I was writing this blog, a child's screams pierced the air. I thought it was frustration with homework on Saturday. But in fact a massive monkey, nearly the same size as nine year old SecondBorn had sauntered over the verandah, through the dining room and hall, into the bedrooms, in search of food.  As a facebook friend noted:
'That never happened in Welwyn Garden City.'

But still I persist in trying to secure for the kids the bits which matter to me which don't come easy here. Much of me says,
'Just give up on the cello. Stop banging your head against that brick wall.'
But there's regret for what might have been.
Other bits think
'Stop trying to fit them into the mould they might have been, had they stayed in UK.  Just help them to be themselves as their experiences have made them here.'

And the scarcest resource of all is any patch of certainty amidst the doubts. I'd love a spot of firm ground amid the quicksand. I can see that what still matters to me, - UK formed as I am - is maybe too much of a contortion for the children they now have become.  Too much of a contortion for me and my networking skills.  Another recalcitrant cat to be herded, when the African experience is sometimes about letting go of control and seeing what will happen.

Hinterland

Kenya is at heightened security alert.  Shopping malls have guards at their entries checking bags and boots for bombs. Individuals are avoiding busy places at peak times.  Expat spouses are being summoned by their partner's employers to security briefings.

Picture the scene:  the height of summer here, a table with homemade cakes,  a dappled verandah, a gathering of co-opted spouses who have shrugged themselves from comfy leggings and kaftans to lever themselves into a dress for a more formal setting.

Two men hold the floor. Sit back in the comfy chairs, legs splayed wide apart. They are the employees. Their attitude to the spouses is clear.
'Well THIS is a nice life you have here.  Is this what you do with yourself all day?'
The addressed spouse smiles sweetly.  Hackles rise.

The spouses understand the need for the briefing. They live here after all. Have turned up.  Can't help but be aware of potential and reality of gunshots on their street, of random violence where we are the wealthy in a country with very real pressures for the majority of the population, of the overhang from the major violence after the last disputed elections.  We are the ones who make decisions whether to get an escort car home from a party, or whether 10 minutes drive on quiet roads is really completely fine. Weigh up whether the urgent need for the best bread in Nairobi from ArtCafe is worth a rapid dash into primetarget mall.  Who are out and about at school run time, and occasionally get caught in demonstrations by stonethrowing individuals.  We are also are attempting to size up the situation, to manage the inflow of potential visitors during the next year, correlated against the potential of disruption in the wider political scene.  We came to toe the party line. But in the hope of information too.

But the disdain and arrogance of the Employees was evident. They were the Experts. The ones with knowledge, even though it wouldn't be appropriate for them to share it.  For security reasons of course. We were the Little Women. The Captive Audience.  Nothing more.

We sat through long stories which were far from relevant to our situation.  Buttonholed by the old geezer at the club keen to share his tales of armchair battle.  We stirred, asked pointed questions, linked to our queries and experiences.  Were rebuffed.  We noted areas where, in our analysis, the game might be raised for little or no cost. Were brushed aside, put down, made to feel inadequate.

Complexions became flushed. The captive audience started describing themselves as clients. Articulated positions more clearly. Formulated very pointed statements. To no avail.  Water off an obtuse duck's back.

But here's what I was too incensed to articulate at the time.  Couldn't think how to say it all spruced up in my flowery dress and high heels in my husband's work setting. But back in the leggings, speaking as an individual, for myself alone, here we go.

We are experts at this too, in our own ways.  We, the Little Women, have lived in insecure circumstances before, far far worse than Kenya.  Have brains and local contacts.  Several had been evacuated from precarious hotspots. Others had continued living in precarious hotspots, in Bosnia, Islamabad, Belfast in IRA times.  Others had reached their own accommodation, in situations where if something went wrong, even a burst appendix, you were on your own. St Helena, reached by container ship, miles and miles from helicopter range. Have supported partners working in difficult, isolated, volatile, hard-to-decipher warzones for NGOs which couldn't afford satphones.  Others of us, who more sensibly, had failed to turn up, had served - are serving - in the armed forces at senior levels. For expat spouses now are no longer just women, and we women have our own careers, which may also be as army officers. 

Last night at a party I was talking to a mate of mine. Who it turned out had been born in Nigeria, had lived as a child through the early stages of the Biafran war, whose father had stayed behind to run air traffic control on the bush runway into which brave pilots flew cargo planes to seek to relieve the famine.  The guns and bombers were close by. The landing lights were only put on for ten seconds per landing, to hope to minimise enemy attack.  If the pilot had navigated wrong, was in the wrong position, ten seconds is too little time to recover.  My mate became a refugee at the age of nine. She's lived through alot. Has come to terms with precarious situations. Despite knowing her well I hadn't known it till last night.

We all have our hinterlands. Don't you dare assume that what you, with your limited insight, see, is all that there is. Don't you dare assume that because women have worn flowery dresses, because we, in our British way, listen politely, don't maul you at your first arrogant sweeping statement and insensitive client-obtuse rebuff, that you can take us, our assent, fawning glances and gentle applause as your right.  And next time, I'll be the one in leggings waving stroppy placards in the front row.

Not Plain Sailing

We were off for a short break in rural Laikipia.  Some six hours drive from Nairobi but we'd planned ahead. Broke up the longish drive by staying overnight halfway, had printed off the driving instructions. So of course it would all be plain sailing for the last few hours of the journey, into the 63,000 acre conservancy.

Two hours drive from our overnight stay we hadn't passed a single car.  We'd gone over rivers, through fords. And then the road ran out by the river. Or rather the road continued uphill. But the key bit, over the major river, had been washed away. Comprehensively gone.

River too deep to ford. 

No mobile phone coverage. No signs.

Two hours difficult drive back to town where there would be mobile phone coverage.  Literally in the middle of nowhere. One of Laikipia's high points are its wildlife. Lions, leopards.

Fortunately Tom has a good sense of direction. We drove 15km along the river. Found some tire tracks and followed them.  30 miles further on, met a man, who gave us directions.  100 miles further on got to our lodge.

I've written before about finding the way in Kenya.  http://www.onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/02/street-names-and-structures.html   Its not that I'm good at it in UK. But I can follow a map.  Follow a diversion sign or rock. Don't think its much to ask - when there aren't any streets, street names, people, or signposts, - when the road's been washed away three weeks before - to have a small indication what you might do next. 

But in Kenya if you're driving you tend to know where you're going. The transfer drivers, the matatu drivers, the guides - they've all been there before. They know the secret signs - turn left at the cattle enclosure 50 km before the gate - and short cuts. Most others - the office back room staff responsible for customer relations - travel in the transfer bus, don't need to think how they get there.  Now we know how to get there too. But it ain't half stressful the first time.