Water privatization in Kenya

I arrived in Nairobi late at night. On the flight from London, I sat with an Ethiopian man bringing aid to Kenyan children on the left and Omar, a British Indian returning to Kenya for the first time in years to visit his grandparents on the right. The Indian was just a year younger than me and had a high-strung, New Yorker personality. Between his complaints about various things, I tried to extract some information from him about Kenya since he had been there before. I was a little nervous about arriving so late, and had not figured out how to get from the airport to the hostel where I planned on staying. Everything I read about Nairobi before leaving home warned about unsettling possibilities. Don't stay out after dark, many websites said; cab drivers may not be trustworthy, read others. Upon landing, I thought, this is it...when I get off the plane, I will have finally escaped the Western world and all its comforts and supposed securities: I will be in a so-called developing country for the first time.

Omar introduced me to his grandparents when we landed. His grandmother wore the traditional red tika on her forehead, which I would later learn from a fellow volunteer signifies in the Hindu religion that she is married. She let me borrow her cell phone to call the hostel to confirm transport, saying the landline numbers I had wouldn't work (indeed, no landline number I called was ever connected; everyone uses cell phones instead). We went separate ways after that. I wished I had the chance to talk to her longer, but I knew I'd probably never see them again.

A cab soon arrived. I asked the driver about the education system in Kenya. He explained that primary school was free and mandatory for the first eight years, a policy that is sometimes hard for the government to enforce. Some tribes prefer that their children herd cattle in accordance with cultural traditions. Others are geographically remote, posing an unrealistic commute to school. Because many Kenyans follow the Muslim religion, girls are sometimes kept from school to tend to housework.

I later learned that when primary education first became free in 2003, enrollment tripled and everyone from young children to 80-year-old grandpas flocked to school to take advantage. Today, 85% of those in primary school finish, but this success rate drastically drops off with only 2% of students continuing on to university. Not all students can afford a higher education; public loans are available only to a small number of top students. Students that do not continue in school often become jua kali (literally “strong sun”, and so named because it is under the sun that these people must work), artisans that make and sell crafts, produce, and other goods to people in their communities, and less commonly, to tourists. Teachers salaries are directly related to the level of school they teach at. A secondary school teacher makes 18,300 Ksh / 282 USD a year, about half what a civil servant brings in. It is no surprise that there is a massive shortage of qualified teachers in the country. As in America, teachers are overworked, sometimes opting to privately tutor students in villages to supplement their salaries, and underpaid.

Village boy roasts maize on a stove typically made by jua kali.

A man, probably in his 40's, welcomed me at the hostel. He could see I was tired, and immediately showed me to a room. He gave me a quick tour of the community bathroom, and made it a point to show me a switch on the wall. Make sure you flip this before taking a shower, he said, or you won't have hot water. What a brilliantly simple, yet convenient way to reduce hot water electrical energy demand if you use electricity to heat water! Why don't we do this in the U.S.? He disappeared before I thought to ask how much it cost to stay the night. The room had a bunk bed, metal lockers, and a pile of someone's stuff. Does someone stay here when the room is vacant? I went back to the bathroom, and for the first time in my life I wondered whether or not it was safe to brush teeth with the tap water. Figuring catching a water-borne disease would make a great story if I survived and too exhausted to give it more thought, I went for it, then drifted off to sleep thinking about what it is like to live without reliable access to such a basic necessity.

I awoke early the next morning, my time still off, packed up my things, and was just about to shower when the hostel owner knocked on my door to say my cab had arrived. I paid him about 20 USD for the night (about what hostels cost in the U.S.). It was not until I was back in the US that I realized he probably gave me a single room so he could charge more. I could not be upset having paid double that the night before in London. The morning was gray and dusty as we drove towards Wilson Airport, a small commuter terminal near Kibera Slums. We passed hundreds of folks walking on either side of the highway to work. I had never seen so many African people in one place before. They probably live in Kibera, I thought. As I looked into some of the walking faces, I tried to imagine what it is like to walk this route every morning, going wherever it is these people were going. Why don't I walk to work in the morning, I thought. There is hardly any shoulder on the road, but really I am too lazy to do it because I don't have to--I have a car. A lot of other folks have cars here--the road going into town was gridlocked because of all the cars. But, there were more people walking.

A child waves to the train as it passes the outskirts of Kibera.

The Wilson Airport terminal reminded me of the neighbor island terminals back home - not too big, less security hassles, a small town community-not-commercialism vibe, all of which make for a slightly more pleasant experience. Besides, flying to Mombasa was cheaper through Air Kenya than Kenya Airways, and all their planes were the fun, smaller propeller type. As we took off, I noticed the air was foggy...or smoggy...I couldn't be sure, but it looked like smog.

I met about half of the volunteer team at Moi International Airport in Mombasa where the air was much cleaner. It is funny how you can feel the difference between clean and dirty air, even when you cannot see it. We had arranged to share a taxi to the official group meeting point, a hotel in the heart of the city.

As we drove into the city, I noticed many young men pushing large carts filled with yellow plastic barrels. One of the volunteers, a Texan woman working for Shell as an accountant, noticed this, too, and asked the rest of us what was in them. Water, I replied. I had watched several documentaries (I highly recommend The Future of Food for n00bs and A World Without Water for the patient and informed) about water privatization in other countries, and although I hadn't seen any video footage of people in Kenya carting water like this, people in other places of the world transport water almost exactly the same way--on foot, with a rolling cart and plastic containers.

A man pushes a wooden cart filled with yellow, plastic water containers down a Mombasa road.

Another man pulls an empty water cart past Akamba Handicrafts in Mombasa, a wood carving co-op that claims to use wood from sustainably managed forests. Had I known this, I might have bought more stuff. I will post more on this place later. This is one of the few places I visited that had fixed prices. "Kamba" is one of the 42 tribes in Kenya, after which this place is named (I think). Hopefully this means fair wages for their incredible artisans.

Watching a movie about such things is not the same as seeing it happen before your eyes. Later, on my way out of Nairobi towards Maasai Mara, I passed the Nairobi Water Company. Had I been driving, instead of the safari leader, I probably would have stopped by to visit. Their website includes details about a water rationing program in Nairobi. According to the Water Integrity Network [pdf], the Water Act of 2002 helped create a network of private water companies. I am not sure where these companies get the water from. Surely there are water rights issues over who owns the water when a dam is installed or a stream diverted - in Hawaii, there is a history of lawsuits of water rights. In any case, the companies process the water, then sell it to people. A system like this might work if not for the fact that people tend to be greedy, and corporations tend to be for-profit. Should someone be allowed to profit from a life necessity like water? In my mind, access to potable water is a birth-right but in Kenya (and many other places), this is not so.

I stayed at four different hotels in Kenya, each a couple of nights at most. Turning on the hotel showerheads were like standing under an American fire hydrant hose - plenty of water and plenty of water pressure. If there was a water shortage while I was there, I didn't hear about it. I wonder if tourists are asked to conserve water when there is a shortage?

If Kenya is anything like Hawaii, tourists will be allowed endless hot showers even if the country's own people are in the midst of a water crisis. In 2006, 48 million gallons of raw sewage was diverted into the Ala Wai Canal near Waikiki Beach. The City chose to pump the untreated sewage into the canal for five days after the spill occurred until they were able to fix the pipe that burst. This force main serves a few different neighborhoods, including Waikiki which is probably the most densely populated of them all (and also the 'hood housing the most tourists). Nobody was asked to conserve water (thus reducing the amount of wastewater entering the system, and flowing, in this case, straight out to the Pacific Ocean) during this time.

But I digress. We left Moi Airport in a matatu (passenger van) only to get stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic moments later. It was hot. I was drenched in sweat before we even got into the city. Drivers have a 'go if you think you might make it' kind of attitude when it comes to driving and they don't obey road markings like lanes. When there is traffic, it's a free for all and the only way you'll successfully make a turn from one road to the next is by creeping out into traffic until it becomes physically impossible for anyone else but you to move. Pedestrians dart between traffic to cross streets since sidewalks are scarce and ignored. So, it was not a huge surprise when the bad judgement of a driver of a little three-wheeled car allowed the driver to try to squeeze the thing between our matatu and the one in the next lane over. He ended up smashing both of us, taking the bumper entirely off the other matatu. The little car tried to speed off and get away, but a big guy on the sidewalk observing the whole thing chased the car down.

These three wheeled vehicles are exactly like the one that smashed into us. Wonder what the mpg rating on those things are?

It felt like eternity before another van showed up to continue us on our journey to the hotel that turned out to be walking distance away from the accident scene. We finally made it to the hotel, sat, talked, and waited for the others to show up.

The New Palm Tree Hotel lobby, our meeting point.