Travel Down the Photography Lane

In 2002 I was semi officially introduced to photography. I say semi officially because I’d had several film and digital cameras for years but it wasn't until then that I really understood that photography went beyond the studio pictures that an irritated, overbooked, and underpaid camera dude took.

I remember the first few shots I took for the NGO I was working for back then. I had no idea what the heck DSLR was, or what RAW images did, except that I could not see them on my computer and the occupied precious real estate on limited capability laptop. My first trip out of town was to Afar, Ethiopia. The day I left with the driver was an overcast and depressing day. I was cursing the skies for the downpour. Who knew that overcast and depressing days would be one of the best to shoot? I read the manual that came with the camera and memorized it like I was going to be quizzed that night. There were no schools to go to for these things and to be honest, I didn't even know if there were any. So the manual became my bible and woe unto anyone who wanted to even merely peek at.

For an introverted person like me photography was a leap into the unknown. Where I did not dare in real life, through photography, I was able to become a totally different person. There was very little that was taboo and even less that scared me. Through the lens I was bold enough to venture to places I would not have dared. And all for the sake of that one shot the captures and depicts it all.

In 2008 I was brave enough and get a camera of my own. There was little option in what I could buy so my first purchase was a Canon EOS350. It was a fantastic piece of equipment. I know there were many other better options, but based on my means and availability, it was just great. I used that baby everywhere I went. Taking pictures took on a whole new meaning with an added 55-250mm lens. 

I worked with two amazing photographers back in those days. One was a van Roon, and the other one was Douuglas Abuelo. I was still too amateurish to know they were good until much much later. Van Roon was an incredible photographer who specialized in portraits. The highlights of one of those "working together" trips entailed using a Hasselblad. Van Roon would flip it up, turn it over, squint through it, insert disks, remove stuff. I was in awe of what that bad boy Hasselblad could accomplish. Talk about epic ignorance on my part however. The best part of all this was that he would let the locals give it a try and see what they make of it. I don't even give my phone to my kids. 

With Abuelo we shot numerous in-the-dark images. Where we were, there were no lights apart from natural light. When you are following nomadic pastoralists the last luxury you have is artificial light I learned so much about shooting in the dark with Abuelo that even 7-8 years down the line I still think of both him and van Roon as my mentors unaware. 

In 2012, my trusted and faithful E350 was stolen (hope you rot in hell bastards). I don't think I was upset by anything that was taken as much as I was by the loss of the camera. I have currently postponed a trip to Kilimanjaro because its unimaginable to scale a beauty like that with an iPad or a Samsung Note. 

One way or another however I still keep taking pictures whenever I can. Recently I started using my iPad for the lack of a better equipment. I can't stand those little handheld cameras. My phone has done exceptionally well under the circumstances too. On a recent trip to the US, I was lucky to visit Philadelphia in Penn State. The city reminded me why I love photography and made my lack of proper gear all the more stark. On the last day of the trip I went to prison. Yes, you heard me right, prison. This was no ordinary prison however, it was the Eastern State Penitentiary. Eastern State bore the brunt of cruel years of dilapidation and had fallen prey to urban decay. Everywhere you looked you can face to face with the eerie silence of an era gone by. the peeling age-old wallpapers, the crumbling edifice, skylights that looked straight up to the heavens, and the heavy as sin steel bar were just a few of its come hither allure. 

Built in 1829 in a Gothic Revival style, Eastern State refined the revolutionary system of solitary confinement and emphasized principles of reform over punishment. Famous, once-upon-a-time residents included Willie Sutton and Al Capon. Eastern States closed its doors in 1971 but remains open to visitors. 

I took hundreds of pictures while I was there. I wanted to now share them with whoever would be interested in urban exploration. The silent decay is fascinating. I hope you will be as captivated by them as I was.

This was Al Capons "suite" while he was being held at Eastern State

What is Your National Anthem?

I was at my daughter’s Christmas concert today. I’ve been going to it for the last 5 years and this year kids really out did themselves. They sang more complex songs, they were witty and best of all, they kept their attention focused. The highlight for me was when they sang the national anthem. About half a dozen scouts came out and did a wonderful rendition of the national anthem and the audience also joined.

O God of all creation
Bless this our land and nation
Justice be our shield and defender
May we dwell in unity
Peace and liberty
Plenty be found within our borders

I stood on tiptoes to see Maria singing. Although I couldn’t hear her singular voice over anyone else, I could see her poise and confidence as she was singing. The crowd too seemed to be totally focused. It was their national anthem after all. By the time the three stanzas were done I had silly tears in my eyes. It wasn’t just that the anthem was moving; it was more because everyone belonged here and they were part of it. Apart from the smattering of expats everyone was singing. It was their song. Their anthem.  It was slightly uncomfortable to stand there and not even know the words to it all. But my conflict went deeper than not knowing the lyrics. It made me realize that I didn’t even know my own national anthem. So I stood there, and for the two minutes that took to sing the whole anthem I realized that I did not belong there. I am not Kenyan. I live on a renewable permit valid for two years at a time. Nor am I truly Ethiopian. I’m just a random stranger on Earth.

The last few days I’ve actually been thinking about my place in this world. I’m not talking about a Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Teresa, or Bill Gates, historical and philosophical sort of place in this world. It was more of a place of belonging. A place where I can put my roots down and keep them growing.  My entire life has been spent moving from country to country. In thirty odd years I’ve moved an average of 13 times. My family moved back to Ethiopia in 98. Ten years later I moved again, this time to Kenya and with my own family. I hadn’t really stayed in one place long enough to belong and call it home. You might think that ten years in any place is a long enough time to acclimatize and acculturate. When you’ve spent your entire life within a culture that is so different, it is supremely difficult to learn all the steps of a new country. Case in point, I grew up believing I was going to marry my handsome cousin. Yikes, right? But that’s a totally normal way of life in the Middle East.

About two years ago a friend of mine from Poland came to visit me in Nairobi. He too, like me, was a product of two different cultures, perhaps made worse by the fact that his mom was Christian and Polish and his father was Muslim and Yemeni. Where do you begin to consolidate your life with such varying degrees of separation? Sadly, parents are rarely aware of the conflict that runs within their children’s veins. And kids are too young anyway to begin to articulate the situation so the whole thing just drags out like a Spanish soap opera.

The few years I’ve spent in Kenya have sort of invalidated or robbed me of that “Ethiopian” feeling and I don’t know how to get it back. It becomes hard to keep any tradition when you’re swallowed by the local culture here. You end up feeling like an island within your own continent. I’m neither Egyptian, Yemeni, Ethiopian, nor Kenyan. I don’t pledge allegiance to any flag. I don’t sing the anthem of any nation. I don’t celebrate the holidays of any particular country.  

Today when I’m struggling with keeping my identity as a citizen of the world who has no anthem to call her own, it’s the voice of my daughter that rings above the din of all others. She is going to grow and know where she belongs. She won’t be hopping from capital, to shore to continent, and from anthem to anthem, not knowing what the next stage of her life is going to be. I know parents mean the best and try to ultimately do the best by their kids. Creating roots, traditions, everyday meaningful little things that last a lifetime however, are perhaps the biggest treasures they can bestow on them. Giving them an anthem to call their own is the ultimate sense of belonging.

What about you, my friends and citizens of this world? What is your national anthem?

Ee Mungu nguvu yetu

Ilete baraka kwetu

Haki iwe ngao na mlinzi

Natukae na undugu

Amani na uhuru

Raha tupate na ustawi

Amkeni ndugu zetu

Tufanye sote bidii

Nasi tujitoe kwa nguvu

Nchi yetu ya Kenya

Tunayoipenda

Tuwe tayari kuilindai

Natujenge taifa letu

Ee, ndio wajibu wetu

Kenya istahili heshima

Tuungane mikono

Pamoja kazini

Kila siku tuwe na shukrani

The Cemetery is Full of People Looking for Second Chances

I remember an essay I wrote in 4^th grade that has stayed with me all these years. It was about President Kennedy and his twin brother. The President was late for a speaking engagement and his brother had to sneak and stand in for him but then Kennedy dies in a helicopter crash so the deceit continues with the twin brother.  My English teacher was so impressed I got full marks and had the story read during our daily assembly. It was a proud moment and something I tell my daughter when I see how indifferent she is to a well written story. It was the first time I felt validated for anything I had done and it felt great.

Sadly that one genius moment has not followed me all the way to adulthood. In fact, I can’t imagine myself sitting to hammer away at a novel anytime soon. I did start one when I was in 7^th grade and worked on it all the way to 10^th grade. Many a night my siblings and a few neighbors would gather around the campfire we built on our concert porch and I would read them the story over and over.

Fast forward to 2013 where all I did was write articles for magazines. While there is or was pride in that, I had come to a crossroad in my life where I felt many things ought to change and be different. As any writer, novice or seasoned will say however, I have many doubting moments. Some days I’m pretty good. And some days like today I can’t string two decent sentences together.

It was around last year when I began to feel the itch to sort of spread my wings and explore beyond my comfort zone. I realized I had cozied up to my comfortable suburban life a little too much. I was writing from home, being a mom, a wife, and gardening. That was the width and breadth of my existence. There was no earth shattering moments in my solid sedentary life. Every day was stacked in perfect chronological order, like books in an old Vatican vault might be. You knew where everything was by serial number and chronologically from the Dark Ages onward. You didn't get lost in vast meandering corridors. There were no sudden stops and starts. Everything was where it was supposed to be. I had grown restless and antsy for a while but I didn't know what I was looking for or where I wanted to go. In a way I was looking for that “aha” moment that Oprah always talks about.

While waiting out on my “aha” moments however, I managed to get through a few “hmmmm” moments of my own. There was never a Eureka moment but a slow and sluggish recognition about what I should be doing. Some of the best advice during this time came from my sister who has always been supportive of my silent insanity. She said, “Just write damn it.” We had talked extensively about what I needed to do in terms of self-employment career and I know she was growing weary of my indecisiveness and lack of real motivation to move forward.

I have felt at times that my 4^th grade feat cannot be replicated. It also made me realize that I needed further challenges in my life to continue growing. If life does not challenge you, it doesn't change you. For far too long I accepted the status quo for what it was. In 2008 I created a bucket list. It was inspired by movie The Bucket List. It was a bullet point of random things that I wanted to do in my life, places to go, and things to see and achieve. I ran it by a few friends and family, and while some were enthusiastic for me, others didn't think that a bucket list was worth much because it lacked focus and direction. Someone I looked up to told me that if they wanted to do something they just did it. They didn't need a bucket list to guide them. Maybe this person lack a bit of whimsy in their lives. If they believed just a bit in pixie dust, fairies and Cinderella stories, then climbing the Kilimanjaro, a trip to Iceland, owning a Harley would not seem so out of reach.

So as I continue in my writing and blogging, I am wide open to what the future brings. In the end it’s the chances we don’t take we regret. After all the cemetery is full of people looking second chances. 

The Lizard and the Frog

I need to change my sons diaper so I open up the deck door to diffuse the fumes. While he’s busy tearing open a packet of silicon beads I’m jumping up and down half a million times because a slimy white frog brushed against my hand. I should say THAT slimy frog because he’s not a first time offender. We are well acquainted; the bugger likes to stick by the deck all year long. The first time I met him I thought he was just hibernating the winter away. Spring has been here for a while and he is still squatting on the concrete deck. Don’t know what keeps him there because it’s not like we have anything worth eating- minus the yearlong vampires, I mean mosquitoes.

Anyway, for the first time Froggy is showing signs of life- as in he’s actually jumping into the house, blinking and moving all 4 scrawny limbs. That’s never happened before. He’s always been this lifeless little beady eyed slimy white thing that just plasters to my walls and doors. I can literally feel him crawling on my hands right now. This moment however, I just want him gone. My son is standing at the doorway looking at me like I’m superwoman who is going to save the day. He won’t even come out because I’m standing there holding a broom slamming it to the ground so that I scare off the little squatter. At the risk of offending PETA and their affiliates worldwide, I really just wish the thing would either die or rehome. Either way, I’m not impressed by its longevity. What is the life expectancy of frogs anyway? Aren’t they supposed to live just a few months then perpetuate before their eventual demise?  What I see instead is a splatter of icky little limb prints on the concrete floor. Who knew that frogs are wet through and through- as in the thing went smack against the wall and left a whole body print. I’m never walking on the same ground again.

After I’d walked Froggy to a quiet corner I’m turning back to go into the house and low and behold there is this huge gray lizard zigzagging the walls into my study. Damn! What’s it with uninvited amphibians and reptiles today? Why can’t I find a cute little stray dog, or pretty butterflies fluttering around, or even fluffy little kittens (as much as I don’t like cats)? Instead I am on a losing contest with impassive muculent critters. I don’t want to smack it with my broom but the fool won’t get the message either. Thankfully, my son comes barging through the door and the lizard scuttles away. Day is saved and I can finally safely walk back to my house.

I desperately need to sanitize- where is my Purell? 

The Pink House

The image is not the greatest but it shows you how people can mistake that Barbie lives here. Slowly however, the house grows on you. And surprisingly, hubby says he would repaint it the same Chintz Rose if given a second chance.

The Pink House

First order of the day is to tell you why I call my blog the Pink House Diary! To be honest, it’s my pesky sister who’s been harassing me about this next blog. I don’t know if she’s bored and wants to read stuff, but I’m guessing she’s just admiring a genius at work:) 

Anyway, I guess I do owe you guys a reason why this is the Pink House Diary. Well, three years ago we bought this run down dilapidated house in the suburbs. Personally I thought it was a big mistake at the time. My husband had only shown me a picture of the outside and he swore it was a great piece of property. As I was on the verge of delivering my 2^nd child I didn't have time to go house hunting I believed him. Big mistake! I think on some level hubby knew I was OCD about certain things and he didn't want me condemning the place without giving it a chance. I should not have trusted hubby in the end. It’s as simple as that.

When I saw the place once the ink had dried, I was appalled. The previous owner was an engineer of some sort. And I use the term engineer very lightly because no human on earth could have built a house that misaligned, crooked, uneven, jagged, irregular, and lopsided even if they tried. This guy really went above and beyond the call of duty to make sure every brick and stone was in total disharmony with the laws of nature. I don’t know how hubby, who is a doctor, missed to diagnose all these problems in the several visits he made to the place prior to settling on it.

To make a long story short, it took all sorts of miracles to get the place fixed. By the time 7 months and a long overdue vacation had passed the house was finally habitable. I guess you’re wondering when I’m going to tell you about the Pink House part, right? It’s very easy. Hubby and I clashed (understatement) several times over the colors of the house. I finally got the upper hand in the interior colors. My dear beloved husband took one look at the paint chip cards and decided he wanted something bright and “peachy” for the outside. Now, I won’t say he’s color blind, but I can assure you that he’s never seen a peachy color before because what he settled on and sloshed against the exterior is called Chintz Rose. Need I say more? I tried to convince him there was no peach in Georgia that came in the shade of rose, hybrid, organic, or a mutant. Well maybe a mutant! Anyway, we bought gallons upon gallons of Chintz Rose. Once it was on the wall, there was no going back. He wanted peach, we got Barbie Pink. Our house has no number but no one gets lost coming to our place. It’s the last house on the left, PINK with gray gate.

So next time you’re in the hood, look out for the Pink House. We are un-missable. 

Let's Get this Journey Started

So, a year after my first post here I am back to it again. I haven’t posted a nickel’s worth in over 12 months. Reason, I just lost my steam, my inspiration, and my passion I suppose.

I did question myself why I started in the first place. Why did I start out so sure of myself then just give it all up for a whole year? Apparently, I’m sort of OCD about things.  I didn't know whether I should use WordPress or Blog. I didn't like the name of my page because it was supposed to be Pink House Diaries as opposed to Diary. Then of course the colors of the page aren't just right yet. It’s too pink on some days and I’m not ready yet to commit to a paid custom theme. So, I stayed in a rut for a whole year. A whole year, dear reader!!!

These past few months however I've been feeling quite antsy. I didn't know what I wanted to do with this blog anymore or myself for that matter. I know I want to write but then again I wondered what I should write about. I’m a thirty odd years old woman who still has no idea what direction in life to take. I hate being indecisive and directionless. So, on this cold dreary morning down in good ol’ Nairobi, I decided that I was going to take it one day at a time. I like to remind my 9 year old that the world was not made in a day; maybe I should take my own advice for a change and see where my literary journey takes me.

If you just happen to find this obscure page buried under oodles of other more “browse worthy” pages, please stop by, take a break, sip on your coffee or your tea, kick your shoes off and walk on this journey with me. I promise you I will be honest, direct, humorous whenever I can, and show you a bit of my world that’s a different but relevant.

Let the journey finally begin.