I (heart) 2 Kenyan Films!

Two weeks ago, a colleague and I attended the premiere of the Kenyan International Film Festival (KIFF) – its one of several annual film festivals. This two-week event showcases African produced films. The premiere movie, “The Captain of Nakara” (This trailer needs to be re-cut to better convey the film’s humorous plot) was a comedic and entertaining satire.

“Captain of Nakara” is set in a fictitious Kenyan village, but the underlying social message is real.

The main character, Muntu, a poor young man, meets a beautiful girl-- a clergyman’s daughter, whom he wants to marry. Prior to meeting this pretty woman, Muntu was petty thief, but he had conscious. He wants to get his life back on the straight-and-narrow path for his future.

To win this girl’s heart and hand in marriage, he pretends that he is wealthier than he is.

To earn money for his wedding, he concocts an idea to sell small trinkets along the roadside. However, the idea isn’t as simple as one would expect. Muntu encounters a variety of corruption obstacles. This satire reveals gross government ineptitude as well as tiny nuances of cultural wedding expectations.

Despite a few local Kenyan media reviews dismissing the piece, I think it’s one of the better films I’ve seen lately and would recommend a screening.

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Today, I watched another film that’s quite buzz-worthy. Its a Kenyan production called, “Nairobi Half Life.” (Watch Trailer here) 

For my American and European friends, you might have an opportunity to screen it at a small, independent theatre near you.

It’s the first film from Kenya to be nominated for a 2013 Academy Award (Oscar) for Best Foreign Language Film and has received unprecedented local support and viewership.

[Read more about the social message and impact on CNN here]

Its been a film that is contentious because of rumors that certain government officials are not pleased with it because it does not cast Kenya in the most favorable light.

The film’s protagonist is an optimistic and charismatic young man who aims for bigger things. To achieve his dreams and in pursuit of opportunity, He (like many real-life Kenyans) leaves his rural village to travel to Nairobi.

While encountering a series of misfortunes along the way (sorry, there’s no spoiler’s here), poverty and lack of job opportunities, lead him into living a double-life. To survive, he is an aspiring actor by day, and a carjacking, gun-wielding, gang-member by night.

Yes, thoughts of rough-riding gang-bangers sound cliché, but I think the filmmakers do an excellent job of developing the lead and supporting characters in an original way. (This film is not a Hollywood stereotypical famous film like “The Departed” or “Pulp Fiction.” Don't repackage those plots to be set in Africa. "Nairobi Half Life" is different.)

Without being too heavy, the film’s producers appropriately convey a deeper social message about society's obstacles and corruption that pervades both police and criminals. 

While I can’t cast an official vote, I hope this under-dog project gets some well-deserved traction and international notoriety. The only African countries to ever submit films in the history of the Academy are South Africa and Israel. 

Now, Kenya can be proud to be moving up the ranks of global competition. Thus far, the only African film to win this prestigious award was 2006’s “Tsotsi.” Maybe a win will put Kenya on this circuit. My fingers are crossed.

As an educator teaching video production and visual storytelling, I hope that thorough my lessions, my students are developing the practical tools to creative in the same way that these cinematographers rouse emotion and social debate with their artistic work. 

Small Updates - Fresh Brie & More unfounded Expectations

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post about a master’s student, who was studying in a different department at my college, who was harassing me. The daily debacle lasted for nearly 3weeks and there was no indication it would cease. In a last effort to end all daily communication, I asked one of my male friends to call him from my phone and firmly tell him to stop his behavior. I thought he got the message. Watcha. (“stop” in swahilli.)

Then one evening recently, I had to take the last campus bus to town in the evening. The vehicle was packed, but I was exhausted so secluded myself in a seat near the window and popped in an ear bud to listen to a podcast. It was a deliberate non-verbal attempt to seclude myself from the other activity on the ride.

En route, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some movement in my aisle. It was him. It was obvious his intention was to begin a conversation with me as the bus arrived at its destination in town, but I pretended that I didn’t notice him and proceeded alone on my journey.

I entered the public transit bus taking another seat near the window. The bus had many available seats but he decided to sit directly next to me. With my ear bud firmly secured inside my ear, I did not make eye contact or any acknowledgement. I gazed out the window quietly. For the entire ride across town, we had no interaction.

A couple hours later, I received a text: “it hurts me tht we can sit 2gether but we can not talk, it hurts me more when we can not look into each other’s eyes. i wish u had given me opportunity 2 show u how caring and loving I am, but u did not take time 2 understand me. i wish u did!”

Clearly, he still does not understand how his behavior was and is very inappropriate—and as for the text message, I did not respond. 

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And as update,  today, I visited Zucchini for the first time since that curdled cheese incident. 

The friendly cheese vendor greeted me by name (I was surprised that she even remembered!) -- I was truly impressed by her professionalism and kindness. She is exemplary and I hope that management recognizes her solid ethic. 

She personally attended to me and organized my check-out at the cash register by providing 100g of the french brie (the precise amount I originally purchased) - all complimentary.  

I'm happy to report that good customer service can be found anywhere!

A Cross-Generational Friendship

One of the amazing things that I miss about living in New York City is the exposure to the abundant communities.

I found a connection to a warm, inviting community in one an unlikely place. My Gym.

I had been a routine member for about 7-years and appreciated its unpretentiousness (many gyms are posh, upscale and have different “social scenes”). I chose my neighborhood gym, the YMCA, for it’s diversity, warmth and openness—it’s liberal and unlike the stereotype, it’s a place where people from all faiths aren’t exposed to proselytizing. Members feel the sense of community and diversity in their group fitness classes. To this day, some of my closest friendships emerged from those fitness classes that I joined many years ago.

One of the hallmarks of my life “at the Y,” was a belly-dancing class. The instructor was an under-study of the globe-trotting, professional dance troupe, “The Bellydance Superstars” and each Tuesday and Sunday a group of 30 women ages 18-70 would pack into the mirrored dance studio to shimmy, shake and laugh. It was a place where it was o.k. to have a tummy that giggles or “junk in the trunk” to boot. All curves, shapes and sizes were respected. It encouraged all of us to be comfortable in our own skin—total body acceptance.

One of the regulars in class was E. E was a senior. She was petite who always wore frilly, multi-colored skirts and black stockings. Her gregarious laugh emanated from her bright, red lipstick mouth. E was always in upbeat spirits and ready to dance. Several decades ago, she moved from Brazil to live close to her sister. For a while, they lived together in an Upper West Side apartment until E met her husband, S.

E and S’s courtship is adorable. For those who say location is everything- this romance proves that case. E and S met because they both lived in the same apartment building. It was E’s sister who encouraged her to begin a friendship with the sweet and polite, American gentleman living downstairs. Their relationship blossomed and E & S were married a short while thereafter. They were an inter-racial couple, but really complimented each other completely.

E and S were fixtures at the gym and worked out daily. S would stand by the door and peer into the window patiently watching his wife and the other women dance across the floor learning a new Middle-Eastern dance routine. He was kind and thoughtful.

When the hour class ended, he would shuffle inside and talk to each of the ladies as they exited. He’d embrace his wife and they’d link arms. I always admired how they loved each other – the two epitomizing companionship.  To me, they were a living example of how love truly can transcend culture and race.

The last time I went to the gym and shared the news that I was leaving the New York to live in Africa, S congratulated me for my adventurous spirit. S gave me a hug and told me to keep in touch, but unlike trite pleasantries, he actually meant it.

It was a surprising friendship because we became email pen-pals—corresponding across the oceans and continents.

In my first weeks in Kenya, he told me that he “did some research on Nairobi and read about the Al-Shaabab, piracy, droughts and famine” and was concerned. Later, he shared his electronic subscription to the New York Times because he wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t miss a beat with American news. He felt it was his duty to give me an update with the latest gossip at the gym and his opinions of the presidential candidates.

In each of his emails, he would always ask me questions and encourage me to send photos (and even offered to mail me a camera if I didn’t have one).  

For a man born in the early 1940s, he wasn’t afraid of technology. S got the equipment to learn how skype, but had some trouble understanding how it worked.

Like his wife, he was always inquisitive and positive. Maybe that’s why they were a complimentary pair.

This summer, he said he was nervous about his impending retirement and shared his mixed feelings about the change.

Lately, over the last 7 weeks, I emailed him, but never received a response. Then, today, an unexpected note from E landed in my inbox.

“In Heaven with God” wrote the subject line. My heart sank as tears welled up under my eyelids.

I opened the email to read that at the end of September, S unexpectedly passed away in his sleep.

E said she’d call me later, but that I should also look for his online obituary. S “was a gentle and generous man with a wry sense of humor. And he will be deeply missed by all who knew him.” This is the truth, I thought when I read the obituary announcement on the New York Times and Santa Barbara Independent websites.   

A few hours later, my phone rang. It was E calling from New York using a phone card. I was touched that she made such an effort.

Her thick accent was barely audible as she sobbed recanting the story. In the weeks that passed, she said she couldn’t push herself to reply to emails, but she knew she had to eventually tell me.

E said she is trying to resume her regular schedule by going to the gym, but it took her over 3 weeks return to her old routine. The memories.  She says she is thankful that her sister is available to spend time and support her as she grieves.

We made plans to talk tomorrow before she goes to work, but before she hung up, she asked me if and when I’d be visiting New York sometime soon.

‘Sandy’ Bites the Big Apple

It was nearly a week ago, that Hurricane Sandy hit New York City. I could envision how the metropolis prepared for the turbulent weather as it slowly made its way to landfall because it was about one year ago, I braced for another storm, Hurricane Irene. That time, I hunkered down at my friends’ apartment on Roosevelt Island. We peered out their window at views of the skyline and the UN building across the river as the storm rolled into town. Fortunately, that storm’s furry dwindled and while the city braced for a battering, we were lucky. After 16 hours of bad weather, the city reemerged nearly untarnished by winds and heavy rains.

This year’s storm was enormously different.

As the storm came ashore, I received texts from a few friends telling me to tune into CNN because a large, industrial crane on my old street was about to fall due to high winds. Only a few hundred feet from my old apartment was danger. Officials were immobilized against mother nature… It was eerie.

Although I now live on another continent and am exposed to other dangers, the city that was once my home is constantly my thoughts.

A thoroughbred news junkie, I browse ABC News, Buzzfeed, New York Times’ website and social media while sipping my morning coffee. The photos of the devastation make me sad and shocked. Entrances to the subway completely submerged—murky, stagnant water drowning the escalators are images I never thought I’d see in my lifetime.

One photo etched in my brain is of the subway at South Ferry. This is the last stop at the tip of Manhattan where tourists and Staten Island residents use to commute to the Manhattan. My memories of many sunny days soaking in the spectacular views of the Statue of Liberty and Brooklyn Bridge are sentimental.

This location is also the subway line that thousands of would-be runners would use to get to the start line of the New York City marathon that was scheduled for this morning.

Having run the race three times and as a once-active member of the vibrant running community, I feel a twinge of nostalgia. It's a time of year where you truly see the best of people from all races and nationalities experience an event together.  With every step, runners engage and greet over a million spectators (yes, rivaling an Olympic sport!) cheering along the sidewalk. Their smiles and enthusiasm encourage men and women aspiring to break the tape of that 26.2 mile course.

The annual occasion is truly a triumph of the human spirit.

In rain or shine, 40,000+ international, national and local runners converge to traverse the 5-boroughs – adventurous American can start nearly alongside the Kenyan and Ethiopian professional elites. In every sense, it is a spectacle.

However, this year it was cancelled.

Throughout the week, Mayor Bloomberg and Mary Wittenberg (CEO of New York Road Runners – race organizer) said that the event was on. Then, they announced the event was cancelled 48-hours before the starting gun.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to a text sent from a former New York City Marathon winner asking me if I had heard the news that the race was cancelled. (Another example of how we live in a truly global village!)

I rolled over in bed and scampered to my computer. Hello, google. Via streaming video, I watched a local news interview with Mary Wittenberg. She claimed that the media had swirled the event into a polarizing issue. The true essence and culture of the event were lost in the divide and wreckage.

Online I could see that many runners threatened to boycott the race and volunteer instead. Others called the city and NYRR money-grubbing swindlers. Many criticized the generators at the finish-line which were set-up to specifically support media coverage. Residents and some runners said that it was extravagant and distasteful since fellow residents downtown were living underwater and without power.

I even discovered an interesting article from the Atlantic which illuminates how the storm unearthed Inequality lifestyle gaps of New Yorkers – comparing stats to Africa…

Working in media and PR, being involved in the running community and as an ex-resident, I can see the many perspectives to one of the biggest yearly revenue-making events.

My simple opinion: The event could have avoided this controversy if a decisive decision to cancel without a refund was made much earlier.

Yet, runners are energetic and ingenious. A grassroots “Run Anyway Marathon” plan was hatched and nearly 2,000 runners organized in Central Park to run the original marathon course from 1970 (a little over 4 laps of the park). Runners donated supplies for recovery efforts and videos were uploaded onto personal profiles.

In a way, that’s more fitting that any formalized event could have ever been. Why not go back to the core of running by uplifting and revitalizing community spirit?

Only wish I had been there to join in for a lap or two too. Waddle on, (my New York) friends.