As a lone traveller returning to home soil,
there is a certain level of unease and tension. Of course, the excitement of
seeing friends/family and having a good ‘ole English cuppa cannot be beaten but
one cannot help feeling that the cries of “Jambo” followed by an over-bearing
grin will be missed. There is a worry that the mould which shaped and developed
your personality will no longer match the product – instead the product may have been distorted by time in the African continent.
On returning, the English reserve appears
to be a dish you have to gradually heat up after time away. You initially feel
put-out by the cold courtesy; its only when you give the interaction time do
you realise the politeness hides a warm honesty which exudes. This is a direct
contrast to the gregarious spark of Kenyans, who seem to embrace a universal
(African) right to enter into communication with anyone. As a consequence,
within the space of a 2 hour matatu bus journey you have: held a child for a
struggling mother, debated the presidential election race and talked about your
life-ambitions with three separate people. You begin to see any outing as an
opportunity to share moments with strangers – something not often experienced
within life in the UK.
Stepping into my tinpot car, christened Marge the Nissan, becomes an adventure
into human interaction. Entering the car, heat envelopes and already the
journey seems an effort to resist the elements of Kenya – abnormally large
potholes, swerving motorbikes and dusty drives are common occurrences. Yet the
challenge always seems bearable because of a small habit which is indicative of
my embracing Kenyan charm. My routine runs like clockwork. First, turn right
out of the driveway. Next, turn left onto Kenyatta avenue. Third (the most important
part), wait at the junction to the main road. Here is where my relationship
with David has developed. I am welcomed into my journey by a corner-side fruit
seller with a huge smile, spanning ear-to-ear, and a wonderfully joyous call of
“Hello Elizabeth!” This simple action
occurs every time I leave, or enter my neighbourhood. It’s a sequence I long
for, signaling a belonging, however superficial, to a community and a country.
When David is not there, I feel a gap in my journey. It will not be the same.I can categorically say I never had such a precious routine while entering any of the places I lived within the UK.
But I took the step. I returned back home
after a 10 month gap, secretly hoping it would settle my growing inclination to
begin to build a life in Africa. What was I expecting to feel? Something
similar to being a tourist – feeling like I could embrace life in England as a
holiday, before returning to the normality of Mombasa. I relished seeing family,
going for long walks in the countryside and being lucky enough to experience a
good-friend’s wedding yet the event that made the biggest impact was a visit to
the Tate Modern. Completely unexpectedly, I was thrown back to the simple
beauty of speaking to strangers.
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| One of Britain's gems - The Tate Modern |
The turbine hall in the Tate is always
impressive. A cavernous space, overwhelming in its ability to dwarf a visitor.
When entering, you feel an awe in the industrial piping, concrete floor and its
sheer scale of size. It’s not a space which embraces the monotony of usual
gallery-behaviour – drones wandering from one picture to the other, craning
over someone’s head to glimpse a masterpiece. Instead, any exhibition there has
to make a statement: a huge black box, a mammoth crack in the floor or a
swollen orange sun are all pieces which have exhibited over the years. This was
different.
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| The Turbine Hall - "a cavernous space, overwhelming in its ability to dwarf a visitor" |
As we walked down the stairs closer to the hall,
a murmur of 30-40 soft voices singing in unison began to drift into our
hearing. Already, there was a peace in their calm ability to share a moment.
Straining to hear the words, we found fragments which stood out: “technological
development”, “humans”, “environment”. By
then, we were in amongst the performers, experiencing the spiritual song as it
washed over us. They had begun to rotate around the room, in set patterns,
moving from side-to-side in a concerted effort to follow one another – to act
as a unit. Suddenly, a change of lighting occurred. Now, they started to follow
the observers, zig-zaging around us as we moved up and down the hall as if we
were part of their shared experience. This effect was heightened when
unexpectedly a lady detached herself from the group, looked us directly in the
eye and began to tell her story. In the space of a ten minute conversation we
heard about her fractured relationship with her father, her parent’s divorce
and the emotional resolution she had recently experienced regarding her past.
All this was discussed in a fleeting communication, as surprising in its
spontaneity as it was in its speedy end. Once the moment had naturally reached
a conclusion, our new-found-friend turned on her heel, with no goodbye pleasantries,
and returned to the business of striding across the space with the others.
The piece, entitled These
Associations, by the Anglo-German artist Tino Sehgal,
seemed to distort the expected, using the intangible stuff of stories to create
art, rather than the obvious mediums of canvas, sculpture or installation. For Chris Dercon, the director of Tate Modern, it is
"the most complex, difficult and dangerous project we have ever put into
this museum" (The Guardian, 23rd July 2012). He cites an
awkwardness experienced by the viewer, who may find being stopped by a stranger
uncomfortable. This was far from my personal experience. Throughout our time at the Tate we returned back to the exhibition
space like a magnet, mesmerised by the power evoked through a simple connection
with strangers. Within the afternoon we had the opportunity to hear three
different people’s thoughts, knowing they were part of an art-piece, but also
realising they were giving us a little ditty of their life – a token to be
treasured. It was a moving interaction,
powerful in its ability to emphasise the virtue of being open to others.
Largely, the experience made me thankful to
be returning to Kenya, knowing that this openness is common amongst all (or most) rather
than a set piece exhibited by few in a world famous art gallery.
