Stage Fright.

Some materials distributed at the Africa Institute launch.

Nairobi, Kenya – Gazing out from Taifa Hall's stage at the University of Nairobi, I was a little surprised to see the room half-filled with students.

It was 7:30 a.m.

Both Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton have spoken from the spot on which I stood, and I was mildly encouraged to see two young men begin untangling snakes of wires to set up a PA system. Then they indicated it was for the class they were holding in a half hour.

Our event was to begin at 9:30.

It was a rather inauspicious beginning to the launch of The Africa Institute at The University of Western Ontario, which is the whole reason I am here in the first place. Though we had reconfirmed the location the day before, we quickly began the mad scramble for a new space.

Moving to a room thick with brewing humidity, we hastily began moving chairs, placing materials, building the dais, removing a giant Chinese bust and summoning water for guests. Several key people were nowhere to be found and, even after getting the room set in time, the waiting game began for various officials. Sometimes, one must simply roll with the cultural differences that can exist related to time and organization. Hamna shida, as they say here.

The elevator had broken, too, and a couple of us set out to carry a handicapped alumnus who could not climb the three flights of stairs to the event. Sundry duties as assigned. Unfortunately, we did not make it in time and he had already left.

A banner announces the institute at University of Nairobi.

At this point, I have managed enough events to know they generally work out, despite the often-harried preparations that go into them. I liken such announcements to weddings: sometimes specific details do not fall exactly into place, but at the end of the day, meeting the objective of professing your love or meeting with partners and launching an institute is what is really of importance.

An hour later, the Institute was officially announced. The initiative brings together more than 150 researchers, graduate students and postdoctoral fellows at Western who are working with partners across the continent to advance research efforts with, by and for Africans. It seeks to become a world-class institute advancing scholarship and policy development related to African society, politics, economy, culture and health through research.

After hearing from a series of dignitaries and researchers, we broke bread on the lawn at the centre of the university and had an opportunity to speak more informally with guests and enjoy a Kenyan lunch of ugali, chicken, beef, vegetables and assorted other tasty morsels.

By all accounts, the event was a success, and the Institute has been formally announced to the world.

Even after two hours of madness, that’s what really matters.

Coffee and TV.

Facing of one of the buildings at University of Nairobi.

Nairobi, Kenya – As we sat down to breakfast this morning, several Kenyan military vehicles sped past, with one stopping to unload in front of the hotel.

There’s nothing like an AK-47 with your morning coffee.

Osama bin Laden’s death has brought heightened security throughout the city, particularly for potential Al Quaeda targets. It makes sense given that bombings at embassies here and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania in 1998 first brought bin Laden into the American consciousness.

Despite the commotion, today was spent preparing for tomorrow’s launch of The Africa Institute at The University of Western Ontario, being held at the University of Nairobi. In the morning, we visited the campus – conveniently located a zebra crosswalk away, directly across the street – to scout locations and to take photographs. At one point, we were questioned to see if we had permission to do so, and were escorted by an older man with a cane to the security office we had just visited. Confident there were would be no issues, we dropped the Vice-Chancellor’s name during the walk back and awaited his verdict.

Of course, by this point, we had already amassed all the photos we needed, but we were given the okay to continue.

The afternoon was spent preparing marketing materials for the event, and my floor was quickly littered with empty plastic bags from the lapel pins I speared into business cards. I looked like a drug dealer with an abundance of dime bags. As time progressed, my fingers numbed from repetitively opening and closing the clasps, but the pins look good, and will be a nice token of appreciation for our guests.

With all of our team members in town, we held a team dinner at the hotel restaurant, Tatu (no longer just a Russian pop group). As my stomach rumbled, my plate arrived with tandoori spiny lobster and truffled Parmesan French fries.

Need I say more?

Snakes on the Plains.

How many politicians do you spot?

Nairobi, Kenya – As clouds recoiled into the sky, trees of snakes waved hypnotically like Medusa’s uncoiffed mane.

We decided to visit the Snake Park at Nairobi National Museum, which consists of a few glass cases containing a cobra, some rather large pythons and a number of mambas, as well as a treed, open-air setting with dozens of snakes. In turn, they rose and fell like the LED lights of an equalizer.

Some green, some red, others silver, the thin reptiles slithered out of the foliage like living branches. Others attempted to climb the wall that divided us, but could not sustain the strength before they fell back to the grass.

All the while, two tortoises moseyed along, ambivalent.

At the end of the visit, I even had an opportunity to wrap a ball python around my neck like a fine patterned, scaly foulard.

Meat being roasted at The Carnivore.

If I had worn it to dinner, the snake would likely have wound up on the losing end of a traditional Maasai sword, and thrust into a charcoal pit.

I have long looked forward to having a meal at The Carnivore, which has twice been named one of the world’s top-50 restaurants and boasts (and bastes) an assortment of roasted meats. While exotic game is, obviously, no longer available (no need to decide between the dark and light meat of a zebra), we still had waiters making rounds between our tables with swords of meat they would cut off onto our plates: camel, crocodile, ostrich, ox testicle, lamb and even a full turkey.

Appropriately, to signify the end of the meal, you don’t just raise a white flag, you try to summon the energy to lower one at the centre of the table.

There’s a reason The Carnivore is referred to as “Africa’s best eating experience” – it was a tasty show.

Make No Bones About It.

A skeleton at Nairobi National Museum.

Nairobi, Kenya – The full-bodied smell of a brewing storm blends like spices with the city’s other pungent aromas: flowering jacaranda trees, acrid charcoal fires, bus diesel and human sweat.

To avoid an afternoon spent dancing with raindrops, we have opted instead to roam the vast halls of Nairobi National Museum, which has left me astounded at the history set out before me.

All around, children scramble to pose for photos in front of murals depicting pastoral scenes, or beside artifacts that testify to the nation’s history. Tying the past to the future, a vendor has painted their faces with tribal markings, and their excited cries echo through monuments of their – and our – history.

I am not the only one giddy.

Standing here, it is abundantly obvious: there’s Canadian and European history, which remain significant, but pale at their ability to trace the roots of civilization, which began just up the road. The past in front of us may be local, but its impact is much farther reaching in terms of our understandings of human evolution.

In room after room, this history becomes tangible as ancient skulls rest, poised and unstaring in their hollowness. Bone fragments are epoxied together like jagged human jigsaw puzzles – as is history itself. It is completely humbling to consider the insignificance of this passing moment in the context of millions of years.

It resonates particularly strongly with me that many of these artifacts are in fact original, rather than plaster cast reproductions of some of the earliest origins of species.

And then, in one moment, my eyes widened in excitement – my mouth, similarly agape. I was staring at the skeleton of the famous, 3.2-million-year-old ‘Lucy,’ an early hominid I had read about as a child in National Geographic, and subsequently studied in school. Nondescript in a plain case with other artifacts, she seemed to shrug at her placement: "That's just how much history there is here."

I was rendered speechless, so I simply basked in wonder and in my love for this continent.

More Than We Bargained For.

You'll be a fan of our prices.

Punta Cana, Dominican Republic – The young man's slender fingers chattered across the well-worn, blue plastic calculator that was to serve as our negotiation tool.

Atop the glass-covered display case filled with baubles of laramite and onyx, and other brightly coloured trinkets, sat half a coconut – our "shopping cart" – which contained a pair of cheap plastic rings.

"$75," the calculator blinked, proffering its first volley. 

I did, too, half expecting a winky-face emoji to follow. 

Stifling a chuckle, I thought, "So, this was where we were to start negotiating." Nevermind the fact we had bought a similar ring the day previous for a mere $5, or that it would likely have cost no more than a dollar or two back home in Canada. 

In relation to other places I've traveled, I have not found the majority of business people in the Dominican Republic to be overly pushy, but haggling is still central to the buying process – and to the culture. It can be tempting to decide you don't wish to endure the hassle of negotiating, but doing so is to embrace and respect the cultural experience. What may only be a couple dollars to you is often quite significant in the developing world.

Simply giving in to the first offer does nobody any favours: you pay a lot more than you should, the next tourist willing to bargain will pay more, and both sides miss out on the social aspect of the experience. Naturally, each side wants the better deal, but the back-and-forth is akin to a dance so important to many cultures.

We offered $10 and were – to be expected – told the amount was an insult, even though we had bought one for half that. "Not the same, mi amigo," came the reply. Walking out hastened a flurry of activity and a promise to accept our price.

This willingness to accept our price with so little effort devoted to negotiating made it abundantly obvious there was room for further reductions

In the Dominican Republic, the dance takes patience, and time.

A Good Start.

A wing and a prayer.

Punta Cana, Dominican Republic – Upon asking for a window seat on the flight down, we were pleased the Air Transat representative put us at the back of the plane, where seats were two-across – as opposed three elsewhere. 

It got better.

Shortly before liftoff, the steward visited us to ask if we minded relinquishing our seats and moving up to the emergency exit row, where a 75-year-old woman with limited mobility had inexplicably been assigned. 

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you," he promised. 

Now, I'm 6"3 and Transat planes aren't exactly built with leg room in mind, so I was already giddy at the prospect of being able to stretch out for the four-hour flight.

When the steward returned with a bottle of champagne for each of us, it was obvious the stars had aligned in our favour.

Brevity III.

No home, but a boat, no longer afloat, on an otherwise empty lot.

poseidon, enraged
The city disappeared
in spinning ghosts of wind;
half, never to re-emerge
from under Poseidon’s trident.

A softer whisper
carries the mournful cry
of brass,
still strong in its sadness.

Yet now, the ghosts seep still
from the crevices
of lonely, misshapen timber
of homes
since forgotten.