Passing Time

I’d returned to aid work as a nonsmoker, and to my amazement, everyone else seemed to be smoking. European expats, national staff, even the refugees, it seemed, all smoked, and the enticing combination of the curling smoke in the air and the easy, relaxed way of the smokers tempted me every minute to have just one cigarette. I managed to avoid it, though there would be moments when I wanted one desperately, and an evening at Catherine’s, a bar located just beyond the gates of Kakuma, guaranteed that.

One evening, Aimée and a Ugandan physician who’d joined our team for a short stint invited me along to the local bar. It was the first I’d heard of a bar here. Images of the American Club immediately popped into my head, and I imagined comfortable chairs, cool wine, maybe even music. I eagerly agreed, and we headed out just after sunset.

Surrounded by a chain-link fence with a tired-looking goat tied up at the entryway, Catherine’s seemed, at first glance, more junkyard than bar. “This is it?” I asked, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice.

“Oui,” Aimée replied. “A bit rustic, but fun.” She exhaled a long plume of smoke, and I felt a sting of envy that she was smoking and I was not. Maybe the bar would offer an antidote, a remedy to make a cigarette less alluring.

We passed by the goat to enter, and my mouth dropped open. Garbage—plastic bags, water bottles, paper scraps—lay everywhere. The bar, brightened by a few Christmas lights strung about, held few patrons, though it was too dark to really say how many people were there. Rickety wooden chairs were scattered around a mud hut where we could order a Tusker beer or vodka, no wine. I ordered beer, and we three sat and sipped our drinks.

Before long, I was in need of the latrine and was pointed in the direction of a falling-down wooden outhouse, guarded by yet another goat, this one lying directly in my path. I made my way around him and into the latrine, which was unlit and pitch black when I pulled the door shut behind me. I did my business quickly and headed back out to join my companions.

I’m not much of a beer drinker, so although I went back to Catherine’s, it was the camaraderie and uniqueness of the place that I craved. Nearly everyone there smoked. Watching as they flicked their ashes and stamped the tiny remnant of their cigarettes into the ground cured any longing I might have had. Still, it was the kind of place that grows on you, draws you back and swirls in your memory long after your last visit.

Occasionally, some of us—visitors to Kakuma and other expats, when they were around—would go to the camp’s refugee restaurant for a change. The Ethiopian section held several restaurants, opened by budding entrepreneurs, and it was there that we headed. All of the restaurants served the same menu of injera, the Ethiopian flatbread; wat, a kind of stew; and shiru, a spicy chili dish. We used the bread to scoop the shiru and wat into our mouths. Those who wanted it could also get a bottle of warm beer.

One evening, we ventured into Kakuma village, the Turkana town that lay just beyond the camp, for dinner. There was only one eatery and the menu consisted only of fried potatoes and rice, nothing else. Ever. Still, it was a welcome change of pace and a means of stepping back, if only for a moment, from the work, from the sadness here.