Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Letter from Baltimore, 3
This is a video during my one week at the Multi Media desk at The Baltimore Sun.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Letter from Baltimore, 2
My people would say I woke up with the birds. When I got into the I-95 South on Tuesday April 29, 2008 at 4am, as I headed to Baltimore Washington International Airport, I realised I had woken up with people. Thousands were driving the opposite way just like the thousands driving ahead of me. One of Americans’ idiosyncrasies is that they are always in motion. The stream of cars on their meticulous highways never stops, anytime.
At the check-in desk on my way to St Loius, Missouri, I handed out my passport and ticket to a lady who after scrutinising them handed them back and motioned me to proceed to the security desk.
“You are Andrew,” she asked as I picked my bags.
“Yes, madam,” I said.
“I will not attempt to pronounce the other name just in case I get it wrong,” she said.
She was not the first one, hundreds of other Americans who I have met since I came here seven weeks ago, find my surname either too long or unpronounceable.
"Which sylable is the stress on?" they often ask me.
At the security desk, a burly man was having a spat with an equally burly policeman.
“That is a deal, two expensive lotions for nothing,” the man said through clenched teeth.
“I am paid enough. I can buy that at the stores,” he said. The man looked angered more than amused. It was a battle of wit between two titans.
Tight travel restrictions bar the amount of liquids one can carry in-flight and the passenger was trying to push his luck. Whether he was aware of the rules, I do not know. The policeman would take none of it. In the end, the gentleman had to leave, crest fallen.
After five eventful weeks at The Baltimore Sun, I was setting off to meet Prof William Freivogel (I talked about him in my last blog). I had a presentation the following day at the Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.
In the two weeks after I wrote my first blog, so much has happened. One, my first, second and third story have been published. The last particularly excited my mentor, Mr Harry Smith and his boss, the likeable Ms Marcia Myers. The story is my recount of the violence after the disputed election in Kenya in January as I prepared to come to the United States.
Harry helped me write better stories tightening them, rejigging them at some time. The outcome was wonderful. My writing is crisp, my thoughts more flowing and the story ideas excellent. So three stories in two weeks, what more can I ask for?
I cannot help, but mention something about my helpful friend Mr Robert Little, The Sun’s National Correspondent. He has been of most help and his humour has been entrancing. Like when Marcia offered to buy us coffee at a café across the streets. It is still Spring here and the gush of cold wind can be a challenge to me. As we left, he pulled out his coat. I said I am not putting on my jacket.
“I am not putting on my jacket if Andrew is not,” Not what he said made me laugh, but how he said and how he put it back on his chair.
At the café as we made our orders, he told us of the day he was in Moscow the beginning of this year and had gone out to order for take-away tea and because he spoke no Russian nor did the people at the café speak any English, he used gestures to make his order.
“In the end I was given tea in a bowl,” he said. We laughed.
I also attended a seminar for Society of Business Editors and Writers in Baltimore so the trip to Carbondale was the icing on the cake of an eventful month.
Lambart International Airport in St Loius is as confusing as Heathrow Airport in London. I filed out into the arrivals lounge and tried to figure my way out. I went right, then turned back to where I started then went left. Men never ask for directions.
Finally, after several trials, I swallowed my pride and approached a lady at the security desk who showed me the way out.
I went down one floor, careful to look at the directions on the piece of paper I was given.
I almost exclaimed when someone roared from behind me.
“Mr Andrew Kipkemboi!”
“Yes, sir,” I shouted back excited. I was out on the wrong way again.
“This way please,” he said and I followed him into an elevator.
He asked me where I came from and I said Kenya. I was about to ask him where he came from just to start off a conversation when the doors swung open and into the cold wind we walked. The bristling wind was quite uncomfortable.
We set off for Carbondale driving over the River Mississipi near the famous St Loius Arch. In the two-hour drive, he spoke no word, I spoke no word.
The roads passed through huge tracts of land with stalks of harvested corn and soya beans. The fields spread out and met with the sky in the horizon. There were road repairs going on at a certain section of the road and that slowed our journey. It was unfortunate that that afternoon a student of the college I was visiting, got killed when a trailer crashed into his saloon car.
“What do you call a butterfly in your language?” the man asked as we drove into Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.
“Kipepeu,” I said. I waited for another word as we tried to locate the School of Journalism. No word was forthcoming. The man dropped me off and left. I don’t know his name.
At the school, I met a very helpful Prof William Recktenwald who took me round to the school’s impressive media offices. The school has a real TV station, a radio station and a daily newspaper The Daily Eqyptian. Centuries ago, this part of Southern Illinois was called Egypt. There is a fable, Recktenwald told me, about a famine and just like in the Biblical story of Joseph and his brothers who had to go to Egypt for food, so did people descend on Carbondale to get food rations.
“It is claimed that people would say we are going to Egypt and the name stuck,” he said.
Saluki (Egyptian for a pure breed of dog) is the school’s mascot. Saluki Express is the name given to the colleges’ shuttles.
I gave the talk the next day and drove off with Prof Bill Freivogel in his car to a St Loius suburb where my cousin lives.
I visited the site where the Mississipi River and the Missouri River join. The swirling currents is breathtaking. I visited the famous St Loius Arch. I was offered a trip up which I turned down. Heights frighten me.
I arrived back in the office today with a spring in my step. The weather is much better and I am off to the Multi-Media Desk for a week then switch back to my desk. My mentor is on a deserved break and I am literally having a ball.
Life in America is one I would call complex yet interesting. I am yet to figure out the way to my apartment. Everything looks the same here.
But what I dread most is shopping in the gigantic convenient stores. One, they are huge, two I have never found the ‘correct’ bread. They are so many brands and none of them tastes like the previous. Once I bought a Jewish bread. I offered it to a colleague in the office.
Shopping for milk too leaves a sour taste in my mouth. There is whole milk, 2 per cent fat, 3 per cent fat, 0 per cent fat and last night I bought one with HVD written on the lid. Whatever that means I don’t know, but my other cousin said it was okay. I don’t know, but it tastes good anyway. Let me finish so you can read it …
At the check-in desk on my way to St Loius, Missouri, I handed out my passport and ticket to a lady who after scrutinising them handed them back and motioned me to proceed to the security desk.
“You are Andrew,” she asked as I picked my bags.
“Yes, madam,” I said.
“I will not attempt to pronounce the other name just in case I get it wrong,” she said.
She was not the first one, hundreds of other Americans who I have met since I came here seven weeks ago, find my surname either too long or unpronounceable.
"Which sylable is the stress on?" they often ask me.
At the security desk, a burly man was having a spat with an equally burly policeman.
“That is a deal, two expensive lotions for nothing,” the man said through clenched teeth.
“I am paid enough. I can buy that at the stores,” he said. The man looked angered more than amused. It was a battle of wit between two titans.
Tight travel restrictions bar the amount of liquids one can carry in-flight and the passenger was trying to push his luck. Whether he was aware of the rules, I do not know. The policeman would take none of it. In the end, the gentleman had to leave, crest fallen.
After five eventful weeks at The Baltimore Sun, I was setting off to meet Prof William Freivogel (I talked about him in my last blog). I had a presentation the following day at the Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.
In the two weeks after I wrote my first blog, so much has happened. One, my first, second and third story have been published. The last particularly excited my mentor, Mr Harry Smith and his boss, the likeable Ms Marcia Myers. The story is my recount of the violence after the disputed election in Kenya in January as I prepared to come to the United States.
Harry helped me write better stories tightening them, rejigging them at some time. The outcome was wonderful. My writing is crisp, my thoughts more flowing and the story ideas excellent. So three stories in two weeks, what more can I ask for?
I cannot help, but mention something about my helpful friend Mr Robert Little, The Sun’s National Correspondent. He has been of most help and his humour has been entrancing. Like when Marcia offered to buy us coffee at a café across the streets. It is still Spring here and the gush of cold wind can be a challenge to me. As we left, he pulled out his coat. I said I am not putting on my jacket.
“I am not putting on my jacket if Andrew is not,” Not what he said made me laugh, but how he said and how he put it back on his chair.
At the café as we made our orders, he told us of the day he was in Moscow the beginning of this year and had gone out to order for take-away tea and because he spoke no Russian nor did the people at the café speak any English, he used gestures to make his order.
“In the end I was given tea in a bowl,” he said. We laughed.
I also attended a seminar for Society of Business Editors and Writers in Baltimore so the trip to Carbondale was the icing on the cake of an eventful month.
Lambart International Airport in St Loius is as confusing as Heathrow Airport in London. I filed out into the arrivals lounge and tried to figure my way out. I went right, then turned back to where I started then went left. Men never ask for directions.
Finally, after several trials, I swallowed my pride and approached a lady at the security desk who showed me the way out.
I went down one floor, careful to look at the directions on the piece of paper I was given.
I almost exclaimed when someone roared from behind me.
“Mr Andrew Kipkemboi!”
“Yes, sir,” I shouted back excited. I was out on the wrong way again.
“This way please,” he said and I followed him into an elevator.
He asked me where I came from and I said Kenya. I was about to ask him where he came from just to start off a conversation when the doors swung open and into the cold wind we walked. The bristling wind was quite uncomfortable.
We set off for Carbondale driving over the River Mississipi near the famous St Loius Arch. In the two-hour drive, he spoke no word, I spoke no word.
The roads passed through huge tracts of land with stalks of harvested corn and soya beans. The fields spread out and met with the sky in the horizon. There were road repairs going on at a certain section of the road and that slowed our journey. It was unfortunate that that afternoon a student of the college I was visiting, got killed when a trailer crashed into his saloon car.
“What do you call a butterfly in your language?” the man asked as we drove into Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.
“Kipepeu,” I said. I waited for another word as we tried to locate the School of Journalism. No word was forthcoming. The man dropped me off and left. I don’t know his name.
At the school, I met a very helpful Prof William Recktenwald who took me round to the school’s impressive media offices. The school has a real TV station, a radio station and a daily newspaper The Daily Eqyptian. Centuries ago, this part of Southern Illinois was called Egypt. There is a fable, Recktenwald told me, about a famine and just like in the Biblical story of Joseph and his brothers who had to go to Egypt for food, so did people descend on Carbondale to get food rations.
“It is claimed that people would say we are going to Egypt and the name stuck,” he said.
Saluki (Egyptian for a pure breed of dog) is the school’s mascot. Saluki Express is the name given to the colleges’ shuttles.
I gave the talk the next day and drove off with Prof Bill Freivogel in his car to a St Loius suburb where my cousin lives.
I visited the site where the Mississipi River and the Missouri River join. The swirling currents is breathtaking. I visited the famous St Loius Arch. I was offered a trip up which I turned down. Heights frighten me.
I arrived back in the office today with a spring in my step. The weather is much better and I am off to the Multi-Media Desk for a week then switch back to my desk. My mentor is on a deserved break and I am literally having a ball.
Life in America is one I would call complex yet interesting. I am yet to figure out the way to my apartment. Everything looks the same here.
But what I dread most is shopping in the gigantic convenient stores. One, they are huge, two I have never found the ‘correct’ bread. They are so many brands and none of them tastes like the previous. Once I bought a Jewish bread. I offered it to a colleague in the office.
Shopping for milk too leaves a sour taste in my mouth. There is whole milk, 2 per cent fat, 3 per cent fat, 0 per cent fat and last night I bought one with HVD written on the lid. Whatever that means I don’t know, but my other cousin said it was okay. I don’t know, but it tastes good anyway. Let me finish so you can read it …
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