Ainul Qamar

"No! I am a Somali! I KNOW! Camel meat can stay for up to TWO months! TWO months!" The Kenyan from the western province looked sideways at me and scoffed, and I looked away. Ali pounded the table and the six other Somalis standing around him all shouted in agreement. "You are a Luo! You know fish! WE are Somali! We know camels!" Ali continued. The Luo finished the last bite of his rice, muttered something, and walked through the beaded curtain and into the night. The group of men, some sitting at the table across from me, and others standing behind them leaning on one another, continued to tell me about the camel as I drank my first cup of camels' milk. "The camel eats from 142 different trees, some medicinal. Therefore the milk provides good medicine, it is the BEST!" "You will never have to worry about constipation when drinking camels' milk!" "A man who owns five camels is rich!" "The milk can stay for up to one month!" When they asked me what I thought of the milk, I said that it had the same warm, smoky flavor of the Massai cows' milk, but sweeter. They looked at each other and smiled and then proudly told me that they prepare the milk in the same way, but yes indeed, the camels' milk is the sweetest milk in the world.

There was a rush of customers, which happens after the 4th prayer of the day, and the workers dispersed; taking orders, shouting to the men in the kitchen, and running food out to the tables. I sat with my back to the row of sinks against the far wall, four in total, so the customers had to pass me to wash their hands. Some men smiled, some looked at me with puzzled looks, some lifted their hands in a waist high open wave (which is what some men do instead of shaking my hand), and many said, "Welcome!" I drank the milk while I watched the commotion of the restaurant. Ainul Qamar, the best in town in my book. It sure beats the lonely top end hotel/restaurants that only offer a poor attempt at "Western" food. But what is better than the food (which is really good) is the ambience. It is SO loud! The shouting, laughter, chatter, and metal plates and cups hitting the tables almost make it impossible to hear the person sitting next to you!

I was sitting back in my plastic chair, holding the metal cup of camels' milk - my arms resting on and sticking to the plastic table cloth - when I noticed the man from breakfast walk in with a group of men. His dark beard stood out against his white Kaftan and white cotton turban. I tightened up when he spotted me and as he eyed the empty seat next to me...Earlier that morning, my first full day in Garissa, I asked the cleaning lady, Wanjuko, (who was bent over a bucket while hand washing my clothes) where I could have chai and chapatti for breakfast. She pointed to a place called Ainul Qamar from where we stood on the hotel balcony. I walked down the small corridor, its sides lined with fully veiled female tailors, dressed in black, at their sewing machines. "Assalamu Alaykum," I said in greetings to a couple of men reading the Holy Quran at the entrance of the restaurant. When I walked through its open doors and a curtain of wooden beads, I quickly noticed that I was the only woman in the room. I momentarily stood at the entrance and scanned the room. Men between the ages of 20-60 filled the cafeteria style restaurant. Some were wearing t-shirts and jeans; others were in long sleeved shirts and wrap skirts or Kaftans with either a turban or a light cloth thrown over their heads. Men turned around in their seats and followed me with hard stares as I made my way to the row of sinks at the back wall. While I washed my hands, I looked up in the mirror above the sink and saw several men watching me as they scooped up food with their right hands and brought it to their mouths. I greeted the 7 men at my table as I sat down in one of the few empty chairs in the room and ordered my chapatti and chai.

I chatted with the guys at the table while I drank and ate. Before I finished I noticed a very loud man making his way to the sink to wash after taking his breakfast. When he was done, he stopped in front of me and asked, "Madam, how are you?" "Fine sir, and you?" I replied back. He continued, "Fine, fine. Let me ask you madam, have you heard the saying, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans?'" I told him that yes in fact I had. He then said, "You have a beautiful wrap around your shoulders. It should be over your head. You are here with us Somalis, so you should cover your head!" While he said this, the whole room watched, and he made dramatic hand/arm movements as though he was covering his head. As he talked, he turned to the men around him as though he was speaking to them, not me. Without waiting for my response, he walked to the front of the room. Immediately, three young men from different tables came to me and told me to never mind him. "If you are comfortable with covering your head, then cover it. If not, don't. But never mind him." I decided that while in Garissa, I wouldn't cover my head because I saw some Christians who don't cover, but I regretted my decision at that moment. I finished my conversation with the guys at the table and left.

Ibrahim, I later came to know him as, did indeed sit down next to me. Before greeting me he ordered and then greeted others at our table. A cup of camels' milk was served to him and as he brought the cup to his lips, he stopped and looked over at me and said, "This is camels' milk. I'm sure you have never had it, but you should try," I raised my glass and told him that I was enjoying a glass of it myself, and then took a drink. As I brought the cup to the table, I looked at him and said, "There is a saying...'When in Rome, do as the Romans.' So I'm here with you Somalis, so I drink camels' milk." The table burst into laughter (they were all there in the morning for breakfast and witnessed our first encounter). Ibrahim also laughed and said to me, "My sister. Tell me, what is your name?" I replied and asked him his. He asked if I knew who Ibrahim was, so I shared my experience of visiting his namesake's tomb when I was in the Middle East last year. I told him I was American when he asked my nationality, although I was hesitant. Then he asked, "Did you vote for Obama?" "I campaigned for him!" I replied! For the next hour, a group of men circled Ibrahim and I and collectively we talked about politics. We discussed Obama, the wars in Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Palestinian and Israeli conflict, and America's interest in Somalia. We shouted, laughed, and some people pounded the table when the conversation got heated!

I take my two meals a day at Ainul Qamar, breakfast and dinner, and every night the conversation theme is different, Kenyan independence, Obama, Kenyan politics and the new budget, Somalia's history and wars with Ethiopia and Kenya, Piracy, Obama, the Pastoralist lifestyle, Education, Obama, the Palestinian and Israeli conflict (which comes up A LOT...and it isn't me who raises the issue!)the similarities between the Bible and Quran and yes, more Obama! I order the same dinner every night and the price is a little cheaper than the night before. The breakfast work crew now gives me a gift of three bananas with my chai and chapatti every morning. Sometimes I meet Ibrahim and the two guys that work for him and we sit together, sometimes I eat with a Ugandan guy who always argues about the price of his dinner when he is done and tells the staff their chicken is too dry. Or I sit and chat with strangers who I later sometimes meet again in meetings or at the EMACK office!

On the weekends, I have been in Garissa for two weekends, I spend the afternoons sitting with a group of young men and veiled women outside of the cybercafe that is in the same building as my hotel. We chat, drink tea, and watch traffic and people move by as the electricity comes and goes. There are some permanent fixtures to this scene; such as an old pa with a henna dyed beard and wooden cane who harasses me all the time about my clothes. The young men tell me that when pa is yelling at me he is saying, "Trousers are for men!" "She has beautiful hair but we don't want to see it!" "This one is stubborn. She covers her head sometimes but still wears trousers!" Everyone laughs. The first time he saw me in a Somali dress with a head wrap he danced and waved his arms in the air and apparently said, "NOW, she is beautiful and ready for a Somali husband!" There is Yussuf; the young, attractive, soft spoken cybercafe owner who recently just graduated from Nairobi University in computer science. There is the hotel watchman; Ousman, who sleeps at night in a wheelbarrow at the bottom of the steps. His body wrapped in a red cloth and a machete on his chest. He so badly wants to chat with me and often sits right in front of me and speaks Swahili or Somali (or a mix) and makes hand gestures to get his point across, often with success. Helima is a young woman who comes to the cafe everyday to check her email hoping to find out about her job application status at the Dabaab refugee camp with an International NGO. She is a social worker within the NGO world. I have only seen her face once. The first day we met I asked her take me to the market. I wanted some clothes made. We entered a dark little shop with a woman behind the counter. After the greetings, Helima threw her veil over her head and I was surprised to see her pimpled scarred cheeks.

Sitting with complete strangers whom I come to know (or not) and talking for hours while sharing cups of tea are some of my favorite moments. There is a story to be told by all, and tea is often an entry point to the stories, a gateway to learn about one another and a history. A history of a people, a country, a person... Whether it is drinking tea with Helima and Yussef, members of Hamas, or fellow travelers in some back alley hostel in Zanzibar, I believe the meeting point of that moment is a middle place.