Kyiv: the intercultural finale

My latest trip to Kyiv (the true spelling of what Russians call ‘Kiev’) was for a big international workshop for young leaders, the grand finale to the British Council programme I’d been through the past six months.

The workshop was fascinating: 85 young people from 16 different countries – mostly central and east European, as well as the UK, three Nordic countries, Turkey and Israel – gathered for three days of intercultural exchange and self discovery. The event aimed to help us build our intercultural networks, and co-develop projects that would ‘change the world’. It sounded lofty and vague, and often was, but I forced myself to go with the cheesy flow and got a lot from it. One lesson was that the British cynicism that led to my initial disdain for the slightly patronising event format was a burden, not a badge of ironic honour.

The event had an interesting relationship with national stereotypes. Of course most are based on truth and this was proven repeatedly throughout the three days. There were forthright and self-depreciating Nordics, quiet and reserved Belorussians, friendly but slightly wary Turks, baulchy Israelis, and numerous oddball central and east Europeans: one Slovenian wrote in his personal profile, published in a directory of participants that everyone received at the start, that he is "a strange person you don’t want to meet, cause I bite while moonwalking… and am easily changeable with a shaman as I play a jew’s harph”…

But the nature of the selection process meant that most people shared a lot beneath the thin veneer of their cultures, and almost everyone was fun, smart, engaging and pro-active.

The stereotypes were also a common source of fun, and I found great favour in playing up to them. In one presentation I played a BBC news reporter, donning my plummiest accent and stiffest upper lip. Everyone loved it, and afterwards I was unsure whether I’d reinforced a negative stereotype or poked fun at, and holes through, an international misconception about how reserved the Brits really are.

Day 1 ended with an intercultural fair, where each country had a stand. The Turks offered henna tattoos and belly-dancing, the Israelis offered cleansing Dead Sea mud. True to form our lacklustre British table contained an umbrella and lots of tea. But the most common (and popular) offerings were the huge shots of 50% drinks from across eastern Europe. Needless to say everyone got sloshed pretty quickly. That set the tone for the rest of the event, which involved early starts, jam-packed days, and boozy late nights. I was exhausted by the end.

My most interesting conversations were with the large Israeli contingent. Never having spoken at length to young Israelis before, I was fascinated by their opinions, values and mannerisms. The groups was disproportionately liberal yet they still often came across as rude, not least in walking out of sessions they found pointless, or shutting people off mid-sentence if they were bored by a conversation.

I spoke most with Golda, a strident and extremely sharp woman of colossal ambition. She explained that for an Israeli, walking away from dull dialogue isn’t rude, but honest and efficient. While I remained trapped in cul-de-sac conversations with nothing but my subtly negative body language to rescue me, she’d already spoken to four people. She afterwards said it’s nice that the British are so polite, to which I replied I had no choice; it’s my culture. For the first time I saw those famous and respected British manners as a cage.

Israel lives in a constant state of tension and conflict with its neighbours, so it’s not surprising that its people are so assertive, (i.e. blunt and impatient). One outcome is that they are very energetic, possibly living for the day because things are so unpredictable. Another reason why Israelis are seen as rude is possibly because, in geopolitical terms, their country is the small, spoilt rich kid on the block, enjoying the patronage of the sole hyperpower and not used to having to compromise. Now the hyperpower’s might is waning while it’s groundbreaking President is parenting Israel with a firmer hand, and they don’t know how to react.

One reason why I got on so well with the Israelis is not because they are so different from us, but so similar. We are both American satellites, at least culturally, and I was surprised at the depth of our affinity. Interesting that in a European event without a single American present, the Land of the Free can still exert such influence.

Kenya - of buses and streetboys

Following idyllic Uganda would always be a tricky task, and Kenya's reputation for aggression and hassle preceded it. But I wasn’t ready for how quickly the country’s notoriety would justify itself; my first conversation was an argument with the conductor of the bus leaving from the border. I didn’t mind paying the inflated ‘mzungu’ price as much as I minded him lying about both the inflation and the price itself. I paid and he became friendly enough, though never happier then when our minibus passed a vicious street fight in one of the towns en route.

Buses in that part of Africa are very different to those I’m used to back home. They come in two distinct varieties: minibuses and coaches. Both intra-city ‘Public buses’ and inter-city ‘shuttles’ are minibuses zipping along without any regard for speed or safety. They’re always privately run, decorated, and named:

They are often savagely overcrowded, to the point of overflowing, and are known as a picpocket’s heaven. They’re also dirt cheap, have excellent music blaring, and are the quickest way to get around.

And mine with the aggressive conductor quickly got me to Kisumu, Kenya’s third largest city and largest city in the Luo area. Badly affected by the post-election violence that swept Kenya in early 2008, the project that I was there to visit was almost cancelled that year as a result. In 2009 there were few visible signs of the problems. Much more visible were the hoards of street children that the city is famous for. Or to be more precise, street boys. I learnt that street girls are far less common because (i) they are more likely to be welcomed back than their brothers, as boys are ‘more trouble than girls’, (ii) they are more likely to be trusted by strangers and employed as domestic help, and (iii) they are more likely to be taken in because they are at greater risk on the streets than their male peers. As a result nearly all the street children in Kisumu are boys.

And there are many boys. Ubiquitous clusters of shoeless, solvent-sniffing street boys staggering the streets, glue bottles permanently clamped between their rotting teeth. To the nervous traveller, as I was on my first visit to the city in 2007, they can be intimidating, a ragged mob of desperate feral youth with nothing to lose. (I was told in Nairobi that the street boys there are genuinely dangerous, and manage to occasionally avoid the street lynchings for which the area is notorious by covering themselves in human waste, which is then thrown at anyone that ventures within splattering range.)

But rather than be intimidated – or fear flying excrement – I went with the project’s leader to visit some of the shelters seeking to address Kisumu’s street child epidemic, and was greeted with timid curiosity distinctive of those that deserve better, but know they could be much worse off. These boys have found at least some respite from the streets, but for each of them there are dozens for whom there is no space.

After two days of frantically visiting as many street refuges and schools as possible to get a picture of the project, I left our superhero project coordinator and her motley crew to continue their work, while I continued on my journey, this time by coach.

In contract to the minibuses, the coaches of East Africa are the big hulking bruiser variety of bus: much slower, safer (on account of their size rather than having any seatbelts); but better for the long haul (shuttles rarely go further than 8 hours from base, while the coaches cross the region in stints of up to 72 hours at a time). They are also spacious enough to host occasional characteristic happenings, such as the suave and often evangelically fervent ‘Drs’ who stand centre aisle and bellow their polished public health speeches about how their anti-worming creams (complete with photos of writhing worms) will cure everyone’s parasite problems. I’ve never seen one swamped with business but it would only take a couple of sales to cover the fare.

The coaches also attract an innovative form of enterprise characteristic to the region, the shop in a box:

Extremely convenient for passengers but doubtless dreary and poorly rewarded work. A fitting symbol for the tireless decency and resourcefulness that exemplifies the vast majority of Africans I’ve met.