There is an interesting little tribe in Kenya called the
“Kenyan Cowboys” or more colloquially known as the “KC’s”. Often overlooked by anthropologists, this
small group has a fascinating culture quite different than their neighboring
tribes. There origins are European, quite often British, but they and their
forefathers were born and raised in Kenya and thus they are uniquely Kenyan.
Their reputation is not the most flattering. They are known
for being a bunch of “loud, privileged, racist drunks.” Born and raised in
Kenya, they often prefer gallivanting around the bush, running far away from
the quickly expanding urban sprawl.
Although they may be a bit wild in more ways than one, they
are also quite handy and can usually fix your car, your tractor, or your broken
window. They can find their way out of a sticky situation (that they probably
created themselves). They can get a job done and get it done well. They manage
a variety of businesses, from tourism to agriculture. They understand many of
the systemic problems that plague East Africa better than many of the
“non-racist” philanthropists that come in to throw money at a bad situation.
They care about the environmental and social issues around them, even as they
rudely call for the “help” to serve them their tea.
They contribute a great deal to Kenyan development but are
not regarded as true Kenyans by the government. Many do not own Kenyan
passports and must buy work permits every year in order to remain in Kenya,
many cannot vote or in some way feel disenfranchised from the electoral
process. They are loud, obnoxious, and rude in many ways but must quietly bow
their heads in many others.
They are white Kenyans, they are the KC’s.
So when a dozen KC’s rolled into Mbita one weekend, the
anthropologist in me couldn’t help but put on my participant-observer hat and
study them. Little did I know, that I was about to witness a rare and sacred
ritual of the KC’s: the stag party. It took me awhile to figure out exactly
what ritual was taking place. When introduced to “the stag”, I figured that was
just a nickname. It wasn’t until well into the ritual that I realized a “stag
party” is our version of a bachelor party. Anthropology game on!
As a young female attending a bachelor party, it is
difficult not to alter the natural environment, but such is the plight of a
‘participant observer’ (note: this is truly an anthropological method and not
something that I just made up!). I believe my presence did not dramatically
alter the natural course of events. The KC’s proved themselves to be
extraordinary drunks, menaces to the locals, and crude sexist pigs. (Though I
wonder if this would be any different at a bachelor party for men of any other
tribe.) Although I cannot and will not excuse this inappropriate behavior, when
removed from the group chaos, some of their better traits were also revealed. One-on-one,
they could fix my car, clearly articulate strategies for better environmental
management of the country’s natural resources, and proudly talk about their
little kids (note: although this was a stag party, all of the men were married
or nearly married). And so with time, my horror over the drunken savagery
transformed into a reserved fondness for these notorious tribesmen. Now I just
wish I could get a glimpse of the womenfolk…
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