The Indestructible Beat

2012-02-25T00:57:00.002-08:00

TCB

2012-02-25T00:26:00.003-08:00

All these years of public transportation (a lot of walking), passing by incredible realities we could only look out the window and dream to capture, finally led us to Elvis. We broke down our insane need of 'being as local as possible' and purchased the 1972 LandRover 88 properly known as the Beat Mobile. With a little technical fixing up and a lot of love, we painted him, dressed him up, and have been driving the beast round the desert and villages exploring Kenya's north and making some bizarro music videos (coming soon) where he proved to be the King he his. We love you Elvis.

Two Weeks in the Wild Country

2012-01-15T07:45:00.001-08:00

Back to our Roots

2012-01-07T13:16:00.000-08:00

From Kenya with Love. Transmission 1 of Who Knows...

2011-12-31T06:13:00.000-08:00

SLUMCHELLA & The $3 Dollar Holler

2011-12-13T19:12:00.000-08:00

This is it folks- by far the most audacious and important thing we have ever attempted. Downhill, no brakes, toothpick between the teeth, into the sunset we go. Sirens behind, but in the smokey distance, someone you love very much is calling your name.
We don't get that feeling every day. But it's right here if you want it.

The purpose of the event is to give a voice to the indigenous tribes of northern Kenya who face mass displacement by the GIBE 3 hydroelectric dam, currently under construction, that will destroy the downstream river and lake ecosystem and cut the lifeline of 1 million indigenous people, sending them into refugee camps or one of Kenyas massive slums in search of a new way to survive.

SLUMCHELLA will awaken the sleeping giant- a collective beast of immeasurable potential, which includes you, me, Kenya, everyone. We are going put this issue on a world-stage through a celebration of indigenous culture. Music, film and dance. In short, Slumchella is a get-down to stop whats going down.

CLICK HERE TO JOIN US. CONTRIBUTE $3. SPREAD THE WORD TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW.

Love,
VB

The Finest Hour

2011-12-13T18:08:00.000-08:00

The Finest Hour of 2011 Village Beat by Village Beat

This is our Year End Mix. 2011's "Finest hour", according to the owls of Village Beat. You've heard most of these gems, but if you haven't, put the Tupac back in the visor CD wallet and open your ears to exactly 60 minutes of one of the finest years in music history. Happy New Year from Village Beat. We love you.

TRACKLIST: artist/track/album
00:05-4:12 Tyler the Creator/ Yonkers/ Goblin
4:23-11:09 The Weeknd/ House of Balloons-Glass Table Girls/ House of Balloons
11:17-14:42 SBTRKT/ Hold On/SBTRKT
15:03-18:16 WU LYF/ Dirt/ Go Tell Fire to the Mountain
18:17-22:48 PlanningtoRock/ The Breaks/ W
22:49- 26:54 John Maus/ Believer/ We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves
26:55-30:33 PJ Harvey/ Words That Maketh Murder/ Let England Shake
30:34-35:06 Panda Bear/ Last Night at the Jetty/ Tomboy
35:19-38:34 Shabazz Palaces/ An Echo From the Hosts That Profess Infinitum/ Black Up
38:35- 42:16 AWOLNATION/ Sail/ Megalithic Symphony
42:17- 45:12 Atlas Sound/ The Shakes/ Parallax
45:13-50:51 The Antlers/ Putting the Dog to SLeep/ Burst Apart
50:52- 55:26 James Blake/ The Wilhelm Scream/ James Blake
55:27-58:57 Thundercat/ For Love I Come/ The Golden Age of Apocalypse
58:57-59:10 Boards of Canada/ One Very Importnat Thought/ Music Has the Right to Children
End: Village Beat and the Turkeys

Scoreless in Seattle

2011-10-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

Seattle's Capitol Hill is a vortex of wind, rain, dancing trees, shot glasses of cayenne pepper-drizzled health blasters, vinyl and candles. Music. Coffee. Done. An LA escapee could get used to this.

For Information:

2011-10-04T01:05:00.000-07:00

http://occupylosangeles.org/

http://occupywallst.org/

Occupy LA. Be present in your presence.

2011-10-04T00:17:00.000-07:00

OCCUPY LA: Day 2-- October 2nd, 2011

There is no them. There is only us.
We point fingers blaming and bow heads in frustration and look to others for communication. Yet, its all our creation. Downtown LA, at City Hall, at 1st and Spring Street, there is a protest happening. A gathering of humans. A movement of Solidarity, that when solid, can solidify our country. Install the We back into We The People. There is a revolution growing. A revolution ending the absurdity of Corporate America. The absurdity of a nation with a democratic government that is not deriving its power from the people. The absurdity of a system that places self-interest over harmony and justice. Profit over people. Consumption over culture.

This isn't a month long sit in the park and walk down the streets. This isn't a year of sign waiving and marching into banks. This is a commitment to a world of equality. A world of cooperation. A lifestyle derived and rooted in consciousness. We make the decision to have our money in banks. We make the decision to wear clothing that is stitched with slavery. We make the decision to get paychecks from businesses that rape the earth, declare bankruptcy and give CEO bonuses. Businesses that make a commodity out of our privacy.

Take a deep breath. Think about your decisions. Don't worry about what you've done. But make changes this next time.

You'll never get there if you're taking the wrong road.

Come join us downtown LA. All day and night. Or join Occupy all over the USA. Wherever you are, we're Occupying. Get inspired. We can change this by joining together, by showing solidarity that we recognize we're no longer represented by our representatives. That democracy has been forgotten. That the United States has become untied and is living a lie.

Its not a matter of hope. Its a matter if you want to change yourself. Thats where this all begins.

So Begin!

Some Serious Inspiration...

2011-07-23T17:31:00.001-07:00

Shabazz Palaces- Live on KEXP

2011-07-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

"Black Up" is out.
After about 100 listens, you start hearing it for the first time again.

Between the band's recent deluge of interviews and shows, we're catching the signal that Ishmael's score for Tough Bond is in synthesis- as is a plan to get these cats on a stage in one of the mot remote regions of East Africa, to play for an audience of a few thousand Turkana nomads.

We could use a few extra hands. Anyone?

by sharing words and ideas

2011-06-02T20:06:00.000-07:00

The oral tradition alive and well in Kibera.

SHABAZZ PALACES: "BLASTIT"

2011-04-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

Finally, we give you Blastit- our video for Shabazz Palaces. The track is from their self-titled EP. A few months ago, we made a good friend in Ishmael Butler, AKA Butterfly, of Shabazz Palaces. He's bringing our favorite voice in hip-hop and the mysterious sound of Shabazz to bear on the score of our film. There is pure magic in this union.

The full-length debut record from Shabazz Palaces, "Black Up", will be out in June on Sub Pop. Not to be missed. It's already my favorite record of the year and it will likely stay that way.

I don't think I've smiled as I did today in a really long time- thinking of our friends in this video from Isiolo, Mombasa, Meru, the Turkana village of Attir and how happy they would be to know that people here can see them and feel a ray of their African sunshine.

A day in the Beat Cave

2011-04-23T09:16:00.000-07:00

Modeselektor. Happy Birthday. Coffee, 1 press, 2 cups, spinach, more than you'd think, a cookie, a website born, an argument outside between "Gregory" and a man who should have sent him something in the mail, helicopters, tourists taking pictures of gargoyles, underwear, dancing, Kenyan music videos, Mombasa turned into Nairobi and we are one step closer to the dawn of the Tough Bond.
Just another day in the Beat Cave. However, those days are numbered, as we soon relocate to the Pueblo, an elevated cliffside dwelling with a view, a crew and a whole lot to do.

The Star of the Show

2010-12-10T18:41:00.000-08:00

We Love Sinbad from Village Beat on Vimeo.

Feeling lovey-dovey? Overwhelmed? Generous? Do it. Make a donation on this page (button below), or go visit our profile at Creative Visions:

www.creativevisions.org/projects/villagebeat.html

Life as Unusual

2010-11-14T12:41:00.001-08:00

Friends in angry fruit costumes, friends multiplying, red peppers needing love, the Fall on the best coast, mornings waking beside Our Mother Pacific, scrambling around like hermit crabs for a shell, wild rivers and music. After a month inside the kaleidoscope, we're back to work, getting ready to tell a grand story.

Customs

2010-11-14T11:37:00.000-08:00

Search me. You'll find more than you can handle.

2010-09-29T00:26:00.001-07:00

Our very first music video, shot for the boys of the K.M.U. underground hip-hop outfit in Nairobi's Kiamaiko slum over two days in their neighborhood of tunnels and slaughterhouses. Fyetux (a.k.a. Will-O) was our connection to the otherwise impenetrable Kariobangi street kid crew. In return for his introduction, we shot a video for their new track. "Polisi" tells the story that not every cop must be a "fisi" (hyena/corrupt mo-fo). Real exposure for musicians in Nairobi is when your video hits the "big screen" circuit of the bumping matatus (taxi buses) that transport thousands of people every day to and from the city and slums. From Lil' Wayne/ T-Pain to Elephant Man to local heroes, the DVD medleys are non-stop. Village Beat gets up in the mix.

KMU- POLISI from Village Beat on Vimeo.

The Beat is coming home

2010-09-27T15:52:00.000-07:00

tO mAkE a VILLAGE iN the StrEETs.

Goodbye for now beloved Kenya! Goodbye friends. Thank you for letting us be changed by your lives. Thank you for naps in your living rooms, on skins under your stars, for your bravery in new places alongside us, for chapatis and philosophy, for your trust in us that could only have come from the look in our eyes. We'll be back to go further, to give and to receive even more. For now, let's tend our own gardens and prepare for the next celebration.
Tough Bond. Coming soon.

Brothers

2010-09-27T15:22:00.000-07:00

Some of us are lucky enough to have one. This is Echumu, Andrew and Awatchi. Brothers. Seeing them in town, you'd have no idea they are related. It's only when you lower your head to stand with them, awkwardly inside the tiny shack where their mother drunkenly rages, that you see the common origin, the forces that make grave their youthful eyes and drive a fault line of necessity through their family.
Here they lie on the pile of wood that- with the help of neighbors, two lead carpenters, a gaggle of imperfectionists sharing one hammer, the moral support of their lazy but always affable father, time and a bit of determination- we hope, will become their home. We built the place. Painted it. Even put beds inside. But they've never known what a home looks like, or how it works. We'll find out what happens when we come back next year. A year off of the street. A year away from their mother. A year to explore their bond under one roof.

I'm a simple man.

2010-09-27T15:16:00.000-07:00

Just give me my miraa and I'll give you this smile all day long.
Baba Echumu- enjoying the show as the bones of his boys' new home go up, a stone's throw from his doorstep.

What's the password?

2010-09-16T05:43:00.000-07:00

The American behind the bullet-proof glass looked at his monitor and grabbed the snaking microphone, "Mr. Julius? Window 9". His warm-showered, gelled hair looked like plastic in the fluorescent office light. His accent was Jersey.
Outside they had cued for hours in the purple darkness. Men on the left, women (and shouldered babies) on the right. They had emptied their empty pockets. Held their arms up, turned around. Embassy security was tight after a bomb ripped 400 people there in 1998.
No more chances.
****
First 20, then 50, then 100 dreams tentatively walked into the waiting room, looking around for clues of how to act, how to better their odds. Their verdicts would come in only a few hours.
****
Kenya: I want to attend my daughter's wedding. Please.
America: Your application is denied. Outdated bank statement.
Kenya: But...
America: That's all for today, sir.
Kenya: I will not leave this place without a visa.
America: Call security. Next, please. Lemuya, Julius?
Kenya: Yes, sir!
America: Why do you want to go to the US?
Kenya: I am a Pastor, attending a conference for Pastors in South Carolina. I am invited by so-and-so.
America: What do you do for income, Mr. Julius?
Kenya: I am a pastor.
America: I suggest you save for a few years and come back, Mr. Julius, your ties to Kenya are not particularly strong.
Kenya: I have a family-
America: Yes, I understand, but your ties to Kenya are weak.
Kenya: Weak? I am a Pastor with a Parish.
America: Do you own land? A business? You have no money. How will you support yourself in America?
Kenya: You mean for the one week conference?
America: Yes.
Kenya: The church is paying for everything, it says right here-
America: I'm sorry sir, that's all for today.
Human: Excuse me, I am a friend of Mr. Lemuya here, we've worked together here for 2 years doing various community development projects. He's my main man in Kenya. I trust him with everything. What's the problem?
America: His ties to Kenya aren't particularly strong.
Human: What does that mean?
America: No money, no business, he could make so much more money in America, the risk is too high that he'll stay for us to admit him.
Human: He's a pastoralist. A nomad. They own nothing but cows and goats.
America: Nomads don't get visas. Come back again in a few years.

****
What are we doing? In those years, must he shed his identity? Must he go to school, get a job, open accounts etc? Money. Our password is money. I am so ashamed.

****
Until this peaceful warrior lands on American soil, you'll have to come to Kenya to be his friend, to hear his stories and his laugh, to dance with him and to feel the supernova that is emitted from his heart.

****

Wolfy

2010-09-10T08:59:00.000-07:00

I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll sleep on your house.

Sinbad. Bad to the Bone.

2010-09-10T08:46:00.001-07:00

This kid makes it really really difficult to think of leaving Kenya in two weeks. Our relationship started six months ago, divided by a camera, as we documented his existence as the notoriously most glued-out street kid in Isiolo. After a few months, the camera disappeared and we became friends rather than working partners. He's now left glue, left the streets, and has beat all odds by entering a boarding school where he will finish elementary school and startle his teachers with his enormous bursting open heart and, somehow, still-intact, genius brain.

Annaliza

2010-09-10T08:45:00.000-07:00

Mary Poppins

2010-09-10T08:44:00.000-07:00

Akai

2010-09-10T08:32:00.000-07:00

This is Akai. We've been following her for one year now, from the streets, to her new home with her husband's family. She's 15. She's beautiful. In the time of 15 minutes, every afternoon, she transforms from a young, playful housewife in the farm hills to a tomboy addicted to huffing glue at the 'base' where all of the street kids gather in Meru town. She's thinking of having children. She's an incredible pancake cook.

ABCDEFG

2010-09-10T08:29:00.000-07:00

Pepo la Tumaini. 'Winds of Hope' Elementary School in Isiolo. "There may not be much, but what we have is enough."

Pumzika

2010-09-10T08:23:00.000-07:00

We jumped off rocks and swam in our undies. The village snuck over to see the pale creatures in the buff. I'm not sure which was more exhausting--fighting the chest-stopping cold water or the anxious attention forming a spotlight on us. Afterward, the sunlight starched us dry and we paused to feel the love. Thank you, Mr. Sun.

"Turkanas eat everything..."

2010-09-10T01:36:00.000-07:00

"...but we do not eat that", said our good friend and house guest Julius Lmuya.
"I have seen this kill cobra".
Little did Julius know that for three days prior to his overnight visit to the Fursa Children Center, a hedgehog had been loose in our house and was last seen under his bed. We would have been happy to help him find the door, but the little fella only made mysterious midnight appearances, hiding during the day. At about 4am the first Night of The Hedgehog- a full moon midway through the Ramadan celebration- after hours of rolling around in shallow sleep, I heard a snorting noise. I opened my eyes to find an unidentified thing 6 inches from my face, arms up, claws entangled in my UNICEF mosquito net, two black eyes looking at me angrily. He wrestled himself free as I jack-knifed up and sat motionless, eyebrows raised. A clumsy chase ensued by headlamp, but he escaped. I was unprepared.
The next night, he appeared again, this time in the adjacent room, snorting, rooting, big prickly butt swaying as he searched for an exit along the cement wall. We surveyed his mood, his speed, devised a plan and moved some furniture. Moments later, we advanced on him, like skittish children, stuck to a dare- pot lid and sawed-off water jug in hand. The cobra killer waited, having made himself into a ball, an ideal choice for fending off would-be biters. As he lay there, tucked, smiling his nosy, lipless little smile, anticipating our first strike, he was instead confronted with bravery, human ingenuity, plastic and aluminum. He was documented and released without losing a quill.

2010-09-05T15:36:00.000-07:00

Safi Estate, Isiolo.

2010-09-05T15:34:00.000-07:00

Meru

2010-09-05T15:29:00.000-07:00

Down the road...

2010-08-24T04:25:00.000-07:00

...came a man with a book and a megaphone.
A2 to Marsabit at Ngaramara, Isiolo District.

From the plastic forest...

2010-08-24T04:20:00.000-07:00

...came a man with a goat.
Sokoni (Marketplace), Isiolo.

Neighborhood kids

2010-08-21T05:05:00.000-07:00

This is your face on glue.
Clockwise from top left: Oscar, Isiolo. Terror, Nairobi. Sinbad, Isiolo. Bling, Mombasa. Annifer, Isiolo.

Radio Flyer

2010-08-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

(Best movie ever filmed in Novato). This bike had a radio attached somehow to the handlebars connected by wires (tied together) to one functional speaker down somewhere by the knee. Even in Archer's Post- the end of Kenya for most Kenyans where towns give way to a simmering, hot sea of sand, thorns and scampering fantasy-animals called dik-diks- Rita Marley's "I want to get high" was on the dial and quickly became the best thing in town.

Carwin

2010-08-17T06:18:00.000-07:00

The only remaining Mitsubishi part on this Mr. Potato-car was the hood ornament. I had always scoffed at the sight of nails, welds, re-bar, and duct-tape holding Kenyan automobiles together. But I've come to realize that it isn't deterioration or neglect. It's adaptation to an unforgiving environment. Besides the unspoken driver-passenger "we're in this together" bond, it's tiny adjustments made over time that allow cargo trucks like this to stay on the road and go where no heap has gone before... Add the fact that nobody minds when a 12 hour journey turns into 3 days.

Why trains are cool

2010-08-17T06:14:00.000-07:00

Early morning on the way to Mombasa.

Posers

2010-08-17T06:05:00.000-07:00

We can't help it. Echum and Abdi go for Usher and Montell Jordan while I've just summitted Mt. Dork. Every photo. It's embarrassing.
Anyhow, we're in Thika doing a bit of research with the old "boda-boda" gang (Kenya's finest bicycle taxi crew). With these two Isiolo characters, trained as operators and team managers, we hope to bring the business to new territory and generate some income for the elder street kids.

Sponsor this Child

2010-08-09T06:13:00.000-07:00

...for only $1 a day...or else.
This is Echumu (or Paul), our friend and a character in the film, pictured here, resting after 2 hours of uninterrupted wood-chopping for the Fursa Children Centre kitchen. It's the first odd job we've been able to offer him. He's been off of glue for several months, in school, passing his classes. As Isiolo jobs go, chopping wood pays alright and now he's actually saving a little. Last week he asked about starting a bank account so he could save up for the soccer shoes he's demanded that we give him 487 times. Mwaaa-ha-haaa!! Our plan is working!!!!
*He doesn't normally look like a killer. He's a gifted actor with a sense of humor- which has certainly helped him make friends and survive throughout his 18 or so years.

A lorry, a lady, a lake.

2010-08-07T15:23:00.000-07:00

Near Loyangalani, Lake Turkana.

Men at Work

2010-08-06T01:37:00.000-07:00

His hair is an Eyoi

2010-08-06T01:34:00.000-07:00

Hitchhiking Warriors

2010-08-06T01:29:00.000-07:00

Mama Manyatta

2010-08-06T01:25:00.000-07:00

art day under the tree

2010-06-13T04:11:00.000-07:00

Freedom Square is where the street kids of Isiolo pass most of their time. It's a small family of Acacia trees, rooted directly in the center of town. Under its fractal shade, the kids cook, sleep, fight, tease their dog and do glue. Anneliese had the brilliant idea to bring some art supplies into the den, to encourage a bit of expression other than the usual antics they perform when we have the camera around. I predicted a riot as soon as the paper and colored pencils were to be revealed, ending in similar fashion to the many attempts we've made to distribute food. It's a sad and desperate thing to watch. Each time we swear we'll never do it again. And of course, we do. This time however, there was a moment of paralysis as Anneliese pulled out the sketch pad, pencils and crayons, handing them over to one of the older, bigger boys. They didn't immediately know what to make of the offering. Edible? Valuable? Which color do I want? The pencils- pink, blue, whatever- were snatched without preference. Most haven't been to school and are even less likely to have ever been given a chance to do some coloring on a big sketch pad. After quick skirmish, about 20 boys were prone on their mats, silently coloring. 10 minutes later, kids started coming over to proudly present and describe their drawings. Most were simple homes. Lots of lions, snakes and cars. A couple were pornographic.
Anneliese got a nice, Renaissance-style portrait (see above). After they were satisfied with their drawings, the kids voluntarily handed them to us for safe keeping- each with a smile, most saying thank you quietly, before affixing the glue bottles back to their lips as they spiraled away.
Then a strange thing happened. As our cameras came out, they went back to their usual business of rolling around laughing, passing out, cooking, trading collected copper scraps for glue, etc. but for once, they paid us almost no attention. Some sort of peace and acceptance settled in beneath the tree. Our acknowledgment of their creativity, of their potential, of their existence as something other than a disturbance seemed to release some pressure. And it lasted until sunset.

chutes and ladders

2010-06-04T16:17:00.000-07:00

Kariobangi is a slum outside of Nairobi. Its dense, Byzantine network of tunnels and dwellings might be the most feared place in Kenya. Through a process of introductions that began last year, we came to know the right people that would allow us to bring our cameras in. After getting the nod from the street kid crew, the price of some amazing footage was reduced significantly. The regular rate of robbery or worse was reduced to a mere accidental double poop-shoe. "Footage"...Village Beat-style.

Hair Did

2010-06-03T11:47:00.000-07:00

Classic moment at the kinyozi (hair salon) next door to our friend's music studio in Mombasa. While there may be a shortage of art, vegetables, and comfortable beds in Kenya...the country's definitely replete with cell phones and wigs :)

One More Time

2010-06-03T11:41:00.000-07:00

ARV and Erik in the dungeon recording studio as we get the chorus for a talented musician, Tar fum, a man of late 50's we found here who jams hard on the electric guitar while belting gorgeous Congolese lyrics with his rusty, goose-bump-inducing voice.

Sinbad's Ladies

2010-06-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

We finally ventured to the home, or that which is left and can somehow resemble a 'home' for one of our greatest friends and central figures, Sinbad. He sleeps tucked away from the night winds outside the local supermarket, directly in the center of Isiolo, a dusty 6-street "town" where we've spent most of our time digging into Kenya and her street children. Sinbad is possibly the town's biggest glue-user. Each day- and night- the 17-year old is higher than jet trails, yet somehow he's also the most respectful, well-mannered, intelligent, and handsome little dude I know. After months following his story, it's become obvious and understandable to us why he spends his time in town, away from this 'home', family, school or any support system we can recognize. His home is a dung shelter...actually quite beautiful... for his mother (just 11 years older) who is passing with Aids, her second child (also sick with HIV), his step-father and grandmother who is going blind and can barely walk anymore. Mom's second husband (classic Kenyan step-father story) is the only bread-winner, and doesn't actually win...so most nights comes home desperate and drunk and beats and neglects the family and Sinbad cannot resist defense, thus its better for everyone he remain out of the 'house'.
Pictured here is Mom and lil sis (actually named Mom). I love them.

LaLaLaLight!

2010-06-03T11:13:00.000-07:00

AP soaking in the light as we break from the dungeon where we've been recording incredible Kenyan musicians for days on end.

Amazon Woman

2010-06-03T10:59:00.000-07:00

A goddess of the Amazon, a tiny slum along a Mombasa Bay inlet, cleverly named after the lush foliage eating into the mud and metal-walled shacks as well as the unpredictable wildness that ravages its dwellers. In day, Amazon is (generally) peaceful and lazy. The tide washes up and creates a personal swimming pool and bath (if one is eager enough to backstroke through floating plastic bags and feces floating atop what looks like an ocean of cloudy veggie juice). The sun peaks through the dense jungle and plumeria wafts down from the hilltop, gracing each little home with some much-needed aromatherapy. At night, Amazon turns into a drunken Disneyland. Dizzying, volatile, and as safe for whiteys (and it's inhabitants) as sharing needles found in the public dump. Pictured here is one of the Amazon's ladies, at peace and gorgeous, and in her lap is the newest addition, little Darling.

Tough Guy

2010-06-03T10:49:00.000-07:00

Echum: A central figure in our film, demonstrating his shy, quiet, contemplative demeanor.

Hi. Hi.

2010-05-31T12:06:00.000-07:00

Marianne: Gone. Erik: Gone. Suat: What's a Suat? Village Beat is back to the basics and back to our roots. Imaginary friends are only fake to others... Anyone wanna come? Please? Kenya's RAD!!!

Photo of the Week #1: Cast Your Vote

2010-05-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

We're a bit behind in posting our weekly favorite shots, but we're more ready than ever to show you our best. Here's a brief catch-up:
1. Face CLAP
2. Bohemian Club
3. "I haven't shat in 3 hours!"
4. Missing You

Photo of the Week #2: Cast Your Vote

2010-05-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

1. Melon Therapy
2. DJ "Oh, I didn't know you were taking my picture"
3. Determination...hours and hours of determination
4. Austin's biggest smile in a photo yet...hmmmm.

Isiolo Soldier

2010-05-20T08:19:00.000-07:00

"He is mad", says a jostling onlooker who peddles calendars from 2009.

The decorated "Colonel" of the Isiolo streets was once a cop. His grip on the bleak reality shared by most everyone else around town became slack and he's drifted into another plane. Although retired, each morning he reports to the police station and stands in salute as the young officers hoist the flag. Slowly making his way through a chaotic town that moves like it's frying, he keeps a rare, contemplative ease, smiling and nodding to everyone, surely taking it all in a bit differently. For the past few years, his friend (our ex-mechanic) has been taking care of the Colonel's late-80's Buick Regal, which sits on blocks in the garage yard, doubling as a tool shed until the Colonel feels like driving it again.

In a place like this, madness is a gift.

2010-05-20T08:13:00.000-07:00

Bulapesa, Isiolo.

Thanks Kelsy

2010-05-20T08:06:00.000-07:00

A very thoughtful Christmas gift: super-stylin-thermal-wicking-socks, meant to fend off the Brooklyn chill, put to good use in Mombasa as sweat receptacles under my anti-glue-kid armor.

Let's Hear It

2010-05-20T07:58:00.000-07:00

The talent search continues...

After Mombasa gave our soundtrack some soul, we're back in Nairobi looking for knuckles.

All Grown Up

2010-05-05T00:44:00.000-07:00

We found Simon. He's about 4 inches taller, voice deeper, and...he's been nominated as Village Beat's first grant recipient. En route to Jomo Kenyatta National Airport last year, minds full of memories and hearts exploding, we received a final phone call to our Kenyan cell phone. It was Simon (Kalibo), borrowing a phone from the street, letting us know he made use of the cooking materials we donated to him in hopes he would fulfill his immediate dream: selling hard-boiled eggs on the street as a way to get up and out of Barachi Field, off the streets and closer to his goals of becoming a cafe owner. "I've sold eggs today! I made enough to buy for tomorrow." --Perhaps the best phone call I've received in my life.

Upon return to Mombasa almost one year later, Kalibo has sold enough eggs to get himself into a vocational school (he paid the first semester and a government org affiliated with Unicef picked up the second and third) where he is learning the craft of catering and is housed and fed. He's finished now, and in effort to be competitive (or have any chance of a job) and keep a roof over his head, he must enroll in a specialty course- 'cake decorating'. It's a 2 month-long practice, meeting 4-7pm, where he will learn to create the best frostings, fillings, and colorful lion and Kenyan pop-artist faces and designs you've ever seen. (Picture coming of my birthday cake in 3 months.)

To participate in the course, Kalibo needs 9,000 Ksh tuition, 200 Ksh registration fee, 4,000 Ksh ingredient materials, 1,700 Ksh kitchen utensils, and 1,200 Ksh uniform expenses. That's a grand total of 16,100 Ksh which roughly equals $206 US dollars.

Taking the course allows him meager room and board until December 1, an internship at the local hospital's kitchen, and the prospect of a job come Christmastime. Smiles and updates will be frequent.

Please consider helping us with this project. Kalibo will bake you a cake. :)
xo

Big Red

2010-05-05T00:42:00.000-07:00

Jeans In Your Dreams

2010-05-05T00:37:00.000-07:00

Parasites to Pink Eye

2010-05-04T23:59:00.000-07:00

This trips been a little more rough on the body, to say the least. It's especially wonderful when the hotel is out of water for 3 days, your eyes are pussing and burning, and all you can do is roll around like a caterpillar aware of butterflyhood while taking in the sound from Mombasa's two tv channels: Aljazeera and Bollywood TV. As a wise man once told me...take a deep breath and say, "Oh, Kenya."

The Wishing Well

2010-05-04T23:43:00.000-07:00

Backstroke in a slow, golden river.
Skating aloft, across a tabletop of raindrops.
Striding through grasslands of arms and hands in the impenetrable suede of a lion.
Grateful with each day, to be carried through the dark.

Jeddan Sessions Part II: Bring the Choir

2010-05-02T15:20:00.000-07:00

2010-04-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

Jeddan Sessions Part I: Barachi Boys

2010-04-28T17:14:00.000-07:00

Recently we've been recording a lot of music for the film and accompanying album. Today we brought in some of the boys from the Barachi base to the Jeddan Studios in Chuda, Mombasa. Their big day finally arrived after what must have been a very long night under plastic tarps, hiding from 6 hours of El Nino-style monsoon rain. We gave them a week's heads-up to get some rhymes together about their lives on the street. Erik led the way on the boards. Getting the stories and verses on the page is no problem- they've been spat a thousand times to each other with little else to do beyond the daily hustle for a meal. But getting some...rough-around-the-edges artists to use mics, take cues, direction, diction, (2.5 languages to juggle), in a booth hotter than the sun made me appreciate the Snoop booming in the taxi bus on the way home like never before.

Thrown Away

2010-04-26T05:11:00.000-07:00

Nightmarish. Too much, too fast, out of control, coming for you as if it will never stop, you're to blame, gotta run but can't, can't breathe, feet sink in, invisible trouble booms like a mob toppling an iron door, dark laughter advances from behind, the sky looks unfamiliar, the wailing of fresh tragedy, just before you are consumed, it ends, you awaken, but its echoes remain through the day and you're left shaken, quietly contemplating how this experience ripped your psyche.
If you go to Dandora, Nairobi's dump site, you can feel these things in the broad daylight of your waking life.
We returned to this apocalyptic place to interview a group of young boys and a family who live and work here- citizens of an alternative Africa, drowning in the slipstream of progress.

The Barachi Paradox

2010-04-25T02:55:00.000-07:00

Haven't we all held something like this? It's a posture of comfort threatened. In this gallon tin is amusement, glints of optimism, a sated appetite and a few hours of sleep. To take it all away creates a pretty serious void.

A Camel Does Not Seat 5

2010-04-25T02:50:00.000-07:00

Village Beat Basking Under the Baobab

2010-04-25T02:45:00.000-07:00

The King lives...

2010-04-25T02:17:00.000-07:00

Does one thing lead to another or is causality just a silly routine we use to make sense of things? Who is the buck-toothed, laughing maniac behind the wheel of our big ol' coconut truck rumbling through the cosmos? What is the sinew in space-time that connects the breath-holding confessions of a prostitute with the miraculous performance of this guy, occurring simultaneously, just outside the door? Kenya. Kenya is the sinew.

Your Dress is Beautiful

2010-04-24T09:23:00.002-07:00

We arrived by motorcycle. We rode slowly, 3 per bike, climbing fertile farmland hills ripe with bananas and beans and maize, waving at the people breaking from their tills to see who the pastey visitors are, wondering where we possibly were going just as much as we were. No taxis or matatus come to this region. The road is meager and the population more so. We're now roughly a 40 minute drive outside Mombasa's bustling city of spice, and I'm arguing with my mind trying to convince it that we're still in Kenya, and I haven't somehow been transported overnight to Kauai.
A central figure in our film, Simon (featured in an earlier post), caught on to our objectives for the film and requested in awkward English we take a journey with him to a place he's spent much time. "Its a dam, where kids and families are. They sleep on the streets. You should talk with them. There are many." Ok Simon. Take us. And if it isn't what we're looking for, maybe we can put our feet in the water and cool off. God knows our crew is getting tired of this.
A few more turns in the washboard road, and we come upon a giant hole in the earth replete with every part and particle and solvent and skin known to man. What we didn't realize, was that Simon was leading us to a "dump". A place where there is a 'village' of people living outside of a tribal village, a city, or any understandable social organization, where many children run rogue and man resembles more a hyena feeding on the last carcass on earth, than a sentient being having opportunities to make conscious decisions and delightfully pick and choose his desired creature comforts.
We arrived by motorcycle. I hopped off the sweaty, ripped-rubber seat and took my camera to peer deeper, beyond the precipice of flowing trash, into the gorge where all Mombasa kindly donated their leftovers. The noxious fumes of fish, fish bones, fish parasites, fish guts and feces rose up like misty vapors from a waterfall's pool. Thick and dense and utterly overwhelming, it seemed impossible that people would be swarming this area, nonetheless calling it home. We walked about 3 minutes down a dirt path past belligerent idle men reminiscent of the tar-footed drunkard mannequins on the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' ride at Disneyland, and came to a 'village' of people who had set up 'home' for generations atop the transforming soil what was plastics and metals and bones and rotted food and flies, many flies. They had constructed abodes from (the lucky ones) car hoods and plastic grocery bags and solidified 'dump' bricks (literally compacted trash and animal-carcass-rotted-flesh-soil that had hardened like dung used in traditional hut-sculpture). There were pathways between trash heeps and remaining trees...their 'roads' I suppose...which they travelled en route to 'work' and back each day. They had laundry lines (I have no clue as to where or how far they must search for water) strung from 'hut' to 'hut' supporting drying shirts and various prizes from the dump; the treasures amongst the trash. This was home. And for some- all they ever and would ever know of home.
After an hour or so interviewing the gracious and inviting families struggling in the humid, putrid air, we travelled further down the road another 5 minutes and stumbled upon a group of primary school-aged children and frail, elderly men and women swarming like bees amongst the freshly dumped truck-loads of trash. As though running for easter eggs on a freshly mowed lawn of green grass, these children and great-grandparents were hands and heads deep in colorful mountains of rotted food and used condoms, needles, and body parts, eagerly in search of food to bring home to their families and parts of metal, glass, and plastic which they could sell for minor funds.
Our film, documenting the lives of street children and the communities from which they sprout, has lead us to some wild and desperate places that I have yet to comprehend. I've flashbacks from tattered homes we've entered or stories from grandmothers who have survived mass rape and slaughter of their entire humble villages. But none of these experiences were quite like this. Babies donning dresses created for Christmas day are robbed from any glimpse of child play and rather begin work at age 4, combing Dante's Inferno for inedible potential to keep their cells alive while phyla of insects crawl through their hair follicles and into their nailbeds, finding home for the next generation, and villanous toxic waste fumes creep hot and fast into every fiber and cell of the little developing angels' bodies. This is life. This is the only option for survival.
Somehow, the children possess eyes richer than a university library and crack sideways smiles when the white woman with the camera is fixated on their hands which host nearly every smashed fruit, carcass-grease, and auto-liquid known to man.
If your family cannot provide food and a shelter- whatever the reasons...potentially lack of work, drug/alcohol abuse, tribal rifts, traditional dependence on the child as the bread-winner while living in a modern Kenya-either way, you find yourself here, as a left-over byproduct of a transforming community, surviving on its left-over byproducts. The city streets are hard, lonely and dangerous, but the dump is soft and abundant and toxic.
She's got slime all over her little body, but, I suppose, she sure has a beautiful dress.
xo

The Haul

2010-04-24T09:23:00.001-07:00

Insult to injury is to be reminded of seafood while traipsing around a landfill. These cans are sorted from a festering, toxic mass, by the hands of children.

Feet Back In the Water

2010-04-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

Village Beat meet the Indian Ocean. Ahhhhhhhh. After a month and a half of desert winds and acacia trees keeping shadow over us, we finally made it to the lovely Muslim coast of Mombasa- where coconuts are abundant and a general air of peace lingers over the city (well, relative to most other Kenyan towns). Our translator/fixer/best friend Lemuya (pictured here next to Marianne) put his toes in the sea for the very first time. In awe of every crab and shell and wave ripple and piece of trash floating in the bay, he shouted and gasped with utter joy. To say the least, it was a beautiful reminder of how nothing should be taken for granted. Every moment is new, even if you believe you've experienced something similar. Thanks Lemuya, for inspiring us with your grace and curiosity, and transforming your first day on the coast into a first day for all of us.
xo

...and over here is the livingroom.

2010-04-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

Resident:
"someone who lives at a particular place for a prolonged period or who was born there".

Did you find Simon?

2010-04-17T15:23:00.000-07:00

12:30 am, cinched up the green surplus backpack with a camera and light and headed out through the lobby of the New Palms Hotel in Mombasa.
12:31 am: Guard asks, "Why are you going out alone at this hour?" "To find a friend" - a statement that was ambiguous and surely misinterpreted.
12:31-1am: dodged the massive, colorful grasping nails of hookers, the spittle of drunks and the ill-intent of the shadow-lurkers while stopping to talk to anyone who looked friendly about the whereabouts of our friend and street boy Simon (pictured here). As I walked around like Zelda, it occurred to me that it strikes most people here in Kenya as extremely odd to see whitey walking around past his bedtime asking about street children in broken Swahili. It's enough to become what's happening on any block. I produced this photo for onlookers to consider. They'd snatch it, rip off 10 sentences of coast Swahili in 10 seconds, each in some way saying "Yes, I know him, but he has gone to _____". After a half-hour hour of mauling, the photo and I were covered in glue and the party lines were that Simon was either dead, in Nairobi, or could be found in "just-around-the-corner-let-me-show-you-town" (i.e. Hey Jackass, can I rob you?).
1am: I gave up for the night, not wanting to lose the camera or our lucky backpack.
1:15am: One of the especially young street-girl/ prostitutes shouts at me from across the street of a sinister looking club called Casablanca. She says "Bring me that photo!!" I do. A guy slightly bigger than me with home-court advantage says again, "I know him. He's at Tonanoka Center. I take you there now". The girl says I can trust him. After a long look, I decide not to trust him tonight. Bidding thanks I play dumb/tired and stroll down a random street to lose their attention. Some of them casually follow for a block or two and eventually go back to their corner roost.
1:20am Sitting, waiting for inspiration and a quiet street, a tuk-tuk pulls up, stops, driver looks over and beeps. I ask him, "You know Tonanoka Center". "I know it, surely" says he. "Twende" (We go), thinking it couldn't hurt to go to this place on my own, enjoying the anonymous whisk of a tuk-tuk ride.
1:30am 2-3 miles from my hotel street, thinking to myself, "F&ck this is stupid", we pull up at the Tonanoka center, which is nothing more than another abandoned soccer field. It's very dark and the chances of finding anything positive were nillish. As I was saying "OK, we go back", 3 kids wander out of some scrap metal shelter to see about this peculiar noise in their hood. I jump out and show the photos one last time. The 3 of the 4 "boys" were now looking more like withered, malnourished 40 year-old men. They passed it around, hemmed and hawed, scratched and shook...with the exception of Amos, probably 13 years old, who quietly said, "Najua, iko karibu...[something something something]" (I know him, he's here).
With that rare kind of instant, mutual trust, I ask him if he wants to ride along and show me where this place is exactly. He hops into the tuk-tuk and we go further down the dark road.
1:45am Amos is whispering directions over the lawn-mower sound of the tuk-tuk as we go rightleftrightleftleftleftrightupdownaround and finally he says "Hapa, ngoja". (Here, wait). He jumps out and runs through a gate built 100 years ago into some place that looks like a graveyard. The sign on the gate was hand-painted and read Anglican Church Training Center.
Totally skeptical, the tuk-tuk driver turned the engine off and we sat down together on a log.
1:50 After a few minutes of eavesdropping on my driver as he argued presumably with his wife, out of the dark and through the gate comes Amos...with some guy that skip-walked a lot like Simon. As he walked towards us through the headlights of the tuk-tuk, he couldn't see us, but I could see him. The flashbacks began immediately. In moments, I could see him sitting on the beach talking to us last year wearing our crappy wire mic, hearing him tell us about the land taken from him by a malicious relative who still wants to kill him, about how the people of Mombasa won't help his friends because they're outcasts, about the corruption rotting Kenya from the streets to parliament, about his dream to start his own business, starting small with selling eggs on the street, moving up to a small street-side vendor, then renting a place to cook for and seat patrons, then a bigger one, on and on, looking skyward as he spoke.
Here he was again, one year later, and down this dark road in the late evening was not a graveyard, but instead the quiet dormitory of the C.I.T.C. Mombasa College of Catering.
He was as shocked and excited as I was to meet again. Last we heard from him, one year ago was a rushed phone call from a borrowed phone, on the eve of our departure from Kenya, to express his gratitude for our gift of eggs, a stove and a bucket to start his curbside business. His call made a long, hard trip completely worthwhile and thinking about it still chokes me up. I have no idea tonight if our presence in his life last year made any consequential difference for him, but it's possible that Simon's potential was ripe and really only needed the slightest nudge. There are thousands of kids in this country that only need a nudge.
Now here he stood again. Simon was in school, studying to do what he dreamed- proud as hell. We're meeting with him tomorrow to catch up properly.
3:30am I'm finding it hard to sleep.

Thank You Rosanna

2010-04-10T08:09:00.000-07:00

Marianne and I. Just a little excited about our new duds.

Lost Boys

2010-04-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

We came back to Meru to track down Veronica- a 15 year-old girl who lived on the Meru streets last we saw her. Upon arrival, this cat- Moriera- saunters over and says he's her proud new husband. He took us to their place on his family's small plot just up the hill from the street corners where she previously spent her days. The newlyweds live together in a small shack, wallpapered with beautiful pop stars on shiny magazine pages. Outside their door is a generous banana tree, a cow paddock and a grove of passion vines. We spent a few days hanging out together, catching up with her in her new life while she made chapatis and chopped sugar cane for us- her guests. Marianne led the neighborhood kids in some art lessons which led to face painting. Erik and Julius brought the riddim with another one of our signature beat-box sessions.

Sniper Over Meru

2010-04-10T07:51:00.000-07:00

For a mere soda, we were able to access this peaceful little perch above the chaotic Meru market and taxi stage. Erik's minimizing his 6'6-edness to get what we need.

MC Maji Moto feat. The Sponsors

2010-04-10T07:44:00.000-07:00

Introducing MC Maji Moto (hot water), otherwise known as Lemuya, our translator/fixer/best friend here. Once you've seen the 999th acacia pass by, something about Kenya makes you start rapping about milk.

Nothing goes to waste

2010-03-31T08:58:00.000-07:00

You're lucky smells can't be blogged.

Where's Waldo?

2010-03-31T08:56:00.000-07:00

After 2 weeks in Kenya and 2 DJ gigs in Isiolo, Erik is legitimately famous.

"Mzungu Mrefu" (Tall White Guy).

chai and mandazis = coffee and donuts.

2010-03-31T08:50:00.000-07:00

Emmanuel (right) and Steven (2nd from left), after an early morning cup of chai. Steven's still sporting last year's trench coat, but he's here now, clear and present, having cut down on the glue. Back from the far away land of hallucinated lions and limousines, he gets the "Most Improved Street Kid" award. Things are looking up.

Episode 1: Back to the Frontier

2010-03-31T08:42:00.000-07:00

Week 1 here. We let the pocket-cams roll as we cross through dimensions...

More coming soon.

Attir

2010-03-30T07:32:00.000-07:00

The boys and girls of Attir- a Turkana village just outside of Isiolo- lead a far-out life. The boy on the right likely tends to a herd of goats or cattle, all alone, over hundreds of square miles. The girl on the left is probably 10 years old. The beads around her neck signify that she is engaged to be married. Life has been this way for the Turkanas for ages, but something is sending this generation to the city in droves.

Goat Town

2010-03-30T07:28:00.000-07:00

Roughly one-half of the beings in Bulapesa are goats. This one is about 20 minutes old. As soon as Mama finishes the most nutritious meal she will ever eat, he'll take his first, wobbly steps.

Take me to the river...

2010-03-30T07:25:00.000-07:00

Anneliese and Paul, telling a few stories under a giant Acacia.

The Mayors of Isiolo

2010-03-30T07:11:00.000-07:00

Right to left are our friends Abdulrahman and Rosanna - who founded the Isiolo children's home "Fursa". We've become good friends. It's nice to have people to trust who know how to get things done around here. Sitting beside them is Kaome, taking down a liter of fresh camel yogurt. We met him last year the first morning he walked the streets of Isiolo. Thanks to Rosanna and Abdulrahman, he's now living at Fursa, showing signs of actually enjoying his childhood. Having returned to Isiolo, we're now able to see the effects of a year upon the former street-children at Fursa. For some, it's revolution.

Sokom Jinga

2010-03-30T07:09:00.000-07:00

Sokom Jinga: "Crazy Market". A relatively safe place for a street kid to crash.

Reunions

2010-03-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

This is Paul. He's 20 now. He lives on the Isiolo streets and is one of our main characters. Seeing him again, right where we met him a year ago, with the same old marketplace backdrop, was a beautiful moment. His normal, guarded cool broke wide open with genuine surprise and happiness to see us again.

with the Mutilyas

2010-03-30T06:54:00.000-07:00

So this is the week 1 crew enjoying the hospitality of he Mutilya family, our first friends in Kenya. Not much has changed in their Bulapesa neighborhood. They did manage to route in some electricity, so while we eat Mama Musyoka's famous beans and chapati, we can watch some of Kenya's priceless music videos.

ONCE AGAIN...

2010-03-11T03:14:00.000-08:00

Village Beat is back on their feet, tearing around the East African nation of Kenya, dust cleared from our eyes, hearts wide-open, and excitement pumping through every vein and cell as we dive back into the communities where we've discovered beloved friends and new family. We'll be updating The Indestructible Beat blog of our adventures for the next few months, so stay tuned and please don't hesitate to join in to the beat with your stories and ideas! It takes community to be immune to the system!
We've also got our website up and rolling, so to find out more about Village Beat and our documentary film, Tough Bond (working title) go to www.villagebeat.org!
love love love love and asante

What Just Happened?

2009-07-05T11:22:00.000-07:00

In January of 2009, we traveled to Kenya to volunteer. Our simple goal was to enlist our minds, our hands, and our hearts, however we could, in the fight against poverty and human suffering. We gave ourselves 6 months. Initially, we worked in an urban HIV/AIDS clinic outside of Nairobi, followed by a one-shot famine relief effort, delivering a ton of maize to one of the country’s rural pastoralist tribes. A single month of relating to sick, starving, and dying people, dropped the full weight of Kenya’s – and Africa’s- worst problems squarely upon our consciences. Dizzy at the crossroads, feeling angry, without a clear path to which we could apply ourselves, we decided to just be still amidst the whirlwind, watch and listen, right where we were- in a small, dusty frontier town called Isiolo.

There, under the calls of street merchants, the bleating of goats, and the rumble of cargo trucks bound for Ethiopia, we heard the voices of children. We stopped to look down towards our hands and were irretrievably captured by their eyes, having come out from their shady verandas and acacia trees, smiling and curious, but tattered like castaway princes and princesses. The path ahead became strikingly clear. We knew that our lives were about to change, and by our efforts, we vowed, so would theirs.

We spent the next four months in the streets, the slums, the bush, and the cities of Kenya trying to understand how there were so many children left alone to roam the streets and fend for themselves. We took particular interest in their use of glue, as a drug, to escape their harsh street realities of perpetual hunger and fear, as well as quiet the memories of their haunting pasts of violent abuse, neglect and loss. Our visceral response- a mixture of disgust and sadness- at the sight of children, even toddlers, inhaling a mixture of glue and gasoline from empty plastic whisky bottles, openly in public, while an indifferent community steps over and around them, signified that we were far from home. We asked ourselves, “What forces could absolve us, as humans after all, from the responsibility to care for the young and vulnerable in our own communities?”

We wanted to find out how these children got to the streets in the first place, what they did to survive, and finally, what options they had to lead a better life. Everyday, we were witnesses to some part of this riddle. Every night, back in our simple slum apartment, we would contemplate whether we were witnessing root causes, or merely symptoms of a larger social disease. Our search for reason and resolution led us to homes from which some children came, into bunk-rooms of orphanages, to toxic dumpsites on the fringes of humanity, into offices of local authorities and social workers, and finally into the air-conditioned Nairobi high-rise towers of the Kenyan government. We found that while many people shared in their understanding of the plight of street children, there were many more who lived comfortably in misconception, prejudice and detachment. Still, worst of all, no one would claim responsibility.

Our inquiry and experience culminates as a documentary film, with the core of our investigative footage and storytelling coming from relationships with specific street-child groups and individuals in 5 Kenyan towns, as well as a considerable number of aid groups, dedicated to a variety of strategies. Our film will challenge those who accept the misery of children as a part of Kenyan life, and perhaps explain why 2% of Kenya’s 15 million children live alone, without a family, village or nation to care for them.

-----We have arrived safely back in the U.S. and are establishing a home-base within lovely Santa Barbara and Los Angeles for creative venture and phase II of the Kenya experience: editing and post-production work on the film. Stay tuned to The Indestructible Beat for updates and please don't hesitate to contact us here or at BEATfilm@gmail.com. We will be scheduling presentations and lectures commencing August 2009. Please contact us if you are interested! Thank you all and keep BEATing your Indestructible Beat!

Nothing like a bottle of GLUE to wash down some HOOF

2009-05-21T02:31:00.000-07:00

This adorable child is one of our friends from Barachi Field, a designated 'Safe Zone' for the many street children and families who live in Mombasa. Because these neglected humans present a negative face for the city and country, Kenya (the government? the police? the community?) has decided that it is 'okay' that they be rounded up and removed from the streets, and left alone at Barachi, a brick-walled, old football field where a community of homeless people numbering somewhere between 30-100, live, huff glue, sleep, and try to breathe. This way, these people really do not exist. Out of sight, out of mind. No need to alleviate the problem or tackle the push-factors which leave these children alone in the streets of a bustling city, so long as you hide the problem from the community and tourists. Spend an hour here--if you're daring--and you leave high as a kite and heartbroken.

Cancer Sucks

2009-05-21T02:29:00.000-07:00

Meet Morris. A 13-year-old living at Barachi Field. Here, he takes his daily vitamins, jams to Kenyan radio through broken headphones, and plays football with a flat volleyball. Although his circumstances are more than disparaging, he has a kindness and gentle nature that illuminates within his eyes. These children are incredibly powerful and tenacious. They just need some help.

Special Ops

2009-05-21T02:27:00.000-07:00

The sky hook is scheduled for pick up of 2 persons from the top of the tallest building in Nairobi. The exact rendezvous time must remain confidential, but when it comes, we will fly like escaped POWs at the end of a movie as CCR bumps. One hand on the cable, the other on our tapes. Traffic in the streets will stop as the people who know us now will be paralyzed at the sight, matatu drivers will bang on their roofs and point, women in burkas will lift up their eye-flaps and gaze in awe and whisper to eachother, MPs will radio the air force to have us intercepted and the crew will be handing us fresh vegetables once on-board. Any minute now...