I have finished the first term. It seemed so long while I was going through it, but now that it is over, I cannot remember any time passing. I feel like I have been in Kenya for a week, not six months. I know that the first term is supposed to be the hardest, and so I really feel like I can make it through the rest. Right now though, I am not thinking about the next 20 months, I am think about the next 2 weeks. Yesterday, I said goodbye to my house and my village. I realized the last day, that I would actually miss the place. I said goodbye to my students, and the Borana women at the bore hole. I cleaned my house as well as I could to avoid ants. And then yesterday I headed to Nairobi. I am in awe of Nairobi but I can’t stop thinking about my house. I am worried that I left something perishable that will grow into something horrible while I am gone. I am worried that the ants will take over or the place will be filled with scorpions. I don’t want to come home to millions of dead moths, or zillions of spider nests. The bugs in my house have been pretty ridiculous lately and I have not yet complained to you about them. I will take that opportunity now.
Everyone knows Africa has bugs. Lots of bugs, all the time. But no one tells you what kinds will be the ones to drive you insane with annoyance. In my house I have the usual number of bugs for a Kenyan household; I estimate that number to be around 20 billion. And they are all so annoying that I sometimes imagine myself burning down my house just to kill them all. Some of the pests are the type you would think would bother me, or scare me, or gross me out, and they don’t. and then there are the type which are innocent, harmless, and tiny. Those are the ones who will make me go insane. The insanity causing ones are flies and ants. I know what you are thinking, “geezus, Ryan, do the dishes, pick up the food off the floor, and take out the trash, you slob”. And you are right, my house is not clean by Kenyan (or American) mama standards, but its not that bad. I do the dishes when I need them, which is every few days, and I take out the garbage when its full. I learned very quickly how bad things start to smell. And even if you could ignore the smell (which you can’t), more than three days and you have a fly nursery (aka maggots). So my house has ants and flies and it is not because I am unclean. There are three types of flies. The really big ones are shiny, iridescent green with big red eyes and the buzzing of their wings sounds like a wasp. These guys live in the choo and gross me out because I just imagine them covered in choo germs. There are medium sized flies that just hang out in my house all day landing on my toes, which tickles, on my food, or on my face. These are the ones that will fly in your mouth if you are panting up a hill. And if you think you can just pant with your mouth closed, nope, they will fly up your nose. Im not kidding, it happens to me almost daily. Then there are the tiny fruit flies. These are newcomers to the party, they just appeared a couple weeks ago. My brain’s store of Useless Knowledge tells me that fruit flies only live for 2 hours. From birth to death in 120 minutes. Well, that is too long for these bastards. They not only attack my trash, but also my fresh fruits and veggies. They get trapped inside my plastic wrapped loaves of bread. They will land on my freshly opened cans of tuna and die in the oil, while I am trying to fish their bodies out. If I take the lid of a pot of spaghetti, they are there before my spoon can serve the food. And if there is no food, they will attack anything moist. Like my face cloths, towels, and clothes that are hanging to dry. All will have a moving, black cloud surrounding them. I hate them.
Flies are bad, but worse are ants. There are lots of types of ants in my house too. And they are also impervious to all my attempts at annihilation. There are the little black ants that belong at picnics. They do not care about my dirty kitchen, they want the crummies on my floor. And if I sweep daily, they will just find corners that I cannot reach or wander around aimlessly until crummies appear. The little kids next door once walked in on me during an ant killing frenzy with a flipflop, and now know to come over every day to smush ants with their hands. I found the anthill outside, and I dump my dirty water on it every day to drown them. Then they made a tunnel in my walls, coming out where the wood of my door meets the cement. So I filled in the gap with hand lotion (that’s the only thing of paste consistency that I had). That stopped them for awhile, but they are still coming. I have taken to dumping water on the floor in front of my door, killing some and creating a temporary barrier for others. But this is a heinous waste of water in a drought ridden country, and while watching ants drown is satisfying, I feel guilty.
Those are the small ants. At night, the big ants come in. These are the half-inch long ones with visible pincers. These are the ones that hurt like a snake bite when you get bitten. The bites burn and make me gasp in pain for almost an hour, then they itch like chicken pox for, literally, weeks. They come in at night to eat the tiny ants. My tiny ant killing spree brings in the big suckers to clean up. I have to keep my feet off the floor in the evening to avoid getting bitten. With the big black ones come the big brown ones. They are a very pale brown, they might even be termites rather than ants, but they come in just to look around. And they are probably eating my doorframes to make new homes for the tiny ants. It’s the ant circle of life.
So ants and flies are the insects that, in my opinion, earn a special place in hell. The other creepy crawlies that I share my home with are the ones that should freak me out, but I welcome them with open arms. Okay, maybe not, but I at least don’t attempt to attack them with flip flops. First one: cockroach. These bad boys live in the choo, and while that is gross indeed, they are frightened away by light and then leave you in piece. Even if they are in my house, they are high in the corners trying to run away from you. No problem; I can handle that. Then there are the big spiders. I was not afraid of spiders in America, and I am not frightened here. But I probably should be. These suckers are huge! And everywhere. I sweep and the next day there are new spider webs in every corner. I do not mind because I get to watch those big green flies get caught in them; its like the Discovery Channel. But the big spiders are very big, over two inches long. They are dark brown with yellow racing stripes and they run like lightening. The other day, I saw a particularly odd spider, he looked like the same type, yellow stripes, but his back looked all fuzzy. It was very strange so I got my camera and scooched in close to him. As my camera zoomed in and focused, I realized what the “fuzzy” was. It was not a ‘he’ spider, it was a ‘she’ and the fuzz was hundreds of baby spiders hitching a ride on mommy’s back! *shudder* That even freaked me out. I took the picture, and then glanced back at ‘mom’, but she was gone. I swear to God, she had disappeared. Obviously, she sprinted to a crack in the wall to save her babies, but it was so quick I did not even see her go. So there is a family of two inch long racing spiders having flocks (what do you call a group of spiders? Herd? Bevy? Pod?) of babies in my house. That’s okay though, maybe they will team up and start a war with the ants.
PS. I decided that if there is not already a name for a group of spiders, we should call it a “charlotte”. After all, Charlotte was the one who had hundreds of babies that flew in the wind to populate the world. And Peacocks get an “ostentation”, Owls get a “parliament”, spiders should have their own. So there is a charlotte of spiders living in my house. And I hope they stay forever. Maybe they will protect the house from the rest of the bugs while I am gone.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Scorpion and the Goat
I am tempted to start this blog with the same phrase as always, “Nothing much happened this week so I do not have much to write…”, but I know that as soon as I start typing, my brain will take over and fill the pages with my rambling. So I will just say “good morning,” and let my brain do the rest.
There was a scorpion in my house last night. I had heard they were here in Kenya, and plentiful in my desert, but I had not seen any so I thought maybe I would be spared that one pest. But it was not to be. I found the little bugger coming under my front door. When I say “little” I mean he was three inches long and a shiny black. I poked him with a stick, you know, for fun, and he ran towards me. Man those suckers are fast! As punishment for startling me with his speed, I smushed him with a shoe. Now I am on full scorpion alert; I check all my shoes before putting them on, and no more walking around the house in the dark. The Peace Corps medical handbook I have says that scorpions are not deadly, just painful, and I would be fine if stung. But I do not believe them one bit, I am staying far away with things that have stingers, poison, AND claws. My house no longer is a safe zone. I have already experienced cobras in the desert, the packs of wild dogs who roam around my school, the hyenas that laugh during the night, the civet on my porch (which looks like a panda bear, but probably eats human flesh), the wasp family that lives in my choo, the rabies-full bats in my rafters, and herds of deadly camels that look at me with the evil eye like they are waiting for an opportunity to trample me with their dinner plate-sized feet. My home was the only place I could relax and not be on the lookout for danger. But that is gone now; it started with the moths, those pesky beige butterflies that crash land into my dinner. The moths brought in ants to carry away the bodies of their fallen brothers. And now the scorpion has arrived. I am not sure why. What does he want? Dead moths? Ants? Me?
Last Sunday, my school threw a party for absolutely no reason. We invited some local teachers, slaughtered two goats, and stayed out all day. We had it at my school, down in the desert under this big scraggly tree that was growing over some big boulders. It was shady and cool because of the desert breeze. I got a little sunburnt, my first since coming to Africa. I wanted to see the slaughtering of the goat but I came too late. Since there is no refrigeration here you have to kill and eat the same day. I arrived as they were cutting everything into pieces. I have never seen so many flies in all my life. I once saw the dead body of a cow three days after it had been sitting in the sun, and there were fewer flies on it than I saw on this day. When I commented on it one guy said “desert flies don’t have bacteria, there is nothing in the desert to get bacteria from”. In America, I would have gagged and then thrown the meat out. But TIA, and we just waved at the flies until we could see what we were doing. Everyone had a job, Hassan, a fellow teacher, would bring over a huge chunk of meat, like the spine, or the shoulder. Mugambi (teacher) cut it into manageable pieces with a dull knife. Manageable pieces means anywhere there is a bone, so he separated ribs, vertebrae, tibia, etc. My job was to take the manageable pieces and cut them into bite sized morsels. The large bones were put over the coals to cook. The meat was suspended over the coals by a grill made of a frame of large sticks with a open wire grid on top. The smaller pieces were put in a sufuria (cooking pot). The outside of the pot was smeared with mud to prevent it from getting black with soot, and the pot was placed on the coals. In addition to butchering, I also played waitress and served everyone drinks, poured water for handwashing, and served the food. One of the teachers said that he had a great time simply because he was served by a mzungu. The meal was very large, it had five courses. All of it was eaten Kenya style, you pick up some chunks with greasy fingers and stuff it in your mouth along with whatever side dishes are there. Its messy and delicious, and leaves you with a nice sheen of grease on your face. The appetizer was goat ribs and the chunks of slightly burned fat from the big pieces. Second course was a bowl of meat eaten family style; everyone’s hands in the bowl grabbing the juiciest bits. For the third course, they cooked some of the small meat chunks with a tomato paste, green pepper, onion, water mixture. It turned out so amazingly good, it tasted like real American barbecue! The BBQ meat was served with a pile of the plain nyama choma (grilled meat), ugali, rice, potatoes and tomato/onion salad. Fourth course was another bowl of meat with the large bones available for gnawing. I know it sounds odd, but the large bones are the best tasting; like a dog, I could chew on them all day. The fifth course was “soup” aka goat juices and goat fat in a mug. I was full after course number 2 but I ate everything and loved every bite. Now I have a double chin. I did skip the mug of goat fat, but I got a lot of flack for it. Everyone kept telling me how healthy it was for you. One man told me that you could drink a mug of it and then run a marathon without getting tired. My principal said “if you are newly married, drink this... And that’s your son!” The men thought that was hysterical. One added “drink a glass and a half and you’ll get twins!” I stayed far away from the mug of fat.
If you are wondering what happened to the rest of the goat, i.e. the head and innards, you will be pleased to know that it did not go to waste. At the end of the party, after I had left, the remaining teachers ate all the organs. My principal got the eyes, and everything else was shared out. I was asking how they decided who got what, and I got some very interesting insights. They said that in their culture there are many superstitions that determine those details. For example, a first born cannot eat the kidney. We decided that this was because there are two kidneys and could be divided among the less important children leaving the spleen, which is healthier, for the first born. Also, never eat the tongue unless you want to have a child that talks a lot. Men should never eat the bladder or they will become sterile. I am not entirely sure if it is good for anyone to eat bladder. This discussion led to an explanation of all the strange superstitions the locals have. “Don’t sweep your house at night.” “Do not go to the choo at night or you will be attacked by a demon who will spray water on you.” That one was created to keep kids safe from animals that would hurt them. Though I don’t know why they had to make up a crazy story to convince kids. There was one that said “never milk a cow from behind or you will have bad luck”; I think your bad luck will involve you getting kicked by a cow. They say “men should never carry small children on their laps because they will get the child’s fear in their heart”; the reason for this one had something to do with not being able to run from enemies. “Don’t stand with your back to the fire or you will go blind.” Actual reason: you might fall in the fire or get burned. My favorite was “if you pee in the river after circumcision, you will have extreme pain”. It was to keep the drinking water clean. It reminded me of the American myth, “if you pee in a swimming pool, it will change color and everyone will know”. There were more myths but I cannot remember them all. My teachers said that they did not believe any of these superstitions but that many, if not all, of the local people do. Very interesting stuff.
Alright, I will end there for today before I continue to ramble on. This is the last week before exams and it is crawling by. I cannot wait until end of term when I can go to the coast and relax on a beach. It is so close, I can taste it. Next week is exams, and right now I am off to class to play “Physics Jeopardy!” for review. The prize for the winner: a real American dollar bill!
Thanks for reading and have a good week!
There was a scorpion in my house last night. I had heard they were here in Kenya, and plentiful in my desert, but I had not seen any so I thought maybe I would be spared that one pest. But it was not to be. I found the little bugger coming under my front door. When I say “little” I mean he was three inches long and a shiny black. I poked him with a stick, you know, for fun, and he ran towards me. Man those suckers are fast! As punishment for startling me with his speed, I smushed him with a shoe. Now I am on full scorpion alert; I check all my shoes before putting them on, and no more walking around the house in the dark. The Peace Corps medical handbook I have says that scorpions are not deadly, just painful, and I would be fine if stung. But I do not believe them one bit, I am staying far away with things that have stingers, poison, AND claws. My house no longer is a safe zone. I have already experienced cobras in the desert, the packs of wild dogs who roam around my school, the hyenas that laugh during the night, the civet on my porch (which looks like a panda bear, but probably eats human flesh), the wasp family that lives in my choo, the rabies-full bats in my rafters, and herds of deadly camels that look at me with the evil eye like they are waiting for an opportunity to trample me with their dinner plate-sized feet. My home was the only place I could relax and not be on the lookout for danger. But that is gone now; it started with the moths, those pesky beige butterflies that crash land into my dinner. The moths brought in ants to carry away the bodies of their fallen brothers. And now the scorpion has arrived. I am not sure why. What does he want? Dead moths? Ants? Me?
Last Sunday, my school threw a party for absolutely no reason. We invited some local teachers, slaughtered two goats, and stayed out all day. We had it at my school, down in the desert under this big scraggly tree that was growing over some big boulders. It was shady and cool because of the desert breeze. I got a little sunburnt, my first since coming to Africa. I wanted to see the slaughtering of the goat but I came too late. Since there is no refrigeration here you have to kill and eat the same day. I arrived as they were cutting everything into pieces. I have never seen so many flies in all my life. I once saw the dead body of a cow three days after it had been sitting in the sun, and there were fewer flies on it than I saw on this day. When I commented on it one guy said “desert flies don’t have bacteria, there is nothing in the desert to get bacteria from”. In America, I would have gagged and then thrown the meat out. But TIA, and we just waved at the flies until we could see what we were doing. Everyone had a job, Hassan, a fellow teacher, would bring over a huge chunk of meat, like the spine, or the shoulder. Mugambi (teacher) cut it into manageable pieces with a dull knife. Manageable pieces means anywhere there is a bone, so he separated ribs, vertebrae, tibia, etc. My job was to take the manageable pieces and cut them into bite sized morsels. The large bones were put over the coals to cook. The meat was suspended over the coals by a grill made of a frame of large sticks with a open wire grid on top. The smaller pieces were put in a sufuria (cooking pot). The outside of the pot was smeared with mud to prevent it from getting black with soot, and the pot was placed on the coals. In addition to butchering, I also played waitress and served everyone drinks, poured water for handwashing, and served the food. One of the teachers said that he had a great time simply because he was served by a mzungu. The meal was very large, it had five courses. All of it was eaten Kenya style, you pick up some chunks with greasy fingers and stuff it in your mouth along with whatever side dishes are there. Its messy and delicious, and leaves you with a nice sheen of grease on your face. The appetizer was goat ribs and the chunks of slightly burned fat from the big pieces. Second course was a bowl of meat eaten family style; everyone’s hands in the bowl grabbing the juiciest bits. For the third course, they cooked some of the small meat chunks with a tomato paste, green pepper, onion, water mixture. It turned out so amazingly good, it tasted like real American barbecue! The BBQ meat was served with a pile of the plain nyama choma (grilled meat), ugali, rice, potatoes and tomato/onion salad. Fourth course was another bowl of meat with the large bones available for gnawing. I know it sounds odd, but the large bones are the best tasting; like a dog, I could chew on them all day. The fifth course was “soup” aka goat juices and goat fat in a mug. I was full after course number 2 but I ate everything and loved every bite. Now I have a double chin. I did skip the mug of goat fat, but I got a lot of flack for it. Everyone kept telling me how healthy it was for you. One man told me that you could drink a mug of it and then run a marathon without getting tired. My principal said “if you are newly married, drink this... And that’s your son!” The men thought that was hysterical. One added “drink a glass and a half and you’ll get twins!” I stayed far away from the mug of fat.
If you are wondering what happened to the rest of the goat, i.e. the head and innards, you will be pleased to know that it did not go to waste. At the end of the party, after I had left, the remaining teachers ate all the organs. My principal got the eyes, and everything else was shared out. I was asking how they decided who got what, and I got some very interesting insights. They said that in their culture there are many superstitions that determine those details. For example, a first born cannot eat the kidney. We decided that this was because there are two kidneys and could be divided among the less important children leaving the spleen, which is healthier, for the first born. Also, never eat the tongue unless you want to have a child that talks a lot. Men should never eat the bladder or they will become sterile. I am not entirely sure if it is good for anyone to eat bladder. This discussion led to an explanation of all the strange superstitions the locals have. “Don’t sweep your house at night.” “Do not go to the choo at night or you will be attacked by a demon who will spray water on you.” That one was created to keep kids safe from animals that would hurt them. Though I don’t know why they had to make up a crazy story to convince kids. There was one that said “never milk a cow from behind or you will have bad luck”; I think your bad luck will involve you getting kicked by a cow. They say “men should never carry small children on their laps because they will get the child’s fear in their heart”; the reason for this one had something to do with not being able to run from enemies. “Don’t stand with your back to the fire or you will go blind.” Actual reason: you might fall in the fire or get burned. My favorite was “if you pee in the river after circumcision, you will have extreme pain”. It was to keep the drinking water clean. It reminded me of the American myth, “if you pee in a swimming pool, it will change color and everyone will know”. There were more myths but I cannot remember them all. My teachers said that they did not believe any of these superstitions but that many, if not all, of the local people do. Very interesting stuff.
Alright, I will end there for today before I continue to ramble on. This is the last week before exams and it is crawling by. I cannot wait until end of term when I can go to the coast and relax on a beach. It is so close, I can taste it. Next week is exams, and right now I am off to class to play “Physics Jeopardy!” for review. The prize for the winner: a real American dollar bill!
Thanks for reading and have a good week!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Vacation is Coming up!
Another week down, two more to go until vacation. I have started my Nairobi shopping list and it is all food items. Mostly spices, I am tired of food without flavor. Next term I was to start a small herb garden next to my house. My neighbors have one, though theirs is just full of sukuma wiki. The growing season is long here, I never have to worry about winter destroying my plants. There is a danger that goats will get to them, but I can make a fence out of acacia branches. The inch long thorns will keep anything away. Hopefully, if my food is more flavorful, I won’t have to eat so much just to feel satisfied. It is amazing how my appetite has grown. I no longer fit into half my wardrobe, anything that is not a loose, flow-y skirt is now in a can’t-fit-over-my-butt pile in my spare room. I don’t really mind the weight, I don’t have a mirror and no one here will notice, but I have no place to go to replace my diminishing wardrobe. I can’t run down to walmart and pick up some new jeans. I am going to try to get in shape, and I’d like it if that shape was not a circle. You’d think that walking 6 km a day through a desert would be effective for working off the pounds, but you’d be wrong. Either I am walking too leisurely, though I think I might sweat to death if I try harder, or I am really just turning into a gigantic pig who eats everything she sees.
Last weekend, Curtis, my fellow mzungu teacher who lives in town, finally was able to come to my village for a visit. The Brothers of St. Paul who run the school next to me have a vehicle and they invited him for dinner. It was the first time he has been able to come here. I felt a silly sense of pride when showing him around. I really feel like this is my place now, it used to be just the place I was staying. But now it is home. And it is mine. My little house, my little goat neighbor, my oceanic view, my camels, my desert. Curtis was also properly awed with the distance I have to walk to school everyday, the remoteness of the open desert, and the beauty of the scrub brush dotted with thatch huts. I am looking at my tiny town and my huge desert with new appreciation and love.
The term ends in two weeks and I am planning my trip away from here. I have been aching to escape for weeks, but as the days count down, I am starting to think about leaving and I think I will really miss it. So many times in the last two months I have been unsure if I could really do this. Living here has been so hard and many times I was just holding on to the thought of vacation. There were times when I wanted to go home so badly I had to argue with myself and force myself to stay. But now, I feel stronger and more able to do this. I think I can do it. I can live here with no internet, terrible cell service, and no cheese. I have gotten used to seeing more camels than cars, and now the alternative is what seems odd. The thought of Nairobi and all the stuff that it offers is very exciting and a little scary. I am nervous about the culture shock even though I have only been here for 3 months. Marsabit town seems loud and too busy for me; I can’t imagine how Nairobi is going to freak me out. I go to town once a week and I am starting to not enjoy it. I like the unlimited internet, and the cold beer. But I do not like shopping, or walking around. Everyone is calling to me, there are too many places to buy vegetables, and too many stores to go to. I always end up forgetting something because I am too uncomfortable to bargain with the women and keep track of my grocery list. Actually, I had not even thought how much I disliked town until I wrote it down just now. This revelation kinda freaks me out. How much have I changed in the last three months? Am I really that uncomfortable? I guess when I meet my American friends for vacation, they will let me know how weird I have become.
As of March 13, I have been in Kenya for 5 months. This is so close to the 6 month milestone. Before I left America, I told myself that if I absolutely hated it, I could come home after 6 months. 6 months seemed like a decent amount of effort and an acceptable stopping point. Now that I am getting close, I am so certain I can make it through my whole service. The first 6 months is supposed to be the hardest. Once that is out of the way, the rest will go by so fast. Training in Loitokitok for 3 months seemed like it lasted an eternity. The first two months here in Marsabit seemed faster, but they still crawled by. I feel like I can remember every single day of the first two months at my site. But this last month has started to pick up the pace, the days are starting to blur together. I just know I can make it through the remaining 22 months, and I know that it will go by too fast for comfort.
Again, I start writing thinking to myself that I have nothing to say. The week has been slow and nothing interesting has happened. I sit at my computer and somehow my brain takes over and fills up the page with things I did not even know I was thinking about. I always plan on writing only a few paragraphs, and I always end up with a much longer diatribe. Anyway, I am going to make myself stop now, I can feel my brain has more to say, but I need to go write my exams and eat a gigantic, carb-full lunch. And then maybe I’ll try to sew myself a skirt that will fit me.
Last weekend, Curtis, my fellow mzungu teacher who lives in town, finally was able to come to my village for a visit. The Brothers of St. Paul who run the school next to me have a vehicle and they invited him for dinner. It was the first time he has been able to come here. I felt a silly sense of pride when showing him around. I really feel like this is my place now, it used to be just the place I was staying. But now it is home. And it is mine. My little house, my little goat neighbor, my oceanic view, my camels, my desert. Curtis was also properly awed with the distance I have to walk to school everyday, the remoteness of the open desert, and the beauty of the scrub brush dotted with thatch huts. I am looking at my tiny town and my huge desert with new appreciation and love.
The term ends in two weeks and I am planning my trip away from here. I have been aching to escape for weeks, but as the days count down, I am starting to think about leaving and I think I will really miss it. So many times in the last two months I have been unsure if I could really do this. Living here has been so hard and many times I was just holding on to the thought of vacation. There were times when I wanted to go home so badly I had to argue with myself and force myself to stay. But now, I feel stronger and more able to do this. I think I can do it. I can live here with no internet, terrible cell service, and no cheese. I have gotten used to seeing more camels than cars, and now the alternative is what seems odd. The thought of Nairobi and all the stuff that it offers is very exciting and a little scary. I am nervous about the culture shock even though I have only been here for 3 months. Marsabit town seems loud and too busy for me; I can’t imagine how Nairobi is going to freak me out. I go to town once a week and I am starting to not enjoy it. I like the unlimited internet, and the cold beer. But I do not like shopping, or walking around. Everyone is calling to me, there are too many places to buy vegetables, and too many stores to go to. I always end up forgetting something because I am too uncomfortable to bargain with the women and keep track of my grocery list. Actually, I had not even thought how much I disliked town until I wrote it down just now. This revelation kinda freaks me out. How much have I changed in the last three months? Am I really that uncomfortable? I guess when I meet my American friends for vacation, they will let me know how weird I have become.
As of March 13, I have been in Kenya for 5 months. This is so close to the 6 month milestone. Before I left America, I told myself that if I absolutely hated it, I could come home after 6 months. 6 months seemed like a decent amount of effort and an acceptable stopping point. Now that I am getting close, I am so certain I can make it through my whole service. The first 6 months is supposed to be the hardest. Once that is out of the way, the rest will go by so fast. Training in Loitokitok for 3 months seemed like it lasted an eternity. The first two months here in Marsabit seemed faster, but they still crawled by. I feel like I can remember every single day of the first two months at my site. But this last month has started to pick up the pace, the days are starting to blur together. I just know I can make it through the remaining 22 months, and I know that it will go by too fast for comfort.
Again, I start writing thinking to myself that I have nothing to say. The week has been slow and nothing interesting has happened. I sit at my computer and somehow my brain takes over and fills up the page with things I did not even know I was thinking about. I always plan on writing only a few paragraphs, and I always end up with a much longer diatribe. Anyway, I am going to make myself stop now, I can feel my brain has more to say, but I need to go write my exams and eat a gigantic, carb-full lunch. And then maybe I’ll try to sew myself a skirt that will fit me.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
No Matter How Big the Crocodile, It Is Hatched From An Egg
I don’t feel like I have much to write today. It has been a slow week. I took a mental health day on Thursday and skipped school. I sat around my house and read books. I attempted to make skillet cupcakes and doughnuts. The doughnuts didn’t turn out that great, but the skillet cupcakes were delicious. Who says you need an oven?
Here in Mars, there has been a change of season. If this was America, I would call it spring. They do not have spring here, it is just nearing the end of the dry season. The branches on the tree outside my window have budding leaves. The local birds are pairing up and making nests. The local feral dogs are now fighting amongst each other and joining into packs. I am seeing more and more baby goats, cows, camels, and donkeys. Last week I saw a cow give birth right on the road, and the day after I ran into a herd of cattle that was all babies with no adults. The biggest change is the moths. I do not know where they have been, but now they are everywhere. I keep my windows closed starting at sunset so I won’t get a bunch in my house, but they find a way in anyway. They creep under my door and head straight for my fluorescent light. When I was in America I had an irrational fear of moths. Something about them getting into my hair and dying there just creeps me out. You would think that a hundred strong flock of the beasts flying chaotically around my living room would send me into a panic. But TIA, and I have bigger problems. When I go to the choo, there are 4 inch flying cockroaches trying to get between my feet. When I go outside at night, bats confuse me with a tasty meal and swoop towards my face with a screech. There is something that lives in my house that I can’t see but it keeps stinging me and leaving a painful stinger and burning welt behind. The mosquitos in my house are so numerous that their buzzing can keep me awake at night. In light of all that, I will happily tolerate some moths. They are annoying for sure, though. They find a way to dive spectacularly into my Nalgene while I am drinking. They land on my laptop keys, get their tiny feet caught and require me to delicately rescue them. They also really seem to enjoy landing softly on my face. They flutter their wings as they walk lightly across my cheeks, giving literal meaning to the phrase “butterfly kisses”. Like eyelashes, they tickle and I brush them delicately away, freeing them to careen wildly around the room, crashing their tiny bodies violently into objects with a painful “ping”. The crowd outside trying to get in the window makes a cacophony that sounds like rain tinging on my tin roof. Many of them do not make it through the night, and every morning I get to be the moth undertaker and collect and dispose of their bodies.
Yesterday, I rescued my neighbor’s baby goat from a painful death. My neighbor had tied him to a small tree outside my living room window and then left him to graze. She went back to her house and could not hear his cries. After about an hour happily munching on the few leaves, he got himself very tangled and the rope wrapped around his little neck and started to strangle him. I heard his little cries and ran outside to help. He was lying flat on the ground with his tiny black hoofs splayed out; he could not breath and his little pink tongue was sticking out as he bleated weakly. I tried to untangle him but I could not, so I ran back into the house and grabbed a knife. I had to cut the rope in three places just to get it off him and the whole time the poor baby was laying still and not breathing. I have not been that scared in a long time. I didn’t realize how attached I had gotten to that baby goat. I had even named him Chakula because I think that will be his fate. Chakula means ‘food’. After I cut the rope, he just laid there. I picked him up and gave him a hug as he recovered. He is normally afraid of me but he let me hold him. After a few minutes he was fine and happily munching on the frayed end of his rope. I tied him to my laundry line and went to tell my neighbor. She only speaks kiswa and I do not know enough to say “Your baby goat got tangled in the rope and almost strangled to death. I cut the rope and he is fine. Here is your rope, sorry I had to cut it, your goat is tied to my tree so do not worry.” So instead I said, “mbuzi yako, ili…” then I mimed wrapping the rope around my neck, “Nilihitaji kukatakata, mbuzi ikosawa sasa” That translates to “your goat, he was… I needed to cut, goat is fine now”. I only got out “your goat…I needed to cut” before my neighbor panicked and ran to find her goat. I think I scared her with my miming and coming to her with an apology, a knife, a piece of rope, and no goat. But all is well, and Chakula is back to bounding around on the rocks and coming into my house to stare at me with his square pupils.
I have been doing a pen pal type exchange with a high school in Vermont. They have written letters to my students and my students have written to them. I told my girls that they could write about anything they wanted and encouraged them to ask questions. All the letters I sent are wonderful, inspiring, thoughtful, and funny. I do not know if my girls intended to write them that way. One letter was a complete physics quiz, she was testing the Americans to see if they learned more than Kenyans. (I will tell you, Kenyans learn more, Americans learn better.) Another girl asked if there were any guys whom she could marry. One girl just made up a bunch of knock-knock jokes. All the girls thanked God for the opportunity to talk to an American, and all of them wrote as if they were talking to their very best friend. Each letter is full of advice, poems, and inspirational sayings. Some are full of praise for me, which embarrasses me, but makes me feel loved. I can’t write all of the great stuff so I took one letter and transcribed parts of it here. I corrected the spelling so you could understand, but the words and thoughts (and bad grammar) all belong to Halima Godana, unless she plagiarized.
Little keys can open big locks
Simple words can express great thoughts
Big problems have a small solution
Hope my simple wish can make you great
Be smart, get a job
When God gave friends, He tried to be fair
When I got you, I got more than my share
You’re a treasure
Given to me without measure
I love you so much
Advice:
Be yourself
Remain second to none
Put ones shoulder to the wheel
Turn over a new leaf
Pick someones brain
Make ones mark
Look for a needle in a haystack
Have heart and soul
Have the game in ones hand
Have a go at everything
To be a better person in future (eg like Miss Ryan) do you have the ability?
Education is like an ocean
Beginning as a mountain spring
Becoming a stream
A river and the sea
Then becoming oceans which
Never dry
No matter how big the crocodile, it is hatched from an egg
Receive my warmest greetings which is sweeter than honey, brighter than stars, deeper than pacific ocean, and valuable than gold.
If you ever feel lonely, look to the sky always know that I’m somewhere beneath that sky wishing you the best.
Here in Mars, there has been a change of season. If this was America, I would call it spring. They do not have spring here, it is just nearing the end of the dry season. The branches on the tree outside my window have budding leaves. The local birds are pairing up and making nests. The local feral dogs are now fighting amongst each other and joining into packs. I am seeing more and more baby goats, cows, camels, and donkeys. Last week I saw a cow give birth right on the road, and the day after I ran into a herd of cattle that was all babies with no adults. The biggest change is the moths. I do not know where they have been, but now they are everywhere. I keep my windows closed starting at sunset so I won’t get a bunch in my house, but they find a way in anyway. They creep under my door and head straight for my fluorescent light. When I was in America I had an irrational fear of moths. Something about them getting into my hair and dying there just creeps me out. You would think that a hundred strong flock of the beasts flying chaotically around my living room would send me into a panic. But TIA, and I have bigger problems. When I go to the choo, there are 4 inch flying cockroaches trying to get between my feet. When I go outside at night, bats confuse me with a tasty meal and swoop towards my face with a screech. There is something that lives in my house that I can’t see but it keeps stinging me and leaving a painful stinger and burning welt behind. The mosquitos in my house are so numerous that their buzzing can keep me awake at night. In light of all that, I will happily tolerate some moths. They are annoying for sure, though. They find a way to dive spectacularly into my Nalgene while I am drinking. They land on my laptop keys, get their tiny feet caught and require me to delicately rescue them. They also really seem to enjoy landing softly on my face. They flutter their wings as they walk lightly across my cheeks, giving literal meaning to the phrase “butterfly kisses”. Like eyelashes, they tickle and I brush them delicately away, freeing them to careen wildly around the room, crashing their tiny bodies violently into objects with a painful “ping”. The crowd outside trying to get in the window makes a cacophony that sounds like rain tinging on my tin roof. Many of them do not make it through the night, and every morning I get to be the moth undertaker and collect and dispose of their bodies.
Yesterday, I rescued my neighbor’s baby goat from a painful death. My neighbor had tied him to a small tree outside my living room window and then left him to graze. She went back to her house and could not hear his cries. After about an hour happily munching on the few leaves, he got himself very tangled and the rope wrapped around his little neck and started to strangle him. I heard his little cries and ran outside to help. He was lying flat on the ground with his tiny black hoofs splayed out; he could not breath and his little pink tongue was sticking out as he bleated weakly. I tried to untangle him but I could not, so I ran back into the house and grabbed a knife. I had to cut the rope in three places just to get it off him and the whole time the poor baby was laying still and not breathing. I have not been that scared in a long time. I didn’t realize how attached I had gotten to that baby goat. I had even named him Chakula because I think that will be his fate. Chakula means ‘food’. After I cut the rope, he just laid there. I picked him up and gave him a hug as he recovered. He is normally afraid of me but he let me hold him. After a few minutes he was fine and happily munching on the frayed end of his rope. I tied him to my laundry line and went to tell my neighbor. She only speaks kiswa and I do not know enough to say “Your baby goat got tangled in the rope and almost strangled to death. I cut the rope and he is fine. Here is your rope, sorry I had to cut it, your goat is tied to my tree so do not worry.” So instead I said, “mbuzi yako, ili…” then I mimed wrapping the rope around my neck, “Nilihitaji kukatakata, mbuzi ikosawa sasa” That translates to “your goat, he was… I needed to cut, goat is fine now”. I only got out “your goat…I needed to cut” before my neighbor panicked and ran to find her goat. I think I scared her with my miming and coming to her with an apology, a knife, a piece of rope, and no goat. But all is well, and Chakula is back to bounding around on the rocks and coming into my house to stare at me with his square pupils.
I have been doing a pen pal type exchange with a high school in Vermont. They have written letters to my students and my students have written to them. I told my girls that they could write about anything they wanted and encouraged them to ask questions. All the letters I sent are wonderful, inspiring, thoughtful, and funny. I do not know if my girls intended to write them that way. One letter was a complete physics quiz, she was testing the Americans to see if they learned more than Kenyans. (I will tell you, Kenyans learn more, Americans learn better.) Another girl asked if there were any guys whom she could marry. One girl just made up a bunch of knock-knock jokes. All the girls thanked God for the opportunity to talk to an American, and all of them wrote as if they were talking to their very best friend. Each letter is full of advice, poems, and inspirational sayings. Some are full of praise for me, which embarrasses me, but makes me feel loved. I can’t write all of the great stuff so I took one letter and transcribed parts of it here. I corrected the spelling so you could understand, but the words and thoughts (and bad grammar) all belong to Halima Godana, unless she plagiarized.
Little keys can open big locks
Simple words can express great thoughts
Big problems have a small solution
Hope my simple wish can make you great
Be smart, get a job
When God gave friends, He tried to be fair
When I got you, I got more than my share
You’re a treasure
Given to me without measure
I love you so much
Advice:
Be yourself
Remain second to none
Put ones shoulder to the wheel
Turn over a new leaf
Pick someones brain
Make ones mark
Look for a needle in a haystack
Have heart and soul
Have the game in ones hand
Have a go at everything
To be a better person in future (eg like Miss Ryan) do you have the ability?
Education is like an ocean
Beginning as a mountain spring
Becoming a stream
A river and the sea
Then becoming oceans which
Never dry
No matter how big the crocodile, it is hatched from an egg
Receive my warmest greetings which is sweeter than honey, brighter than stars, deeper than pacific ocean, and valuable than gold.
If you ever feel lonely, look to the sky always know that I’m somewhere beneath that sky wishing you the best.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Part of the Community
I am physically and mentally exhausted this week. My life is starting to get very busy. I am actuallynglad of this, it makes me feel like part of the community. Previously, I would go home from school as soon as I was finished and hide in my house to avoid talking to my neighbors. Weekends were spent in town shopping alone, surfing the internet, alone, and hanging with Curtis at Pale Pale, the bar. And on Sundays I did laundry in my house, to avoid the neighbors. The last two weeks have been completely different. Saturday I spent with fellow teachers, and Curtis, at Pale Pale having a good time. I went shopping with Peter, my favorite Brother who is in training to be a priest. I visited the Sisters and had chai, talked to the teachers from the primary school, and ate breakfast on Sunday at the Father’s house. During the week I am very busy as well. I used to come home as soon as I could to hide in my house. Now I have to stay at school all day. This week I am helping to grade midterms. I also have two or three counseling sessions every day with students. I have finally gotten my bicycle fixed, so I ride home at about 6 pm, it is uphill the whole way and I almost blacked out the first time I tried. I get home all sweaty, dirty and disgusting and take a nice cold bucket bath. Then I sit on my porch, rehydrate, and greet the neighbors. I have become friends with Galgallo, the 2 year boy, the adorable little girl whos name I keep forgetting, and Lokho who is 12. Lokho wants to learn English, so we meet every day for about an hour to read the Princess Bride for practice. I also help her do her school work. In return she teaches me new Kiswahili and kiborana words. I have restarted my Kiswahili practice in earnest; I am starting to get embarrassed by how little I use it. It is just too easy to answer in English, I always know how to answer in kiswa, I just don’t for some reason. I need to stop that. I study kiswa for about half an hour, then make dinner. While cooking, I clean my house, anyplace maggots might want to spawn. Then I eat dinner while watching something lighthearted on my laptop. After dinner, I attempt to grade more papers or make lesson plans. I am exhausted and ready to go to bed at about 8pm, but I never get finished before it is near 11. I go to bed and sleep until my bladder wakes me up at 5:30am. Then up with the sun, Blue Band and Zesta sandwiches for breakfast, chug a cup of coffee, and I can coast off to school on my bicycle. Its all downhill so I can arrive fresh and only slightly sweaty for the 7am assembly.
Yesterday, on my bicycle, I had to ride down this narrow path on my way to school. It has some mud huts on one side and a fence made of acacia bushes on the other side. It was very sandy and I was afraid I was going to fall over. I was being careful and watching the ground when I almost ran into a camel, literally. It was the largest herd of them I have seen here. There were 17 of them and they were way too close to me; after being kicked by one a few weeks ago, I am more wary. I can not get over how big they are close up. They are at least as big as moose, maybe bigger. I was nervous to be riding down this small path with all these camels looking at me. Because of the sand, I had to weave in between the camels like they were slow cars on a highway. It ended up being super fun and I did not fall over or get kicked. The local kids who were running after me thought it was hilarious; I think they would have enjoyed it more if I had been injured.
Last week I wrote about Fatuma and her problem with falling asleep in all her classes. I had her write me a letter as to why. Yesterday, Fatuma came and gave it to me. It was a great letter. She opened it by saying “Dear caring mother,” and then thanked me for my concern. Fortunately, she did not mention witchcraft; I would not have known what to do with that. She said the problem was stress and discouragement, which is what I thought it was. She was worried about her poor family at home and how they had had to sell everything they owned to send her to school, leaving her other siblings at home, and the pressure that put her under to do well. She was failing all her classes and became depressed because she doesn’t feel she can catch up. She has trouble sleeping at night because she feels she is letting down her family, she spends all her free time copying notes from friends because she doesn’t understand in class, and then during class she falls asleep because she doesn’t know what is going on and she is exhausted. Then when the teacher leaves class, she said she sometimes cries because she feels so bad. She feels terrible for letting down her teachers who are only trying to help her and her parents who love her so much they sent her to school so she could have a better life than theirs. I am very limited in what I can do, I offered to be her tutor and help her in her classes. I do not have the knowledge to teach her in every subject, but I am hoping to teach her some skills to help her learn. I am going to teach her reading comprehension, English vocabulary, study skills, and active listening. I have to download information on how to do that, since I never studied in high school and am still not quite sure what active listening is. But if I can show her some things, maybe she will give herself a break and not worry so much. If she will be less stressed, maybe she can sleep at night, and maybe stay awake in class and take her own notes, then use her free time to actually study.
Yesterday, one of my students fainted in class. I did not find out until lunch time, when she had been completely unconscious for 4 hours. I asked to see her; they had put her outside under the shade of a tree with her feet slightly elevated. She was completely non-responsive and her only movements were when she cringed in pain and her spine bent backwards and she held her clenched fists to her chest. Her only sounds were wimpers of pain. She had something wrong with her kidneys and had been in pain for awhile. This was not the first time she has fainted, the last time she passed out she was prescribed medicine for epilepsy, without being tested. After I sat with her for another 3 hours, the school was finally able to find a vehicle to come and take her to the hospital. It was just in time too, she had begun to have small seizures. She did wake up a little when the car arrived, she could nod her head when spoken to, and knew where she was. They took her to the hospital where she will finally get tests. I am afraid that she will not be able to afford it, she was already having financial trouble. I am going to keep track of her and I hope that she will be okay.
Yesterday, on my bicycle, I had to ride down this narrow path on my way to school. It has some mud huts on one side and a fence made of acacia bushes on the other side. It was very sandy and I was afraid I was going to fall over. I was being careful and watching the ground when I almost ran into a camel, literally. It was the largest herd of them I have seen here. There were 17 of them and they were way too close to me; after being kicked by one a few weeks ago, I am more wary. I can not get over how big they are close up. They are at least as big as moose, maybe bigger. I was nervous to be riding down this small path with all these camels looking at me. Because of the sand, I had to weave in between the camels like they were slow cars on a highway. It ended up being super fun and I did not fall over or get kicked. The local kids who were running after me thought it was hilarious; I think they would have enjoyed it more if I had been injured.
Last week I wrote about Fatuma and her problem with falling asleep in all her classes. I had her write me a letter as to why. Yesterday, Fatuma came and gave it to me. It was a great letter. She opened it by saying “Dear caring mother,” and then thanked me for my concern. Fortunately, she did not mention witchcraft; I would not have known what to do with that. She said the problem was stress and discouragement, which is what I thought it was. She was worried about her poor family at home and how they had had to sell everything they owned to send her to school, leaving her other siblings at home, and the pressure that put her under to do well. She was failing all her classes and became depressed because she doesn’t feel she can catch up. She has trouble sleeping at night because she feels she is letting down her family, she spends all her free time copying notes from friends because she doesn’t understand in class, and then during class she falls asleep because she doesn’t know what is going on and she is exhausted. Then when the teacher leaves class, she said she sometimes cries because she feels so bad. She feels terrible for letting down her teachers who are only trying to help her and her parents who love her so much they sent her to school so she could have a better life than theirs. I am very limited in what I can do, I offered to be her tutor and help her in her classes. I do not have the knowledge to teach her in every subject, but I am hoping to teach her some skills to help her learn. I am going to teach her reading comprehension, English vocabulary, study skills, and active listening. I have to download information on how to do that, since I never studied in high school and am still not quite sure what active listening is. But if I can show her some things, maybe she will give herself a break and not worry so much. If she will be less stressed, maybe she can sleep at night, and maybe stay awake in class and take her own notes, then use her free time to actually study.
Yesterday, one of my students fainted in class. I did not find out until lunch time, when she had been completely unconscious for 4 hours. I asked to see her; they had put her outside under the shade of a tree with her feet slightly elevated. She was completely non-responsive and her only movements were when she cringed in pain and her spine bent backwards and she held her clenched fists to her chest. Her only sounds were wimpers of pain. She had something wrong with her kidneys and had been in pain for awhile. This was not the first time she has fainted, the last time she passed out she was prescribed medicine for epilepsy, without being tested. After I sat with her for another 3 hours, the school was finally able to find a vehicle to come and take her to the hospital. It was just in time too, she had begun to have small seizures. She did wake up a little when the car arrived, she could nod her head when spoken to, and knew where she was. They took her to the hospital where she will finally get tests. I am afraid that she will not be able to afford it, she was already having financial trouble. I am going to keep track of her and I hope that she will be okay.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Counselor
I have been the school counselor for a few weeks and I have not really done much. Last week that changed. I do not even know how I feel about all that has been revealed this week. I sat down today to write this blog because my brain doesn’t know what else to do. I have been thinking almost non stop about the issues I am going to tell you about and I have no helpful reaction. I wish I knew what I was supposed to do.
On Wednesday I was having a mini counseling session with five of my form one students. One girl asked me for advice on how to say no to a persistent guy who was pressuring her. She said he told her he loved her and that he would take care of her. The student knew that being in a relationship at her age was difficult and she was afraid her school work would suffer. She also said she knew he was only saying he loved her so she would have sex with him. This smart student wanted to wait until she finished school before she got into a relationship. I gave her some advice. I told her to just be direct and tell him no, don’t let him promise you the world because the risks (HIV, pregnancy) are too high for a girl her age. She said she had tried that and he would not leave her alone. Then she told me that if a girl says “no”, the man will just beat her up. My mouth dropped open and I said, “Is that true?” Her friend who was sitting next to her chimed in and said yes, the men here will not be said no to. I told the girls that that was very wrong of the men to do that and said they have to be prepared, if he tries anything to try and fight back. Kick them in the groin, scream, run away. Then another girl spoke up, “Then they will come back, and they will bring all their friends”. I was in total disbelief. What was I supposed to say to that? I got very angry and I told them that that was unacceptable. No man has a right to treat them like that. But what practical advice can I tell them? Everyone knows about this problem and no one talks about it. These girls have been dealing with this since primary school. I asked when the men start harassing them and I was told that kids as young as 10 are forced or convinced to be a relationship with a much, much older man. The men tell the young girls that they will give them free rides on their motorbikes. This is a very, horrifyingly common situation. Of the form one class, only 3 of the girls were not in a relationship of this kind, and those three were in front of me asking for help. Once you have agreed to a relationship in exchange for a ride, the men spend their time trying to get you to do more. The girls who were sitting in front of me were the only ones who were not getting free motorbike rides. They knew the risks. One of them told me what would happen in the best case scenario; if you did not get AIDS or pregnant and the relationship ended. When the time came for you to get married, a man would pay a very large price for you. The dowry could be as high as 100,000 shillings, some cattle, and eight large bags of clothes. If the husband was happy with you he would even pay more after the wedding. But when he found out that you were not a virgin, he would be extremely angry. And he would pay nothing for you. You would be shamed and your family might starve.
That same day, I was walking home from school when I saw one of my students sitting by the side of the road. Her name was Fatuma, and she was crying. I asked her why and she said that she was being sent away from school to go get her parents. She owed a thousand shillings in school fees and could not afford to pay. If she could not come up with the money, she would not be able to return to school. She was in Form 3 and only had one more year to go. If she dropped out now there would be no future for her. Just like in America, if you do not have a high school diploma there are very few jobs for you. And here, where everyone is poor, there is no such thing as a minimum wage job. If you do not have a degree, you do not get a job, ever. Fatuma was crying because she knew that it was pointless, she would go and get her parents and they would not have the money. I walked her home, gave her a hug, and a piece of candy. I wanted so badly to give her the money, I have it, and I can afford it. But then what would I say to the other 120 students who are poor and need help? I could not give Fatuma the money and I felt terrible. One thousand shillings is thirteen American dollars. This girl’s entire future depended on her finding $13.
Thursday I came to school and was approached by one of the teachers to have a counseling session with a girl named Jillo. She was having a problem in all her classes, she could not stay awake. As soon as a teacher walked in the room, she would be asleep. During her prep times and during breaks, she was a bright active girl. I was requested to talk to her to find out what the problem was and if we could fix it, she is failing every single class and the teachers are concerned. I sat with her and talked for awhile. She said that she did not know what the problem was, she couldn’t help it but every single class put her to sleep. I asked if she was sick, if she was not sleeping at night, if she was stressed, or discouraged, or bored, or if she hated every single class. She said it was none of those reasons but she would not say what she thought the problem was. I gave her a piece of paper and told her she had until Monday to write me a letter telling me why. I said it would be anonymous and I would not even tell the other school counselor. I left and went and spoke with the other counselor and told him my plan to find out the problem. He said that he knew what she was going to write. She thought she was bewitched. He meant that literally and with no sarcasm. Jillo thought that someone had put her under a spell. Her parents also thought that was the case and wanted to take her to a witch doctor who could break the spell. The counselor convinced them that we should wait and try talking to the girl first, a witch doctor was too extreme at this stage. I have until Monday to find out what the problem is and then I have to fix it. And I have no clue what I am going to do.
When I got here I thought my job was to be a teacher. I was going to teach biology and physics and be a good friend to these students. Now I have no idea what to do. This whole week has changed my perspective on things. I feel like there are so many huge problems that I will not be able to even touch no matter how long I am here or how much I want to. I want a hundred cans of mace that I can give out to every girl, I want to give Fatuma $13 dollars, and I want Jillo to have a future that is far away from ignorance and witch doctors. Even if I were able to do all these things, the problems are still here. On the days when I think “what am I doing here? I could be eating a cheeseburger in a bar enjoying all the luxuries America has to offer,” I think about what I would be leaving behind. I could never go home to where life is easy and be able to sleep at night knowing the students are dealing with problems that I could never imaging dealing with. I may not be able to help these girls fix the problems, but I can stay for two years and listen to them.
On Wednesday I was having a mini counseling session with five of my form one students. One girl asked me for advice on how to say no to a persistent guy who was pressuring her. She said he told her he loved her and that he would take care of her. The student knew that being in a relationship at her age was difficult and she was afraid her school work would suffer. She also said she knew he was only saying he loved her so she would have sex with him. This smart student wanted to wait until she finished school before she got into a relationship. I gave her some advice. I told her to just be direct and tell him no, don’t let him promise you the world because the risks (HIV, pregnancy) are too high for a girl her age. She said she had tried that and he would not leave her alone. Then she told me that if a girl says “no”, the man will just beat her up. My mouth dropped open and I said, “Is that true?” Her friend who was sitting next to her chimed in and said yes, the men here will not be said no to. I told the girls that that was very wrong of the men to do that and said they have to be prepared, if he tries anything to try and fight back. Kick them in the groin, scream, run away. Then another girl spoke up, “Then they will come back, and they will bring all their friends”. I was in total disbelief. What was I supposed to say to that? I got very angry and I told them that that was unacceptable. No man has a right to treat them like that. But what practical advice can I tell them? Everyone knows about this problem and no one talks about it. These girls have been dealing with this since primary school. I asked when the men start harassing them and I was told that kids as young as 10 are forced or convinced to be a relationship with a much, much older man. The men tell the young girls that they will give them free rides on their motorbikes. This is a very, horrifyingly common situation. Of the form one class, only 3 of the girls were not in a relationship of this kind, and those three were in front of me asking for help. Once you have agreed to a relationship in exchange for a ride, the men spend their time trying to get you to do more. The girls who were sitting in front of me were the only ones who were not getting free motorbike rides. They knew the risks. One of them told me what would happen in the best case scenario; if you did not get AIDS or pregnant and the relationship ended. When the time came for you to get married, a man would pay a very large price for you. The dowry could be as high as 100,000 shillings, some cattle, and eight large bags of clothes. If the husband was happy with you he would even pay more after the wedding. But when he found out that you were not a virgin, he would be extremely angry. And he would pay nothing for you. You would be shamed and your family might starve.
That same day, I was walking home from school when I saw one of my students sitting by the side of the road. Her name was Fatuma, and she was crying. I asked her why and she said that she was being sent away from school to go get her parents. She owed a thousand shillings in school fees and could not afford to pay. If she could not come up with the money, she would not be able to return to school. She was in Form 3 and only had one more year to go. If she dropped out now there would be no future for her. Just like in America, if you do not have a high school diploma there are very few jobs for you. And here, where everyone is poor, there is no such thing as a minimum wage job. If you do not have a degree, you do not get a job, ever. Fatuma was crying because she knew that it was pointless, she would go and get her parents and they would not have the money. I walked her home, gave her a hug, and a piece of candy. I wanted so badly to give her the money, I have it, and I can afford it. But then what would I say to the other 120 students who are poor and need help? I could not give Fatuma the money and I felt terrible. One thousand shillings is thirteen American dollars. This girl’s entire future depended on her finding $13.
Thursday I came to school and was approached by one of the teachers to have a counseling session with a girl named Jillo. She was having a problem in all her classes, she could not stay awake. As soon as a teacher walked in the room, she would be asleep. During her prep times and during breaks, she was a bright active girl. I was requested to talk to her to find out what the problem was and if we could fix it, she is failing every single class and the teachers are concerned. I sat with her and talked for awhile. She said that she did not know what the problem was, she couldn’t help it but every single class put her to sleep. I asked if she was sick, if she was not sleeping at night, if she was stressed, or discouraged, or bored, or if she hated every single class. She said it was none of those reasons but she would not say what she thought the problem was. I gave her a piece of paper and told her she had until Monday to write me a letter telling me why. I said it would be anonymous and I would not even tell the other school counselor. I left and went and spoke with the other counselor and told him my plan to find out the problem. He said that he knew what she was going to write. She thought she was bewitched. He meant that literally and with no sarcasm. Jillo thought that someone had put her under a spell. Her parents also thought that was the case and wanted to take her to a witch doctor who could break the spell. The counselor convinced them that we should wait and try talking to the girl first, a witch doctor was too extreme at this stage. I have until Monday to find out what the problem is and then I have to fix it. And I have no clue what I am going to do.
When I got here I thought my job was to be a teacher. I was going to teach biology and physics and be a good friend to these students. Now I have no idea what to do. This whole week has changed my perspective on things. I feel like there are so many huge problems that I will not be able to even touch no matter how long I am here or how much I want to. I want a hundred cans of mace that I can give out to every girl, I want to give Fatuma $13 dollars, and I want Jillo to have a future that is far away from ignorance and witch doctors. Even if I were able to do all these things, the problems are still here. On the days when I think “what am I doing here? I could be eating a cheeseburger in a bar enjoying all the luxuries America has to offer,” I think about what I would be leaving behind. I could never go home to where life is easy and be able to sleep at night knowing the students are dealing with problems that I could never imaging dealing with. I may not be able to help these girls fix the problems, but I can stay for two years and listen to them.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Back to School
So Sunday, I was lying around my house and I decided to drag myself off the couch where I had been lying like a corpse since I got out of bed. It was like, 2 in the afternoon, and I thought, about time for breakfast. I decided I would make some French fries. I went to my box of potatoes and dumped the whole thing on my floor to look for the biggest ones. This was a horrendous mistake. One of the potatoes had rotted, silently, and was now filled with something that only belongs in nightmares. Even the word gives me the heebily jeebilies. Maggots. There were maggots all over my kitchen floor! I have never been so grossed out in my life and I have seen some pretty gross stuff. But the sight of their tiny, white bodies, writhing on the floor… bleearrgghh! I dropped the potato I was holding and did the ‘ohmyGOD theyrealloverme!!’ dance for a few minutes. Then I took a deep breath, grabbed a plastic bag and stepped back in the kitchen. One glance and I ran out of the kitchen and did the dance again, this time trying to control my pesky gag reflex. Once more, deep breath and into the kitchen, this time using two plastic bags as gloves and a stick to push all the potatoes back in the box, then I ran out and threw it down the choo. I wanted to disinfect my entire house. But TIA (This Is Africa) and I have no bleach or scrub brush or 409; so I had to settle for spreading some hot water all over the floor and rubbing it with a Sham Wow. Now my imagination is creating maggots all over the house. Stray rice grains, escaped bread crumbs, the invisible nothing that is absolutely everywhere and looks just like a maggot. I had graphic dreams about maggots last night, damn mefloquin, they were friendly, inch-wormy maggots. Now my hatred of flies has escalated. I don’t hate flies; hate is too mild a word. I loathe flies with the fire of a thousand suns. I want to punch one in its face, and I try, but they are too darn fast. Does anyone know a way to kill flies? Some tried and true, housewives trick? Can I light them on fire or drown them?
On Monday, since there were maggots all over my house, I thought I would go visiting. I was doing my best to be anti-antisocial. I even allowed myself to be attacked by the preschool kids. They cannot pronounce my name, it sounds adorably like “Lion”, and they tried to strip me naked. Forty of the little scamps surrounded me and distracted me by poking me in the…chest, (yeah, I don’t know why) and while I was fending them off, they had undone the tie on my wrap skirt! Iko sawa, I think they were too little to be scandalized. Next I visited with a form 3 student (that is Junior year) named Halima who lived nearby. She showed me her photo album; it was falling apart and had Leo DeCaprio from Titanic on the cover. It was full of blurry photos of her many brothers and sisters as they were growing up in a village near Lake Turkana. There were pictures of her mother and sisters in traditional Rendille or Samburu (I can’t tell the difference) dress. In the photos of her brothers at their circumcision ceremonies the boys look a little pained because the picture was taken immediately after the procedure, the circumcisor (guy who does circumsicions?) is still kneeling between the boys’ knees. Halima also told me about her mother who passed away on Christmas, at four pm. She said her mother had been sick for years but was doing better and talking completely normal right before she passed. In the tradition of her people, Halima shaved all her hair off in remembrance of her mother. Halima told me all this with a smile on her face. She is a much stronger person than I am.
Now midterm break is over and it is back to school. Today is Wednesday and it is the first day back. I am starting to understand why the majority of our students are failing; this school has such a different way of running things that I just do not see as conducive to learning. We opened today, and some students have not come back from break. Classes are supposed to start at 7:20 am, my first one is at 8 am. I was totally unprepared so I went to school early to make up a lesson. But when I arrived, all the students are still outside cleaning. Then they had an assembly. Classes didn’t actually start until 8:20 so I only got to do half a lesson. In addition, three quarters of my form ones (that is Freshman year) were not in class because they were being punished for being late or for wearing flip-flops (not part of the uniform). So the punishment for being late to class is to be sent outside to spend the day in the blazing sun picking up acacia thorns from the dusty clearing they call the football (soccer) field, and the student will miss a whole day of classes. I felt that it was pointless to cover new material when three fourths of the students were missing, so I just did a review of last week. It was very boring and redundant. But what can you do?
I have been asked by some of you at home about what you can do to help my students. I spoke with the deputy principle and what this school needs is “Stuff”. They have no library, a shortage of textbooks, no internet access, not enough supplies for lab practicals, not enough paper, few notebooks, no visual aids, no reference books, etc, etc. So if you have a stack of old Nat Geos lying around, need some Karma points, or want to help me look like a rockstar to my school, here is a list of some things the school needs:
-Books for students to read recreationally (anything teens, or younger, would like to read to practice their english)
- notebooks, paper, flashcards (so they can study for exams)
-Rewards for good work (stickers, pencils, toys, candy)
-National Geographic or similar magazines (make science interesting!)
-Study guides for English, math, bio, chem., geography, history, physics, health, agriculture
-books of review problems (so I can have students do that for an alternative punishment)
-Bill Nye the Science Guy! (if those still exist, or other educational videos/documentaries)
-educational posters, or poster paper so I can make some
-markers, crayons, colored pencils
And for those with boatloads of cash, every school could use expensive technology: microscopes, digital cameras, and laptops. If you do want to sponsor a girl’s tuition, one year costs about 20,000 Kenyan Shillings, that’s around $260. If you want to give part of that, I can put it in a scholarship for the neediest students.
Alright, that’s enough of my begging. Thanks for reading. I am going to close my blog today with the food item I have been thinking about all week. A large, juicy hamburger with big chunks of brie melted on it, topped with avocado, tomatoes, and ketchup; served with a side of macaroni and cheese with cut up hotdogs. Man, I’m hungry. Have a good week!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Yay for midterm break!
am in a better mood this week. Last week I was in the middle of a dip of the Peace Corps roller coaster. Today I feel good because I am on midterm break until Wednesday. I told everyone I was leaving town and now I am free to do whatever I want for five whole days. It’s gonna be great. Lately, I have been getting some flak for not spending more time with the people in my village. It is not really fair of them to say that since I am followed by people yelling mzungu from 6 am when I leave my house till 7pm when I can shut my door and pretend to be busy. Of course the neighbor kids come in my house to laugh at me, and my other neighbors always want a quick chat, so by the time I climb into bed, I am never really relaxed. And if I step outside, I will invariably meet someone who will ask me why I am so anti-social. It is not my fault if Kenyans are ridiculously friendly! Its exhausting. Anyway, now I am free! I am hoping to go into Marsabit forest and see some elephants. That would be awesome. If not, I’ll just do my regular shopping, continue the quest for a cell phone that will work in the network black hole I live in.
On another topic, I have been observing people in my village and despite living here for a couple months, I still feel out of place. I think it is the clothes I wear, but I am too lazy to go to Town and buy a more modest outfit. I am sticking to my knee length skirts, scandalously short sleeves, and uncovered hair. But in case anyone wants to visit, and fit in, I thought I would give you a quick lesson on how to dress to fit into my town. Ladies: First, put on a pretty dress. Something bright, colorful, and fun. Like neon pink. Make sure the dress goes all the way to your feet, for modesty’s sake. Then take another dress, this one must be a muted, un-fun color. Like brown, or black. Make sure this dress is long sleeved and also goes to your feet, again for modesty. Put this dress on over the first dress. Now take a scarf and wrap it tightly around your head to cover your hair. Now take another scarf, make this one brightly colored and throw it jauntily around your head like the fashionista you are. Now you are fit to go anywhere, whether it’s the bore hole to fetch water, or to church. Now men, yours is more complicated so pay attention: Go to your closet. Pick anything. Put it on. Voila! Whether its dirty or clean, ugly burmuda shorts or a suit, a well put together outfit or (more commonly) a random organizational disaster, you’ll fit in.
Speaking of clothes, for those of you who donate clothes to Goodwill and wonder “who will ever want this faded high school football team t-shirt?” I have wonderful news for you. It somehow arrives here in Africa. Never fear that your favorite local business t-shirt that you got for free when they opened is at the end of its life. Donate it to Goodwill, and it will be reborn to a local man who will put a suit jacket over it and wear it to church. Last week, I saw a Washington Mutual T-shirt. A month ago there was a bright orange State Penitentiary shirt. And I could play sports team bingo with the number of logo hats there are in my town. This place is the afterlife for clothes. The secretary at my school has a favorite outfit she loves to wear. It is a shiny, maroon, mermaid-style, poofy shouldered, prom dress from someones past. Its great and she wears it twice a week. I should have brought my old prom dress, I would fit in perfectly if I wore that, under a black dress of course.
I know I have been talking about clothes up to this point, but I am going to completely change the topic because I just realized what the ‘meat’ I have been eating for lunch for 6 weeks reminds me of. I think it is cow stomach. Its either that or octopus. I can see its little sucker feet! I am not very familiar with identification of cow anatomy, so if someone knows what part of the animal has small circular structures that look like octopus suckers, please let me know. I am going to stop staring at it and just eat it anyway, cause it’s the only meat I get. And don’t worry, it actually is delicious if you don’t chew it and chase it with rice. We have a really good cook at my school. I don’t think I could turn unidentifiable chunks of cow into something an American would call edible, let alone delicious.
Alright, I have grossed you out enough for one day. I am going to go post this and then see what is going on in the rest of the world. And by that I mean I’ll be checking Facebook.
On another topic, I have been observing people in my village and despite living here for a couple months, I still feel out of place. I think it is the clothes I wear, but I am too lazy to go to Town and buy a more modest outfit. I am sticking to my knee length skirts, scandalously short sleeves, and uncovered hair. But in case anyone wants to visit, and fit in, I thought I would give you a quick lesson on how to dress to fit into my town. Ladies: First, put on a pretty dress. Something bright, colorful, and fun. Like neon pink. Make sure the dress goes all the way to your feet, for modesty’s sake. Then take another dress, this one must be a muted, un-fun color. Like brown, or black. Make sure this dress is long sleeved and also goes to your feet, again for modesty. Put this dress on over the first dress. Now take a scarf and wrap it tightly around your head to cover your hair. Now take another scarf, make this one brightly colored and throw it jauntily around your head like the fashionista you are. Now you are fit to go anywhere, whether it’s the bore hole to fetch water, or to church. Now men, yours is more complicated so pay attention: Go to your closet. Pick anything. Put it on. Voila! Whether its dirty or clean, ugly burmuda shorts or a suit, a well put together outfit or (more commonly) a random organizational disaster, you’ll fit in.
Speaking of clothes, for those of you who donate clothes to Goodwill and wonder “who will ever want this faded high school football team t-shirt?” I have wonderful news for you. It somehow arrives here in Africa. Never fear that your favorite local business t-shirt that you got for free when they opened is at the end of its life. Donate it to Goodwill, and it will be reborn to a local man who will put a suit jacket over it and wear it to church. Last week, I saw a Washington Mutual T-shirt. A month ago there was a bright orange State Penitentiary shirt. And I could play sports team bingo with the number of logo hats there are in my town. This place is the afterlife for clothes. The secretary at my school has a favorite outfit she loves to wear. It is a shiny, maroon, mermaid-style, poofy shouldered, prom dress from someones past. Its great and she wears it twice a week. I should have brought my old prom dress, I would fit in perfectly if I wore that, under a black dress of course.
I know I have been talking about clothes up to this point, but I am going to completely change the topic because I just realized what the ‘meat’ I have been eating for lunch for 6 weeks reminds me of. I think it is cow stomach. Its either that or octopus. I can see its little sucker feet! I am not very familiar with identification of cow anatomy, so if someone knows what part of the animal has small circular structures that look like octopus suckers, please let me know. I am going to stop staring at it and just eat it anyway, cause it’s the only meat I get. And don’t worry, it actually is delicious if you don’t chew it and chase it with rice. We have a really good cook at my school. I don’t think I could turn unidentifiable chunks of cow into something an American would call edible, let alone delicious.
Alright, I have grossed you out enough for one day. I am going to go post this and then see what is going on in the rest of the world. And by that I mean I’ll be checking Facebook.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
I love being white and super ric h
We Americans are very lucky; it is pretty cool how every one of us has glowing ivory skin and pockets full of cash. Well, that’s what America means to a Kenyan. Lately I have been wishing for only one thing: to not be white. I am getting really tired of people asking me for money. I have started to not be polite when they ask. I know that I have white skin, and most white-skinned people who come here are wealthy, and they are apparently very generous to every person they meet. But I have no money and even though I have never had biscuits or pens or 5 shillings or sweets or tuition money since I got here, I still get asked every single day. I want to say, “You know me, we are neighbors, you know I don’t have spare shillingis”. Kenyans do not use the word “please” like we do in America. It is not considered rude to say, “Give me money” even though it drives me bananas. When little kids say it, I tell them “Hapana, mimi si banki, mimi ni mwalimu” (No, I am not a bank, I am a teacher) or I just tell them, “tabia mbaya” (bad manners). When adults ask me, they do it without preamble. The other day I had a conversation with a neighbor that went like this:
Me: Habari Yako? (How are you?)
Him: Ninahitaji shillingi mia moja tu. (I only need a hundred shillings)
Me: Sema tena? (Say again?)
Him: Nipa shilling mia moja. (Give me a hundred shillings)
Me: (pause)… Nina hakuna pesa, pole. (I have no money, sorry)
Couldn’t he even say hello first?
On Monday, I taught the form ones for the first time. At the end of class, one girl came up to me and said she wanted to ask me something but was afraid of me so she wrote me a letter. The letter was her life story; she has 6 brothers and sisters, her father had died, her mother had to make illegal home brewed alcohol and charcoal just to feed the family. She was the only one in her family going to school, and she would have to drop out because she had no money for tuition. Could I please pay for her schooling? This one is harder to deal with because I feel bad, even if her story sounds too awful to be true, I want to help her. But again, I do not have money. And even if I was wealthy, after all, I do have more money than they do, I still could not help everyone. When I told her no, I felt like I kicked a puppy. So I told her I would look to see if she could get a sponsor. I don’t know why I said that, I don’t know how to find a sponsor. I know that one or two girls here have them, rich couples in America who fund their education, and now I have to try to find one for this girl.
When I am generous, I feel like the students are ungrateful. This is probably my American sense of manners influencing my perception again. I was doing Review Jeopardy for my physics class and I brought a bag of Hershey Kisses. It was the last of my Christmas candy from America, and I felt very magnanimous for giving it up to the girls. As soon as I handed it out, there were maybe 3 or four pieces left, the girls started fighting over it. “Give it to me!” “No, just for me”. I told them I did not have enough for the whole class so I was going to give it to the teachers. They said okay, but then a crowd followed me out of the class begging me for more. Not one person said thank you. And for the rest of the week, students keep approaching me asking for more. “You bring for me tomorrow” It makes me not want to give them things, even though I know they deserve it.
I wrote the paragraphs above earlier today while I was at school, I was frustrated that this kid who I see every day asked me for biscuits, again. I wanted to slap him; and when I told him no, he ran away mumbling something under his breath, that in my mind, was “Screw you, Lady”. But then on my way home from school, I passed the Kubibagasa bore hole again, and it hit me how bad the drought was getting. The past few days have been hotter than…well, it’s hot. The people here are suffering because the bore hole is drying up. The herders bring their animals to the bore hole, and wait from morning to night for the water to come, and when it does, it is too little to water all the animals there. Yesterday, a cow died at the bore hole, and they ‘processed’ it right there. I gave an upbeat “Habari!” to the guy holding a machete in one hand, and a cow leg it the other. The women and girls with their 20 liter buckets on their backs walk for hours in the sun to get here, and then they wait all day for water that is probably not going to come. The road home is crowded these days, yesterday I waded through a herd of 200 goats, because there is little food and no water in the desert so they are just migrating. The men, who normally only have guns at night, carry their huge weapons during the day now to protect their few animals from being stolen. Yesterday, an old man died in my village. My village is very, very small, so this was a big deal. Someone told me he died of an illness, but they think it was caused by malnutrition. Without water, there is no milk from the camels or goats; that is their main source of food. And the elderly cannot eat githeri, their other staple food, a tough mix of maize kernels and beans that hurts your jaw to eat. So the man got sick and died, and the drought is just going to get worse. The rains are not supposed to come until April. I am pretty good with heat, I like the desert, but even I have been complaining. I am drinking almost 15 liters of water a week, and I am sweating most of it out. I am so exhausted by the walk home, and I am thinking I can no longer do it while the sun is high, I’ll have to wait until after 6 pm.
Now I feel guilty for complaining about people asking me for things. If I had a starving family at home, I would beg rich people every day. It makes me wish that I was actually wealthy. It has gotten to the point where I do not want to drink out of my water bottle while walking to school because I know every person I pass would love to have my liter of water. So if you are rich, and you do come to Africa, please do not give candy and money to children. It turns them into money- grubbing little monsters. But if you are rich, please give to charity, or churches, or become a sponsor, or come here and volunteer.
See what I did there? I relieved my guilt and turned the tables around. Instead of people asking me for money, I am asking you for them. See how that worked out?
And now after that depressing note, I’ll leave you with something positive. I saw a couple dik-diks on my way to school yesterday. (Google it) They are Adorable with a capital A. And so are baby pundas (donkeys), and baby goats. Baby goats are so tiny! I just want to grab one and make a run for it, but the guys with the big guns would probably object. My neighbors got a tiny baby goat a few days ago and I think they are keeping it in their sitting room, I can hear it bleating to its mommy through my wall right now. There, now I ended the blog by talking about baby animals. Don’t you feel better?
Me: Habari Yako? (How are you?)
Him: Ninahitaji shillingi mia moja tu. (I only need a hundred shillings)
Me: Sema tena? (Say again?)
Him: Nipa shilling mia moja. (Give me a hundred shillings)
Me: (pause)… Nina hakuna pesa, pole. (I have no money, sorry)
Couldn’t he even say hello first?
On Monday, I taught the form ones for the first time. At the end of class, one girl came up to me and said she wanted to ask me something but was afraid of me so she wrote me a letter. The letter was her life story; she has 6 brothers and sisters, her father had died, her mother had to make illegal home brewed alcohol and charcoal just to feed the family. She was the only one in her family going to school, and she would have to drop out because she had no money for tuition. Could I please pay for her schooling? This one is harder to deal with because I feel bad, even if her story sounds too awful to be true, I want to help her. But again, I do not have money. And even if I was wealthy, after all, I do have more money than they do, I still could not help everyone. When I told her no, I felt like I kicked a puppy. So I told her I would look to see if she could get a sponsor. I don’t know why I said that, I don’t know how to find a sponsor. I know that one or two girls here have them, rich couples in America who fund their education, and now I have to try to find one for this girl.
When I am generous, I feel like the students are ungrateful. This is probably my American sense of manners influencing my perception again. I was doing Review Jeopardy for my physics class and I brought a bag of Hershey Kisses. It was the last of my Christmas candy from America, and I felt very magnanimous for giving it up to the girls. As soon as I handed it out, there were maybe 3 or four pieces left, the girls started fighting over it. “Give it to me!” “No, just for me”. I told them I did not have enough for the whole class so I was going to give it to the teachers. They said okay, but then a crowd followed me out of the class begging me for more. Not one person said thank you. And for the rest of the week, students keep approaching me asking for more. “You bring for me tomorrow” It makes me not want to give them things, even though I know they deserve it.
I wrote the paragraphs above earlier today while I was at school, I was frustrated that this kid who I see every day asked me for biscuits, again. I wanted to slap him; and when I told him no, he ran away mumbling something under his breath, that in my mind, was “Screw you, Lady”. But then on my way home from school, I passed the Kubibagasa bore hole again, and it hit me how bad the drought was getting. The past few days have been hotter than…well, it’s hot. The people here are suffering because the bore hole is drying up. The herders bring their animals to the bore hole, and wait from morning to night for the water to come, and when it does, it is too little to water all the animals there. Yesterday, a cow died at the bore hole, and they ‘processed’ it right there. I gave an upbeat “Habari!” to the guy holding a machete in one hand, and a cow leg it the other. The women and girls with their 20 liter buckets on their backs walk for hours in the sun to get here, and then they wait all day for water that is probably not going to come. The road home is crowded these days, yesterday I waded through a herd of 200 goats, because there is little food and no water in the desert so they are just migrating. The men, who normally only have guns at night, carry their huge weapons during the day now to protect their few animals from being stolen. Yesterday, an old man died in my village. My village is very, very small, so this was a big deal. Someone told me he died of an illness, but they think it was caused by malnutrition. Without water, there is no milk from the camels or goats; that is their main source of food. And the elderly cannot eat githeri, their other staple food, a tough mix of maize kernels and beans that hurts your jaw to eat. So the man got sick and died, and the drought is just going to get worse. The rains are not supposed to come until April. I am pretty good with heat, I like the desert, but even I have been complaining. I am drinking almost 15 liters of water a week, and I am sweating most of it out. I am so exhausted by the walk home, and I am thinking I can no longer do it while the sun is high, I’ll have to wait until after 6 pm.
Now I feel guilty for complaining about people asking me for things. If I had a starving family at home, I would beg rich people every day. It makes me wish that I was actually wealthy. It has gotten to the point where I do not want to drink out of my water bottle while walking to school because I know every person I pass would love to have my liter of water. So if you are rich, and you do come to Africa, please do not give candy and money to children. It turns them into money- grubbing little monsters. But if you are rich, please give to charity, or churches, or become a sponsor, or come here and volunteer.
See what I did there? I relieved my guilt and turned the tables around. Instead of people asking me for money, I am asking you for them. See how that worked out?
And now after that depressing note, I’ll leave you with something positive. I saw a couple dik-diks on my way to school yesterday. (Google it) They are Adorable with a capital A. And so are baby pundas (donkeys), and baby goats. Baby goats are so tiny! I just want to grab one and make a run for it, but the guys with the big guns would probably object. My neighbors got a tiny baby goat a few days ago and I think they are keeping it in their sitting room, I can hear it bleating to its mommy through my wall right now. There, now I ended the blog by talking about baby animals. Don’t you feel better?
Friday, February 4, 2011
Life Skills
I am starting to get a handle on this whole teaching thing. I won’t say I am a good teacher, there are many days when I am pretty darn crappy. I just do not know high school physics well enough to make it very interesting. But the students really love having me as a teacher and that makes me feel better after each lame lesson. The students beg me to stay after class and continue teaching, or to come during their breaks and teach. When I left the Form Four classroom the first time, they all burst into excited laughter. The Form Three girls gave me a round of applause, I did not know why and I made them stop, and the Form Twos always call me back as I am walking away, “Madame Ryan! Madame Ryan!” and when I turn around, “We Love you!!”
This week, I started teaching Life Skills and I am already feeling out of my league. I had it in my mind to be a fun, interactive class where the students could trust me and we could talk about issues that relate to them. I have only taught one class to each form and already it is a much bigger job than I anticipated. I feel like I need a degree in psychology to handle some of the questions the girls ask. I let them run the class the first day; they could ask me any question they wanted. This was a bad idea because I incorrectly assumed they would ask me about boyfriends, schoolwork, and friendship. They did ask me those questions but also added so much that I was unprepared to handle. It is like they have been saving up a lifetime of questions and only now are given a chance to ask.
We discussed abortion, racism, poverty, friendship, fear, self esteem, sex, why some people are shy and others are not, when they should get married, and many other topics in the short 40 minute period. Two of the classes even convinced me to sing “Stop in the Name of Love” in an acapella solo (it wasn’t pretty). When we spoke about whether it was appropriate for a secondary school girl to have a boyfriend or lover, one student asked what a person should do if she is in love with someone who treated her badly. I got the impression she was in a bad relationship but how can I advise her in a group of 30 other students? I tried to give her advice and get some information about the problem but she kept saying “But what if you love him?”, as if the love negated her need to take care of herself.
My form 2 students told me they are failing all their classes because they do not understand when the teachers speak English, it is their 3rd language. Out of the 130 students, there is only one girl with a B-, there are a few Cs, but nearly all the students are at D or below. The students are afraid of the teachers, they might get caned if they speak up. The teachers are convinced the students are “not serious” and lazy, and they do cane them.
My form 3 class asked me about homosexuality; they all agree that, as a sin, it is up there with incest. They are all very religious and I do not want to imply that the Bible or Quran is wrong, but I have to tell them how I feel about the issue and it is a direct contradiction to what they learn in their religion classes. And when my form 4 girls asked if I had been circumcised, every one of them has been, I could not stop my shudder. I did not know how to explain my opinion on female circumcision in a culturally sensitive manner with no preparation in the 5 remaining minutes of class. They live in a completely different world; I am not qualified to tell them how they should live but I have to say something and all I have is my American knowledge and opinions. I can only be honest with them but it makes me nervous to be molding these girls. I know that they trust me but I cannot give both sides of the issues and I think they really should have that.
As we were finishing up class, another girl asked me which I would become: a wife or a sister (nun). It is hard to comprehend that they see those as the only two options. I think they are trying to see the other choices. I left class with my mind full. I learned more about their culture, knowledge, society, expectations, and experiences than I ever expected. Just with the one introductory day, I have a whole years worth of topics to discuss. I talked with the deputy principal and the other teacher in charge of guidance and counseling about the girls’ need for a mentor. Next week, we are going to split the girls into small groups that will meet with a teacher every day. Hopefully, the girls will open up more and be able to talk about these issues. I also need to do some classes about sexual health. The students know almost nothing about their bodies and they really need to know that you cannot cure STD’s by washing with cold water.
This week, I started teaching Life Skills and I am already feeling out of my league. I had it in my mind to be a fun, interactive class where the students could trust me and we could talk about issues that relate to them. I have only taught one class to each form and already it is a much bigger job than I anticipated. I feel like I need a degree in psychology to handle some of the questions the girls ask. I let them run the class the first day; they could ask me any question they wanted. This was a bad idea because I incorrectly assumed they would ask me about boyfriends, schoolwork, and friendship. They did ask me those questions but also added so much that I was unprepared to handle. It is like they have been saving up a lifetime of questions and only now are given a chance to ask.
We discussed abortion, racism, poverty, friendship, fear, self esteem, sex, why some people are shy and others are not, when they should get married, and many other topics in the short 40 minute period. Two of the classes even convinced me to sing “Stop in the Name of Love” in an acapella solo (it wasn’t pretty). When we spoke about whether it was appropriate for a secondary school girl to have a boyfriend or lover, one student asked what a person should do if she is in love with someone who treated her badly. I got the impression she was in a bad relationship but how can I advise her in a group of 30 other students? I tried to give her advice and get some information about the problem but she kept saying “But what if you love him?”, as if the love negated her need to take care of herself.
My form 2 students told me they are failing all their classes because they do not understand when the teachers speak English, it is their 3rd language. Out of the 130 students, there is only one girl with a B-, there are a few Cs, but nearly all the students are at D or below. The students are afraid of the teachers, they might get caned if they speak up. The teachers are convinced the students are “not serious” and lazy, and they do cane them.
My form 3 class asked me about homosexuality; they all agree that, as a sin, it is up there with incest. They are all very religious and I do not want to imply that the Bible or Quran is wrong, but I have to tell them how I feel about the issue and it is a direct contradiction to what they learn in their religion classes. And when my form 4 girls asked if I had been circumcised, every one of them has been, I could not stop my shudder. I did not know how to explain my opinion on female circumcision in a culturally sensitive manner with no preparation in the 5 remaining minutes of class. They live in a completely different world; I am not qualified to tell them how they should live but I have to say something and all I have is my American knowledge and opinions. I can only be honest with them but it makes me nervous to be molding these girls. I know that they trust me but I cannot give both sides of the issues and I think they really should have that.
As we were finishing up class, another girl asked me which I would become: a wife or a sister (nun). It is hard to comprehend that they see those as the only two options. I think they are trying to see the other choices. I left class with my mind full. I learned more about their culture, knowledge, society, expectations, and experiences than I ever expected. Just with the one introductory day, I have a whole years worth of topics to discuss. I talked with the deputy principal and the other teacher in charge of guidance and counseling about the girls’ need for a mentor. Next week, we are going to split the girls into small groups that will meet with a teacher every day. Hopefully, the girls will open up more and be able to talk about these issues. I also need to do some classes about sexual health. The students know almost nothing about their bodies and they really need to know that you cannot cure STD’s by washing with cold water.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Bartut Olle/ Habari Yako / How are you?
My New Home
Hi everyone! I have been very lax in my blogging, though this is not my fault. Turns out, my village is in the middle of nowhere (I know, shocking) and so I do not get cell phone or internet service there. This is the first time I have had internet since December. I found a parish in Marsabit town that has free wireless internet. So this blog entry is very long. I have actually been writing it since Christmas and just kept adding on to it. I hope it will catch you up on the happenings here in Kenya.
When I last wrote, Ana and I were stuck in Nairobi with plans to go to the medical officer’s house for Christmas. Ana’s supervisor, however, wanted to get home and Ana had to go with him and I was not going to stay in Nairobi by myself. So at 5 am on Christmas Eve we went downtown and found a cramped matatu to take us to Rongo, a six hour drive. Matatus, if you recall, are supposed to fit 14 people. This one had 18, plus luggage. This is not the most crowded matatu I have been on, but it was the longest journey. We made no stops but one. Kenyan towns are all drive though service. You pull up and anything you need to buy is thrust in your window. This pit stop was KFC. The guy next to me bought some chickens- live, unhappy chickens. There was no space on the matatu, so they were put under my feet. If I put my feet on the floor, I stepped on one, then he would squawk and everyone would look at me funny. I will never, ever complain about airplane travel again. During the incredibly uncomfortable journey, I saw some of the most beautiful views of the Great Rift Valley. We drove along a one lane road with a high cliff on one side and a drop off into the Valley on the other. It was incredible. And someone puked. This seems to happen a lot on matatus and is always a great smell to have on a cramped vehicle. It’s okay, I only got a little vomit on me. Finally, Ana and I arrived in Rongo. Her supervisor is very kind, and his wife is lovely. They have six children who want to stare at us, play with all our stuff, and generally just not leave us alone. Christmas Eve dinner was prepared by the wife, Ana, and me. The supervisor kept calling me into the living room to ask if the food was ready yet. I wanted to tell him to stop watching TV and come help, but I restrained myself. We ate dinner which was definitely the worst food my poor taste buds have ever encountered. It was greens and ugali made in a way that turned them into a disgusting, smelly, gooey decoction. It was terrible. After dinner, I was depressed and hungry so I went to bed. Ana and I lay on the bottom bunk in the storage room while people kept coming in and out and kids were hiding under the bed, and we licked a melted candy bar off the wrapper and lamented about our situation. Late that night, I woke up and had to go to the bathroom. In Kenya, that is outside. I left the room and went to the door to find it padlocked. I searched all around the house for the key and couldn’t find it. I didn’t know where any other bedrooms were or anything. My anti-malarial medication has a side effect that makes me have to urinate often. And I am unable to ignore it, if I try, I’ll pee my pants. I’m like a four year old. So I am stuck in this house, now I am just looking for something to pee in. Anything will do, a sink, a plant, or a cup. There is nothing. I finally cannot hold it anymore and I pee into a cup I found in the kitchen. There is no window to pour it out, and no other way to get rid of it but to wait till morning. So I go back to bed. An hour later, Ana has the exact same problem, with the exact same solution. We both get up in the morning to empty our cups, she does hers fine. I look for mine, and find it missing. Someone must have found it before I woke up and emptied it. How hilarious and embarrassing is that?
Christmas morning, Ana’s supervisor said he would take us to Sori; it is near to where PCV Brennan lives and where some people were meeting for Christmas. We made it by the afternoon and spent the rest of the day in Karungu Bay with Brennan, Reilly, Karl, and Emily. Brennan lives in a McMansion on a hill overlooking the lake. We cooked spicy hamburgers (the meat was a little green, so we ground it up, spiced the heck out of it, and over-cooked it a bit) with guacamole and pineapple slices. We also had fried potatoes. We ate on the porch, watching the sun go down over the lake. When it was dark, the light show began. We were surrounded by lightening and it was not raining. It was an incredible show that was as good as fireworks. Below the lightening, on the lake, we watched the fishermen take their boats out to catch fish. They put small, floating oil lamps on the water to attract the tiny silversides. There were hundreds of these tiny lights bobbing and floating around the inky, black lake. On our shore, they moved freely and created shapes. Across the lake, on the Ugandan side, the lights all blended together to form a line, like a distant, twinkling city. Above the lightening, it was a clear night. I have never seen so many stars in my life. There were shooting stars, the brightest I have ever seen, streaking across the sky to fall into the lightening. As we sat there, our astronomers, Ana and Emily, pointed out actual constellations (Betelgeuse, Vega, the Andromeda Galaxy), and we made up our own on the lamp-starred lake. We had: “The Chai Ladle”, the “Creepy Smiley Face”, and “The Seahorse”. After the show, we went in the house and turned it into a haunted house. We moved all Brennan's couches (he has, like, 10) into the middle of the room, hung a chair in a doorway, and draped mosquito nets over everything. Then we played hide-and-seek. The goal was to scare the pants off the seeker. The seeker was allowed one wind-up flashlight that had been taped over with duct tape. With the bats in the rafters, the creaking doors, and Karl singing children’s songs in a creepy, little girl’s voice, it was a terrifying game.
After Brennan’s house, I went to Oyugis with Emily and stayed a night in her supervisor’s house. Then I helped her move in. She lives in an even more beautiful place than Brennan. Her town is overgrown with vegetation, it looks like Cambodia. She has rolling green hills sprinkled with thatched roof houses, banana and avocado trees everywhere, and a view of the lake. I stayed with Emily until New Years. We cooked for the first time for ourselves. We made a couple of jiko cakes, and figured out frosting which doubled as chocolate fondue. We made a jiko quiche, which turned into a small volcano –molten on the inside, pumping smoke out of the middle. For New Years, we all went to Kisumu. It was HOT and wonderful. We rode around the city in “tuk-tuks” which are three wheeled vehicles that are driven like jet skis. They are adorable and I love them. We got milkshakes, had really cold drinks, and ate pizza. New Years Eve we spent on the roof of our hotel, overlooking the lake. There were fireworks (which kinda sucked), a DJ (who really sucked), and champagne (which was delicious). There were about 14 PCVs from our training group and a bunch from other groups. I got to see all my friends and it was absolutely wonderful. After New Years, I followed Cindy home. She lives in Sega, near the Ugandan border. To get to her place, we crossed the equator. It was an exciting concept, but less cool in actuality. I was on the made up, wooden seat in the aisle of a matatu, and all I saw was the yellow Equator Ball. Still cool though. Cindy’s house is very small, one room. She does have a dog, which belongs to her neighbors. I loved him and I taught Cindy how to train him. We decorated Cindy’s house by going to Busia (a town straddling the border with Uganda) and buying a ton of crazy-patterned fabric. Then we nailed it, quilt style, to her ceiling. It looks awesome.
Finally, on the 4th, I got a call saying it was time for my vacation to end and I had to go back to Nairobi. In all the traveling I have done over the past few weeks, I have never actually done any by myself. I was a little nervous. But I got up at 7 am on Wednesday, caught a matatu from Sega that took me to Kisumu, only stopping four times to bribe cops. I found a bus in Kisumu to take me to Nairobi; it somehow had an extra person and we had to stop at the police station in some tiny town so cops with big guns could get on and yell at everyone. I saw a herd of 40 zebra! When I arrived in Nairobi I got a little lost; the taxi didn’t even know where I was and could not find me. It was getting dark, and I was getting nervous. Downtown Nairobi by yourself at night is probably the worst possible scenario you can find yourself in. So I found a police officer who found me a taxi, and I made it to my hotel all safe and sound. I ate at a nice Italian restaurant, all by myself, which I have never done before. I was proud of myself for, you know, not dying. Then it was my last day in Nairobi. Friday (Jan 7th), I was on a tiny, baby plane to Marsabit. Because of my terrible luck, I had issues at the airport with my luggage. Unbeknownst to me, there was a 20 kg weight limit. I had brought 40 kgs to Kenya originally and then I bought a ton of stuff. Then PC gave me 80 or so books and manuals during training. Needless to say, I was way, way over 20 kgs. The pilot was nice enough to let me have 31 kgs: one bag. The other three had to be left behind in Nairobi with the hope that they will get sent to me soon. Anyway, I got on this tiny, baby plane that only fit 4 other people and the pilot, my bag was strapped in as an extra person. The propeller was on the nose and the seatbelts were these crazy military-racecar-harness contraptions that had to be buckled by the pilot. The whole plane could fit in your standard two-car garage. We flew out over Nairobi and I immediately spotted an elephant. From the air he looked like a gigantic hippo. The rest of the flight was fairly uneventful, just incredible views of mountains, forests, volcanic craters, huge plateaus, turbulent rivers, tea plantations, and rice paddies. You know, the usual. After two hours, which I spent with my face pressed against the window, we landed at the Marsabit airstrip. I looked pretty scruffy and was wearing my cleanest skirt; it is my inappropriate one that only grazes my knees. I figured I would get in, meet my supervisor, then go to my house and relax. Nope. Remember my bad luck? I was greeted by a welcoming committee of my deputy headmistress, my principal, Curtis, and Curtis’ counterpart. Alright, so that wasn’t so bad. I just wish I was dressed to impress. After hugs all around, they told me I would be staying in town for the night since my house had absolutely no furniture. So the four of them took me to lunch then showed me around town. It is gorgeous and I am already in love. It is huge and has absolutely everything. The people are friendly, it is cool (compared to the western area I have been staying), and there are millions of butterflies floating around. As my principal walked me around bargaining with carpenters to build me a bed for cheap, I was skipping around like a four-year old trying to catch the butterflies. The town is nearly all Muslim. This is why the welcoming committee was bad. I didn’t get to change and so I walked around looking like a prostitute. I did not see one woman who was not covered from tip top of her head to toes. And here I was, already standing out for being mzungu, walking around with a skirt that showed off my entire pasty calves. If that wasn’t bad enough, we kept meeting teachers from my school, students, and members of the Board. I might as well have been naked. Besides the bad first impression, I am actually really looking forward to living in a Muslim area. The mosques are beautiful, the women are beautiful, and the clothes and scarves they wear are beautiful. First payday I am going shopping. Though, I’ll have to hurry up and learn Borana. I do not understand one word of what anybody says. Curtis taught me the greeting and I forgot in, like, an hour.
My house is wonderful and the perfect size for me. I have two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a kitchen. A carpenter made me a beautiful king-sized bed, two stools, a coffee table, a couch, and two chairs. I also bought a gas stove because cooking on a jiko takes an intolerable amount of time and I am lazy. I have electricity, plenty of water, an indoor bathroom (room where you take baths, not a toilet), and private choo. I am very happy to have a choo after staying at Cindy’s house where her flush toilet didn’t even accept toilet paper. My principle, Guyo, and my deputy headmistress, Grace, are wonderful and are taking very good care of me. Besides bargaining for everything for my house, they also paid for most of my dishes and kitchen stuff. Guyo said I could treat him as a father and Grace as a mother. Grace will let me stay with her if I get stressed and Guyo offered me money if I needed it. I have no complaints so far. This place was so worth the wait and the hassle.
From my front porch, I have the most beautiful view of the desert. One of my neighbors described it as “a vast ocean mirage” and that is exactly what it looks like: a grayish, blue ocean extending forever. The Catholic compound is an oasis in the desert. The sisters planted a great garden that has roses, wildflowers, vegetables, and fruit trees from as far away as India. They also have built a hospital clinic where they have disabled children who come and stay. They even have a physical therapy room and a visiting therapist. My neighbors are all very nice and most do not speak English at all. Some do not even speak Kiswahili. My students have taught me the greeting and are determined to teach me how to communicate. Every evening I watch the bats fly out from my rafters and fly out over the desert. At night, I sometimes am woken up to hyenas making a ruckus. Yesterday night, there was a creature on my porch and I do not know what it was. It looked like an anteater/fox mix. (update: I looked it up, it is a “civet”) . My village is tiny, called Dirib. It has one store (okay, a tin shack) that sells Blue Band, Camel’s milk, and almost nothing else. Every day I walk from Dirib, the village my house is in, to my school in Kubibagasa. It is a 3 km walk and takes me about 45 mins. It is a lovely walk through very desert-y looking desert. There is really nothing out there. I follow the road which is really just a wide, dirt path and pass acacia trees, acacia bushes, and rocks. There is an occasional mud and grass hut, and sometimes I meet a herder with his goats or a woman carrying water. They never can speak my language. There is one fork in the road and I asked someone where it led to. She answered, “nowhere”. I insisted that it must go someplace, it was a road. She said that it lead out into the desert where there was absolutely nothing except temporary nomadic shelters. She urged me to never take a wrong turn or I would wander in the desert forever. Wonderful, I thought, as I have such a fantastic sense of direction. On Saturday (the 15th), I had to go to school for Parents Day to show everyone the new white teacher. I was not looking forward to it (no one spoke a language I knew so I sat quietly from dawn till dusk) but then, on my way to school, I saw a camel and her baby in the desert. Camels are big! I was so excited, I almost peed myself. Then on the way home, I passed a whole herd. There were both babies and adults plodding along the road in a line, making that camel-y noise, with the sun setting behind them. It was like a movie. I loved it! Now I am used to things, and I see camels every single day. They look ridiculous when they run. Yesterday, I walked past a whole line of them, and the head guy stopped to lean over and peer in my eyes, drool stringing from his mouth. I reached up to touch him and he yanked his head back in a huff. As I passed the last one, a small baby as tall as I am, I couldn’t resist, and tried to touch his flank. So he kicked me. I guess I learned my lesson. That is all I will mention for now. Thanks for reading and if anyone wants to send me American food, or a book on how to teach circuits (physics) to kids who don’t have electricity, my address is PoBox 117-60500, Marsabit, Kenya. Miss you all!
Hi everyone! I have been very lax in my blogging, though this is not my fault. Turns out, my village is in the middle of nowhere (I know, shocking) and so I do not get cell phone or internet service there. This is the first time I have had internet since December. I found a parish in Marsabit town that has free wireless internet. So this blog entry is very long. I have actually been writing it since Christmas and just kept adding on to it. I hope it will catch you up on the happenings here in Kenya.
When I last wrote, Ana and I were stuck in Nairobi with plans to go to the medical officer’s house for Christmas. Ana’s supervisor, however, wanted to get home and Ana had to go with him and I was not going to stay in Nairobi by myself. So at 5 am on Christmas Eve we went downtown and found a cramped matatu to take us to Rongo, a six hour drive. Matatus, if you recall, are supposed to fit 14 people. This one had 18, plus luggage. This is not the most crowded matatu I have been on, but it was the longest journey. We made no stops but one. Kenyan towns are all drive though service. You pull up and anything you need to buy is thrust in your window. This pit stop was KFC. The guy next to me bought some chickens- live, unhappy chickens. There was no space on the matatu, so they were put under my feet. If I put my feet on the floor, I stepped on one, then he would squawk and everyone would look at me funny. I will never, ever complain about airplane travel again. During the incredibly uncomfortable journey, I saw some of the most beautiful views of the Great Rift Valley. We drove along a one lane road with a high cliff on one side and a drop off into the Valley on the other. It was incredible. And someone puked. This seems to happen a lot on matatus and is always a great smell to have on a cramped vehicle. It’s okay, I only got a little vomit on me. Finally, Ana and I arrived in Rongo. Her supervisor is very kind, and his wife is lovely. They have six children who want to stare at us, play with all our stuff, and generally just not leave us alone. Christmas Eve dinner was prepared by the wife, Ana, and me. The supervisor kept calling me into the living room to ask if the food was ready yet. I wanted to tell him to stop watching TV and come help, but I restrained myself. We ate dinner which was definitely the worst food my poor taste buds have ever encountered. It was greens and ugali made in a way that turned them into a disgusting, smelly, gooey decoction. It was terrible. After dinner, I was depressed and hungry so I went to bed. Ana and I lay on the bottom bunk in the storage room while people kept coming in and out and kids were hiding under the bed, and we licked a melted candy bar off the wrapper and lamented about our situation. Late that night, I woke up and had to go to the bathroom. In Kenya, that is outside. I left the room and went to the door to find it padlocked. I searched all around the house for the key and couldn’t find it. I didn’t know where any other bedrooms were or anything. My anti-malarial medication has a side effect that makes me have to urinate often. And I am unable to ignore it, if I try, I’ll pee my pants. I’m like a four year old. So I am stuck in this house, now I am just looking for something to pee in. Anything will do, a sink, a plant, or a cup. There is nothing. I finally cannot hold it anymore and I pee into a cup I found in the kitchen. There is no window to pour it out, and no other way to get rid of it but to wait till morning. So I go back to bed. An hour later, Ana has the exact same problem, with the exact same solution. We both get up in the morning to empty our cups, she does hers fine. I look for mine, and find it missing. Someone must have found it before I woke up and emptied it. How hilarious and embarrassing is that?
Christmas morning, Ana’s supervisor said he would take us to Sori; it is near to where PCV Brennan lives and where some people were meeting for Christmas. We made it by the afternoon and spent the rest of the day in Karungu Bay with Brennan, Reilly, Karl, and Emily. Brennan lives in a McMansion on a hill overlooking the lake. We cooked spicy hamburgers (the meat was a little green, so we ground it up, spiced the heck out of it, and over-cooked it a bit) with guacamole and pineapple slices. We also had fried potatoes. We ate on the porch, watching the sun go down over the lake. When it was dark, the light show began. We were surrounded by lightening and it was not raining. It was an incredible show that was as good as fireworks. Below the lightening, on the lake, we watched the fishermen take their boats out to catch fish. They put small, floating oil lamps on the water to attract the tiny silversides. There were hundreds of these tiny lights bobbing and floating around the inky, black lake. On our shore, they moved freely and created shapes. Across the lake, on the Ugandan side, the lights all blended together to form a line, like a distant, twinkling city. Above the lightening, it was a clear night. I have never seen so many stars in my life. There were shooting stars, the brightest I have ever seen, streaking across the sky to fall into the lightening. As we sat there, our astronomers, Ana and Emily, pointed out actual constellations (Betelgeuse, Vega, the Andromeda Galaxy), and we made up our own on the lamp-starred lake. We had: “The Chai Ladle”, the “Creepy Smiley Face”, and “The Seahorse”. After the show, we went in the house and turned it into a haunted house. We moved all Brennan's couches (he has, like, 10) into the middle of the room, hung a chair in a doorway, and draped mosquito nets over everything. Then we played hide-and-seek. The goal was to scare the pants off the seeker. The seeker was allowed one wind-up flashlight that had been taped over with duct tape. With the bats in the rafters, the creaking doors, and Karl singing children’s songs in a creepy, little girl’s voice, it was a terrifying game.
After Brennan’s house, I went to Oyugis with Emily and stayed a night in her supervisor’s house. Then I helped her move in. She lives in an even more beautiful place than Brennan. Her town is overgrown with vegetation, it looks like Cambodia. She has rolling green hills sprinkled with thatched roof houses, banana and avocado trees everywhere, and a view of the lake. I stayed with Emily until New Years. We cooked for the first time for ourselves. We made a couple of jiko cakes, and figured out frosting which doubled as chocolate fondue. We made a jiko quiche, which turned into a small volcano –molten on the inside, pumping smoke out of the middle. For New Years, we all went to Kisumu. It was HOT and wonderful. We rode around the city in “tuk-tuks” which are three wheeled vehicles that are driven like jet skis. They are adorable and I love them. We got milkshakes, had really cold drinks, and ate pizza. New Years Eve we spent on the roof of our hotel, overlooking the lake. There were fireworks (which kinda sucked), a DJ (who really sucked), and champagne (which was delicious). There were about 14 PCVs from our training group and a bunch from other groups. I got to see all my friends and it was absolutely wonderful. After New Years, I followed Cindy home. She lives in Sega, near the Ugandan border. To get to her place, we crossed the equator. It was an exciting concept, but less cool in actuality. I was on the made up, wooden seat in the aisle of a matatu, and all I saw was the yellow Equator Ball. Still cool though. Cindy’s house is very small, one room. She does have a dog, which belongs to her neighbors. I loved him and I taught Cindy how to train him. We decorated Cindy’s house by going to Busia (a town straddling the border with Uganda) and buying a ton of crazy-patterned fabric. Then we nailed it, quilt style, to her ceiling. It looks awesome.
Finally, on the 4th, I got a call saying it was time for my vacation to end and I had to go back to Nairobi. In all the traveling I have done over the past few weeks, I have never actually done any by myself. I was a little nervous. But I got up at 7 am on Wednesday, caught a matatu from Sega that took me to Kisumu, only stopping four times to bribe cops. I found a bus in Kisumu to take me to Nairobi; it somehow had an extra person and we had to stop at the police station in some tiny town so cops with big guns could get on and yell at everyone. I saw a herd of 40 zebra! When I arrived in Nairobi I got a little lost; the taxi didn’t even know where I was and could not find me. It was getting dark, and I was getting nervous. Downtown Nairobi by yourself at night is probably the worst possible scenario you can find yourself in. So I found a police officer who found me a taxi, and I made it to my hotel all safe and sound. I ate at a nice Italian restaurant, all by myself, which I have never done before. I was proud of myself for, you know, not dying. Then it was my last day in Nairobi. Friday (Jan 7th), I was on a tiny, baby plane to Marsabit. Because of my terrible luck, I had issues at the airport with my luggage. Unbeknownst to me, there was a 20 kg weight limit. I had brought 40 kgs to Kenya originally and then I bought a ton of stuff. Then PC gave me 80 or so books and manuals during training. Needless to say, I was way, way over 20 kgs. The pilot was nice enough to let me have 31 kgs: one bag. The other three had to be left behind in Nairobi with the hope that they will get sent to me soon. Anyway, I got on this tiny, baby plane that only fit 4 other people and the pilot, my bag was strapped in as an extra person. The propeller was on the nose and the seatbelts were these crazy military-racecar-harness contraptions that had to be buckled by the pilot. The whole plane could fit in your standard two-car garage. We flew out over Nairobi and I immediately spotted an elephant. From the air he looked like a gigantic hippo. The rest of the flight was fairly uneventful, just incredible views of mountains, forests, volcanic craters, huge plateaus, turbulent rivers, tea plantations, and rice paddies. You know, the usual. After two hours, which I spent with my face pressed against the window, we landed at the Marsabit airstrip. I looked pretty scruffy and was wearing my cleanest skirt; it is my inappropriate one that only grazes my knees. I figured I would get in, meet my supervisor, then go to my house and relax. Nope. Remember my bad luck? I was greeted by a welcoming committee of my deputy headmistress, my principal, Curtis, and Curtis’ counterpart. Alright, so that wasn’t so bad. I just wish I was dressed to impress. After hugs all around, they told me I would be staying in town for the night since my house had absolutely no furniture. So the four of them took me to lunch then showed me around town. It is gorgeous and I am already in love. It is huge and has absolutely everything. The people are friendly, it is cool (compared to the western area I have been staying), and there are millions of butterflies floating around. As my principal walked me around bargaining with carpenters to build me a bed for cheap, I was skipping around like a four-year old trying to catch the butterflies. The town is nearly all Muslim. This is why the welcoming committee was bad. I didn’t get to change and so I walked around looking like a prostitute. I did not see one woman who was not covered from tip top of her head to toes. And here I was, already standing out for being mzungu, walking around with a skirt that showed off my entire pasty calves. If that wasn’t bad enough, we kept meeting teachers from my school, students, and members of the Board. I might as well have been naked. Besides the bad first impression, I am actually really looking forward to living in a Muslim area. The mosques are beautiful, the women are beautiful, and the clothes and scarves they wear are beautiful. First payday I am going shopping. Though, I’ll have to hurry up and learn Borana. I do not understand one word of what anybody says. Curtis taught me the greeting and I forgot in, like, an hour.
My house is wonderful and the perfect size for me. I have two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a kitchen. A carpenter made me a beautiful king-sized bed, two stools, a coffee table, a couch, and two chairs. I also bought a gas stove because cooking on a jiko takes an intolerable amount of time and I am lazy. I have electricity, plenty of water, an indoor bathroom (room where you take baths, not a toilet), and private choo. I am very happy to have a choo after staying at Cindy’s house where her flush toilet didn’t even accept toilet paper. My principle, Guyo, and my deputy headmistress, Grace, are wonderful and are taking very good care of me. Besides bargaining for everything for my house, they also paid for most of my dishes and kitchen stuff. Guyo said I could treat him as a father and Grace as a mother. Grace will let me stay with her if I get stressed and Guyo offered me money if I needed it. I have no complaints so far. This place was so worth the wait and the hassle.
From my front porch, I have the most beautiful view of the desert. One of my neighbors described it as “a vast ocean mirage” and that is exactly what it looks like: a grayish, blue ocean extending forever. The Catholic compound is an oasis in the desert. The sisters planted a great garden that has roses, wildflowers, vegetables, and fruit trees from as far away as India. They also have built a hospital clinic where they have disabled children who come and stay. They even have a physical therapy room and a visiting therapist. My neighbors are all very nice and most do not speak English at all. Some do not even speak Kiswahili. My students have taught me the greeting and are determined to teach me how to communicate. Every evening I watch the bats fly out from my rafters and fly out over the desert. At night, I sometimes am woken up to hyenas making a ruckus. Yesterday night, there was a creature on my porch and I do not know what it was. It looked like an anteater/fox mix. (update: I looked it up, it is a “civet”) . My village is tiny, called Dirib. It has one store (okay, a tin shack) that sells Blue Band, Camel’s milk, and almost nothing else. Every day I walk from Dirib, the village my house is in, to my school in Kubibagasa. It is a 3 km walk and takes me about 45 mins. It is a lovely walk through very desert-y looking desert. There is really nothing out there. I follow the road which is really just a wide, dirt path and pass acacia trees, acacia bushes, and rocks. There is an occasional mud and grass hut, and sometimes I meet a herder with his goats or a woman carrying water. They never can speak my language. There is one fork in the road and I asked someone where it led to. She answered, “nowhere”. I insisted that it must go someplace, it was a road. She said that it lead out into the desert where there was absolutely nothing except temporary nomadic shelters. She urged me to never take a wrong turn or I would wander in the desert forever. Wonderful, I thought, as I have such a fantastic sense of direction. On Saturday (the 15th), I had to go to school for Parents Day to show everyone the new white teacher. I was not looking forward to it (no one spoke a language I knew so I sat quietly from dawn till dusk) but then, on my way to school, I saw a camel and her baby in the desert. Camels are big! I was so excited, I almost peed myself. Then on the way home, I passed a whole herd. There were both babies and adults plodding along the road in a line, making that camel-y noise, with the sun setting behind them. It was like a movie. I loved it! Now I am used to things, and I see camels every single day. They look ridiculous when they run. Yesterday, I walked past a whole line of them, and the head guy stopped to lean over and peer in my eyes, drool stringing from his mouth. I reached up to touch him and he yanked his head back in a huff. As I passed the last one, a small baby as tall as I am, I couldn’t resist, and tried to touch his flank. So he kicked me. I guess I learned my lesson. That is all I will mention for now. Thanks for reading and if anyone wants to send me American food, or a book on how to teach circuits (physics) to kids who don’t have electricity, my address is PoBox 117-60500, Marsabit, Kenya. Miss you all!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Kenya and Alcohol: The remarkable success story of Senator Keg
Interesting blog post on Kenya and Alcohol by Rob Macaire, the British High Commisioner to Kenya.
http://blogs.fco.gov.uk/roller/macaire/entry/kenya_and_alcohol_the_remarkable#
http://blogs.fco.gov.uk/roller/macaire/entry/kenya_and_alcohol_the_remarkable#
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sargent Shriver's legacy: the Peace Corps
It was John F. Kennedy who 50 years ago urged the nation "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country." But it was Sargent Shriver, his tireless brother-in-law, who put the thought into practice.
Shriver died this week at 95, one of the last of the Camelot clan. But his legacy is more than membership in a political dynasty. It's the Peace Corps, which has sent 200,000-plus Americans of all ages overseas to test their beliefs and share backgrounds with other nations in need of teaching and training.
Shriver almost lived long enough to take part in the 50th anniversary of the Peace Corps coming in March. He was its founder and the guiding light who designed an entirely new foreign policy initiative.
The plan took shape in a post-midnight campaign stop at the University of Michigan, where candidate Kennedy challenged a small audience of students to consider taking their talents overseas to help poor countries. He firmed up the brainstorm thought and gave it the name Peace Corps in a later speech in San Francisco. A catchy idea was born, but there was no blueprint on how to make it work, a sign that the endeavor might be only a campaign gimmick.
When Kennedy won office, he picked Shriver, a campaign insider married to his sister, to road test the sketchy idea. As Shriver recalled it, "Everyone in Washington seemed to think that the Peace Corps was going to be the biggest fiasco in history, and it would be much easier to fire a relative than a friend."
But the new director become a true believer and turned the idea into a success, one of the most lasting of the gilded Kennedy era. His enthusiasm and drive gave the new program the spark it needed to survive, even though early recruits and target-country staffers received only bare-bones training. Shriver spent weeks in the world's backcountry, cheering up volunteers and urging them on.
Both then and now, Africa remains the top destination. But, as an example of the program's evolving character, the focus has grown from teaching English to include AIDS/HIV work in the continent most afflicted with the epidemic.
The Peace Corps survived the Vietnam era, the Cold War and independence movements in host countries that often saw Washington as an enemy. It covers only basic living expenses and discourages both staff and volunteers from making a career in the organization, a tone set by Shriver who disliked bureaucracies.
Its informal slogan - low pay, lousy conditions, brutal weather - left no mystery about the nature of the job. But the plain message of public service on a worldwide stage took hold and never faded. Most Peace Corps veterans regard their time as the most memorable experience in their lives. They stay in touch with each other and remain immersed in public service.
The organization has served the nation in other ways, providing a nonmilitary foreign policy option. It's remained an integral part of "soft power," a benign form of aid and development that spreads American idealism in personal terms. The result is a political rarity: across-the-aisle support for the Peace Corps and its yearly budget of $400 million. A columnist for the conservative National Review's online publication this week suggested the liberal-authored institution be nominated for the next Nobel Peace Prize.
Monumental as it is, the Peace Corps wasn't Shriver's only feat. After the Kennedy years, he went on to launch Head Start, Legal Services for the Poor and VISTA, a home-grown version of the Peace Corps. He served as ambassador to France and helped his wife Eunice found the Special Olympics for developmentally disabled athletes. Among his few setbacks was a run as vice president with George McGovern on the Democratic ticket in 1972 and a later run on his own as a presidential contender. Both ended in sharp defeat. Shriver was a man who couldn't resist public service or devising new ways to channel his restless volunteer spirit.
Though he faded from public view over the last decade due to his advanced age and the onset of Alzheimer's disease, his message is still as fresh and timeless. In a culture soaked in celebrity and material success, the idea of public service and humble personal action should have a role, too. That was the message of the Peace Corps back then, and it remains true today, a half century later.
Countries served: 139
Gender of volunteers: 60 percent female, 40 percent male
Average age: 28
Volunteers over 50: 7 percent
Marital status: 93 percent single
Pay: Living allowance; $7,425 payment upon returning home
Term: 27 months
Main activities: Education, 37 percent; health and AIDS, 22 percent; business development, 14 percent
Largest service areas: Africa, 37 percent; Latin America, 24 percent; Eastern Europe/Central Asia, 21 percent
Source: Peacecorps.gov
Shriver died this week at 95, one of the last of the Camelot clan. But his legacy is more than membership in a political dynasty. It's the Peace Corps, which has sent 200,000-plus Americans of all ages overseas to test their beliefs and share backgrounds with other nations in need of teaching and training.
Shriver almost lived long enough to take part in the 50th anniversary of the Peace Corps coming in March. He was its founder and the guiding light who designed an entirely new foreign policy initiative.
The plan took shape in a post-midnight campaign stop at the University of Michigan, where candidate Kennedy challenged a small audience of students to consider taking their talents overseas to help poor countries. He firmed up the brainstorm thought and gave it the name Peace Corps in a later speech in San Francisco. A catchy idea was born, but there was no blueprint on how to make it work, a sign that the endeavor might be only a campaign gimmick.
When Kennedy won office, he picked Shriver, a campaign insider married to his sister, to road test the sketchy idea. As Shriver recalled it, "Everyone in Washington seemed to think that the Peace Corps was going to be the biggest fiasco in history, and it would be much easier to fire a relative than a friend."
But the new director become a true believer and turned the idea into a success, one of the most lasting of the gilded Kennedy era. His enthusiasm and drive gave the new program the spark it needed to survive, even though early recruits and target-country staffers received only bare-bones training. Shriver spent weeks in the world's backcountry, cheering up volunteers and urging them on.
Both then and now, Africa remains the top destination. But, as an example of the program's evolving character, the focus has grown from teaching English to include AIDS/HIV work in the continent most afflicted with the epidemic.
The Peace Corps survived the Vietnam era, the Cold War and independence movements in host countries that often saw Washington as an enemy. It covers only basic living expenses and discourages both staff and volunteers from making a career in the organization, a tone set by Shriver who disliked bureaucracies.
Its informal slogan - low pay, lousy conditions, brutal weather - left no mystery about the nature of the job. But the plain message of public service on a worldwide stage took hold and never faded. Most Peace Corps veterans regard their time as the most memorable experience in their lives. They stay in touch with each other and remain immersed in public service.
The organization has served the nation in other ways, providing a nonmilitary foreign policy option. It's remained an integral part of "soft power," a benign form of aid and development that spreads American idealism in personal terms. The result is a political rarity: across-the-aisle support for the Peace Corps and its yearly budget of $400 million. A columnist for the conservative National Review's online publication this week suggested the liberal-authored institution be nominated for the next Nobel Peace Prize.
Monumental as it is, the Peace Corps wasn't Shriver's only feat. After the Kennedy years, he went on to launch Head Start, Legal Services for the Poor and VISTA, a home-grown version of the Peace Corps. He served as ambassador to France and helped his wife Eunice found the Special Olympics for developmentally disabled athletes. Among his few setbacks was a run as vice president with George McGovern on the Democratic ticket in 1972 and a later run on his own as a presidential contender. Both ended in sharp defeat. Shriver was a man who couldn't resist public service or devising new ways to channel his restless volunteer spirit.
Though he faded from public view over the last decade due to his advanced age and the onset of Alzheimer's disease, his message is still as fresh and timeless. In a culture soaked in celebrity and material success, the idea of public service and humble personal action should have a role, too. That was the message of the Peace Corps back then, and it remains true today, a half century later.
Ambassadors to the world
Volunteers to date: 200,000-plus
Countries served: 139
Gender of volunteers: 60 percent female, 40 percent male
Average age: 28
Volunteers over 50: 7 percent
Marital status: 93 percent single
Pay: Living allowance; $7,425 payment upon returning home
Term: 27 months
Main activities: Education, 37 percent; health and AIDS, 22 percent; business development, 14 percent
Largest service areas: Africa, 37 percent; Latin America, 24 percent; Eastern Europe/Central Asia, 21 percent
Source: Peacecorps.gov
This article appeared on page F - 10 of the San Francisco Chronicle
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Burn, Bury or Ditch
I received a text message from Ryan this morning asking me whether she should burn, bury or ditch her trash. I was shocked and appalled to find out she was even considering any of the options, especially since she is one of the most environmentally conscious people I know. If you know her at all, you'll know that she single-handed founded the Recycling Club and the Environmental club at her college and has been known to hold "Eco-parties." Yes, she is a nerd, but she's my sister and I love her ;) Anyway, for those who don't know yet (and have yet to read the previous posts on this blog) Ryan is in Kenya on a Peace Corps mission. I'm pretty there is not a whole lot of indoor plumbing... so its safe to assume there isn't Thursday morning trash pick up in matching blue bins and a thriving recycling program. More likely you wake up to a wild hog rummaging through your garbage. So what is a environmentally conscious girl to do when your living on a wild life refuge that doesn't even have an accessible road? The rest of the village either burns the trash -- putting toxins in the air, buries the trash -- ensuring their kids will grow up on a landfill, literally, or they ditch it -- out of sight, out of mind.. right? A similar discussion was highlighted in the New York Times: Should the US Burn or Bury Its Trash?
I am leaning towards the burning idea though here are some downsides:
Burning:
I am leaning towards the burning idea though here are some downsides:
Burning:
- Remains a serious threat to public health. Burning garbage is a primary source of cancer-causing dioxins and other pollutants that enter the food supply and concentrate up through the food chain.
- Produces more carbon dioxide per unit of electricity than coal power. Current atmospheric carbon loads cannot safely bear additional emissions from incinerators and landfills.
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