Eyeball Logistics

I am on the hunt for an eyeball. Two eyeballs would be better. In my Form three (that’s 11th grade) physics class we are studying lenses. Part of the syllabus involves the human eye. I thought it would be cool to dissect an eye to see all the parts. I did an eyeball dissection once when I was in seventh or eighth grade at a science camp. And yes, I was that girl- the dork who went to science camp and loved it. Anyway, I remember dissecting a sheep’s eyeball and how hard it was (not hard as in difficult, hard as in firm); the lens of the eye was a hard orange-ish sphere and I took it home as a souvenir but my mother, quite rightly, made me throw it away (have I mentioned how big of a dork I was?). Anyway, back to my eyeball search. I imagine finding an eyeball might be slightly easier here than in America. I don’t suppose you can run down to Wal-Mart and pick up goat eyeballs. Then again, maybe you can. Maybe they are in the deli case next to things like hooves, tongues, stomach and other things only desperate people, or the French, eat. But here in Kenya, eyes are in great abundance, I think. There are butchers everywhere with large slabs of (sorta) fresh livestock hanging from hooks in the shade. People here eat every single part of the animal without shame. I am sure I can easily find an eyeball or two when I run into town on Saturday. The thing I am worried about is what to do with the eyeball. I don’t teach the physics lab until Thursday. What am I supposed to do with a pair of fresh eyeballs for four days? Despite Science Camp, I don’t know much about eyeballs. Will it go moldy? I have this image of it dissolving into an opaque gooey liquid the consistency of soft-set Jello. Can you dissect something that oozes like an undercooked egg? Can I freeze the eyes and defrost them the day of the lab? And also, why didn’t I choose to be a math teacher? I don’t think math teachers have to worry about eyeball logistics. We’ve been having a mosquito outbreak for the last few weeks. It is immensely annoying and incredibly itchy. I counted almost 50 bites on my left foot and every day there are more added. They are out during the day and at night and even when it is windy. It is really not fair. I accept that mosquitoes have a legitimate purpose on the earth that makes it necessary for them to annoy the living crap out of me but I thought they had to stick to their rules. Day time bloodsucking in giant flocks? Really? The drought is still here and as bad as ever so I don’t know where they are coming from. The tribal elders, the weathermen of Kenya, say that the mosquitoes come from the Chalbi desert where it is raining and are blown here on the strong winds. They say they have seen seasons like this before. They predict that we will get rain soon, the acacia trees are turning green in preparation, and then the mosquitoes will bring elephantitis that is followed by the “death of many”. I put that in quotes because that is exactly what they told me. That was the order of coming events: rain, more mosquitoes, elephantitis, death. Recently, I have seen a few cases of elephantitis and all the acacia trees are indeed turning green so I am not sure how accurate the elders’ prediction is. We had a few cold days that were cloudy and windy. Of course, instead of rain, the strong winds just brought the usual intense dust storms. In a five-hour staff meeting on Wednesday, we were having a debate about what to do about the students who were guilty of vernacular speaking. Also known as ‘mother tongue speaking’, vernacular is thought to be the biggest contributor to the majority of students failing their classes. While the teachers were arguing about what to do, I was busy thinking about cheese. This is not unusual, I think about cheese often. I imagine it like a first love, forever remembered and forever missed. Every time I eat a meal consisting of a giant pile of rice with a tablespoon of cabbage, I scrutinize the bowl and think “you know what would make this meal awesome? A half pound of shredded cheddar.” Today I have cheese o my mind because I got a text message from my in-town PCV, Curtis, that simply read “mayo and cheese… hell yeah”. I knew instantly what that meant. My favorite store, Baslum, run by three young Indian guys, had cheese again. About once every three months, the place will get five or six packages of Laughing Cow processed cheese wedges. Every time, I attempt to buy them out and then spend the next three months pining for more. So to hear that we have cheese AND mayonnaise in Marsabit is a dream come true! Just think! I could have grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, or real tuna melts, or cheesy casserole. Me and cheese is like Winnie the Pooh and hunny or Homer Simpson and beer. When I was in America, I, until recently, did not like cheese on my hamburgers. I am sitting here in Kenya wondering what the heck I was thinking. I wasted so many years, so many delicious, charbroiled, special sauce smothered opportunities. When I get back to America I am planning on putting cheese on everything, including breakfast cereal. I also plan on gaining 150 pounds in the first three months and then having a myocardial infarction. I have pigeons and doves living on my roof. I don’t like them because I have a tin roof and when the birds fly in it sounds like a helicopter is landing. They roost right outside my front door and every time I step outside, the take off in a burst of feathers and coo-ing that startles me every time. Also, they defecate on my porch. Monday, one of the doves died. I heard it fall over and slide down the roof to thud on the ground. I went outside to investigate and saw the bird lying uninjured on the ground. His eyes were closed and his wings neatly folded. It looked like he died in his sleep. I had this great plan to bury the bird in a deep hole for a few months and then dig up the skeleton to use in my school’s science lab. It was getting dark, so I decided to dig the hold in the morning. When I got up and went outside, I discovered the bird was gone. Presumably, it was eaten by some animal, mongoose maybe. The animal left no blood or anything, but did pull out all the bird feathers to leave in a scattered pile all over the place. I presume the animal did it just for fun, but it made me think that the bird was not eaten, but rather it exploded. Lokho wrote a poem about AIDS for a school assignment. I think it is very good, especially considering that English is her third language. I asked her if I could put it up online and she was very excited about the idea. She thinks it will make her famous. Fear of AIDS by Lokho Sora, 13 years old We know you as detrimental to education Dragging behind progress without question Entering every place with your deadly deformation Storing of poverty in our dear generation Knocking on our doors in all versions Pretending as if to bring us salvation Hatred is your tool of aggression Be aware we know you as Mr. Aids We know you as a person A terrible fire that never pardons Stronger than heavy boxer Tyson More dangerous than a dragon Moving in Africa like passion Seriously affecting our bodies with poison Why are you wandering in Africa? Why start from Liberia and Somalia Causing disaster in Sudan and Ethiopia Taking the role of master in Nigeria Trying Kenya like uncontrolled diarrhea Entering Marsabit through unknown media I suppose you are not awarded a degree of honoree What could be your cause? You must have come on a fast horse Providing Africa with your dose Letting the sons of Africa mourn For the cause that is never known Anarchy is the seed you’ve sown And impatient we have grown Get lost from our face, We have no room in our place We have no words to give you Let us all participate in the chase To remove AIDS from our space Making development all our race Creating love as our base Unified with peace in every case

Gadamoji

Last week I went to a Borana tribal celebration called Gadamoji. It took place near a small village called Kubi Dibayu and was extremely crowded. There were hundreds of people all dressed up in traditional tribal clothes. Most of them looked exactly like my neighbors look every day. The celebration was a coming of age ceremony and retirement party that only occurs once every eight years. The event was a month long in preparation culminating in singing and dancing and feasting. Every eight years the tribe celebrates the life of all the oldest members of the tribe; they are called mzee (pronounced em-zay). The people come from surrounding villages and set up a temporary house in Kubi Dibayu. Each family that has an old man to honor will build a hut out of sticks and grass. Because of the drought, there was no grass to cover the houses so everyone used discarded plastic bags. There were about fifty little houses in a row and I was told that the family can build the entire structure in less than an hour. The houses were large enough for the whole family to fit a little uncomfortably and each hut was connected to the one next door so all the families could socialize. The huts were elaborately decorated on the inside with traditional decorated pots and baskets. The women and young girls of each household put grease in their hair to make it shine and wear a traditional watertight basket on their backs made for carrying camels’ milk. Some of the women wore leather belts decorated with the shells of large land snails. All the women wore their hair down and some had their hair partially braided to signify they were married while others had a piece of metal, similar to tinfoil, in their hair for every child they had. The men of the family carry spears and carved walking sticks and on their heads wore turbans and a strange headband that, I thought, appeared like a large silver chess Queen protruding from their foreheads. The morning of the celebration, the old mzees shave their heads and put the hair in a two foot high, compact, mud cone outside the hut. Then the mzee goes into the hut into a special room separated by a curtain. He has to remain in the room for three days. Meanwhile, outside all the youngest members of the family are also busy. The little boys and girls have their hair put in dreadlocks and colored with henna and are given leather and shell headpieces to wear. They wear them all day and then, in the evening, they also have their heads shaved. During the main part of day, the sons of each household go from hut to hut, chanting and singing while an announcer recites details about the mzee’s life. Details that make him revered are killing elephants and lions, how many children he has, and whether he is a tribal elder. When the men come to the door of the hut, the daughters of the household join in the singing. The men go into the hut looking for an item of significance; it is like a treasure hunt. The women have put a symbolic item in the house representing the mzee’s spirit and it is protected by the women. The men have to find it and the longer it takes the more luck the mzee has. During the hunt, some people get very emotional and start shaking and crying and fainting. The men who become upset get very violent and start fighting that scares all the spectators into running away. Once the item is found, everyone cheers and the women ululate. In most cases I saw, the special item was one of the small traditional baskets with some camels’ milk inside. The men each dip the end of their spears into the milk and then taste it. Once everyone has had some of the milk, the item is returned to the family for safekeeping and the men move on to the next house. After all houses have been visited, there is a big feast. This time, because of the drought, there is not enough food to feed all the guests. But the families of the mzees all get plenty because part of the tradition is to bring a goat or young cow as a gift to the family. I had a great time; it was very fascinating. I also enjoyed not having to make conversation with strangers. Almost no one spoke Kiswahili or English so I was able to wander around and take pictures and smile. I was the only mzungu in the group of hundreds and hundreds of non-English speakers. Needless to say, I got a LOT of attention. I even got to use my newly learned kiborana phrase “Larisa” (Don’t do that) when people were playing with my hair. Everyone around me just laughed, they just think it is hilarious when I speak kiborana. I was also surprised at how many people I knew. My deputy principal was there, her father was being honored. I saw our laboratory technician, a bunch of teachers from surrounding schools, my neighbor, and many of the women that I usually pass on my way to school. After spending the day at Gadamoji, I went back to my village and spent some time with Lokho, my neighbor. She has been having a rough time lately and I felt that I should give her someone to talk to. She told me this story about her only friend from school who used to be very in to studying and school but then got a boyfriend and changed her attitude. Lokho tried to warn her friend that this guy, who happens to be Lokho’s older cousin, had many other girlfriends and was just using her. Lokho told the girl that there was nothing that the boyfriend could give her that was more important than her staying in school and focusing on her studies. But Lokho could not get through to the girl and she went with the boy and stopped being Lokho’s friend. Lokho was very sad and angry at the girl. Lokho said that she found out recently that the girl, only thirteen years old, now has HIV. To make matters worse, the cousin who gave the friend HIV was now living in Lokho’s house and telling Lokho that she really needed a boyfriend and that he would be very happy to “do it if no one else will”. It made me absolutely sick but at least Lokho is too smart to listen to the guy. She said that she now avoids the cousin and refuses to talk to him. She said “we are no longer family” and sadly she said I was now her only friend. The very next day, another cousin of Lokho, the one year old Guyo, came down with malaria and had to go to the hospital. The Aunt and Uncle took the baby to the hospital leaving Lokho at home with the cousin and the toddler, Galgallo. As soon as they were alone, the cousin kicked Lokho and Galgallo out of the house and refused to let them back in. They had to sit outside under the scorching sun all day with no water. By the time the aunt and uncle got home, Galgallo was crying hysterically and Lokho had been begging the cousin for hours to let them come get water. The aunt and uncle immediately kicked the guy out of the house but poor Galgallo has been nearly silent and crying a lot for the last couple days. Whenever he is asked why he is upset he says “I am just remembering.” Some days this place just breaks my heart. There are no more camels. It is raining in the Chalabi desert and so the herders have moved on to literal greener pastures. There are also no more cows. But I am told that they are all dead. The only livestock left is skinny goats and dirty sheep. All there is left for them to eat is garbage.

Four More Days of Lassitude

I have been in Mars for a week now and all I feel is apathy. I don’t even know if apathy is the right word. When I thesaurasize ‘apathy’, looking for a more appropriate word, I get the many choices: boredom, laziness, lack of interest, lethargy. All those seem to describe my feelings quite perfectly and I am much too lazy to pick just one. I do not know why I feel like this; maybe having a really awesome vacation lends a boring pallor on anything that comes after. All I know is, I don’t feel like doing anything. I don’t want to get out of bed, but staying in bed is equally unpalatable. I can’t stand being in my house alone all day but the alternative is to go outside and see people, which is just slightly worse. If I could go do something or go somewhere and not have to work so hard at being polite or understood, I would do it. I want to go for a hike, but there is no destination out here. Friday I walked to town, all 15 km, because I needed an activity and that allowed me to be alone with my thoughts and still be productive with my time. I was able to get to town in a little over two hours but many Kenyans thought I was crazy. And apparently, the road to town is dangerous, even in the day time. Not only by sketchy locals (the Boranas tell me that Rendilles are hiding in the forest) but also, as I was warned by some kids, from marauding elephants that are out to “shika mtu” or “take people”. I am not sure I believe any of the warnings. Is it more dangerous to be on my two feet, capable of running away, or to be perched atop a lorry that is going 80 km an hour on the bad road? Or hitching a ride with strangers on an old, rusty tractor, sitting precariously above the wheel holding on with one hand? With those alternatives, I’ll take my chances and go on foot. In case you are wondering why I have to go to town at all, the reason is not only to kill some hours in the day, but also to get food. During the term, I have always depended on the Brothers of St. Paul to take me to town in their nice land rover. But the Brothers are not here. I am kinda on my own, fending for myself like a true Peace Corps volunteer. The Brothers are in “Down Kenya” along with all my English speaking neighbors, every single one of my friends, and all my colleagues. I am pretty much alone except for the kiborana speaking women in my small village. I do have one neighbor who is here to talk to. Lokho and her aunt and uncle. And the toddler, Galgallo, who is an endless source of smiles and entertainment. The whole family is Muslim and invited me to celebrate Eid, the end of Ramadan. And, since they know me so well, they waited until the large crowd of strangers left to invite me over. None of the strangers speak English and I get pretty uncomfortable when being obviously talked about and laughed at in Kiborana. So I did spend get to spend a day talking about America and religion and why I do not have a religion. One thing I have been doing with my free time is practicing my Kiborana. I figure, if I can actually communicate with my neighbors maybe I can find a side project in my village that is productive. I am going very slowly because I don’t have an actual teacher. I listen to Galgallo and have Lokho translate. Lokho speaks English and Kiswahili and despite being very good at all three, she sometimes gets confused. So I don’t know what an “amosi” is except that it is an animal big enough to kill chickens. I know “makankeen” is something to do with names but I don’t know if it is “what is your name?” or “my name is”. I do know how to say “es demt” which is “where are you going?” But with my limited skills I can still only talk to children, and even they just laugh at me like I said something hilarious. I did meet a man on my way to town who spoke a little English. He said “where are you from” and when I answered “America” he said every American thing he could think of. “oooOO-BAMA! Hilory Cleenton! Buffalo soldier… super power, independence 1776, BUFFALO SOLDIER! Two parties, republicans like war! First president George Washington! George Bush Senior, fifty states, ILLINOIS! Buffalo soldier!” He was very excited, in particular, about the song “Buffalo Soldier”. He sang it repeatedly but only knew the words “Buffalo Soldier”. It was a strange ten minutes we spent together. On a sad note, my village is not doing too well. There are the dead corpses of cows killed by the drought scattered around. Everyone I talk to, even if it is just greetings, only has the lack of food and water to talk about. This area hasn’t gotten rain in six years and there is no reason to hope that the rainy season coming up will be any different. It makes me feel sad and ineffectual. Here I am complaining because my phone won’t update facebook and the people here are actually starving. And those who are not starving are dying in other awful ways. In the last week, I know of four people who have died in my village alone. One, a fifteen year old kid, was killed in a pikipiki accident on the road. An old man, whose house I can see from my front door, died from tuberculosis. Another young kid, in Lokho’s class, died from suspected yellow fever. He just had a headache one day and then died before he got to a hospital. I don’t even know how the last person died but I could hear the cries of mourning all day. My local dispensary is working with Food for the Hungry to try to provide relief to the people. Every two weeks they come and provide a cup of porridge and some oil to every child under five years. The program is supposed to go on until December. But I don’t see how it will be enough. During the Ramadan celebration there was supposed to be a big feast. And my generous neighbors opened their home to many people, giving each person who came by a plate piled with food. They apologized to me because they said they wanted to slaughter a goat in celebration but they couldn’t afford it. They still gave me a large pile of meat, mostly globs of fat, on top of rice flavored with a single chopped tomato. I ate in front of the family, who had eaten earlier. I felt terrible because there was the Aunt, nursing the frightened baby, and four toddlers, all just staring hungrily at me while I ate. Galgallo knows me and was unafraid to get his own spoon and share off my plate. I fed some of the rice to another little girl who had a cough and some skin infection on her legs. I snuck the globs of fat to the two other young boys who were watching; they were two of Lokho’s 7 brothers and were a little afraid of me so stood by hugging each other refusing to touch me except to shake my hand. My neighbors lost a couple of chickens last night. They are being killed by the creature they call an amonsi. I am not sure what it is but I think it might be similar to a mongoose. I know that there is another animal, a civet, which lives around here too. I saw a civet one night; it was making strange noises outside my house. I don’t know what a civet is really, I only know what my Kenya guidebook tells me, but I am staying away from it. Even in the early evening there are creatures that are cat-sized, but not cats, running around my compound. They are not skittish, but I am, and so I no longer like to be outside after dusk. The hyenas and jackals have been coming out early too. I never thought I would say this, but I miss peeing in a hole outside, because the alternative is peeing in a bucket in my living room, and then emptying it in the morning. Just like in medieval manors. Or nursing homes. School starts in four days. I will be glad to get back to work so I have something productive to do. This week I have already read three books, gotten halfway through the “animorphs” book series, watched all the episodes of Glee, finished season two of Modern Family, started P90X, built an extra shelf on my paper mache cabinet, sewn new covers for the cushions on my couch out of lessos, fixed some rips in Lokho’s favorite Muslim dress, had a solo Glee soundtrack dance party, quit P90X, gave Lokho an eye test and when I learned she has eyesight almost as bad as mine, gave her my old, slightly scratched glasses, learned how to make yogurt, and walked to and from town (that’s thirty kilometers) twice.

From a Sea Level Paradise to the Top of the World

I left Marsabit on a very windy day. I was so excited to go on a trip that I had barely slept the night before. I got up at seven am and finished packing and cleaned my house. By 8 am, I was sitting on my couch twiddling my thumbs. I called for a taxi to come get me at 9:30 knowing that, this being Kenya, the taxi driver would be almost half an hour late. I had been told that the plane would be leaving at 10:30am and I wanted to get to the airport at 10:00, just in case. This, you know, being Kenya, I got to the airport and sat there for two and a half hours until the plane came. I didn’t mind too much, I chatted with the aid workers from the US and Ireland who were up in the area setting up food distribution for the drought stricken citizens. When the plane got there I was very excited to see that it looked like an actual airplane. Not the two seater, NASCAR seat belted, wire controlled puddle jumper I am used to. This looked like an actual airplane. When we got on, the pilot for his safety debrief said “there are oxygen tanks under your seats, just like the ones on real airplanes. I know they are there because I just put them there this morning. I’ll tell you if we need to use them… probably by screaming something.” I was comforted by the fact that we were all protected just like those lucky people on ‘real’ airplanes. But we took off without incident and made it to Nairobi. I even managed to doze, just like when I travel on ‘real’ trips. I got to Nairobi and immediately took a taxi to the train station. I bought my ticket for second class to Mombasa. A step up from the cattle car, but still required to share a room and not provided with dinner. The train departed at six and we boarded about a half an hour before. As we walked through the train station, I felt like I was in an old Cary Grant movie. Or Harry Potter. After we crossed onto platform 9 and three quarters and boarded the train, we all hung out the windows as the train started to chug out of the station. I wished I had someone to wave enthusiastically to. We wandered the train’s hallways for a bit, enjoying the “I think I can, I think I can” rattle of the wheels on the track. The hallways were insanely narrow and the cars weaved crazily from side to side, tipping us painfully into walls. It was also very bouncy, like a trampoline. It was like walking through a fun house while drunk. The bathroom was fun too. The toilet had a sign above it requesting “please do not use toilet when train is stopped”. Which I thought was an odd request until you look down and see that the toilet is placed over a hole in the floor. All waste is excreted straight onto the tracks. Nice, eh? That night, we went to sleep four to a compartment. The top bunk had straps like an insane asylum to keep you from being tipped out of bed in the middle of the night. Early in the morning, the morning of the sixth, my birthday, just before dawn, a man came down the aisles ringing a bell. One of my friends was sure that it was the bell warning us about bandits. It turned out to be just the breakfast bell. We all got up and weaved drunkenly to the breakfast room where the waitress sloshed coffee all over the table every time she attempted to pour with the swaying car. We watched the sunrise as we ate our egg and toast and even saw a herd of elephants off in the distance. It felt very romantic. Because it was my birthday, we all went back to the compartments and took a shot of wine. My friends thought it would be a great way to turn 26, by starting drinking at seven am. Cheap red wine is not exactly a good breakfast drink, I’m more of a mimosa type girl, so after the one sip, we all just decided to hang out the train windows and watch Mombasa roll towards us. The view was beautiful and green and we chugged through tiny towns with names like “Maji wa Chumvi” which means “Water of Salt”. There were many kids on the tracks begging for money or sweets. We just yelled for them to give us sweets instead. We smelled the ocean before we saw it, the cool breeze was full of salt when we rounded that last bend and saw the gorgeous blue Indian Ocean. We got off the train in Mombasa and found a TukTuk to take us and all our luggage to our hotel. PC must have felt we deserved a nice vacation during the conference because the resort hotel they put us in was the nicest hotel I have ever been in in my life. We pulled up and our jaws went slack. As we were staring at the vaulted ceilings with dark wooden beams and the koi pond and the monkey filled- jungle trees outside and the cages of African grey parrots, a bell hop dressed in stark white came up to us and offered to carry our luggage. Being Peace Corps and used to lugging around an outrageous amount of crap, we allowed him to help, but also started to pick up the heaviest stuff and follow him to the registration desk. But he stopped us, refusing to let us touch the bags. He walked us to these comfy chairs in the lobby where someone brought us cool, moist hand towels to wash our faces and someone else brought us chilled, fresh squeezed pineapple juice. As we sat in the lobby waiting for the bell hop to check us in, we stared at the large open space where the restaurant was. On the right was the restaurant, on the left was a conference area and in between was a pool/river. The pool was a river running through the hotel lobby out into the sunshine where it turned into a big deep pool. When it rained a short, cool tropical shower, the water poured through the open ceiling into the river in the center. Beyond the big pool which was surrounded by grass and flowers and jungle trees, was the soft white beach full of beach boys, tourists, and camels you could ride on. We finished check in and were shown to our rooms which were on the “club” side of the resort. That side had a 10 ft deep pool connected to a shallow pool connected to another 10 ft pool through a series of waterfalls. It made for an amazing obstacle course. The rooms had giant fluffy beds with a mosquito net that was on a track so it made a mosquito room around the beds. It had a hot shower and a balcony overlooking the pools and AIR CONDITIONING that we immediately set to “Arctic” and complimentary water bottles that we immediately started hording. All food was free and amazing. Dinner had an actual dress code, and so we girls had an excuse to trade clothes, put on eye makeup, and look beautiful every night. Each night had a theme: Italian, German, American, and Indian. And breakfast always had a waffle bar. The day we arrived, Saturday, was my birthday and seeing all my friends really was the best gift ever. I did get some very creative presents though. One guy got down on one knee and proclaimed me the most beautiful woman in the world and said he was honored to spend the day with me. Then he sang me a song. I got a hand drawn comic of my friendship with Cindy from the day we met at the airport. She also got me a box of Cheezits (Ain’t she the best!?). From Riley and David, the class clowns of the group, I got fifteen minutes of uninterrupted eye contact. They literally did not take their eyes off of me for fifteen straight minutes. It was amusing, and very, very creepy. My favorite part of the night was at dinner. All the lights went off and it seemed like the perfect time for someone to start singing. So my friends all started singing “Happy Birthday”. The entire dining hall joined in, including all the tourists. It was very sweet but at the end we all realized that the lights had gone off because the wait staff was supposed to sing “Happy Birthday” to someone else. We completely stole their thunder and no one sang to the other person. Whoops. During the first two days of the conference, we got to have language training. I did one day of more advanced Kiswahili and learned the grammar that makes fun words like “sikukukumbuka” (yup, that’s three ku’s) which means “I did not remember you”. Then I learned Kenyan Sign Language which is a ridiculously fun language to learn. The conference was all about HIV/AIDS and was very interesting and controversial. Each volunteer had brought two Kenyans that they work with and so the discussions sometimes got a little heated. One man, a principal of a girls’ high school, said that he thought the education of girls was contributing to the breakdown of society. Another man said that, since he paid for her (dowry), his wife was his property and therefore should submit to his every need whether she wanted to or not. It was, needless to say, a very informative and eye opening experience. There were Kenyans on both sides of the spectrum and I like to think that everyone learned a lot. We also got the chance to visit a home for sexually abused children, and a drug rehab center. Every night after dinner, my PC friends and I went out looking for a good time. We would walk down the beach and find a resort that had club music pouring out onto the sand and we would dance carefree and ridiculous until we were exhausted. A few times, we took over their dance floor and made spectacles of ourselves. Once we were hot and sweaty, we would all run into the ocean, fully (or half) clothed, and continue the dance party out there in the waves. After a wonderful week in paradise, I left Mombasa to do something completely different. From sea level sunshine, I was going to climb 4985 meters to snow and ice and rocks. Before I climbed Mt. Kenya, it wasn’t really something I imagined myself doing in my lifetime. Me climbing a mountain? It seems a little absurd. When I signed up to do it I thought, for some strange reason, it must not be that difficult. I stupidly assumed it would be a cakewalk. I prepared in the absolute worst way possible: by spending that week lying by the pool of a beach front resort in Mombasa eating all the free food my stomach could stand. As far as the equipment I needed for the climb, I borrowed a lot of it, and the rest I bought cheaply from a market in Nairobi. I am sure none of it was meant to climb a mountain. For example, my gloves were too small and had a couple of large, badly stitched holes. It wasn’t exactly REI stuff. I found out a little before I left that Mt Kenya is the second tallest mountain in Africa. It wasn’t going to be the cakewalk I had been anticipating. But I was excited. I was going with a great group of friends. David, the funniest guy I’ve ever met; Mark, super fun and also a human jukebox; Carlyn, the chemical engineer slash hippy artist; Ali, with the best dry wit; and Alyssa, the sweetheart of the group. On day one of our climb we met our two guides. We also got a cook, an assistant cook, and six porters. There were ten people to help the six of us up this mountain. The first day was easy. Half a day walking through a forest in slight rain. We talked a lot, laughed, and sang every song in our repertoire from the instrumental parts of Lion King to Aretha Franklin to Bob Marley to N’sync to Lady Gaga. From there, things got a little harder, I had had a minor cold while in Mombasa, and when you take a minor cold into high altitude with lots of uphill exercise and singing, it turns into something very nasty. The views from the hike were absolutely amazing. It was the most beautiful place in the world. The whole climb I felt like my lungs were the size of ice cubes. I had a horrible, uncontrollable cough. And I could feel the fluid in my lungs. But it was still one of the best things I have ever done. Every turn was so gorgeous it seemed unreal. It was like every adventure movie you’ve ever seen. I saw marshes like Lord of the Rings, mountains like Homeward Bound, valleys like Lion King, grassy plains like Out of Africa, forests like Jurassic Park, and strange plants that were surely from Journey to the Center of the Earth. Every day we would get up at dawn, put on a few extra layers (have I mentioned yet that it was COLD) and ate breakfast. Our cook was awesome and we had sausage (Kenyan sausage which tastes a little like hotdogs) and pancakes or French toast and eggs and porridge. We also had a hot cup of chaicokahawa (Chai, cocoa, kahawa- coffee) which is a drink that Mark made up. Its got a tea bag, coffee, cocoa, sugar, milk, and hot water. It’s delish. After breakfast, we would start hiking. The hikes were not too difficult, but with my lung infection, I needed to take lots of breaks. My legs were fine, but not being able to breathe really made things difficult. We would usually hike until about 2pm and then stop for the day. We would eat lunch at camp, hot soup and sandwiches, and then sit out the sleety rain huddled in the tent playing “truth or truth”, a less adventurous but more informative version of “truth or dare”. Each day it got harder and harder for me to breathe and I, very generously, gave my cold to three of my friends. On summit day we got up at 2 am and packed up. I knew it was going to be a hard day so I didn’t eat much breakfast. We put on every layer of clothing we had and started walking. The summit ascent takes about 4 hours and I was having trouble breathing after about ten minutes. We had two guides and they decided to split the group leaving me with Michael and the rest continue on with Benson. I was pretty out of it for the rest of the climb. I was dizzy and coughing and I couldn’t stand up straight. At some point some stranger passed and gave me a walking stick which I used as a crutch. Michael practically dragged me up the mountain. He refused to let me lay down, which is all I wanted to do. I will admit to my weakness and tell you that I vomited four times on that mountain. I think it was my body’s reaction to hypoxia. I felt like death but when I came in view of the top, the feeling was euphoric. Michael dragged me past the glacier, up the ladder, and then I was there. It was so incredible to watch the sun coming up through the clouds. My friends and I took a shot of brandy there on the peak, took a couple pictures, and then couldn’t take the cold anymore and started back down. Descending was easier, but not easy. It was very steep, snowy and all scree. Scree is the tiny rocks that make you feel like you are just going to skid all the way down the mountain. With my fancy walking stick I was able to do pretty well. But the time we got down the other side of the mountain and to our camp, it was around 9 am. Our porters had beaten us to the camp and set up the tent already but we were so exhausted that we couldn’t even crawl to the tent. We just passed out on some rocks in front of it. Eventually we made it into the tent were we napped most of the day. From there the trek was easy, 15 km a day, speed-walking downhill through the most beautiful landscapes. One view had a narrow gorge with falcons soaring. There was a green lake at the bottom that I am sure is where Nessie has been hiding. There are no words to describe how amazing and awesome the vista was. The closest I can get in description would be to use the perfectly epic words of my friend, David “Dudu” Burns. He said it was “big”. After we finished, it felt almost unreal. I still can’t believe I did it. Now I can never complain about having to walk 3 km to school every day. Darn. After Mt. Kenya, I went back to Nairobi and hopped on a plane to Marsabit. And now here I am. Back home and slightly depressed. Having such an exciting vacation really makes coming home alone seem pretty lame. I am sure, in a few days, I will have more Marsabit adventures to keep me entertained. But for now I am going to be working my way through the entire Animorphs book series that a friend gave me. For now, that is as exciting as it gets.

Another Day, Another Dust Storm

Over the weekend I visited the Catholic orphanage which I thought would be a depressing place. But it was an amazing experience. There were 34 children there, all but one under the age of five. These kids were the happiest kids I have seen in Kenya. They were used to getting visitors and flocked to me and my companions as soon as they saw us in the door. They wanted what every kid wants: love. They wanted hugs and kisses, they wanted to be picked up and never put down. They wanted to be pushed on the swing, and a piggyback ride, and to play pattycake. I went with the volunteers from Spain and one of the Brothers and the 8 of us each went to a corner and played for an hour. Steve was in charge of the swing; pushing each child for ten giggle-filled passes. Alfonso, a guy with a big lap and a bigger heart, was bouncing four children at once on his knees. Vicky was listening to a small group proudly recite their ABCs. I spent most of the time having my hair pulled out by some enthusiastic future beauty stylists.  The first sad part was hearing that many of the children actually have parents out in the manyattas who are too poor to keep them. The second sad part was leaving. The kids wanted to be swung in one more circle, give one more sloppy kiss, or to hold hands for one more minute. 

On Sunday evening a dust storm started up. The wind blew hard like it does during a New England blizzard. Instead of snow swirling around getting in my eyes, it was red dust. I returned home in the evening and it was pitch dark. The dust had obscured the moon and stars that usually light up the way. I struggled against the wind to get my laundry off the line before it blew away. I succeeded, only losing one sock that I found the next day stuck in a bush. On the way to school that morning, I had to hunch over against the wind. With my eyes squinted nearly shut to discourage dust, I tripped more than usual. I got to school very thirsty. Of course I was thirsty, it was  a moisture-sucking dust storm. I always bring a nalgene full of water but today I noticed when I got to school that the water that I had left in there from a couple days before had turned mouldy. It was super gross, chunks of mold freely swirling around. I really didn’t want to drink that. Unfortunately, there was no other water to be had. My school provides a 20 L jerrycan of water for the staffroom to drink and use for washing hands. It tastes absolutely awful, like soot, but is better than nothing. Today, however, there wasn’t much water left and I knew it was important to be able to wash our hands. My school doesn’t have any spoons, so we have been eating rice and cabbage with our hands. I washed my hands, and tried to ignore my thirst. The lunch was slim as well, only a couple tablespoons of cabbage on top of the rice. By the time I finished eating and picking rocks out of my teeth with my fingers, I had a headache from the thirst. I went to class, still trying to ignore it. I walked to the lab with my students, we were planning on testing the effect of impurities on the boiling point of water, when a dust tornado formed in the clearing between the classrooms and the lab. It was big, at least 15 ft high, and fat. The two students, the lab guy, and I all ran to the door of the lab. It was like a scene from Twister. One girl was struggling with the keys to the lab as the rest of us pressed against the side of the building urging her to hurry. The dust got closer and closer, and Arbe panicked and tried to run away to escape it. The lab guy and I were urgently looking from the dust tornado to Halima with the keys slipping in the lock. She finally got the door open and we all piled inside. The tornado was on us as we yelled for Arbe. I grabbed her arm and yanked her inside and slammed the door. The windows and door rattled as the tornado hit. We all took a deep dusty breath and giggled at our close call. After class I returned to the staffroom and looked longingly at my water with the leisurely swirling clumps of mold.  I resigned myself to drinking it anyway. I have some iodine pills that are meant to kill bacteria. I used two of the small brown pills and shook the bottle to ensure all the moldy microbes were murdered. I emptied a couple of red Gatorade packets into the mix, thinking it would mask the strong iodine flavor and, maybe, hide the dead, but still large, clumps of mold. Then I let the concoction settle. I was pretending that all the mold clumps would settle on the bottom of the bottle. I told myself that it could not be any worse than the weevil-eating incident of a few weeks ago. I took a deep breath, lifted the bottle to my lips… and then a miracle occurred. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the dust cloud that heralds an incoming car. I put the mold-iodine-juice down and breathed a sign of relief. A car meant I would be able to catch a ride home. A car meant I wouldn’t have to walk home through the dust cloud and I would be there in 10 minutes instead of forty. And most importantly, a car meant I would be able to drink plenty of mold-free water when I got there.  I lament the loss of two packets of Gatorade, but I’m sure it is a worthwhile sacrifice and probably much better for my health.

Shake Your Happy Curve

Everything in my experience tells me that a storm is coming. The sky is slate grey, the air is thick and heavy and engulfing everything in a misty-looking fog. The wind has picked up, gusting across the desert leaving large eddies and small tornados of dust in its wake. On the horizon to the east, from the open desert, an ominous grey cloud is rolling in. It looks like a storm is coming- but it is not. The rolling grey cloud is actually a continuous line of dust. The grey is the atmosphere choking on desert sand. If you look straight up, the sky is crystal blue. This is not a bad dust storm. I have heard of some here that reduce visibility to near zero for up to six hours. This is a mild dust storm but it has been going on for three days. I think I would prefer a more intense, shorter storm. This dirt is fine, not coarse like beach sand, but more like clay particles. It is so fine that when it grabs onto your legs, like mud, you can’t brush it off. You can’t even rinse it off. You have to scrub. The fine particles crawl into your eyes and mouth. I am in the staff room, which you would think would offer some protection, but the dust creeps in through the metal ceiling and blows around. I squinch my eyes and mouth shut until the wind calms down but I can still taste dirt and my eyes tear up. After three days of this, I am starting to feel sick. My nose is stuffed and runny, my throat itches, I have a sinus headache, and I am sure my lungs are a nice reddish brown. The dust is thick on every surface; it looks like an elderly persons home when she hasn’t dusted in a year. You can write “wash me” on my desk every fifteen minutes. 

One of my students lost her father over the weekend. I think he died of an illness of some kind. The girl, one of my form two students, is now an orphan. Her mother passed a way only a few months ago. As a show of respect, my teachers wanted to collect some money for her. They asked each of us to contribute a hundred shillings. That poor girl has lost both her parents and the only thing we can do for her is give her a thousand shillings? I felt awful, but what could I do? I only hope she has other family members to take care of her. She is not the only orphan at my school. I actually have quite a few, all of them are poor and struggling with school fees. If I had a way to find them sponsors I would, but I don’t know how to find them. 

It is almost time for vacation. I have four more days in Mars and then I am heading to Mombasa for a cross-sector peace corps training. As valuable as Peace Corps training always is, I am really much more excited to see my friends. I don’t ever get to talk with them and never, ever get to see them. I love my village, and I have lots of friends here to keep my busy, but it is hard sometimes to be away from my Peace Corps family. I plan on getting a lot of hugs. In lieu of my PC family, I have been getting my hug-fix from a group of wazungus from Spain. They are loud and hilarious and speak very bad English. We spend a lot of time miming to each other and laughing at the mistakes. There is one guy who is the most outgoing but has the worst English of the group. So he says things like “Are you very happy!? Normal happy or very very happy? Happy New Year!!”  And he repeats this over and over again. You don’t know whether to smack him or laugh. The Spaniards are here to do some volunteer work for St. Pauls. And because I have nothing better to do, I am helping them. They love to dance, and sing, and eat. Every night is a party with them. I have never met people who acted so free and crazy while completely sober. They taught me salsa, and belly dancing, and all the good Spanish swear words. When they were teaching me how to belly dance, we were laughing at our slight protruding bellies, and they said that in Spain they call that the “happy curve”, which I think is an eminently appropriate name for it. 

 

Yesterday, we threw a joint birthday party for me and two of them who also happened to have birthdays this week. We sang happy birthday in Spanish, Kiswahili, and English. We ate cake and spent the whole night laughing and shaking our happy curves until we were exhausted.

Man Steals Cucumbers, Lynched by Mob

I used to live in a twon where the local paper had headlines like “Mrs. O’leary’s cat stuck in tree again” and “Church Potluck raises $230 to buy Mrs. O’Leary a kitty leash”. But now I live in a strange world where the paper has stories that are so outrageous it is hard to believe they aren’t made up. In one paper this week there was a story called “Opus Dei clan attacks young woman after her parents sue for holding her for indoctrination purposes”. And here I was thinking Opus Dei only did crazy things in Dan Brown novels. Then there was the horrifying “A high school girl who was pregnant with triplets is stabbed in the throat with a sword seven times by her secret lover: a local pastor”. The pastor was rescued (Fortunately? Unfortunately?) by police before he was lynched by a mob. Next was a story about “an underage teenage boy is killed by a Village Chief for having an affair with his wife- an underage teenage girl.” And the last tragic story in that day’s paper was talking about “an 11-yr old girl and her 9-yr old brother who were caught planning to kill themselves by eating rat poison because their mother was torturing them and denying them food”. Then there was the smattering of the usual filler stories: “Man steals goat, lynched by mob”, “Woman steals bushel of cucumbers, lynched by mob”, “Man lynches another man, then is lynched by mob.” I try to mitigate my disbelief by telling myself that the paper covers stories from the whole country. That’s a lot of people and a lot of crimes. But then I remember that Kenya is about the size of Texas. And I don’t think Texas does much lynching these days. 

I went home early from school last Tuesday because I had finished marking my exams. I was walking home and I was thinking to myself “Man, its HOT”. I don’t really like to complain about the heat, especially since America is going through a heat wave. But I would like to mention that in America, in general, I do all I can to avoid doing major activities during heat waves. When its hot, my to- do list involves sitting in a moist puddle on my couch letting an oscillating fan evaporate my sweat. Here on hot days, I still have to dress in my work clothes (knee-length skirts and button down blouses) and go hiking through the desert. I usually arrive to school or home really really sweaty, which is, you know, fun. Tuesday, I was heading home, I was wearing my uncomfortable shoes because my comfortable ones finally kicked the bucket.  After a kilometer or so, the blisters were bleeding and covered in a thick layer of red dust. It was more than kidogo painful. So, in my heat fried brain, I thought it would be a good idea to take my shoes off. I was walking happily along, weaving languorously along the road, singing along softly to my ipod, when I realized that my feet were burning in the sand. I thought it might be a good idea to stop and relax in some shade. There is only one tree on my 3 kilometer route but I found it and sat happily for awhile watching the dust tornadoes until the pain in my feet receded enough to put my shoes back on. I sat there staring at what I pretend is an ocean view. In the mornings it is a beautiful blue but in the heat of the afternoon it was a mottled, dusty brown. I sat there, staring, and I saw a huge dustornado. I see them all the time, but this was the biggest and it wasn’t a loose column of dust like usual, but a tight, narrow, serpentine pillar weaving amongst some huts that were barely visible in the distance. The tornado looked like an actually tornado. I’m pretty sure I saw a cow swirling around in there. I watched for the whole 7 minutes it was on the ground until it was sucked back up into the sky. There was a pair of hornbills in the acacia tree above me. The male is pretty with his black and white plumage and bright macaroni-and-cheese orange beak. But the female is gorgeous and monochromatic. Her shiny black beak makes her look like a black and white photograph. They make a call that sounds like a dog yelping and it startled me out of my stupor. I put my shoes back on and continued on my way home.      

I got home and boiled a sweet potato for lunch. The water that was left behind when the potato was finished was green. Not pea green or forest green, but a “hey! Its black! (swirl, swirl) Nope, its green” green. I don’t have any idea why it was green, but I ate the potato anyway. 

Last Saturday I went to Marsabit Forest with some form 3 and form four geography students. They live in Marsabit but have never seen an elephant and never gone into the forest. There is a big debate about the forest because it is the only area with food for animals, water, and trees for charcoal. The local people are too poor to visit the forest leagally and so they never see the benefits of conserving it. As a result, the locals are grazing their herds in there and cutting down trees for firewood. The human encroachment is driving the elephants out into the town. It is only a matter of time before the buffalo, lions, and cheetahs also start leaving to find food. So the trip was a wonderful opportunity for the students to see these wonderful animals and really understand what they are learning in class. Some of them will have never even seen a picture of an elephant.

We went into the forest and explored for hours. We were lucky enough to have a armed guide to take us to all the good spots. We were able to get out of the car and wander in the woods treading lightly and spotting elephants. We were also lucky enough to  see and touch a dead elephant. The poor thing had been shot a few days before while out maurading in town. After a few days, he succumbed to his injuries deep in the forest. The park guides cut off his 45kg tusks to prevent people from stealing and selling them and then they leave the carcass for the jackals and hyenas. We were able to see the elephant and touch him. He was a beautiful animal and I was very sad to see him dead. Being an oversensitive girl, I was nearly emotional. The students, other teachers, and the guide were not exactly sad as they climbed all over the poor thing. They stood on him, and laughed, picking up his ears, and posing for photos. It made me very sad. And when one of the teachers on the trip wanted to throw his garbage out the car window as we drove back to the gate, I was angry and had to make him stop. The students had a wonderful time and got to have a great experience. I loved being a part of it. And of course any excuse to see more elephants is a great day in my book.

Will You Marry Me?

Will You Marry Me?
This has been a fairly busy week. We have end of term exams. I had to set and invigilate (that means write and then sit through), which is a very boring process, and then I have to start marking. One of Sasura’s teachers got a job in Wajir or Moyale or someplace equally far away last week and quit. With only one days notice, he was gone and left all his classes vacant. All the math/science teachers took part of his load and I was given Physics Form Three. I do not mind taking the class, there are only two students and they are very good at teaching themselves and so it will be more like private tutoring than actual teaching, which I am much better at. The only problem is that I have not done high school physics since, well, high school. And I wasn’t all that good at it then either. I spent this week trying to learn how to do the work, and it was really hard. I wish I had internet or a Physics for Dummies book or something. I had to have the students teach me how to do some of the problems, and I think we will most likely be learning together. Before you say “high school physics? How hard can it be?”, here is the book’s way of explaining how to determine specific heat capacity of water by the continuous flow method:
“Under steady conditions, none of the electrical energy supplied is used in heating the apparatus and, therefore; V1I1t=(m3-m1)c(ϴ2- ϴ1)+H. After the rate of flow is altered, temperature difference is the same and the heat lost in time t is again H. V2I2t=(m3-m1)c(ϴ2- ϴ1)+H.
Hence; (V2I2- V1I1)=[(m3-m1)- (m2-m1)]c(ϴ2- ϴ1)”

And it goes on like that for a few more lines of symbols. Now, I am not saying that it is impossible to learn, and, in fact, it is just a matter of plugging numbers into the correct spot. My difficulty comes from figuring out how to build a ‘well-lagged calorimeter’, learn the difference between an ammeter and a voltmeter, figure out how to explain a ‘constant head tank’, and remembering how to do a math like this: 1/(5 )×8×〖10〗^(-6)×〖66.7〗^2±1/2×10×〖∛407×10〗^(-6), without a calculator (that is an actual problem from the book). Math has never been my strong suit and I generally do all I can to avoid it. That is not generally a quality you want in a physics teacher and for me, a girl who still forgets her 7’s multiplication tables, trying to do cube roots just makes my brain hurt.

Anyway, because of all the extra work taking on a new class entails, lesson planning, exams, and learning the names of my students (Halima- which is easy to remember because every third girl in my school is named Halima, and Arbe- which I remember because of that episode of the Simpsons where they are trapped on a desert island and someone says “I’m so hungry I could eat at Arbys!” and although I have never actually eaten at Arby’s, that line and the Arby’s commercials where they are giving away, like, five weirdly gray sandwiches for the price of one, has always prevented me from ever trying it. Though, now that I am living in Africa and for lunch had goat innards and ugali which tastes like the stuffing of a teddy bear, I would be willing to commit murder to get my hands on just one weirdly gray sandwich. Long story short, Form three physics makes me think of food), I have been very busy and tired. In America I would deal with a rough week by going home, having a glass of wine, taking a hot shower, and watching Glee. Here, I have a different ‘rough day’ routine. I walk home blaring my ipod, rudely ignore the children who are giggling and making fun of me in Kiborana, then once I am home, I start making dinner because if I don’t eat by 7, my neighbor will interrupt me and I’ll be too busy with her to eat until 9pm. I don’t have a cold glass of wine, but I make some Crystal Light, which after the schools water that tastes like a campfire for some reason, is nearly as good. (I know its not, but don’t burst my bubble) Then, on especially tiring days, when I just want to relax and watch Glee reruns, I turn off my lights as soon as the sun goes down. That prevents the neighbors and other villagers from coming to my house all evening just to say hello. The downside is that I have to wander around my house in the dark for a few hours trying not to trip over stools or yank my laptop of the table by the cord. But the evening of peace is worth it.

I have been feeling very protected this week. Not that I ever have felt unsafe, but the people here have been nearly cloying in their effort to make double sure nothing happens to me. I’m sure my parents will love to hear that. But it is kinda like living at home and having your parents checking up on you all the time. I stayed after school once and got a ride home from my principal and met the village chief on the road, he had gone out to look for me when the sun went down and I hadn’t come back. A few days ago, I was spending some quality time in the choo and my neighbor came by and got very worried because I had left my front door open and was ‘missing’. On Sunday night, I was making a phone call to America when a man on a pikipiki (motorcycle) stopped and waited for me to finish. I was a little nervous because it was dark and I didn’t know who it was, but I was within earshot of plenty of people who could come to my rescue. When I got off the phone, the man spoke and I realized it was the Village Chief again. He wanted to chastise me for standing in the dark- who knew what strangers were lurking about?- and then had me walk home while he kept his headlight on me. The next day at school, my principal called me into his office. The Chief apparently called him to let him know of my reckless behavior. I was chastised a second time. On Wednesday, a new group of men arrived in the village. They are from Down Kenya and are here to work on a ‘dam’. I put dam in quotes because they are building the ‘dam’ out in the middle of the desert where there is nothing, not even a village let alone a dammable body of water.  I know the men are new because they are super curious about me. One asked for my phone number, I told him I was not allowed to give it out, and at his persistence, I gave him instead my incorrect email. I apologize to whoever owns ryan@yahoo.com. They all asked where I live and since everyone knows anyway, I just emphasized the fact that I live on a fenced in compound that has a night watchman. Thursday morning, I met one of the men on my way to school. I hate meeting people on my way to school. During my commute I am usually still waking up, I usually have not had coffee or chai, and I am enjoying the solitude, the soft Nora Jones coming from my ipod, and the sun rising over the desert. I do NOT like having someone pepper me with questions for forty minutes. “Where are you from? Did you know Obama is from Kenya? Are you married? Why not? Can I be your friend?” This particular gentleman was from a tribe called Kikuyu, which made absolutely no difference to me, and he wanted to marry me. I thought that was stupid because I was a stranger, I was being taciturn/bordering on bitchy, and he had already told me about his wife. When he proposed, I laughed once, loud and derisive. And then I said no. He then spent the next 10 minutes trying to convince me. His attributes were that he was building a dam (has a job), wanted to open a duka (small store), and was planning on visiting America someday, most likely via me. Nothing I said would deter him and I eventually just ignored him and walked faster. He followed me all the way to school eventually telling, not asking, me he would visit me at home someday. I (lied) said I was not allowed to have visitors, and he, being more than a little dumb, said “name the day and I’ll come!” I again said no, he could not come visit. He said “Friday! Prepare your supper, I’ll be there!” We had arrived at school so I just sighed in frustration, and practically ran into the staff room. He can be certain that I will not be answering my door on Friday. His harassment had made me a little bit cranky, and I apologized to my form one Physics class for my distraction. When I told them why, they wanted to know why I didn’t say yes (really?!). I was still cranky after the lesson and complained some more to one of my fellow teachers, Dub. He told me to report the guy to someone. I assured him that harassment was something I get ALL THE TIME here, and that I was not worried for my safety. It was extremely annoying and ruined my morning, but didn’t feel dangerous. Dub is a good friend and was still worried. He said all the locals are harmless, but these guys were strangers and that I should be wary. I thanked him for his concern. Dub then went and told my principal. My principal is worse than my father (Sorry, Dad). He called me into his office and wanted to get the guy in trouble. He was a lot more worried than Dub and said he was going to talk to the guy. Within half an hour, the guy’s supervisor was in the principal’s office. I was called in to describe the guy, and once I identified him as the Kikuyu, the boss got pissed. He and the principal started yelling in rapid kiborana while I sat there, completely lost. The boss wanted to fire the guy immediately and send him back to Kenya. I tried to explain that the guy didn’t have to lose his job, a simple “stop asking the white girl to be your wife” would suffice. There was more rapid kiborana and I caught the word “ijolle”, which means ‘child’. I was a little offended at being described as a child and my principal saw my face and stopped the rant to ask me how old I was. I told him that, at 25, I was nowhere near being a child and could take care of myself. I realized how petulant I sounded, but I really didn’t want some unemployed stranger being angry with me. I wanted to tell them that it was not my first proposal, it wasn’t even my first proposal this month, but I was afraid they would ask me for a list of names so they could go out and shatter some kneecaps. They eventually agreed not to fire the guy, but he was going to get a stern talking to. While I appreciate everyone trying to protect me, I really do not want to be known as ‘the woman who gets you in trouble if you talk to her’. After my principal nearly had all the primary school kids beaten because they wouldn’t leave me alone and one threw a rock, I am now much more wary about just complaining in the staff room.

I got a package today from America. It feels like Christmas every time. My principal calls me into his office at school and hands me a small yellow piece of paper saying that I have mail. I stare at the scribbled writing trying to use my psychic abilities to figure out who sent me something. Because of school, I spend the next five days, or until the next time I can get to town, gauging my fitness level, trying to guess what would happen to me if I walked the 15 km to town. Worst case scenario: trampled by elephants. Totally worth it if the package has Twizzlers. The next Saturday I bring an extra large plastic bag (here they call them ‘paper bags’ for some annoying reason) to town, the ones here have a picture of Disney’s Aladdin on them, optimistically hoping for a box that is way too large for me to carry. Maybe it contains a two-year supply of cheese, some comfortable Victoria’s Secret bras, and all seven Harry Potters? On the ride to town I anxiously tell everyone that I have mail from America. I am very selfish though and so when they ask what I was sent I say “socks”. I get to town and run straight to the post office. Once I have the package in my hand I usually sit down on the nearest curb and break into the box right there, eating any delicious food items. This week I was able to restrain myself and put the box in the truck behind the drivers seat so I couldn’t be tempted. I wanted to savor the package in my own house so I could have unrestrained glee without attracting too much attention. Once home I used my teeth and nails to break through the layer of “this box has been opened by customs and all the good stuff has been confiscated” tape. The first thing I pulled out was an old stuffed animal I had when I was a little girl and still loved. My puppies at home also loved it and my mom sent it to me slightly chewed. It reminded me of my pets and it, along with the accompanying pictures of my dogs sleeping in tight little balls, made me tear up. I moved onto the comfy looking lounge pants. I immediately put them on. Next in the box: VELVEETA! The most wonderful pasteurized deliciousness made in America. That and the packet of gravy made me squeal/wimper.  I made my way through the sanity saving box, gasping in delight with each item. The noise I made sounded like the noise my little puppy, Lillie, used to make when she saw someone she loved come home- right before she leaked a little puddle of urine. 

I do not know how much the American news is covering the drought over here but over here it is big news. Two years of low, or no, rain has destroyed crops and livelihoods of people all over Somalia, Kenya, and Ethiopia. I heard there were thousands of refugees from Somalia trekking to a camp in north Kenya to recive food aid. That camp is not close to me and I am not seeing the refugees but I am seeing a lot of effects of the drought. Every single day in the national paper, we get the paper but it is always almost a week late, there is a story about bandits killing tribesmen for their cattle. Those stories are always in my region. The last big one had a gun fight between Samburu and Borana tribesmen on the road from Isiolo. Isiolo is about a days drive south of me, it is the closest large town to Marsabit. The bandits were unsuccessful in stealing cattle, but they did kill a few herders. The herders returned fire and managed to wound some of the bandits who ran off. The bandits came back home- here in Marsabit-  and ended up seeking treatment at the local hospital in town where they were arrested. I read these type of stories every day. The government gave some of the herders weapons, AK47s, to protect their herds. But that means everyone is armed and able to steal their neighbors goats. The situation is getting worse, but even if the bandits successfully steal, the cattle are all so gaunt that they aren’t providing milk, they don’t have meat, and they are dying. Even the camels look emaciated. I often see herders carrying the body of one of their goats that died on the search for food. The domestic animals are not the only ones being affected. I never saw jackals when I first came here I heard they were only out very late at night, but now they are out hunting at dawn and dusk. I saw one on my way to school when it should have been sleeping in a burrow someplace. The jackals are not that dangerous, I think, but the elephants are. We’ve been hearing stories about them leaving the protection of the forest to search for food. The road to town is littered with trees trampled by elephants. If you are in town at night you can hear the popping gunshots as the wildlife service try to scare the elephants back into the park. It is now extremely dangerous to walk in town at night because of them.

I haven’t yet seen any human deaths or severe suffering from the drought but I am afraid that it is only a matter of time. I am very lucky to have a reliable water supply and plenty of money to buy food. But the food prices are skyrocketing. A case of milk used to cost 100 shillings, and today it costs 350 Ksh. Eggs used to be 10 ksh each, now they are double that at most places. Some foods have increased by up to 150%. At the current prices, with everyone losing their cattle, no crops growing, and very limited water, I am just waiting for the children to get skinnier. One story in the paper talked about a man who lives in a village to the west of me who watched his herd of 100 camels and 60 cows die in a few short weeks. The man was so devastated that he went mad and now sleeps next to the pile of bones remaining from the herd. Another story told of a young mother with newborn twin boys who has run out of breastmilk and is now feeding her babies water. She said that she was only able to eat a small cup of porridge every other day. It is pretty heartbreaking to read. I can’t imagine seeing it.