Realized I have yet to post one!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
for more info....
For more info about SHOFCO, as well as about Kibera and it's history visit:
http://www.shofco.org/
http://www.shofco.org/
Kibera
Today was, at long last, a day without class or any other obligations. I decided not to go to church…not quite up to watching another woman catch the spirit and begin communicating with Jesus in tongues. So instead I went with Matt (a great guy who, believe it or not, goes to Wesleyan!) to explore the city. We decided to just hop into a matatu, and go for an adventure. We went around to the city center, got a little (intentionally) lost and just wandered through central Nairobi. I love just hopping into a rickety old vehicle, holding on tight (when it’s scary, I just pretend it’s an amusement park ride) and seeing where we end up (as routes/schedules, well they don’t really exist here,) so anyone’s guess is as good as mine as to where you’ll really wind up.
After adventuring with Matt, I met Kennedy in Kibera. I realize I have yet to write extensively, or at all, about Kennedy, SHOFCO, and my project in Kibera. Let me begin by saying that Kennedy is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met—in just a month he’s become my African brother. We have had the best conversations about the different social norms, our lives, as well as about theatre and its role here…I began communicating with Kennedy through email about 5 months ago via Ma-Yi Theatre Company in the states. Two years ago, after running out of money for college, Kennedy (who is only 23 himself!) decided to, instead of pursing funds to continue schooling in America move to Kibera (the second largest slum in the entire world, and the largest in Africa) to help his people. He moved to Kwatrikera, which is just an area, or village as it’s called of Kibera and founded what is called SHOFKO: the shining hope for the youth of Kibera. At the beginning, SHOFKO used soccer to keep youths off the streets—away from prostitution, drugs, drinking, AIDS, and starvation by both occupying their time, and providing anyone who played with a meal. Soon, Kennedy decided that theatre would actually perhaps be a more effective tool of uplift—so he and a bunch of youths brainstormed the problems of Kibera, and began to observe closely with the intent to both act out these problems, as well as possible solutions. Now SHOFKO has over 80 youths involved, and has also begun what Kennedy calls “The Women’s Empowerment Program” where women, especially those striken with HIV/AIDS make jewelry, which Kennedy then helps them sell in an effort to introduce them to microfinance. After talking with Kennedy, we decided that I will create and direct a piece that I will create in collaboration with 20 of these youths as my major project while here. We’ve begun meeting about the process, as well as about the topic—which I very much want to choose as a group. After our first talks about a month ago it became clear that coming to Kibera each day to do this work and then leaving would not create an atmosphere that was conducive to productive collaboration—as the youths would perceive me as a muzungu outsider, as in a position of unequal power. And so I decided that in order to create collaboratively, I need to live in and with the community with which I’m working. At first, well Kennedy was a bit shocked, as he said that he’s had white friends visit, but don’t think any white person has really ever lived in Kibera. But after thinking it over, he decided that it was the best idea possible—a opinion that was confirmed after he told the youths. The difference in their reception of me after they learned I would live with them only affirmed my decision. Before hand they were dubious—wary of this white outsider who wanted to “help.” After hearing I would like with Kennedy they first reacted with disbelief, and then, with empowered confidence, awe and excitement that I wanted to live with them, that I so wanted their respect and felt that hey, if they can live in Kibera, well so can I. No barriers. No hierarchies. Just people living and creating together. When I came to Kibera today—they were so welcoming, all said how excited they are to have me as one of them, they hugged me and called me their sister, slapped me five, talked my ear off with ideas…it was just incredible. So beginning November 8thn through December 10th I will live in half of Kennedy’s room (it’s a very small concrete room, no electricity etc. in which we will just hang a curtain down the middle) in Katwikera Kibera for a month. I am so excited, so awed by the kindness of the people and the excitement of the youth that I am there excited to work with them, in possession of some knowledge about theatre that they desperately want to partake in, that I’m young (they are ages 16-25), and this brave, and I guess kind of radical white girl. It will be the experience of a life time…I can’t even describe the poverty of Kibera to you. Here, a person can eat on $1 a day, but most are unable to do even that. I felt surprisingly safe there---and Odoch (my program director, and the guy responsible for our safety) has approved the location—and Kennedy (already the protective big brother) says he will never leave my side. But honestly—I really felt that the whole community will envelop me, embrace me and that together we will be able to create and learn so much.
After adventuring with Matt, I met Kennedy in Kibera. I realize I have yet to write extensively, or at all, about Kennedy, SHOFCO, and my project in Kibera. Let me begin by saying that Kennedy is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met—in just a month he’s become my African brother. We have had the best conversations about the different social norms, our lives, as well as about theatre and its role here…I began communicating with Kennedy through email about 5 months ago via Ma-Yi Theatre Company in the states. Two years ago, after running out of money for college, Kennedy (who is only 23 himself!) decided to, instead of pursing funds to continue schooling in America move to Kibera (the second largest slum in the entire world, and the largest in Africa) to help his people. He moved to Kwatrikera, which is just an area, or village as it’s called of Kibera and founded what is called SHOFKO: the shining hope for the youth of Kibera. At the beginning, SHOFKO used soccer to keep youths off the streets—away from prostitution, drugs, drinking, AIDS, and starvation by both occupying their time, and providing anyone who played with a meal. Soon, Kennedy decided that theatre would actually perhaps be a more effective tool of uplift—so he and a bunch of youths brainstormed the problems of Kibera, and began to observe closely with the intent to both act out these problems, as well as possible solutions. Now SHOFKO has over 80 youths involved, and has also begun what Kennedy calls “The Women’s Empowerment Program” where women, especially those striken with HIV/AIDS make jewelry, which Kennedy then helps them sell in an effort to introduce them to microfinance. After talking with Kennedy, we decided that I will create and direct a piece that I will create in collaboration with 20 of these youths as my major project while here. We’ve begun meeting about the process, as well as about the topic—which I very much want to choose as a group. After our first talks about a month ago it became clear that coming to Kibera each day to do this work and then leaving would not create an atmosphere that was conducive to productive collaboration—as the youths would perceive me as a muzungu outsider, as in a position of unequal power. And so I decided that in order to create collaboratively, I need to live in and with the community with which I’m working. At first, well Kennedy was a bit shocked, as he said that he’s had white friends visit, but don’t think any white person has really ever lived in Kibera. But after thinking it over, he decided that it was the best idea possible—a opinion that was confirmed after he told the youths. The difference in their reception of me after they learned I would live with them only affirmed my decision. Before hand they were dubious—wary of this white outsider who wanted to “help.” After hearing I would like with Kennedy they first reacted with disbelief, and then, with empowered confidence, awe and excitement that I wanted to live with them, that I so wanted their respect and felt that hey, if they can live in Kibera, well so can I. No barriers. No hierarchies. Just people living and creating together. When I came to Kibera today—they were so welcoming, all said how excited they are to have me as one of them, they hugged me and called me their sister, slapped me five, talked my ear off with ideas…it was just incredible. So beginning November 8thn through December 10th I will live in half of Kennedy’s room (it’s a very small concrete room, no electricity etc. in which we will just hang a curtain down the middle) in Katwikera Kibera for a month. I am so excited, so awed by the kindness of the people and the excitement of the youth that I am there excited to work with them, in possession of some knowledge about theatre that they desperately want to partake in, that I’m young (they are ages 16-25), and this brave, and I guess kind of radical white girl. It will be the experience of a life time…I can’t even describe the poverty of Kibera to you. Here, a person can eat on $1 a day, but most are unable to do even that. I felt surprisingly safe there---and Odoch (my program director, and the guy responsible for our safety) has approved the location—and Kennedy (already the protective big brother) says he will never leave my side. But honestly—I really felt that the whole community will envelop me, embrace me and that together we will be able to create and learn so much.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Mombasa
After leaving Bodo we went to Mombasa, the second largest city in Kenya, where we stayed in guesthouses for four days. Mombasa is an incredibly interesting city—as the majority of its citizens are Muslims. I was awoken each morning my the dawn call to prayer, and this chanting could be heard throughout the day. As it was Ramadan, most food shops were closed during the day—and instead stayed open late at night. It felt almost like being in a Middle Eastern coastal city. The buildings are mostly whitewashed, almost everyone you pass is dressed in traditional Islamic apparel—and many women are wearing the full higab. It really felt like another world. While there we broke the Ramadan fast with Jamal and his family at his home—his wife had made about 25 dishes, toured around the city, hung out and visited a school for children with cerebral palsy and autism (which was so sad, as the school was so so poor,) visited an AIDS orphanage (also sad) and had a few lectures about Swahili Coastal culture, in addition to continuing Kiswahili. I liked Mombasa, but in many ways prefer Nairobi. Mombasa is first of all, hot. And second of all, I felt more heckled on the street by men than I ever feel in Nairobi—which I think because in Mombasa whites are even more of an oddity. I feel like in both cities you have to adopt a hard front—you have to embrace the New Yorker within and walk purposefully, alertly and essentially radiate a message that says “you don’t want to mess with me.” Perhaps I feel this more acutely in contrast to the village… Anyhow, the highlight of Mombasa was seeing Gabi, one of my best friends from home who is now there on a research grant. I met the family she is living with in Likoni, a part of Mombasa and fell in love with her sisters Cynthia, Queen and Molly, as well as with her dear friend and translator Quawme. Just such good people. It was wonderful to see Gabi, and I was able to go with her on one of her interviews. She is researching the way in which Kenya’s development policies impact street vendors, and has been working with several of her subjects since she herself was an SIT student a year and a half ago (on the Mombasa program). She has also set up a scholarship fund that pays for 6 children of street vendors to go to private school. Here in Kenya there is a huge gap in public and private education. It is said that if a 10 year old who has gone to public school switches to private they will not be caught up until they are 12, a pretty massive difference. So we talked with Mama Someu, one of Gabi’s long time subjects who has five children, and owns and cooks in two cafes in order to have a prayer of feeding and schooling her children. I was so moved by this woman’s story. I saw with Gabi, holding Mama Someu’s youngest, a six-month-old boy (the cutest baby I’ve ever seen I might add) while Gabi asked questions and Quawme translated. Gabi’s scholarship sends Mama’s second oldest daughter to school, and helps pay for two others. This woman works all the time, and makes between 50 and 100 shillings a day (64 to a dollar), thus constantly struggling to feed her children and paying little by little for their schooling. She has no husband, and one of her cafes is in the quarry, where the purchasers do not pay with cash, but with stones, which Mama then has to sell to people who buy the stones—quite a physically taxing process. To boot, her oldest daughter, who runs the café in town hasn’t been coming home, has been lying about where she is, refuses to go to school and has been missing for the past four days at the time I spoke with her. At this, Mama Someu just broke down and began to sob—as the assumption is that the girl is off with a boyfriend, and in Likoni in such cases…it’s only a matter of time before she is pregnant. It was incredible to get to hear her story, as well as see Gabi in action. Later, Gabi took me home for dinner where she, Queen, Cynthia, Molly and I made dinner, and had the best time. Like I said—people here just take you in as their family. Afterwards, the girls Quawme, Gabi and I went out (thus the pictures on the ferry) and had a ball at a crazy African club—dancing the night away together. Gabi is coming to Nairobi with Quawme and Queen (who lives here!) tomorrow for the week and we’re going to go see a rugby game, some theatre, and just hang out! I can’t wait. I feel so at home here, and it’s great to be back in Nairobi, home with Mama Rose—who missed me a lot. And although I had such amazing experiences—the feeling was mutual.
Here are some pictures!I think now I've figured out how to rotate them---sorry about the others!
From top to bottom:
left: a mosque, one of the many in Mombase, right: me drinking the most AMAZING avocado juice--Gabi introduced me and I'm hooked!
next row left: me and Gabi, right: me, Gabi, Queen and Cynthia cooking dinner
next row: us on the ferry about to go out! left to right: molly, cynthia, queen, gabi and me.
last row: left to right--Queen, Gabi, Quawme, me and Cynthia.
Here are some pictures!I think now I've figured out how to rotate them---sorry about the others!
From top to bottom:
left: a mosque, one of the many in Mombase, right: me drinking the most AMAZING avocado juice--Gabi introduced me and I'm hooked!
next row left: me and Gabi, right: me, Gabi, Queen and Cynthia cooking dinner
next row: us on the ferry about to go out! left to right: molly, cynthia, queen, gabi and me.
last row: left to right--Queen, Gabi, Quawme, me and Cynthia.
More pictures from Bodo
Again, from top to bottom:
the village at night
the village
from left to right: my dad,my mom, me, fatuma mkubwa
left to right: mom, fatuma, me, my friend isha
the village
the village
me in my classroom!
me with a baby on my back
me with Alfani and his little brother
a crocodile i saw
a dance party to the drummers at mama pole's
the drummer boys
more party
me and subhiti
my grandmother
me with bakari, saidi and the rest of my entourage
the soccer game
the team picture after the game
my backyard
our courtyard
our house from the front
my mom and my dad
the village at night
the village
from left to right: my dad,my mom, me, fatuma mkubwa
left to right: mom, fatuma, me, my friend isha
the village
the village
me in my classroom!
me with a baby on my back
me with Alfani and his little brother
a crocodile i saw
a dance party to the drummers at mama pole's
the drummer boys
more party
me and subhiti
my grandmother
me with bakari, saidi and the rest of my entourage
the soccer game
the team picture after the game
my backyard
our courtyard
our house from the front
my mom and my dad
Pictures from Bodo
Okay all my apologies for the accidentally repeated picture as well as the sideways pictures--still figuring out how to work this---anyone know how to change that?
Well for now, take what you can get! From top down:
me
a bunch of kids
me
me with my mom (left) and Fatuma Mkubwa (right)
My favorite swimming spot
My mom with Elizabeth's baby in our kitchen
Me with my little friend Rahema
me in front of the train
Sean, Rose (a Swahili teacher) and me on the train
me
and me
a pet monkey
Well for now, take what you can get! From top down:
me
a bunch of kids
me
me with my mom (left) and Fatuma Mkubwa (right)
My favorite swimming spot
My mom with Elizabeth's baby in our kitchen
Me with my little friend Rahema
me in front of the train
Sean, Rose (a Swahili teacher) and me on the train
me
and me
a pet monkey
Life in Bodo Village
At long last I am back in Nairobi, back at a computer and full of stories (as well as covered in bug bites) after two of the most full weeks of my life. I have so much to
report, and will try to give you all a good picture.
To begin with, we left Nairobi and took a legit 17-hour train ride to Mombasa on one of those trains that was literally from the 1800’s. We ate breakfast and dinner in the dining car, and shared four person compartments complete with bunk beds (and straps so as not to fall off the top bunk!) I roomed with Samantha, Klarissa and Kyla—who is becoming a very dear friend. Our room became the unofficial meeting/party room (don’t ask me how.) After dinner there were about 15 students, 5 Swahili teachers (who were traveling with us) and Odoch crammed into this tiny room “dancing” to music and drinking “juice” (ala mango with some vodka.) It was a blast, but I have to say, 15 hours later I was ready to get off—although seeing the country side via a train that moved about 10 miles an hour was quite incredible.
After we arrived in Mombasa we went to the market (still in the same clothes, unshowered and dripping from the heat) to shop for gifts to bring our families in the village, as well as kangas and mumus—traditional clothing. We then took a 2-hour bus ride and an hour ferry ride to Bodo, which is in Kenya’s South Coast. After unloading the bus, which was greeting by what seemed like the entire village, Mary (our program coordinator/group mother) just called out our names, handed us two jugs of water, a mosquito net and two roles of toilet paper and sent us off with our family. My mother immediately grabbed my wrist, and about 10 children quickly clamored to carry my bags, and I was dragged (or guided) to our hut, while my mother spoke rapidly in Kiswahili. Upon arriving at our hut we put my stuff in a room, which I assumed was mine, and my mother once again grabbed my wrist and began to drag me around the hut, showing me the washroom, the toilet/hole, all the while speaking at light speed in Swahili. Unsure of anything that she wanted me to do, I alternated between responding with ndyo (yes) and asante (thank you) coupled with what I am sure was a blank stare. She then dragged me to a mat in the center of the courtyard, and indicated I should sit. The sun was fast setting, and as it is Ramadan and this was a very Muslim village I gathered that the family was preparing to break the fast. A man who I assumed was my father appeared, as well as my brothers Ramah and Isa, my aunt (at least that was what I was told, more on this later) Fatuma, my grandmother, my older brother Hassan and later his wife Elizabeth who, thank god, spoke perfect English! However, at this point, in my first night, no one spoke a word of English, and I sat there unsure of how to do anything—how to sit, talk, eat, wash…and these huge platters of food appeared—chapati, rice, beans with coconut, cassava and meat, one for the men and another for the women who were seated on separate mats, but no utensils. I looked around, unsure of how to begin, until I saw everyone dig in with their hands—so I took a deep breath and just copied them. I will say, eating rice and beans with my hands for the first time—I made a mess, although I was trying desperately to pretend that all this was perfectly normal. Now, well I much prefer to eat without utensils, they’re really unnecessary, and once you get the hang of it—using your hands is actually neater. But anyhow. That night I wanted to cry. Everything seemed so foreign, sitting in a grass hut, eating with my hands, with a very limited understanding of the language 8,000 miles away from home. This night it really hit me that I am in such an entirely different world, a world that is so difficult to understand unless you have lived inside of it. A world whose simplicity I gained unlimited appreciation for. After dinner, what seemed like half the village came over to greet me, and again, speak quickly in Swahili. After what seemed like forever of this, I was taken to my room, given a kanga, and I assumed, was supposed to go to bed. So I did. Exhausted, overwhelmed and wishing I could just ask someone how everything worked.
I woke up in the morning covered in bug bits, as my mosquito net was too small for my bed. Upon examining the bites, well some were quite strange, so I quickly got dressed in the kangas I’d brought with the intention of going to school to show Mary. I was about to walk out the door when my mom (who was already awake, I shared a room with her and with Fatuma) began speaking fervently in Swahili, and called Fatuma over who joined in—both making frantic hand gestures, to which I, once again, gave a blank stare and tried to say “I have to go to school.” To no avail. They took me back into my room. Removed the clothes I had donned, wrapped me in a kanga, and took me out to the washroom. I protested, saying I’d showered last night, but my aunt began to bathe me, dousing me in hot water. Afterwards, I was again lead back to my room, where they dressed me. A quick side note: during our stay in the village I invented a new verb: to mumu, or to be mumued. This means to be forced to wear/dressed in a mumu, a loose fitting, sometimes okay, but usually hot, long, and often horribly ugly dress (think bad 1980’s prom) with about 6 petticoats underneath, and a kanga around your head. After I was deemed “presentable” Fatuma brought in a loaf of white bread cut into little sandwiches covered in about an inch of butter. She indicated that I had to eat. By now I got the picture that unless I ate, I wasn’t leaving. So I ate one, motioned that I was full, and thought that would be that. Nope. They sat there and watched, protesting each time I said I was full, until I realized that unless I ate the whole loaf—I would sit there itching all morning. So I gulped, and chowed down, and then ran out the door, about to throw up. At school, I had 6 jiggers (little insects that go into your feet and lay eggs) removed, and found out that in addition to mosquito bites, I also had bed bugs. Let’s just say it was a rough start to life in the village.
Later that day, I met my sister Elizabeth (whom I love, by the way) and I went home to study during a break, during which, once again my mom and Fatuma began to rapidly talk in Swahili, only this time Elizabeth could translate. They wanted to know what was wrong with me, as I’m 21, unmarried and without children (Elizabeth is also 21, married and with a baby, and is pregnant again.) They wanted to know why I was in school instead of looking for a husband. I tried to explain that things work differently in America-but they were convinced I must have some hidden malady, or some undesirable quality. After arguing about this for a while, my mama took away my books, dressed me again, and sent me out visiting in order to socialize and thus find a husband. That day I had 6 proposals of marriage, and 3 matches arranged by my family. Ay. I went to talk to Mary—who tactfully visited my family, and by the time I got home from afternoon classes, things had calmed down at home.
Now all these foreign behaviors may seem off putting, but as I got to know my family, and the people in the village I saw that all of this was done with love, with the intention of making me happy. Bodo is an incredibly poor village, but each day my family would dress me in new clothes, give me the best food (even though they were fasting) and even gave me their bed to sleep on. My Mama Matime became a dear friend, we began to be able to communicate better—and starting joking about all the things I did wrong (I constantly made fun of mazungus) and she told Elizabeth to tell me that should I need anything, to just ask, and to have no fear, as she and my baba (father) would provide me with love and care. She taught me how to cook chapatti, how to weave a mat—and had such a contagious laugh and enjoyment for life. One night (a little later, when my Swahili was better) she and I sat up talking, laughing, and singing Swahili songs—and she made me promise to some day return to my African mother and family. And they really did become my family—my “aunt” Fatuma (really my father’s second wife) gave me my Bodo name, Fatuma Mdogo (which means small Fatuma), and would take me around. Ramah, my 18-year-old brother appointed himself my personal tour guide and introduced me to all his friends (who soon became part of my constant entourage). Within four days I couldn’t walk around the village without Saidi and Bakari, two brothers aged 13 and 14 who constantly professed their love and fought about who got to marry me (they were so funny), Subhiti and Ali (two great guys who helped with the program, more on them in a minute), my 10 year old best friend and mchumba (fiancée) as I joked named Alfani about 8 other village boys aged 5-11. Odoch would laugh each morning at my entourage, and I left leading with 12 proposals of marriage. What can I say…but on a serious note…I really loved the people. My dad was so nice, we joked all the time, and Elizabeth became such an amazing friend and confidante. I even taught my mom and Fatuma to swim—as they didn’t believe that women were physically capable of doing so, nor did they thing women were capable of playing soccer. It was such a cool moment when they came to see me play in our SIT/Wazungu vs. The Villagers game—they cheered like crazy. And yes. I played soccer. And I assisted in scoring a goal—but damn, they were really incredible.
Here is a typical day in my life in the village. I wake up in my hut around 5:30, go outside and do my business in my hole—a somewhat precarious situation. I’d then take a bucket shower, be mumued, eat breakfast which my mom made each day (often chapatti because I loved it) and walked about 2 minutes to school. Walking in the village is amazing. Everyone yells your name an greets you, and walking 10 feet can take about 10 minutes. As soon as I stepped out of my door my entourage swarmed me, and Alfani would carry my backpack to school. Upon arriving I would swiftly remove all my petticoats and store them for the day—and would put them back on before I went home. This became a running joke—especially with our Swahili teachers, but I’m sorry—a mumu is hot enough! We then had Swahili class from 7 am until 12 noon, and my classroom was on this porch, so we could watch the mothers carrying water on their heads and the children playing. After Swahili we were free and as the village was right on the Indian ocean I’d usually go swimming for about an hour before lunch, eat, read or study or just hang, maybe do yoga by the beach (if I was in the mood for an audience, as within 5 minutes half the village would be watching) and then I’d go home for afternoon visiting. We’d then go around to people’s houses and say hi, and they’d come to us. This is what I’m saying—the pace of life in the village is so slow that the emphasis is all on personal relationships. I felt like just part of a big extended family. We’d then break the fast together, and sit and talk as a family (which I was more able to do as the week went on). Afterwards, Ramah and I would go check out the activity in the street. Nights in the village were magical. There are a thousand kids running around, and everyone is just hanging out. At around 8:00 we’d all congregate around this one house (Mama Pole’s, the one house with electricity) where about 10 little boys between the ages of 6 and 12 would come with their home made drums and just rock out with Swahili songs. We would all dance, and soon the whole village would be on this one porch. Then a bunch of us would go inside, and have a Bob Marley dance party to an old music video. Still singing, “One Love, One Life,” all of us students, all our siblings and friends and about 100 kids would go down to the beach and go for a night swim.
I learned so much in these 12 days. About the meaning and importance of loving, kind, open personal relationships—Africans don’t have so many of the stiff formalities or steps that we Westerners often go through before becoming close to someone. They talk freely about their feelings, their problems…and act with a generosity that is really mind blowing. The simplicity of life actually allowed for such depth of experience—every moment is full, no matter if you are just cooking, sitting, talking, walking…you really savor each moment without rushing onto the next. I realized that we really don’t need so much of what we have, and maybe would be happier without all these things—perhaps we’d be more in touch with ourselves and with our communities. Living here made me want to live in a community like this. A place where people look out for one another, a sister is not just someone to whom you are related to by blood but also someone whom you love, elders give children their time and advice, without pressuring or imposing their own values. Individuality is appreciated and people are taken and loved for who they are—quirks and all. Children are not coddled, but given responsibility and freedom (they play by themselves all day, and often you see 3 year olds with their baby siblings on their backs in a kanga). Children are not treated as if they are fragile or breakable, but just allowed to live and let live. Goats, cows and chickens wander freely, until their owners go and find them. And everything is done in the spirit of giving. In the village—one family doesn’t enjoy their food if they know another has nothing—sharing and giving are the names of the game. When I left, my family gave me a hand woven rug, a dress (mumu), a handmade fan, and a kanga—I was so touched (and I gave them some things in return.) As we left, I cried, as I told my mom I didn’t want to leave her, hugged my dad, Fatuma Mkubwa (as she was called after they had named me) and promised to return someday. And I will—to my Bodo family—because that is what the village became.
report, and will try to give you all a good picture.
To begin with, we left Nairobi and took a legit 17-hour train ride to Mombasa on one of those trains that was literally from the 1800’s. We ate breakfast and dinner in the dining car, and shared four person compartments complete with bunk beds (and straps so as not to fall off the top bunk!) I roomed with Samantha, Klarissa and Kyla—who is becoming a very dear friend. Our room became the unofficial meeting/party room (don’t ask me how.) After dinner there were about 15 students, 5 Swahili teachers (who were traveling with us) and Odoch crammed into this tiny room “dancing” to music and drinking “juice” (ala mango with some vodka.) It was a blast, but I have to say, 15 hours later I was ready to get off—although seeing the country side via a train that moved about 10 miles an hour was quite incredible.
After we arrived in Mombasa we went to the market (still in the same clothes, unshowered and dripping from the heat) to shop for gifts to bring our families in the village, as well as kangas and mumus—traditional clothing. We then took a 2-hour bus ride and an hour ferry ride to Bodo, which is in Kenya’s South Coast. After unloading the bus, which was greeting by what seemed like the entire village, Mary (our program coordinator/group mother) just called out our names, handed us two jugs of water, a mosquito net and two roles of toilet paper and sent us off with our family. My mother immediately grabbed my wrist, and about 10 children quickly clamored to carry my bags, and I was dragged (or guided) to our hut, while my mother spoke rapidly in Kiswahili. Upon arriving at our hut we put my stuff in a room, which I assumed was mine, and my mother once again grabbed my wrist and began to drag me around the hut, showing me the washroom, the toilet/hole, all the while speaking at light speed in Swahili. Unsure of anything that she wanted me to do, I alternated between responding with ndyo (yes) and asante (thank you) coupled with what I am sure was a blank stare. She then dragged me to a mat in the center of the courtyard, and indicated I should sit. The sun was fast setting, and as it is Ramadan and this was a very Muslim village I gathered that the family was preparing to break the fast. A man who I assumed was my father appeared, as well as my brothers Ramah and Isa, my aunt (at least that was what I was told, more on this later) Fatuma, my grandmother, my older brother Hassan and later his wife Elizabeth who, thank god, spoke perfect English! However, at this point, in my first night, no one spoke a word of English, and I sat there unsure of how to do anything—how to sit, talk, eat, wash…and these huge platters of food appeared—chapati, rice, beans with coconut, cassava and meat, one for the men and another for the women who were seated on separate mats, but no utensils. I looked around, unsure of how to begin, until I saw everyone dig in with their hands—so I took a deep breath and just copied them. I will say, eating rice and beans with my hands for the first time—I made a mess, although I was trying desperately to pretend that all this was perfectly normal. Now, well I much prefer to eat without utensils, they’re really unnecessary, and once you get the hang of it—using your hands is actually neater. But anyhow. That night I wanted to cry. Everything seemed so foreign, sitting in a grass hut, eating with my hands, with a very limited understanding of the language 8,000 miles away from home. This night it really hit me that I am in such an entirely different world, a world that is so difficult to understand unless you have lived inside of it. A world whose simplicity I gained unlimited appreciation for. After dinner, what seemed like half the village came over to greet me, and again, speak quickly in Swahili. After what seemed like forever of this, I was taken to my room, given a kanga, and I assumed, was supposed to go to bed. So I did. Exhausted, overwhelmed and wishing I could just ask someone how everything worked.
I woke up in the morning covered in bug bits, as my mosquito net was too small for my bed. Upon examining the bites, well some were quite strange, so I quickly got dressed in the kangas I’d brought with the intention of going to school to show Mary. I was about to walk out the door when my mom (who was already awake, I shared a room with her and with Fatuma) began speaking fervently in Swahili, and called Fatuma over who joined in—both making frantic hand gestures, to which I, once again, gave a blank stare and tried to say “I have to go to school.” To no avail. They took me back into my room. Removed the clothes I had donned, wrapped me in a kanga, and took me out to the washroom. I protested, saying I’d showered last night, but my aunt began to bathe me, dousing me in hot water. Afterwards, I was again lead back to my room, where they dressed me. A quick side note: during our stay in the village I invented a new verb: to mumu, or to be mumued. This means to be forced to wear/dressed in a mumu, a loose fitting, sometimes okay, but usually hot, long, and often horribly ugly dress (think bad 1980’s prom) with about 6 petticoats underneath, and a kanga around your head. After I was deemed “presentable” Fatuma brought in a loaf of white bread cut into little sandwiches covered in about an inch of butter. She indicated that I had to eat. By now I got the picture that unless I ate, I wasn’t leaving. So I ate one, motioned that I was full, and thought that would be that. Nope. They sat there and watched, protesting each time I said I was full, until I realized that unless I ate the whole loaf—I would sit there itching all morning. So I gulped, and chowed down, and then ran out the door, about to throw up. At school, I had 6 jiggers (little insects that go into your feet and lay eggs) removed, and found out that in addition to mosquito bites, I also had bed bugs. Let’s just say it was a rough start to life in the village.
Later that day, I met my sister Elizabeth (whom I love, by the way) and I went home to study during a break, during which, once again my mom and Fatuma began to rapidly talk in Swahili, only this time Elizabeth could translate. They wanted to know what was wrong with me, as I’m 21, unmarried and without children (Elizabeth is also 21, married and with a baby, and is pregnant again.) They wanted to know why I was in school instead of looking for a husband. I tried to explain that things work differently in America-but they were convinced I must have some hidden malady, or some undesirable quality. After arguing about this for a while, my mama took away my books, dressed me again, and sent me out visiting in order to socialize and thus find a husband. That day I had 6 proposals of marriage, and 3 matches arranged by my family. Ay. I went to talk to Mary—who tactfully visited my family, and by the time I got home from afternoon classes, things had calmed down at home.
Now all these foreign behaviors may seem off putting, but as I got to know my family, and the people in the village I saw that all of this was done with love, with the intention of making me happy. Bodo is an incredibly poor village, but each day my family would dress me in new clothes, give me the best food (even though they were fasting) and even gave me their bed to sleep on. My Mama Matime became a dear friend, we began to be able to communicate better—and starting joking about all the things I did wrong (I constantly made fun of mazungus) and she told Elizabeth to tell me that should I need anything, to just ask, and to have no fear, as she and my baba (father) would provide me with love and care. She taught me how to cook chapatti, how to weave a mat—and had such a contagious laugh and enjoyment for life. One night (a little later, when my Swahili was better) she and I sat up talking, laughing, and singing Swahili songs—and she made me promise to some day return to my African mother and family. And they really did become my family—my “aunt” Fatuma (really my father’s second wife) gave me my Bodo name, Fatuma Mdogo (which means small Fatuma), and would take me around. Ramah, my 18-year-old brother appointed himself my personal tour guide and introduced me to all his friends (who soon became part of my constant entourage). Within four days I couldn’t walk around the village without Saidi and Bakari, two brothers aged 13 and 14 who constantly professed their love and fought about who got to marry me (they were so funny), Subhiti and Ali (two great guys who helped with the program, more on them in a minute), my 10 year old best friend and mchumba (fiancée) as I joked named Alfani about 8 other village boys aged 5-11. Odoch would laugh each morning at my entourage, and I left leading with 12 proposals of marriage. What can I say…but on a serious note…I really loved the people. My dad was so nice, we joked all the time, and Elizabeth became such an amazing friend and confidante. I even taught my mom and Fatuma to swim—as they didn’t believe that women were physically capable of doing so, nor did they thing women were capable of playing soccer. It was such a cool moment when they came to see me play in our SIT/Wazungu vs. The Villagers game—they cheered like crazy. And yes. I played soccer. And I assisted in scoring a goal—but damn, they were really incredible.
Here is a typical day in my life in the village. I wake up in my hut around 5:30, go outside and do my business in my hole—a somewhat precarious situation. I’d then take a bucket shower, be mumued, eat breakfast which my mom made each day (often chapatti because I loved it) and walked about 2 minutes to school. Walking in the village is amazing. Everyone yells your name an greets you, and walking 10 feet can take about 10 minutes. As soon as I stepped out of my door my entourage swarmed me, and Alfani would carry my backpack to school. Upon arriving I would swiftly remove all my petticoats and store them for the day—and would put them back on before I went home. This became a running joke—especially with our Swahili teachers, but I’m sorry—a mumu is hot enough! We then had Swahili class from 7 am until 12 noon, and my classroom was on this porch, so we could watch the mothers carrying water on their heads and the children playing. After Swahili we were free and as the village was right on the Indian ocean I’d usually go swimming for about an hour before lunch, eat, read or study or just hang, maybe do yoga by the beach (if I was in the mood for an audience, as within 5 minutes half the village would be watching) and then I’d go home for afternoon visiting. We’d then go around to people’s houses and say hi, and they’d come to us. This is what I’m saying—the pace of life in the village is so slow that the emphasis is all on personal relationships. I felt like just part of a big extended family. We’d then break the fast together, and sit and talk as a family (which I was more able to do as the week went on). Afterwards, Ramah and I would go check out the activity in the street. Nights in the village were magical. There are a thousand kids running around, and everyone is just hanging out. At around 8:00 we’d all congregate around this one house (Mama Pole’s, the one house with electricity) where about 10 little boys between the ages of 6 and 12 would come with their home made drums and just rock out with Swahili songs. We would all dance, and soon the whole village would be on this one porch. Then a bunch of us would go inside, and have a Bob Marley dance party to an old music video. Still singing, “One Love, One Life,” all of us students, all our siblings and friends and about 100 kids would go down to the beach and go for a night swim.
I learned so much in these 12 days. About the meaning and importance of loving, kind, open personal relationships—Africans don’t have so many of the stiff formalities or steps that we Westerners often go through before becoming close to someone. They talk freely about their feelings, their problems…and act with a generosity that is really mind blowing. The simplicity of life actually allowed for such depth of experience—every moment is full, no matter if you are just cooking, sitting, talking, walking…you really savor each moment without rushing onto the next. I realized that we really don’t need so much of what we have, and maybe would be happier without all these things—perhaps we’d be more in touch with ourselves and with our communities. Living here made me want to live in a community like this. A place where people look out for one another, a sister is not just someone to whom you are related to by blood but also someone whom you love, elders give children their time and advice, without pressuring or imposing their own values. Individuality is appreciated and people are taken and loved for who they are—quirks and all. Children are not coddled, but given responsibility and freedom (they play by themselves all day, and often you see 3 year olds with their baby siblings on their backs in a kanga). Children are not treated as if they are fragile or breakable, but just allowed to live and let live. Goats, cows and chickens wander freely, until their owners go and find them. And everything is done in the spirit of giving. In the village—one family doesn’t enjoy their food if they know another has nothing—sharing and giving are the names of the game. When I left, my family gave me a hand woven rug, a dress (mumu), a handmade fan, and a kanga—I was so touched (and I gave them some things in return.) As we left, I cried, as I told my mom I didn’t want to leave her, hugged my dad, Fatuma Mkubwa (as she was called after they had named me) and promised to return someday. And I will—to my Bodo family—because that is what the village became.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Kwaheri for now....
Hey all.
So we leave for Mombasa and Bodo today, so I will not be at a computer for a few weeks. I am feeling MUCH better, and Mama Rose took great care of me (of course.) Her sister actually flew in from London last night as there is a family wedding this weekend. She's so cute, she goes, "I don't want to let you go. I am going to call Mr. Odoch and say he can't just take my daughter back." The three of us joked all last night, as they hung out in my room so I could lay in bed about getting my hair braided in a Maasai village (the famous tribal people of Kenya with the bright colors, and the very tall warrior men.) Auntie goes, "we will tell all the eligible men to come line up, 7 ft. tall plus only." And Mama goes, "no, no, she already has a Maasai! He is HUGE, 6'5''! And handsome...so handsome!" So we laugh about Chris being very tall, and then about my kissing a giraffe, which leads Mama to call Chris a giraffe as she says I must have a thing for very tall species. She's right. This morning as I came down stairs she goes, "Oh if only the Maasai (her name for Chris) could see you now." So funny. I get more attention in that house than I've ever gotten in my life. Breakfast is laid out for me when I come downstairs--eggs, toast, porridge, chai, juice, fruit and sweet potatos. She makes me tea and snacks whenever she can get me to eat them, dinner is amazing, my laundry is done...and plus whenever I am home mama just wants to hang out with me. I love her so much. Her sister only has sons too---so she was having fun with a daughter. I have to say: I have a sweet deal---my brothers totally treat me like a princess too---Tom small is teaching me how to kickbox, and we three hang out a lot. Being the youngest and only girl---you get hooked up.
Then for Swahili Class today our teachers sent us out to the market with two things (which they told us in Swahili) that we had to find and buy, using only Swahili. Ay...So we went into the depths of Toy Market---trying to figure out what the hell these things were---and everyone would laugh as we asked which I could not figure out why--and they kept pointing us deeper into the market. let me just say I have never been muddier in my life, my feet, crocs and claves were seriously COVERED in mud up to my knees---that was a cultural adjustment moment to be sure, as I have NEVER liked getting dirty and especially abhore mud. ewww.. Well as we're walking on this wild goose chase, I slip and fall and eat it good, so now I am covered in mud, and everyone is laughing, including me--because if i don't I might cry. Turns out we had to buy what are called "soft stones," which are really stones that are eaten by pregnant women for their iron and calcium. Apparently they taste good: I took their word for it. We also had to buy Miraa, a plant that people eat that is basically a legal drug. I've heard it's a combo of caffine and some like hallucinations. Crazyness. I came back to school and dumped a bucket of water over my head, and then got out of my clothes and into a kanga. Quite and adventure. And another one is about to begin...a 10 hour train ride....
Wish me luck! Love to you all!
Jess
So we leave for Mombasa and Bodo today, so I will not be at a computer for a few weeks. I am feeling MUCH better, and Mama Rose took great care of me (of course.) Her sister actually flew in from London last night as there is a family wedding this weekend. She's so cute, she goes, "I don't want to let you go. I am going to call Mr. Odoch and say he can't just take my daughter back." The three of us joked all last night, as they hung out in my room so I could lay in bed about getting my hair braided in a Maasai village (the famous tribal people of Kenya with the bright colors, and the very tall warrior men.) Auntie goes, "we will tell all the eligible men to come line up, 7 ft. tall plus only." And Mama goes, "no, no, she already has a Maasai! He is HUGE, 6'5''! And handsome...so handsome!" So we laugh about Chris being very tall, and then about my kissing a giraffe, which leads Mama to call Chris a giraffe as she says I must have a thing for very tall species. She's right. This morning as I came down stairs she goes, "Oh if only the Maasai (her name for Chris) could see you now." So funny. I get more attention in that house than I've ever gotten in my life. Breakfast is laid out for me when I come downstairs--eggs, toast, porridge, chai, juice, fruit and sweet potatos. She makes me tea and snacks whenever she can get me to eat them, dinner is amazing, my laundry is done...and plus whenever I am home mama just wants to hang out with me. I love her so much. Her sister only has sons too---so she was having fun with a daughter. I have to say: I have a sweet deal---my brothers totally treat me like a princess too---Tom small is teaching me how to kickbox, and we three hang out a lot. Being the youngest and only girl---you get hooked up.
Then for Swahili Class today our teachers sent us out to the market with two things (which they told us in Swahili) that we had to find and buy, using only Swahili. Ay...So we went into the depths of Toy Market---trying to figure out what the hell these things were---and everyone would laugh as we asked which I could not figure out why--and they kept pointing us deeper into the market. let me just say I have never been muddier in my life, my feet, crocs and claves were seriously COVERED in mud up to my knees---that was a cultural adjustment moment to be sure, as I have NEVER liked getting dirty and especially abhore mud. ewww.. Well as we're walking on this wild goose chase, I slip and fall and eat it good, so now I am covered in mud, and everyone is laughing, including me--because if i don't I might cry. Turns out we had to buy what are called "soft stones," which are really stones that are eaten by pregnant women for their iron and calcium. Apparently they taste good: I took their word for it. We also had to buy Miraa, a plant that people eat that is basically a legal drug. I've heard it's a combo of caffine and some like hallucinations. Crazyness. I came back to school and dumped a bucket of water over my head, and then got out of my clothes and into a kanga. Quite and adventure. And another one is about to begin...a 10 hour train ride....
Wish me luck! Love to you all!
Jess
Thursday, September 13, 2007
In Recent News....
Just a few quick updates:
Last night the Kenyan Government issued an evacuation warning for Mombasa and Kenya's coast regarding an impending Tsunami of indeterminate magnitude. Fortunately it has not yet, and probably will not hit.
As such, we leave for the coast tomorrow. We will be in Mombasa for a day, and then go to Bodo, a 300 person RURAL, Islamic village on the coast itself. We will be there for 10 days without running water, electricity...etc. Should be an experience, as our hosts don't even really speak English, so here I will be using the Swahili I've learned and learning more!
I also got food poisioned and had to go to the doctor today (but here you don't go to a doctor's office, as they don't really exist, doctor's work at the hospital.) The program's doctor is very good (so breathe mom) and he did a blood test (with a needle I saw him open himself, again mom, breathe) and said I have definately food poison and maybe a parasitic infection. But he gave me some antibiotics and said I should be good in a day. Odoch took me and was so nice. And I just don't feel so well, but that is just part of life here---my body is realizing that this isn't America anymore...
So I will not have email after tomorrow for 10 days, but keep me posted!
xoxo
Last night the Kenyan Government issued an evacuation warning for Mombasa and Kenya's coast regarding an impending Tsunami of indeterminate magnitude. Fortunately it has not yet, and probably will not hit.
As such, we leave for the coast tomorrow. We will be in Mombasa for a day, and then go to Bodo, a 300 person RURAL, Islamic village on the coast itself. We will be there for 10 days without running water, electricity...etc. Should be an experience, as our hosts don't even really speak English, so here I will be using the Swahili I've learned and learning more!
I also got food poisioned and had to go to the doctor today (but here you don't go to a doctor's office, as they don't really exist, doctor's work at the hospital.) The program's doctor is very good (so breathe mom) and he did a blood test (with a needle I saw him open himself, again mom, breathe) and said I have definately food poison and maybe a parasitic infection. But he gave me some antibiotics and said I should be good in a day. Odoch took me and was so nice. And I just don't feel so well, but that is just part of life here---my body is realizing that this isn't America anymore...
So I will not have email after tomorrow for 10 days, but keep me posted!
xoxo
The Status of Women..from what I've seen
One of the most glaring differences I’ve encountered thus far is a decided distinction in the way Kenyan women are viewed and expected to behave. Kenya, and most of Africa, functions according to the structures of a patriarchal society, and even in the most modern, cosmopolitan cities (such as Nairobi) this structure is very much intact. The treatment of women has perhaps been one of the most difficult things to watch, and also to experience and so I’ve tried to understand and analyze both how the society is set up and why in order to reserve judgment and better understand what I both witness and undergo as just a major cultural difference.
Like many aspects of Kenyan society, gender roles relate back to tribal history and practices. In tribal societies, the main role of a woman is to bear children and take care of her husband. This expectation absolutely translates to modern Kenya. Unmarried women are viewed with suspicion and construed as “failures,” or “damaged goods,” even in the most progressive circles. A woman does not really have any social clout unless she has had children. And not just one, but many children (Kenyans have large families, having one child is virtually unheard of.) Furthermore, traditional courtship rituals are very much intact. In these relationships men are the pursuers, and women are the perused. It is never the reverse. Women must also play “hard to get.” In tribal cultures girls would tell a guy “no” although she meant “yes,” for quite a while, as it is not culturally acceptable to say “yes” right away. Male/female relationships here are rarely straightforward. Thus, to Kenyan men, “no” does not actually mean “no” as they are used to having to persist until a woman gives way. So in order to tell a man NO here—and get the message across that you mean it—you have to be very conscious of how you say it—no smiling, NO coy behavior, just a flat, cold “no I am not interested,” which you may have to repeat several times, until they give up. I realize that this refusal to take “no” as “no,” a touchy subject in America, is actually not due to lack of respect—necessarily. It really just is a cultural difference in the way that men and women are socialized.
Continually, space is clearly demarcated by gender. Men are almost never found in the kitchen. Even in modern house holds, the role of the man is to go to work, and the role of the woman is to oversee and take care of the home, the children and mostly her husband (and by take care of, I mean feed and um…pleasure.) Fathers are rarely home, and when they are, wives generally cater to their every need. Sometimes it’s like constantly living in Pleasantville—whenever you walk into a home the mother will INSIST that you eat something and have something to drink and you cannot tell an African mother no about food…Mama Rose insists that I gain at least 2 kilos before I leave, and if I leave anything on my plate I get a lecture about how I’m too thin. See what I mean? Food is their domain (and they do it well, I might add.) But when I told mama I don’t know how to cook she responded, “Ay! I will teach you! I must teach you; otherwise you will never be prepared for marriage.” So I hope my husband likes African food, because that is all I will know how to make (and cooking for himself, because Africa is not going to change me THAT much.) However in all matters, inside or outside the home, men have the final say. They also have control over all property, bank accounts, assets etc…pre-nuptial agreements don’t really exist here…because before marriage everything a woman has belongs to her father, and generally speaking women leave their father’s houses directly for their husbands…living by yourself as a young woman is not culturally acceptable, and living with a man to whom you’re not married…well that’s probably worse. (One note before I continue, many Kenyan women do have successful careers, but they ALSO look after their homes, and these assigned roles do still generally apply).
Bargaining for a wife is also quite interesting here—and still happens in traditional tribal cultures, especially in Swahili cultures (meaning people of the coast, a largely Islamic population.) When a young Swahili youth wants to take a wife, he asks the girls father, and she has virtually no say in the matter (as the role of a woman is to be obedient to both her father, and then to her husband.) Swahilis are famous for their profound (sorry couldn’t help the sarcasm) use of metaphor—so a young man won’t say “hey, I want to marry your daughter,” he will say, “I am looking to acquire a kitchen.” (Yes, that’s right, a kitchen.) If the father has more than one daughter he may even reply, “Which kitchen?”
Also, although I won’t go into this at any length here—FGM (female genital mutilation) still very much exists in Kenyan tribal cultures (certain tribes do, and others do not) however circumcision plays an important role in social position and status. I will write more about this when I know more sides of the story.
There are also two types of marriages in Kenya, and a law has recently been enacted which places women at a serious disadvantage. The first type is codified marriage—or ‘official’ marriage that takes place in a church etc. and is written down. This is actually a small percent of the marriages nation wide. The second type is customary marriages, which take place within tribal circles according to tribal customs. Unlike the US, one type of marriage is not more acceptable or even more ‘legal’ than the other, until recently. Parliament recently passed a law that states a man may marry a woman in a customary ceremony, have children with her, and then marry again within codified law (polygamy exists in Kenya) which annuls any obligation that the man has to the first wife/family (be it financial or otherwise.) This actually happens a lot. Men often take multiple wives, and many monogamous relationships are rife with infidelity—to which a wife is supposed to look the other way (and stir the stew!) But really—a wife can’t really condemn or control her husband’s behavior. (However of course there are marriages in Kenya to which none of this applies, I’m just saying that these are the expectations that permeate the culture.) But essentially, women do not have agency via independent access to land, money, or even legally guaranteed child support.
Right now there is a heated debate going on that deals with the relationship between a husband and a wife in Kenya (and thus addresses the relationship between man and woman). The issue of rape within marriage is just for the first time being talked about as something that can actually occur. However a debate has erupted as Kenyan men say that rape within marriage is not theoretically possible. Jamal, one of the academic directors best explained this attitude with a metaphor. In Kenyan culture whenever you enter a house, or go through a gate, or go into a room, an office—basically whenever you cross any threshold into a space that is not exclusively yours you MUST knock and say “hodi,” to which the person inside responds, “karibu.” Because men are the head of the household, fathers do not have to do this at the gate to their own home. Thus, about the issue of rape in marriage men say, “I don’t say hodi at the door of my house, why should I to my wife?” On this train…women cannot ask or demand that a man wear a condom, (so if you are married, and know/think that your husband is unfaithful, there is essentially nothing you can do.) Because of the very very poor sex education, many African men do not even know how to put a condom on. This is getting to be less true, and men are starting to take more precautions due to increased awareness of HIV/AIDS—but still—the onus is on the man.
However, women are revered here in a certain way that is difficult to communicate. The female body is a cultural symbol of health and beauty---and not the emaciated female form, but REAL bodies. Sure this means that men are perhaps more overt in their verbal advances on the street etc., but I think, although it is difficult for Westerners to understand (so mom do not send me another email after you read this about how you told me I’m going to get raped okay?) these sometimes “offensive come ons” are actually just a product of how the sexes are socialized, taught to interact and also a reflection of how the female body is in many ways for “observation” or the enjoyment of men in this society. So while men may holler at me etc. and while it gets under my skin I am beginning to realize that culturally this actually isn’t out of line—it’s just a means of pursuit. And in this culture the female body is in many ways an object—that is absolutely objectified, however also appreciated and even worshipped as the source of life etc. I don’t know if this all makes sense…
Being a white woman of course adds a different layer, as you stick out like a sore thumb. Men often propose to you on the street or in restaurants and clubs, but that again, is not an aggressive act, but a reaction to the fact that “muzungus” or white people, symbolize hope, wealth…a better life. So you just have to take these different modes of interaction for what they are.
Even Mama Rose, a fairly progressive woman was joking with me last night about how I am not at all shy. And she says, “I would like to see you with your boyfriend, I bet you are shyer then, I hope.” And my reaction was along the lines of….OF COURSE NOT. I don’t think that is a word he’d ever use to describe me (maybe the understatement of the year), or the way that our relationship functions—which I tried to explain, but the expectations of a relationship are just SO different here. I was also going to get my hair braided last night (so that I don’t have to wash it when we go to the rural village tomorrow!) And Mama said, “well have you asked your boyfriend permission? You should, it’s a big change!” And I was like, well, no. That would never occur to me…which I tried to say less bluntly, to which Mama just laughed (however in a loving way,) and goes, “ay! You’re a handful!”
It’s just that the expectations of a woman here seem to be in diametric opposition. Which I am trying to understand without judgment—as that is one of my goals for this experience. To see and become a part of a DRASTICALLY different world, but instead of deciding that one way to live is better than another, I just want to understand how these differences work, and how/why they exist.
Like many aspects of Kenyan society, gender roles relate back to tribal history and practices. In tribal societies, the main role of a woman is to bear children and take care of her husband. This expectation absolutely translates to modern Kenya. Unmarried women are viewed with suspicion and construed as “failures,” or “damaged goods,” even in the most progressive circles. A woman does not really have any social clout unless she has had children. And not just one, but many children (Kenyans have large families, having one child is virtually unheard of.) Furthermore, traditional courtship rituals are very much intact. In these relationships men are the pursuers, and women are the perused. It is never the reverse. Women must also play “hard to get.” In tribal cultures girls would tell a guy “no” although she meant “yes,” for quite a while, as it is not culturally acceptable to say “yes” right away. Male/female relationships here are rarely straightforward. Thus, to Kenyan men, “no” does not actually mean “no” as they are used to having to persist until a woman gives way. So in order to tell a man NO here—and get the message across that you mean it—you have to be very conscious of how you say it—no smiling, NO coy behavior, just a flat, cold “no I am not interested,” which you may have to repeat several times, until they give up. I realize that this refusal to take “no” as “no,” a touchy subject in America, is actually not due to lack of respect—necessarily. It really just is a cultural difference in the way that men and women are socialized.
Continually, space is clearly demarcated by gender. Men are almost never found in the kitchen. Even in modern house holds, the role of the man is to go to work, and the role of the woman is to oversee and take care of the home, the children and mostly her husband (and by take care of, I mean feed and um…pleasure.) Fathers are rarely home, and when they are, wives generally cater to their every need. Sometimes it’s like constantly living in Pleasantville—whenever you walk into a home the mother will INSIST that you eat something and have something to drink and you cannot tell an African mother no about food…Mama Rose insists that I gain at least 2 kilos before I leave, and if I leave anything on my plate I get a lecture about how I’m too thin. See what I mean? Food is their domain (and they do it well, I might add.) But when I told mama I don’t know how to cook she responded, “Ay! I will teach you! I must teach you; otherwise you will never be prepared for marriage.” So I hope my husband likes African food, because that is all I will know how to make (and cooking for himself, because Africa is not going to change me THAT much.) However in all matters, inside or outside the home, men have the final say. They also have control over all property, bank accounts, assets etc…pre-nuptial agreements don’t really exist here…because before marriage everything a woman has belongs to her father, and generally speaking women leave their father’s houses directly for their husbands…living by yourself as a young woman is not culturally acceptable, and living with a man to whom you’re not married…well that’s probably worse. (One note before I continue, many Kenyan women do have successful careers, but they ALSO look after their homes, and these assigned roles do still generally apply).
Bargaining for a wife is also quite interesting here—and still happens in traditional tribal cultures, especially in Swahili cultures (meaning people of the coast, a largely Islamic population.) When a young Swahili youth wants to take a wife, he asks the girls father, and she has virtually no say in the matter (as the role of a woman is to be obedient to both her father, and then to her husband.) Swahilis are famous for their profound (sorry couldn’t help the sarcasm) use of metaphor—so a young man won’t say “hey, I want to marry your daughter,” he will say, “I am looking to acquire a kitchen.” (Yes, that’s right, a kitchen.) If the father has more than one daughter he may even reply, “Which kitchen?”
Also, although I won’t go into this at any length here—FGM (female genital mutilation) still very much exists in Kenyan tribal cultures (certain tribes do, and others do not) however circumcision plays an important role in social position and status. I will write more about this when I know more sides of the story.
There are also two types of marriages in Kenya, and a law has recently been enacted which places women at a serious disadvantage. The first type is codified marriage—or ‘official’ marriage that takes place in a church etc. and is written down. This is actually a small percent of the marriages nation wide. The second type is customary marriages, which take place within tribal circles according to tribal customs. Unlike the US, one type of marriage is not more acceptable or even more ‘legal’ than the other, until recently. Parliament recently passed a law that states a man may marry a woman in a customary ceremony, have children with her, and then marry again within codified law (polygamy exists in Kenya) which annuls any obligation that the man has to the first wife/family (be it financial or otherwise.) This actually happens a lot. Men often take multiple wives, and many monogamous relationships are rife with infidelity—to which a wife is supposed to look the other way (and stir the stew!) But really—a wife can’t really condemn or control her husband’s behavior. (However of course there are marriages in Kenya to which none of this applies, I’m just saying that these are the expectations that permeate the culture.) But essentially, women do not have agency via independent access to land, money, or even legally guaranteed child support.
Right now there is a heated debate going on that deals with the relationship between a husband and a wife in Kenya (and thus addresses the relationship between man and woman). The issue of rape within marriage is just for the first time being talked about as something that can actually occur. However a debate has erupted as Kenyan men say that rape within marriage is not theoretically possible. Jamal, one of the academic directors best explained this attitude with a metaphor. In Kenyan culture whenever you enter a house, or go through a gate, or go into a room, an office—basically whenever you cross any threshold into a space that is not exclusively yours you MUST knock and say “hodi,” to which the person inside responds, “karibu.” Because men are the head of the household, fathers do not have to do this at the gate to their own home. Thus, about the issue of rape in marriage men say, “I don’t say hodi at the door of my house, why should I to my wife?” On this train…women cannot ask or demand that a man wear a condom, (so if you are married, and know/think that your husband is unfaithful, there is essentially nothing you can do.) Because of the very very poor sex education, many African men do not even know how to put a condom on. This is getting to be less true, and men are starting to take more precautions due to increased awareness of HIV/AIDS—but still—the onus is on the man.
However, women are revered here in a certain way that is difficult to communicate. The female body is a cultural symbol of health and beauty---and not the emaciated female form, but REAL bodies. Sure this means that men are perhaps more overt in their verbal advances on the street etc., but I think, although it is difficult for Westerners to understand (so mom do not send me another email after you read this about how you told me I’m going to get raped okay?) these sometimes “offensive come ons” are actually just a product of how the sexes are socialized, taught to interact and also a reflection of how the female body is in many ways for “observation” or the enjoyment of men in this society. So while men may holler at me etc. and while it gets under my skin I am beginning to realize that culturally this actually isn’t out of line—it’s just a means of pursuit. And in this culture the female body is in many ways an object—that is absolutely objectified, however also appreciated and even worshipped as the source of life etc. I don’t know if this all makes sense…
Being a white woman of course adds a different layer, as you stick out like a sore thumb. Men often propose to you on the street or in restaurants and clubs, but that again, is not an aggressive act, but a reaction to the fact that “muzungus” or white people, symbolize hope, wealth…a better life. So you just have to take these different modes of interaction for what they are.
Even Mama Rose, a fairly progressive woman was joking with me last night about how I am not at all shy. And she says, “I would like to see you with your boyfriend, I bet you are shyer then, I hope.” And my reaction was along the lines of….OF COURSE NOT. I don’t think that is a word he’d ever use to describe me (maybe the understatement of the year), or the way that our relationship functions—which I tried to explain, but the expectations of a relationship are just SO different here. I was also going to get my hair braided last night (so that I don’t have to wash it when we go to the rural village tomorrow!) And Mama said, “well have you asked your boyfriend permission? You should, it’s a big change!” And I was like, well, no. That would never occur to me…which I tried to say less bluntly, to which Mama just laughed (however in a loving way,) and goes, “ay! You’re a handful!”
It’s just that the expectations of a woman here seem to be in diametric opposition. Which I am trying to understand without judgment—as that is one of my goals for this experience. To see and become a part of a DRASTICALLY different world, but instead of deciding that one way to live is better than another, I just want to understand how these differences work, and how/why they exist.
Monday, September 10, 2007
The view from my window
Here is a view of Kibera (the slum) taken from my bedroom window--you can just see how this shanty town goes on forever. The level of poverty is really unbelievable. As I walked to school this morning, through Fort Jesus, which is part of the slum, it was just unreal.
Mama Rose and More...
So things are really amazing, god this time is going to go so so fast. I moved in with my homestay family! I have a mom named mama rose and two older brothers. Moving in with Mama Rose has really made this experience feel like it’s going to be a home, a routine, a real life changing living experience. I love her so much, I can’t even say. I have two older brothers who also live here, but they both work so are rarely home, but they seem sooo nice, we talked last night. They are both named Tom, and Big Tom is mama’s son, and Tom is her nephew. Big Tom is a graphic designer, and Tom is a trained chief. I told Mama and them the story about my convincing the Kenyans and the other kids to go out the other night, which they all thought was great, hysterical, and brave. The boys start laughing when I tell about one of the three guys who proposed to me, and then we were trying to figure out the name of the place I went, which I couldn’t remember. Then they said, “was it K1?” and I remembered that was it, and they laugh and Big Tom goes, “if any fellows ever try to take you to K street (a seedy area kind of nearish that club where people sometimes go after) you tell them that you have two older brothers who will kill them. No one touches my little sister.” I love it, I’m just part of the fam.
Mama Rose was so welcoming last night, and is an AMAZING cook. Today I went to their church, which is the Nairobi Pentecostal Church. Pentecostal religions revolve around transposesion—meaning catching the spirit, or even speaking in tongues, and there is a lot of singing and lively chiming in. Let me tell you, it was an interesting experience---and the singing is actually really cool—kind of like a Baptist church but bigger, loud music, dancing people, and then all of the music has a kind of African beat, and the lyrics are first sung in English and then in Swahili. I was actually amazed by how political even church is here—a lot of the prayers revolved around pleas for peace and tribal reconciliation in this time of election, economic stability, etc. The sermon however was especially amazing. It was all about de-stigmatizing HIV/Aids, and began with a group of kids doing a funny skit in Swahili, so I only caught the basics, but it was all about not discriminating against people who have the virus. Then this unbelievably articulate man talked about relinquishing both social and self stigma, and the hush hush nature surrounding HIV in order to “love our neighbors as ourselves…” okay so I thought the Christian doctrine of his speech was of course, crap, but the message was really powerful, and I sat there thinking, okay---this is a positive use of religion to have a practical impact on people’s lives. He began his speech by making everyone get out a piece of paper and write down their honest, first response to a total stranger telling you that they are HIV positive. Then you had to write down your honest reaction to your significant other saying that. Then you had to pretend you had been diagnosed, and write down how you’d like others to respond. I think this effectively served to show that we, as humans, treat/respond to others differently than we might respond to ourselves—the point I think that the man was trying to make. He also talked a lot about accepting people for who they are—and not trying to change them, and said that often Christians say that they want to reach out to others, but when someone who is different, or who doesn’t believe, or who lives a different lifestyle is around—they alienate them. He talked a lot about just loving people for who they are—different or not, healthy or well. Anyhow, it was incredibly interesting, and in parts quite moving. The service itself was also fascinating—a woman near me fell down possessed by the spirit and began talking in tongues. We actually read a lot about transposession in from ritual to theatre---so it’s pretty incredible to see it actually happen. All I can say is I am sure as hell seeing a whole different world and way of living.
Okay, so mama rose. God I love her---I feel soo close to her already, she is going to be both an incredible mother and friend. I was nervous that I would have to be super proper around her—but that is not the case. I can just so be myself, and I feel such a bond with her. My friend Julia, one of the kids I really like is having a hard time at her homestay because her mother went up country (to the coast) for a funeral, and no one is paying any attention to her, and she has to share a room with 3 other girls. Well when she asked her family if she could go to church with them they asked if she was saved, and she said no, so they said no and left her. So I told mama and she was so shocked and upset that she insisted that we bring Julia to church and then home with us so that she would feel supported, and then when she had choir practice she sent the both of us home for lunch…she is also really good friends with the homestay coordinator, a nice guy names Sam who is obsessed with Barak Obama and lives near his anscestral village (near Kisumu) so he is going to take us there for a night to meet Barak Obama’s grandmother! Anyhow, mama called Sam to say that Julia is struggling, and could he please check in on her and her family—amazing right? She is just so loving, kind and FUN. We live right on the border of Kibera, next to this incredible, endless market that is the start of Kibera called Toy Market. This is where all the cute secondhand clothes (from America) are sold super cheap. I told mama that I needed to get a sweater because it is much colder here than I prepared for and a pair of jeans, because you wear them all the time. So she said she’d take me to market. I don’t even know how to describe Toy, basically it’s a million little shanty stalls, all covered because they are so close together, with tiny little walk ways in between—but it’s a maze that is essentially endless. So we go to this store, and she picks out like 5 pairs of jeans, 10 shirts, and 5 sweaters for me to try on. And by try on, I mean you go into this little “dressing room” that’s about 1 ft. by 1 ft. covered in burlap sacks and with a tiny curtain. So we play dress up for like an hour, we’re having SO much fun. She tells me she’s always wanted a daughter to do things like this with. She has the best laugh and when I come out in the jeans she goes, “oh my god you are so tiny, I did not realize how tiny you are, you will have to eat more! You need to gain 16 lbs!” Kenyans like their women with some meat… when I come out in a top she likes she says, “oh you look just like a little doll.” So we pick out what we like—I find these amazing jeans, this awesome jacket and like 5 adorable shirts. She bargains with the boss man (a Kenyan tradition, no matter what, no matter where, you NEVER accept a first offer or the written price---bargaining is a cultural necessity.) We get what we want, and then it begins to pour—so we walk back through the maze—and on the way laugh as we try to pick out the funniest, ugliest outfits imaginable, and joke that mama should go try them on. So we get a little lost---because it really is this indescribable maze of little make-shift constructed shops, and we laugh about the adventure we are having, what mama calls, “our adventure par excellance!” We come home, soaked, and change and mama makes chai—the Kenyan drink which is AMAZING—milk, ginger, tea leaves, water and sugar. Then we sit and talk for two hours. She tells me all about her husband who died in 1992 of HIV, and who was unfaithful etc. And how she and her youngest son miraculously escaped infection, which is why she became a Christian—because she thinks that god performed that miracle. Regardless, it’s a miracle. We talked about how hard it was to see her husband go out, get drunk and not be able to say anything because in Kenya wives really have no power over their husbands. We talked about raising her 3 sons, and their relationship. It’s so crazy because even though she is in Kenya—a society that does not at all practice the kind of parenting you guys did in terms of freedom, she is so similar. She told her boys that she didn’t care if they wanted to go out etc., as long as they honestly communicated where they were, who they were with, and what they were doing. We talked about how you guys did much the same thing. We talked about everything, god I just love her---I can seriously talk to her about anything—it’s unlike anything I ever imagined. She is SO smart, and perceptive, and a good listener. That is the thing about Africans (well she’s unique) but still, they REALLY listen, they really care. Stopping and talking to someone on the street who they know is more important than being anywhere on time—so everything always starts late. Really finishing a conversation is more important than going somewhere—doing something. Life here is not all about the future—about doing things in order to prepare for the future, it is much much more about just being in the present. But having mama as a support system—someone with whom I can honestly talk about struggles with, ask about cultural differences or things I don’t understand—and the fact that I have a place that feels like a real home makes everything feel so much more comfortable—more settled. God, I love this place. You guys have to come here. I can’t even tell you how amazing Kenya is, and the people in it. I also am sooo glad that I decided to study abroad. Living in another DRASTICALLY different culture—as really America and Africa are like polar opposites with really NO shared cultural norms, learning another language (really as a means of getting deeper into that culture), being in a world where everything is different and learning how to both live with and thrive in that is such a valuable experience.
I also LOVE the teachers. They are amazing. Odoch and Jamal the academic directors are the best. The Swahili teachers are sooo good---and only 5 students to a class and the other lecturers are amazing. The kids are also very nice, fun and interesting.
I just now had dinner with mama and the Toms—we watched al jezeera (which is one of the most prevalent news channels here.) It was so interesting to actually see it…and I can tell you that the American press grossly distorts their programming. It was one of the smartest, most balanced news channels I’ve seen---very diverse opinions, interesting, honest experts and actually not biased or terrorist propaganda. In fact---it is MUCH closer to the truth than say, CNN or other American news channels. It’s so amazing how America distorts everything to fit into the message that those in power want to send.
I am about to go to sleep---I’m so tired!
I’m sure that there is much more to write…but that will follow soon.
As we say here, lala salama (sleep peacefully).
I miss you all--give me the scoop!
Mama Rose was so welcoming last night, and is an AMAZING cook. Today I went to their church, which is the Nairobi Pentecostal Church. Pentecostal religions revolve around transposesion—meaning catching the spirit, or even speaking in tongues, and there is a lot of singing and lively chiming in. Let me tell you, it was an interesting experience---and the singing is actually really cool—kind of like a Baptist church but bigger, loud music, dancing people, and then all of the music has a kind of African beat, and the lyrics are first sung in English and then in Swahili. I was actually amazed by how political even church is here—a lot of the prayers revolved around pleas for peace and tribal reconciliation in this time of election, economic stability, etc. The sermon however was especially amazing. It was all about de-stigmatizing HIV/Aids, and began with a group of kids doing a funny skit in Swahili, so I only caught the basics, but it was all about not discriminating against people who have the virus. Then this unbelievably articulate man talked about relinquishing both social and self stigma, and the hush hush nature surrounding HIV in order to “love our neighbors as ourselves…” okay so I thought the Christian doctrine of his speech was of course, crap, but the message was really powerful, and I sat there thinking, okay---this is a positive use of religion to have a practical impact on people’s lives. He began his speech by making everyone get out a piece of paper and write down their honest, first response to a total stranger telling you that they are HIV positive. Then you had to write down your honest reaction to your significant other saying that. Then you had to pretend you had been diagnosed, and write down how you’d like others to respond. I think this effectively served to show that we, as humans, treat/respond to others differently than we might respond to ourselves—the point I think that the man was trying to make. He also talked a lot about accepting people for who they are—and not trying to change them, and said that often Christians say that they want to reach out to others, but when someone who is different, or who doesn’t believe, or who lives a different lifestyle is around—they alienate them. He talked a lot about just loving people for who they are—different or not, healthy or well. Anyhow, it was incredibly interesting, and in parts quite moving. The service itself was also fascinating—a woman near me fell down possessed by the spirit and began talking in tongues. We actually read a lot about transposession in from ritual to theatre---so it’s pretty incredible to see it actually happen. All I can say is I am sure as hell seeing a whole different world and way of living.
Okay, so mama rose. God I love her---I feel soo close to her already, she is going to be both an incredible mother and friend. I was nervous that I would have to be super proper around her—but that is not the case. I can just so be myself, and I feel such a bond with her. My friend Julia, one of the kids I really like is having a hard time at her homestay because her mother went up country (to the coast) for a funeral, and no one is paying any attention to her, and she has to share a room with 3 other girls. Well when she asked her family if she could go to church with them they asked if she was saved, and she said no, so they said no and left her. So I told mama and she was so shocked and upset that she insisted that we bring Julia to church and then home with us so that she would feel supported, and then when she had choir practice she sent the both of us home for lunch…she is also really good friends with the homestay coordinator, a nice guy names Sam who is obsessed with Barak Obama and lives near his anscestral village (near Kisumu) so he is going to take us there for a night to meet Barak Obama’s grandmother! Anyhow, mama called Sam to say that Julia is struggling, and could he please check in on her and her family—amazing right? She is just so loving, kind and FUN. We live right on the border of Kibera, next to this incredible, endless market that is the start of Kibera called Toy Market. This is where all the cute secondhand clothes (from America) are sold super cheap. I told mama that I needed to get a sweater because it is much colder here than I prepared for and a pair of jeans, because you wear them all the time. So she said she’d take me to market. I don’t even know how to describe Toy, basically it’s a million little shanty stalls, all covered because they are so close together, with tiny little walk ways in between—but it’s a maze that is essentially endless. So we go to this store, and she picks out like 5 pairs of jeans, 10 shirts, and 5 sweaters for me to try on. And by try on, I mean you go into this little “dressing room” that’s about 1 ft. by 1 ft. covered in burlap sacks and with a tiny curtain. So we play dress up for like an hour, we’re having SO much fun. She tells me she’s always wanted a daughter to do things like this with. She has the best laugh and when I come out in the jeans she goes, “oh my god you are so tiny, I did not realize how tiny you are, you will have to eat more! You need to gain 16 lbs!” Kenyans like their women with some meat… when I come out in a top she likes she says, “oh you look just like a little doll.” So we pick out what we like—I find these amazing jeans, this awesome jacket and like 5 adorable shirts. She bargains with the boss man (a Kenyan tradition, no matter what, no matter where, you NEVER accept a first offer or the written price---bargaining is a cultural necessity.) We get what we want, and then it begins to pour—so we walk back through the maze—and on the way laugh as we try to pick out the funniest, ugliest outfits imaginable, and joke that mama should go try them on. So we get a little lost---because it really is this indescribable maze of little make-shift constructed shops, and we laugh about the adventure we are having, what mama calls, “our adventure par excellance!” We come home, soaked, and change and mama makes chai—the Kenyan drink which is AMAZING—milk, ginger, tea leaves, water and sugar. Then we sit and talk for two hours. She tells me all about her husband who died in 1992 of HIV, and who was unfaithful etc. And how she and her youngest son miraculously escaped infection, which is why she became a Christian—because she thinks that god performed that miracle. Regardless, it’s a miracle. We talked about how hard it was to see her husband go out, get drunk and not be able to say anything because in Kenya wives really have no power over their husbands. We talked about raising her 3 sons, and their relationship. It’s so crazy because even though she is in Kenya—a society that does not at all practice the kind of parenting you guys did in terms of freedom, she is so similar. She told her boys that she didn’t care if they wanted to go out etc., as long as they honestly communicated where they were, who they were with, and what they were doing. We talked about how you guys did much the same thing. We talked about everything, god I just love her---I can seriously talk to her about anything—it’s unlike anything I ever imagined. She is SO smart, and perceptive, and a good listener. That is the thing about Africans (well she’s unique) but still, they REALLY listen, they really care. Stopping and talking to someone on the street who they know is more important than being anywhere on time—so everything always starts late. Really finishing a conversation is more important than going somewhere—doing something. Life here is not all about the future—about doing things in order to prepare for the future, it is much much more about just being in the present. But having mama as a support system—someone with whom I can honestly talk about struggles with, ask about cultural differences or things I don’t understand—and the fact that I have a place that feels like a real home makes everything feel so much more comfortable—more settled. God, I love this place. You guys have to come here. I can’t even tell you how amazing Kenya is, and the people in it. I also am sooo glad that I decided to study abroad. Living in another DRASTICALLY different culture—as really America and Africa are like polar opposites with really NO shared cultural norms, learning another language (really as a means of getting deeper into that culture), being in a world where everything is different and learning how to both live with and thrive in that is such a valuable experience.
I also LOVE the teachers. They are amazing. Odoch and Jamal the academic directors are the best. The Swahili teachers are sooo good---and only 5 students to a class and the other lecturers are amazing. The kids are also very nice, fun and interesting.
I just now had dinner with mama and the Toms—we watched al jezeera (which is one of the most prevalent news channels here.) It was so interesting to actually see it…and I can tell you that the American press grossly distorts their programming. It was one of the smartest, most balanced news channels I’ve seen---very diverse opinions, interesting, honest experts and actually not biased or terrorist propaganda. In fact---it is MUCH closer to the truth than say, CNN or other American news channels. It’s so amazing how America distorts everything to fit into the message that those in power want to send.
I am about to go to sleep---I’m so tired!
I’m sure that there is much more to write…but that will follow soon.
As we say here, lala salama (sleep peacefully).
I miss you all--give me the scoop!
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Ninapenda Kenya! (I love Kenya)
Hey all,
just a quick note to say that things are great! I am about to move in with my homestay family, so more updates soon.
Last night I convinced Gordon the cook at the guest house we stayed at and Joseph the cab driver to take us out to a Kenyan club, and got 6 other kids to go. It was the best. I got proposed to about 3 times, the music was slamming, and a liter of beer costs $2.50. All in all, it was a great time.
Hope all is well and would love to hear!
just a quick note to say that things are great! I am about to move in with my homestay family, so more updates soon.
Last night I convinced Gordon the cook at the guest house we stayed at and Joseph the cab driver to take us out to a Kenyan club, and got 6 other kids to go. It was the best. I got proposed to about 3 times, the music was slamming, and a liter of beer costs $2.50. All in all, it was a great time.
Hope all is well and would love to hear!
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