It is said that Kenya is the Cradle of Humanity...the precise location of mankind's evolution. That is why it's supposedly so hard to leave this place, because once you arrive, you feel like you've come home. Africa, the Motherland. I don't find this hard to believe following my weekend trip to the Maasailand. The Maasai are a nomadic tribe, and can still be seen wearing traditional kangas(cloth wrapped around their bodies)and ornate beaded jewelry. Their ears are stretched out six inches due to heavy rings in each, and their eyes have a light ring of hazy blue surrounding the outer circles of brown. Their faces tell a story amidst the lines and creases, and you could stare mesmerized all day to reinvent an entire life. The men are tall and boney, herding their cattle along the side of the road with walking sticks. It's as if you are walking into the past as you enter into these villages, a live portrait belonging in a museum.
I rode 20 kilometres on the back of a motorbike past the Ngong Hills into Olashibor, where I had to venture off the road and into the bush in order to see any homes at all. It's an incredibly religious experience, I've never felt so high, and I tried to imagine how I would ever even begin to describe it. Something about the Acacia trees amidst a huge open sky, set off my tin houses with wooden gate doors...I felt my place in the world. No running water or electricity. Outhouses and dirt paths that seemingly lead into another time and place if followed for long enough.
At the age of 14, the Maasai boys become men. They are circumcised, and sent off "into the bush" with a group for an extended period of time. They practice hunting and weaponry skills, and are allowed to eat only what they kill. They are not to have contact with the women, or ask for help, and the final test to become a true Maasai Warrior is to kill a lion. A group of five Maasai hunt and encircle the lion. The lion will choose one to pounce, and one of the boys is required to grab and hold the tail while the others kill it. Sometimes they all come out alive, sometimes they don't.
In other news, I started wearing Mama's skirts. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but last week my Principal told me I looked very "motherly." Also, I've begun to think the dresses in the side shops don't look so bad anymore. One's idea of luxury changes a bit as time passes in this country.
March 20, 2009
March 11, 2009
Hello world, are you there? It's me, Africa.
"We have a Kikuyu saying," Mama quietly whispers with a smile, "The mother of the beautiful sometimes does not hear, and sometimes does not see." She coyly responds in this fashion after my roommate and I inquire whether or not she's seen the two bottles of wine we stashed in the kitchen.
Yesterday I watched traditional Kikuyu dancers in their village. The irony of the situation was that it was in an artificial village created for tourists, safely behind the gates of a British-owned resort costing upwards of $400 per night. They were dancing as if they'd rather be anywhere else in the world besides in front of white people in the blazing sun. As I looked to my left and noticed the Japanese, American, and Irish tourists, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell I was doing there. I had to sit down.
Culture. Whether simulated or not, it's real. "Halo Jennieee, DON'T COME TO TOWN, it is NOT SAFE!" I hear Mama's tense voice on the other end of the line as I am walking through the absolute center of town. Perfect. Munkiki. Munkiki is an underground religious cult known for using violence against all Kenyans alike, most recently wreaking havoc to control the transportation system(i.e. Matatus) throughout central Kenya for income. It is advised not to say the name out loud, for one can never spot a member, and they can be extremely dangerous. Men and women alike, once you're a part of this group, much like a gang you can never deactivate. Mysterious as this all seems, last Thursday was a different story. As my roommate and I made our way to checkout at the supermarket, the doors suddenly and rapidly locked shut. The longer we live here, the less affect something like this tends to have on us. "For god's sake," she quips. "I can't be bothered," I chime in, as we roll our eyes and try to make our way out the door. We must have looked like such ignorant Westerners, with over-sized sunglasses and high-pitched voices annoyed at what had happened. Slowly we felt the tension in the air, and the expectant, alert looks upon everyone's faces. We realized the door to every other shop and business had also been shut, and at about that time we started walking a little quicker. That's when the phone call came from Mama. Turns out the demonstration did not last longer than that day, but not without the burning of a matatu, and stones being thrown in the middle of town shortly after we left.
I laugh when I think of the noticeable differences upon my immediate arrival. Dangerous alleys. The never-ending line of ants near the sink, and the power-outages that occur every afternoon. The boiling of water in an old handle-less pot on the gas stove to take tea, then letting it cool to save for drinking water. Washing my dishes with bar soap and a bacteria-infested sponge that hasn't been switched out in over two months. The trenches I skip over as i walk from class to class. The downpours of rain that last for only 20 minutes but arrive daily, without fail. The boulders I trip over as I make my way to my gate, which I padlock on my way in and out each day. Sleeping beneath the Milky Way and watching Mt. Kenya stare at me through my window. It all seems so normal to me now, so real, so much of life all packed into a simple Kenyan routine.
And then, all of a sudden, the mysterious romance of it all is lost as I hear Mama from the other room in one of her various rants, "All I'm looking for in life is a rich American...from California."
Yesterday I watched traditional Kikuyu dancers in their village. The irony of the situation was that it was in an artificial village created for tourists, safely behind the gates of a British-owned resort costing upwards of $400 per night. They were dancing as if they'd rather be anywhere else in the world besides in front of white people in the blazing sun. As I looked to my left and noticed the Japanese, American, and Irish tourists, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell I was doing there. I had to sit down.
Culture. Whether simulated or not, it's real. "Halo Jennieee, DON'T COME TO TOWN, it is NOT SAFE!" I hear Mama's tense voice on the other end of the line as I am walking through the absolute center of town. Perfect. Munkiki. Munkiki is an underground religious cult known for using violence against all Kenyans alike, most recently wreaking havoc to control the transportation system(i.e. Matatus) throughout central Kenya for income. It is advised not to say the name out loud, for one can never spot a member, and they can be extremely dangerous. Men and women alike, once you're a part of this group, much like a gang you can never deactivate. Mysterious as this all seems, last Thursday was a different story. As my roommate and I made our way to checkout at the supermarket, the doors suddenly and rapidly locked shut. The longer we live here, the less affect something like this tends to have on us. "For god's sake," she quips. "I can't be bothered," I chime in, as we roll our eyes and try to make our way out the door. We must have looked like such ignorant Westerners, with over-sized sunglasses and high-pitched voices annoyed at what had happened. Slowly we felt the tension in the air, and the expectant, alert looks upon everyone's faces. We realized the door to every other shop and business had also been shut, and at about that time we started walking a little quicker. That's when the phone call came from Mama. Turns out the demonstration did not last longer than that day, but not without the burning of a matatu, and stones being thrown in the middle of town shortly after we left.
I laugh when I think of the noticeable differences upon my immediate arrival. Dangerous alleys. The never-ending line of ants near the sink, and the power-outages that occur every afternoon. The boiling of water in an old handle-less pot on the gas stove to take tea, then letting it cool to save for drinking water. Washing my dishes with bar soap and a bacteria-infested sponge that hasn't been switched out in over two months. The trenches I skip over as i walk from class to class. The downpours of rain that last for only 20 minutes but arrive daily, without fail. The boulders I trip over as I make my way to my gate, which I padlock on my way in and out each day. Sleeping beneath the Milky Way and watching Mt. Kenya stare at me through my window. It all seems so normal to me now, so real, so much of life all packed into a simple Kenyan routine.
And then, all of a sudden, the mysterious romance of it all is lost as I hear Mama from the other room in one of her various rants, "All I'm looking for in life is a rich American...from California."
March 4, 2009
"Teacher, do you know Chuck Norris?"
I have the most amazing children in my 7th grade Science class. I've never even enjoyed that subject, until now. They are like sponges, relentlessly asking me to teach them Spanish during their prep period. Every day I am bombarded with new inquisitions that range from, "Teacher, is it true Oprah Winfrey is the richest woman in the world?" to "Teacher, how do you feel being ruled by the black man?" I've been caught off guard by questions like, "Teacher, why do Americans shake their head when they talk?" and "Teacher, what is the drug they use to kill rats?"
Teaching is the hardest job I've ever had. It never ends, and when I'm not preparing lesson plans for Math, Science or English, I'm thinking about how I can make the classes more interesting or come up with more creative examples to explain a concept. I actually fabricated an entire story today about a drug addict "best friend" of mine in New York that died from an overdose, in order to talk about drugs in Science. I think I even shed a few tears.
It is in the tiresome walks home through late afternoon that I really have time to think about what I'm doing here. Accompanied by hens, goats, and occasional donkeys, I pass by mothers with babies wrapped to their backs, and cows with ropes securing them to the ground. It is in these moments I can feel the raw authenticity that is life. I've never noticed the color of my skin more than now, nor wished so badly that I could be unnoticeable, and it's sobering to experience this existence. But sometimes during these long walks, if I divert my gaze from the color of my body, for a short moment I can look around and become everyone I see.
As each day passes I feel increasingly more comfortable, and the town more like home. Africa hits you hard, and you never know when it will happen, but in a way you're never the same. It's difficult to imagine not seeing these people again once I leave, and it makes the goodbyes I've said in past years a little less serious. I'm apprehending what a small world we live in, and that we all come to this place for different reasons, but we leave with an understanding that can never be explained, just known. I realize it is in the loneliness that I find my greatest comfort, and that the growth generates not from all the ways in which I know I'm changing, but from all the ways I don't.
"Teacher, do you know Donald Trump? Teacher, why is your skin so sensitive? Teacher, do you have friends that are black? Teacher, why do people live longer in America? Teacher, does Arnold Schwarzenegger use steroids? Teacher, please don't go. Teacher...teacher...."
Teaching is the hardest job I've ever had. It never ends, and when I'm not preparing lesson plans for Math, Science or English, I'm thinking about how I can make the classes more interesting or come up with more creative examples to explain a concept. I actually fabricated an entire story today about a drug addict "best friend" of mine in New York that died from an overdose, in order to talk about drugs in Science. I think I even shed a few tears.
It is in the tiresome walks home through late afternoon that I really have time to think about what I'm doing here. Accompanied by hens, goats, and occasional donkeys, I pass by mothers with babies wrapped to their backs, and cows with ropes securing them to the ground. It is in these moments I can feel the raw authenticity that is life. I've never noticed the color of my skin more than now, nor wished so badly that I could be unnoticeable, and it's sobering to experience this existence. But sometimes during these long walks, if I divert my gaze from the color of my body, for a short moment I can look around and become everyone I see.
As each day passes I feel increasingly more comfortable, and the town more like home. Africa hits you hard, and you never know when it will happen, but in a way you're never the same. It's difficult to imagine not seeing these people again once I leave, and it makes the goodbyes I've said in past years a little less serious. I'm apprehending what a small world we live in, and that we all come to this place for different reasons, but we leave with an understanding that can never be explained, just known. I realize it is in the loneliness that I find my greatest comfort, and that the growth generates not from all the ways in which I know I'm changing, but from all the ways I don't.
"Teacher, do you know Donald Trump? Teacher, why is your skin so sensitive? Teacher, do you have friends that are black? Teacher, why do people live longer in America? Teacher, does Arnold Schwarzenegger use steroids? Teacher, please don't go. Teacher...teacher...."
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