Obama Orange

As I'm passing the kiosk near my gate, there, staring back at me, is Obama's face...on a gum wrapper. Yes, it's Obama Orange gum, something tells me George W. wasn't as popular.

R.I.P. MJ...

It's 3am and I'm already four hours into my slumber when Neema storms in through the door of our room. She immediately throws on the lights, but before I have time to become annoyed she declares, "JEN...you're never going to believe this. Michael Jackson is DEAD!" As we sit there in silence and pay tribute to the King of Pop, the only thing that really comes to mind is rest in peace MJ, maybe now you've finally found it.

Bus Stop Survival

So I’m at the bus stop. I’m finishing up one of those nice little Sundays...the completely unaccomplished kind, where all my efforts were deemed shamelessly fruitless. I walked for about 20 kilometers, not on purpose, stores were closed down, my art exhibit had moved three hours north, totally worthless intentions. Then, all of a sudden I find myself being paid for in the matatu by Prime Minister Raila Odinga’s (alleged) first cousin...big mistake. It went a little something like this:

MATATU MAN: My cousin lives in the States

This is the most common pick-up line since I’ve been here. Cousins, siblings, children [insert any relative] living in the States…and therefore they are just like you.

ME: Cool.
MATATU MAN: You know, all we have to do to make another Obama is have a Kenyan father (points to himself) and an American mother(points to me). Let’s go out next week!
ME: Um, my husband is meeting me here in five minutes.
MATATU MAN: OH (hands up in a nervous surrender) Okay nice day.

Bus stops can be a setting for great stories. I should just hang out there all day...or not. One day I was waiting, willing that the drizzle would not become a downpour, and then, from out of no where— it was an ambush. Let's take a moment, if you will, to reflect on cultural barriers, communication boundaries, a little thing I like to call: The Verbal Bitchslap of ’09: Kenya Edition

MATRONLY WOMAN AT BUS STOP: (Walks up to me) What bus are you waiting for?
ME: The 40.
MATRON: Oh yes, okay (she seems satisfied) it’s coming along this route.
ME: Yes... I know. (One thing I’ve learned here is to second guess all intentions)
MATRON: You know what you’ve done don’t you.

Oh god, here we go, brace yourself...

ME: Hmmm?
MATRON: You’ve taken all of our talent to Europe, you’ve robbed us of our children, you pay them so little and then you send your people here to take jobs from our own citizens!
ME: I’m actually American, and I’m volunteering.
MATRON: America too! You offer better education to lure our children to attend school there, then when we ask them to come home they don’t want to come back home! You are thieves!

I can’t help but think about how something is very wrong with this conversation.

ME: Okay, I’m sorry, I just don’t think it’s my fault that your children don’t want to come home.
MATRON: (Ignoring me) And Kenya pays you people more than its own citizens, because of your better education, and you take all of our jobs and leave us like pigs with our noses in the dirt! I live in Ngummo, do you know what that’s like?

What the hell is going on here…

ME: Yes, I also live in Ngummo.
MATRON: You get paid a salary!
ME: Actually I don’t get paid at all.
MATRON: (With a look of disgust) My niece has to work four jobs just to survive in America.
ME: I’ve had friends who worked three jobs just to pay to attend University full time.
MATRON: That’s the problem with you people, you’re thieves and you mistreat us!

I pause momentarily and surrender, I really can’t be bothered.

ME: My bus is here.


And I’m spent. The day was honestly too long to deal with that and I’m already getting gonga’d 40 bob for a bus ride to Ngummo...

Hippie at Heart

When we don't have the words to say, sometimes it's just better to let others do it for us:


Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace
You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one


Imagine by John Lennon

From “In the Bush” to “In the Dirt”

Well, I have officially turned 25, and now as someone much older and wiser, I do have some thoughts...

I spent my birthday watching the sunrise over the Great Rift Valley, from the most beautiful cottage in the Ngong Hills. Six of us sat out on the unarguably peaceful veranda listening to an acoustic guitar, and in a stroke of genius, one of my friends secretly stalked my mom on Facebook to get the recipe for the Vegan cake my grandmother has been baking me for the past two years. I mean, as if the weekend wasn’t enough, I was also surprised with my cake after dinner. This almost compares to the time a boyfriend flew my best friend Marian out to New York for my birthday...but not quite.

I made my third and final trip to the Post Office yesterday afternoon. The Post Office: The single lengthiest process of any endeavor set out upon in Nairobi. Compared only to the traffic jams that last entire days, I’m telling you, it’s almost humorous. Each time I attend the Posta, I must enter into three different rooms a total of 15 times, show my passport on five different occasions to eight different people, pay for the package, bargain my way OUT of paying for customs fees, sign in, sign out, unwrap my package with an unnecessarily large knife, note contents, re-wrap my package, turn in my receipt, get new receipt…etc. Regardless, I walked away with two very exciting parcels, one being an entire package of pencils and sharpeners for my kids. Thank you!!

Speaking of the kids, I taught on Saturday. They aren’t required to attend classes that day, but the teachers sometimes come and the children who arrive are required to pay their teachers. When they asked me if they had to pay I told them of course not, and upon hearing this they all started cheering. Bless their hearts. Something tells me American kids aren’t as enthusiastic about Saturday classes. There is a boy in my 6th grade class named Nelson Otieno. Nelson is the type of child that if you didn’t try to understand him, you’d write him off as being a trouble-maker that never makes the effort to do his homework or pay attention in class. Of course I have a complete soft-spot in my heart for him—because there’s always a story behind these kids, especially in Kenya. Nelson is completely gun-shy…he flinches every time I walk remotely close to him. His eyes quickly shift, consistently surveying his surroundings…as if he’s constantly watching his back. He has such a heightened sense of awareness and he hates for anyone to touch him. I went to grab his book yesterday and he ducked. He sometimes asks for money, he doesn’t understand English very well and barely speaks. I can’t imagine the things he’s seen. He lives in Kibera, so I’m positive he was affected by some pretty intense post-election violence. If not that, then some equally horrifying circumstances, not to mention he probably has no parents.

If Masaiiland and the area of Ngong is considered “In the Bush” then my new surroundings can be considered “In the Dirt.” I'll try to explain but it can't be explained. I walk 50 meters and I’m in the slums. I'm hopping over open sewer trenches, muddy pot-holes and sloppy passageways. It gets a little precarious. People start looking at me funny. It's better not to wear sandals, because somehow it's always muddy. The smell is excruciating, while flies cover the tilapia or chips being solicited for sale. I assume a certain look. It's a look that says I know I'm white but I will seriously kill you if you mess with me. Somehow it works. By this time though, I pretty much know exactly what I'm doing and exactly where I'm going, and have learned not to make eye contact. I'm trying to explain but it can't be explained. Every small square foot is occupied with a kiosk selling anything--pots, plastic tubs, shoes, clothing, groundnuts(peanuts), pirated dvds or c.d.s, sweets, utensils, fake watches, trinkets and kangas (large pieces of cloth to wrap around your body). It's somehow much hotter in Kibera, and I never fail to get a headache every time I walk through it. There are no street names, or streets for that matter...I have no idea how I'm so familiar with the little pathways that serve to mark my route. One can get lost very easily, or have an anxiety attack from claustrophobia amidst this chaos. There’s a train track that passes through, and it’s occupied by sleeping dogs, sleeping people, trash, items for sale, and wheelbarrows transporting pineapple or building supplies. No one moves until people start yelling that a train is coming, and I’m not sure what that looks like when it happens, but every kiosk and wooden box of a house is so close to the tracks I wouldn’t want to be nearby when it does. Even people who have lived here for years attest to the fact that Kibera never loses its wow factor, no matter how many times you've been.

Viva Kenya

I can't get enough. My internal dialogue is in half English- half Kiswahili, I walk to school in the morning next to chickens, and if I don’t say hello to strangers it’s considered rude. I relish in my memories of running home through the pouring rain in a sudden downpour lasting 45 minutes, and that I relate more to my African roommates than other white people here.

I’ve been settled for a few weeks now, and my life has become a plight to accomplish as much as possible throughout my last two months in Africa. I moved in with a famous award-winning Kenyan music artist, Neema, her brother and two cousins, and things have looked up ever since. Her house happens to be right next door to a public primary school, and it couldn’t be more perfect. I realized how much I’d missed teaching in the past couple months and really wanted to get back into a school. So the day after I moved in, I walked myself into the Head Teacher’s office of Mbagathi Primary School and introduced myself. I let them know of my experience teaching up in Nyeri and within a matter of minutes I was being introduced to the students and had been scheduled for 14 lessons per week. It was a completely serendipitous encounter because they had been looking for a Math teacher the entire term. A 6th grade class had been without any teacher at all for the past month, and a 7th grade class hadn’t been taught Math since January. I was so thrilled they had a need for me, and that I could actually make some progress with these students. I’ve been there a couple weeks now and the inspiration in my life is back. The kids have been absolutely amazing, and are really doing well. They have benefited from the supplies donated to my trip, and can’t wait to use my sharpener for their pencils every morning I walk in the door.

My schedule is as follows: I wake up five days a week at 7am and start the coffee, that is if we have running water that day. Where I use to wake up to the peak of Mount Kenya starting back at me, I now wake up to the sounds of children laughing and playing next door at my school. From 8am to 11am I’m in class, teaching Math to my 6th and 7th grade classes. My 6th grade class has 69 students, and my 7th grade class has 60. They wear torn forest green uniforms, and if they haven’t paid the 80 Shillings (about one dollar) for their exams, they’re not allowed to enter the classroom. If it’s a Monday, after class I head into Kibera, the slum within walking distance, and conduct Empowerment classes to my two dedicated schools. The kids make me promise a hundred times that I’ll be back the following Monday. If it’s a Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday, after school I head to ZanaA’s office in Hurlingham. I take that time to work on either website functionality, business plan review, HR related issues or brainstorming on project execution. The founder of this company is a machine. She’s a 31 year old graduate of Harvard University and from Greenwich, CT. She has been living in Kenya for 9 years, working here for 11, and has her brain switched on 24/7. She eats, drinks, and breathes the numerous projects of ZanaA, and is absolutely brilliant. She’s one of the most ambitious and proven performers of anyone I’ve met, and an inspiration. Each day I work with her I’m discovering a new project she’s spearheading, formulating, or involved with. I digress. On Fridays I have the afternoon off, but it’s usually spent reading one of the African history books I’m using to write an article to publish in the History section of ZanaA’s website. These books are phenomenal, and specifically analyze Africa’s contribution and influence on Western religions and civilization. I feel like I’m living a real life Black Studies course.

I have seven weekends left in Kenya. My birthday weekend will be spent with friends at a big house up in the Ngong Hills. These are all ex-pats my age living in Kenya, some of the most fascinating and generous people I’ve ever met. Another weekend will be spent hiking all seven Ngong Hills, another visiting Nyeri and Karatina, another in Diani Beach, another in Kajiado (Masaiiland) to visit Neema’s parents in their village, and the rest soaking in as much as possible before I leave.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I am turning 25 years old and I can’t think of a better place in which I’d like my life to be. While I’m missing my family and friends more than ever, I know it’s in the most trying of times that we grow the most. I am happy…I am truly, unexplicably happy, and I’m finally remembering what it was like to feel this way.

Live and Love

My brother Andrew. A good man. Genuine, dependable, ambitious, courageous and honest. He’s grown wings and flown, developed into his own person, and I’m more and more impressed each time my parents tell me of his adventures. While I couldn’t be happier for him, I’m a little disheartened that I’ve missed much of this great period of maturation in his life. Admittedly there was college, New York, and Africa, but I still wish I could be spending more time with him, he’s one of the best people I know-- for many reasons, but a particular instance is sticking out to me now…

I remember one Christmas season in Oroville. I was about 16 yrs old and my dad took my Andy and I to the video store for a rental. On the way out we passed a Santa Claus ringing a bell for the Salvation Army and my brother, only 12 at the time, pulled out his wallet and dropped a ten dollar bill into the red bucket. This may not seem monumental now, but at the time I was stunned, confused, and blown away. I hadn’t yet realized the importance of giving back, and this child, with no job or surplus of cash, gave an entire 10 dollars of his own. I’ve never forgotten that moment, even though my brother probably has, and it brings me to thinking of how there are many things we do that we don’t realize, and they make all the difference in the world to someone else. Such is the case with a recent occurrence of mine…

After a few days of not checking my email, I opened my Inbox to find a rather surprising letter. A perfect stranger, brought by way of our intertwined past, had written to tell me she’d come across my blog. Not only did she dive into my stories, but having recently gone through a dark period in her life, she had found the inspiration necessary to find her strength. Amazing. I was genuinely humbled and completely flattered that I had unknowingly reached this person in way greater that meets the eye. It was one of the most incredible moments I’ve had here, since particularly that’s what I strive for most in my life, a generic goal, but a dream manifested none-the-less.

There are some surprises that illustrate the beauty of being here, and still, I’m never too far away from the ones that don’t. Letting my guard down for one small moment can be detrimental to many aspects of my existence here. I was going through my journal and a particular entry portrayed this paradox quite well:

“…As I'm riding the 4w bus home to Dagoretti Corner, we turn on my street, Wanyee, and I'm reminded of a text I received a few weeks prior. A text from Austin reads: I just saw two dead bodies on Wanyee, their heads and limbs crushed by the rocks used to kill them, I'm about to vomit. I'm not shocked, I'm not even afraid. I think about this and realize how numb one can actually become living in this way for so long…”

Living these harsh realities is an everyday occurrence for me, but learning to live with them is a growing experience. The other day at school I witnessed a meeting between a 5th grade boy, his father, and two senior teachers. I couldn’t understand much because most of the conversation was in Kiswahili, until I was jolted by the familiar, SLAP! sound across the boy’s face. Again, SLAP SLAP! He was knocked to the ground as his father was shouting and open palm slapping him as hard as possible across the face, undoubtedly for something as little as not completing his homework from the previous day. I guess some things I just can’t ever get used to.