Let me talk about the hours that I don't mention
The minutes...that might not hold your attention
Suspension...in time. Invention...from thought to rhyme
When seconds pass like days like bulls in grass we graze
The haze...when the air is quiet the craze and aftermath of riot
Sorting beans-no spoons-but mouths to feed
I'm sickened by thoughts of first world greed
There's not much to have when there's not much you need
Holding them close so they can finally sleep
Turning my head so they don't see me weep
The light in their eyes when they learn something new
Just holding my camera means so much to you
Not one drop of water to wash a shirt
Covered each day with the same red dirt
But I don't notice.
This is the norm the way you transform the eye of the storm
When clothes seem new 'cause yesterday they weren't on you
And each day you wear two of the same left-footed shoe
There's not much to do...or even say but you
Beg me to stay, please stay. I pray...for you
Each day for you. Let's play...at least with a word
Or two. Since the concept of a toy seems so absurd
We all eat from the same dirty bowl
In the ground we all share the same hole
But that's real.
I watch you change I watch you grow
There's a lot to watch when time moves so slow
Sleeping head-to-toe with no more beds as far as you know
'Have-not' is all you've ever known
Not one thing to claim your own
Splitting wood to feed the fire to feed the mouths
With strong desire you desperately inquire what it takes to make it
Higher.
To have a fan to take a stand to be a man to be called
American...
'Cause if Ameri-CAN then maybe they will
Hold out their hand with a dollar bill and say,
"Hey Africa, we got you this time..."
'Cause if there's blood to spill and resources to steal
Then shouldn't our suffering be on the list to kill?
Please just share a meal let me feel what you feel
When you feel...privileged. See I've never known
What it's like to take something for granted
When I want to eat seeds need to be planted
The sun is falling it's time to sleep
So up the steep dirt hill I creep
Since I can't be out after dark...that's when my skin color difference
Gets stark
Tired from a day filled with nothing to borrow
But you still say you pray that you'll see me
Tomorrow.
April 30, 2009
Lost and Found
"Jennnyyyyy!? Jenny WHERE have you BEEN? We've been worried about you!!" The familiar yet comforting sound of my mother's voice screeching to me in a overly-dramatic mixture of concern and reprimand is coming from the other end of the line. "MOMMM, I TOLD you, I went on a trip to Rwanda and Uganda!" "Yes, but we thought you were only going to be gone for three days!!" I pause for a moment as I think about how that doesn't even make sense, seeing as how it takes at least one full day to get there and one full day to return. Regardless, I know I've been lost, so let's update....
I have officially moved to Dagoretti Corner, an outskirt of Nairobi, just outside of Kibera. I've networked with an NGO called Zana Africa http://www.zanaafrica.org/zinner.asp?pcat=aboutus&cat=whoweare that helps adolescents with empowerment and awareness within community challenges. I'll be spending two days per week with Zana, visiting different schools within the slums giving presentations. The other three days will be spent at an orphanage teaching and coordinating activities with the children. Kibera is one of the biggest slums in Africa, and I will be finishing off my last three months of volunteering there. While I know this worries my entire official and unofficial family, I can assure you that contrary to belief, I've grown increasingly savvy in African integration these days. I know the safe areas and how to assess each situation. I know how to act and be treated like a local, and I know where and when I should and should not be walking alone and/or after dark. That being said, I'll admit it's risky and situations can escalate in a matter of seconds. A recent article in the Daily Nation is a perfect example...
I first saw it while in Uganda. The headline: 25 Killed in Karatina; Mungiki Massacre. I had to read it twice, as this is the small village in which I spent my first two weeks in Kenya. As I've explained before, the Mungiki is an underground sect of youths demanding money, specifically from Matatu drivers, and are known for brutally killing their victims during demonstrations. This is inter-tribal hostility, within the Kikuyu tribe. Karatina, in addition to my most recent home in Nyeri, is amidst Kikuyu-land, which is why demonstrations frequently happen in these areas. Apparently after a group of locals banned together to capture and kill known members of the Mungiki, they retaliated. Having knowledge of the whereabouts of their aggressors, the Mungiki went to each of their houses at 2am and demanded they get dressed and come outside. Using pangas(machetes), knives, clubs and swords, they killed the locals right outside of their homes. Additionally, they burned many houses, trapping the inhabitants inside. The saddest part is that it's inter-tribal, even further internal than a civil war. To make matters worse, the government here is in complete disarray. The Prime Minister and President are at odds, as the PM is attempting to call a re-election. This could get bad, and quickly. The Rwandan President is advising Kenya to learn from their problems 15 years ago with the genocide, as it looks as though Kenya could be on this similar path of destruction.
At this halfway point in my venture, although I can attest to moments of extreme caution and awareness, I have also become extraordinarily content within each moment. Not only am I more sure of my role and place amidst my journey, but I have found a peace of mind in my expectations and what I had hoped to accomplish. I know these next few months will fly by, and I'm trying to hold on to as much as possible before leaving the paradox of complexity and simplicity that is Africa.
I have officially moved to Dagoretti Corner, an outskirt of Nairobi, just outside of Kibera. I've networked with an NGO called Zana Africa http://www.zanaafrica.org/zinner.asp?pcat=aboutus&cat=whoweare that helps adolescents with empowerment and awareness within community challenges. I'll be spending two days per week with Zana, visiting different schools within the slums giving presentations. The other three days will be spent at an orphanage teaching and coordinating activities with the children. Kibera is one of the biggest slums in Africa, and I will be finishing off my last three months of volunteering there. While I know this worries my entire official and unofficial family, I can assure you that contrary to belief, I've grown increasingly savvy in African integration these days. I know the safe areas and how to assess each situation. I know how to act and be treated like a local, and I know where and when I should and should not be walking alone and/or after dark. That being said, I'll admit it's risky and situations can escalate in a matter of seconds. A recent article in the Daily Nation is a perfect example...
I first saw it while in Uganda. The headline: 25 Killed in Karatina; Mungiki Massacre. I had to read it twice, as this is the small village in which I spent my first two weeks in Kenya. As I've explained before, the Mungiki is an underground sect of youths demanding money, specifically from Matatu drivers, and are known for brutally killing their victims during demonstrations. This is inter-tribal hostility, within the Kikuyu tribe. Karatina, in addition to my most recent home in Nyeri, is amidst Kikuyu-land, which is why demonstrations frequently happen in these areas. Apparently after a group of locals banned together to capture and kill known members of the Mungiki, they retaliated. Having knowledge of the whereabouts of their aggressors, the Mungiki went to each of their houses at 2am and demanded they get dressed and come outside. Using pangas(machetes), knives, clubs and swords, they killed the locals right outside of their homes. Additionally, they burned many houses, trapping the inhabitants inside. The saddest part is that it's inter-tribal, even further internal than a civil war. To make matters worse, the government here is in complete disarray. The Prime Minister and President are at odds, as the PM is attempting to call a re-election. This could get bad, and quickly. The Rwandan President is advising Kenya to learn from their problems 15 years ago with the genocide, as it looks as though Kenya could be on this similar path of destruction.
At this halfway point in my venture, although I can attest to moments of extreme caution and awareness, I have also become extraordinarily content within each moment. Not only am I more sure of my role and place amidst my journey, but I have found a peace of mind in my expectations and what I had hoped to accomplish. I know these next few months will fly by, and I'm trying to hold on to as much as possible before leaving the paradox of complexity and simplicity that is Africa.
April 7, 2009
The Barachah Guesthouse
6 April, 2009 3:26am
"I've never before seen a person actually shake from fear" --Sanne
It was only a three day trip. The plan was to travel to Mombasa for a few days to promote bags and skirts sewn by the HIV women from KENWA. We could sell the products to the various hotels along beaches while at the same time stealing a chance to check out Old Town and the coast. We needed to budget. That's all we could think about as we searched our travel guides for the cheapest hostel we could find. The Barachah Guesthouse, at 900ksh($10) per night for a single room, seemed like the perfect option. Sanne and I are familiar with sharing a bed anyway, as privacy has become a foreign commodity whilst rooming together in Kenya. On Monday April 6th, at precisely 2:14am, a series of events occurred that taught me one of the biggest lessons I needed to learn. The Barachah Guesthouse...a name I now will not soon forget.
At the present moment, we're standing under a shaky fan in a box of a room, with dirty paint peeling off the walls, fluorescent lighting, t.v. in a locked metal frame, and one twin bed under a blue mosquito net. It's so hot my face is constantly beading with sweat, and it doesn't matter that the water spitting haphazardly out of the shower head is not warm. Before we arrived we hadn't showered in 4 days, so the sole availability of water in general is a highlight of the trip. I'm covered in mosquito bites and wish I could bathe in a tube of extra strength Benadryl. The night prior, we paid a cover charge and $2 per shot of gin just to enter the cheesiest discotec in all of Mombasa. The good news is despite my neglect to take anti-malarial pills, Sanne has just informed me that gin is actually used as a preventative as well. They used it in World War I, clinically proven. I'm safe for now. It's our last evening before heading back to Nairobi and, completely exhausted, we drifted off to sleep at about 9pm.
BANG! BANG! I'm lured awake. BANG! Eyes open. KICK! BANG! I jerk to my left towards Sanne and our eyes lock in alarm. CRACK! "SOMEONE'S BREAKING IN," we blurt out in unison as we tear off the mosquito net and jump to our feet. Before we realize the commotion is coming from next door, Sanne is already dressed and I've lunged toward the light. BANG BANG! I can't breathe. The only thing keeping our door shut is two small locks normally found on elementary school bathroom stalls. BANG! I'm searching. Frantically searching. WHERE DID I PUT MY KNIFE?? Where! I threw it. I threw it somewhere last night and I have no idea where it is. The entire contents of my backpack and purse are now spilled across the floor. I'm desperately tearing through every bag I have and I find a small bottle of gin. I can use this. I'm sure I can use it...maybe smash it across his head? I put it aside and finally locate the small Swiss Army knife hiding in a plastic bag with my towel. Sanne is at the edge of the bed with her pepper spray and she's silent, listening, waiting. I'm sweating profusely and I'm shaking. I'm actually convulsing, but can't stop. We are completely silent. Someone is breaking into the room next door. They are kicking the lock off the door and all I can think of is, as soon as they're done, we're next.
"Shhhhh," she whispers as I sit next to her, "It's okay, just be calm." How am I supposed to be calm when I'm preparing myself to fight for my life?? Do I even know how to use this knife?? Please let adrenaline take over. "Can we get out of the window?" I barely whisper. "No, I tried," she responds. Okay, so we're trapped. It's fight or flight, and since we only have one option left we're going to have to stop this person at our door. We turn off the ceiling fan so that we can hear what's going on, but there is only the rhythmic banging. "Maybe they're breaking in because they know no one is in there," she says. "Or maybe they think it's us," I expostulate. Neither the security guard nor hotel staff can be trusted, for godsake they're probably in on it. I'm still shaking, and I think what a terrible reaction I have to panic mode. I am also thinking that I'm a complete idiot for thinking two white girls can stay alone in a cheap hostel in a third world country. I am really scared. I've never been this afraid before. We're poised for what may happen next, and while both of us have our phones in hand, there is no one to call. I'm clutching my $20 Nokia mobile, but have no idea who I'm dialing. No one even knows we're here. Even if they did, there is not much that can be done at this point, it's up to us. BANG! BANG! Creeeaaaakkkk. They made it inside. Mild rummaging, a bottle breaks. Sanne is keeping me sane, but we both know the reality. If we're next, it will be any second now. I don't even know when it happened, but suddenly I see I'm completely dressed. What seems like hours pass, straining to hear any clue, until finally the iron-rod "security" door to the lobby squeaks open and shut. Ten more minutes pass and we hear voices from the hallway, speaking something other than Kiswahili. They sound stressed but I cannot understand what they're saying. We can hear the t.v. sets turn on from a few rooms, but we're still just squatting by our door. Afraid to show anyone we're inside, we rule out the option to go outside and decide just to hold out until daylight. At least for now the immediate danger has passed. The intruder is gone or, in any case, has not tried to break into our room. I wish more than anything I was in New York, safely inside an apartment with someone I can trust.
The fear has died down as we're lying on the bed, lights on, packed and waiting for the time to pass. Cautionary behavior still on high, voices at a low volume, we review the night. It's now 4:08am, just a few more hours. "I don't think I can sleep," says Sanne, as her heavy eyelids flutter closed. And then, leaving a hollow pit of dread in my stomach she adds, "You better be careful traveling alone in South Africa." I shift my gaze away from her, to the door, the t.v., and finally to the blue sheets beneath us... "I think I'll write."
It's almost sunrise. As I lie awake writing in this dingy hotel room, I hear the faint echo of the Muslim prayer sung over the loud speaker. It's become a chant of comfort for me, religiously occurring multiple times per day across the city of Mombasa. Heard from wherever you are, it's a sense of community, of belonging. It's a reminder that for these few minutes of reflection, in this world you are not alone. To be honest, this is hardly comparable to some of the things that happen to others while traveling. It could have been a million times worse and I realize that. However, it was an experience I needed to have, a character builder to make me wiser. My naivety begins to melt away and though I don't want to become jaded, I know my new mindset has already started formulating. I recently read the prologue to Emma's War, a book about a relief worker who married a warlord from Uganda. The author's final thought really rings true to my feelings about my experience thus far. She writes, "...the experiences of people like me, people who went there dreaming they might help and came back numb with disillusionment, yet forever marked."
"I've never before seen a person actually shake from fear" --Sanne
It was only a three day trip. The plan was to travel to Mombasa for a few days to promote bags and skirts sewn by the HIV women from KENWA. We could sell the products to the various hotels along beaches while at the same time stealing a chance to check out Old Town and the coast. We needed to budget. That's all we could think about as we searched our travel guides for the cheapest hostel we could find. The Barachah Guesthouse, at 900ksh($10) per night for a single room, seemed like the perfect option. Sanne and I are familiar with sharing a bed anyway, as privacy has become a foreign commodity whilst rooming together in Kenya. On Monday April 6th, at precisely 2:14am, a series of events occurred that taught me one of the biggest lessons I needed to learn. The Barachah Guesthouse...a name I now will not soon forget.
At the present moment, we're standing under a shaky fan in a box of a room, with dirty paint peeling off the walls, fluorescent lighting, t.v. in a locked metal frame, and one twin bed under a blue mosquito net. It's so hot my face is constantly beading with sweat, and it doesn't matter that the water spitting haphazardly out of the shower head is not warm. Before we arrived we hadn't showered in 4 days, so the sole availability of water in general is a highlight of the trip. I'm covered in mosquito bites and wish I could bathe in a tube of extra strength Benadryl. The night prior, we paid a cover charge and $2 per shot of gin just to enter the cheesiest discotec in all of Mombasa. The good news is despite my neglect to take anti-malarial pills, Sanne has just informed me that gin is actually used as a preventative as well. They used it in World War I, clinically proven. I'm safe for now. It's our last evening before heading back to Nairobi and, completely exhausted, we drifted off to sleep at about 9pm.
BANG! BANG! I'm lured awake. BANG! Eyes open. KICK! BANG! I jerk to my left towards Sanne and our eyes lock in alarm. CRACK! "SOMEONE'S BREAKING IN," we blurt out in unison as we tear off the mosquito net and jump to our feet. Before we realize the commotion is coming from next door, Sanne is already dressed and I've lunged toward the light. BANG BANG! I can't breathe. The only thing keeping our door shut is two small locks normally found on elementary school bathroom stalls. BANG! I'm searching. Frantically searching. WHERE DID I PUT MY KNIFE?? Where! I threw it. I threw it somewhere last night and I have no idea where it is. The entire contents of my backpack and purse are now spilled across the floor. I'm desperately tearing through every bag I have and I find a small bottle of gin. I can use this. I'm sure I can use it...maybe smash it across his head? I put it aside and finally locate the small Swiss Army knife hiding in a plastic bag with my towel. Sanne is at the edge of the bed with her pepper spray and she's silent, listening, waiting. I'm sweating profusely and I'm shaking. I'm actually convulsing, but can't stop. We are completely silent. Someone is breaking into the room next door. They are kicking the lock off the door and all I can think of is, as soon as they're done, we're next.
"Shhhhh," she whispers as I sit next to her, "It's okay, just be calm." How am I supposed to be calm when I'm preparing myself to fight for my life?? Do I even know how to use this knife?? Please let adrenaline take over. "Can we get out of the window?" I barely whisper. "No, I tried," she responds. Okay, so we're trapped. It's fight or flight, and since we only have one option left we're going to have to stop this person at our door. We turn off the ceiling fan so that we can hear what's going on, but there is only the rhythmic banging. "Maybe they're breaking in because they know no one is in there," she says. "Or maybe they think it's us," I expostulate. Neither the security guard nor hotel staff can be trusted, for godsake they're probably in on it. I'm still shaking, and I think what a terrible reaction I have to panic mode. I am also thinking that I'm a complete idiot for thinking two white girls can stay alone in a cheap hostel in a third world country. I am really scared. I've never been this afraid before. We're poised for what may happen next, and while both of us have our phones in hand, there is no one to call. I'm clutching my $20 Nokia mobile, but have no idea who I'm dialing. No one even knows we're here. Even if they did, there is not much that can be done at this point, it's up to us. BANG! BANG! Creeeaaaakkkk. They made it inside. Mild rummaging, a bottle breaks. Sanne is keeping me sane, but we both know the reality. If we're next, it will be any second now. I don't even know when it happened, but suddenly I see I'm completely dressed. What seems like hours pass, straining to hear any clue, until finally the iron-rod "security" door to the lobby squeaks open and shut. Ten more minutes pass and we hear voices from the hallway, speaking something other than Kiswahili. They sound stressed but I cannot understand what they're saying. We can hear the t.v. sets turn on from a few rooms, but we're still just squatting by our door. Afraid to show anyone we're inside, we rule out the option to go outside and decide just to hold out until daylight. At least for now the immediate danger has passed. The intruder is gone or, in any case, has not tried to break into our room. I wish more than anything I was in New York, safely inside an apartment with someone I can trust.
The fear has died down as we're lying on the bed, lights on, packed and waiting for the time to pass. Cautionary behavior still on high, voices at a low volume, we review the night. It's now 4:08am, just a few more hours. "I don't think I can sleep," says Sanne, as her heavy eyelids flutter closed. And then, leaving a hollow pit of dread in my stomach she adds, "You better be careful traveling alone in South Africa." I shift my gaze away from her, to the door, the t.v., and finally to the blue sheets beneath us... "I think I'll write."
It's almost sunrise. As I lie awake writing in this dingy hotel room, I hear the faint echo of the Muslim prayer sung over the loud speaker. It's become a chant of comfort for me, religiously occurring multiple times per day across the city of Mombasa. Heard from wherever you are, it's a sense of community, of belonging. It's a reminder that for these few minutes of reflection, in this world you are not alone. To be honest, this is hardly comparable to some of the things that happen to others while traveling. It could have been a million times worse and I realize that. However, it was an experience I needed to have, a character builder to make me wiser. My naivety begins to melt away and though I don't want to become jaded, I know my new mindset has already started formulating. I recently read the prologue to Emma's War, a book about a relief worker who married a warlord from Uganda. The author's final thought really rings true to my feelings about my experience thus far. She writes, "...the experiences of people like me, people who went there dreaming they might help and came back numb with disillusionment, yet forever marked."
Close call
It was already dark by the time the taxi pulled up to our gate. The time had come for us to leave the house for good, and it felt like a huge weight was lifted from our shoulders. We'd been having complications with Mama for quite some time now, but this was the final straw. Our bags we're packed and we were heading to Jane's home, a teacher I knew from my school. She recommended a taxi driver named Gikandi, since he apparently knew exactly where she lived. Surrendering independence is a tough reality in these circumstances. As we started down the road, in a car that stalled twice in a matter of seconds, we realized we had no idea where we were going, with a man we had never before met. The road became rougher, the lights dissipated, and the anxiety started to rise in my stomach. On the third turn down a dark, rocky, and narrow pathway, I decided this was not the best situation.
"Gikandi?" I nervously raise my voice. No answer. "GIKANDI????" This really might not even be the correct taxi driver. He's not responding and I decide this is quickly becoming a bad situation. "Gikandi, is this where Jane LIVES??" Nothing. Sanne, my roommate, abruptly jerks around to meet eye contact with me. Even in the dark the look on her face matches the feeling in my gut and a sudden panic and adrenaline ensues. I grab his shoulder, "GIKANDI???" He finally turns around. In a monotone response he says, "I don't know where Jane lives but I'm taking you to a place." PANIC. Full on survival mode. Seat belt unlatched. My eyes are darting around the car to see what collateral damage I'm about to lose regarding my belongings when I make my escape. I'm calculating my ejection from this car, immediately determining how I'll unlock and open the door and roll out of the moving vehicle with minimal physical damage. Damnit, I really don't want to give up that Kenya map I just bought, can I possibly grab it, AND my backpack before I take the leap? No. No Jen, definitely not, give it up. Sanne is dialing a number, I have no idea who, but I know we're thinking the same thing. "Pull over," she raises her voice to Gikandi, "PULL OVER!"
I'm trying to determine if this is a true threat. I know I can trust Jane...but can I? In the Rwanda genocide, neighbors and friends turned on each other. In the political massacre in Kenya last year, even family members were using weapons and rocks against one another. On top of that, poverty can make people do crazy things. I'm dialing Jane's number and as I reach her on the other line she's asking where I am. Suddenly Gikandi pulls the car over and his evil grin from earlier has transformed into an entertained smile, as it seems he's aware we've been spooked and no longer wants us to worry. As quick as the situation escalated, the mood has now lightened as Jane confirms the route he's taken and the interior light switches on.
In the end we made it to Jane's house in one piece. The driver was only joking with us, the vulnerable white girls at night. Honestly, I need to get it together. My consistently heightened sense of awareness is really starting to stress me out...
"Gikandi?" I nervously raise my voice. No answer. "GIKANDI????" This really might not even be the correct taxi driver. He's not responding and I decide this is quickly becoming a bad situation. "Gikandi, is this where Jane LIVES??" Nothing. Sanne, my roommate, abruptly jerks around to meet eye contact with me. Even in the dark the look on her face matches the feeling in my gut and a sudden panic and adrenaline ensues. I grab his shoulder, "GIKANDI???" He finally turns around. In a monotone response he says, "I don't know where Jane lives but I'm taking you to a place." PANIC. Full on survival mode. Seat belt unlatched. My eyes are darting around the car to see what collateral damage I'm about to lose regarding my belongings when I make my escape. I'm calculating my ejection from this car, immediately determining how I'll unlock and open the door and roll out of the moving vehicle with minimal physical damage. Damnit, I really don't want to give up that Kenya map I just bought, can I possibly grab it, AND my backpack before I take the leap? No. No Jen, definitely not, give it up. Sanne is dialing a number, I have no idea who, but I know we're thinking the same thing. "Pull over," she raises her voice to Gikandi, "PULL OVER!"
I'm trying to determine if this is a true threat. I know I can trust Jane...but can I? In the Rwanda genocide, neighbors and friends turned on each other. In the political massacre in Kenya last year, even family members were using weapons and rocks against one another. On top of that, poverty can make people do crazy things. I'm dialing Jane's number and as I reach her on the other line she's asking where I am. Suddenly Gikandi pulls the car over and his evil grin from earlier has transformed into an entertained smile, as it seems he's aware we've been spooked and no longer wants us to worry. As quick as the situation escalated, the mood has now lightened as Jane confirms the route he's taken and the interior light switches on.
In the end we made it to Jane's house in one piece. The driver was only joking with us, the vulnerable white girls at night. Honestly, I need to get it together. My consistently heightened sense of awareness is really starting to stress me out...
April 1, 2009
Part I
I came because I heard a cry
I flew across a clear blue sky
Dark nights lit by wars below
No one sees Sudan's light show
The irony in what I found
Discovered in hands tied and bound
Better be ready to reap what I sew
I learned what I never knew I never wanted to know
A story lies beneath the lines
It always does when the sun shines
But secrets root in shadowed vines
Just look close to see the signs
I washed my hands just to touch
Unbathed children that didn't care so much
Screams across Kenya's poverty
The reality is something we don't want to see
I heard a cry and I tried to find her
Selling mangoes with her children behind her
Umbrella up to shade the sun
When Kenya burned she lost everyone
We try to look as long as we can
See what we want, pretend to understand
Dig in our pockets, pay the social demand
Pat on the back when we lend a helping hand
Though dire, efforts are still deemed pathetic
Since the only hands that truly help are prosthetic
The answer is something slightly less poetic...
We want the truth but it's not pretty
It's messy, it's dirty, it's grimey and gritty
We want the key, the missing link
The truth is, it's not what we think
They see me and they want cash
Blame poverty on lack of jobs, while daily smoking hash
Kids on the street follow me around
When free food is offered at the orphanage downtown
Won't go because they're addicted to glue
But sister, making money is so much easier for you
Asking why they don't compare as a learning tool
But won't give up child abuse in public school
Thinking too much here can make someone crazy
I can't help you if you choose to be lazy
Anytime you start to talk to me
It ends up in something you want from me
You don't see me, you see your mission
How can I possibly make a decision
Offended by my disbelief in Christian visionaries
But this religion you believe came from white missionaries
Timing is everything when timing is something
Does dying mean anything when you're dying for nothing?
But before I come close to losing my mind
I remember the children so blameless and kind
The children so young, innocent and wide-eyed
I remember that this is what I fought to find
You take my hand, before I'm beguiled
Mtoto mrembo, beautiful child
I came because I heard a cry
I flew across a clear blue sky
I found the answer to my yearning
Fought hard to find what we should be learning
Africa hear me, I've come home
I heard a cry...but it was my own.
I flew across a clear blue sky
Dark nights lit by wars below
No one sees Sudan's light show
The irony in what I found
Discovered in hands tied and bound
Better be ready to reap what I sew
I learned what I never knew I never wanted to know
A story lies beneath the lines
It always does when the sun shines
But secrets root in shadowed vines
Just look close to see the signs
I washed my hands just to touch
Unbathed children that didn't care so much
Screams across Kenya's poverty
The reality is something we don't want to see
I heard a cry and I tried to find her
Selling mangoes with her children behind her
Umbrella up to shade the sun
When Kenya burned she lost everyone
We try to look as long as we can
See what we want, pretend to understand
Dig in our pockets, pay the social demand
Pat on the back when we lend a helping hand
Though dire, efforts are still deemed pathetic
Since the only hands that truly help are prosthetic
The answer is something slightly less poetic...
We want the truth but it's not pretty
It's messy, it's dirty, it's grimey and gritty
We want the key, the missing link
The truth is, it's not what we think
They see me and they want cash
Blame poverty on lack of jobs, while daily smoking hash
Kids on the street follow me around
When free food is offered at the orphanage downtown
Won't go because they're addicted to glue
But sister, making money is so much easier for you
Asking why they don't compare as a learning tool
But won't give up child abuse in public school
Thinking too much here can make someone crazy
I can't help you if you choose to be lazy
Anytime you start to talk to me
It ends up in something you want from me
You don't see me, you see your mission
How can I possibly make a decision
Offended by my disbelief in Christian visionaries
But this religion you believe came from white missionaries
Timing is everything when timing is something
Does dying mean anything when you're dying for nothing?
But before I come close to losing my mind
I remember the children so blameless and kind
The children so young, innocent and wide-eyed
I remember that this is what I fought to find
You take my hand, before I'm beguiled
Mtoto mrembo, beautiful child
I came because I heard a cry
I flew across a clear blue sky
I found the answer to my yearning
Fought hard to find what we should be learning
Africa hear me, I've come home
I heard a cry...but it was my own.
March 20, 2009
The Motherland
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.
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 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...."
February 25, 2009
Joseph
"His name is Joseph, and it's his first day at the Orphanage," she says to me with a heavy heart. A five year old boy sits at the edge of the field, alone and crying. Immediately I realize this means either his parents have just died yesterday, or they are too poor to keep him any longer...the former being more likely. No one said this was easy.
St. Mary's has an orphanage to house street boys. Some of them run away, some return, and three in ten will make it through secondary school. I walk over to Joseph and although he cannot understand English, I hold out my hand. He looks at me with hesitation but takes it, and walks with me back across the field to where the other boys are playing. All of a sudden teaching basic food groups and promoting medical or legal professions is the least of my worries...just getting Joesph to make it until tomorrow clothed and fed is the priority.
Joseph will not leg go of my hands and stands in front of me with his back against my legs. He watches the others in torn wool sweaters, socks and pants in 90 degree heat as today, his entire life has changed. The street boys are all at different educational levels and there is one woman who teaches the groups. The first group is made up of boys that have come straight from home, have never seen a classroom or heard English. The second group cannot read Swahili or English, and the third group can read only three or four letter words. If you ask them, none of these boys know their birthday or even their age, since they lost their parents so young.
"Daniel, please spell 'triangle' for me," I say to a disinterested nine year old. Sometimes Daniel speaks, other times he doesn't even hear what I'm saying. Daniel is HIV positive and doesn't know it, he just takes daily medication without reason. We are advised not to tell them. I sit under the shade of a tree in the yard, boys circled around me, and I use flash cards to teach them beginning English words. Sometimes they sit with me through their break because the cards are clean and new, and they want to hold the stack themselves.
In English class today the 6th graders learned an intro to 'storytelling,' and were encouraged to stand up and make up a story of their own. I wasn't prepared to hear the outcome, as child after child stood up to tell of parents begging for clothes on the street, children not having food for days, men stealing shillings out of wallets and pushing women down on the street. The kids make these stories up, but the disheartening reality is that they are not far from the truth.
Joseph tried to run away twice today, to return to a home that no longer exists. I watched the other boys herding him back as he escaped out of the makeshift classroom. He wouldn't go with the others to eat lunch either. Obstinent and sobbing, he resisted their beckoning and physical force. I walk over as I unpeal the banana that's in my bag and hand it to him, he's been eyeing it my entire walk over. He hesitates only slightly, then devours it within seconds, with his eyes down, saying not a word. He's stopped crying and sitting next to me, safe, if only for the present.
No one said this was easy.
St. Mary's has an orphanage to house street boys. Some of them run away, some return, and three in ten will make it through secondary school. I walk over to Joseph and although he cannot understand English, I hold out my hand. He looks at me with hesitation but takes it, and walks with me back across the field to where the other boys are playing. All of a sudden teaching basic food groups and promoting medical or legal professions is the least of my worries...just getting Joesph to make it until tomorrow clothed and fed is the priority.
Joseph will not leg go of my hands and stands in front of me with his back against my legs. He watches the others in torn wool sweaters, socks and pants in 90 degree heat as today, his entire life has changed. The street boys are all at different educational levels and there is one woman who teaches the groups. The first group is made up of boys that have come straight from home, have never seen a classroom or heard English. The second group cannot read Swahili or English, and the third group can read only three or four letter words. If you ask them, none of these boys know their birthday or even their age, since they lost their parents so young.
"Daniel, please spell 'triangle' for me," I say to a disinterested nine year old. Sometimes Daniel speaks, other times he doesn't even hear what I'm saying. Daniel is HIV positive and doesn't know it, he just takes daily medication without reason. We are advised not to tell them. I sit under the shade of a tree in the yard, boys circled around me, and I use flash cards to teach them beginning English words. Sometimes they sit with me through their break because the cards are clean and new, and they want to hold the stack themselves.
In English class today the 6th graders learned an intro to 'storytelling,' and were encouraged to stand up and make up a story of their own. I wasn't prepared to hear the outcome, as child after child stood up to tell of parents begging for clothes on the street, children not having food for days, men stealing shillings out of wallets and pushing women down on the street. The kids make these stories up, but the disheartening reality is that they are not far from the truth.
Joseph tried to run away twice today, to return to a home that no longer exists. I watched the other boys herding him back as he escaped out of the makeshift classroom. He wouldn't go with the others to eat lunch either. Obstinent and sobbing, he resisted their beckoning and physical force. I walk over as I unpeal the banana that's in my bag and hand it to him, he's been eyeing it my entire walk over. He hesitates only slightly, then devours it within seconds, with his eyes down, saying not a word. He's stopped crying and sitting next to me, safe, if only for the present.
No one said this was easy.
February 19, 2009
The End of the Beginning
There's a ghost living in my new homestay. You cannot make these things up. She knocks on my door without fail every night at 12:58am then walks through the house and disappears up through the attic. I'm 100% certain about this, but hey, it's Africa...things could be worse.
I have arrived in Nyeri Town after 5 days of complete electronic isolation while on Safari. I watched the sunrise in the Maasai Mara National Park at 6am, just before witnessing a lion, lioness and cubs eating the carcass of a water buffalo they killed 3 days prior. Rhinos, hippos, buffalos, giraffes, and elephants at every turn. On the border of Tanzania and Kenya, there is an unassuming cement monument that marks the line. Slightly anticlimatic but one step closer to Kilamanjaro. When you're traveling amidst a span of land this vast, it tends to take on its own personality and becomes so overwhelming and humbling.
My lips are caked in dirt and it looks like lipstick. It is brown dirt and a result of wind and dust racing through the mutatu windows. I am on my way to Lake Nakuru feeling drowsy in a way that can only be drug induced. I've taken a sleeping pill, foolishly thinking I could sleep while instead I am flying up out of my seat every few minutes due to the quality of infrastructure that will continue for the next 5 1/2 hours. Earlier today I choked down soy nut butter that's 70% salt on stale "brown" bread. Not really sure if it's even wheat, and the spread tastes like I'm preparing for a shot of Patron. I'm not sure why I continue to eat this, but I wash it down with a bottle of boiled water that tastes like a dirty bath but is, at least, safe to drink. I've observed that instead of barbed wire to keep intruders from climbing over the tops of compound walls, they place shards of glass into the blocks of cement and let them dry in place. Does this work? Who's to say...
Nyeri is much more alive than Karatina, a better fit for me, but it was still bittersweet to say goodbye my first host family, placement, and roommate in Kenya. It was the end of my beginning. My last day at the Orphanage I was able to buy shoes, bookbags, notebooks and pens for a few of the older kids I'd been helping with homework. The sad part is that most of the children who are funded through secondary school(high school) will end up back on the streets after they are finished because they still don't have family, money, or the opportunity for a job. We need to be teaching these children and women trade skills that will allow them to create income instead of just giving them food and money and then leaving. Otherwise, what will they do the next day after eating and using their resources? They will just continue to view us as dollar signs and only expect this type of treatment. Mzungus have created a reputation of just giving handouts and then returning to their comfortable lives. As for me, I will be working at Nyamachaki Primary School as a Math, English, and Science teacher for grades 6 and 7. I will have my own classes and am finally feeling needed because they desperately lack teachers here. I am preparing by observing classes and making lesson plans and am so excited to take on a bigger committment and responsibility.
Mama Morena is my new host mother. She lives by herself and is a complete feminist and eccentric to say the least, so obviously our personalities fit well. The phrase, "Isn't it?" oddly follows every one of her sentences, and yesterday she took me and my new sisters(other volunteer roommates) to see President Kibaki speak at her daughter's boarding school. Incredible. My room is the blue light special because apparently blue light bulbs are a hot deal, and I share it with a green lizard that comes out right as I am falling asleep.
I have been officially given Swahili and Kikuyu names. "Ma Kena," which means "the one who is happy" and "Wa Njido," which means the smallest one on the block...."Shiro" for short. It only took 3 weeks....
I have arrived in Nyeri Town after 5 days of complete electronic isolation while on Safari. I watched the sunrise in the Maasai Mara National Park at 6am, just before witnessing a lion, lioness and cubs eating the carcass of a water buffalo they killed 3 days prior. Rhinos, hippos, buffalos, giraffes, and elephants at every turn. On the border of Tanzania and Kenya, there is an unassuming cement monument that marks the line. Slightly anticlimatic but one step closer to Kilamanjaro. When you're traveling amidst a span of land this vast, it tends to take on its own personality and becomes so overwhelming and humbling.
My lips are caked in dirt and it looks like lipstick. It is brown dirt and a result of wind and dust racing through the mutatu windows. I am on my way to Lake Nakuru feeling drowsy in a way that can only be drug induced. I've taken a sleeping pill, foolishly thinking I could sleep while instead I am flying up out of my seat every few minutes due to the quality of infrastructure that will continue for the next 5 1/2 hours. Earlier today I choked down soy nut butter that's 70% salt on stale "brown" bread. Not really sure if it's even wheat, and the spread tastes like I'm preparing for a shot of Patron. I'm not sure why I continue to eat this, but I wash it down with a bottle of boiled water that tastes like a dirty bath but is, at least, safe to drink. I've observed that instead of barbed wire to keep intruders from climbing over the tops of compound walls, they place shards of glass into the blocks of cement and let them dry in place. Does this work? Who's to say...
Nyeri is much more alive than Karatina, a better fit for me, but it was still bittersweet to say goodbye my first host family, placement, and roommate in Kenya. It was the end of my beginning. My last day at the Orphanage I was able to buy shoes, bookbags, notebooks and pens for a few of the older kids I'd been helping with homework. The sad part is that most of the children who are funded through secondary school(high school) will end up back on the streets after they are finished because they still don't have family, money, or the opportunity for a job. We need to be teaching these children and women trade skills that will allow them to create income instead of just giving them food and money and then leaving. Otherwise, what will they do the next day after eating and using their resources? They will just continue to view us as dollar signs and only expect this type of treatment. Mzungus have created a reputation of just giving handouts and then returning to their comfortable lives. As for me, I will be working at Nyamachaki Primary School as a Math, English, and Science teacher for grades 6 and 7. I will have my own classes and am finally feeling needed because they desperately lack teachers here. I am preparing by observing classes and making lesson plans and am so excited to take on a bigger committment and responsibility.
Mama Morena is my new host mother. She lives by herself and is a complete feminist and eccentric to say the least, so obviously our personalities fit well. The phrase, "Isn't it?" oddly follows every one of her sentences, and yesterday she took me and my new sisters(other volunteer roommates) to see President Kibaki speak at her daughter's boarding school. Incredible. My room is the blue light special because apparently blue light bulbs are a hot deal, and I share it with a green lizard that comes out right as I am falling asleep.
I have been officially given Swahili and Kikuyu names. "Ma Kena," which means "the one who is happy" and "Wa Njido," which means the smallest one on the block...."Shiro" for short. It only took 3 weeks....
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