I Remember

He was almost five, and so alive
All alone, but still he’d strive
He could thrive, and survive
On one bowl a day
Of rice and corn
Another baby born
To a mother with AIDS, HIV
To her god I hear her plea
Please, not me
Oh god not me, I won’t be
Here to see
My baby turn three
Just set me free
Don’t take him, please take me
So he set her free, and she left this land
And now instead of hers, he holds my hand
I try to step quick but I’m in quicksand

This boy turns six and tries to change fate
He runs to school, but he’s already late
So we run hand in hand, not too slow
I made him a promise that I wouldn’t let go
But it’s getting harder for him to breathe
He needs a break, too often it seems
He coughs up blood and I hope this doesn’t mean
He’s living with a disease unseen

He tells me it’s his birthday today
But he’s still sick and cannot play
I know I’ll have to take him away
To get the test he tried to delay
So still I sit and hold his hand
As the doctor gives the test we demand
And the result comes back seven years too late
And I hate the world for this moment in fate
I see in his eyes what I won’t let him see in mine
This little boy will die, in time

And I wish instead the energy could leave me
As it left his mother, so swiftly
Anything but this little boy
Why couldn’t death just pick a new ploy
I look at him but do not weep
If he can’t jump I’ll have to leap
Skin so dark and eyes like stars
Wide enough to chase speeding cars

So time it came and time it went
And soon this little boy’s spirit was spent
But I held his hand as he said goodbye
As I promised him, I would not cry
And as the night became so still
I sat and let the quiet fill
All the air and every thought
And all the love this little boy brought
And when I look at my hand I still see his there
I’ve never seen a more beautiful pair


He was almost five
And so alive…



***Do something to help this holiday season. Be the change.

Holidaze

If I’m being honest, I think I owe it to myself and to anyone else reading, to write a few words pertaining to what happened next. There’s always another page, always another story, always a next.

It’s been slightly over one month since my return to the big city. It has blurred by in a mixture of express trains, walk-up buildings, and quite entertaining dates when I can find the time. I'm in real estate, I hear myself casually drop at least three times a day, maybe because I'm proud of it, maybe because I'm prospecting, or perhaps just because I've begun to breathe it every waking moment. You have to, this is New York City. Go hard or go home.

Coming back to New York was a multi-faceted experience. Everything looked different and the same all at once. I was a new me, I had a new perspective, I was better, stronger. But no matter how far I had come, some things were still there, as expected, waiting. They begged to be reckoned with, beckoned my temptation and I fell for it...but only for a second.

More often then not I find myself thinking about my time in Africa. I think about how even though I so strongly wanted everyone to feel it, to learn from it, to understand it...I've come to accept that it really was for no one other than myself. I'm the only one who can truly understand, who can truly learn from it, who can bring to mind in a single heartbeat the kids, the smells, the sound of Kenya. And I keep it with me, every day, along side my grocery list and taxi receipts and weekend plans. Most people don't have the time it takes to truly hear you, but all in all, I realize I don't need them to.

It's true what they say about reciprocity, you know. When you're finally ready, when you're finally done, when you can finally say goodbye...it doesn't matter if the other person is there to hear you, to know it. You won't need them to know either way. Because the only one who ever really needed to say goodbye...was you.

‘Tis the season...Christmas in New York. Coffee burns my tongue as I sit behind a window watching the snow fall; I think about plans to ice skate in Central Park and new romance amidst apple cider and spiced rum. New beginnings, new endings, and an anticipation of the unknown. Love Actually and Miracle on 34th Street play repeatedly on DVD players and TBS specials, the tree lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center is advertised in the New York Times, and once again I know...anything seems possible.

Homecoming

Today, I'm coming home. I will arrive tomorrow at JFK airport, the same place I began this journey, almost eight months later.

I caught a one way flight and moved to Kenya for six months. I slept in the bush next to elephants and rode on the back of a motorbike across the cradle of humankind. I feared for my life in a dodgy Mombasa hostel, and taught school children Math and Science. I worked and lived amidst the street kids of Kibera, and watched my orphan toddlers grow up. I traveled to Rwanda during the genocide anniversary, and saw the churches where thousands were murdered. I went white water rafting down the mighty Nile past Ghandi's ashes, and turned 25 in a cottage in the Ngong Hills. I moved in with a popular artist, then moved to Cape Town, South Africa. I swam with Great White sharks, I climbed mountains, I got a job as a waitress in a cafe bar. And then...it was time to come home.

"...I speak to you because I cannot help it. It gives me strength, almost unbelievable strength to know that you are there. I covet your eyes, your ears, the collapsible space between us...all the while I will know that you are there. How blessed are we to have each other?"

--Valentino Achak Deng, What is the What

Maybe I inspired you, maybe I entertained you, or maybe I taught you something not about me, but about yourselves. Either way, I thank you for being there with me. And I hope next time you're faced with a decision, you might just think again, and decide you're not afraid to jump.

"Black Taxis"

"So do you know how I get to the beach from here?" I ask the tall woman behind the counter. "Taxis are quite rare, you need your own transportation," she tells me. "Well what about the shared minibus taxis?" I've seen them frequently since my arrival. "Oh..." she pauses, caught off-guard then lowers her voice, "...well, you could take the black taxis...but I wouldn't recommend it." As she feigns a look of pity, I tell her that would be perfectly fine to me, and walk out the door.

South Africans still refer to each other as Blacks, Whites, and Coloureds, and are satisfied with judging each other in this respect. The reminents of apartheid are uncomfortably blatant, and I find it disheartening to be put in such an ostentatious category. White South Africans I've met find it confusing that I'm dying to head into the townships, but to be honest, I feel much more comfortable amidst those surroundings. I haven't heard hardly as many overtly racist remarks from black South Africans as I have from the whites, though I'm sure I'd rather not know what they are thinking. There's a place I like to go in Cape Town. It's a walk-way near the train station void of all white people. There are cheap boxes selling food, vendors hawking anything and everything, and a few benches. I like it because it reminds me of Kenya. At the moment I'm sitting next to a woman smelling of sweat and obnoxious floral perfume, which blends with the odor of garbage and greasy food. I'm reading a book about Zimbabwe and am not in the least bit surprised with how comfortable I feel. I've come to love my moments of being alone.

Last night I shared a dorm room with seven male tour guides from Zimbabwe and Kenya respectively. Though nothing should surprise me anymore, some things still cause me to take a step back and laugh at my circumstances. One morning at my restaurant my dorm mate Ed came in, and out of breath proclaimed, "Jen, I just got out of prison! I was arrested last night for not having my passport on me..." I love my friends. The other week I rented a car with two English mates, and drove around the coast to see penguins, surf and beaches, and picked up a hitchhiker along the way. I went out last weekend and managed to lose just one shoe. I hiked to the top of Table Mountain in one hour and ten minutes, then wanted to roll all the way down due to exhaustion. Life is a funny thing sometimes.

Stories. We all have them. The more living we do the more interesting they become, and the more your eyes carry hints of secrets. All you have to do is ask, and the quiet brown-haired boy with a surf board becomes a British Marine, and the blond girl with glasses next to you in the raft is working with refugees in the mutiny that is Sudan. And today, I'm the girl that would rather take the black taxis...

Cape Town

"Jen?!....JEN!" Wait, you cannot be serious. You're not telling me that within two days of my arrival to Cape Town someone is already yelling my name from across the street. But indeed, it is true. It's my new brunch friends from a couple mornings prior. I think I'm starting to like this place...

Well my friends, it's official. Within five days of my arrival to Cape Town, I got a job at a martini and tapas bar...and it is awesome. It fits right in with the story, I think.

Cape Town is nothing like Kenya...nothing. I had an extremely refined and trendy boutique owner tell me, from behind designer sunglasses and a babydoll dress, that they were very third world. I smiled politely. My first few days here went a little something like this: sitting on the floor in the middle of a hundred rowdy Afrikaans in the upstairs of a smoky pub watching rugby, then illegally scaling the side of a building and dancing on the roof, sitting on the top of a lion statue at midnight, climbing a mountain in the dark, staying out until five in the morning, and getting both an interview and a job offer in the same day. My first roommate in the hostel was a 61 year old woman from New Zealand, who within the first moments of meeting poured me half her bottle of wine. On my second night I spent five hours at a Cuban themed dive called Che Bar where I met people with names like Gideon, Kellen, and Ronelle, and I've been running into them ever since. Today at a shop on Long Street I heard a couple speaking Kiswahili and almost died. I spoke with them a little, mainly because I only know a little, and it reminded me of how much Kenya feels like home, and how much I treasure it.

So much has already happened, and it's only been a week. Cape Town is a mixture of San Francisco, New York, and Africa. The backwards culture shock is strong, but in a good way. I'm looking at everything wide-eyed like that of a child seeing the world for the first time. I wasn't ready to be thrown into this, but I think that's the best way for it to happen. I'm wondering how much longer this is all going to feel like a fairy tale. I mean, I could go home...but then what?

I presently shower daily, just because I can. There are cement sidewalks and real mattresses. I drink tap water, have real flushing toilets, water that doesn't run out and electricity that always works. I get paid for working, I eat tapas. I got my hair cut for the first time in over six months. Is it great? Yes. Is it better than Kenya? Ha...never that, never that...

Part IV

The time has come to move along
Moving forward is moving on
When Africa starts to sing you her song
You'll never stay away for long
It felt right to stay, but she knew it was wrong
So one day she came, and then she was gone.

Her story begins back at the start
Her journey postponed with a break in the heart
But her life was moving sure and steady
She thought when storms came she'd be ready
But one day she looked up and something was wrong
She lost her self, her strength, her song
She knew not to where, but she was gone.

She had a mission and didn't stop
She knew exactly what she'd have to drop
To make some room for something more
Something with backbone, honesty, core
She booked the flight and plans were drawn
Mustered up courage to be life's pawn
And then, one day, she was gone.

She discovered others and then found herself
Wounded and blind and in bad health
Then she slept in the cradle of humankind
Found inner strength and peace of mind
Drying others' tears stopped her own
Changed the paradigm of all she'd known
Found things she realized she had all along
And then, one day, her pain was gone.

She knew her time had come to leave
Lessons learned and granted reprieve
Packed her bags to carry on
Bid her liberation adieu, so long
Armed with her transformation of brawn
She switched the lights, curtains were drawn
And then, once again...she was gone.

Moving On....

"I'll go kicking and screaming." --AJL

Wow. Has it really been six months?

It all started with Facebook. A picture popped up on my news feed of an old high school friend I hadn't spoken to in years. He was caught in the middle laughter on a bench with five other baby Africans. I was sold, I made the decision right then that I was going to Africa. Six months later I packed up my apartment and said goodbye to the mess that was my life in New York. It's now been six months to the rest of the world, but for me, lifetimes. There are many things that I'm happy to leave in the past, right where they should be kept, and even more that I'm happy to bring into my future. When I compare my state of mind then to my state of mind now, the most significant difference in the way I feel, is strong.

We all came for different reasons. We came from different places in our lives and on the planet. For some, it was a step into the unknown, a leap of faith. For me, it was a yes instead of a no, a plane ticket instead of metro fare. When I left, I wasn't sure why I came, or what I would find, I just knew it was something I hadn't yet realized I needed. I was right. We are all looking for something. For answers to our questions, reasons for our lives, a purpose to carry out each day. Did I find this? I found this in the hands I held and the faces I washed, in the laughter and questions of my classrooms, in the gratitude of the street vendors to receive an extra 40 cents, and in the scraped knees of neighborhood five year olds. I realize now it wasn't about what I would find, but rather what would find me.

I hear sometimes we must travel great distances to find in ourselves what was there all along. By discovering others, I discovered myself. I learned the importance of being a familiar face, to share a meal...or a hand. I learned to love myself through the unconditional love of a stranger, and to appreciate myself for the right reasons. It wasn't always easy, I learned to accept harsh realities every day. I had to think three times about everything I encountered. I discovered my boundaries, and where to draw the line of self-disclosure. I learned that giving more attention to myself is more important than getting it from others. I learned to speak my truth, but know when to keep it to myself. I remembered who I was and above all, to stay true to myself. Africa--she took some of me...and I took some of her.

To my kids: Yes, once more, I promise I will not forget you.

"But she was happy; she knew the time had come to stop."
--Paulo Coehlo, Eleven Minutes

See you all soon.

The Beginning of the End...

I almost made it the entire six months, but alas, my wallet was finally lifted. Stolen by use of diversion, on a matatu en route to a children's orphanage...oh irony. On the upside, this officially makes me a real Nairobian.

It's my last two weeks and I'm coasting. All in all I'm pretty satisfied--three different orphanages, three different schools, empowerment groups, two NGOs, corporate work, an HIV/AIDS womens' group, ZanaA website, and one article on African history. I'm also checking out an NGO called PASSOP (People Against Suffering, Suppression, Oppression and Poverty) as soon as I get into Cape Town. Last weekend I traveled back to Karatina and Nyeri town to bid adieu to all my kids upcountry and of course, Mama. The kids were amazing. The babies had grown so quickly, and some of my kids even started crying when I walked into class. No Mungiki sightings, thankfully, and I finished my 12th book throughout this trip. Read Three Cups of Tea. Seriously, read it.

Anywhere you are in Kenya...upcountry, the bush, the dirt, city centre...no matter where, if it's a Sunday, you hear the singing. Starting at 7am, you will hear the glorious sound of church music, and it's actually so beautiful. It's the one day where everyone unites, across tribes, across ages, across economic status, everyone is one. I will miss that, terribly...

Part III

I have a sharp mind and a sharp tongue
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion
And it probably has once or twice, I have a notion
And for that I'm sorry.
Some tears actually froze, off the tip of my nose
And became ice. And the ice became daggers
So I keep them staggered
As ammunition.
Better ammunition than an al Qaeda mission
Or the civil mob of al Shabaab insurgents in Somalia
Civil civilians by the millions
Killed. I mean how can you call a war...
Civil. Or
Holy. Take your land
Your religion but then what do you really
Have?
Or what about the war against the people? The silent war
Against the people, who won't keep their mouths shut anymore
Isn't stealing jobs the same as stealing money from pockets
Or launching rockets
To destroy a nation, that might have had a chance
To help itself further advance
Yes Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister
You let your people kill
Your people. Fight
Your battles for you--so you won't have too. Might
You be saying your blood is worth more
Than the blood they spill from each other or
For the people...by the people?
Your greed makes me sick
I spit on the ground take mud and smear it
Across your face you disgust me
A disgrace...to all
You're just as bad as the owners who called their slaves n-ggers
Then blamed it on a race
To the finish line.
And today in this hour we uncover the power
Whose hands spilled the blood, before a hot shower
And tried to bury it
Deeper than the corpse of the people
Who carried it.

See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
Long after the men in the street stop fighting
But my fingers won't.
They decide the length of this ride when
My emotions subside but usually
They don't.
They keep writing. They tell the story that won't
Come out of the mouths of the kids who can't tell me why
They flinch when I brush by
The trouble is now Mwafrican, that means I'm African
Even more than my language or skin that I'm in
Kuja me child and sema your story
She called me I listened I told her my story
Say what you want but Africa knows
More than your words that you speak cause it shows
But she doesn't.
She's tough but she cries. You'll see her real tears in deception
And lies.
In girls on the street, 11 years old
Prostituting themselves just so they can eat
And you let them. Just sit on your throne watch from your seat
Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. President
Dry Africa's tears and she'll dry yours.

See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
I have a sharp mind and sharp tongue
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion.

Hotel Rwanda

There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun...but there is a church in Rwanda that makes you wonder if that same sun ever even existed. It’s not some blockbuster hit with an Academy Award winning actor named Don Cheadle. It’s real, it’s raw, it happened. It has the power to grab your heart, rip it from your chest and tear your preconceived notions into a thousand different pieces.

It’s a beautiful city, Kigali; it’s a beautiful country, Rwanda. The hills are rolling, green and serene, and there is a peace and calm you wouldn’t expect when just a few years prior there was complete anarchy amidst genocide. This months marks the 15th year anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda, and I’m here. I can’t really believe it, to be honest. I watched Hotel Rwanda for the first time about one year ago, and I never would have guessed that I’d bring myself to sit at a table in the Milles Collines, or stand facing thousands of bones in two of the churches that housed some of the largest mass killings of the genocide.

It began with the German, but ultimately the Belgian colonization that divided them in the first place. There were two tribes, Hutu and Tutsi. In most instances, the Tutsis were classified as those having less than ten cows, and Hutus were those with more. It was that simple. And so it came to be that the Tutsis made up the minority, the lower class. The first attempt at genocide was in 1992, and unsuccessful. It was during that time that the Tutsis were compiling the RPF and gaining strength, but the Hutus were always a stronger power, thus civil war. Then one day, 6th April 1994, the President’s plane (he was a Hutu) was shot down (said to be by the RPF), and utter insanity ensued. The order was given to kill all Tutsis; to kill those married to a Tutsi, those with Tutsi children, and those Hutus who were sympathetic to the Tutsis. Friends killing friends, family killing family, it was kill or be killed. The order was given by the government. Government got the common people to commit this genocide for them. Government supplied the weaponry. It lasted for 100 days. Those who fled stayed in the swamps for months. Some died merely because of the living conditions throughout their time of refuge.

Ntarama and Nyamata are the locations of the two churches where thousands of people were trapped and killed by the masses. Merely being inside takes one’s breath away. I came face to face with all the clothing left behind by the dead, strewn on the rafters and hung on the walls. There were skulls of children, men, and women. The smallest skulls were the hardest to bear. There is an eerie, cold, secluded feeling to it...forgotten almost, yet frozen in time. I could close my eyes and see the chaos, the destruction, hear the screams, taste the fear. There were school books, shoes, and shards of metal once used to kill the victims. In the front right corner there were shelves of plates, cups, and bowls found among the kitchen remains. In the front left corner was a chest full of school books. Some were in tact; some were splattered with brownish-red and burnt in half. As one of the guides picked up a book and flipped through it, we came across a date that read December, 1993. This was the math book of a child in 7th grade, and it became all too real. In the back of the church, rows and rows of skulls and bones were lined up and stacked on shelves on top of one another. Some of the skulls were crushed, and you could tell the way in which they died. Some had names written on them, those that had been identified. One of the skulls had a sharp shard of metal cleanly pierced through it and into the eye. This brutality is sickening.

The Rwandan President has recently warned Kenya: “Do you see what happened here, you should learn from us, you are going along this same path with your political violence!”

It was the second church that was the hardest. It was called Nyamata. Both of the boys acting as guides, 21 and 24 years respectively, were in the church when the Hutu army came to attack. They sought refuge there because back in 1992, the church was a safe haven, and they thought it would again be a false alarm. This time they weren’t so lucky. The boys were 6 and 9 years old at the time, yet they are still so raw with their recollections. The genocide began on a Tuesday, and the killers came on the second day. 10,000 Tutsis were killed within those walls. The first boy saw his mother killed with a panga (sword) and her limbs cut from her body. He showed us the underground catacombs where coffins held 30 bodies each. The other shelves held thousands upon thousands of bones, stacks and stacks of the nameless. The only way a new body is identified is if the killer comes forward to admit to the family the precise location in which he killed their beloved. He must ask for forgiveness. Piles of clothes were scattered, practically covering the floor. At the front was the altar, the once beige-colored cloth draped over the top was now stained with dark brown dried blood. A few identity cards were lying on top. And in the back were hundreds of bags. Carrier bags, shopping bags, they were filled with newly uncovered bones, mostly unidentified.

The second boy held his story within the weight of his eyes, the thick glassy shield over his irises, too numb for memories. They were bloodshot red, and most of his story was translated, the little English he could speak. He said he cries a lot, it’s difficult for him. He said it’s hard to tell, you can look at a person who dresses nicely, who walks and talks like a regular person, but they are dead inside...He said it was hard for him to tell such a personal account because it haunts him daily. I could have listened to him forever, I couldn’t speak because I wanted to absorb every syllable he spoke. I felt so incredibly fortunate to have had the honor to listen to a survivor of such a horrific and wrongful tragedy. I hung on every word, it was the most intense recollection I’d heard. He was trusting us with his life story. How could he confide in us, strangers, wazungu he barely knew? I was blown away at his courage and strength. He said there was guilt, the Why me? Why was I the one to survive? Out of 10,000 people killed in that church, he was one of only seven to survive. Seven. The church was so large, and the roof was littered with bullet holes from the grenade explosions. They threw a grenade in to kill as many as possible at first, then came in with spears and pangas. The killings were brutal. He told us the killers came thrrough the front and broke into the smaller room first, where his brother was hiding. They cut off his brother’s head. As they did the same to the others in the first room, they threw the heads into the crowd and made the Tutsis play with them like footballs. They cut off arms and legs and threw them into the crowd as well. They took the pregnant women, laid them on the altar and cut their stomachs open. They killed the unborn babies and threw them into the center of the church. This boy was hiding behind a cement statue. He took the blood from others around him and covered his face in it, to make it look like he was already dead...at nine years old. He was hiding at the bottom of a slant in the church, and because of all the cut bodies, the blood was draining down onto him. It got into his ears, his mouth, and he couldn’t make a sound or move. He asked us to imagine the smells he endured lying still amidst the dead bodies for two full days. He knew he had to get out because the Hutus would soon come back sneezing powder. They’d throw the powder over the bodies to identify and kill those that were still alive. He finally escaped and hid for the next three months. He said the sounds never leave him.

They kept asking us if we had to go, if they were taking up too much of our time. It killed me to hear him say that...My time? Nothing could possibly be worth more of my time. The boys pled with us to take pictures, to go back and show everyone what we saw, to tell their story. They asked us to do it so that no one could pretend the genocide didn’t happen, so that it will never be forgotten. To keep the dead alive, respected, and remembered. So this is for you, my friends. This is your story.

Harambee

As the sun went down today, I re-lived my years of adolescents on Oro Avenue, when I'd try to stay out as late as possible playing outside in the summer nights before the sun sank and I was called in for dinner. I played out in the street of our estate, attempting the long-jump in a game called, "three sticks." All the neighborhood kids joined us (age 5 to 23) and I was the only white person, though no one seemed to notice. We laughed and continued to play the game until it got dark.

I notice something beautiful about Africa. No one worries about they way they look on the outside, and because this applies to everyone, the type of person you are on the inside is always what's noticed, what's important. That's an obvious problem with the States...and especially in New York. I realize now how jaded I was...many people there are so consumed with working on how they look on the outside, they stop working on how they look on the inside. It's sad really...but now that I realize this, it's so much easier to steer clear of those influences.

I came inside after the game and met cousin Sanau (Carol) in the kitchen. Rice, we cook rice. Every...single...night. But on the bright side, I'm getting really good at it. And...healthy. It's a good way to bond, the cooking I mean...and we all take turns doing something. And there's dancing. There's always dancing. Obviously I'm hooked...I've learned new dance moves like the Gully Creeper, the Kuku, the Helecopter and the Mosquito. Yes, it's true. It's a huge event...sometimes random friends show up, it's such a community, an amazing way of life, where people take the time every day to actually enjoy and appreciate one another's company. This way of life, everyone helping everyone, is the Kenyan motto: Harambee. Harambee is community living...everyone doing their part to help. It's hard to think about not having this be a part of my life...so I'm bringing it back. As soon as I get an apartment.

Nile River Rafting

I didn't know when I was on that excruciatingly dreadful bus ride to Uganda, that I would find soon find myself face to face with the most powerful rapids along the Great White Nile, otherwise known as: death. Water isn't my biggest fear, but I think drowning would be a horrible way to go, especially while volunteering in Africa. However, once the idea got into my head, I thought about what a great story it would make, and decided there was no possible way I could leave without doing it.

Our guide's name was Prince Charles. I should have known then what I was in for. Oh Prince. He was so intimidating that he made you think that if you didn't listen to him carefully, you'd drown. It started easy enough, but after only 30 seconds of practice when Prince decided we were ready to go, I got a little nervous. Rapids range from grade 1 to grade 6, but rafts aren't permitted to go through a grade 6. Certain death. We were to take on four ‘grade 5’ rapids, and even more ‘grade 4’ and ‘grade 3.’ The thing about these rapids is you don't have time to really prepare yourself for what's about to happen, and it’s scarier than you can ever imagine. You hear them, the song of death, for about 3 full minutes before you begin the decent, but you can’t actually see the rapids until you’re right on top of them. Surprise attack. No matter how many times you’ve taken a rapid, no matter the size, the same intense feeling of anxiety, washes over you. And that, my friends, is because you never forget the first time you get thrown over. Trapped under water, no idea when you’ll surface…it’s the scariest feeling in the world. You have to count, to keep calm. You count because Prince tells us you’ll never be under for longer than seven seconds. Seven seconds is an eternity when the Nile is on top of you. But no matter how much it scares you, you get addicted. Well, I did at least. Not too surprising considering I seek adrenaline rushes as a hobby. It was incredible, and I have not one picture. Lucky I don’t...my camera probably would have ended up at the bottom of the Nile, up in Egypt.

But I think I was right, it did make a pretty great story.

The Dirty Truth

17 June 2009
I really want to remember this moment forever so I’m just going to say it...I haven’t showered for a full ten days.

Moment of silence.

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.

Soccer game seizures

It's midnight. I'm suddenly woken up by my cell phone ringing in my ear and a familiar volunteer is on the other end of the receiver. The boys all went to the soccer game tonight together and Jared Keller is shouting, "Jen! Austin just had a seizure, is he allergic to any medicine?!" Um...what?? "Make sure his wallet and cell phone don't get jacked with all the ruckus!" I tell him as an immediate reaction. Austin is my closest friend in Kenya. He's from Texas, my brother's age, and completely insane...so of course I love him. For godsake the kid drank goat's blood during a sacrificial ceremony in the Masaailand last March. But now it's midnight, pouring down rain, and I'm supposed to know what type of medicine he's allergic to. I stumble into his room, start emptying his bags -things flying everywhere- not really sure what I'm looking for, and wondering how I somehow came to be his "In Case of Emergency" contact. I have this self-induced sense of obligation to take care of Austin, and somehow I think this consequentially leads me to take more responsibility for myself. As I'm throwing on whatever clothes I've left on the floor, I think of how I watched my friend Megan have a seizure in the middle of a Blink 182 concert in 10th grade. Well, at least I'm prepared.

Next thing I know I'm pulling up to the Emergency entrance of Karen Hospital in a cab, and as I get to Austin's room he's lying in a bed, still wearing his highlighter-yellow Chelsea soccer jersey from the game he was at, and looking like hell. "What happened?!" I almost yell at him. "I have no idea," he says in a daze, still in shock. "Are you sure you didn't just blackout from drinking??" He barely had four over the course of three hours--totally acceptable. "Are you on any drugs??" He wasn't. The doctor suddenly comes in and starts showing me all of his negative test results an I'm strangely trying to process whether or not my appearance screams mother and if that's why I'm being trusted with all this information. There were three other volunteers there, but whatever. I'm trying to focus on the piece of paper she's showing me, and remembering how my mom would always say, "Jenny! Why didn't you pay attention!" everytime I couldn't recall what my own doctors would say to me about my own test results or diagnosis. I try to concentrate, I really do, but only recall that he was negative for meningitis and malaria, and that the doctor said that was the most important thing.

It was a long night but we made it home safely...and Austin is back to normal, sort of. Seizures, foaming at the mouth, hey--at least now I know how to get to the hospital...

Gonga'd

Dad: "You've got us on edge again Jen...just planning on living in South Africa for awhile...no big deal..."
Mom: "So Jenny, if you turn up missing, like...who looks for you?"

Today was national "Don't Pick Up the White Girl Day" for all bus and matatu drivers. I walked three kilometers and waited two hours just to get a lift. Then on the way back home I stepped in what looked to be dried dirt and sunk six inches deep into mud wearing flip flops. As if it wasn't enough, later on I walked through the gate to our house and scraped my arm on the protruding nail normally used to keep the gate shut, so I look like I was clawed by an overgrown mountain gorilla in the mist. It was a day of being gonga'd for certain. In Kenya when you get taken advantage of, whether you're overcharged, or just plain screwed, it's called being "gonga'd." Most newcomers are often getting gonga'd by Kenyans, and shamelessly. It's like this game and they like to laugh at you...lightheartedly, of course.

Last time I was in Kibera in an Empowerment Group, a 17 year old student asked if I could help her with her relationship problems. I didn't realize at the time that high school dilemmas are slightly more complicated than 10 and 11 year old kids and their problems. Seventh grade students ask if they should like boys. Twelfth grade students ask what they should do if their boyfriends threaten to commit suicide if they break up with them. Not to mention I haven't had the best track record with past boyfriends, so I'm pretty sure this makes me the absolute least qualified individual to answer these inquiries. The 17 year old looked as if she was about to break down in tears as she explained to me that her ex-boyfriend has been stalking her new boyfriend(both 24) and threatening to kill him if she doesn't break up with him. He's not only pulled a gun on the new boyfriend, but it's fairly realistic that he'd actually do it. He's killed people before, and has even threatened this girl's mother after showing up at her house. The police won't do anything about it even if they were notified, and the only reason the boy hasn't done it yet is because he wants to kill the boyfriend in front of this 17 year old girl. So what do I say? She asks me what she should do, and people around us don't even sound surprised...like it's common. No one is here to protect her, it's not like I can offer her anything of the sort, and even other field officers just shake their head and tell me that's the way it is. There's really only so much we can do, and no more.

On a lighter note, ZanaAfrica is going so well. I'm working on editing the website content and layout(some changes have already been posted) and I'm taking a look at the business plan today. Later I'll be in the field working with the kids again, praying that the 17 yr old is in her seat...P.s. Check it out...I'm famous: www.zanaafrica.org/zinner.asp?pcat=people&cat=staff and please look around the rest of the site too!

Derailed

Last week two of my good friends were caught in the middle of gunfire in downtown Nairobi. It happened while riding on a normal matatu route when mechanics flared up over the debate of certain property with the government. The girls said they couldn't even tell from which way the shots were being fired, and to top it off, they were mugged while running for cover. Just another day in Kenya....

Tensions have risen with my current NGO...since finding ZanaAfrica my activity has exponentially increased. Not only am I spending time with kids participating in running empowerment groups in schools within Kibera, but I'm helping to play a part in building up this new NGO...from website development to streamlining the business plan. When you realize that government is the problem in Kenya, your efforts need to be turned to a project that initiates redirecting the power to generate income back to the people. I couldn't be happier with my new project, and apparently GVN/VICDA(my current program)is not finding this to coincide with their motives. I'm as confused as you are, since we're all here for the same reason, but they want to kick my partner and I out of the program since we're not working on a weekly basis playing with kids at one of their schools. I'm a little defeated at the moment trying to understand how this is acceptable, but excited at the discovery of a project that puts my skills and passion to work. Additionally, the money given to GVN for my stay here will be reimbursed(in part) so that I can pay for my own accommodation and transport until my flight out of Kenya to South Africa on August 1st.

I came to Kenya with a one way ticket and an existential crisis, hoping to find a clue and a conscience. I'll let you know how it turns out...

Crossing Borders

So here we are. It's 2:30pm and the three of us are boarding a 24-hour bus to Kigali, Rwanda. Armed with a backpack and an ipod, slightly apprehensive, I know that it will be dark for at least 12 hours during this trip and a hijacking isn't unlikely. Not to mention, I don't think about the fact that it might cost me US $50 to enter into each country. No...I just have two US $1 bills, 3000 shillings(equivalent to US $40), and dried pineapple rings. See the thing about traveling to different countries within Africa...is that you have to cross the border. The only real experience I have with border crossings is stumbling through to Southern California from Tiajuana, Mexico. If I thought the Mexican Federali was bad...I don't know what I was thinking.

At about midnight we arrive at our first border at Uganda and we are completely delirious. The only Mzungus on the bus, we try to act casual. I use that term lightly considering we're in a bus full of Kenyans. I also realize I have no other source of cash besides my VISA credit card...so here's hoping. Inevitably, my biggest fear manifests itself as the obnoxious lady behind the glass tells me that it will cost me US $50 please. Oh for the love of god of course I don't have it. I'm staring blankly for a few moments, I'm too tired to deal with this, and I don't even know what's going on. She just returns the look as I'm clearly not impressing her at this time of night. I ask if she accepts VISA and with a look that says, you can't be serious, she spits out a "No." Somehow this doesn't surprise me as I look around at the shack of a room with no door and faulty lighting. "Jen," says Sara, "they don't even have electricity, I hardly think they'd have a credit card machine." "But it's VISA!" I say desperately, "It's everywhere you want to be!" "JEN," she pulls me together, "does this LOOK like it's anywhere you'd want to be???" I can't believe I'm attempting to use my B of A credit card to cross the border. Good thing she had some extra shillings on her, I have been saved for what wouldn't be the last time on this trip.

After that it was pretty much smooth sailing as far as bus rides go. Besides a few 4am stops in the middle of nowhere, getting into Uganda from Rwanda I was feeling confident and tried to get out of the fee. Since I had already paid to enter Uganda on the first leg of my trip I thought this would be sufficient. At first I attempted to barter with my receipt from a few days prior. He threw it away. Well that was a dead end. So I shifted focus to my multiple entry Kenyan Visa, which has proven to be completely useless during this trip. After I explained that I had already paid to have the ability to get back into Kenya after leaving, the border control looked at me and said, "But this is UGANDA." I retorted, "I already paid the first time and what happens if I don't have any more money??" He gave me the same unamused stare and emphasized each word as he said, "Then you don't cross through. Next please." Oh for godsake, I've lost his attention and I'm going to be left at the border. Really, I was almost left at the border and no one even cared. And then, suddenly, the clouds parted as Sara discovered yet ANOTHER $50 at the bottom of her bag of tricks. I don't know how she keeps doing this, and I can't think about what would have happened had she not. Thanks Sara. Now the only thing left to accomplish on this bus was another 10 hours to Nairobi at night.

The reign of terror. That's what I'm on. It's my 39th or 40th hour of bus transport throughout this trip and I'm staring out the window panes of a bus slightly larger than the one you took to elementary school. It's so dark I can't see what I'm writing, but I'm watching the most incredible lightening storm I've ever seen. I've always been fascinated with lightening, but somehow the fact that it's in Africa makes it that much better. Either that, or for the sole purpose that if I don't concentrate on something else I remember I'm riding the Death Star a.k.a. AKAMBA bus. The first red flag was that my seat belt was non-existent, and as we blew through a small village at lightening speed over rocky roads I started to get worried. The driver is a crazy SOB with a death wish for certain. I'm convinced he's the devil. He takes every bump with alarming speed and I fly four feet in the air each time. We are completely aghast at the inability to control our flailing bodies. This has got to be a joke, what is going on here?! We're traveling at a life-threatening 3000 kilometers per hour over dirt roads at 2am. I don't know what was scarier...white water rafting down the Nile, jumping out of a plane in Monterey, or taking AKAMBA bus services. That's what happens when your copy of "Lonely Planet: East Africa" is a 2006 publication...the recommended services are slightly out of date. There was absolutely no possibility of sleep, so the next 10 hours proved to be pretty much the worst sustained torture of my life. I can't believe we, or the bus, made it in one piece. Once our feet finally hit solid ground I crawled home, but not without a plethora of battle wounds on my arms and legs.

Part II

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.

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.

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."

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...

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.

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.

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."

"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...."

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.

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....