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."