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.