I can't stop reminiscing lately! Austin takes us on a tour of one of our many homes while living in Kenya...
Showing posts with label Kenya. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kenya. Show all posts
May 18, 2010
June 23, 2009
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.
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.
June 12, 2009
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.
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.
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.
May 27, 2009
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!
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!
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