The Other Side of Africa

Today, the U.S. embassy here in Kenya issued a warning based on information that there is to be an imminent terrorist attack slated to target places where foreigners gather, like night clubs or malls.  (http://edition.cnn.com/2011/10/22/world/africa/kenya-us-warning/) The embassy is urging US citizens to defer any travel plans to Kenya until a safer time.  Our housemates and colleagues will travel to Nairobi in the morning and be there for meetings over the next few days.  They now have to re-think their travel plans, down to the places they hoped to get a refreshing milkshake or grab a bite of decent Indian food.  Are these places that would be targeted?  They cater to the Western crowds, so why wouldn’t they be? We also are counting on the hope that these threats don’t extend to the foreigners in our small little border town. As many of you know, one of my closest friends was abducted last year in South Sudan and held for 105 days, which have remained the longest and and most difficult 105 days of my life to date.  To have someone you love, their life hanging in the balance, and have little to do but wait and watch and hope...it is an experience I wouldn't wish on anyone. If I hadn't already known, the experience would've taught me to take impending threats in the region very seriously.

The road home from work.

A good friend who worked for Kiva in Kenya some years ago has reminded me often of how easy it is to glamourize the ex-pat life, to relish in the memories of this lush and exotic continent, and to focus on the good friends made and the grace and hospitality shown, while pushing into dark recesses all the less savory memories and moments.  I am indeed loving it here and it is wonderful in so many ways. However, my posts so far have likely made like sound fairly idyllic and mentioned only a few negative aspects (such as fear and a few of my least favorite things), and I have yet to paint you a more accurate portrayal of the downside of life in Isibania, Kenya. 

For a start, the evening that we arrived off the long bus ride to Isibania, I joined a small group of colleagues and ventured into town for our first Kenyan meal.  The stares are inescapable, as this is a small border town where few foreigners venture.  We walked to a small restaurant and on the way, while chatting with my friend and colleague David (whose wife, Janine, was a few yards ahead), a man of about twenty said ‘I want to fuck you,’ and laughed with his large and slightly menacing-looking group of friends.  We are still unsure if the comment was meant for David or me (or both of us for that matter), and we are still unsure if the man actually understood what the words meant in English, but nonetheless, he was one of the first Kenyans to welcome me to my new home in my first hours here with those words. Since that time, I have had a handful of uncomfortable experiences, mostly with Kenyan men following or harassing me in some fashion, so much so that I am putting my Shaolin training DVDs to good use and carrying pepper spray for the long walks home on my own.

There are also all the children.  You know I love children, so it pains me to say this, but sometimes I want to avoid them or to sit them down and give them a talking-to, if only I had the Swahili skills to do it.  I don’t begrudge them the excitement of seeing a mzungu (white person) or a Chinese (which they seem to call all Asians).  I always try to greet them with a smile and a wave, but  many yell “Howareyou, howareyou, howareyou,” often not knowing what the words mean, not knowing what the response is, and not stopping until we are long out of sight.  And still that I don’t mind that so much, despite the fact that it happens constantly, each and every day.  What I really mind is when they ask for something.  Even the ones I am relatively good friends with, we will be walking along having a nice inter-lingual chat and then all of sudden there it is… ‘give me 5,000 bob.’ That’s equivalent to $50 USD and is worth a heck of a lot in shillings.  They ask for dolls, my watch, my bag, my sunglasses, everything.  I don’t know where they learn it, and maybe a few of them had some degree of success with that approach in the past, but I don’t appreciate being seen as a walking ATM machine. On top of that, some that live very near us have gone so far as to throw stones at us (I've been hit by one myself), smear us with mud, and swing at us with large sticks.

There is certainly corruption, which I have only seen to small degrees here and there.  I have to pay $30 or more to get each package sent to me out of the post office (and that may actually be legit), but so far most have been opened and then resealed with a different tape.  The boxes I sent myself had inventory lists in them, so I am not sure if that is the only reason nothing was taken or not.  Also, when I walked over to Tanzania with my friends last weekend, two of us were taken into the immigration office and we just talked our way out, but when I related the story to Kenyan colleagues they suggested it would have gone faster and smoother with a nice bribe.

The teaching system has terrible aspects too.  As I have mentioned caning is rampant.  Teachers lay dozens of kids down in the grass and just beat them (so violently and viciously) right in front of us, knowing full well it is illegal, but also knowing no one will enforce that and that if we want to keep working in these schools, we won’t rock the boat.  It is unbelievable.  The male teachers like to try to draw me into uncomfortable conversations about why I should marry a Kenyan man, why white women make good wives and bring prosperity, or when they can invite me to their homes over the weekends.  The first time I encountered this, I was lucky to have Lindsey, my US counterpart by my side, who is aware that this is the norm and is a pro at shutting it down. Still, the teachers have shown no shame in asking me to give them money, to pay for them to go to university, etc. 

My friend and colleague Sabora,
who is an example of a good teacher.

People here also believe in all sorts of nonsense.  Just Wednesday I had to try to explain to one of the head teachers at a local school that tall children are in fact not proven to be completely devoid of intelligence and that being tall does not stretch out their brains so that they are thinner and therefore less useful or capable of retaining information. However, despite my protests, I still don’t think the message got through.

And lastly, though I don’t know how much I agree with this idea, life can seem more challenging than in the States.  Having clean running water is a luxury, you have limited food options (but we've done such an amazing job being creative with what we have), the electricity and internet are quite spotty, you constantly don’t know if you’re getting tan or are just covered in layers of dirt until you get in the shower and it all washes off. It can take an hour or two to walk anywhere you need to be in the hot equatorial sun.  You work long hours, when you’re done working, there are meals to cook, dishes to be done, toilets to be cleaned, floors to be swept.  There are frogs in the bathrooms, dive-bombing insects landing in your dinner, and mosquitos everywhere at night. Oh, and the pancake spiders!  I almost forgot to mention them.  Large, flat, dark things that fly at you when you swing a them.  Lizards, bats and other creatures doing battle in the ceiling over your bed at night....This probably sounds awful to some (or most) of you, but to at least this point, I have to say that I’d still take it over the cluttered craziness of life in DC, LA, or even my beloved NYC.

Rosie, Changala, and T. Hong

Ultimate frisbee.

Things may seem more challenging but they also prove to be so very worth the  effort.  Yesterday, for instance, our friend and colleague, Andrew Chacha invited us to his shamba (farm) to spend the day picnicking, playing, resting, and communing with one another.  This meant we needed to buy some chickens for him to slaughter (I've found that it's much easier to meet your dinner before it's killed in Kenya than many places I've been) and food needed to be prepared well in advance.  It was about an hour and a half walk, carrying supplies on a dusty road in the hot sun.  Each car or truck that passed sprayed us with showers of rocks, dirt, and debris.  As we laid the blankets down, strange spiders and insects came from all over to join us and children gathered in the woods to watch what the strange foreigners would do.  In the States, this would have been a much quicker, cooler, and more sterile endeavor.   Yet, it was in fact one of the most beautiful days I have ever experienced.  We could be there without a thousand kids yelling ‘mzungu!’ or ‘howareyou?’, lying in the grass, staring at the sky, listening to the wind graze the trees.  We shared food with our Kenyan friends, played games, and just enjoyed the beauty of the place and the people. People noticed that I was quiet, but I just felt so blissfully zen soaking in the sun, the beauty of the shamba, and the warmth of the people around us, I thought adding noise would only detract from the moment.

So there it is.  I won’t lie to you and I'm not trying to shield you from the truth; there are as many pitfalls and faults here as anywhere if not more, no matter how exquisite I would like to believe it is.  But, if it were perfect, I wouldn’t be here to do the work I am doing.  Still, it remains one of the most immaculate places I have ever had the good fortune to wander, faults and all. And there's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be.

Love to all from among the beautiful banana trees,
Jesi