Dungbeetles and Dragonflies

The sun rises at 6am. The morning dew sticks to the freshly grown foliage, shivering gently in the wind. Multitudes of dung beetles emerge from their hideaways and the dragonflies dip and weave to each gust and zephyr.

Yesterday evening came with dark clouds and the night brought heavy rainfall. The morning air smells crisp and cool, and the ground reveals a dark, fertile clay. Every bare patch of land displays budding sprouts-- the germination of freshly sown fields. Days of labor, hand plowed fields or cow-drawn plows, begin to bear results.

Mounds of fresh cow dung, renewed once again in pungent odor by the rains, lay on the roads. The dung beetles cluster and climb upon these mounds of treasure, shaping pieces into balls and rolling them with their hind legs off the road. The dragonflies flit capriciously, dancing, weaving and making love mid-air in the cool morning. Their translucent wings glimmer for moments with a spectrum of color, and they once again speed away, in search of a more playful breeze.

As the sun awakens and casts it's piercing heat upon the village, the dirt road bustles with life-- herds of cattle wander aimlessly to graze, motorbike taxis carrying people to and fro, and cohorts of matching school children, walking and giggling and fighting together on their way to school. As many go about their day, none stop to notice the adamant dung beetles, furiously balling and rolling their dung from the roads. No school child stops to point at the frolicsome dragonflies, fluttering about.

In America, December brings with it falling leaves and winter chills. Christmas music blares on every radio station, and shops bustle with business. But it is springtime in Kenya; the time for white perfume flowers to bloom and shed from the trees, the time for weddings and animal slaughterings. Time for people to start falling in love.

The dragonflies are whimsical. They shift and move purposefully, then in moments they stop to hover as if struck by an epiphany. They are much more clever than their dung-beetle counterparts; never have they fallen victim to a child's playful swat or the squash of a windshield. The dragonflies are magical.

The dung beetles are foolish. They are drawn toward the fresh dung like Their blundering strides look like those of a man who happens upon a mountain of gold, who ambles slowly toward it in sheer delight. Many of these dung beetles fall victim to the bottom of road tires, heavy cow hooves, or rubber shoe soles. They will die for their dung.

The springtime renews my sense of hope and vigor. I marvel at the stupidity of the dung beetles, but at the same time I admire them for their determination; they so clearly know their goal and set out to attaining it at all costs. And all the while I grow jealous of the dragonflies, that the mates are so in tune to each other they can make love in mid-air, without missing a beat. I draw in a deep, refreshing breath and think how beautiful it must be to be so in tune with the one you love.

Just a Day

Live a day with me (December 07, 2010)--

It is 6pm, outside I know the sun is setting though today I do not see it. I am busy cutting onions and the potency stings my eyes. Light still creeps in through my open window, where just outside children's laughter can be heard between the pattering, bare-footed stamps against the concrete floor. Among them is Kimonge, the smallest, cutest child God has ever created. I often pick him up and swing him by his arms, and his reflexive smile and giddy laughter tickles me. Whenever he sees me, he comes up and pets my legs curiously (since leg hair is non-existent on Kenyan men or women), or climbs under my arms where I can give him a hug. I never refuse him. I cannot.

**Just this morning I met three new Europeans from Belgium who had come to help build houses at a women's group near me. Their process was slow going, and for the entire morning we sat and spoke of our cultural differences, and the similarities our cultures share from the differences to that of Kenya. I came for a stove-making conference which was to begin at 8:30am. It was now 12pm and the instructors had just arrived. **
**Inside a nearby house, the conference was underway. I heard Swahili being spoken inside through the open windows as I neared, but the moment I entered the speaker switched to English. I took a seat in the back of the room and listened for awhile. The speaker spoke slowly so the masons could understand his English. The facades are out in full force, but by now I expect them.**

The sun casts its final, purple rays and loses its daily battle to the darkness. I draw my curtains and flip on my light. Onions are simmering in vegetable oil, and the deep green kale pops as I add it upon the skillet. The children outside have stopped playing. The older ones are washing dishes, preparing for their late supper.

**The conference lasted just two hours, and after I pedaled the 5 kilometers back home. Along the way, I noticed strong, green shoots of maize growing firm in the ground, so I dismounted and took a few pictures. The soil is red and strong, and provides food and security to these people. This season will show a good harvest, and the people will praise the name of God for the rains.**
**Just 100 meters down the road from my house lives a youth that I have recently befriended. He is the only one in the area with a computer, and we have been sharing media back and forth. His sister is beautiful and well spoken in three languages, and I enjoy spending time with them both. Today I came to say a few greetings to him. His beautiful sister is, in all honesty, a strong motivation for my frequent visits as well. I'm hoping my infatuation with her dies quickly.**

The fried vegetables sizzle even after I extinguish the heat from beneath the pan. Today I am sharing supper and company with my lonely neighbor who is housekeeping for a family that went on vacation. I brought my vegetables; she cooked rice and beans and we spoke together in Swahili. In the silence of our conversation, we could hear the screams of the neighboring children. Their father has come home drunk again, and has begun to beat them. I recognize each child's distinctive scream and my helplessness pulls strongly at my heart. My thoughts settle on Kimonge, the helpless small child who owns a piece of my heart. I hold back tears of anger out of respect for my companion, and excuse myself from her much-enjoyed company.

I cooked maize porridge for the absent neighbor's dogs: a mother and a puppy. I pensively stroke the baby puppy and in the cool darkness offer a prayer to God for the family who must needlessly suffer; the most sincere prayer I have had for quite some time.

My thoughts race as I begin to reflect upon today and transfer my thoughts into my computer. What conclusions can be reached, or what lessons learned? My body longs for sleep yet my mind remains disturbed. My life isn't so bad. I pause and watch a small lizard crawl across my wall. My life will never be so bad. Soft rain falls upon my tin roof, and abruptly stops.

Nine Or Vagina

Freshman year of college 2004: My roommate Mark Eckert and I had the same English writing class. Our teacher was a little Asian graduate student named Sophia Wang, and she had us reading novels written specifically by women.

One particular novel (I forget the name) was written by Virginia Wolfe. One night, I remember discussing the novel with my roommate Mark because I had a speech on the novel the following day, and I wanted to make sure I practiced what I wanted to say. Mark had difficulties taking me seriously, and instead was exploring different ways to say Virginia Wolfe's name. He settled on a mix between Virginia and vagina, creating something that sounded like “Vir-gina Wolfe”. He would repeat the name over and over again to subliminally influence me, then he would tell me to be careful not to say “Vir-gina” during my presentation instead of Virginia.

During class the next day, Mark whispered to me things like, “Good luck on your “Vir-gina Wolfe speech” and would just repeat “Vir-gina Wolfe” with a silly grin. With my nerves already taut from the coming presentation and my unreasonable fear that I would actually slip up and say “Vir-gina”, I curtly reprimanded him and stood to give my presentation. Suffice to say, I spoke soundly and pronounced “Virginia” with all the appropriate vowels and consonants.

Yet, here in Kenya I haven't been so lucky.

The other day, a couple of boys walked up to me as I was gathering some milk sap from a tree. They asked me what I was doing and why, so I explained to them that I wanted to test the milky tree sap as a potential glue. The boys looked on with curiosity written on their faces, and after some silence I felt the need to speak again. The conversation, in Swahili, went like this:

Louis: So, what are your names?
Boy 1: Mwarkio
Boy 2: Maganga
Louis: I see. My name is Louis. How old are you?
Boy 1: I am eleven.
Louis: And is this your brother?
Boy 1: Yes.
Louis: How old is he? Wait, let me guess..he is nine or vagina.

The boys' faces immediately flushed with embarrassment. I followed up quickly with “I'm Sorry. I know that word. Sorry!”

I don't buy into Sigmond Freud's philosophies all too much, though my episode might be considered a Freudian slip. I wouldn't say I am particularly sexually frustrated so I think I would have to search for answers in another.

Perhaps language is to blame.

The word for “ten” in Swahili is spelled “kumi”. When learning this word, our language teachers made specific mention to say it correctly, because a very similar word “kuma” means “vagina.” An easy slip up, right?

I remember back to when I was young, hearing words like penis or clitoris made my ears burn and my heartbeat quicken. I could imagine how much more potent words like that are to boys in conservative, rural communities who have not been desensitized by mass media.

The boys were silent after, their hands cupped against their mouths for a time as they sauntered awkwardly away from me. The ordeal made me feel awkward as well, as I would imagine I would feel had I just given the “birds and the bees” talk to my own children.

Well, I have had other Swahili mistakes, but none so blatant as the episode described above. Once, I called my supervisor's daughter a toilet (her name is pronounced“Chow”, and toilet is choo or “cho”), and I told a group of co-workers that my father is pregnant (“dada” is “sister”), and countless others. But the mistakes never hinder me from continuing to speak the language, and for the most part the locals are graciously forgiving.

I never did find out what the kid's age was—I'm guessing he was vagina. And Mark Eckert would have been proud.

Why I Write

I miss my nephew. I haven't seen a Caucasian baby since I last held my sisters' in a small, Pittsburgh theatre. It was the first time he fell asleep on my shoulder. And probably the last.

I miss bike rides up wildcat road, and swims in Spieker pool. I miss strawberries and apples, and fast internet. I miss deep, spiritual conversations and processed junk foods. I miss board games. I miss privacy.

But most of all, I miss my family and my friends. Today is thanksgiving, and it is the first ever that I will not spend with my family. I have been away from my family for longer stretches of time, but knowing they are unreachable sometimes makes me feel like I am suffocating. I remember my father with his mustache and his pure heart, my mother with her cute Asian face and crafty mind. I long for those times again, jamming with my brother-in-law to “Down on the Corner”, or watching my sister regurgitate food to give to her toothless baby--like a bird feeding its young.

So, in my ample spare time, I wrote another poem, and it reflects a longing for all the people I love, and all the people I wish to embrace, yet cannot. It is called “Why I Write”.


Why I Write

To make you understand
only with words?
Words are just secondhand
experience.

Secondhand reality.

But still I write furiously,
the end of the pen swirling
dizzily
in the air.
And for a moment there
I stop and stare
at nothing,
but look deep into my memory
summoning again
the feelings and emotions I had back then
back when I felt them.
Turning the ethereal into the indelible
with this paper and pen
for you, if you care to read.

Because contrary to my wishes, You are not here beside me
To help and to guide me.
Well, this distance has tried me
and still tries me.
But it's the distance that drives the pen so rigorously,
as words leap on the page vigorously
waiting to be seen.
And these words represent
the time that I've spent
thinking of you, and what you meant
to me.
And what you still mean.

How I miss you!
So with these words I kiss you.
Each word carefully placed
to give you a taste
of my affection.
Or it goes to waste-
the love for you that's laced
in my thoughts and self-reflection.

But these are just words to describe feelings
and feelings are but powerful uncertainties,
conjured as if by sorcery,
forcibly
to connect me to you
-and hopefully- you to me.

I write because I love you, and
I want you to know who I am.
And whether or not you love me too
Is whether or not you try to understand.

Sisterly Love

The two Duruma sisters who live across the way from me are highly unusual, at least to my observations as a foreigner. They exhibit a great deal of physical affection and they exhibit this affection openly, as if they have been in a long-standing, intimate relationship.

In this conservative Kenyan culture it is inappropriate for women to wear shorts, show their knees, or wear a shirt that would even begin to show the swell of their breasts (although women whip out their boobs all the time in public to breast-feed)- let alone show any sort of PDA or public display of affection when they are in a relationship. The most PDA I have seen in Kenya thus far was in an airport: a man hugging a younger girl (presumably a daughter) and the exchange of kisses on the cheeks.

One night I walked out of my place and passed by my Duruma sisters' dwelling. The lights were on and they were watching T.V inside on the couch. I paused to glance into their open window to see what they were watching and maybe say hello, but in that moment one of the sisters looked at the other and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. As the sister turned to look, another kiss on the lips followed. I stood in bewilderment, frozen for a couple seconds but remaining undiscovered, altogether unsure of what to make of the ordeal. I didn't end up saying hello.

On a second occasion, I heard a loud noise outside my place, so I drew the curtain to see what was going on. There the Duruma sisters stood, laughing hysterically about something. As I continued watching, I witnessed a very strange game indeed—one sister was putting the other sister's breasts in different shapes and formations, and after they would laugh uncontrollably at the bulging boob-sculpture they created.

Final story- I have a shared bathing room and toilet. They are clearly labeled “Men” and “Women” although no one in my compound follows those rules except for me. The men's bathing room is farthest left and the men's toilet is just next to it. The women's facilities are connected, and mirror the men's. One day I rushed to the men's stall for an urgent 'long call' and after I entered I heard splashing and talking from the men's bathing room. I recognized the voices to be the two Duruma sisters bathing together. Again, it struck me as odd that sisters in their early twenties could bathe together and be okay with it, but what was more of a challenge was to try to poop silently to hide my presence (and therefore my shame) from my friendly neighbors.

Homosexuality is completely illegal in Kenya. It is a crime punishable by imprisonment, and sometimes mob justice carries out a death sentence. It is almost like it doesn't exist in Kenyan's minds, especially in the rural areas. Men can be seen holding hands in public, or dancing together, and it would never be assumed that they were homosexual. It is actually more culturally appropriate for two men to hold hands than it would be for a man and a women, even if they are married. Anyway, I am not at all saying the sisters are incestuous, on the contrary, their actions are not presumptuous in this culture whatsoever. It is just strange to me that behavior that I think is inappropriate or suggestive in some way can be completely acceptable, and behavior that Kenyans would think as being inappropriate in America (like homosexuality, or wearing a speedo) I can find as normal behavior.

Kenya is mostly professing Christianity, and the cultural and religious opposition to homosexuality is astounding. I don't want to get too deep into my observations on the Kenyan religious atmosphere just yet, but at least from what I understand about Jesus in the Bible, I would say he offered compassion, relentless love, and forgiveness to all people, no matter who.

Perhaps the same type of relentless love the two Duruma sisters show each other.

Lightning Without Thunder

I was late coming from Mombasa, or later than I would have liked. It was 4:30pm as I approached the stop for my matatu, and the last round of matatus toward my home come at 5. Usually they are all full.

As I alighted, I saw one of my matatu's pull in to the stage. My lucky day this time, because I didn't want to walk the 10km with my heavy backpack full of coconuts, books and other spoils from Mombasa. And it looked like it was going to rain. Already the rain pounded hard on the ride over, forming streaked puddles in the dips and valleys of the road. It must also have been raining for some time, because large pools collected in various places and a few Maasai could be seen bathing in the dirty water- though undoubtedly not as dirty as their nomadic skin.

But luck was not with me this time around; as I approached the matatu I realized it was packed full to the brim, still with 7 people waiting to get on. With a long sigh I mentally steeled myself for a long and cold journey home. After glancing at my watch I quickened my pace, it was 4:40pm and the sun sets at 6, with the last bits of light fading not more than a half-hour later. The ominous rain clouds darkened the sky, and I knew I had less light to work with. I hoped to make it home in two hours.

Not 200 meters down the road, the matatu rolled by- the conductor looked at me as if to ask if I wanted a ride, and I shouted, “nitasimama!” or “I will stand!”, hoping there was enough room to save me from the long journey home. The matatu stopped, and I boarded the side, standing on a platform where a child or elderly lady would use to boost them up to the cabin. I felt around for anything I could possibly grab on to, as my heavy backpack threatened to pry me from my grip. In front of me stood the conductor who usually stands if the matatu gets full, and behind me another passenger. It was the second time I stood on the outside of a matatu.

Each jerk and bump on the muddy road assaulted my fallible grip and stung the muscles in my arms. I pulled in closer at times to the car, trying to keep both me and my backpack safe from the overhanging thorn trees off the side of the road. Passengers whose heads knocked into my elbows didn't seem to mind, and each time I glanced back at my fellow standing passenger, he cracked a wide, gap-toothed smile.

During my ride, I noticed the ash-grey sky looming over the hills to my left, and the clouds pouring over the tops like ocean waves breaking on the rocks. The wind blew my hair back and large drops of rain began to fall, landing hard on my face. Through squinting eyes I saw in the distance long streaks of lightning pierce through the sky, illuminating the dark clouds and sending shivers of awe down my spine. The bolts were perfect, picturesque, as if Zeus himself were hurling them from the clouds above. With such vicious and unavailing bolts, I expected booming thunder, but the thunder was muted by the rushing wind in my ears, and further by the screaming children who came running after the matatu, splashing dirt in the shallow puddles behind.

I smiled to myself. It's moments like this that become instant memories, that startle and awaken any sleeping dreams and aspirations. It's moments like this that you drink in your morning coffee when you are 54, and upon recollection the memories dance in your mind and strengthen your resolve.

As I reflected on the moment, with lightning crashing on the horizon and beyond I looked up into the dark sky and offered a silent prayer. "I could not ask for more."

On Love and Harassment

The first time I proposed to my fiancé, I did not have a ring. I also did not assume the conventional kneeling position during my proposition to her. And I had only known her for two hours (i was just that sure). She did not answer me, but instead asked me where the ring was. Marriage isn't something to be taken lightly, you know. And it would have been bad signs if she had said yes so quickly. Just what I would expect from my fiancé.

The second time I proposed to my fiancé, I did have a ring. It was a toe ring; a crude, brass thing that was unconnected at the back (potentially adjustable), and molded into the crest was the “peace” symbol. I was wearing a lime green suit, sandals, and I played “Amazing Grace” on the harmonica as I kneel-ed in front of her. Who could refuse that?

Therefore, I have a fiancé. Her name is Alison and she lives in Paraguay.

As fate would have it, I have come to Kenya and I have fallen in love with a local. After all, who can control the whimsical feelings of a passionate heart? Her name is Maggie, and she is a beautiful Kenyan. She also hates me. And she is two years old.

When I first got to my small rural village, Maggie's mother (who is 24 years old) and I became instant friends, simply because she could speak English. I spent the first few weeks with her as she showed me around the neighboring villages, introduced me to all the people, and made me feel welcome. As we meandered together through dry fields, she would knowingly reach out and caress a tree leaf or a shrub between her index finger and thumb, explaining what type of fruit or food the plant bears or what other uses it has. It felt like I was in the Disney movie Pocahontas.

As a general rule, women are attracted to money. Me being a white person, I am the walking, talking, singing and dancing embodiment of money. Therefore, women here in Kenya are attracted to me. Dora is no exception.

Because cultural norms make it inappropriate for women to confront men with their emotional feelings, Dora has been all but forthcoming in her “subtle hints”. When we spent time walking through the fields, she would say how the other villagers think we are married. And since Maggie turned out a little bit browner as opposed to a dark black complexion, it is as if the baby was the product of a racial mix (i.e. the baby was MINE).

It had become a vicious circle of love. I love Maggie, who in turn loves her mother, and her mother “likes” me, but to go the other way around, Maggie hates me, I do not have feelings for Dora, and Dora tires of Maggie because she cries all the time. I am not going to lie, for a moment or so I considered marrying Dora just so I could keep Maggie. I am not kidding.

Once, Dora asked me why the only women in the 'pornography films' were white. The question took me aback on two levels. First because such a subject would appear on the mind of the rural, conservative Kenyan mother, and second because this rural, conservative Kenyan mother had been exposed to pornography. Dora continued to press the issue, asking me if Kenyans were not as beautiful or desirable as white women because of our their skin. I told her that I thought Kenyans were astoundingly beautiful, and that I didn't think they were less or more so than other cultures. Then I told her that I have a fiancé, and I cannot take another women, and all during this exchange, I couldn't help but think about the movie “The Graduate,” the part where Dustin Hoffman boldly states, “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me.”

From that point on, I decided to claim Alison as my fiancé, producing pictures of me proposing to her (which actually exist) to prove to the community that I am truly engaged. My fiancé has become my means of crowd-control, my harassment prevention method, my protection from the onslaught of willing Kenyan women, or worse—Kenyan mothers that offer their daughters or cousins to me.

So here in my village I am engaged (well, I really am engaged). Every Mama knows I am engaged, and a surprising amount of people remember her name. Every now and then, a Mama would ask me, “So how's Alison?” and then follow up with, “Ah, two years? That is a long time. If I were you, I would not wait for her. Just take a Kenyan wife.”

Two years is a long time, and romance is a big deal – in both Kenyan and American cultures. Luckily for me, romance has been among the last things on my mind. I have been trying to cultivate a different type of love, one that is pervasive and addicting and enduring. The kind of love that inspires compassion and kindness. On the subject of romantic love, someone could give me a soap-box and a megaphone, and I would stand up and speak into it until the batteries ran low (and my trigger finger was sore) but I will spare my readers for now. There is a place for romance, and despite my spoken resistance to it, I am among the most susceptible to its wily charms.

As for Alison, my “Fiancé” is simply in name only. I cannot claim that any feelings are attached from her end. It would be hard to imagine being romantically involved with someone so out-of-reach, so intangible. Yet many other volunteers maintain long-distance romantic relationships, and to them I offer my sincerest regards.

As for me, my romance is confined to my attempts at poetry in my quiet times. This poem was written for no one in particular, but with someone in mind. It goes out to all the long distance relationships that us volunteers subject ourselves to.

Maybe She Waits


Maybe she waits,
she waits for me only.
Maybe I've gone,
I've gone too far away.

Maybe she waits,
She waits patient and lonely.
Maybe I'm wrong
to have asked her to stay.


Maybe she thinks,
She thinks of me only.
But maybe her thoughts
were mine, just for one day.

Maybe when I,
When I come back I'll be lonely.
But maybe her heart-
Not so easy to sway.


But if she waits,
she waits for me only.
When I return
I will hold her and say,

“I'm sorry that I,
That I left you here lonely.
Never again
Will I leave you that way.”

Baby Blue Testicles

The vervet monkey is as normal a monkey as they come. Its unassuming grey-brown fur contrasts beautifully with its black face, and its small stature and long tail allow for the stealth and agility that anyone would expect from a monkey. Despite its ordinary characteristics, this monkey has one specific feature that will catch every unsuspecting person by surprise: the males have baby-blue colored testicles.

(before you continue reading, please google “vervet monkey male” and actually see what i'm talking about)

The first time I was introduced to this unorthodox genitalia, I was so tickled by it I began asking all the guys I was with if they would prefer a fantastic pair of baby blues hanging between their legs if they had the choice. And then I started thinking (as I like to do), and I realized that I had a lot in common with these vervet monkeys.

As a white person (well, “white” for me) in rural Kenya, it is impossible not to be noticed. I often times feel like a wild animal-when little kids see me they get as excited as tourists would get if they saw an elephant. Most of the tourists that come to Kenya speak English, so the children assume it is the only language foreigners know. So when they see me, they begin screaming, “How are YOU??” from up to a hundred meters away.

Yet, sometimes when the little kids are standing by the road, I get the jump on them and greet them with a 'slang' Swahili greeting (the English equivalent to “what's up?”). Usually, I get dumbstruck faces in return: slowly turning heads and slightly opened mouths undoubtedly surprised that the foreigner speaks Swahili. I consider moments like this the metaphorical revealing of my baby blue testicles.

On top of this, I generally tend to surprise and confuse most of the locals in my words, actions, and simply my appearance. A while back, a drunk Kenyan man stumbled up to me and started asking me for money. Even after a couple of my curt refusals, his continual begging set me off. I am already heavily on guard for people asking me for things, and so I begin yelling at him in Swahili at regular conversation pace, “Why do you ask me for money? Because I am a white person, right? I don't have money, and I am not giving you anything. Go beg the people sitting there.” The Kenyans that were sitting next to me laughed, not only at the truth of my words but because this drunk man had just metaphorically been slapped in the face with my baby blue testicles.

One of my tasks as a Peace Corps Volunteer is to help my community develop ways to generate income and improve their village, and I have many project ideas that I want to first try on my own time before I share with others. A couple of these projects involve bottle-caps (to make art, checker games, and jewelry) and maize cobs (to make charcoal). I am often seen gathering these materials off the ground in the village, with curious Kenyans simply watching me. As a “rich, white person” it is improper, or at least unconventional, for me to gather such materials-it is a child's place to collect bottle-caps and a laborer's job to gather maize cobs. When people ask me what I am doing I gladly explain, but I truly enjoy the looks of bewilderment on their faces.

As for my appearance-even in America people don't know what ethnicity I am. I get Mexican, Filipino, Hawaiian, and some others. Here, the Kenyans are confused between “Mzungu” “China-man” or “Hindi from the coast.” In Mombasa, there are many Middle Eastern businessmen that live around, and if I am walking with my Kenyan counterpart I easily look like I am a local. If I am walking with a Mzungu Peace Corps friend, I am also a Mzungu, and if I am alone it is a grab-bag. One common misconception among the Kenyan people is that all Chinese people are experts in Kung-Fu (no doubt thanks to Jet Li). In the grocery store once, a Kenyan teenager that worked there asked me if I could teach him Kung-Fu. I chuckled to myself, and told him I would.

In all honesty, I get a secret satisfaction from other people's confusion. I thrive off of it. I am in my element when surprise is on my side. And if I had the choice to permanently alter my colors to match a vervet monkey I would have to answer with a resounding “Yes”-with a sneaky grin on my face.

Or I can paint my genitals and dress as a vervet monkey for the next Halloween.

The Disintegration of Personal Space

The Kenyans are wonderful people. They are kind, welcoming, helpful, and eager to learn. Even the drunks and the beggars (oftentimes one and the same) are jocular, willing to listen to me lecture them on why cigarettes are bad for their health and why they should use a condom, then proceed to spew every English word they know at me to form an incoherent sentence, and with a stupid grin on their face expect me to give them money after.

Yet, even with wonderful things, sometimes it can be too much. I find the combination of me and the Kenyan people are no exception. And just as I feel the need to detach from my Kenyan community from time to time, it seems nearly impossible to do so.

A quick digression: On a bus in America, many would opt to sit with at least one space between if the space allowed for it, and even if someone was sitting next to another person, it would be awkward and uncomfortable to touch for any short length of time.

With Kenyan public transportation, it is awkward to not have someone rubbing shoulders with you, and sometimes rubbing more than American culture would generally feel comfortable with. It is also perfectly acceptable for strangers to sit on top of one another, and it is still okay for one of those people to be breastfeeding.

As an example, I was sitting in next to the back window of a 5-seater car with two other Kenyans next to me. At one point, the Kenyan sitting by the other back window arrived at his destination, so he got out and we continued the journey. In America, anyone would be expected to move from the middle seat (a.k.a. “bitch” seat) to a window seat in this circumstance, but this Kenyan did not feel it was necessary. So we continued the 30 minute journey just like that.

Car seats and public transport are no big deal. I can handle the invasion of personal space when I am expecting it. What pulls on my nerves is the invasion of my personal space when I am in my home. I live in the equivalent of a one-story apartment complex with 7 other families in close quarters. It is always busy with Mamas, housemaids and kids running around screaming. Often times when I arrive home, the children feel compelled to follow me into my home, and it becomes a process of picking them up and placing them outside, all the while defending my home's threshold from more unsolicited child entry.

Also, on a daily basis one or more of my adolescent or even grown-up neighbors will plant their face in my window (even though my curtain is closed-they still try to see through the cracks) and call out to me-asking me what I am doing or what I will be cooking for dinner that night. Sometimes one of the girls will put her face up to the window, and if she sees me inside she will yell, “Looo-iis! I am peeping! I see you!” (in English, i'm not sure there is a word for “peeping” in swahili). There really isn't a way for me to communicate how inappropriate peeping is from an American standpoint. What if I were naked? Without a culturally appropriate way for me to scold such behavior (especially when the adults do it), I resign myself to deeply sighing.

My biggest beef with the cultural invasion of space is the protocol when someone is sick. Kenyans, to show they care, will make it a priority to visit a sick friend so they can offer their condolences for the sickness. It sounds nice in theory, maybe, but when I am feverish and trying to sleep it is irritating to have multiple people (and at different times) knock relentlessly on your door to just say “pole” (a.k.a. “sorry”). As this is the case, I now make it a priority to keep my bouts of sickness a secret.

I know I am supposed to “integrate” into my community and into the Kenyan culture, but my longing for personal space will not disintegrate so quickly. I wonder how I will feel after 2 years of my cultural dis-integration of personal space.

The Music Of Kenyan Life

Thwack..thwack..thwack..*.silence.*...thwack..thwack..thwack..The strange rhythmic thumping continues for minutes outside my window, like a curious addicting drum beat. The rhythm stops when I go to investigate.

I find two young Kenyan women, sweat trickling from their almost-bald heads down the sides of their faces, gathered over a large wooden cauldron. They each hold a heavy wooden stick in their hands, which-coupled with the cauldron-reminds me of a massive pestle and mortar. The two sisters look up at me and smile; the sweat making their beautiful dark skin glisten in the morning light. With a quick glance at each other, the sisters assume a powerful position and resume pounding the contents of the cauldron with strong, practiced strokes. The cauldron contains large maize kernels, which now are almost mashed to oblivion. This process allows the maize to be later ground into flour at a parcel mill. With each strike, some of the flaky kernels float up in the air and stick to the sisters' sweaty arms and faces, and since much of their body was covered, they had been at work for some time. The sisters alternate their strikes into the center of the cauldron rhythmically, and as I stand and marvel at their fantastic precision my body reflexively sways to the hypnotic beat.

After the thrashing of the maize, the mashed remains are filtered in woven baskets from impurities. Shick, shick shick, ssssss. Shick shick shick, ssssss. The synchronized sisters work along side one another, creating the sound that reminds me of musical shakers. Just like the pounding, the shaking charms me, entering into my blood and possessing my body to move. In my mind I envision an entire band of Kenyan women as they go through the process of pounding and sifting maize-creating a magnificent African musical performance. The thought makes me giddy, which turns into an incoherent attempt at Swahili communication, “You are making music!” I say in Swahili. The sisters look at me confused, and respond with, “No, we are making flour.” At this point I am looking around, my eyes screaming out for someone who I could explain my realization to. Without any alternative, I try again with the sisters, “you hit the maize like on a drum, and when you do this,” (I point at what they are doing, since “to shake” has not entered my swahili vocabulary), “together it makes music.” It was my best attempt, and to my relief it was returned with a mixture of confusion and understanding written on their faces.

Weekly, the Kenyan women are hard at work pounding maize by hand. On top of cooking, doing all the house work and caring for the children, they don't complain but set to their task in seeming contentment. It was wonderful for me to hear a small piece of the beautiful music of their simple Kenyan life.

The Day A Banana Saved My Life

Bananas and I have become close these last few months, and I feel I am indebted to them greatly. Part of the reason for our inseparable friendship is their sweetness. Bananas in Kenya are sweeter than I have ever tasted. Another reason is their dirt-cheap cost. I can buy 3 smaller-sized bananas (sometimes 4) for 10 shillings, or 13 U.S. pennies. But the real reason behind my affinity to these naturally wrapped, delicious morsels is that on Tuesday, the 7th of September 2010, a banana saved my life.

Before I launch into that story, here's some background. Every Monday & Thursday my town has a “Market Day” where people come to sell their produce and clothing. Every market day I buy 18-24 banans for the U.S. Equivalent of 75 cents. I usually don't share my bananas, so that means I east about 40 bananas per week. Bananas are always at hand, and I always carry one or two with me in case I am stranded and hungry.

On this fateful Tuesday the 7th, I biked into town to have lunch with some fellow volunteers. After a huge lunch and a couple hours of hanging out, I began my 10 kilometer uphill battle back to my village. As it turns out, 1 kilometer into my ride I felt a fierce bowel movement coming on. The huge lunch sat heavy in my stomach, and parts of the dirt road I was biking on had bumps-as if a tank rolled through and left its tire tracks embedded into the ground-so the violent jostling of the bumps did not help my situation at all. And for the record, this area has no restaurants or storefronts to stop in to use the toilet. My options were: 1. Ask a random family if I could use their toilet (in swahili, of course). 2. Try to hold it and make it home. 3. Poop in my pants. I considered a fourth option of finding a hiding place in the bush, but there were too many people out and about and there is not much forest cover in general, and my skin is too light to ever be incognito, so I ruled this option out.

I considered my various options as I slowly walked my bike with my butt cheeks clenched tight, then I luckily saw a familiar face. A Kenyan friend of mine was visiting his grandma so I quickly asked if I could use their toilet as politely as possible, still suffering and keeping the relentless bowel movement at bay. Once I got in it was the greatest moment of the day, but that moment was soiled by the realization of my next problem-no toilet paper. As I searched through my bag trying to find an alternative, I found my one, glorious banana. I carefully peeled the banana to get some larger peels (for surface area's sake), and though I wasn't hungry I couldn't dare see a perfect banana go to waste so I reluctantly ate it. The banana peel did a surprisingly good job, and though the wipe felt slimy and foreign, I wouldn't say it was unpleasant (though not preferable).

Okay, so the banana didn't actually save my life, but it saved me from subjecting myself to poor personal hygiene, a bad smell, and an emergency laundry session when I arrived home. The first thing I did when I got home was have a bath, but I can still safely say that in my potty-trained lifespan, I have never pooped without wiping afterward.

Now bananas and I are closer than ever. My respect for their usefulness has skyrocketed, and I have sworn to defend their honor every time they are the brunt of a crude penis joke. They are worth so much more to me now than that.

Funeral Time

I have been to three funerals in my lifetime. The first one was in 2008, and it was my swim coach. The second was earlier this year, my grandmother. The third was two days ago, and it was my supervisor's mother. She was 79 years old.

When first coming to Kenya, I was excited at the prospect of immersing myself in an entirely unknown culture, including the ceremonies and rituals. Funerals and weddings were definitely on the check list. And I have to admit (as selfish as it sounds), I was excited at the prospect of experiencing one so soon.

Her name was Elina, and she passed away on Tuesday of last week. Beginning that day (30th August) until Saturday, 4th September, everything seemed to come to a standstill in the town. Though I could not attend all those days, I definitely got the flavor of a Kenyan funeral. Crowds of people made themselves at home at my supervisors place as the women cooked each meal for the multitudes and the men talked in circles of politics, family life, issues of water, or whatever else they cared to discuss. Each night had some type of swahili worship music piped through a speaker, and some type of segregated dancing. The men danced in their own area while the women occupied an entirely different area.

The guests would stay all day, and many would sleep on the ground at night for every night, continuing the festivities when they woke the following morning. The attendance was exceptional. I believe the combination of school break, no work to do in the farms, and the prestige of my supervisor (he is the area's councilor, which is a government official of some type) made for a great turnout.

The structure of the funeral was as follows: Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all were hangout/gathering days. Friday was the church service, and Saturday was the burial ceremony. The Friday service consisted of worship songs, a “short” sermon, and a walk-around the casket. It all lasted about 3 hours. Interestingly enough, just as the service finished it began raining harder than I have ever seen rain come. We were all trapped in the church for a good 20 minutes as the precious drops of water poured out extravagantly on the parched land.

The burial ceremony did not lack any flare. The women pulled out all the stops: beautiful hair, matching ceremonial dresses and some even had make-up on. The men dressed business casual.

The casket was ornately adorned: a thin wooden box with a red velvet outer layer and white velvet crosses on the top and front. Beautiful flower bouquets sat on top of the casket, as well as a large framed picture of the beloved grandma. Women were sobbing and making a huge fuss- no doubt generally saddened by their loss, but seemingly playing up the act as if to show everyone else how much they cared. One old lady even fell to the ground and lay sobbing for a good two minutes, all the while lying on freshly cut, jagged shrubbery and rocks. The men did not cry, and I learned later that it is only appropriate for women to show affection.

During the ceremony, the large, leafless tree nearby chirped wildly as small, yellow-breasted birds made tiny nests in the branches. The downpour from the day before must have signaled to the birds that it was time to lay their eggs. I counted 17 new nests, and many more birds. I keep forgetting it is winter here, and spring is soon to come.

A quick side note: As women passed the casket and saw the face of their friend or mother, they would cry out to God or to her, tearfully screaming words in Kiswahili. This reminded me clearly of my own Grandmother's funeral, when my mother wept bitterly and spoke desperately in Korean to my grandmother at the ceremony. It was all I could do to hold back my own tears from that memory, so as not to appear like I was crying over the current situation- the grandmother I had hardly known.

After the 4 hours of praying, weeping, and picture taking, the burial began. After they placed the casket in a cement-like box, they covered it in wooden planks and again covered it in wet cement. Flowers were placed on the grave marker (which was essentially a huge, casket-like stone that was built on top) and the festivities again continued deep into the night.

The ordeal left me exhausted, and I must admit I was a little bit disappointed that the dancing was not traditional in any way (it actually reminded me of a junior high dance, with the men and women separated). Still, I experienced a great deal of Kenyan culture in these few days. Later that Saturday, A Kenyan man asked me about my impressions of the whole ceremony. I told him that I thought it was beautiful to see so many people attend, and that these people, though they are financially poor, have wealth where it really counts.

Stark Contrast

Early one night, before the waning full moon made its grand appearance, the star-filled sky was more brilliant and clear than I can ever recall. It felt like I was standing on the very edge of the atmosphere, where only a thin sheet or a cold breath of air separated me from falling in among the stars. The milky way looked like a murky, grey cloud mixed into the infinite stars, like a black granite table-top with refined sugar spilled on top. And for a short while, the relentless wind died down to a chilly breeze, and carried the sound of rustling leaves and chirping insects through the otherwise perfect silence. There was not a single car engine to be heard, or a single, dull street light to be seen, just serenity and peace. As I stood there admiring the brilliant scene, In that moment there was nowhere else on earth I would rather have been; and though a loved one would have made good company, I stood there alone in complete contentment.

When I wake the next morning, the sun sheds light on the real setting which I live. Though there are many trees, the area looks desolate and dry- it is like a wasteland where the hot sun condemns animals to death, and the ferocious winds blow their remains to sand (exaggeration). Animal waste covers the dirt road, precious trees are chopped down and cut into pieces to be sold, and black spots can be seen on the ground in various places where people burn their trash or where they burn wood to make charcoal.

This place that I live overflows with life and with potential. Insects of all kinds are loudly accompanying my walk around the village, huge camels are snacking on the African milk tree overgrowth that lines the main road while matatu and motorbike drivers honk their horns impatiently to clear the way, and beautiful Kenyan children are running barefoot in the fields with their handmade toys screaming at me as I walk by. The soil in the fields is rich and fertile, making for the sweetest bananas I have ever tasted. The corn kernels grow large and the tomatoes are firm and supple.

But at the very same time, poverty ravages the people here. Families sell their small amount of food so they can purchase water. Everyone grows corn in their farms, and "Ugali" or corn porridge is the meal every single day because families cannot afford to diversify their diet. Fruit is a luxury many cannot afford. Every day, women walk 15-20 kilometers to fetch water, carrying a 20 liter jerry can on their heads for half of that walk. Children have skin diseases because they can only afford to bathe once per week.

The women are beautiful and hardworking and the nuclear family is tied by strong religious and cultural norms. Extended families generally live on close homesteads, caring for each other and remaining close throughout their lives.

Yet problems like prostitution abound in the neighboring village (and bigger cities) while HIV and other STDs are rampant. Condoms are not mainstream and testing for or talking about HIV/AIDS is taboo. It is almost socially acceptable for a man to cheat on his wife, and even spread HIV or other problems throughout the family.

The juxtaposition of the priceless beauty in the nighttime skies that shine for all the suffering people is surreal. It reminds me that there is so much here that needs to be done, but at the same time so much that I don't ever want to change.

Gender Equality

My first day as a Peace Corps Volunteer started with two cups of delicious tea, two home-grown eggs, and then two meetings. The first meeting introduced me to my organization (Marungu Hill Conservancy Association)- lasting 20 minutes. The second was a village-wide meeting about the severe problem of water- lasting 4 and a half hours.

As a side note, Kenyans will not eat, take a sip of water, or use the restroom for a meeting's entire duration. It doesn't matter how long.

Before coming to Kenya, I knew the gender roles and equality were vastly different than in America. Women here are much inferior to men socially. A woman will generally not look a man in the eye (children wont either, both genders) when they are having a conversation, and it isn't unusual to see a married woman walk a few meters back from her husband if they were walking together. Women mop the floors, prepare all food and tea, wash the dishes and clothes, harvest in the garden (men usually do the planting, and can sometimes help harvest), clean and straighten and tidy everything, and not ever complain about any of it. And at the dinner table, women serve the men first, and usually eat last.

It is also taboo for a woman to ask a man out on a date. But more on that in another post.

Anyway, back to my 4 and a half hour meeting. The meeting was entirely in Kiswahili, which I liked because I can then practice listening to it (even though I did not understand anything). It started and ended with a prayer, and literally the first hour of it was individual introductions of everyone at attendance (around 80. It reminded me very specifically of the "Ents" in the Lord of the Rings movie). Women generally sat in one segregated area, a little bit farther from the head officials leading the meeting (I am included as a head official), but what became a most pleasant surprise was that women of all ages spoke and participated equally with the men. They spoke passionately about their lack of water access, and they captivated the audience with their forceful tone and animated gestures. The women show by their daily, hard labor that they are beyond strong. It was refreshing to see a voice representing those actions.

Compared with other parts of Kenya, I think my particular area is a little bit more progressive and relaxed. Despite the clearly defined gender roles, both women and men attend primary and secondary schools (though men attend at a much higher rate), and from what I have observed so far, the culture is making a shift toward gender equality. Still, I was pleasantly surprised to find so much voice on the female side of the human spectrum here in this small rural village on the south-eastern coast of Kenya.

The women here, after all, are the backbone of the Kenyan society. Besides being friendly, I'm not really sure what the Kenyan men do with their time.

Language: The Great Communicator

For 24 years and 4 months of my life, I have never given the Swahili language a moment of consideration. Now, it is essentially the most important tool in my daily life.

From May 26th until July 20th, I was put through Peace Corps' rigorous language program. It was like Rosetta Stone on steroids, human growth hormone, and whatever Lance Armstrong was taking, all at the same time. The student-teacher ratio was 3 to 1 for me, for at least 4 hours a day. Granted, Kiswahili is not the most tricky language, but after just 2 months of training I have: 1. bargained for items in the market, 2. Introduced myself in front of countless different churches, meetings, and officials 3. Performed a swahili worship song in front of a small church congregation. I studied Spanish on and off for 6 years or so growing up, yet I can safely say that my swahili has officially overtaken my Spanish as my second best language.

All that being said, I am realizing that language is the most important tool in establishing a meaningful connection with another person. I take it for granted, but when I find someone who knows just a little bit of English, it is like eating dessert for breakfast. When I get the chance to speak with some fellow Peace Corps Volunteers and I can speed up my speech to normal and say words like “Amazing” and “Splendid” and “Circumvent” and they would all be understood, it is amazing. It truly baffles me how “Prince Erik” fell in love with Aerial, since I think it would be impossible for me to fall in love with someone I could not adequately express myself to.

I have basically mastered the Kiswahili greetings, and many of the locals (especially the older grandmothers and grandpas) are amazed that the white guy knows Kiswahili. Also, though everyone knows and speaks Kiswahili, there are two main tribes in my area: Taita and Duruma. I am also getting those specific greetings down for each of the languages. If I manage to greet a Duruma grandmother in her tribal tongue, she becomes so excited it seems like she wets her pants.

Though English is wide-spoken throughout the world, there is something I can sincerely relate with to the Duruma grandmothers. It is rare to see another white person around, and usually they all come from the UK, but occasionally I find an American. That familiar American accent, whether it be the harsh New Yorker, the southern drawl, or my very own west coast accent, makes me happier than anyone could possibly imagine.

So far my language barriers have been (are probably going to be) the hardest challenge for me. Already there are people here that are willing to learn about business organization matters, yet I would need a translator to properly get my point across. Sometimes I feel like I am making leaps and bounds improvement in the language when I can joke with children or say a semi-witty response in return to the common “Mzungu! How are you??” that I hear on a daily basis, and sometimes I feel like I am a completely dysfunctional person. But I have two years to work the kinks out, and then when I get back to America, I have the rest of my life to continue using kiswahili on a daily basis...

Some fun facts:
1. Ku-jenga means “To Build”, and “Jenga” is probably the origin of the name for the board game.
2. In Swahili, there are “Noun Classes.” All people and animals belong to a certain (and respected) noun class called the M-WA class. But words like “Youth” and “Disabled”, though referring to people are not in the M-WA class to demonstrate inferior status.
3. If you repeat a verb, it means that specific action continues. Example: Ku-kata means “To cut”. Ku-kata-kata means “To cut repeatedly”.

Strong Stomach, Weak Heart

Matatus are 11-passenger vans with precious little room and almost no cargo space. They are definitely not meant to be driven off-road, and they usually do not have working seat belts. They are the staple means for public transportation in Kenya.

Matatus are driven off-road. The rides are usually comparable to the kind of amusement park attraction at Universal Studios where the entire auditorium shakes vigorously as you watch something exhilarating on a movie screen (except in a matatu, the 18-wheeler that you are playing “chicken” with as you are passing another 18-wheeler on the other side of the road is very much real, and not as much “exhilarating” but more “frightening”). Matatus are not, and never ever will be, kind to people who are suffering from diarrhea. Luckily, I have a strong stomach and I have not yet had diarrhea in my three months so far in Africa (I actually struggle with the opposite: mild cases of constipation). Still, I have a pretty strong stomach in general, and I think these very normal brushes with danger by way of matatu are pretty fun.

Including the driver, matatus legally seat 12 people. It is actually one of the most frequently broken Kenyan laws of all time. Once, I've seen 7 people (2 small children among the 7) smashed into 3 seats, and two of those people were hanging on to the side of the van, essentially standing on the outside. So far, the record number of people in a matatu that I have been in was 25 (3 were babies, 4 were small children).

Matatus have absolutely no personal space. On my first matatu ride, the old man sitting next to me kept reaching into his suit coat pocket, his groping fingers tickling my ribs. On the other side of me, a sleeping passenger laid his head on my peace corps friend and let out a nice big drool on his arm.

After 6 weeks and countless matatu rides, today was the first time I was pushed past my comfort level. I had just finished a day of work at my site, had a bag full of produce from the market, and 11 kilometers of walking in my legs. Yet I was crammed into the very back of a 22-person-filled matatu. My legs were smashed together and I was cradling my precious produce on my lap, highly uncomfortable in the hot, smelly matatu. Halfway to my 10 km destination, the matatu driver pulled over, looking to add to his already-full cargo and maximize his profits. A lady wanted the driver to transport her three goats, and since it was getting dark she was willing to pay more. The matatu driver proceeded to grab the goats like they were luggage (they essentially were luggage) and throw them into the very back of the matatu, directly behind me & under my seat. The goats struggled for awhile, and so the matatu driver flipped them on their backs and began tying their legs together, all the while the goats bleating loudly as if screaming for help and for mercy.

Whether it was the sweaty stench of the collective passengers, the fact that my legs were squeezed so tight together my two testicles felt like they disappeared, or the fear that a frightened goat underneath my chair would suddenly buck its head and spear my leg with its horn, I couldn't stand to be in that matatu any longer. Before throwing the last goat into the van, I grabbed the back seat and hoisted myself out of the matatu. I paid the full fare and said I'd prefer to walk the 5 km to my house.

There's something that made me ache when hearing the bleating goat and watching it get thrown into the back of a van recklessly. I know these things happen, and worse treatment of animals (and humans) happens everywhere, but witnessing such a thing firsthand definitely made it more real. It reminded me of the first time I watched a chicken get its head cut off, and the desperate cry it made before the knife made it all the way through its neck.

I must be getting softer with age. If things like this make me weak at the knees, I'm definitely in trouble for some of the things I have yet to see.

Dante's Inferno

I do not remember Dante's "Inferno" as well as I would like, but I do remember each circle of Hell corresponded to a specific, ironic punishment for actions done in the previous lifetime. Now, in the small town of Marungu, I feel like I have entered into Dante's realm.

It's not to say Kenya is "Hell" by any means, though the barren, hot, dry setting plays right into the stereotype. I mean to say that my life has become delightfully ironic.

I have never thought of water is a precious resource. Since the age of 5, I would spend many days actually loathing the existence of water, since I would have to do grueling swim workouts in it for many hours per day. In Southern California, people would hose down their driveways instead of sweeping, or wash their car after it rained. I remember waiting a few minutes for my high-pressured shower to get hot, letting gallons upon gallons drain away unused before I took my 15 minute shower.

Here in Africa, I face Divine Retribution. Water scarcity is the biggest problem facing my community. Yesterday, I used 2.5 liters of cold water to bathe, which is about half the amount a water-saving toilet would use per flush, and sometimes I save my urine to water some plants I want to grow. The amount of water I would waste in America waiting for my shower to get hot is about the same amount I would use in a day to drink, cook 2 meals and use for bathing.

I guess it is time to pay my penance. It'll just be a little under two years until I can peg someone with a water-balloon again.

What Can I Do For You?

I am now officially a Peace Corps Volunteer. I spent a couple hours on Wednesday in America (at the ambassador's residence), and after I have arrived in Marungu, a small town South-East of Voi. It has been 2 days in my brand new town. I have been so warmly received I feel like a celebrity. Well, I am a celebrity.

My supervisor accompanies me everywhere I go and quickly jabbers off in kiswahili or kitaita (the local language) to everyone around about who I am and what I am doing here. After a minute or two, people's faces light up and then they vigorously shake my hand, as if I had just saved their baby from a mountain lion. Though my kiswahili is improving, it is far from good or even conversational. I feel like my counterpart is telling everyone that I am the second coming of the messiah, or that if they stand shake my hand vigorously enough, money will come out.

Here's the scoop: from the looks of things, my organization is on its own two feet. They have a well-written description of what their purpose is, and they have assessed the needs of the community (which is namely water accessibility), and they are fervently pursuing the relief of that major issue. When I quickly reflect upon my skill-set, I come up with this short list:

1. Swimming
2. Guitar Competency
3. Wooing Women
4. Basic Computer Skills
5. Able to speak and read English

Aside from computer skills and knowledge, I feel like I have precious little to offer my organization, and I'm not sure exactly what they expect. I know it has been just a few days, but I feel like I am fairly worthless thus-far. Nevertheless, here's what is happening in my small town (pop 10,000).

Water is a big issue. The Kenyan government established a baseline water price at 3 shillings for 20 liters, but the price of water in my area is 7 to 8 times that much because demand is high and accessibility is difficult. The town of Marungu is only 7 to 10 kilometers away from the “Mombasa Highway” where huge pipes of water are located, so one project is to divert some of that water to the smaller remote towns such as mine.

Marungu offers beautiful hills, though currently dry, can be lush green during the rainy season. Also, brown elephants are often spotted in the hills, searching for watering holes. One major problem is poachers killing these elephants for their ivory tusks. This is done with bow and poison tipped arrow, and as many as 20 dead elephants were found already this year, up from the 7 elephants from last year. Prices for ivory have increased, giving incentives to slaughter these beautiful creatures.

On a more positive note, I did see a group of 10 wild elephants off the side of the road near the city of Voi. Many camels can be seen in my area as well, and I also saw a buffalo and two eagles. It's ridiculous and wonderful, and I am truly loving every minute of my experience, including the hardships and inconveniences.


Wild Animal Sitings Update: black & white colobus monkey, chimpanzee, black buffalo, brown elephant, camel, giraffe, eagle, superb starling, antelope, ostrich.

Addressed To My Fellow PCTs

(A poem, titled "Addressed to My Fellow PCTs", as a summary for our training experience)

What do I remember most about Loitokitok?
The dust.
The dust from the ground rose like pillars of smoke
from a bonfire
When the motorbikes came flying by,
Kicking dust from their tires and into my eyes
I'm not much of a crier, but I'm not gonna lie,
All that dust made me pretty sad.

And you know what I don't understand?
When the Kenyan teens greet me with a wave of their hand
they say, “Safi Kabisa” which means completely clean.
How do the Kenyan teens stay completely clean?

But nevertheless
In the beginning those overdressed, fat-cheeked kids were cute,
and with each “how are you?” those kids got cuter..
I don't remember who I told
but I said to them,
“I don't think those 'how are you?'s' will ever get old."
..how naïve I was...
but everything was so new to me
there were so many things to learn, and so many things to see.
And I saw things I've never seen before
Like a goat in a crate, or a family of four
riding on a motorbike. So that's what it's like
on this African tour.

Still, It's amazing all the things we've experienced,
From Kilimanjaro's beautiful, twin peaks in the distance,
To our Kenyan Mamas' constant and fervent insistence
to eat more, despite our resistance.

And those Kenyan Mamas, they are simply unreal
So hardworking, yet gentle, and with hands made of steel
That pot has got to be hot mama, can you not feel?
And the Kenyan men, so strong and so proud through & through
Still they are always ready with a smile and a greeting or two
To make us feel welcome.

But despite their warm welcome..
Adjusting to Kenyan life has not been easy.
Some days just had too much Blue Band, and Kenyan T.V.
But those few hot days in my business clothes, that was the worst situation
When the sweat from my head dripped off my nose, I think I'd smell ugali in my perspiration

We faced so many troubles, but all of you know
We battled spiders, bats, bugs and bad smells in the choo
We sat through hours & hours of church, still with hours & hours to go.
And we'd wait, patient, for Kenyan partner groups to show for a meeting though,
they were late, or they forgot, even though you watched them
scribble down the date

But hey, that's just the Kenyan way,
An unwritten cultural rulebook we need to learn and obey.
Here's what I've learned so far:
Pedestrians yield themselves to cars
Women are seen as whores in bars
When we share, what's ours
becomes theirs
And the locals charge expensive fares,
But only if your skin is fair.
Because here in Kenya, fair skin means money
It's just like saying that the sun is sunny
well that's funny because
that's a stereotype we are here to correct, (I think) we'll consider it a “win”
If we can gain our respect independent of the color of our skin...

I've also learned that Kenya is the land of many hidden children
We can't always see them, but we always hear them
So we walk home to the sound of “Mzungu!, Mzungu!” their tiny voices screaming
And after thirty-six “How are you?s” in a row, it's lost its meaning.
And I've been meaning to tell you, I don't know if I did
But when Michael Smith flips out on that one, unlucky kid, Hell..
Michael Smith, sometimes i'm right there with you.

But seriously, together we can laugh and support each other
Each of you have become like a sister or a brother

And soon we leave Loitokitok, though the cows are still mooing
The roosters still crowing, and the Tusker still brewing
But will all that distraction, I forget what i'm doing here.
Can any of you relate? Do any of you agree?
Then I remember, I'm here to throw starfish back into the sea
One by one, and that's okay with me
because when it's done, if it's one life we saved
One life we changed for two years we gave
..it'd be worth it
Because after two years, we'll be rearranged,
Though I think all along we will have known
That life that has changed will be our own.

And for two years we'll face all manner of trouble
From Malaria to funeral orgies, and with mephaquin: seeing double
But let me tell you the real dangers
When returning to America, we'll be the strangers
And we'll think it's strange: the roads are paved
the toilets flush, the furniture's plush
they use microwaves

But we have two years to go 'till then
So let's let the adventure begin.

Native American Living

In all my grade school textbooks, I remember learning about how the Native Americans lived: nomadic, spiritual, and incredibly resourceful. I remember reading things like, if they hunted a buffalo for eating, they would use every part of the animal for some useful or aesthetic purpose.

In Kenya, I believe I am coming very close to living like those fabled Native Americans lived, except in a modernized world. My host family seems to generate absolutely no trash. In my host family's garden (garden meaning 7 acres of farmland), they grow corn, bananas, carrots, and kale, and they also raise a small number of cows, goats and chickens. My family eats mainly corn-based meals (ugali-the tasteless hardened tofu equivalent), and then they burn the corn cobs to use as fuel for cooking. Any fruits peels or leftover vegetables go straight to feeding the cows or goats. As for other trash/waste: hard plastic jars or metal containers (the kind that would have peanut butter or jam) become a storage container or other things, or a flower pot. Any soft plastic bags (the kind you would find in America to put vegetables in at the supermarket) simply get burned.

Even after 6 weeks of Kenyan living, I have created less than one cubic foot of trash. Also, most of it is paper which is environmentally safe to burn compared to the plastic counterpart. This is the equivalent to the amount of trash I would accumulate in a single trip to the supermarket in America.

There are absolutely no recycling centers near Loitokitok, and I'm not certain but I think you would have to travel as far as Nairobi or Mombasa for recycling facilities. The little trash that is produced from the plastic bags often can be found littering the dusty roads of Loitokitok. Also, since there is no waste disposal service, the way biodegradable waste such as banana peels or vegetables gets cleaned up in the market area is: they send a herd of goats to eat it. No joke. Coal is a big source of fuel for the kitchens (or wood from their beautiful forests), so despite the resourcefulness, major problems lurk in the shadows as progress and development take their foothold on African soil.

The inequality that can be found in my immediate neighborhood is astounding to me as well. My family has all the luxuries: hot showers, electricity, satellite T.V..yet the housing situation would be worse than below the poverty level in America. The house only takes up maybe 100 square feet (though the garden is enormous). Still, the immediate neighbor is an old man who lives in a single room, not much bigger than a tent. The room is not big enough to fit a twin sized bed. When I went to visit him with my Mama, he was listening to the radio for entertainment by the light of a small kerosene lamp. Ironically enough, he had a cell phone (he charges it at my family's house for a small fee)

As a side note, I am beginning to like ugali. At first I loathed it, then it became tolerable. Now I sometimes crave it. I promise, it has no flavor, but sometimes when it comes off the stove piping hot I convince myself it will be delicious (as if "hot"-referring to temperature was a flavor). My steady inclination toward ugali kind of feels like I am falling in love with the ugly girl in math class that doesn't even have much of a personality.

Adventures in the Choo

The choo is a pit latrine, or a hole in the ground for pooping and peeing. My family's personal choo is located outside, and is made of entirely wood, except the flooring is a type of cement surface. It also has no lock, and most of the walls are covered in spider webs.

The choo smells bad. Once, I made the mistake of bringing a nearly-finished orange in with me to pee, and the whiff of decaying fecal matter produced a gag reflex.

The first time I ever pooped in a choo, I was simultaneously frightened of pooping on my pants, missing the hole, and falling over. I luckily have the fantastic, God-given skill of being able to plug my nose without using my hands, so my hands were free to securely anchor myself to the bug-infested, wooden door during that first poop. As a fun fact: back in the states, I used to really enjoy reading something while sitting on the john, but now that's no longer a luxury I can afford.

The second time I ever used the choo, it was very early in the morning so the sun had not yet risen. With me was a flashlight, a roll of toilet paper, and a travel bottle of hand sanitizer. As I opened the wooden door and shined my light inside the darkness, a small bat (or extremely large butterfly) flew out at me, circled a couple of times, and disappeared into the darkness. This incident almost literally scared the crap out of me. I instinctively moved in spastic fashion, simultaneously shining my headlamp in all directions and furiously wiping my body with my hands as if I were covered in ants.

Since these incidents, I have become more or less an expert at using the choo. I can squat without holding on to anything now (how thankful I am to Sean Hutchinson's swimming warm-ups), and I haven't yet been attacked by large insects. One time, I did make the mistake of shining my flashlight down the choo, and I was able to see the textured landscape of my home-stay family and my collective waste. I have not yet made that mistake twice.

Wild animal siting update: Just outside Loitokitok, I saw antelope in the distance (June 28, 2010).

On one of my usual runs, my friend and I were attacked by a pack of 6 dogs. Luckily we both came away unscathed, but I felt the dogs hitting the backs of my shoes as I fled. I have never run so quickly away in my life. These dogs were undoubtedly trained to keep unwanted trespassers away, so my friend and I no longer run that route anymore. The dogs here are beautiful though, and so are the donkeys.

Two Lifelong Dreams, Successfully Lived

Before coming to peace corps, I had a wild fantasy that my experience would include: me sitting in front of a campfire playing my guitar, with potbellied, almost naked children dancing a traditional tribal dance in circles around me. Their long silhouettes cast by the soft orange firelight would move in perfect sync to the rhythm, and bright smiles would be permanently embedded on their faces.

Now here's the reality. While sitting in my tiny, milk-carton-cardboard-walled room on a Sunday afternoon, I decided to break out my guitar. A small boy must have heard the music, and he proceeded to enter the house, enter my room, and then sat politely on my bed to have a listen. After I had finished the song I was playing, he quickly left and returned with another boy. Since my tiny room can hardly fit me, my guitar, and my ego at all once (let alone two small children), I moved out to the living room and continued the performance. After 10 minutes, I had a host of children crowded into a small living room, listening to me play American songs they had never heard before. Even with ample mistakes and my sub-par singing voice, they sat attentive and wide-eyed. I even was asked to repeat the song "Down on the corner" by CCR when I finished it. This was by far the closest I have (and probably ever will) feel to being a rock-star.

Okay, the initial dream and the reality are slightly off, but I am checking that one off the list. Also, in the title I mention two life long dreams being fulfilled, and the other one is simply watching the world cup opening game with a large cohort of Kenyans (and the house-boy Abdala who is from Tanzania, and was the only one that cheered for America with me) huddled around a small television outside my host family's house, with the stars shining brilliantly above. It was simply surreal.


As a very honest side note, one thing I was expecting to have by now was diarrhea. Luckily, I have not yet experienced this. I promise to let everyone know when it happens though. =)

What do I miss the most from America? Real Tomato Sauce. Piano. Swimming.

Stereotypical Problems

Exactly one month and 9 shots ago (Typhoid, hep-A, hep-B x2, Rabies x3, flu, meningitis) I was sitting in an airport in Zurich, anxiously awaiting my first time arrival to Africa. It is difficult to remember all that has happened between now and then, all I remember really is a lot of personal growth. Even as I flip back through my handwritten journal, I can still recall many of the emotions I felt when writing them: excitement, inspiration, wide-eyed wonder. Even now I am still filled with those emotions, but I am beginning to realize some of the struggles I will face as a “Mzungu” in Kenya-land.
Before coming to Peace Corps Kenya, I was prepared for the living conditions. I steeled myself for the discomforts of cold, dirty-watered bucket bathing, no electricity, poor dietary/nutrition access, insect infestation and inability to exercise. In all of these areas I was pleasantly surprised to find the conditions not quite so rugged.
Yet I did not prepare myself for the stereotypes; the bitter taste of being a stranger in a strange land and having everyone else know it has begun to fill my mouth. Anyone with light colored skin (referred to as Mzungu, especially by shouting children as you pass by) is seen as 'Money'. In the markets, we are charged inflated prices, at the restaurants we are served according to their desires, and even small children who hardly know English ask for handouts, mixing in “Give me money” after their plethora of “How are you?'s”. The worst part about this stereotype is: it is deep-seeded and well deserved. On a superficial level, light skin usually refers to tourist, and tourists are happy to pay inflated prices because the relative price is still drastically low. On a deeper level, most support from other countries come in the form of money or food hand-outs, and though such hand-outs might be necessary in extreme instances, as a whole they merely foster an atmosphere of dependence instead of supporting sustainability within the African communities. Fortunately, these issues are exactly what Peace Corps Kenya is here to address. If I can have my community see me for more (or less?) than my white (caramel?) skin, while empowering those around me with knowledge and sustainability, I would consider my peace corps mission successfully accomplished.

Today also marks my first African full moon. Simply glorious.

Everyone is a Princess in Kenya

Back in America, I have a sister and her name is Annette. Growing up with Annette, I always remembered her having a canopy bed, where she could hang beautiful, transparent drapes and sleep safely under that thin layer of glamor. Her canopy bed would always remind me of something from the movie "Princess Bride", or the kind of thing princesses would demand to sleep under during the middle ages. I never understood the appeal to sleeping under a canopy, but after 24 years of living on this planet and a trip to the southern hemisphere, I finally understand.
In Kenya, everyone is REQUIRED to sleep in a canopy bed. Well, instead of a castle, I am in a tiny, stone/cardboard room, and instead of ornate silk drapery I am under a mosquito net, but I believe the effect is exactly the same. Within my thin, deet-covered layer of protection I sleep safer and sound-er than ever before. And also with the Mefloquine malaria drugs giving me vivid, colorful dreams (and mild hallucinations?), my night-times have been something to look forward to. Also, as an interesting inside joke between myself and nobody else..my sister is named "Annette" as I have already mentioned, and growing up we would joke that we would need "Annette" to play volleyball, or we would need "annette" to catch butterflies. So, even though my dear sister is many miles away, I still need "a net" to sleep safe from the malaria bearing mosquitos. So my sister is with me, wherever I go!

Changing topics: Food. Though the food varies widely depending on the region, the staples in my area in Loitokitok (on the Tanzanian border..literally a 15 minute walk across the boundary lines) are: Maize, beans, oranges (the oranges here are green), bananas of all sizes, and kale. Some other common foods are: rice, spaghetti noodles, peanuts, mangoes, pineapple, guava, cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, and avocado.
Some famous food combinations, listed in order by my own preference: Pumpkin Stew (cut pumpkin, potatoes, raw banana, vegetables all cooked together) Githeri (beans and maize boiled together), Muthukui (same as githeri, except the maize is de-kerneled), Chapati (essentially fried wheat tortillas) Sukuma Wiki (kale with a lot of lard), and Ugali. Ugali is essentially corn flour cooked in boiling water until a semi-hard, tasteless, white substance emerges. Ugali is a staple food in the Kenyan diet, and it reminds me of plain tofu, except with less flavor.
Everything beside the fruit is cooked with large amounts of lard or butter (except the ugali), so sincerely miss raw vegetables. Unfortunately, the danger with eating raw is the health risk involved: parasites, feces, and other little dangers cover the produce.
Last night I probably had the best meal so far in my short, African experience. It was a mix of githeri, muthukui, pumpkin, and potatoes boiled together, and then mashed to perfection. The results somehow amounted to a delicious, thick, flavorful curry. I'm sure it has a name, but I have taken to calling this dish: Kila tamu. "Kila" in swahili means "every" and "tamu" means "delicious".

A week ago, I spotted my first African moon in the nighttime sky. The thin sliver which I think is scientifically called "God's Thumbnail" was like a small piece of perfection hanging in the sky, and ever since I have spent at least a few minutes each night watching the moon slowly fill itself in the crystal clear blackness. I anxiously await a couple nights from now, when I will experience the African moon in its full glory for the first time.

Technology Disconnect

(Dated: June 3rd, 2010)

I am quite possibly having the greatest experience of my young life. It is not because wild and domestic animals litter the small town I am living in, nor because children endearingly (or annoyingly?) scream "How are YOU, how are YOU??" ever repetitively as I pass by, or because, while wearing a full business suit, I met with the chairman of a small, non-profit microfinance institution and not 30 minutes later changed into running gear and worked through a 5 mile trail run with the twin peaks of kilimanjaro on the near horizon. It is not even because the shower at my homestay has a window, and I get to watch the sunset while bucket-bathing. It is because I am unplugged; unreachable; untouchable save for the African community I am involved in and my fellow peace corps trainees.

If it was any question whether or not I feel like a stranger in a strange land in my last post, it has been thoroughly answered. I am a foreigner. Already, my English is regressing, my Kiswahili is slowly improving, my clothes are hand-washed, and I'm pooping in a large and smelly hole in the ground (locally called a “choo” pronounced “ch-oh” not “chew”. To come..my adventures in the choo). On the drive down from Nairobi to Loitokitok, I spotted a family of giraffes and a couple of ostrich. Also, wild black and white colobus monkeys can be seen at our training hub on a good day. Everything is exciting and wonderful and different and uncomfortable. Here's a quick summary:

Family Living: My homestay is great so far. My mother is taking classes in Nairobi to get her teaching certificate, my father is a local pastor, my elder brother (18 years old) is amicable and has a warm and pleasant smile and disposition, and my younger brother (11 years old) is barely audible when he speaks and has a slight stuttering problem that becomes more pronounced when he tries to speak English. We also have a houseboy named Abdala from Tanzania, who always wishes me an enthusiastic “Good Morning!!” in kiswahili no matter what time of day it is. My father has a deep and booming voice, suitable for a pastor and reminiscent of Jafari's whisper voice, and it is quite a contrast to the soft-spoken Kenyans. My room is quite small; the thick cardboard door butts up against my twin-sized bed when I open it. Also, three-fourths of my wall is made of recycled “Whole Milk” cardboard pieces, stapled together while the other wall and floor is pure concrete. I have all the amenities I could possibly ask for: electricity in my room and throughout the house, unpredictable warm shower access, access to internet (via a USB dongle I recently purchased), and a television that is always on. Usually we watch swahili gospel music videos, Kenyan news, or WWE wrestling. I have been asked multiple times if the wrestling is real, and I always reply with the honest “No”, although it is still entertaining to watch the Undertaker choke-slam Rey Mysterio. I also live on a farm. We have a full grown cow and a baby calf (the calf is black and white and is the stereotypical milk-carton calf), 4 goats and as well as a little goat calf (the little goat always eats the flowers near the house, while the family members always try to shoo it away), 7 chickens/chicks and a baby cat. The cat eats a lot of the large, dead insects that are found in the house at night.

This is getting exceedingly long, so I will continue updates later. Quick financial facts: I am paid the equivalent of $33 per week. I can purchase a decent sized lunch for around 60 cents. I pay 50 cents for 10 bananas (delicious bananas), and can send a letter home for about 60 cents. A large, wooden spoon costs 30 cents, and a bar of detergent soap costs 15 cents. A beer is about 2 dollars for about 20 ounces, and a small jar (400 grams) of peanut butter is about the same.

Now after my brief hiatus, I shall continue living my simple, technology-less life. Fare thee well, developed countries!

Wild Animal Sitings: Giraffe, Ostrich, Black & White Colobus, Superb Starling

This is Not Kenya

This is a dream. And I am probably dreaming somewhere in California.

Nairobi reminds me of Los Angeles. The billboards are all in English, the streets have crazy drivers (though car steering wheel are on the right and cars drive on the left-hand side of the road), and the petrol converts to about $4.60 per gallon (95shillings per liter). At certain places, towering palm trees serve as a road divider, and advertisements for "Budget" rent-a-car and other familiar U.S. brands could be seen throughout the drive. Palm trees?? I thought i was in Kenya. Even other U.S. states don't have palm trees. So far, my experience of East Africa is more familiar to my California roots than visits to Texas.

I am currently in a hostel not far from Nairobi, where I have most all the amenities I could ask for: flushing toilets, hot showers, electricity, internet, Ice Cream?? I was not expecting ice cream for a couple of years but the small strawberry & vanilla scoops proved a pleasant surprise. Yesterday morning I experienced a sunrise that would move even Keanu Reeves to show some degree of emotion, and a magnificent sunset accompanied me during a game of ultimate frisbee on a small grass field with other peace corps trainees. Also, for those of you who have played Oregon Trail, I no longer have to live in fear of Typhoid, since the vaccine (along with others) is coursing through my body.

I absolutely love my fellow trainees thus far, and it is so exciting to continually find out their different life stories. I have found two other berkeley graduates in my training group: one that lived in Los Angeles, and the other that I have nicknamed Babu (meaning grandfather in kiswahili). The staff here is amazing as well. We began our first Kiswahili lesson yesterday, and it is slow going for most of us.

Our food situation is similar to what I would find back home. Breakfast yesterday was cornflakes with warm milk, eggs, sausage and wheat toast. Lunch and dinner most always have rice and beans, with a buttery "coleslaw" for vegetables. On another note, I've been wearing the same outfit each day, and i'm deathly afraid of hand-washing my clothes.

It's becoming ever so slightly more real each passing moment, but once I believe I am actually in Kenya, I will be sure make it known.

Hopes, Expectations

In three days from this moment I will arrive in Nairobi to begin my two years and three months of service. In all honesty, I don't really believe I'm going. It's hard to wrap my head around being without all the comforts I have grown accustomed to, not to mention being without the people I have grown to love. When will be the next time I have strawberries? A hot, wasteful shower? Swim in a pool? Hear my mother's voice? Already I am nostalgic for the things of America, yet I am just in Pittsburgh, awaiting my staging tomorrow in Philadelphia. Last week I filled my last tank of gas at a shell station: $2.97 per gallon. At In-n-out burger, a Double Double cost $3.05. Stamps are currently $0.44. How much will prices change in a couple years? Still, my excitement builds with each passing minute. It will be the first time I visit the southern hemisphere, and the first time I travel alone without a cell phone.
My expectations of Africa are outrageous. I have this vision that as we arrive in Nairobi International Airport, we will be greeted by a Ladysmith Black Mambazo serenade while trained elephants unload our baggage. We ride on the backs of giraffes through golden plains, wearing safari garb and counting the leopards we spot. When we arrive at our village, almost naked pot-bellied children run to greet us with huge smiles, their bright teeth sharply contrasting against their deep black complexion.
This will obviously not be the case. I should expect poor living conditions, unbearable heat, and HIV-infected children. My biggest fear as a Peace Corps Volunteer is that I am ineffective at bringing about assistance to those around me. Many suffer from numerous medical conditions, and I am no doctor. Malaria kills 1 million people per year, and in Africa it is responsible for 1 in 5 deaths in children. The only thing I am infected with is enthusiasm. With hope, the malaria-bearing mosquitoes wont be the only ones contagious.

Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance

Maamkio! Here I begin an online journal of my forthcoming adventure in Kenya. This entry will be brief as I am pressed for time, though I hope to include my thoughts on: Kenyan culture, economics, food, weather, health, clothing, music, dance, rituals, traditions, and values in future posts, while giving insight to my own expectations, struggles, and triumphs. As such, my last couple days in the United States can be summed up as follows:

Q: What are you doing to prepare for your Peace Corps service in Africa?

A: Yesterday I packed a large suitcase, a backpack and a guitar. Today I watched The Lion King. Tomorrow I leave.

Is it really that simple? Nope. But hey, Hakuna Matata.