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.