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.