Mombasa

Mombasa. East Africa's biggest port bustles with life. Shirtless young men pull heavy carts of fruit down the streets, while others are spotted resting on a pile of dirt they recently shoveled in the midday sun. Small 3-wheeled taxis zip in and out of stalled traffic and abruptly stop in front of any person standing idly by the road, hoping for a customer. The wide sidewalks are lined with mamas sitting on the floor selling coconuts, mangoes, or papaya, as well as street cooks who turn your head at the sweet smell of their freshly cooked food. Whole fish, seemingly still quivering in remembrance of a recent swim, are sold fresh near the water. The vast Indian Ocean shimmers translucent green until the limits of the horizon. This city is enchanted.

Mombasa is home to Kenya's Swahili tribe (actually from the Arabic word sawahil, which means “people of the coast”), yet among them live large cohorts of Middle Easterners and Indians. Muslim women walk around like shadows in their full black buibui. Swahili women wear fashionable “lassos” with colored patterns and a “Kiswahili Saying” written upon them, and Indian girls blithely stroll together along the streets, each dressed in a different, brightly colored sari. Although I love the people in my community, I welcome the cultural diversity Mombasa has to offer like a breath of fresh air.

The humidity attaches itself to my body like another layer of sweat. As I roam the streets I search for the shaded sidewalks so that I may hide from the sun. The chilled avocado juice sold at the corner of the street looks like a tempting option, no doubt a cup of instant diarrhea for tourists unaccustomed to the germs of Africa. As for me, I quickly down a glass without worry. The seducing aroma of roasted meat wafts from the racks of outdoor cooks, so tempting it can make even a devote vegetarian commit heresy. I have yet to try it.

Tourists who spend a day or two in Mombasa usually opt for walking tours to Fort Jesus and trips to the beach. Tourists may just see a glimpse of Mombasa town before they leave, and they will remember large buildings, nice restaurants, and wide roads. But with just a little bit of adventuring down back alleys, I discover an entirely new picture of Mombasa. Despite the touristy 3 to 8 dollar restaurants, I find the local restaurants with the traditional Kenyan food for just under 50 cents. As I continue down these alleys I see mamas hanging their laundry on lines that cut across the walkways. I greet them as I duck under their dripping clothes, and they return a friendly smile and continue with their chores. A few blocks down I come across a few teenagers playing checkers. After a few words, I find myself playing the next game with a small crowd of youth watching. I won the first game and my opponent won the next two.

When I have spare time in Mombasa, I often find myself in a towering 7-story shopping center—but on the 3rd floor in the fabric section. I much enjoy looking at all the different, beautiful fabrics this store has to offer without the constant heckling the street peddlers give me. As I move through the different isles, I conspicuously reach out and feel the texture of the different materials. All the employees know me now. We often have casual conversations in Swahili, and one of them always tells me that I look exactly like the Arsenal football player Tomas Rosicky, and he writes his name on a small piece of paper along with “Jazz 7” meaning “jersey 7” so I can look him up on the internet. Sadly each time I return home, I forget to complete my end of the deal.

I stroll through the open-air markets filled with spices and produce, and often when sellers yell for my attention with, “How are you? Welcome!” I often return a puzzled look at them and pretend I don't speak English. In Swahili I tell them I am from Spain, and I ask them if they know Spanish. Nobody ever knows Spanish, so this gamble always works to my favor. And my Swahili is good enough now that I can complete transactions and have conversations with people, so I take the opportunities in the market to practice speaking and listening.

Mombasa. After I finish my errands I board a matatu to take me back to my village. As we cross the bridge leading away from town I see sailboats making their way out into the open sea, and palm trees along the shores swaying in the breeze, as if waving me goodbye. The emerald ocean twinkles through the dirty windows of the matatu, beckoning me to come back again. This city is enchanted.

The Price of Virginity

In 2009, a 22-year old American girl named Natalie Dylan put her virginity up for auction online. Her top bid came from a 39-year old Australian at the price of $3.8 million.

$3.8 million.

I couldn't believe that price when I first read it. The article came with a picture, and sure, she was an attractive girl. But $3.8 million? In a single transaction, Natalie undoubtedly became one of the highest paid prostitutes of all time.

I began researching the idea of virginity's monetary value after a recent interview I had with a former prostitute near my town. Her story goes like this:

Her parents died when she was very young, so her aunt and uncle were her caretakers. For reasons unknown to this young girl, her guardians began mistreating her at a young age. Often, she would be beaten by her male cousins without consequence, and she would even go days without being given food to eat. When she would find work washing clothes or carrying water, her aunt would take what little money she earned and say it was payment for all they were providing for her. It came to a point where her aunt stole all her clothing, so she had nothing but the clothes on her back to wear.

The nearby town to where this girl lived is wrought with drugs and prostitution. The town sits on the roadside to and from Nairobi, and many truckers stop for the night to rest from their long day's journey. The daytime bustles with commotion, and the nights with licentious behavior. This young girl sought refuge from her caretakers in this town.

Though she searched desperately for work, there was none to be found for a young, desperate girl. With no money, no food, and with just the clothes on her back, she was running out of time. In her desperate search for work, she came across a woman who told her that if a man wanted to have sex with her, she should charge him 150 ksh, or $1.80. And it was not long before she had an offer.

Soon after she became engulfed in the prostitution business. The quick money and high demand were reason enough to continue with her work, and money provided for the basic needs she so sorely needed. In my discussion with her, she disclosed the whole gamut of the dirty business. Thirty minutes of service would cost $1.80, and for double that time it would be around $4.00. A whole night would cost $15. On a usual night, she would go with 7 to 10 men, and she would still charge full price for the men who didn't come after their allotted time. She was especially afraid of those who wanted the whole night, because then they could do “whatever they want” with the girls. That's why the price is so “high”.

During the interview, the girl cradled her 2-month old baby in her arms. The baby was conceived by a boyfriend who left her. She said that her boyfriend was the only one she had ever slept with without a condom. Still, when she spoke of him, her voice livened and hints of a smile showed upon her face. She partitioned herself emotionally, separating her “work” from her emotional attachment with her boyfriend. The girl was desperate for love and protection, and she gave herself to her boyfriend both physically and emotionally to seek a filler for the thing she had been missing her entire life.

Just love. She was too young to remember the sweet embrace of her parents before they passed away. Never in her life did she have a place to go where she could find people who truly loved her and cared for her. Never had she felt the comforting presence of someone who would sacrifice their life for her. She clung tightly to the fantasy that the boy who got her pregnant would fill that void. The baby she held in her arms was a representation of the trust and openness she extended to only her boyfriend. By having unprotected sex with him, she gave him all of her “virginity,” and with it, all of her trust and love. She just expected the same in return.

In my mind, there is a fine line between love and prostitution. Boyfriends may take their girlfriends out for a fancy dinner and movie, but with sexual expectations in return. Even wives have been known to refuse sex to their husbands if their husbands wont comply to their certain demands. This is prostitution. Prostitution is the bastardization of giving. It turns the selfless, beautiful act of giving into a tool used for manipulation. Even this young girl's aunt and uncle expected payment in return for raising her. It's no wonder she was inclined to this lifestyle.

It broke my heart to hear this girl's story, and I so much wanted to hold her and tell her how much she was still worth.

When my counterpart asked her how she felt during her first time she went with a man, she turned her head down and uttered the word, “bitter.” She was 15 years old. Her virginity was worth $1.80.

Wood U. Rathr

April 1st. My favorite holiday. A day for crafty lies and premeditated deceit, with each prank cordially intended for those you love and think about. In my mind, it is like Valentines Day, except not teeming with cliché. Sadly for me, this holiday is not widely celebrated in Kenya. Should I even dare to put cooked rice at the bottom of all my neighbor's shoes, or walk into my office with an eye-patch, it would compromise my community integration and my general camaraderie with the people here. So instead, I have decided to let my alter ego, “Mr. Rathr” infiltrate my blog-space. Enjoy!


Wood U. Rathr be the fastest onion chopper in the world OR an above-average ventriloquist?

Wood U. Rathr never have a flat tire in anything you drive OR have 16 more minutes per day than everyone else (note: everyone is frozen in time).

Wood U. Rathr have to change your name to “Fanny Mcgee” and always wear a large name-tag OR name (or rename) both your first and last born “Thing One” and “Thing Two”?

Wood U. Rathr have to drink two red-bulls before you sleep Sunday night and take a double dose of melatonin when you wake Monday morning OR involuntarily recite the entirety of Hamlet's famous “to be our not to be” any time anyone says “shake” or “spear”?

Wood U. Rathr wrap your feet in duct tape every Wednesday and go without shoes OR have an irrational reaction to stapled paper if the staple is not perfectly horizontal?

Wood U. Rathr laugh differently every time OR sometimes wake up with Jack Nicholson's voice (and spend the day with it)?

Wood U. Rathr never know the date OR instantly forget what you just ate?

Wood U. Rathr see the world literally black and white OR morally black and white?

Wood U. Rathr be considered one of the greatest Haiku writers of all time OR be an extra of your choice in 4 Johnny Depp movies?

Wood U. Rathr have the hand strength to juice a carrot with slight effort OR own a respectably sized avocado grove in San Diego, California?

Wood U. Rathr be given the market price, in cash, of a bar of gold bouillon but have to carry an actual bar of gold always OR drink only a luke-warm, vitamin fortified tofu broth every March, April, and May, but get free restaurant meals every other month?

Wood U. Rathr have an obnoxiously large signature OR be unable to text or dial cell phones with your thumbs?

Wood U. Rathr have the power to taste a restaurant item just by running your finger over the words on the menu OR have the ability to just once see your future if you had chosen to marry a certain person?


Happy April Fools!