Back in the USA

I walked off the airplane into Dallas, Texas, instantly smothered by the veil of humidity that draped between the air-conditioned airplane and the air-conditioned tunnel leading to the airport. I was wearing a heavier hoodie and carrying a 40 lb backpack, an over-sized woven basket with clothes, and an unbreakable smile. It was the first time setting foot in the connected 48 states of the northern hemisphere for exactly two years, two months, two weeks, and two days, not that I was counting.

Besides the humidity, the first thing that struck me about being in my homeland was the wall sockets. How funny they look! Two little sockets in a standing rectangular box, and the airport walls were covered in them. I stood for a minute just staring at these sockets, and it seemed they were staring back at me with their two eye slits and small O-shaped mouths, mirroring my expressed bewilderment. It was funny to me that I had forgotten what the wall sockets looked like. The ones in Kenya are mounted on a square-like piece and are accompanied by a switch, and there are three holes of the same size and shape, forming an equilateral triangle. One could consider themselves exceptionally lucky to have more than one wall socket in a room. Since I have been back, I have not yet seen a singular wall socket all by itself. They always come in pairs in a standing rectangle.

Being back, I do notice many curious things about my culture that I would otherwise not consider worthy of attention. For example, the sterility (some may use the word “cleanliness”) of where we live. My parents’ home, despite the layers of dust on some of the unused appliances and some cobwebs in hard to reach corners, is unnervingly sterile. I have not once heard the skittering of a cockroach across the hardwood floors, or detected the movement of any living thing traversing by ground or air. And there is no dirt, anywhere. Even in children’s playgrounds, there is a designated spot where the dirt is centralized, called the sandbox, and even then mothers discourage their children from playing there for fear their children should get “dirty.”

America has such a vast selection of everything as well. At a Vietnamese grocery store, I saw “Quail eggs in water” in a tin can on the shelf. I couldn’t help but laugh a bit to myself. Only in America could one find quail eggs in water. And apparently in Vietnam.

Also, everything is in packaging. It is strange to think that it is cheaper to purchase pineapple in a can that was grown in India than it is to purchase equal quantities of it whole and locally grown. A whole pineapple is around $3.00; with that money one could buy three cans of the stuff. Everything else is bottled, wrapped, sealed, vacuum packed or all of them at once. It seriously frightens me how much waste can be generated by being American, and I simultaneously have a new-found respect for America’s waste management infrastructure.

Though it may take my mind some time to adjust, my body seems to remember everything. Getting behind the wheel of a car again did not feel foreign by any means, and only twice did I unnecessarily jolt the car forward from being unused to the sensitivity of the gas pedal. I have been filling my days with all the sports I have missed playing as well, and though my basketball shots were short, my tennis strikes inconsistent, and my flip turns dizzying in the swim pool, it all seemed to come back to me in no time at all. The only exception, my 10 lb road bike took some time to get used to; it felt much different than the 50 lb steel framed beach cruiser I rode daily on the dirt roads in my village. It wobbled insecurely between my legs, and it took nearly 20 miles of riding before I got the hang of it again.

It is surreal to be back. It feels like I never left or that I went into a vacuum for two years as all my friends and family continued with their lives. My sister’s baby boy is huge now compared to when I left, and she has another little girl who is one and a half years old yet does not even know me.

The strangest thing about returning to the US after spending nearly 10% of my life in another country is that it is not really strange to be here. The second strangest thing about being back is realizing you could have quail eggs in water any time you want.

Why I am Here

Today is the 20th of July, 2012. Today I have officially ended my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer. While packing, I was reading in my journal and I found an entry nearly two years back, just as I was beginning my service. I have typed it out below, word for word. Please excuse typos, etc. I titled it “Why I Am Here.”

“22-July-2010

Why I Am Here

I applied to the Peace Corps for several reasons: 1. To learns about culture. 2. To learn another language 3. To serve others 4. To discover if all people are equal.

Culture

My fascination with culture began on the Cal-men’s swimming team. Each year we had a small cohort of foreign swimmers, and I would love learning about their language and culture. Secretly I was envious of their “foreigner” status, as they were able to see and experience my culture by immersion, but their culture was like a novelty that I could merely sample. Though two years seems like a long time, it is barely enough to stay and learn about another culture. It is an incredible opportunity through the Peace Corps to immerse myself first in a home stay, and then in a rural community where I can grow with those around me and live as they do. Things like food, clothing, bartering, communication, music, dance, and religion are things for me to keep in mind, and compare with my American lifestyle. *Remember to take every opportunity to learn*

Language

One of my life dreams is to “dream in another language.” The nuances of language is an integral part of assimilating and understanding culture, and in that way I will be a more effective and influential factor in my Peace Corps experience. Already I am ticked by various translations of words, like “punda mlia” meaning “zebra” but directly translating to “striped donkey.” Also, how words can carry vastly different meanings and the context is so necessary to decipher its meaning. “Mpira” directly translates to “rubber” but can mean “ball” or “condom” or “soccer.” Multiple languages helps me to communicate with a greater amount of people, and also on a deeper level. I hope to become fluent in a year’s time, (in Kiswahili) and continue to use it (perhaps teach it?) when (if?) I return to America.
Service
I have been inspired, inside my veins runs a passion that is fierce and powerful. My life’s purpose is to live for God, and have found that by serving others I am serving God. Though there is an amazing sense of self fulfillment when helping others, I must always remember where my true inspiration comes from, and what my satisfaction is focused on. I have a strong desire to learn and to help others in tutoring, training or the like. I hope I can always keep a fresh perspective and derive my purpose from pleasing God and not those around me. Luckily I am in a place where Knowledge is of great benefit to the people, and information flow is not easy, nor cheap. I am able to give my skills and knowledge to a great capacity, and I must use every opportunity to transfer those skills before I leave.

Equality

Are all people equal? As much as I want to believe that, I divide people by money, status, beauty , age, skill-sets, and probably others. How can I see everyone as the same? At least I am transitioning from basing someone’s worth on their status to valuing them more no their values and their ability to love and serve others. In the States, skin color is so plentiful or not such a great issue. One can find any color, and in any place. Skin color here in Kenya, especially in the rural areas where there is more ignorance and naivety, begets a strong stereotype. All Asians know kun-fu, all whites are wealthy, all black Americans are fluent in Kiswahili, and anyone that isn’t European – looking cannot possibly be from America. I hope in this two year adventure I am able to come away with a fresh sense of perspective and a deep reaching, colorblind love that I may carry back to the United States and throughout my lifetime.

Signed – Louis Vayo II”

Now that I have finished these two years, I ought to reflect upon these entries. But perhaps I will save the reflection for when I arrive back to the United States.

Meeting Hopping

Droplets of sweat ran down his face as he lifted a mud brick out of the wooden brick press. It was noon, and he had been working for three hours with only a few breaks. The sun poured upon his dark skin, turning it to leather. It was the 65th brick he had pressed that day, and he was expected to make 200. Molding, lifting, pressing, stacking. He was in his late forties, and his body fatigued quicker than when he was young, so the 200 bricks he was to make seemed like a difficult task. He was to receive 200 shillings or $2.40 for the day's labor – a shilling for every brick. His total day's work would amount to 7 solid hours, so his pay: 34 pennies per hour. Although it was barely enough for his wife and three children to survive, he counted his blessings - yesterday he had no work.

But tomorrow there was a seminar, something from USAID or World Vision, and he was signed up to attend. He had been selected by the new chief of the village, who was actually his second cousin.

The next day he walked in to the classroom for the seminar and was handed a stack of materials: two pens, a pencil, a full-sized notebook and a binder. He did the math quickly in his head (30kshs – pens, binder & notebook – 70kshs), and discovered he was given half a day's wages in writing materials. On top was a paper written, “Community Development,” and an outline for the days lectures. He had barely finished primary school, and was far removed from the necessity to speak and write in English. He could not understand the words written on the outline.

The speakers lectured for a few hours in Swahili, and he wrote concepts down furiously: sustainability, environmental protection, business opportunity. It was the first he had ever heard of these concepts, and honestly the last he would ever need to. In the back of his mind, he asked, “So what are they going to do to help improve my life?”

Lunch was provided, and each member was given bottled water, soda, tea, and biscuits intermittently during the seminar. At 25 shillings per bottle, soda was a luxury he would never afford. Then, at the end he was asked to sign his name on a piece of paper, and then he was given 1000 shillings or $12. He looked at the money in his hand in wonder and bewilderment – the money he was just given for sitting for four hours was equivalent to 5 days of back-breaking labor. Not to mention the lunch, and all the other treats he was given along the way.

As he got home, he gave his school children the pens he had received, and he used the scrap paper as kindling to light the firewood for cooking. From then on, he cared not to ever lay his hands on the wooden brick press, or lug another heavy brick again. He searched for the next seminar, the next teaching session, the next free meal and easy money.

He went to seminars on community health work, water, sanitation, environmental protection, politics, HIV, sitting patiently in the class and scribbling notes, only waiting for the allowances to be dished out at the end. Though he vowed to teach others in his community, the pages of his notes were inevitably used to light firewood at the end of the day. Hopping from seminar to seminar had become his official, and only source of income.




On the other side of the world, there becomes an increasing push toward assisting developing countries. Students in undergraduate classes are learning about inequality and disparity throughout the world. The media catches wind of exploitative stories of sweat shops and severe conditions in Africa, and images of torturous working conditions and starving children broadcast before the masses. International research becomes prime picks for Ph.D students, where their research inevitably shows the importance of environmental protection, social rights, political transparency, business training, basic health... there is a great push toward sharing knowledge globally so people can then live better lives. They read something about how 1 African child in 4 dies from unclean water, and then they are moved to educate the masses on public health policies and proper sanitation.

And from this push, the seminar was born. World aid organizations began facilitating educational seminars to help fill the need for education on different topics so as to improve people's lives. It was a great plan, but the problem was that people did not attend. People were too busy trying to survive, fetching water, cutting firewood, cleaning, cooking, sewing, harvesting, planting, that they could not be bothered to sit in a classroom to learn something that was not immediately useful. Plus, those sessions were not always nearby, so the transport fees alone would be enough to deter attendance. So the response was to reimburse people for their time and their transport. Sitting allowances began to be common practice at these educational seminars.

Unfortunately, this incentive became like poison. Many would go to seminars only for the sitting allowances. Their eyes glaze over, thinking only that at the end of sitting for 4 hours, they will be able to receive the equivalent pay of 4 days, back-breaking labor.

To exacerbate the issue, the village elders and the chiefs choose who goes to the meetings, often picking only those closest to them or those from whom political favor must be won. While a bunch of old people who are hardly literate sit in a class getting lectured, appropriate, youthful candidates who may have the audacity to change their community are left sitting idly – falling prey to drugs and all the other vices which flourish in one's idleness.

What's worse, is when smaller organizations or even peace corps volunteers have a great idea and want to gather people to share that idea, they do not have the amount of money required to bribe people to come and learn. People have become so used to receiving that allowance, that it becomes handicapping for anyone else wanting to initiate good ideas.

The disconnect between education and the people who need it is difficult to reconcile. There is a sincere desire for researchers and people with knowledge and technology to share that knowledge and technology with others whom they feel it will benefit, yet it is disheartening for me to watch it be squandered before my eyes by people who do not really understand its value. But it is not to say that all of these seminars are wasted that way; some find nuggets of life-changing information and truly do spread it to their communities. And even still, the high sitting allowances do help people in their daily living. But imagine being paid $200 to sit in a seminar for four hours (about the equivalent of four days minimum wage $7x32hours, tax free). If the seminars were frequent enough, I would quit my minimum wage job too.

Slavery

Too many times have I heard it. Even when hearing it for the first time, I was already disgusted by it. I do not know if it's meant for self-pity, humility, or some sort of backwards form of exultation, but in my mind it's unacceptable. It only happens in conversation between an African and a Non-African. It's a simple phrase that begins like this:

“You know, we Africans...

...cannot trust someone else with our money like you people can.”

...want to marry white people. You white people are more desirable because you make love to your woman and consider how it feels for her.”

...cannot keep time the way you white people can.”

And countless others.

Whatever this phrase is, it reflects a deep mental division between race and culture in the minds of those who employ it. This mindset permeates deep into the entirety of African culture. In a grade-6 social studies textbook, there was a passage about the effects of WWII on Africa. There were nearly eleven effects listed, and eight out of the eleven were about the realization by Africans that the white man was not above them or inherently better than them. A few specifically went, “Africans realized that the white men were able to be killed.” or “Africans discovered that the white men could be defeated in a battle.”

There were four of us, two Americans and two Kenyans, speaking about economic differences and development in America compared to Kenya. One of the Kenyan guys spoke out, “You know it was you white people who exploited us Africans to build your country.” He argued. “It was the slaves who built the railroad, the slaves who harvested the cotton and the crops. If it weren't for the slaves, America would not be the great economic power it boasts today.” My colleague and I could not argue; we knew it was true. A deep silence ensued. The friendly conversation suddenly turned tense. From his eyes came a seeming glare, which cast a feeling that my colleague and I were the ones to have employed that abject system of slavery on him and his family. It was as if he believed that our very existence reincarnated the atrocities of the past. But then, the tense silence was broken by the other Kenyan clearing his throat.
We turned towards him. He stood there smiling amicably, an immutable aura emanated from him. “We Africans,” he began, dropping the usual phrase I so greatly loathed. He continued, “We did not care much about slavery or what not. We just noticed that the white man was so frail, so fragile. They could not do an honest bit of hard work like we could, so we felt sorry for the white man and decided we were most fit to do the difficult jobs.” He ended his thought again with a smile that betrayed a playfulness which, in conjunction with his words, dispelled the rising tension. I looked at him, he was a 29 year old who was just finishing up his senior year in high school, but there was a sense of clairvoyance in his expressed thought, a sense of paradoxical superiority which resonated with me.

I became lost in thought and reflection. So many of us are focused on retribution or reconciliation of the sins of the past, of the decades of slavery and oppression which have contributed to the inequality of resources and opportunity between races and countries. So many were schooled to think and believe that the oppressed minorities deserve some type of pity, while those same minorities were made to believe that they are not only entitled to but are in need of a head start, or a push forward. They are made to believe that there is a great chasm to cross, and on the other side stand the former oppressors, or the white man.

His comment seemed to rise above all the researched sociology, the oppressive history, and the deep seeded mental boundary that only serves to divide different peoples. Although all of the history is grounded and should be considered, what exists now inside many people is a form of mental slavery. But his thought was liberating. It shrugged off the past and all of its horrors and it embraced the only thing that truly matters, the present.

I smiled back at him, acknowledging the depth of his remark. He smiled at me again and then resumed the conversation by asking, “So which is your football team?”

Sex Education

“What is a clitoris?” The teacher asked the class. She was answered with silence.
The teacher broke the silence, “Come up here,” she commanded a student, giving her a vagina model to hold so she could demonstrate. The student stood blushing, holding the vagina model upside down. “Where is the clitoris?” She asked the class. A girl raised her hand and when called upon, she stood and replied, “It is above the vagina.” The teacher looked at the upside down model, and then pointed above the vagina, “Here?” she asked. “Yes.” The girl replied, then embarrassed she covered her face with her hands and sat down. “Do any of you know where your own clitoris is?” Again, silence. Either the girls were too shy to answer, or they actually did not know. After all, there are not many full-body mirrors in people's homes, and not much privacy to allow someone to stand naked in front of one. The teacher then said, “This is your homework, to take a mirror and look at your vagina.” The entire class giggled awkwardly. “This is important!” The teacher added.

We were at camp GLOW, an empowerment camp for adolescent girls. This camp covered issues like girl's health, leadership, HIV, business, and other important topics that may not get covered in the general school curriculum. During this particular lecture, we were discussing anatomy and sexuality. Sex talk is taboo in general, especially in Kenya. But the purpose of camp GLOW was to bring those conversations into the open, where myths can be dispelled and the girls can establish some level of comfort and confidence on these issues. As a result, many many questions arise during those sex-education classes that are quite endearing.

Next, we discussed the different types of condoms. Male, female, extra-thin, bumpy, and we had examples for the girls to see and pass around. During the lesson, the teacher said, “There are even more types than we have here, they even have flavored condoms.” At this comment, one mature girl in the front raised her hand and asked, “Flavored condoms?! But the vagina does not have taste receptors, or does it?”
After twenty years, she still had not been exposed to the idea of oral sex. She laughed at herself as the teacher explained what flavored condoms were used for.

Next, we had the “Question Box” session. It was a chance for girls to write anonymous questions and have them answered so that there was no social pressure or judgment. The teacher pulled out the first card and read:

“Boys tell us that having sex makes our hips wider. Is that true?”

“No, this is not true,” we said to the class. We knew the girls desired fuller, childbearing hips, but this was just an underhanded means for boys to get sex. One of the facilitators chimed in,“Just look at prostitutes as an example, who have sex multiple times per night. Their hips were not any wider.” It was a good point, and the girls seemed to agree. Then we drew the next question:

“Can we lose our virginity by riding a bicycle?” (Virginity meaning the hymen).

“No,” was the response, followed by a discussion about the meaning of “virginity.” Though we did warn the girls that heavy physical exercise may break the hymen. We drew the next question:

“Boys tell us that when they get an erection, they are in a tremendous amount of pain and the only solution is for them to have sex. What do we do?”

This time I stood up and said, “This is not true. I have had an erection before, and it does not hurt.” The class giggled helplessly at my statement.
Through these camps for girls, there is quite a bit of insight one gains into the life and mind of a teenager in Kenya. I have found that the curiosity and mystery surrounding sex and sexuality are the same as in America. The only difference is that American teenagers have access to a very anonymous way of finding the answers to their sexual queries – the internet. It is not something that many have access to or knowledge about here in the rural parts of Kenya.

But we were not just restricted to girls camps. Many of the same mysteries surrounding sex and sexuality for girls swirled and stung in the minds of boys as well. During a boy's camp, we had similar sessions, with sex education and question boxes. Here's how some of them went:


The boy leaned over and almost whispered the question to me, as if embarrassed for others to hear, “So, when having sex do you put everything in? (referring to both the penis and testicles)”


We the teachers posed the question, “Where do the sperms go when a man ejaculates inside?”
One boy raised his hand, stood up and proudly answered, “Sperms go in to the woman and then dissolve into her body, giving her strength.”
Some of the male facilitators we had at the camp nodded in agreement. Yikes! Perhaps that was the justification for boys to sleep around - to give the girls strength.


During class, our male facilitator mentioned the fact that the human penis's maximum length is 6 inches long, and the penis cannot exceed that. Upon being corrected that 6 inches was the “average” size, he turned and whispered, “If it is any longer, how will the vagina be able to accommodate it?”


As we were sitting in the room, one of the boys asked, “Why do you see many skinny men with fat women?” Everyone else chuckled at the truth of his question.
Our female facilitator replied, “You would be surprised, fat women have very small vaginas, smaller than normal. As a woman gets fatter, the vagina does not grow with it, in fact the surrounding fat pushes on the vagina and makes it smaller.” Then she added, “They say also that fat men have small penises.”
One of the heavier-looking male facilitators objected as if defending himself, “Wait, I think the reason is that everything just looks relatively smaller, not because it actually is. And to answer your question about fat women, some men like the cushioning that comes with the added weight. It is supposed to put everything in a better position.”
Satisfied with that question, we came to the next one, “Why is it bad to wear two condoms?”
We had been doing condom demonstrations, and many of the boys had the slick condom lubricant on their hands. To answer this question, one facilitator replied, “You see how the condom is very slippery? The second condom can slip off, and thus be lost inside the vagina.” My fellow Peace Corps Volunteer and I nearly slapped ourselves on the forehead at his answer, and then quickly remedied the situation by providing the right answer. It was now very clear to see how myths get spread.


Finally, one question was asked by a boy who was almost proud of his sexual relationships:
"So, I was with this girl and we were having sex, and then her parents began calling her. I was right about to ejaculate when I had to get out through the window and run. If I were ejaculating, is it possible to run, or is it physically impossible?"

Liars

“You carry men's clothes?” I asked the vendor in Swahili.
“All of these are men's.” He replied enthusiastically, gesturing to all the hanging slacks and trousers, as well as the pile of clothes on the floor.
I am not much for clothing shopping, but I was primed to purchase another pair of jeans. The two pairs I brought from the States had worn through and been patched too many times. I rifled through the clothes on the floor, coming across a pair with “waist 33.” Perfect. I thought to myself. Somewhere between 32 and 34 fits me perfectly, plus 33 was my favorite number.
“How much for these?” I ask.
“500 shillings ($6).” was his reply.
“I'll give you 100 ($1.20).”
So we haggled and finally agreed on 200 shillings, or $2.40. I put the jeans in my bag and went off merrily.
When I reached my house, I unrolled my jeans and tried them on. I struggled to pull them up, they were a bit tight over the thighs. They also flared out a bit at the bottom. Must be a European fit, I thought to myself. The waistline was slightly elastic too, which was a strange but pleasant surprise. They fit my waist perfectly. Then, as I reached my hands into my pockets, barely half of my hand fit in. I tried the zipper, and it was about half the length of zippers I was used to. Hastily, I checked the brand – Ralph Lauren. I was wearing a pair of women's jeans.
My first thought was that of perplexity at the dysfunctional pockets of female jeans. These pockets are so shallow, they are essentially unusable! I thought. How do girls manage? I sighed at my misfortune. With no changing room and no proper labels, I was easily tricked into purchasing a pair of jeans that were the wrong sex. A flash of anger rose in me at the guy who deceived me into thinking I was purchasing male jeans, especially because I specifically asked him. He robbed me of my $2.40, which does not seem like much, but if you consider that I can purchase 30 delicious mangoes for that much, it becomes quite a bit. I was cheated, and it resonated in me. “That liar,” I thought to myself.

It wasn't the first time I had been cheated. Time after time, in produce markets or tourist shops, the sellers try to rip me off. It is common knowledge that salesmen all over the world are notorious for saying everything and anything in order to close a deal. But here in Kenya, it is a strange, unwritten code among Kenyan salesmen to charge certain prices based on a person's appearance of wealth, status, race, and naivety. And no place executes this unwritten code better than Mombasa.

Mombasa is like a secret network of conspirators, an infallible infrastructure meant to cheat all unsuspecting tourists out of their hard-earned money. Once while on a tour of Old Town, our friendly tour guide brought us into a jewelry shop carrying locally excavated gems. The owner tried his best to convince us that these gems were nearly priceless, saying that, "the Chinese are purchasing these like crazy." I looked a ring with a tag written "800" on it. The ring was nice, but I decided that 800 shillings ($10) was a bit too much. After I asked him if he could lower the price to 500 shillings, he told me that the price was not in shillings but in dollars. $800? HA. I chortled reflexively and walked out of the store.

But on this occasion I was in Mombasa, searching for kikois to send as gifts to friends and family back home. I knew for a fact that they were about 300 shillings each and could be found in a place called Marikiti. My only problem - I did not know where Marikiti was. I wandered aimlessly around, asking shopkeepers as well as people on the street if they knew where to find these things, and how much I could get them for. I politely asked a man on the street, “Excuse me, do you know the standard price for kikois?” His seemingly honest reply was, “The price is between 700-900 shillings for each piece, but if they try to charge 1500 they are deliberately cheating you.” Interesting, I thought. This man does not know the real price. So this time I specifically went to a lady who was wearing a kikoi around her waist. Ladies generally are more honest and they bargain hard for anything and everything, so I had no doubt she knew the right price. I asked her the same question. I received the exact same answer as the man I had just asked. “Wow, you really don't know the price?” I asked her rhetorically, and walked away in frustration. How was I getting the exact same answer from everyone, especially when I knew it was wrong? Everyone here is in on it, or something, I thought.
After some time, I finally stumbled upon the town's trading center, Marikiti. I asked an Arab looking man where I could find kikois at a cheap price, and he grabbed me by the wrist and told me that he would show me. As he was pulling me past rows of shops down narrow pathways, he assured me that he would give me a fair price. When we finally reached his shop, I marveled at the warehouse full of materials and things stacked nearly fifteen feet high. “So, what price will you give me?” I ask him in Swahili. “Just choose, I'll give you a good price. A very good price.” He repeatedly assured. I began sorting through his wares. I was there for nearly half an hour, enjoying the texture of different materials between my fingers and marveling at the vibrant colors. The Arab man was amicable as well, creating small talk as he helped me choose my items. He even complimented me on how well I knew Swahili, which always makes me blush and swoon like a little girl. Perhaps I can trust this guy, I thought to myself. After choosing an array of kikois and lesos, I asked him how much each piece cost. “The price is 800, but because you are buying lots of them,” He began, “I will sell you each piece for 600 shillings.”
“What?!?” I stated in disbelief. It was his arrogance, his unhesitating response to take advantage of a seemingly naïve customer. “Are you serious? I know the real price is 300 shillings. I wont pay any more.”
He looked somehow stunned. After composing himself, he refuted my claim and lowered the price to 500 shillings per piece. I was fuming. There are very few things that get me angrier than getting ripped off, especially by someone whom you think is trustworthy. I yelled at him, calling him a racist, a cheater, a liar, and any other words of shame I could think of. I had never spoken so quickly in Swahili in all my life, but I was fueled by fury. I stood there in the shop and argued with this man for a half hour straight. He was stubborn, continuing to insist that the real price was 800 shillings, and that he was doing me a favor. At last, I told him that I was leaving, that I did not have any more time for his tricks. As I walked out the door, he broke. He summoned me back and told me that I will have my price of 300 shillings. Despite my anger at the man, I broke as well and purchased most everything I picked out.

As I left with a large bag full of things, I heard the usual, “Mzungu! Welcome!” from every shop I passed by. I was sick of being harassed, sick of the facade of kindness that all of these shopkeepers maintain in order to help turn a bit of profit. But I was happy for getting a good deal on all the items I wanted to purchase. As I walked back through Mombasa, I asked a lady on the street if she knew the proper price for kikois, and where I could buy them. I already knew, but I just wanted to see what answer I would get. She told me they were about 700 shillings and that she personally could sell them to me. I smiled and told her the price I had just paid, and she looked at me and smiled back, as if I had broken the code.

It was a month later when I found myself back in Marikiti, Mombasa. As I calmly brushed through the narrow streets and shops, I heard, "Mzungu! Welcome!" off behind me. Without turning my head, I heard another voice say, "Don't bother that one, he knows." I smiled deeply at the recognition I had gained.

Just recently, I asked my neighbor who is a seamstress if she could make the pockets on my pair of women's jeans a bit longer. She did it for free. Now, I wear them all the time.

How Rude!

American culture and Kenyan culture are undoubtedly different. But how different? At times, some things which are perfectly normal in Kenyan culture can be taken as plain rude in an American setting. Below, is the list of the Top Ten rudest actions. Enjoy!

10. The Subtle Touch
In a supermarket, my friend was leaning against the refrigerator door when another lady came up from behind her, placed her hand on my friend's back, and gently pushed her away from the door. My friend looked at me with bewilderment written all over her face at the strange gesture.

Explanation? People here speak a plethora of languages, and sometimes those languages do not overlap. In this case, I would suspect that the lady who performed the “rude” gesture found it more comfortable and more clear to communicate without using words since she would not know what language to use to properly convey her message.

9. Where Are You Going?
“Where are you going?” “What are you doing?” I am constantly asked these questions by my neighbors whenever I leave my building. None of your business, I think to myself, but I usually respond politely. How tiresome though, to incessantly be interrogated in this way.

Explanation? Security & accessibility. People in the village need to know everything they can about everyone else so that they know each other are safe, and they know where to find someone in case of emergency or in case someone is searching for them.

8. Customer Service
I was with my father in a small restaurant when he ordered a cappuccino from the menu. The waitress smiled politely and went off to fill his order. Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. Things usually take a bit longer here, but at this point we were beginning to get restless. Then, the manager came up to us and said, “I'm sorry, we are all out of the cappuccino.”
“What took so long for you to figure that out and then tell us?” I asked impatiently.
He responded apologetically, “The waitress was afraid to come tell you."
I laughed at the answer, but waiting twenty minutes for that? Definitely rude, right?

Explanation? Because there is such a low value on time in general here, being made to wait for anything is not seen as a big deal. In the case of this waitress, she must have been yelled at once or more by impatient tourists, and she did not want to experience that again. Ironically, the longer she took to tell us, the more frustrated we got.

7. The Summon
I was walking briskly to my office and I had a lot to do. Suddenly I heard my name called, so I looked to see my counterpart lounging in her chair outside. “Come.” She commanded, and made a hand motion similar to crumpling paper. It was the common motion to signal people to come. I sighed, frustrated – first, she was lounging back not doing anything, and I was walking quickly, and she had the gall to summon me to her? Second, her tone was blunt. No please, no nothing. Just come. Rude!

Explanation? Elders can impose their will upon anyone younger than they are without shame. Children are often summoned with the come command, and must do the bidding of their elder, and they must do it cheerfully. And from the child's perspective, it is an honor to be called by an adult and to be of his or her assistance, so everyone wins.

6. Begging
"Give me sweets! Give me money! Give me!" This is the daily chorus from children I pass on the roads, especially children who do not know me. And adults do it as well. "Give me your bag. Give me your bicycle. Give my your camera." This behavior gets tiresome, especially because i was brought up to think that begging is shameful, and must not be done.

Explanation? Begging is taught as a form of humility, and is almost honored. The justification is that it is better than stealing. And often people are in much greater need or much more dire situations and do not have much of the social and financial infrastructure that Americans enjoy.

5. Line Cutting.
I was standing at the small shop's window, waiting behind the two people in front of me who were crowding the small space. Suddenly, I see a hand stretch past me from behind with money in it. As the hand reaches inside the small shop window, the voice attached to the hand orders, “Half kilo of sugar.” I look back at the man in amazement and tell him bluntly, “I am waiting here.” He looks at me with big eyes and replies, “Oohh, i'm sorry, sorry!”

Explanation? I have no idea.

4. The Cell Phone
We are in the middle of a meeting. High ranking officials and management staff are in attendance. The chairman of my CBO is giving a speech while all are listening intently. Suddenly, his phone begins ringing inside his front shirt pocket. He is still giving his speech as he reaches for the phone, then in mid-sentence he answers his phone, speaks for half a minute, tells his caller that he is in a meeting and hangs up, then continues his sentence where he left off. We all sat there in silence for every single one of those thirty seconds, listening to his conversation. I looked around and everyone else seemed to consider this to be appropriate behavior. I was confused.

Explanation? Phone etiquette has not yet reached the more rural areas, partly because cell phones are a new technology in Kenya (relatively..the past 5 years), and people are just as much excited about owning one as they are of being the recipient of calls. As an added incentive to being vigilant about answering, here in Kenya the caller is the one who pays for the call, so many prefer to answer instead of waiting to call back.

3. You Are Fat.
People have no problem stating physical attributes of a person. Whether they are white, black, fat, short, one legged, or mute, these are all very appropriate descriptions for someone. They do not go so far as “ugly” though.

Explanation? Being fat is not negative here, nor is white or black or short or deaf. Often I get told that I am looking too skinny, that I look sickly and almost pale. I respond with a cheerful, “Thank you!” understanding that they are only concerned with my well-being, and not so much with my appearance.

2. Peeping!
When I first arrived to Kenya, I remember all my neighbors, children and adults alike, would look into my windows and proclaim proudly, “I am peeping!” It made me feel awfully uncomfortable, like a zoo animal. About a year later, when my Swahili got good enough to explain things, I told them that peeping is a serious offense in America, and you could actually go to jail for it. They were incredibly apologetic.

Explanation? There is no privacy anywhere, ever. Peeping is accepted as normal, and the actions of my neighbors were driven by curiosity, not perversity.

1. The “Borrow”
A guy sitting close to me in a meeting asks if he could borrow my pen while we were taking notes. I reluctantly lend it to him, it being my only pen, but I assumed he would just use it shortly and return it. Five minutes pass, then ten. I begin staring at him to get his attention, but he does not turn. Though while I stare at him, I watch him raise my pen slowly towards his face and then proceed to put the end into his mouth. I did not ask for it back.

Explanation? There is almost a general sense of community ownership with everything. People feel they are entitled to everything their neighbor has, and visa versa. To “borrow” does not really exist, because the view is that everyone has equal share in one's personal possessions.


As a bonus, here are a few of very rude things people do in the States that would be unacceptable here:

3. Clothing: (Showing your knees or shoulders for girls/wearing shorts for men) Here in my village, prostitutes are made known by the way they dress, so showing a lot of leg or skin for a girl essentially means she is a prostitute. For shorts on men – only children wear shorts they say.

2. Not Greeting: If you pass by someone without greeting them. It is absolutely rude. Someone would assume you are just unfriendly, or that he or she has wronged you in some way to make you behave like that.

1. Elderly Respect: It doesn't matter if they are uneducated, sexist, tribalist, unfair, or simply stupid, one must always listen to an elder and acknowledge his or her wisdom (generally “his”). Not caring for one's parents or grandparents is serious shame to one's family.

Witchcraft & Papayas

The baby was staring at me, his eyes bulging widely as if he had never seen a light-skinned person before. He otherwise looked undisturbed, sitting peacefully on his mother's lap in the back corner of the matatu. I had just climbed into the van, and found the last open seat just next to the mother and this child in the very back, and as I reached my seat and made eye contact with the mother I gave her a non-verbal greeting with a wave and an amicable grin. She smiled back kindly, and then turned her attention to her small child who was still fixated on me. Suddenly, the mother says to her small boy in Swahili, “Look at the witch,” pointing directly at me.
“Witch?” I replied to her, in a shocked tone. It was a grave accusation to call someone in the village a witch, and I truly was shocked to hear this lady speak of me that way to her child.
She looked at me with an expression similar to that of her child: eyes bulging and mouth gaping open. From her expression, she did not expect me to know Swahili.
“Hey, I am not a witch.” I replied. “I am just a human being, like you.” I then turned and faced the front, not giving any more attention to the mother and her child. Then I heard her tell her child, “Look at the human being.”

Witchcraft. This culture is inundated with fear and respect of it. Its existence is unquestioned and its power is unbounded. When I ask people about it they become all too solemn, as if they are reflecting about a time they were deeply affected by witchcraft's tainted powers. They are even afraid to know too much about the whole subject, some afraid of the very accusation that one could be a witch. They say that witchcraft leads to wealth and prosperity, but at the sake of one's sanity. They could go so far as to hunt albinos to be killed, experimented on, and used in spell-casting. And a witch's curse is not easily broken.

The most popular curse is the “fatal infatuation curse.” Men and women who are perhaps stricken by lust, love or infatuation with someone who does not return those feelings may find themselves seeking the aid of a witch. Through unintelligible mutterings, sacrifices, and specific rituals, they can curse that desired person into falling deeply infatuated as well. Experiential evidence has reported that friends whom have been inflicted with this particular curse are perfectly fine one day, but the next they are following someone around like a loyal dog follows an owner, desperate and unable to control their actions, and they continue to behave this way for extended periods of time. This behavior, they say, is undoubtedly the power of witchcraft.

Witches also have control of natural phenomena. It was reported that a witch was driven off from a village when all the surrounding villages received exceeding amounts of rain while the village the witch lived in did not get a single drop. The witch was accused of stopping the rain, or that his evil presence drove away the blessing of rainfall. Although, it was indeed a strange situation. For more than two months during the rainy season this village did not receive any rain while every other area, even just 2 kilometers on each side, was getting record amounts. To the alleged witch's credit, even after he was driven off, their still was no rain. (How terrible though, to be accused and driven off from your home and your land just by the speculations and superstitions of your neighbors).

There are methods to identify a true witch, though, so that accusations can be verified. My friend Carol gave me a detailed account of one of these ceremonies. It went like this: The villagers stood in a circle, and a few who were accused of practicing witchcraft were present among them. The leader of this ceremony explained the procedure which went like this: everyone must eat a piece of papaya for which the witch will be unable to swallow. The leader then pulled out a whole papaya and drew his knife, cutting equal pieces and passing the tray around. As each person took and swallowed his or her piece, they looked pensively around at one another, expecting..perhaps hoping..something would happen. Suddenly, he began to cough and his throat swelled to twice its normal size. This witch was identified.


I was skeptical, though. There always seems to be a reasonable explanation to strange phenomena. I bombarded her with questions or explanations:

Louis: He probably just choked.
Carol: No, he really couldn't swallow. He tried multiple times.
Louis: Maybe he was sick?
Carol: He looked just fine before eating.
Louis: Perhaps it was allergies?
Carol: He has eaten papaya before.
Louis: One slice of the papaya was poisoned or tampered with.
Carol: It was cut in front of them, all the same, with washed knives.

I paused, unable to think of another explanation, but knowing that their had to be. Then I asked, “What did they do to him?”
Carol: I don't know.

“Why papaya?” I asked, curiously.
She smiled at me, then replied, “Papaya is easy to swallow.”

Due Justice

There was a Terror in the neighborhood. From the rumors, this Terror stalked like a shadow. It could slip through even the smallest hole or disappear into the ground in a puff of dust. It killed instantly, and without sound. This Terror was immune to fire, cold, and poison. And it was not afraid of snakes.

This Terror's prey were chickens large and small, and any other animal that can be easily assassinated and inconspicuously carried off. Elusive and annoying, this Terror was a menace to all the chicken and rabbit keepers in the area who all wished dearly for its abrupt demise.


My neighbor's bitch had recently given birth to four puppies. Although she was a grainy yellow, each puppy she birthed had its own unique color: solid brown and white, smokey black, Oreo cookie, and a blended brownish black. The children on the compound took special interest in each puppy, naming the one they each liked best, and secretly playing with them when my neighbor was not looking (they say that if you play with puppies when they are small, they become worthless as watchdogs when they get older).



The puppies were nearly two weeks old. Their eyes had only just fully opened and they were learning to walk. At times we would just stand and watch as they awkwardly took each step and then paused, bow-legged, with their cute faces searching around for approval.

On one fateful Saturday, the children were playing outside when they heard an unusual wail from the puppies, followed by desperate and incessant yelping sounds. The children and the housekeeper ran to investigate the commotion to find The Terror with the smallest puppy in his mouth trying to escape, but obviously encumbered by the weight of its prey. The children screamed. Instantly the housekeeper surveyed the ground, grabbed the biggest stone in proximity and hurled the projectile at The Terror. With a great thud, the stone made impact, knocking the puppy free and disorienting the Terror. The children did not stand idle, they grabbed their own weapons and began hurling, beating, and abusing the Terror until the housekeeper came by with a larger rock, and loosed it on the head of the beast, killing it instantly.

The children rushed to the puppies, to find that all of them had been injured by The Terror, but that they were thankfully all still alive. The puppy being carried by The Terror was in the worst shape; blood trickled from his neck down his foreleg, and open gashes splayed across his belly. After checking that the puppies were alright, they ran to the carcass of The Terror.



“Let's roast it,” one child said after they spent minutes staring at the dead animal. So they got to work placing sticks and dry grass under the carcass and then setting fire to the dead beast. The children all huddled around, the younger ones screaming in delight at the sight of the open fire while the others watched intently as The Terror's hair burned away and the skin began to bubble and melt. After half an hour, The Terror was well-cooked, and so they carried the roasted meat to the mother and the four puppies.




“Eat.” The children commanded the dogs, as they laid the meat in front of them. “Eat, so that you heal quickly!” The children felt it was only fair that the bitch and her puppies were fed the meat of their attacker. The dogs usually had vegetarian food, so this was actually a treat for them. Hungrily the mother ate her fill and breastfed her puppies.

The housekeeper glowed as neighbors lauded her for her great aim and triumph over The Terror. Finally, after months of poaching chickens and puppies, The Terror had been slain. Finally, due justice had been paid.

From hearing rumors of The Terror, I was suspecting a much more vicious, malicious, monstrous creature. But in the end The Terror simply turned out to be a mongoose. No wonder it wasn't afraid of snakes.

The Matatu Race

Two vans screamed down the road, kicking dust into the air like a raging wildfire in a strong wind. We all turned our heads away from the dust, shutting our eyes and mouths tightly to prevent the particles from entering. As they flew by, I recognized the vans to be two matatus, the 14-seat public transportation vehicle in Kenya. “Why are they going so fast, and so close together?” I asked my friend. Matatu drivers are known to be reckless, but even I had never seen them go so fast.
“They are just racing.” my friend replied.
Just racing. I thought to myself. Seems a bit dangerous..
If you think about it, two registered public transportation vehicles racing down a one-and-a-half lane dirt road while carrying more than the capacity of passengers is not exactly the safest mode of travel. But who can blame a couple of matatu drivers for wanting a bit of excitement to spice up the day, right?

It was morning, I walked out leisurely from my friend's house with a few large bags. A good thirty kilometers of bumpy, dirt road separated me from my home, and I was hoping I did not have to wait too long for a matatu to come. As I came in sight of the bus stage, I saw two matatus revving up, kicking dust from the ground, and spewing black smoke from their exhaust. The conductor looked back at me as if to telepathically ask me if I wanted to go, and with my affirmation he made the signal for me to hurry to him. I began to jog awkwardly with my cumbersome luggage, but his impatience prompted him to meet me halfway and help me carry my things. He grabbed them, threw them in the trunk of the vehicle, and nearly shoved me in, all the while yelling, “Twende! Twende!” or “Let's go! Let's go!” to the driver.

The other vehicle had the jump on us, and was already just a billow of dust in our windscreen. The driver smiled confidently as he shifted the gears, second to third, third to fourth. He knew the roads better than anyone, feeling the corrugated bumps and the muddy soft spots twice every day. The matatu shook violently as it hit bumps, rocks and uneven terrain. With each violent jostle, all of the passengers leaped out of their seats, me included, and every now and again my head would strike the metal roofing with a muted thud. But personal comfort or safety did not matter now, nor did the integrity of the van's suspension. That billow of dust ahead was all that mattered, and it began taking the form of a vehicle. We were catching up.

“Wait!” The conductor yelled, beating furiously on the metal roof to signal the stop. We had just hit an especially large bump, and the trunk had flung open. I looked back through the rear window to see some luggage had spilled out as well, and was scattered behind the van on the road. I chuckled to myself at how reckless these guys were, spilling people's luggage without consideration. Then, as I looked closer, I realized that it was my luggage that had fallen out! Angrily I glared at the conductor for his negligence, while hoping that nothing had broken. As the van came to a stop, the conductor ran out to gather the luggage and hastily fasten the trunk again. We were off again, and this time, we went faster.

Up ahead the other matatu had stopped to pick up a passenger, and so we took our chance for the lead. We were finally ahead after 10 miles, and still with about 20 miles until the finish. Yet, passengers speckled the road side, and we too stopped to pick them up. A game of “leap frog” then ensued, trading off abrupt stops to pick passengers, while trying to maintain the lead. I realized then, the matatu with the lead actually picks up more passengers and has a greater financial benefit because of it. That financial incentive was probably the underlining motivation for the festive matatu race. It felt like I was living in a rural version of the old video game “Crazy Taxi,” as each matatu was still going at reckless speeds, and each driver was not willing to yield a passenger or be second at the finish line.

For a good stretch of road we developed a lead, so much so that we could no longer see our competitors behind us. But again, with a loud Thump! The matatu hit a huge bump and the trunk opened wide again, splaying my luggage again across the road. “Put the luggage in the cabin, not the boot!” the driver yelled at the conductor, his frustration soaked deeply into the tone of his voice. This time I laughed as the conductor rushed out to gather my things. I couldn't help but enjoy the whole experience. It gave enough time for the competing van to appear behind us, raising the tension of the race again.

My home was still on the racecourse, so as I approached, I told the conductor that I would alight as quickly as I could. As the van screeched to a halt in front of my home, I wished them luck so they would win the race.

I have no idea if they did.

Songs To Relate To

I only went to one formal dance in high school. Prom. I was very timid of dancing and of girls, but this time around I had someone important I wanted to bring. I remember very distinctly the song we slow-danced to: Daniel Bedingfield's “If You're Not The One.”

Although romantic feelings for my high school prom date have long been buried and forgotten, every time I hear that song, I cannot help but recall fond memories of her and of that time we shared together. Music is powerful in that way. It can serve as a strong reminder of meaningful people and experiences. Since I have been in Kenya, I have found that some of the songs I listened to growing up have been redefined. From old bands like U2 and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, I have forged an even tighter affinity toward their music. Here are a few of the songs I mean:

“Where the streets have no name.” (U2)

The only way to find a place in the United States is by the street name and the address. Clearly typed out on Google Maps, one can find any place that has a street sign hanging like a name tag on the corner. But deeper in the rural areas of Kenya where I live, there are no street signs. There are no corner roads and gas stations. People give directions by telling you the person who lives nearby, or which tall tree must be followed. Mailing addresses consist nearly exclusively of P.O. Boxes. Yet, the fact that these dirt roads remain unnamed does not mean they are unknown; they are always traveled and deeply well known by all who live nearby.

“Cattle in the marketplace” (Paul Simon – You Can Call Me Al)

Even before coming to Africa, I felt I could already strongly relate to Paul Simon's – Graceland album, but this line now hits home on a whole new level. Back in California, the cattle are tucked away into the smelly armpit of the state: Bakersfield, where at least 150 miles set me apart. One would call animal control if they ever saw a cow in a produce market in California, but here the domesticated cows and goats are a common sight among the fruits and vegetables in the marketplace. Goats often loiter around to clean up fallen morsels, and the mooing of cattle is never out of earshot.


“when you see the southern cross for the first time, you understand now why you came this way” (Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young – Southern Cross)

The Southern Cross is the simplest of constellations dancing about in the Southern hemisphere. It is just 4 stars in the shape of a kite or a cross, but in its simplistic beauty it holds a very useful tool. No matter what time of night, there is a way to tell which direction is due South by measuring the diameter of the constellation. The first time I saw this constellation, I was climbing Mt. Kenya, where the sky was crystal clear. Despite the bitter night's cold and the altitude, I could not help but stare upon the heavens with a deep sense of serenity.

“I bless the rains down in Africa” (Toto - Africa)

For the first two months after arriving at my site, I witnessed constant suffering on account of the lack of water. Women carried 45 pounds of water on their heads for miles day after day because there literally was no water nearby. The area was desiccated, the trees and bushes had shed their leaves and focused all of their energies on survival, and the soil was deeply parched.
I was in the church building when it happened. It was a Friday at 4pm, we were condoling the passing of an esteemed old lady in the village. Just as we had finished the ceremony and turned to leave, a thundering sound began to emanate from within the church. Huge droplets of rain pounded viciously upon an iron roofing, and the stone walls and floors only reinforced the deafening sound. I looked out the window of the church and saw the dry dirt turn deep red, as if drinking deeply after a long and difficult stretch. Each blessed drop that fell seemed to alleviate the suffering of the villagers, of the plants and the trees. Such a simple thing like rain, but the blessing was substantial, and well received.

Music - among many other things, it serves as a medium for fond memories. Just as I feel deeply connected to my high school prom date whenever I hear Daniel Bedingfield, I will carry with me the precious memories of my African experience through the songs I love.

Small Business Adviser

The biggest mystery in the Peace Corps is its job description. Nobody actually knows what a Peace Corps Volunteer does, or what he or she is supposed to do. Often this applies to the serving volunteer himself, even as he is in the field. Before coming to the Peace Corps they had given us a pamphlet to read on what to expect as a volunteer, and from that I had it in my mind that I would be traversing dangerous wilderness, where I would stop by and visit mud-hut to mud-hut, drinking ceremoniously from a buffalo's horn while teaching people basic business skills and economics. I figured that I would be welcomed with open arms by everyone, and the knowledge I imparted would be immediately received and automatically life-changing. The description was literally that vague.

During our pre-service training we were all taught to memorize a phrase in Swahili that identifies what we are supposed to do as volunteers. The phrase goes, “Mimi ni mshauri wa biashara ndogo ndogo” which means “I am a small business adviser.” I remember how impossible it was to remember all of that at once, how foreign it felt in my mouth when I spoke it, and how I did not even know the meaning of the actual words. It was symbolic even, representing how little I knew about how I was actually going to spend the next two years of my life.

We repeated them countless times during pre-service training, so when we got out to our work sites it would be the first thing that would spout out of our mouths. We were adequately warned that people will see us as donors who bring money and start projects. That is why we put extra stress on the word “adviser.”

I have spent more than a year and a half in my site. In that time, I have taught computer skills to multiple people, facilitated guitar and piano lessons, taught bead making, made charcoal, started a table tennis team, organized a trash clean-up, made sanitary pads, and promoted gender equality. Although many of these activities are good, none of them had anything to do with being a business adviser.

A short while back, I met with a women's group which takes loans to pay for school fees. The problem with this group is that they have trouble paying the 20% interest rate on their loans, and paying for school fees is not exactly a good way to use a loan. I started out speaking slowly, introducing myself in Swahili and then continuing. We discussed the business of making food for selling like a restaurant would, the general concept of how money from a loan must be used to make more money, how much one will have to put into a savings box per day in order to have enough money to pay the loan at the end of the month, and what kind of business activities might be suitable for earning income. I pleaded with them to invest in rain gutters and tanks, and they asked me a great deal of questions about their loans. At the end of the session, they smiled and thanked me profusely for my time. None of them asked me for money.

I left feeling satisfied completely. After more than a year, I finally did the very thing I was expecting to do. I could now live up to the title I was forced to memorize, and could claim that now it was true. I am a small business adviser.

A Dollar A Day

One dollar per day. By the United Nation's standard, those who live with less than a dollar per day are classified as living in “extreme poverty.” I remember learning about statistics such as these during my undergraduate studies, and I always thought to myself, “How could anyone live on one dollar per day?'” It sounded impossible, especially because I had no gauge to compare it to besides the expensive standard of U.S. living.

Now, I am living in a developing country. What a perfect opportunity for me to gain perspective on this seemingly unfathomable statistic. What is it like to live on one dollar per day? I decided that the best way to find out is to try it for myself.

So here was the plan: Twenty seven full days, February 7th to March 6th,, to live off of one dollar per day.

Here were the rules I outlined: I had 80 Kenyan shillings per day, just under the current exchange rate of 83.5 Kenyan shillings to the dollar. This would have to account for everything: food, travel, washing materials, etc. Also, if I were to accept something given to me for free, I would have to count it in my running total.

But I gave myself some amenities: sunscreen, work related internet/electricity, and rain-harvested water were all free. Also, my malaria medicine I counted as free. Here are the justifications - for the sunscreen: I decided that it wasn't worth risking unnecessary skin damage for this (If I had included sunscreen, I would have stayed indoors during the day). For the work-related internet/electricity: because I would have been useless for the month. For the rainwater: it is minimal cost and difficult to account for. For the malaria medicine: because if I stop taking those and Peace Corps finds out, I get sent home (I also might get malaria).

As much as I love challenges, the night before I was almost afraid of what was to come. Although I did not eat an exorbitant amount that night, I noticed a few things I ate which I knew I wouldn't be able to afford: chocolate, American candies, oats, and even bread. I wondered if it was going to be like holding your breath underwater, where it would get slightly more and more uncomfortable until coming up for air again. Or maybe I would just get used to it, perhaps enjoy it?

The first few days I was excited about the restriction. I proudly ate my banana in the morning (4pennies or 3kenyan shillings) and held out until a large dinner in the evenings. When I would politely refuse things from people, I would be obliged to explain what I was doing in order to exculpate my apparent rudeness. Conversations would go something like this:

Friend: Hey Louis! Welcome in for a cup of tea!
Me: I can't today, thanks though.
Friend: How come?
Me: I am trying to use less than 80 shillings per day.
Friend: Why?
Me: So I can understand what it is like.
Friend: Okay, well don't worry, the tea is free.
Me: Even if I accept free things, I have to count it.
Friend: Eh?

During the market days, I would purchase much less than I usually do, and the ladies at the market would ask me why. After telling them that I was on a tight budget for the month, they would look at me sympathetically and then they would give me things for free, which I could not refuse. On two separate occasions, the tomato lady gave me two pounds of tomatoes, and another lady gave me a pound of french beans, just because they felt sorry for me. To be honest, those kind gestures warmed my heart deeply. Two years ago, the ladies in the market would try to rip me off with double the standard price. Now, they give me free things when I am in trouble.

During my challenge, it was mango season. Decent sized angoes were about 3 to 7 U.S. Pennies. Despite my budget restriction, I still managed to have a mango nearly every single day (usually I would have 3 to 4 mangoes a day, going by last year's rate...the mangoes are truly that delicious).

An average day of spending looked something like this:
Breakfast: 2 cups cornmeal (6 pennies), 1 banana (4 pennies)
Drinking water: 3liters (3 pennies)
Dinner: 1 plateful of Ugali (17pennies), 1 plateful kale with onions (20 pennies)
Dessert: 2 bananas (8 pennies), 1 mango (6 pennies), handful of peanuts (8 pennies)
Soap/gas for cooking/toothpaste/etc..: (4 pennies)
Cooking spices, oil.. (3 pennies)

I could not afford the use of shampoo, deodorant, or lotion.

If I got a flat tire on my bike, it would cost 12 pennies to repair. If I used my cell phone for a text message or a 1 minute call, it would cost about two to four pennies. If I did laundry, it would cost at least 25 pennies in washing soap for the load. During this 27-day period I did laundry twice, got 3 flat tires, and sent close to 10 unnecessary text messages on my cell phone.

In January, the prices of nearly all vegetables doubled. As a result, I found myself purchasing the bare minimum. On this current budget, I could no longer afford carrots and tomatoes, it would just be onions and kale for vegetables. And when peeling the onions, I would take twice as long in order to try to maximize the edible amounts, wanting to use every bit.

Most of the meals were the same. I could not afford variety in my foods; I ate the cheapest meal possible (ugali and kale) in order to satisfy my caloric and nutritional requirements. Though, sometimes I caved in to get some variety (assorted vegetables and rice or pasta), though when I did I could not afford enough to satisfy my hunger. As a point of reference, corn flour is about 50 pennies per kilogram, wheat flour is close to double that price. White rice is 75 pennies per kilogram. A 400gram loaf of bread is 60 pennies. Beans are about 85 pennies per kilogram. (1 kilogram = 2.2 lbs) For 24 days out of 27, I had some type of corn flour or whole corn meal. The other three days were pasta, rice, and chapati.

I made it. I was nearly 25 pennies under budget. The day after the ordeal I had a couple pieces of chocolate, a packet of fruit snacks, and half a loaf of bread as a celebration. I've found that under a dollar a day living is not impossible, but it is agonizingly debilitating. Something as simple as food variety is a treat. It is difficult to fathom that some people here have done it all their lives.

The P Word Revisited – A Peace Corps Kenya Packing List

(Written by Lorenzo Nava, PCV)

It was just a little under two years ago that I received a letter in the mail saying, “Hey, you wanna go to Kenya for 2 years or what?” Excitement ensued followed quickly by the sentiment “Well, what am I supposed to bring?” So I made wagers with fate on what to pack, did my best to predict what I would and wouldn’t need, and have spent a good part of my time here learning from my limitations in foresight. It’s been about two years now and according to my calculations a new group of would be volunteers is about to receive their invitation letter in the next few months, and my hope is that a few of them will stumble across this blog post. Now for those of you future volunteers who are reading this, I’m sure there are all kinds of evidence based guidelines and scientific formulas devised to help a person pack for two years of Peace Corps service, but here’s a couple of pointers from myself and another volunteer living where you’re about to go. For everyone else, I’m not saying you can’t read on, but if you have anything else you’d rather be doing I won’t be offended if you choose to devote your time elsewhere.

Bring It:
Pens – You never truly appreciate what you have until it’s gone and its replacement leaves your hands, clothes, and underwear in a sticky, inky mess. The average life span of a local pen here is approximately 30 days before the self-destruct mechanism is triggered and the writing device shatters mid-stroke, inexplicably releases its entire bolus of ink, or simply stops writing for no reason whatsoever. It seems simple enough, but treat yourself to an enjoyable writing experience for the next 2 years by tossing a few extra pens in your bag and don’t give them away.

Computer – Unless you have a really good reason for being adamantly opposed to bringing anything electronic you should go ahead and just bring a laptop. In addition to giving you the ability to send emails in a timely fashion it will serve as a useful tool giving you more versatility in the work you perform. Netbooks are great for their portability and low power consumption. Most volunteers have reasonable access to electricity and for those who don’t a solar setup capable of charging a computer is more affordable and readily available here than you might think. A good sized external hard drive (think in the terabyte range as these things can fill up quick) for pictures, music, and other files is recommended as you should back up EVERYTHING. While you can find a decent selection of gadgets, devices, and technological what-nots here in Kenya you’re going to pay a premium for such luxuries so you’re best off bringing anything plugin-able from home.

Games – We recommend Bananagrams.

Musical Instruments – Studies have shown that you are used to playing a musical instrument back home you are guaranteed to miss it within a month of arriving without it if you are foolish enough to leave it behind. Additionally, music is a great way to charm your way into the heart of anyone you meet here. There is a limited availability of quality instruments so you are best off bringing something from the US (ideally second hand if losing your instrument would be like losing a body part). Don’t forget strings, reeds, picks, harmonica wax, or any of the other necessary accessories.

Funny Shaped Sports Equipment – Frisbees, footballs, baseballs, gloves, speedos, pucks, hockey sticks, badminton gear, and lawn croquet sets. If you have an interest in any sport other than rugby, volley ball, or soccer (ahem…proper football) and you are interested in sharing that interest with the community you’re living in for the next 2 years then you had better plan ahead unless you’re prepared to do some serious improvising.

Maybe:
Toothpaste – Along with the worldwide distribution of refined sugar came the worldwide dissemination of most dental hygiene products. So unless you have a special loyalty to a brand like Tom’s of Maine don’t waste the space packing a two year supply of anything other than waxed floss.

Deodorant, Shampoo, Petroleum Jelly, Pomade, etc. – You’re not spending the next 2 years in an underwater research facility cut off from any sort of supply line. Follow the toothpaste rule: Unless you have some special brand loyalty save yourself the time and trouble and just go to the store when you get here

Red Cross Wind-Up Flashlight – Guaranteed to be one of the most useful items you own until the wind-up handle snaps off in your hand with no warning (seems to happen for most volunteers around month 6) rendering the thing useless. If you’re going to bring one of these handy devices consider throwing a tiny screwdriver in your bag as well so you can strip it for parts when the time comes.

Batteries/Things That Use Batteries – Aside from being heavy, available in nearly every village in the country (you’ll feel pretty foolish walking through the battery aisle in Kenya after carrying 20 pounds of Duracells through customs), and prone to ooze acid into all the places you really don’t want acid, there are exactly 0 environmentally friendly ways to dispose of old batteries here. If you’re planning on bringing a head lamp or something battery operated the best course of action would probably be to pack some rechargeable batteries (not those cute, underperforming USB chargable batteries) and a wall charger.

Wall Socket Adapters – US price: $20, Kenya Price: $1-2. Plan accordingly.

Quirky Cookware - Most culinary instruments from whisks and mashers to non-stick skillets and stainless steel pressure cookers are available, but those who need to flip their pancakes “just the right way” might consider bringing their own. If you are in love with your spatula, or have a very specific potato peeler, I might recommend bringing it.

Don’t Bother:
Solio – Light weight and light duty, this is probably a useful device if you’re backpacking through the Amazon, but not so much here. The amount of babysitting and repositioning required to get a decent charge out of this ting during the non-rainy season alone make it somewhat unpractical, while leaving the device unattended during the rainy season is a sure way to drown your investment. Chances are you’ll be somewhere within reasonable proximity to power and in the outside chance that you aren’t, you’d be better off using the money you would have spent on this thing to purchase something cheaper, weather proof, and more versatile here in Kenya.

Water Purification Anything – Let’s face it, aside from the days spent between bathing and the sometime redundant menus this isn’t a camping trip. There are plenty of fast, cheap, and effective water purification methods available here in country that make more sense than bringing something from overseas. As cool and light saberesque as other water purification methods may be, you’ll probably only be wasting money and space by bringing them.

Clothes – Anything white. The purpose of doing laundry here, at least for a busy volunteer isn’t so much to get things clean as to get them “less dirty”. Get a head start on tough stains by not bringing anything lighter than “smokestack gray” or the Crayola color “ashtray”. Also bear in mind that the days of loin clothes and banana leaves are over. Thanks to well off do-gooders elsewhere you’ll be able to get top-quality name brand stuff that you couldn’t afford back home for rock bottom prices in the second hand markets here, so don’t bother packing like you’ll never see clothes again (unless of course you’re a big and tall size and don’t want to tempt fate). Also, for people who go through underpants like a college athlete through a buffet you might bring a little extra of a comfortable style. It’s not that you can’t find bras and knickers here, but 2 years can be a long time to deal with an awkward fit in those sensitive places.

Lesson of the Day:
The big thing to remember is not to bring too much. Aside from a few essentials which may be hard to come by here you can get everything you need and more for a reasonable price while supporting local merchants and all that stuff. So relax and look forward to it, the P word is nothing to be afraid of.

Artificial Lights

It is pitch black outside. From the far western side of the sky, brilliant flashes of light intermittently sever the darkness. The flashes of lightning are deep in the distance, so deep that the expected thunder gets muffled and lost against the hills and the trees in its futile attempts to reach me. Yet, despite their distance, the flashes are so distinct they illuminate the entirety of the heavens.

The sight is breathtaking. I run outside with my camera, hoping to capture the clear bolts of lightning on film. With the dim light of my cell phone I take careful steps outside of my compound, where I could stand and see the beautiful spectacle unobstructed. But as I reach the front of my compound I am blinded by the security light hanging from the underside of the roof. The single light bulb sheds so much light it dampens the brilliance of the distant lightning and mutes the twinkling stars above. Frustrated, I search the walls around the light for a switch to put it off. Defeated, I move further in toward the darkness and toward the road so as to get the best view I can.

I smile with awe as I see the lightning bolts arch and twist, some stretching their unrestrained energy all the way to the ground below. The bolts seem to linger for more than just moments, or perhaps it is their remnants that linger as negatives in my corneas. With each bolt, I can see the sharp outline of a dark, ominous cloud presumably where the bolts are borne. I thought to myself that nothing can be more sublime, nothing more natural and paradoxically peaceful, aside from the single glowing light bulb some distance behind me.

He comes up to me stumbling. It is only 9:30pm, but he has had enough to drink and is on his way home as he sees me standing there. “Ahhh Mwadime,” he greets me with slurred words in my local name.
“Look!” I exclaim in Swahili and point earnestly toward the horizon, shedding my excitement on him. He turns slowly and asks me, “What?” He is not in the least amused by the lightning in the distance; to him its natural display of power is nothing of consequence.
“The lightning. It is very good, isn't it?" I replied.
“What? That?” He looks and points at the horizon. “Pffffff. That?” he repeats, his words reeking of alcohol as they reach me. Finally he says, “That's not lightning. That is.”
He points behind me, to the single light bulb hanging from the outside of my house.
“That.” He repeats, his arm locked straight with a single pointed finger fixed at the end.

His drunken insight offends me at first. It seems shameful to claim something like a light bulb more substantial than an awesome display of lightning on the horizon. And furthermore, that same light bulb that I found bothersome and tried so desperately to extinguish he finds more worthy of attention. But as I continue reflecting on his words, I consider how commonplace light bulbs are to me, just as lightning is to him. I consider that this village may have only had electricity wired in a decade ago, and still only the ones in proximity, or the ones wealthy enough are able to enjoy what electricity brings. Never had I smelled the burning of kerosene as I study by its light, or had to leave my cell phone at a shop all day to have it charged for me. I think back and realize that I have never known a life without electricity. Save for a few camping trips, I had never been without electricity for more than the rare two hour black-out would allow.

He stumbles off in the darkness, leaving me alone to watch the bolts traverse the pitch black sky. As he leaves he does not take a single look on the horizon; the magnificent thunderstorm remains entirely ignored as he hurries home to undoubtedly turn on his television. Perhaps WWE wrestling is on.