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.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
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.
“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.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, July 13, 2012
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?”
“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?”
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
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?"
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?"
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
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.
“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.
Friday, June 8, 2012
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.
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.
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