I was late coming from Mombasa, or later than I would have liked. It was 4:30pm as I approached the stop for my matatu, and the last round of matatus toward my home come at 5. Usually they are all full.
As I alighted, I saw one of my matatu's pull in to the stage. My lucky day this time, because I didn't want to walk the 10km with my heavy backpack full of coconuts, books and other spoils from Mombasa. And it looked like it was going to rain. Already the rain pounded hard on the ride over, forming streaked puddles in the dips and valleys of the road. It must also have been raining for some time, because large pools collected in various places and a few Maasai could be seen bathing in the dirty water- though undoubtedly not as dirty as their nomadic skin.
But luck was not with me this time around; as I approached the matatu I realized it was packed full to the brim, still with 7 people waiting to get on. With a long sigh I mentally steeled myself for a long and cold journey home. After glancing at my watch I quickened my pace, it was 4:40pm and the sun sets at 6, with the last bits of light fading not more than a half-hour later. The ominous rain clouds darkened the sky, and I knew I had less light to work with. I hoped to make it home in two hours.
Not 200 meters down the road, the matatu rolled by- the conductor looked at me as if to ask if I wanted a ride, and I shouted, “nitasimama!” or “I will stand!”, hoping there was enough room to save me from the long journey home. The matatu stopped, and I boarded the side, standing on a platform where a child or elderly lady would use to boost them up to the cabin. I felt around for anything I could possibly grab on to, as my heavy backpack threatened to pry me from my grip. In front of me stood the conductor who usually stands if the matatu gets full, and behind me another passenger. It was the second time I stood on the outside of a matatu.
Each jerk and bump on the muddy road assaulted my fallible grip and stung the muscles in my arms. I pulled in closer at times to the car, trying to keep both me and my backpack safe from the overhanging thorn trees off the side of the road. Passengers whose heads knocked into my elbows didn't seem to mind, and each time I glanced back at my fellow standing passenger, he cracked a wide, gap-toothed smile.
During my ride, I noticed the ash-grey sky looming over the hills to my left, and the clouds pouring over the tops like ocean waves breaking on the rocks. The wind blew my hair back and large drops of rain began to fall, landing hard on my face. Through squinting eyes I saw in the distance long streaks of lightning pierce through the sky, illuminating the dark clouds and sending shivers of awe down my spine. The bolts were perfect, picturesque, as if Zeus himself were hurling them from the clouds above. With such vicious and unavailing bolts, I expected booming thunder, but the thunder was muted by the rushing wind in my ears, and further by the screaming children who came running after the matatu, splashing dirt in the shallow puddles behind.
I smiled to myself. It's moments like this that become instant memories, that startle and awaken any sleeping dreams and aspirations. It's moments like this that you drink in your morning coffee when you are 54, and upon recollection the memories dance in your mind and strengthen your resolve.
As I reflected on the moment, with lightning crashing on the horizon and beyond I looked up into the dark sky and offered a silent prayer. "I could not ask for more."
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
On Love and Harassment
The first time I proposed to my fiancé, I did not have a ring. I also did not assume the conventional kneeling position during my proposition to her. And I had only known her for two hours (i was just that sure). She did not answer me, but instead asked me where the ring was. Marriage isn't something to be taken lightly, you know. And it would have been bad signs if she had said yes so quickly. Just what I would expect from my fiancé.
The second time I proposed to my fiancé, I did have a ring. It was a toe ring; a crude, brass thing that was unconnected at the back (potentially adjustable), and molded into the crest was the “peace” symbol. I was wearing a lime green suit, sandals, and I played “Amazing Grace” on the harmonica as I kneel-ed in front of her. Who could refuse that?
Therefore, I have a fiancé. Her name is Alison and she lives in Paraguay.
As fate would have it, I have come to Kenya and I have fallen in love with a local. After all, who can control the whimsical feelings of a passionate heart? Her name is Maggie, and she is a beautiful Kenyan. She also hates me. And she is two years old.
When I first got to my small rural village, Maggie's mother (who is 24 years old) and I became instant friends, simply because she could speak English. I spent the first few weeks with her as she showed me around the neighboring villages, introduced me to all the people, and made me feel welcome. As we meandered together through dry fields, she would knowingly reach out and caress a tree leaf or a shrub between her index finger and thumb, explaining what type of fruit or food the plant bears or what other uses it has. It felt like I was in the Disney movie Pocahontas.
As a general rule, women are attracted to money. Me being a white person, I am the walking, talking, singing and dancing embodiment of money. Therefore, women here in Kenya are attracted to me. Dora is no exception.
Because cultural norms make it inappropriate for women to confront men with their emotional feelings, Dora has been all but forthcoming in her “subtle hints”. When we spent time walking through the fields, she would say how the other villagers think we are married. And since Maggie turned out a little bit browner as opposed to a dark black complexion, it is as if the baby was the product of a racial mix (i.e. the baby was MINE).
It had become a vicious circle of love. I love Maggie, who in turn loves her mother, and her mother “likes” me, but to go the other way around, Maggie hates me, I do not have feelings for Dora, and Dora tires of Maggie because she cries all the time. I am not going to lie, for a moment or so I considered marrying Dora just so I could keep Maggie. I am not kidding.
Once, Dora asked me why the only women in the 'pornography films' were white. The question took me aback on two levels. First because such a subject would appear on the mind of the rural, conservative Kenyan mother, and second because this rural, conservative Kenyan mother had been exposed to pornography. Dora continued to press the issue, asking me if Kenyans were not as beautiful or desirable as white women because of our their skin. I told her that I thought Kenyans were astoundingly beautiful, and that I didn't think they were less or more so than other cultures. Then I told her that I have a fiancé, and I cannot take another women, and all during this exchange, I couldn't help but think about the movie “The Graduate,” the part where Dustin Hoffman boldly states, “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me.”
From that point on, I decided to claim Alison as my fiancé, producing pictures of me proposing to her (which actually exist) to prove to the community that I am truly engaged. My fiancé has become my means of crowd-control, my harassment prevention method, my protection from the onslaught of willing Kenyan women, or worse—Kenyan mothers that offer their daughters or cousins to me.
So here in my village I am engaged (well, I really am engaged). Every Mama knows I am engaged, and a surprising amount of people remember her name. Every now and then, a Mama would ask me, “So how's Alison?” and then follow up with, “Ah, two years? That is a long time. If I were you, I would not wait for her. Just take a Kenyan wife.”
Two years is a long time, and romance is a big deal – in both Kenyan and American cultures. Luckily for me, romance has been among the last things on my mind. I have been trying to cultivate a different type of love, one that is pervasive and addicting and enduring. The kind of love that inspires compassion and kindness. On the subject of romantic love, someone could give me a soap-box and a megaphone, and I would stand up and speak into it until the batteries ran low (and my trigger finger was sore) but I will spare my readers for now. There is a place for romance, and despite my spoken resistance to it, I am among the most susceptible to its wily charms.
As for Alison, my “Fiancé” is simply in name only. I cannot claim that any feelings are attached from her end. It would be hard to imagine being romantically involved with someone so out-of-reach, so intangible. Yet many other volunteers maintain long-distance romantic relationships, and to them I offer my sincerest regards.
As for me, my romance is confined to my attempts at poetry in my quiet times. This poem was written for no one in particular, but with someone in mind. It goes out to all the long distance relationships that us volunteers subject ourselves to.
Maybe She Waits
Maybe she waits,
she waits for me only.
Maybe I've gone,
I've gone too far away.
Maybe she waits,
She waits patient and lonely.
Maybe I'm wrong
to have asked her to stay.
Maybe she thinks,
She thinks of me only.
But maybe her thoughts
were mine, just for one day.
Maybe when I,
When I come back I'll be lonely.
But maybe her heart-
Not so easy to sway.
But if she waits,
she waits for me only.
When I return
I will hold her and say,
“I'm sorry that I,
That I left you here lonely.
Never again
Will I leave you that way.”
The second time I proposed to my fiancé, I did have a ring. It was a toe ring; a crude, brass thing that was unconnected at the back (potentially adjustable), and molded into the crest was the “peace” symbol. I was wearing a lime green suit, sandals, and I played “Amazing Grace” on the harmonica as I kneel-ed in front of her. Who could refuse that?
Therefore, I have a fiancé. Her name is Alison and she lives in Paraguay.
As fate would have it, I have come to Kenya and I have fallen in love with a local. After all, who can control the whimsical feelings of a passionate heart? Her name is Maggie, and she is a beautiful Kenyan. She also hates me. And she is two years old.
When I first got to my small rural village, Maggie's mother (who is 24 years old) and I became instant friends, simply because she could speak English. I spent the first few weeks with her as she showed me around the neighboring villages, introduced me to all the people, and made me feel welcome. As we meandered together through dry fields, she would knowingly reach out and caress a tree leaf or a shrub between her index finger and thumb, explaining what type of fruit or food the plant bears or what other uses it has. It felt like I was in the Disney movie Pocahontas.
As a general rule, women are attracted to money. Me being a white person, I am the walking, talking, singing and dancing embodiment of money. Therefore, women here in Kenya are attracted to me. Dora is no exception.
Because cultural norms make it inappropriate for women to confront men with their emotional feelings, Dora has been all but forthcoming in her “subtle hints”. When we spent time walking through the fields, she would say how the other villagers think we are married. And since Maggie turned out a little bit browner as opposed to a dark black complexion, it is as if the baby was the product of a racial mix (i.e. the baby was MINE).
It had become a vicious circle of love. I love Maggie, who in turn loves her mother, and her mother “likes” me, but to go the other way around, Maggie hates me, I do not have feelings for Dora, and Dora tires of Maggie because she cries all the time. I am not going to lie, for a moment or so I considered marrying Dora just so I could keep Maggie. I am not kidding.
Once, Dora asked me why the only women in the 'pornography films' were white. The question took me aback on two levels. First because such a subject would appear on the mind of the rural, conservative Kenyan mother, and second because this rural, conservative Kenyan mother had been exposed to pornography. Dora continued to press the issue, asking me if Kenyans were not as beautiful or desirable as white women because of our their skin. I told her that I thought Kenyans were astoundingly beautiful, and that I didn't think they were less or more so than other cultures. Then I told her that I have a fiancé, and I cannot take another women, and all during this exchange, I couldn't help but think about the movie “The Graduate,” the part where Dustin Hoffman boldly states, “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me.”
From that point on, I decided to claim Alison as my fiancé, producing pictures of me proposing to her (which actually exist) to prove to the community that I am truly engaged. My fiancé has become my means of crowd-control, my harassment prevention method, my protection from the onslaught of willing Kenyan women, or worse—Kenyan mothers that offer their daughters or cousins to me.
So here in my village I am engaged (well, I really am engaged). Every Mama knows I am engaged, and a surprising amount of people remember her name. Every now and then, a Mama would ask me, “So how's Alison?” and then follow up with, “Ah, two years? That is a long time. If I were you, I would not wait for her. Just take a Kenyan wife.”
Two years is a long time, and romance is a big deal – in both Kenyan and American cultures. Luckily for me, romance has been among the last things on my mind. I have been trying to cultivate a different type of love, one that is pervasive and addicting and enduring. The kind of love that inspires compassion and kindness. On the subject of romantic love, someone could give me a soap-box and a megaphone, and I would stand up and speak into it until the batteries ran low (and my trigger finger was sore) but I will spare my readers for now. There is a place for romance, and despite my spoken resistance to it, I am among the most susceptible to its wily charms.
As for Alison, my “Fiancé” is simply in name only. I cannot claim that any feelings are attached from her end. It would be hard to imagine being romantically involved with someone so out-of-reach, so intangible. Yet many other volunteers maintain long-distance romantic relationships, and to them I offer my sincerest regards.
As for me, my romance is confined to my attempts at poetry in my quiet times. This poem was written for no one in particular, but with someone in mind. It goes out to all the long distance relationships that us volunteers subject ourselves to.
Maybe She Waits
Maybe she waits,
she waits for me only.
Maybe I've gone,
I've gone too far away.
Maybe she waits,
She waits patient and lonely.
Maybe I'm wrong
to have asked her to stay.
Maybe she thinks,
She thinks of me only.
But maybe her thoughts
were mine, just for one day.
Maybe when I,
When I come back I'll be lonely.
But maybe her heart-
Not so easy to sway.
But if she waits,
she waits for me only.
When I return
I will hold her and say,
“I'm sorry that I,
That I left you here lonely.
Never again
Will I leave you that way.”
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Baby Blue Testicles
The vervet monkey is as normal a monkey as they come. Its unassuming grey-brown fur contrasts beautifully with its black face, and its small stature and long tail allow for the stealth and agility that anyone would expect from a monkey. Despite its ordinary characteristics, this monkey has one specific feature that will catch every unsuspecting person by surprise: the males have baby-blue colored testicles.
(before you continue reading, please google “vervet monkey male” and actually see what i'm talking about)
The first time I was introduced to this unorthodox genitalia, I was so tickled by it I began asking all the guys I was with if they would prefer a fantastic pair of baby blues hanging between their legs if they had the choice. And then I started thinking (as I like to do), and I realized that I had a lot in common with these vervet monkeys.
As a white person (well, “white” for me) in rural Kenya, it is impossible not to be noticed. I often times feel like a wild animal-when little kids see me they get as excited as tourists would get if they saw an elephant. Most of the tourists that come to Kenya speak English, so the children assume it is the only language foreigners know. So when they see me, they begin screaming, “How are YOU??” from up to a hundred meters away.
Yet, sometimes when the little kids are standing by the road, I get the jump on them and greet them with a 'slang' Swahili greeting (the English equivalent to “what's up?”). Usually, I get dumbstruck faces in return: slowly turning heads and slightly opened mouths undoubtedly surprised that the foreigner speaks Swahili. I consider moments like this the metaphorical revealing of my baby blue testicles.
On top of this, I generally tend to surprise and confuse most of the locals in my words, actions, and simply my appearance. A while back, a drunk Kenyan man stumbled up to me and started asking me for money. Even after a couple of my curt refusals, his continual begging set me off. I am already heavily on guard for people asking me for things, and so I begin yelling at him in Swahili at regular conversation pace, “Why do you ask me for money? Because I am a white person, right? I don't have money, and I am not giving you anything. Go beg the people sitting there.” The Kenyans that were sitting next to me laughed, not only at the truth of my words but because this drunk man had just metaphorically been slapped in the face with my baby blue testicles.
One of my tasks as a Peace Corps Volunteer is to help my community develop ways to generate income and improve their village, and I have many project ideas that I want to first try on my own time before I share with others. A couple of these projects involve bottle-caps (to make art, checker games, and jewelry) and maize cobs (to make charcoal). I am often seen gathering these materials off the ground in the village, with curious Kenyans simply watching me. As a “rich, white person” it is improper, or at least unconventional, for me to gather such materials-it is a child's place to collect bottle-caps and a laborer's job to gather maize cobs. When people ask me what I am doing I gladly explain, but I truly enjoy the looks of bewilderment on their faces.
As for my appearance-even in America people don't know what ethnicity I am. I get Mexican, Filipino, Hawaiian, and some others. Here, the Kenyans are confused between “Mzungu” “China-man” or “Hindi from the coast.” In Mombasa, there are many Middle Eastern businessmen that live around, and if I am walking with my Kenyan counterpart I easily look like I am a local. If I am walking with a Mzungu Peace Corps friend, I am also a Mzungu, and if I am alone it is a grab-bag. One common misconception among the Kenyan people is that all Chinese people are experts in Kung-Fu (no doubt thanks to Jet Li). In the grocery store once, a Kenyan teenager that worked there asked me if I could teach him Kung-Fu. I chuckled to myself, and told him I would.
In all honesty, I get a secret satisfaction from other people's confusion. I thrive off of it. I am in my element when surprise is on my side. And if I had the choice to permanently alter my colors to match a vervet monkey I would have to answer with a resounding “Yes”-with a sneaky grin on my face.
Or I can paint my genitals and dress as a vervet monkey for the next Halloween.
(before you continue reading, please google “vervet monkey male” and actually see what i'm talking about)
The first time I was introduced to this unorthodox genitalia, I was so tickled by it I began asking all the guys I was with if they would prefer a fantastic pair of baby blues hanging between their legs if they had the choice. And then I started thinking (as I like to do), and I realized that I had a lot in common with these vervet monkeys.
As a white person (well, “white” for me) in rural Kenya, it is impossible not to be noticed. I often times feel like a wild animal-when little kids see me they get as excited as tourists would get if they saw an elephant. Most of the tourists that come to Kenya speak English, so the children assume it is the only language foreigners know. So when they see me, they begin screaming, “How are YOU??” from up to a hundred meters away.
Yet, sometimes when the little kids are standing by the road, I get the jump on them and greet them with a 'slang' Swahili greeting (the English equivalent to “what's up?”). Usually, I get dumbstruck faces in return: slowly turning heads and slightly opened mouths undoubtedly surprised that the foreigner speaks Swahili. I consider moments like this the metaphorical revealing of my baby blue testicles.
On top of this, I generally tend to surprise and confuse most of the locals in my words, actions, and simply my appearance. A while back, a drunk Kenyan man stumbled up to me and started asking me for money. Even after a couple of my curt refusals, his continual begging set me off. I am already heavily on guard for people asking me for things, and so I begin yelling at him in Swahili at regular conversation pace, “Why do you ask me for money? Because I am a white person, right? I don't have money, and I am not giving you anything. Go beg the people sitting there.” The Kenyans that were sitting next to me laughed, not only at the truth of my words but because this drunk man had just metaphorically been slapped in the face with my baby blue testicles.
One of my tasks as a Peace Corps Volunteer is to help my community develop ways to generate income and improve their village, and I have many project ideas that I want to first try on my own time before I share with others. A couple of these projects involve bottle-caps (to make art, checker games, and jewelry) and maize cobs (to make charcoal). I am often seen gathering these materials off the ground in the village, with curious Kenyans simply watching me. As a “rich, white person” it is improper, or at least unconventional, for me to gather such materials-it is a child's place to collect bottle-caps and a laborer's job to gather maize cobs. When people ask me what I am doing I gladly explain, but I truly enjoy the looks of bewilderment on their faces.
As for my appearance-even in America people don't know what ethnicity I am. I get Mexican, Filipino, Hawaiian, and some others. Here, the Kenyans are confused between “Mzungu” “China-man” or “Hindi from the coast.” In Mombasa, there are many Middle Eastern businessmen that live around, and if I am walking with my Kenyan counterpart I easily look like I am a local. If I am walking with a Mzungu Peace Corps friend, I am also a Mzungu, and if I am alone it is a grab-bag. One common misconception among the Kenyan people is that all Chinese people are experts in Kung-Fu (no doubt thanks to Jet Li). In the grocery store once, a Kenyan teenager that worked there asked me if I could teach him Kung-Fu. I chuckled to myself, and told him I would.
In all honesty, I get a secret satisfaction from other people's confusion. I thrive off of it. I am in my element when surprise is on my side. And if I had the choice to permanently alter my colors to match a vervet monkey I would have to answer with a resounding “Yes”-with a sneaky grin on my face.
Or I can paint my genitals and dress as a vervet monkey for the next Halloween.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Disintegration of Personal Space
The Kenyans are wonderful people. They are kind, welcoming, helpful, and eager to learn. Even the drunks and the beggars (oftentimes one and the same) are jocular, willing to listen to me lecture them on why cigarettes are bad for their health and why they should use a condom, then proceed to spew every English word they know at me to form an incoherent sentence, and with a stupid grin on their face expect me to give them money after.
Yet, even with wonderful things, sometimes it can be too much. I find the combination of me and the Kenyan people are no exception. And just as I feel the need to detach from my Kenyan community from time to time, it seems nearly impossible to do so.
A quick digression: On a bus in America, many would opt to sit with at least one space between if the space allowed for it, and even if someone was sitting next to another person, it would be awkward and uncomfortable to touch for any short length of time.
With Kenyan public transportation, it is awkward to not have someone rubbing shoulders with you, and sometimes rubbing more than American culture would generally feel comfortable with. It is also perfectly acceptable for strangers to sit on top of one another, and it is still okay for one of those people to be breastfeeding.
As an example, I was sitting in next to the back window of a 5-seater car with two other Kenyans next to me. At one point, the Kenyan sitting by the other back window arrived at his destination, so he got out and we continued the journey. In America, anyone would be expected to move from the middle seat (a.k.a. “bitch” seat) to a window seat in this circumstance, but this Kenyan did not feel it was necessary. So we continued the 30 minute journey just like that.
Car seats and public transport are no big deal. I can handle the invasion of personal space when I am expecting it. What pulls on my nerves is the invasion of my personal space when I am in my home. I live in the equivalent of a one-story apartment complex with 7 other families in close quarters. It is always busy with Mamas, housemaids and kids running around screaming. Often times when I arrive home, the children feel compelled to follow me into my home, and it becomes a process of picking them up and placing them outside, all the while defending my home's threshold from more unsolicited child entry.
Also, on a daily basis one or more of my adolescent or even grown-up neighbors will plant their face in my window (even though my curtain is closed-they still try to see through the cracks) and call out to me-asking me what I am doing or what I will be cooking for dinner that night. Sometimes one of the girls will put her face up to the window, and if she sees me inside she will yell, “Looo-iis! I am peeping! I see you!” (in English, i'm not sure there is a word for “peeping” in swahili). There really isn't a way for me to communicate how inappropriate peeping is from an American standpoint. What if I were naked? Without a culturally appropriate way for me to scold such behavior (especially when the adults do it), I resign myself to deeply sighing.
My biggest beef with the cultural invasion of space is the protocol when someone is sick. Kenyans, to show they care, will make it a priority to visit a sick friend so they can offer their condolences for the sickness. It sounds nice in theory, maybe, but when I am feverish and trying to sleep it is irritating to have multiple people (and at different times) knock relentlessly on your door to just say “pole” (a.k.a. “sorry”). As this is the case, I now make it a priority to keep my bouts of sickness a secret.
I know I am supposed to “integrate” into my community and into the Kenyan culture, but my longing for personal space will not disintegrate so quickly. I wonder how I will feel after 2 years of my cultural dis-integration of personal space.
Yet, even with wonderful things, sometimes it can be too much. I find the combination of me and the Kenyan people are no exception. And just as I feel the need to detach from my Kenyan community from time to time, it seems nearly impossible to do so.
A quick digression: On a bus in America, many would opt to sit with at least one space between if the space allowed for it, and even if someone was sitting next to another person, it would be awkward and uncomfortable to touch for any short length of time.
With Kenyan public transportation, it is awkward to not have someone rubbing shoulders with you, and sometimes rubbing more than American culture would generally feel comfortable with. It is also perfectly acceptable for strangers to sit on top of one another, and it is still okay for one of those people to be breastfeeding.
As an example, I was sitting in next to the back window of a 5-seater car with two other Kenyans next to me. At one point, the Kenyan sitting by the other back window arrived at his destination, so he got out and we continued the journey. In America, anyone would be expected to move from the middle seat (a.k.a. “bitch” seat) to a window seat in this circumstance, but this Kenyan did not feel it was necessary. So we continued the 30 minute journey just like that.
Car seats and public transport are no big deal. I can handle the invasion of personal space when I am expecting it. What pulls on my nerves is the invasion of my personal space when I am in my home. I live in the equivalent of a one-story apartment complex with 7 other families in close quarters. It is always busy with Mamas, housemaids and kids running around screaming. Often times when I arrive home, the children feel compelled to follow me into my home, and it becomes a process of picking them up and placing them outside, all the while defending my home's threshold from more unsolicited child entry.
Also, on a daily basis one or more of my adolescent or even grown-up neighbors will plant their face in my window (even though my curtain is closed-they still try to see through the cracks) and call out to me-asking me what I am doing or what I will be cooking for dinner that night. Sometimes one of the girls will put her face up to the window, and if she sees me inside she will yell, “Looo-iis! I am peeping! I see you!” (in English, i'm not sure there is a word for “peeping” in swahili). There really isn't a way for me to communicate how inappropriate peeping is from an American standpoint. What if I were naked? Without a culturally appropriate way for me to scold such behavior (especially when the adults do it), I resign myself to deeply sighing.
My biggest beef with the cultural invasion of space is the protocol when someone is sick. Kenyans, to show they care, will make it a priority to visit a sick friend so they can offer their condolences for the sickness. It sounds nice in theory, maybe, but when I am feverish and trying to sleep it is irritating to have multiple people (and at different times) knock relentlessly on your door to just say “pole” (a.k.a. “sorry”). As this is the case, I now make it a priority to keep my bouts of sickness a secret.
I know I am supposed to “integrate” into my community and into the Kenyan culture, but my longing for personal space will not disintegrate so quickly. I wonder how I will feel after 2 years of my cultural dis-integration of personal space.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Music Of Kenyan Life
Thwack..thwack..thwack..*.silence.*...thwack..thwack..thwack..The strange rhythmic thumping continues for minutes outside my window, like a curious addicting drum beat. The rhythm stops when I go to investigate.
I find two young Kenyan women, sweat trickling from their almost-bald heads down the sides of their faces, gathered over a large wooden cauldron. They each hold a heavy wooden stick in their hands, which-coupled with the cauldron-reminds me of a massive pestle and mortar. The two sisters look up at me and smile; the sweat making their beautiful dark skin glisten in the morning light. With a quick glance at each other, the sisters assume a powerful position and resume pounding the contents of the cauldron with strong, practiced strokes. The cauldron contains large maize kernels, which now are almost mashed to oblivion. This process allows the maize to be later ground into flour at a parcel mill. With each strike, some of the flaky kernels float up in the air and stick to the sisters' sweaty arms and faces, and since much of their body was covered, they had been at work for some time. The sisters alternate their strikes into the center of the cauldron rhythmically, and as I stand and marvel at their fantastic precision my body reflexively sways to the hypnotic beat.
After the thrashing of the maize, the mashed remains are filtered in woven baskets from impurities. Shick, shick shick, ssssss. Shick shick shick, ssssss. The synchronized sisters work along side one another, creating the sound that reminds me of musical shakers. Just like the pounding, the shaking charms me, entering into my blood and possessing my body to move. In my mind I envision an entire band of Kenyan women as they go through the process of pounding and sifting maize-creating a magnificent African musical performance. The thought makes me giddy, which turns into an incoherent attempt at Swahili communication, “You are making music!” I say in Swahili. The sisters look at me confused, and respond with, “No, we are making flour.” At this point I am looking around, my eyes screaming out for someone who I could explain my realization to. Without any alternative, I try again with the sisters, “you hit the maize like on a drum, and when you do this,” (I point at what they are doing, since “to shake” has not entered my swahili vocabulary), “together it makes music.” It was my best attempt, and to my relief it was returned with a mixture of confusion and understanding written on their faces.
Weekly, the Kenyan women are hard at work pounding maize by hand. On top of cooking, doing all the house work and caring for the children, they don't complain but set to their task in seeming contentment. It was wonderful for me to hear a small piece of the beautiful music of their simple Kenyan life.
I find two young Kenyan women, sweat trickling from their almost-bald heads down the sides of their faces, gathered over a large wooden cauldron. They each hold a heavy wooden stick in their hands, which-coupled with the cauldron-reminds me of a massive pestle and mortar. The two sisters look up at me and smile; the sweat making their beautiful dark skin glisten in the morning light. With a quick glance at each other, the sisters assume a powerful position and resume pounding the contents of the cauldron with strong, practiced strokes. The cauldron contains large maize kernels, which now are almost mashed to oblivion. This process allows the maize to be later ground into flour at a parcel mill. With each strike, some of the flaky kernels float up in the air and stick to the sisters' sweaty arms and faces, and since much of their body was covered, they had been at work for some time. The sisters alternate their strikes into the center of the cauldron rhythmically, and as I stand and marvel at their fantastic precision my body reflexively sways to the hypnotic beat.
After the thrashing of the maize, the mashed remains are filtered in woven baskets from impurities. Shick, shick shick, ssssss. Shick shick shick, ssssss. The synchronized sisters work along side one another, creating the sound that reminds me of musical shakers. Just like the pounding, the shaking charms me, entering into my blood and possessing my body to move. In my mind I envision an entire band of Kenyan women as they go through the process of pounding and sifting maize-creating a magnificent African musical performance. The thought makes me giddy, which turns into an incoherent attempt at Swahili communication, “You are making music!” I say in Swahili. The sisters look at me confused, and respond with, “No, we are making flour.” At this point I am looking around, my eyes screaming out for someone who I could explain my realization to. Without any alternative, I try again with the sisters, “you hit the maize like on a drum, and when you do this,” (I point at what they are doing, since “to shake” has not entered my swahili vocabulary), “together it makes music.” It was my best attempt, and to my relief it was returned with a mixture of confusion and understanding written on their faces.
Weekly, the Kenyan women are hard at work pounding maize by hand. On top of cooking, doing all the house work and caring for the children, they don't complain but set to their task in seeming contentment. It was wonderful for me to hear a small piece of the beautiful music of their simple Kenyan life.
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Day A Banana Saved My Life
Bananas and I have become close these last few months, and I feel I am indebted to them greatly. Part of the reason for our inseparable friendship is their sweetness. Bananas in Kenya are sweeter than I have ever tasted. Another reason is their dirt-cheap cost. I can buy 3 smaller-sized bananas (sometimes 4) for 10 shillings, or 13 U.S. pennies. But the real reason behind my affinity to these naturally wrapped, delicious morsels is that on Tuesday, the 7th of September 2010, a banana saved my life.
Before I launch into that story, here's some background. Every Monday & Thursday my town has a “Market Day” where people come to sell their produce and clothing. Every market day I buy 18-24 banans for the U.S. Equivalent of 75 cents. I usually don't share my bananas, so that means I east about 40 bananas per week. Bananas are always at hand, and I always carry one or two with me in case I am stranded and hungry.
On this fateful Tuesday the 7th, I biked into town to have lunch with some fellow volunteers. After a huge lunch and a couple hours of hanging out, I began my 10 kilometer uphill battle back to my village. As it turns out, 1 kilometer into my ride I felt a fierce bowel movement coming on. The huge lunch sat heavy in my stomach, and parts of the dirt road I was biking on had bumps-as if a tank rolled through and left its tire tracks embedded into the ground-so the violent jostling of the bumps did not help my situation at all. And for the record, this area has no restaurants or storefronts to stop in to use the toilet. My options were: 1. Ask a random family if I could use their toilet (in swahili, of course). 2. Try to hold it and make it home. 3. Poop in my pants. I considered a fourth option of finding a hiding place in the bush, but there were too many people out and about and there is not much forest cover in general, and my skin is too light to ever be incognito, so I ruled this option out.
I considered my various options as I slowly walked my bike with my butt cheeks clenched tight, then I luckily saw a familiar face. A Kenyan friend of mine was visiting his grandma so I quickly asked if I could use their toilet as politely as possible, still suffering and keeping the relentless bowel movement at bay. Once I got in it was the greatest moment of the day, but that moment was soiled by the realization of my next problem-no toilet paper. As I searched through my bag trying to find an alternative, I found my one, glorious banana. I carefully peeled the banana to get some larger peels (for surface area's sake), and though I wasn't hungry I couldn't dare see a perfect banana go to waste so I reluctantly ate it. The banana peel did a surprisingly good job, and though the wipe felt slimy and foreign, I wouldn't say it was unpleasant (though not preferable).
Okay, so the banana didn't actually save my life, but it saved me from subjecting myself to poor personal hygiene, a bad smell, and an emergency laundry session when I arrived home. The first thing I did when I got home was have a bath, but I can still safely say that in my potty-trained lifespan, I have never pooped without wiping afterward.
Now bananas and I are closer than ever. My respect for their usefulness has skyrocketed, and I have sworn to defend their honor every time they are the brunt of a crude penis joke. They are worth so much more to me now than that.
Before I launch into that story, here's some background. Every Monday & Thursday my town has a “Market Day” where people come to sell their produce and clothing. Every market day I buy 18-24 banans for the U.S. Equivalent of 75 cents. I usually don't share my bananas, so that means I east about 40 bananas per week. Bananas are always at hand, and I always carry one or two with me in case I am stranded and hungry.
On this fateful Tuesday the 7th, I biked into town to have lunch with some fellow volunteers. After a huge lunch and a couple hours of hanging out, I began my 10 kilometer uphill battle back to my village. As it turns out, 1 kilometer into my ride I felt a fierce bowel movement coming on. The huge lunch sat heavy in my stomach, and parts of the dirt road I was biking on had bumps-as if a tank rolled through and left its tire tracks embedded into the ground-so the violent jostling of the bumps did not help my situation at all. And for the record, this area has no restaurants or storefronts to stop in to use the toilet. My options were: 1. Ask a random family if I could use their toilet (in swahili, of course). 2. Try to hold it and make it home. 3. Poop in my pants. I considered a fourth option of finding a hiding place in the bush, but there were too many people out and about and there is not much forest cover in general, and my skin is too light to ever be incognito, so I ruled this option out.
I considered my various options as I slowly walked my bike with my butt cheeks clenched tight, then I luckily saw a familiar face. A Kenyan friend of mine was visiting his grandma so I quickly asked if I could use their toilet as politely as possible, still suffering and keeping the relentless bowel movement at bay. Once I got in it was the greatest moment of the day, but that moment was soiled by the realization of my next problem-no toilet paper. As I searched through my bag trying to find an alternative, I found my one, glorious banana. I carefully peeled the banana to get some larger peels (for surface area's sake), and though I wasn't hungry I couldn't dare see a perfect banana go to waste so I reluctantly ate it. The banana peel did a surprisingly good job, and though the wipe felt slimy and foreign, I wouldn't say it was unpleasant (though not preferable).
Okay, so the banana didn't actually save my life, but it saved me from subjecting myself to poor personal hygiene, a bad smell, and an emergency laundry session when I arrived home. The first thing I did when I got home was have a bath, but I can still safely say that in my potty-trained lifespan, I have never pooped without wiping afterward.
Now bananas and I are closer than ever. My respect for their usefulness has skyrocketed, and I have sworn to defend their honor every time they are the brunt of a crude penis joke. They are worth so much more to me now than that.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Funeral Time
I have been to three funerals in my lifetime. The first one was in 2008, and it was my swim coach. The second was earlier this year, my grandmother. The third was two days ago, and it was my supervisor's mother. She was 79 years old.
When first coming to Kenya, I was excited at the prospect of immersing myself in an entirely unknown culture, including the ceremonies and rituals. Funerals and weddings were definitely on the check list. And I have to admit (as selfish as it sounds), I was excited at the prospect of experiencing one so soon.
Her name was Elina, and she passed away on Tuesday of last week. Beginning that day (30th August) until Saturday, 4th September, everything seemed to come to a standstill in the town. Though I could not attend all those days, I definitely got the flavor of a Kenyan funeral. Crowds of people made themselves at home at my supervisors place as the women cooked each meal for the multitudes and the men talked in circles of politics, family life, issues of water, or whatever else they cared to discuss. Each night had some type of swahili worship music piped through a speaker, and some type of segregated dancing. The men danced in their own area while the women occupied an entirely different area.
The guests would stay all day, and many would sleep on the ground at night for every night, continuing the festivities when they woke the following morning. The attendance was exceptional. I believe the combination of school break, no work to do in the farms, and the prestige of my supervisor (he is the area's councilor, which is a government official of some type) made for a great turnout.
The structure of the funeral was as follows: Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all were hangout/gathering days. Friday was the church service, and Saturday was the burial ceremony. The Friday service consisted of worship songs, a “short” sermon, and a walk-around the casket. It all lasted about 3 hours. Interestingly enough, just as the service finished it began raining harder than I have ever seen rain come. We were all trapped in the church for a good 20 minutes as the precious drops of water poured out extravagantly on the parched land.
The burial ceremony did not lack any flare. The women pulled out all the stops: beautiful hair, matching ceremonial dresses and some even had make-up on. The men dressed business casual.
The casket was ornately adorned: a thin wooden box with a red velvet outer layer and white velvet crosses on the top and front. Beautiful flower bouquets sat on top of the casket, as well as a large framed picture of the beloved grandma. Women were sobbing and making a huge fuss- no doubt generally saddened by their loss, but seemingly playing up the act as if to show everyone else how much they cared. One old lady even fell to the ground and lay sobbing for a good two minutes, all the while lying on freshly cut, jagged shrubbery and rocks. The men did not cry, and I learned later that it is only appropriate for women to show affection.
During the ceremony, the large, leafless tree nearby chirped wildly as small, yellow-breasted birds made tiny nests in the branches. The downpour from the day before must have signaled to the birds that it was time to lay their eggs. I counted 17 new nests, and many more birds. I keep forgetting it is winter here, and spring is soon to come.
A quick side note: As women passed the casket and saw the face of their friend or mother, they would cry out to God or to her, tearfully screaming words in Kiswahili. This reminded me clearly of my own Grandmother's funeral, when my mother wept bitterly and spoke desperately in Korean to my grandmother at the ceremony. It was all I could do to hold back my own tears from that memory, so as not to appear like I was crying over the current situation- the grandmother I had hardly known.
After the 4 hours of praying, weeping, and picture taking, the burial began. After they placed the casket in a cement-like box, they covered it in wooden planks and again covered it in wet cement. Flowers were placed on the grave marker (which was essentially a huge, casket-like stone that was built on top) and the festivities again continued deep into the night.
The ordeal left me exhausted, and I must admit I was a little bit disappointed that the dancing was not traditional in any way (it actually reminded me of a junior high dance, with the men and women separated). Still, I experienced a great deal of Kenyan culture in these few days. Later that Saturday, A Kenyan man asked me about my impressions of the whole ceremony. I told him that I thought it was beautiful to see so many people attend, and that these people, though they are financially poor, have wealth where it really counts.
When first coming to Kenya, I was excited at the prospect of immersing myself in an entirely unknown culture, including the ceremonies and rituals. Funerals and weddings were definitely on the check list. And I have to admit (as selfish as it sounds), I was excited at the prospect of experiencing one so soon.
Her name was Elina, and she passed away on Tuesday of last week. Beginning that day (30th August) until Saturday, 4th September, everything seemed to come to a standstill in the town. Though I could not attend all those days, I definitely got the flavor of a Kenyan funeral. Crowds of people made themselves at home at my supervisors place as the women cooked each meal for the multitudes and the men talked in circles of politics, family life, issues of water, or whatever else they cared to discuss. Each night had some type of swahili worship music piped through a speaker, and some type of segregated dancing. The men danced in their own area while the women occupied an entirely different area.
The guests would stay all day, and many would sleep on the ground at night for every night, continuing the festivities when they woke the following morning. The attendance was exceptional. I believe the combination of school break, no work to do in the farms, and the prestige of my supervisor (he is the area's councilor, which is a government official of some type) made for a great turnout.
The structure of the funeral was as follows: Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all were hangout/gathering days. Friday was the church service, and Saturday was the burial ceremony. The Friday service consisted of worship songs, a “short” sermon, and a walk-around the casket. It all lasted about 3 hours. Interestingly enough, just as the service finished it began raining harder than I have ever seen rain come. We were all trapped in the church for a good 20 minutes as the precious drops of water poured out extravagantly on the parched land.
The burial ceremony did not lack any flare. The women pulled out all the stops: beautiful hair, matching ceremonial dresses and some even had make-up on. The men dressed business casual.
The casket was ornately adorned: a thin wooden box with a red velvet outer layer and white velvet crosses on the top and front. Beautiful flower bouquets sat on top of the casket, as well as a large framed picture of the beloved grandma. Women were sobbing and making a huge fuss- no doubt generally saddened by their loss, but seemingly playing up the act as if to show everyone else how much they cared. One old lady even fell to the ground and lay sobbing for a good two minutes, all the while lying on freshly cut, jagged shrubbery and rocks. The men did not cry, and I learned later that it is only appropriate for women to show affection.
During the ceremony, the large, leafless tree nearby chirped wildly as small, yellow-breasted birds made tiny nests in the branches. The downpour from the day before must have signaled to the birds that it was time to lay their eggs. I counted 17 new nests, and many more birds. I keep forgetting it is winter here, and spring is soon to come.
A quick side note: As women passed the casket and saw the face of their friend or mother, they would cry out to God or to her, tearfully screaming words in Kiswahili. This reminded me clearly of my own Grandmother's funeral, when my mother wept bitterly and spoke desperately in Korean to my grandmother at the ceremony. It was all I could do to hold back my own tears from that memory, so as not to appear like I was crying over the current situation- the grandmother I had hardly known.
After the 4 hours of praying, weeping, and picture taking, the burial began. After they placed the casket in a cement-like box, they covered it in wooden planks and again covered it in wet cement. Flowers were placed on the grave marker (which was essentially a huge, casket-like stone that was built on top) and the festivities again continued deep into the night.
The ordeal left me exhausted, and I must admit I was a little bit disappointed that the dancing was not traditional in any way (it actually reminded me of a junior high dance, with the men and women separated). Still, I experienced a great deal of Kenyan culture in these few days. Later that Saturday, A Kenyan man asked me about my impressions of the whole ceremony. I told him that I thought it was beautiful to see so many people attend, and that these people, though they are financially poor, have wealth where it really counts.
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