In my rural village, people know that I am engaged to a beautiful red-headed lady. If any of you who are reading this have followed along, you would know that this is not true. I have made up this marital status to reduce harassment, and to cut off any hope (of a trip to America and emancipation from the suffocating poverty around) from all the willing, eligible women in my village. Before I came, I had it in my mind that no woman here in my village could engage me intellectually, challenge me spiritually, be attractive to me physically, and still be unmarried. Once again I find myself proven wrong.
I have two criteria which must be passed before I even consider dating a Kenyan. They are:
1) Fluent in English
2) The same beliefs
In America, I only have one criteria.
Still, this is Peace Corps, right? I am supposed to be living off the radar, where education, food, and gender equality are all in short supply. Nobody, especially women, should be fluent in English. Therefore, that first criteria should be (and has been) enough until now to disqualify every beautiful face so far. This language barrier has barred every potential suit-tress who has prince charming (me) reflected off her dark corneas and the promise of paradise (America) in the front of her mind.
Until now.
Her first words to me were, “Nice laptop.” And I hardly turned from my small, dimly lit screen. But I did turn; the shock of English words in my ears registered, and what filled my eyes was a small Kenyan woman leaning against a desk, her attention devoted in a book. It was nothing impressive, her face was ordinary, her breasts were slightly too large, a small gap nuzzled itself between her two front teeth, and her hair was brilliantly woven. First appearance? No hint of attraction.
But she spoke English. My first criteria was met. We began talking of all sorts of things, and I would visit often because I gained much insight into the Kenyan culture by our conversations. It was not long until I realized that she fulfilled my second criteria as well.
Just by living in Kenya, I have developed a growing respect for the women. The culture and gender roles force them into all of the household chores, and yet they still have enough cheer to sit around the night-times laughing over stories and roasting maize. Whether it is this strong sense of respect, the astonishment of finding a potential attraction, or the rosy-colored Peace Corps goggles I wear, an infatuation was borne.
I tickled myself with the idea of bringing her to America. I could see us together on a plane back home, the cold cabin has her drape a “Swiss-air” blanket over her, as she affectionately leans against my welcoming shoulder. I imagine taking her to all the places I used to live, where I went to school, and the pools where I spent my afternoons swimming. I would laugh when she struggles with her chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant, and I would hold her close as we watch the dark sky light up with fireworks on the fourth of July. Cotton candy, bumper cars, amusement parks, ice-skating...I would see her experience them all for the first time, and even as I imagine this I smile warmly. I would feel like Aladdin and his magic carpet, showing his princess a whole new world...
But luckily she is in a relationship. Kenyans love their secrets, and it took quite an inquisition to get her to confess. My roommate in college (Justin Pollard the Third) and I would always debate over whether it is appropriate or not to pursue someone who is already in a relationship. I am firmly against it. First, because I wouldn't appreciate another guy making his move on a girl I was dating. And second, I wouldn't even want a girl who would leave a relationship for me. I think it reflects a serious character flaw that she would pick up and leave her relationship for someone else, presumably someone better. What if, again, someone better comes along? Either way, her being in a relationship has quelled my volatile feelings.
There's something I find beautiful about unknown suffering (though if what I feel is considered suffering, it is hardly “unknown” anymore). Never will she know these capricious feelings I have had for her, never will I know how it would have turned out, and never would we have to argue over cultural differences or decided whether it was useful to raise a bilingual child with Swahili in America. Still, I am ashamed that I should have these feelings, or that those fanciful thoughts were not so fleeting that I could seize them from my mind and write them down.
And also I question to myself why I would post something so frivolous and seemingly disassociated with my unique cultural experience in Kenya or the work in my village. Matters of feelings and romance can be the most selfish and self-consuming thing this world has to offer, and once they swell up inside, it's hard to keep from bursting. But besides the pages of my journal, there is no one else to tell. There isn't another American within a 10 kilometer radius from me. As far as my Peace Corps experience goes, I am completely alone. Besides me and the locals in my village, no one else knows how the crops in my village are growing, or hears the singing of children every morning from the school. These feelings I have developed for this local girl made me realize how truly alone I was.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Child's Play
American children are pampered, protected, and sheltered from all things dangerous and intrusive. American toys have become soft plastic instead of durable metal, you can probably purchase rubber bumpers to put on sharp corners of your home to protect your baby from painful collisions, and choke-warning labels are soon to be slapped on every small piece of produce in the supermarket. Children are given no responsibility, and are baby-sat by the television when mommy poops out.
Children are quite different in Kenya. If you are a baby in Kenya, you are coddled by mommy and given breast milk at the slightest whine or whimper. But as soon as you can walk, you can be beaten with a stick. Babies at the age of 2 can play with sharp objects without their mothers' objection. Children at age 4 are annoying; I hate children at age 4. Children at the age of 6 are expected to help sweep and clean. Children age 8 must help draw water from the wells and carry it home by bicycle or on their head. Children age 10 can take care of three cows or a small herd of goats. Age 12-- they drive motorcycles.
A little while ago, I walked outside my living compound and saw my favorite little child playing with something shiny. As I approached, I realized he was holding the blade of a knife that had lost its handle and he was swinging it around every so often. The mother was busy sewing not 3 feet away from her dangerously armed child, and as she looked up to greet me she must have read the look of astonishment on my face—my exaggerated large eyes and frozen demeanor. She looked down at her playing child, then looked up again at me. Then quickly she appeased my shocked expression by calling her young child and taking the knife from him. The little boy is almost 2 years old.
In all of the big cities, there is a store called “Nakumatt” which is essentially like a large Walmart, except with much higher prices relative to Kenyan money. Inside this large super-mart, you can find just about anything, from comfortable sofa sets and ping pong tables to traditional charcoal stoves and simple wooden spoons. Also, since it is a necessity for people to have machetes and other sharp tools, this store obviously carries them. And all manner of dangerous weaponry is placed on the bottom shelf. If “Nakumatt” were picked up and placed anywhere in America as it is, within the first minutes of its grand opening it would have a host of screaming mothers at the “customer care” counter as well as several lawsuits. But here in Kenya, the bottom shelf doesn't mean “for kids,” and it would be no big deal if a child picks up a machete and swings it around a bit in the store. But if you think about it, it makes sense to place sharp objects lower to the ground...in case of earthquake.
A little while ago I spotted a young boy walking toward a motorcycle. Then, to my vague curiosity, he climbed upon it and with all his weight, repeatedly pushed on the kick-start. After the motor was running, he stretched his lanky arms upward and gripped the handles, set his bare feet down on the foot-rests and motored away, a crescent of his head peeking out above the motorcycle's dashboard. I thought to myself, “Interesting that the parents of this 11-year-old child would trust them with such an expensive asset”.
Here in the rural areas, most financial assets are stored in livestock. If a villager has two cows (and one is good for milking), then that villager is wealthy. Goats and chickens also mark some degree of wealth, and the more you have the better off. There are different types of goats, chickens and cows, but for the most common of all three I would say their value ratio is: 1 cow = 6 goats = 42 chickens. And children around age 10 are tending to these herds of cattle all by themselves, with a large stick held high in the air. These children walk the cattle for miles down the road to reach watering holes and to graze on communal land. To think of the American equivalent to this: imagine allowing your 10 year old child to take care of your 401-K, or your day-to-day stock market transactions. And without your supervision.
Kenyan children..are they overworked? Is it a violation of some international child-labor laws? Or are they simply well-equipped for the difficult life ahead? If they are smart, the children will have children as soon as they can, so they wont have to work anymore.
Children are quite different in Kenya. If you are a baby in Kenya, you are coddled by mommy and given breast milk at the slightest whine or whimper. But as soon as you can walk, you can be beaten with a stick. Babies at the age of 2 can play with sharp objects without their mothers' objection. Children at age 4 are annoying; I hate children at age 4. Children at the age of 6 are expected to help sweep and clean. Children age 8 must help draw water from the wells and carry it home by bicycle or on their head. Children age 10 can take care of three cows or a small herd of goats. Age 12-- they drive motorcycles.
A little while ago, I walked outside my living compound and saw my favorite little child playing with something shiny. As I approached, I realized he was holding the blade of a knife that had lost its handle and he was swinging it around every so often. The mother was busy sewing not 3 feet away from her dangerously armed child, and as she looked up to greet me she must have read the look of astonishment on my face—my exaggerated large eyes and frozen demeanor. She looked down at her playing child, then looked up again at me. Then quickly she appeased my shocked expression by calling her young child and taking the knife from him. The little boy is almost 2 years old.
In all of the big cities, there is a store called “Nakumatt” which is essentially like a large Walmart, except with much higher prices relative to Kenyan money. Inside this large super-mart, you can find just about anything, from comfortable sofa sets and ping pong tables to traditional charcoal stoves and simple wooden spoons. Also, since it is a necessity for people to have machetes and other sharp tools, this store obviously carries them. And all manner of dangerous weaponry is placed on the bottom shelf. If “Nakumatt” were picked up and placed anywhere in America as it is, within the first minutes of its grand opening it would have a host of screaming mothers at the “customer care” counter as well as several lawsuits. But here in Kenya, the bottom shelf doesn't mean “for kids,” and it would be no big deal if a child picks up a machete and swings it around a bit in the store. But if you think about it, it makes sense to place sharp objects lower to the ground...in case of earthquake.
A little while ago I spotted a young boy walking toward a motorcycle. Then, to my vague curiosity, he climbed upon it and with all his weight, repeatedly pushed on the kick-start. After the motor was running, he stretched his lanky arms upward and gripped the handles, set his bare feet down on the foot-rests and motored away, a crescent of his head peeking out above the motorcycle's dashboard. I thought to myself, “Interesting that the parents of this 11-year-old child would trust them with such an expensive asset”.
Here in the rural areas, most financial assets are stored in livestock. If a villager has two cows (and one is good for milking), then that villager is wealthy. Goats and chickens also mark some degree of wealth, and the more you have the better off. There are different types of goats, chickens and cows, but for the most common of all three I would say their value ratio is: 1 cow = 6 goats = 42 chickens. And children around age 10 are tending to these herds of cattle all by themselves, with a large stick held high in the air. These children walk the cattle for miles down the road to reach watering holes and to graze on communal land. To think of the American equivalent to this: imagine allowing your 10 year old child to take care of your 401-K, or your day-to-day stock market transactions. And without your supervision.
Kenyan children..are they overworked? Is it a violation of some international child-labor laws? Or are they simply well-equipped for the difficult life ahead? If they are smart, the children will have children as soon as they can, so they wont have to work anymore.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Peace Corps Goggles
Since I was 5 years old, I saw the world through brown, Swedish-designed goggles. They protected my eyes from the blinding sun and the stinging chlorine. These goggles also protected my pride, especially when I cried in them during difficult swimming sets as 12-year old girls were lapping me. I wore these goggles throughout my workouts, and even during the times I wasn't swimming-- since a huge white streak-mark permanently tanned my face. They marked my identity as a swimmer if the bleached hair and sterilized smell of chlorine did not give me away first.
After the summer of 2008, I officially hung those goggles up. Though I now wear a different type of goggles. They are called Peace Corps Goggles and they are quite a trip. I imagine them to be like a pair of beer goggles, distorting your vision, skewing your judgment and messing with your senses, but these PC goggles are permanent. They can't be taken off after a long night's sleep and a morning's headache.
The first thing to go were my taste buds. In America, I remember all my meals with meat and cheese, herbs and spices, caramel-coated popcorn and 37 flavors of ice cream. A standard American recipe would have at least 17 ingredients and 5 spices which you could prepare and then stick into an easy-bake oven so you could preemptively work off the calories with a television aerobics class while it cooks. But in Kenya, the ingredient list for the staple food is:
*Water
*Corn Flour
And I cook this meal for myself 5 times a week. I don't know how, but I simply love it. Together with some fried kale and this meal is something to look forward to each night. I have no other explanation than suspecting that my taste buds are peering through some darkly-tinted Peace Corps Goggles.
In America, I was very used to scantily-dressed women on television and road-side advertisements. 13-year old girls could publicly dress in next to nothing and I would think it was perfectly acceptable. But now this is not the case. If I see a Kenyan girl wearing a pair of tight jeans or if I see bare shoulders, I think to myself that the girl is awfully bold to dress so precariously. As an example, my friend sent me a copy of the “Rolling Stone” magazine the other day with a picture of Lady Gaga with a couple machine guns and a few strips of leather that covered just enough. As soon as I looked at this cover I instinctively shut my eyes and turned my head away from the picture. I was not at all used to seeing so much of the skin of a woman.
As an adolescent, I was awfully picky when it came to beauty. I had a list of criteria that would be scrutinized for any lady who happened upon my path, from skin tone, wrist size, eye color, and vocal melody. It may be shameful to admit, but my sister would often ask me my opinion about a girl she pulled up from “hot-or-not.com” (sorry sister for calling you out on that one), and I would systematically place her through my analysis. But with my brand new set of Peace Corps Goggles, I find myself in a different place. Her feet may be calloused and wrinkled, her hands weathered from manual labor, and her voice low and hoarse—she is beautiful. I see a fat mama carrying a child on her back and a 20 liter jerry can of water on her head—a beautiful lady. It's gotten to a point where I just say to myself, “Is that a woman??...Beautiful.”
These goggles also make me frightened of white people. Whenever I see a tourist I try not to stare too long and walk the other way. White people are like the little ghost demons in pac-man, and I am like the little pac-man, avoiding them at all costs. Especially if I see a white person in my village—I think to myself that they do not belong.
Witnessing physical pain is no big deal anymore, and harsh working conditions, unfair wages, mistreatment of animals...these have all become daily occurrences. I visited a “fair trade” shop where people were paid about 2 dollars for 8 hours of manual labor in a dilapidated shop with poor ventilation. If I were fresh from America, I would scream at the injustice and write a moving book on working conditions in Africa. But after just four months in Kenya I saw that shop and said to myself, “These people have tools to work with and stools to sit on. And these people have jobs! Wonderful. I support them.”
Even the capital punishment used in school systems have given way to the rosy-red tint of my shiny goggles. When I first arrived at site, I remembered hearing the shrill screams of children at the nearby school and I remembered hating it. But now when I walk by schools and children run to the gates and scream, “Mzungu! Give me money! Give me sweets!” and the teacher grabs them and starts beating them with a stick, I think to myself, “Good work, teacher.” One time I actually thanked a teacher for punishing a child when he begged me for money.
It has been just 8 months in Kenya. I have 18 more. And these Peace Corps Goggles can only get darker. I am simultaneously frightened and intrigued at what I will be peering through by the end of my journey.
After the summer of 2008, I officially hung those goggles up. Though I now wear a different type of goggles. They are called Peace Corps Goggles and they are quite a trip. I imagine them to be like a pair of beer goggles, distorting your vision, skewing your judgment and messing with your senses, but these PC goggles are permanent. They can't be taken off after a long night's sleep and a morning's headache.
The first thing to go were my taste buds. In America, I remember all my meals with meat and cheese, herbs and spices, caramel-coated popcorn and 37 flavors of ice cream. A standard American recipe would have at least 17 ingredients and 5 spices which you could prepare and then stick into an easy-bake oven so you could preemptively work off the calories with a television aerobics class while it cooks. But in Kenya, the ingredient list for the staple food is:
*Water
*Corn Flour
And I cook this meal for myself 5 times a week. I don't know how, but I simply love it. Together with some fried kale and this meal is something to look forward to each night. I have no other explanation than suspecting that my taste buds are peering through some darkly-tinted Peace Corps Goggles.
In America, I was very used to scantily-dressed women on television and road-side advertisements. 13-year old girls could publicly dress in next to nothing and I would think it was perfectly acceptable. But now this is not the case. If I see a Kenyan girl wearing a pair of tight jeans or if I see bare shoulders, I think to myself that the girl is awfully bold to dress so precariously. As an example, my friend sent me a copy of the “Rolling Stone” magazine the other day with a picture of Lady Gaga with a couple machine guns and a few strips of leather that covered just enough. As soon as I looked at this cover I instinctively shut my eyes and turned my head away from the picture. I was not at all used to seeing so much of the skin of a woman.
As an adolescent, I was awfully picky when it came to beauty. I had a list of criteria that would be scrutinized for any lady who happened upon my path, from skin tone, wrist size, eye color, and vocal melody. It may be shameful to admit, but my sister would often ask me my opinion about a girl she pulled up from “hot-or-not.com” (sorry sister for calling you out on that one), and I would systematically place her through my analysis. But with my brand new set of Peace Corps Goggles, I find myself in a different place. Her feet may be calloused and wrinkled, her hands weathered from manual labor, and her voice low and hoarse—she is beautiful. I see a fat mama carrying a child on her back and a 20 liter jerry can of water on her head—a beautiful lady. It's gotten to a point where I just say to myself, “Is that a woman??...Beautiful.”
These goggles also make me frightened of white people. Whenever I see a tourist I try not to stare too long and walk the other way. White people are like the little ghost demons in pac-man, and I am like the little pac-man, avoiding them at all costs. Especially if I see a white person in my village—I think to myself that they do not belong.
Witnessing physical pain is no big deal anymore, and harsh working conditions, unfair wages, mistreatment of animals...these have all become daily occurrences. I visited a “fair trade” shop where people were paid about 2 dollars for 8 hours of manual labor in a dilapidated shop with poor ventilation. If I were fresh from America, I would scream at the injustice and write a moving book on working conditions in Africa. But after just four months in Kenya I saw that shop and said to myself, “These people have tools to work with and stools to sit on. And these people have jobs! Wonderful. I support them.”
Even the capital punishment used in school systems have given way to the rosy-red tint of my shiny goggles. When I first arrived at site, I remembered hearing the shrill screams of children at the nearby school and I remembered hating it. But now when I walk by schools and children run to the gates and scream, “Mzungu! Give me money! Give me sweets!” and the teacher grabs them and starts beating them with a stick, I think to myself, “Good work, teacher.” One time I actually thanked a teacher for punishing a child when he begged me for money.
It has been just 8 months in Kenya. I have 18 more. And these Peace Corps Goggles can only get darker. I am simultaneously frightened and intrigued at what I will be peering through by the end of my journey.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Cultural Differences
The differences are many, but here are some of the big ones.
Beauty
The Kenyans are beautiful people in my eyes. The lifestyle is physically demanding. Between the farming and carrying water, the men develop super-hero type figures, and the women are slim, conservative, and mysteriously beautiful. Though, beauty for a woman is to be fat. Big hips, wide buttocks, hefty legs and intricately woven hair. Breasts do not matter in this country. Also for men, fatter is better (and so is hairier). A fat man a basically rich because he can afford to eat enough. Being fat denotes status, that a person no longer works in the fields or has to carry water, and probably has a good-paying, seated job.
In America, beauty is thin. A thin person usually has the knowledge of proper nutrition and the self-discipline to maintain a diet or to work out consistently. Broad shoulders, green eyes, Australian accents, and not too hairy are desirable traits in a man. For women, supple breasts, dark tan, and curved yet slim, are desirable enough. And of course, brainless.
Old People
Kenyan culture respects age. The older you are (and the more of a male you are), the less you work, the fatter you get, and the more acceptable it is to show your bear chest in public (men and women). Family bonds are so important here, and people have children in order to ensure that at they are well taken care of in their old age. I guess I cannot blame them, if I had to poop in a hole in the ground (or in a bush), walk for miles each day to fetch water, take physical beatings at school, and have the rains be a firm indicator of how hungry I will be in the coming months, I also would expect some respect growing old in Kenya. It is an accomplishment to see the ages past 50 in this country.
American culture is different. Aging is bad. Women purchase facial creams and try not to smile too much to preserve their beauty, and men wear fake hair and use Viagra. Old people are seen as “worthless,” or even less, because they no longer contribute to the economy and suck the welfare from the tax-payers. In the busy American life, caring for elderly parents or loved ones is a burden, so many opt for the old-age homes. To make up for all of it, old people get discounts at buffets.
Time
Kenyans begin their day earlier than sunrise..about 5am. While the sun is up, the time is all the same. There is no difference between morning and afternoon, there are no scheduled meals (except in the schools), and there is hardly any punctuality or efficiency in time usage. A meeting could last 5 hours and it would be the same as a 1 hour ordeal. People sit patiently all throughout, and often the mothers will whip out their boobs to breast feed their children. The best way to go about things is to plan one thing per day, like a meeting with one person, or a trip to the market.
Americans have seized time and wrestled it to the the ground. Each day we plan 12 meetings, eat meals every 3 hours, exercise twice, and still have 4 hours to sit in front of the television.
Elephants
Americans love elephants. We think of those giant, soft-footed creatures as tremendously thoughtful and predictably friendly. To see an elephant in a zoo is as exciting as Iron Man 2. We are awestruck by their tremendous size, and tickled by their lack of jumping ability.
Kenyans hate elephants, especially the rural farmers. They think of those giant, cumbersome creatures as nuisances that damage and destroy. The elephants come on to the farms and eat the maize crops, and trample on all the rest. The people value these elephants when they are dead: for their meat and expensive tusks.
I'm living in Kenya. Yikes.
Beauty
The Kenyans are beautiful people in my eyes. The lifestyle is physically demanding. Between the farming and carrying water, the men develop super-hero type figures, and the women are slim, conservative, and mysteriously beautiful. Though, beauty for a woman is to be fat. Big hips, wide buttocks, hefty legs and intricately woven hair. Breasts do not matter in this country. Also for men, fatter is better (and so is hairier). A fat man a basically rich because he can afford to eat enough. Being fat denotes status, that a person no longer works in the fields or has to carry water, and probably has a good-paying, seated job.
In America, beauty is thin. A thin person usually has the knowledge of proper nutrition and the self-discipline to maintain a diet or to work out consistently. Broad shoulders, green eyes, Australian accents, and not too hairy are desirable traits in a man. For women, supple breasts, dark tan, and curved yet slim, are desirable enough. And of course, brainless.
Old People
Kenyan culture respects age. The older you are (and the more of a male you are), the less you work, the fatter you get, and the more acceptable it is to show your bear chest in public (men and women). Family bonds are so important here, and people have children in order to ensure that at they are well taken care of in their old age. I guess I cannot blame them, if I had to poop in a hole in the ground (or in a bush), walk for miles each day to fetch water, take physical beatings at school, and have the rains be a firm indicator of how hungry I will be in the coming months, I also would expect some respect growing old in Kenya. It is an accomplishment to see the ages past 50 in this country.
American culture is different. Aging is bad. Women purchase facial creams and try not to smile too much to preserve their beauty, and men wear fake hair and use Viagra. Old people are seen as “worthless,” or even less, because they no longer contribute to the economy and suck the welfare from the tax-payers. In the busy American life, caring for elderly parents or loved ones is a burden, so many opt for the old-age homes. To make up for all of it, old people get discounts at buffets.
Time
Kenyans begin their day earlier than sunrise..about 5am. While the sun is up, the time is all the same. There is no difference between morning and afternoon, there are no scheduled meals (except in the schools), and there is hardly any punctuality or efficiency in time usage. A meeting could last 5 hours and it would be the same as a 1 hour ordeal. People sit patiently all throughout, and often the mothers will whip out their boobs to breast feed their children. The best way to go about things is to plan one thing per day, like a meeting with one person, or a trip to the market.
Americans have seized time and wrestled it to the the ground. Each day we plan 12 meetings, eat meals every 3 hours, exercise twice, and still have 4 hours to sit in front of the television.
Elephants
Americans love elephants. We think of those giant, soft-footed creatures as tremendously thoughtful and predictably friendly. To see an elephant in a zoo is as exciting as Iron Man 2. We are awestruck by their tremendous size, and tickled by their lack of jumping ability.
Kenyans hate elephants, especially the rural farmers. They think of those giant, cumbersome creatures as nuisances that damage and destroy. The elephants come on to the farms and eat the maize crops, and trample on all the rest. The people value these elephants when they are dead: for their meat and expensive tusks.
I'm living in Kenya. Yikes.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Dungbeetles and Dragonflies
The sun rises at 6am. The morning dew sticks to the freshly grown foliage, shivering gently in the wind. Multitudes of dung beetles emerge from their hideaways and the dragonflies dip and weave to each gust and zephyr.
Yesterday evening came with dark clouds and the night brought heavy rainfall. The morning air smells crisp and cool, and the ground reveals a dark, fertile clay. Every bare patch of land displays budding sprouts-- the germination of freshly sown fields. Days of labor, hand plowed fields or cow-drawn plows, begin to bear results.
Mounds of fresh cow dung, renewed once again in pungent odor by the rains, lay on the roads. The dung beetles cluster and climb upon these mounds of treasure, shaping pieces into balls and rolling them with their hind legs off the road. The dragonflies flit capriciously, dancing, weaving and making love mid-air in the cool morning. Their translucent wings glimmer for moments with a spectrum of color, and they once again speed away, in search of a more playful breeze.
As the sun awakens and casts it's piercing heat upon the village, the dirt road bustles with life-- herds of cattle wander aimlessly to graze, motorbike taxis carrying people to and fro, and cohorts of matching school children, walking and giggling and fighting together on their way to school. As many go about their day, none stop to notice the adamant dung beetles, furiously balling and rolling their dung from the roads. No school child stops to point at the frolicsome dragonflies, fluttering about.
In America, December brings with it falling leaves and winter chills. Christmas music blares on every radio station, and shops bustle with business. But it is springtime in Kenya; the time for white perfume flowers to bloom and shed from the trees, the time for weddings and animal slaughterings. Time for people to start falling in love.
The dragonflies are whimsical. They shift and move purposefully, then in moments they stop to hover as if struck by an epiphany. They are much more clever than their dung-beetle counterparts; never have they fallen victim to a child's playful swat or the squash of a windshield. The dragonflies are magical.
The dung beetles are foolish. They are drawn toward the fresh dung like Their blundering strides look like those of a man who happens upon a mountain of gold, who ambles slowly toward it in sheer delight. Many of these dung beetles fall victim to the bottom of road tires, heavy cow hooves, or rubber shoe soles. They will die for their dung.
The springtime renews my sense of hope and vigor. I marvel at the stupidity of the dung beetles, but at the same time I admire them for their determination; they so clearly know their goal and set out to attaining it at all costs. And all the while I grow jealous of the dragonflies, that the mates are so in tune to each other they can make love in mid-air, without missing a beat. I draw in a deep, refreshing breath and think how beautiful it must be to be so in tune with the one you love.
Yesterday evening came with dark clouds and the night brought heavy rainfall. The morning air smells crisp and cool, and the ground reveals a dark, fertile clay. Every bare patch of land displays budding sprouts-- the germination of freshly sown fields. Days of labor, hand plowed fields or cow-drawn plows, begin to bear results.
Mounds of fresh cow dung, renewed once again in pungent odor by the rains, lay on the roads. The dung beetles cluster and climb upon these mounds of treasure, shaping pieces into balls and rolling them with their hind legs off the road. The dragonflies flit capriciously, dancing, weaving and making love mid-air in the cool morning. Their translucent wings glimmer for moments with a spectrum of color, and they once again speed away, in search of a more playful breeze.
As the sun awakens and casts it's piercing heat upon the village, the dirt road bustles with life-- herds of cattle wander aimlessly to graze, motorbike taxis carrying people to and fro, and cohorts of matching school children, walking and giggling and fighting together on their way to school. As many go about their day, none stop to notice the adamant dung beetles, furiously balling and rolling their dung from the roads. No school child stops to point at the frolicsome dragonflies, fluttering about.
In America, December brings with it falling leaves and winter chills. Christmas music blares on every radio station, and shops bustle with business. But it is springtime in Kenya; the time for white perfume flowers to bloom and shed from the trees, the time for weddings and animal slaughterings. Time for people to start falling in love.
The dragonflies are whimsical. They shift and move purposefully, then in moments they stop to hover as if struck by an epiphany. They are much more clever than their dung-beetle counterparts; never have they fallen victim to a child's playful swat or the squash of a windshield. The dragonflies are magical.
The dung beetles are foolish. They are drawn toward the fresh dung like Their blundering strides look like those of a man who happens upon a mountain of gold, who ambles slowly toward it in sheer delight. Many of these dung beetles fall victim to the bottom of road tires, heavy cow hooves, or rubber shoe soles. They will die for their dung.
The springtime renews my sense of hope and vigor. I marvel at the stupidity of the dung beetles, but at the same time I admire them for their determination; they so clearly know their goal and set out to attaining it at all costs. And all the while I grow jealous of the dragonflies, that the mates are so in tune to each other they can make love in mid-air, without missing a beat. I draw in a deep, refreshing breath and think how beautiful it must be to be so in tune with the one you love.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Just a Day
Live a day with me (December 07, 2010)--
It is 6pm, outside I know the sun is setting though today I do not see it. I am busy cutting onions and the potency stings my eyes. Light still creeps in through my open window, where just outside children's laughter can be heard between the pattering, bare-footed stamps against the concrete floor. Among them is Kimonge, the smallest, cutest child God has ever created. I often pick him up and swing him by his arms, and his reflexive smile and giddy laughter tickles me. Whenever he sees me, he comes up and pets my legs curiously (since leg hair is non-existent on Kenyan men or women), or climbs under my arms where I can give him a hug. I never refuse him. I cannot.
**Just this morning I met three new Europeans from Belgium who had come to help build houses at a women's group near me. Their process was slow going, and for the entire morning we sat and spoke of our cultural differences, and the similarities our cultures share from the differences to that of Kenya. I came for a stove-making conference which was to begin at 8:30am. It was now 12pm and the instructors had just arrived. **
**Inside a nearby house, the conference was underway. I heard Swahili being spoken inside through the open windows as I neared, but the moment I entered the speaker switched to English. I took a seat in the back of the room and listened for awhile. The speaker spoke slowly so the masons could understand his English. The facades are out in full force, but by now I expect them.**
The sun casts its final, purple rays and loses its daily battle to the darkness. I draw my curtains and flip on my light. Onions are simmering in vegetable oil, and the deep green kale pops as I add it upon the skillet. The children outside have stopped playing. The older ones are washing dishes, preparing for their late supper.
**The conference lasted just two hours, and after I pedaled the 5 kilometers back home. Along the way, I noticed strong, green shoots of maize growing firm in the ground, so I dismounted and took a few pictures. The soil is red and strong, and provides food and security to these people. This season will show a good harvest, and the people will praise the name of God for the rains.**
**Just 100 meters down the road from my house lives a youth that I have recently befriended. He is the only one in the area with a computer, and we have been sharing media back and forth. His sister is beautiful and well spoken in three languages, and I enjoy spending time with them both. Today I came to say a few greetings to him. His beautiful sister is, in all honesty, a strong motivation for my frequent visits as well. I'm hoping my infatuation with her dies quickly.**
The fried vegetables sizzle even after I extinguish the heat from beneath the pan. Today I am sharing supper and company with my lonely neighbor who is housekeeping for a family that went on vacation. I brought my vegetables; she cooked rice and beans and we spoke together in Swahili. In the silence of our conversation, we could hear the screams of the neighboring children. Their father has come home drunk again, and has begun to beat them. I recognize each child's distinctive scream and my helplessness pulls strongly at my heart. My thoughts settle on Kimonge, the helpless small child who owns a piece of my heart. I hold back tears of anger out of respect for my companion, and excuse myself from her much-enjoyed company.
I cooked maize porridge for the absent neighbor's dogs: a mother and a puppy. I pensively stroke the baby puppy and in the cool darkness offer a prayer to God for the family who must needlessly suffer; the most sincere prayer I have had for quite some time.
My thoughts race as I begin to reflect upon today and transfer my thoughts into my computer. What conclusions can be reached, or what lessons learned? My body longs for sleep yet my mind remains disturbed. My life isn't so bad. I pause and watch a small lizard crawl across my wall. My life will never be so bad. Soft rain falls upon my tin roof, and abruptly stops.
It is 6pm, outside I know the sun is setting though today I do not see it. I am busy cutting onions and the potency stings my eyes. Light still creeps in through my open window, where just outside children's laughter can be heard between the pattering, bare-footed stamps against the concrete floor. Among them is Kimonge, the smallest, cutest child God has ever created. I often pick him up and swing him by his arms, and his reflexive smile and giddy laughter tickles me. Whenever he sees me, he comes up and pets my legs curiously (since leg hair is non-existent on Kenyan men or women), or climbs under my arms where I can give him a hug. I never refuse him. I cannot.
**Just this morning I met three new Europeans from Belgium who had come to help build houses at a women's group near me. Their process was slow going, and for the entire morning we sat and spoke of our cultural differences, and the similarities our cultures share from the differences to that of Kenya. I came for a stove-making conference which was to begin at 8:30am. It was now 12pm and the instructors had just arrived. **
**Inside a nearby house, the conference was underway. I heard Swahili being spoken inside through the open windows as I neared, but the moment I entered the speaker switched to English. I took a seat in the back of the room and listened for awhile. The speaker spoke slowly so the masons could understand his English. The facades are out in full force, but by now I expect them.**
The sun casts its final, purple rays and loses its daily battle to the darkness. I draw my curtains and flip on my light. Onions are simmering in vegetable oil, and the deep green kale pops as I add it upon the skillet. The children outside have stopped playing. The older ones are washing dishes, preparing for their late supper.
**The conference lasted just two hours, and after I pedaled the 5 kilometers back home. Along the way, I noticed strong, green shoots of maize growing firm in the ground, so I dismounted and took a few pictures. The soil is red and strong, and provides food and security to these people. This season will show a good harvest, and the people will praise the name of God for the rains.**
**Just 100 meters down the road from my house lives a youth that I have recently befriended. He is the only one in the area with a computer, and we have been sharing media back and forth. His sister is beautiful and well spoken in three languages, and I enjoy spending time with them both. Today I came to say a few greetings to him. His beautiful sister is, in all honesty, a strong motivation for my frequent visits as well. I'm hoping my infatuation with her dies quickly.**
The fried vegetables sizzle even after I extinguish the heat from beneath the pan. Today I am sharing supper and company with my lonely neighbor who is housekeeping for a family that went on vacation. I brought my vegetables; she cooked rice and beans and we spoke together in Swahili. In the silence of our conversation, we could hear the screams of the neighboring children. Their father has come home drunk again, and has begun to beat them. I recognize each child's distinctive scream and my helplessness pulls strongly at my heart. My thoughts settle on Kimonge, the helpless small child who owns a piece of my heart. I hold back tears of anger out of respect for my companion, and excuse myself from her much-enjoyed company.
I cooked maize porridge for the absent neighbor's dogs: a mother and a puppy. I pensively stroke the baby puppy and in the cool darkness offer a prayer to God for the family who must needlessly suffer; the most sincere prayer I have had for quite some time.
My thoughts race as I begin to reflect upon today and transfer my thoughts into my computer. What conclusions can be reached, or what lessons learned? My body longs for sleep yet my mind remains disturbed. My life isn't so bad. I pause and watch a small lizard crawl across my wall. My life will never be so bad. Soft rain falls upon my tin roof, and abruptly stops.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Nine Or Vagina
Freshman year of college 2004: My roommate Mark Eckert and I had the same English writing class. Our teacher was a little Asian graduate student named Sophia Wang, and she had us reading novels written specifically by women.
One particular novel (I forget the name) was written by Virginia Wolfe. One night, I remember discussing the novel with my roommate Mark because I had a speech on the novel the following day, and I wanted to make sure I practiced what I wanted to say. Mark had difficulties taking me seriously, and instead was exploring different ways to say Virginia Wolfe's name. He settled on a mix between Virginia and vagina, creating something that sounded like “Vir-gina Wolfe”. He would repeat the name over and over again to subliminally influence me, then he would tell me to be careful not to say “Vir-gina” during my presentation instead of Virginia.
During class the next day, Mark whispered to me things like, “Good luck on your “Vir-gina Wolfe speech” and would just repeat “Vir-gina Wolfe” with a silly grin. With my nerves already taut from the coming presentation and my unreasonable fear that I would actually slip up and say “Vir-gina”, I curtly reprimanded him and stood to give my presentation. Suffice to say, I spoke soundly and pronounced “Virginia” with all the appropriate vowels and consonants.
Yet, here in Kenya I haven't been so lucky.
The other day, a couple of boys walked up to me as I was gathering some milk sap from a tree. They asked me what I was doing and why, so I explained to them that I wanted to test the milky tree sap as a potential glue. The boys looked on with curiosity written on their faces, and after some silence I felt the need to speak again. The conversation, in Swahili, went like this:
Louis: So, what are your names?
Boy 1: Mwarkio
Boy 2: Maganga
Louis: I see. My name is Louis. How old are you?
Boy 1: I am eleven.
Louis: And is this your brother?
Boy 1: Yes.
Louis: How old is he? Wait, let me guess..he is nine or vagina.
The boys' faces immediately flushed with embarrassment. I followed up quickly with “I'm Sorry. I know that word. Sorry!”
I don't buy into Sigmond Freud's philosophies all too much, though my episode might be considered a Freudian slip. I wouldn't say I am particularly sexually frustrated so I think I would have to search for answers in another.
Perhaps language is to blame.
The word for “ten” in Swahili is spelled “kumi”. When learning this word, our language teachers made specific mention to say it correctly, because a very similar word “kuma” means “vagina.” An easy slip up, right?
I remember back to when I was young, hearing words like penis or clitoris made my ears burn and my heartbeat quicken. I could imagine how much more potent words like that are to boys in conservative, rural communities who have not been desensitized by mass media.
The boys were silent after, their hands cupped against their mouths for a time as they sauntered awkwardly away from me. The ordeal made me feel awkward as well, as I would imagine I would feel had I just given the “birds and the bees” talk to my own children.
Well, I have had other Swahili mistakes, but none so blatant as the episode described above. Once, I called my supervisor's daughter a toilet (her name is pronounced“Chow”, and toilet is choo or “cho”), and I told a group of co-workers that my father is pregnant (“dada” is “sister”), and countless others. But the mistakes never hinder me from continuing to speak the language, and for the most part the locals are graciously forgiving.
I never did find out what the kid's age was—I'm guessing he was vagina. And Mark Eckert would have been proud.
One particular novel (I forget the name) was written by Virginia Wolfe. One night, I remember discussing the novel with my roommate Mark because I had a speech on the novel the following day, and I wanted to make sure I practiced what I wanted to say. Mark had difficulties taking me seriously, and instead was exploring different ways to say Virginia Wolfe's name. He settled on a mix between Virginia and vagina, creating something that sounded like “Vir-gina Wolfe”. He would repeat the name over and over again to subliminally influence me, then he would tell me to be careful not to say “Vir-gina” during my presentation instead of Virginia.
During class the next day, Mark whispered to me things like, “Good luck on your “Vir-gina Wolfe speech” and would just repeat “Vir-gina Wolfe” with a silly grin. With my nerves already taut from the coming presentation and my unreasonable fear that I would actually slip up and say “Vir-gina”, I curtly reprimanded him and stood to give my presentation. Suffice to say, I spoke soundly and pronounced “Virginia” with all the appropriate vowels and consonants.
Yet, here in Kenya I haven't been so lucky.
The other day, a couple of boys walked up to me as I was gathering some milk sap from a tree. They asked me what I was doing and why, so I explained to them that I wanted to test the milky tree sap as a potential glue. The boys looked on with curiosity written on their faces, and after some silence I felt the need to speak again. The conversation, in Swahili, went like this:
Louis: So, what are your names?
Boy 1: Mwarkio
Boy 2: Maganga
Louis: I see. My name is Louis. How old are you?
Boy 1: I am eleven.
Louis: And is this your brother?
Boy 1: Yes.
Louis: How old is he? Wait, let me guess..he is nine or vagina.
The boys' faces immediately flushed with embarrassment. I followed up quickly with “I'm Sorry. I know that word. Sorry!”
I don't buy into Sigmond Freud's philosophies all too much, though my episode might be considered a Freudian slip. I wouldn't say I am particularly sexually frustrated so I think I would have to search for answers in another.
Perhaps language is to blame.
The word for “ten” in Swahili is spelled “kumi”. When learning this word, our language teachers made specific mention to say it correctly, because a very similar word “kuma” means “vagina.” An easy slip up, right?
I remember back to when I was young, hearing words like penis or clitoris made my ears burn and my heartbeat quicken. I could imagine how much more potent words like that are to boys in conservative, rural communities who have not been desensitized by mass media.
The boys were silent after, their hands cupped against their mouths for a time as they sauntered awkwardly away from me. The ordeal made me feel awkward as well, as I would imagine I would feel had I just given the “birds and the bees” talk to my own children.
Well, I have had other Swahili mistakes, but none so blatant as the episode described above. Once, I called my supervisor's daughter a toilet (her name is pronounced“Chow”, and toilet is choo or “cho”), and I told a group of co-workers that my father is pregnant (“dada” is “sister”), and countless others. But the mistakes never hinder me from continuing to speak the language, and for the most part the locals are graciously forgiving.
I never did find out what the kid's age was—I'm guessing he was vagina. And Mark Eckert would have been proud.
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