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.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
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.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Stark Contrast
Early one night, before the waning full moon made its grand appearance, the star-filled sky was more brilliant and clear than I can ever recall. It felt like I was standing on the very edge of the atmosphere, where only a thin sheet or a cold breath of air separated me from falling in among the stars. The milky way looked like a murky, grey cloud mixed into the infinite stars, like a black granite table-top with refined sugar spilled on top. And for a short while, the relentless wind died down to a chilly breeze, and carried the sound of rustling leaves and chirping insects through the otherwise perfect silence. There was not a single car engine to be heard, or a single, dull street light to be seen, just serenity and peace. As I stood there admiring the brilliant scene, In that moment there was nowhere else on earth I would rather have been; and though a loved one would have made good company, I stood there alone in complete contentment.
When I wake the next morning, the sun sheds light on the real setting which I live. Though there are many trees, the area looks desolate and dry- it is like a wasteland where the hot sun condemns animals to death, and the ferocious winds blow their remains to sand (exaggeration). Animal waste covers the dirt road, precious trees are chopped down and cut into pieces to be sold, and black spots can be seen on the ground in various places where people burn their trash or where they burn wood to make charcoal.
This place that I live overflows with life and with potential. Insects of all kinds are loudly accompanying my walk around the village, huge camels are snacking on the African milk tree overgrowth that lines the main road while matatu and motorbike drivers honk their horns impatiently to clear the way, and beautiful Kenyan children are running barefoot in the fields with their handmade toys screaming at me as I walk by. The soil in the fields is rich and fertile, making for the sweetest bananas I have ever tasted. The corn kernels grow large and the tomatoes are firm and supple.
But at the very same time, poverty ravages the people here. Families sell their small amount of food so they can purchase water. Everyone grows corn in their farms, and "Ugali" or corn porridge is the meal every single day because families cannot afford to diversify their diet. Fruit is a luxury many cannot afford. Every day, women walk 15-20 kilometers to fetch water, carrying a 20 liter jerry can on their heads for half of that walk. Children have skin diseases because they can only afford to bathe once per week.
The women are beautiful and hardworking and the nuclear family is tied by strong religious and cultural norms. Extended families generally live on close homesteads, caring for each other and remaining close throughout their lives.
Yet problems like prostitution abound in the neighboring village (and bigger cities) while HIV and other STDs are rampant. Condoms are not mainstream and testing for or talking about HIV/AIDS is taboo. It is almost socially acceptable for a man to cheat on his wife, and even spread HIV or other problems throughout the family.
The juxtaposition of the priceless beauty in the nighttime skies that shine for all the suffering people is surreal. It reminds me that there is so much here that needs to be done, but at the same time so much that I don't ever want to change.
When I wake the next morning, the sun sheds light on the real setting which I live. Though there are many trees, the area looks desolate and dry- it is like a wasteland where the hot sun condemns animals to death, and the ferocious winds blow their remains to sand (exaggeration). Animal waste covers the dirt road, precious trees are chopped down and cut into pieces to be sold, and black spots can be seen on the ground in various places where people burn their trash or where they burn wood to make charcoal.
This place that I live overflows with life and with potential. Insects of all kinds are loudly accompanying my walk around the village, huge camels are snacking on the African milk tree overgrowth that lines the main road while matatu and motorbike drivers honk their horns impatiently to clear the way, and beautiful Kenyan children are running barefoot in the fields with their handmade toys screaming at me as I walk by. The soil in the fields is rich and fertile, making for the sweetest bananas I have ever tasted. The corn kernels grow large and the tomatoes are firm and supple.
But at the very same time, poverty ravages the people here. Families sell their small amount of food so they can purchase water. Everyone grows corn in their farms, and "Ugali" or corn porridge is the meal every single day because families cannot afford to diversify their diet. Fruit is a luxury many cannot afford. Every day, women walk 15-20 kilometers to fetch water, carrying a 20 liter jerry can on their heads for half of that walk. Children have skin diseases because they can only afford to bathe once per week.
The women are beautiful and hardworking and the nuclear family is tied by strong religious and cultural norms. Extended families generally live on close homesteads, caring for each other and remaining close throughout their lives.
Yet problems like prostitution abound in the neighboring village (and bigger cities) while HIV and other STDs are rampant. Condoms are not mainstream and testing for or talking about HIV/AIDS is taboo. It is almost socially acceptable for a man to cheat on his wife, and even spread HIV or other problems throughout the family.
The juxtaposition of the priceless beauty in the nighttime skies that shine for all the suffering people is surreal. It reminds me that there is so much here that needs to be done, but at the same time so much that I don't ever want to change.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Gender Equality
My first day as a Peace Corps Volunteer started with two cups of delicious tea, two home-grown eggs, and then two meetings. The first meeting introduced me to my organization (Marungu Hill Conservancy Association)- lasting 20 minutes. The second was a village-wide meeting about the severe problem of water- lasting 4 and a half hours.
As a side note, Kenyans will not eat, take a sip of water, or use the restroom for a meeting's entire duration. It doesn't matter how long.
Before coming to Kenya, I knew the gender roles and equality were vastly different than in America. Women here are much inferior to men socially. A woman will generally not look a man in the eye (children wont either, both genders) when they are having a conversation, and it isn't unusual to see a married woman walk a few meters back from her husband if they were walking together. Women mop the floors, prepare all food and tea, wash the dishes and clothes, harvest in the garden (men usually do the planting, and can sometimes help harvest), clean and straighten and tidy everything, and not ever complain about any of it. And at the dinner table, women serve the men first, and usually eat last.
It is also taboo for a woman to ask a man out on a date. But more on that in another post.
Anyway, back to my 4 and a half hour meeting. The meeting was entirely in Kiswahili, which I liked because I can then practice listening to it (even though I did not understand anything). It started and ended with a prayer, and literally the first hour of it was individual introductions of everyone at attendance (around 80. It reminded me very specifically of the "Ents" in the Lord of the Rings movie). Women generally sat in one segregated area, a little bit farther from the head officials leading the meeting (I am included as a head official), but what became a most pleasant surprise was that women of all ages spoke and participated equally with the men. They spoke passionately about their lack of water access, and they captivated the audience with their forceful tone and animated gestures. The women show by their daily, hard labor that they are beyond strong. It was refreshing to see a voice representing those actions.
Compared with other parts of Kenya, I think my particular area is a little bit more progressive and relaxed. Despite the clearly defined gender roles, both women and men attend primary and secondary schools (though men attend at a much higher rate), and from what I have observed so far, the culture is making a shift toward gender equality. Still, I was pleasantly surprised to find so much voice on the female side of the human spectrum here in this small rural village on the south-eastern coast of Kenya.
The women here, after all, are the backbone of the Kenyan society. Besides being friendly, I'm not really sure what the Kenyan men do with their time.
As a side note, Kenyans will not eat, take a sip of water, or use the restroom for a meeting's entire duration. It doesn't matter how long.
Before coming to Kenya, I knew the gender roles and equality were vastly different than in America. Women here are much inferior to men socially. A woman will generally not look a man in the eye (children wont either, both genders) when they are having a conversation, and it isn't unusual to see a married woman walk a few meters back from her husband if they were walking together. Women mop the floors, prepare all food and tea, wash the dishes and clothes, harvest in the garden (men usually do the planting, and can sometimes help harvest), clean and straighten and tidy everything, and not ever complain about any of it. And at the dinner table, women serve the men first, and usually eat last.
It is also taboo for a woman to ask a man out on a date. But more on that in another post.
Anyway, back to my 4 and a half hour meeting. The meeting was entirely in Kiswahili, which I liked because I can then practice listening to it (even though I did not understand anything). It started and ended with a prayer, and literally the first hour of it was individual introductions of everyone at attendance (around 80. It reminded me very specifically of the "Ents" in the Lord of the Rings movie). Women generally sat in one segregated area, a little bit farther from the head officials leading the meeting (I am included as a head official), but what became a most pleasant surprise was that women of all ages spoke and participated equally with the men. They spoke passionately about their lack of water access, and they captivated the audience with their forceful tone and animated gestures. The women show by their daily, hard labor that they are beyond strong. It was refreshing to see a voice representing those actions.
Compared with other parts of Kenya, I think my particular area is a little bit more progressive and relaxed. Despite the clearly defined gender roles, both women and men attend primary and secondary schools (though men attend at a much higher rate), and from what I have observed so far, the culture is making a shift toward gender equality. Still, I was pleasantly surprised to find so much voice on the female side of the human spectrum here in this small rural village on the south-eastern coast of Kenya.
The women here, after all, are the backbone of the Kenyan society. Besides being friendly, I'm not really sure what the Kenyan men do with their time.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Language: The Great Communicator
For 24 years and 4 months of my life, I have never given the Swahili language a moment of consideration. Now, it is essentially the most important tool in my daily life.
From May 26th until July 20th, I was put through Peace Corps' rigorous language program. It was like Rosetta Stone on steroids, human growth hormone, and whatever Lance Armstrong was taking, all at the same time. The student-teacher ratio was 3 to 1 for me, for at least 4 hours a day. Granted, Kiswahili is not the most tricky language, but after just 2 months of training I have: 1. bargained for items in the market, 2. Introduced myself in front of countless different churches, meetings, and officials 3. Performed a swahili worship song in front of a small church congregation. I studied Spanish on and off for 6 years or so growing up, yet I can safely say that my swahili has officially overtaken my Spanish as my second best language.
All that being said, I am realizing that language is the most important tool in establishing a meaningful connection with another person. I take it for granted, but when I find someone who knows just a little bit of English, it is like eating dessert for breakfast. When I get the chance to speak with some fellow Peace Corps Volunteers and I can speed up my speech to normal and say words like “Amazing” and “Splendid” and “Circumvent” and they would all be understood, it is amazing. It truly baffles me how “Prince Erik” fell in love with Aerial, since I think it would be impossible for me to fall in love with someone I could not adequately express myself to.
I have basically mastered the Kiswahili greetings, and many of the locals (especially the older grandmothers and grandpas) are amazed that the white guy knows Kiswahili. Also, though everyone knows and speaks Kiswahili, there are two main tribes in my area: Taita and Duruma. I am also getting those specific greetings down for each of the languages. If I manage to greet a Duruma grandmother in her tribal tongue, she becomes so excited it seems like she wets her pants.
Though English is wide-spoken throughout the world, there is something I can sincerely relate with to the Duruma grandmothers. It is rare to see another white person around, and usually they all come from the UK, but occasionally I find an American. That familiar American accent, whether it be the harsh New Yorker, the southern drawl, or my very own west coast accent, makes me happier than anyone could possibly imagine.
So far my language barriers have been (are probably going to be) the hardest challenge for me. Already there are people here that are willing to learn about business organization matters, yet I would need a translator to properly get my point across. Sometimes I feel like I am making leaps and bounds improvement in the language when I can joke with children or say a semi-witty response in return to the common “Mzungu! How are you??” that I hear on a daily basis, and sometimes I feel like I am a completely dysfunctional person. But I have two years to work the kinks out, and then when I get back to America, I have the rest of my life to continue using kiswahili on a daily basis...
Some fun facts:
1. Ku-jenga means “To Build”, and “Jenga” is probably the origin of the name for the board game.
2. In Swahili, there are “Noun Classes.” All people and animals belong to a certain (and respected) noun class called the M-WA class. But words like “Youth” and “Disabled”, though referring to people are not in the M-WA class to demonstrate inferior status.
3. If you repeat a verb, it means that specific action continues. Example: Ku-kata means “To cut”. Ku-kata-kata means “To cut repeatedly”.
From May 26th until July 20th, I was put through Peace Corps' rigorous language program. It was like Rosetta Stone on steroids, human growth hormone, and whatever Lance Armstrong was taking, all at the same time. The student-teacher ratio was 3 to 1 for me, for at least 4 hours a day. Granted, Kiswahili is not the most tricky language, but after just 2 months of training I have: 1. bargained for items in the market, 2. Introduced myself in front of countless different churches, meetings, and officials 3. Performed a swahili worship song in front of a small church congregation. I studied Spanish on and off for 6 years or so growing up, yet I can safely say that my swahili has officially overtaken my Spanish as my second best language.
All that being said, I am realizing that language is the most important tool in establishing a meaningful connection with another person. I take it for granted, but when I find someone who knows just a little bit of English, it is like eating dessert for breakfast. When I get the chance to speak with some fellow Peace Corps Volunteers and I can speed up my speech to normal and say words like “Amazing” and “Splendid” and “Circumvent” and they would all be understood, it is amazing. It truly baffles me how “Prince Erik” fell in love with Aerial, since I think it would be impossible for me to fall in love with someone I could not adequately express myself to.
I have basically mastered the Kiswahili greetings, and many of the locals (especially the older grandmothers and grandpas) are amazed that the white guy knows Kiswahili. Also, though everyone knows and speaks Kiswahili, there are two main tribes in my area: Taita and Duruma. I am also getting those specific greetings down for each of the languages. If I manage to greet a Duruma grandmother in her tribal tongue, she becomes so excited it seems like she wets her pants.
Though English is wide-spoken throughout the world, there is something I can sincerely relate with to the Duruma grandmothers. It is rare to see another white person around, and usually they all come from the UK, but occasionally I find an American. That familiar American accent, whether it be the harsh New Yorker, the southern drawl, or my very own west coast accent, makes me happier than anyone could possibly imagine.
So far my language barriers have been (are probably going to be) the hardest challenge for me. Already there are people here that are willing to learn about business organization matters, yet I would need a translator to properly get my point across. Sometimes I feel like I am making leaps and bounds improvement in the language when I can joke with children or say a semi-witty response in return to the common “Mzungu! How are you??” that I hear on a daily basis, and sometimes I feel like I am a completely dysfunctional person. But I have two years to work the kinks out, and then when I get back to America, I have the rest of my life to continue using kiswahili on a daily basis...
Some fun facts:
1. Ku-jenga means “To Build”, and “Jenga” is probably the origin of the name for the board game.
2. In Swahili, there are “Noun Classes.” All people and animals belong to a certain (and respected) noun class called the M-WA class. But words like “Youth” and “Disabled”, though referring to people are not in the M-WA class to demonstrate inferior status.
3. If you repeat a verb, it means that specific action continues. Example: Ku-kata means “To cut”. Ku-kata-kata means “To cut repeatedly”.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
