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.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
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.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Why I Write
I miss my nephew. I haven't seen a Caucasian baby since I last held my sisters' in a small, Pittsburgh theatre. It was the first time he fell asleep on my shoulder. And probably the last.
I miss bike rides up wildcat road, and swims in Spieker pool. I miss strawberries and apples, and fast internet. I miss deep, spiritual conversations and processed junk foods. I miss board games. I miss privacy.
But most of all, I miss my family and my friends. Today is thanksgiving, and it is the first ever that I will not spend with my family. I have been away from my family for longer stretches of time, but knowing they are unreachable sometimes makes me feel like I am suffocating. I remember my father with his mustache and his pure heart, my mother with her cute Asian face and crafty mind. I long for those times again, jamming with my brother-in-law to “Down on the Corner”, or watching my sister regurgitate food to give to her toothless baby--like a bird feeding its young.
So, in my ample spare time, I wrote another poem, and it reflects a longing for all the people I love, and all the people I wish to embrace, yet cannot. It is called “Why I Write”.
Why I Write
To make you understand
only with words?
Words are just secondhand
experience.
Secondhand reality.
But still I write furiously,
the end of the pen swirling
dizzily
in the air.
And for a moment there
I stop and stare
at nothing,
but look deep into my memory
summoning again
the feelings and emotions I had back then
back when I felt them.
Turning the ethereal into the indelible
with this paper and pen
for you, if you care to read.
Because contrary to my wishes, You are not here beside me
To help and to guide me.
Well, this distance has tried me
and still tries me.
But it's the distance that drives the pen so rigorously,
as words leap on the page vigorously
waiting to be seen.
And these words represent
the time that I've spent
thinking of you, and what you meant
to me.
And what you still mean.
How I miss you!
So with these words I kiss you.
Each word carefully placed
to give you a taste
of my affection.
Or it goes to waste-
the love for you that's laced
in my thoughts and self-reflection.
But these are just words to describe feelings
and feelings are but powerful uncertainties,
conjured as if by sorcery,
forcibly
to connect me to you
-and hopefully- you to me.
I write because I love you, and
I want you to know who I am.
And whether or not you love me too
Is whether or not you try to understand.
I miss bike rides up wildcat road, and swims in Spieker pool. I miss strawberries and apples, and fast internet. I miss deep, spiritual conversations and processed junk foods. I miss board games. I miss privacy.
But most of all, I miss my family and my friends. Today is thanksgiving, and it is the first ever that I will not spend with my family. I have been away from my family for longer stretches of time, but knowing they are unreachable sometimes makes me feel like I am suffocating. I remember my father with his mustache and his pure heart, my mother with her cute Asian face and crafty mind. I long for those times again, jamming with my brother-in-law to “Down on the Corner”, or watching my sister regurgitate food to give to her toothless baby--like a bird feeding its young.
So, in my ample spare time, I wrote another poem, and it reflects a longing for all the people I love, and all the people I wish to embrace, yet cannot. It is called “Why I Write”.
Why I Write
To make you understand
only with words?
Words are just secondhand
experience.
Secondhand reality.
But still I write furiously,
the end of the pen swirling
dizzily
in the air.
And for a moment there
I stop and stare
at nothing,
but look deep into my memory
summoning again
the feelings and emotions I had back then
back when I felt them.
Turning the ethereal into the indelible
with this paper and pen
for you, if you care to read.
Because contrary to my wishes, You are not here beside me
To help and to guide me.
Well, this distance has tried me
and still tries me.
But it's the distance that drives the pen so rigorously,
as words leap on the page vigorously
waiting to be seen.
And these words represent
the time that I've spent
thinking of you, and what you meant
to me.
And what you still mean.
How I miss you!
So with these words I kiss you.
Each word carefully placed
to give you a taste
of my affection.
Or it goes to waste-
the love for you that's laced
in my thoughts and self-reflection.
But these are just words to describe feelings
and feelings are but powerful uncertainties,
conjured as if by sorcery,
forcibly
to connect me to you
-and hopefully- you to me.
I write because I love you, and
I want you to know who I am.
And whether or not you love me too
Is whether or not you try to understand.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sisterly Love
The two Duruma sisters who live across the way from me are highly unusual, at least to my observations as a foreigner. They exhibit a great deal of physical affection and they exhibit this affection openly, as if they have been in a long-standing, intimate relationship.
In this conservative Kenyan culture it is inappropriate for women to wear shorts, show their knees, or wear a shirt that would even begin to show the swell of their breasts (although women whip out their boobs all the time in public to breast-feed)- let alone show any sort of PDA or public display of affection when they are in a relationship. The most PDA I have seen in Kenya thus far was in an airport: a man hugging a younger girl (presumably a daughter) and the exchange of kisses on the cheeks.
One night I walked out of my place and passed by my Duruma sisters' dwelling. The lights were on and they were watching T.V inside on the couch. I paused to glance into their open window to see what they were watching and maybe say hello, but in that moment one of the sisters looked at the other and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. As the sister turned to look, another kiss on the lips followed. I stood in bewilderment, frozen for a couple seconds but remaining undiscovered, altogether unsure of what to make of the ordeal. I didn't end up saying hello.
On a second occasion, I heard a loud noise outside my place, so I drew the curtain to see what was going on. There the Duruma sisters stood, laughing hysterically about something. As I continued watching, I witnessed a very strange game indeed—one sister was putting the other sister's breasts in different shapes and formations, and after they would laugh uncontrollably at the bulging boob-sculpture they created.
Final story- I have a shared bathing room and toilet. They are clearly labeled “Men” and “Women” although no one in my compound follows those rules except for me. The men's bathing room is farthest left and the men's toilet is just next to it. The women's facilities are connected, and mirror the men's. One day I rushed to the men's stall for an urgent 'long call' and after I entered I heard splashing and talking from the men's bathing room. I recognized the voices to be the two Duruma sisters bathing together. Again, it struck me as odd that sisters in their early twenties could bathe together and be okay with it, but what was more of a challenge was to try to poop silently to hide my presence (and therefore my shame) from my friendly neighbors.
Homosexuality is completely illegal in Kenya. It is a crime punishable by imprisonment, and sometimes mob justice carries out a death sentence. It is almost like it doesn't exist in Kenyan's minds, especially in the rural areas. Men can be seen holding hands in public, or dancing together, and it would never be assumed that they were homosexual. It is actually more culturally appropriate for two men to hold hands than it would be for a man and a women, even if they are married. Anyway, I am not at all saying the sisters are incestuous, on the contrary, their actions are not presumptuous in this culture whatsoever. It is just strange to me that behavior that I think is inappropriate or suggestive in some way can be completely acceptable, and behavior that Kenyans would think as being inappropriate in America (like homosexuality, or wearing a speedo) I can find as normal behavior.
Kenya is mostly professing Christianity, and the cultural and religious opposition to homosexuality is astounding. I don't want to get too deep into my observations on the Kenyan religious atmosphere just yet, but at least from what I understand about Jesus in the Bible, I would say he offered compassion, relentless love, and forgiveness to all people, no matter who.
Perhaps the same type of relentless love the two Duruma sisters show each other.
In this conservative Kenyan culture it is inappropriate for women to wear shorts, show their knees, or wear a shirt that would even begin to show the swell of their breasts (although women whip out their boobs all the time in public to breast-feed)- let alone show any sort of PDA or public display of affection when they are in a relationship. The most PDA I have seen in Kenya thus far was in an airport: a man hugging a younger girl (presumably a daughter) and the exchange of kisses on the cheeks.
One night I walked out of my place and passed by my Duruma sisters' dwelling. The lights were on and they were watching T.V inside on the couch. I paused to glance into their open window to see what they were watching and maybe say hello, but in that moment one of the sisters looked at the other and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. As the sister turned to look, another kiss on the lips followed. I stood in bewilderment, frozen for a couple seconds but remaining undiscovered, altogether unsure of what to make of the ordeal. I didn't end up saying hello.
On a second occasion, I heard a loud noise outside my place, so I drew the curtain to see what was going on. There the Duruma sisters stood, laughing hysterically about something. As I continued watching, I witnessed a very strange game indeed—one sister was putting the other sister's breasts in different shapes and formations, and after they would laugh uncontrollably at the bulging boob-sculpture they created.
Final story- I have a shared bathing room and toilet. They are clearly labeled “Men” and “Women” although no one in my compound follows those rules except for me. The men's bathing room is farthest left and the men's toilet is just next to it. The women's facilities are connected, and mirror the men's. One day I rushed to the men's stall for an urgent 'long call' and after I entered I heard splashing and talking from the men's bathing room. I recognized the voices to be the two Duruma sisters bathing together. Again, it struck me as odd that sisters in their early twenties could bathe together and be okay with it, but what was more of a challenge was to try to poop silently to hide my presence (and therefore my shame) from my friendly neighbors.
Homosexuality is completely illegal in Kenya. It is a crime punishable by imprisonment, and sometimes mob justice carries out a death sentence. It is almost like it doesn't exist in Kenyan's minds, especially in the rural areas. Men can be seen holding hands in public, or dancing together, and it would never be assumed that they were homosexual. It is actually more culturally appropriate for two men to hold hands than it would be for a man and a women, even if they are married. Anyway, I am not at all saying the sisters are incestuous, on the contrary, their actions are not presumptuous in this culture whatsoever. It is just strange to me that behavior that I think is inappropriate or suggestive in some way can be completely acceptable, and behavior that Kenyans would think as being inappropriate in America (like homosexuality, or wearing a speedo) I can find as normal behavior.
Kenya is mostly professing Christianity, and the cultural and religious opposition to homosexuality is astounding. I don't want to get too deep into my observations on the Kenyan religious atmosphere just yet, but at least from what I understand about Jesus in the Bible, I would say he offered compassion, relentless love, and forgiveness to all people, no matter who.
Perhaps the same type of relentless love the two Duruma sisters show each other.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Lightning Without Thunder
I was late coming from Mombasa, or later than I would have liked. It was 4:30pm as I approached the stop for my matatu, and the last round of matatus toward my home come at 5. Usually they are all full.
As I alighted, I saw one of my matatu's pull in to the stage. My lucky day this time, because I didn't want to walk the 10km with my heavy backpack full of coconuts, books and other spoils from Mombasa. And it looked like it was going to rain. Already the rain pounded hard on the ride over, forming streaked puddles in the dips and valleys of the road. It must also have been raining for some time, because large pools collected in various places and a few Maasai could be seen bathing in the dirty water- though undoubtedly not as dirty as their nomadic skin.
But luck was not with me this time around; as I approached the matatu I realized it was packed full to the brim, still with 7 people waiting to get on. With a long sigh I mentally steeled myself for a long and cold journey home. After glancing at my watch I quickened my pace, it was 4:40pm and the sun sets at 6, with the last bits of light fading not more than a half-hour later. The ominous rain clouds darkened the sky, and I knew I had less light to work with. I hoped to make it home in two hours.
Not 200 meters down the road, the matatu rolled by- the conductor looked at me as if to ask if I wanted a ride, and I shouted, “nitasimama!” or “I will stand!”, hoping there was enough room to save me from the long journey home. The matatu stopped, and I boarded the side, standing on a platform where a child or elderly lady would use to boost them up to the cabin. I felt around for anything I could possibly grab on to, as my heavy backpack threatened to pry me from my grip. In front of me stood the conductor who usually stands if the matatu gets full, and behind me another passenger. It was the second time I stood on the outside of a matatu.
Each jerk and bump on the muddy road assaulted my fallible grip and stung the muscles in my arms. I pulled in closer at times to the car, trying to keep both me and my backpack safe from the overhanging thorn trees off the side of the road. Passengers whose heads knocked into my elbows didn't seem to mind, and each time I glanced back at my fellow standing passenger, he cracked a wide, gap-toothed smile.
During my ride, I noticed the ash-grey sky looming over the hills to my left, and the clouds pouring over the tops like ocean waves breaking on the rocks. The wind blew my hair back and large drops of rain began to fall, landing hard on my face. Through squinting eyes I saw in the distance long streaks of lightning pierce through the sky, illuminating the dark clouds and sending shivers of awe down my spine. The bolts were perfect, picturesque, as if Zeus himself were hurling them from the clouds above. With such vicious and unavailing bolts, I expected booming thunder, but the thunder was muted by the rushing wind in my ears, and further by the screaming children who came running after the matatu, splashing dirt in the shallow puddles behind.
I smiled to myself. It's moments like this that become instant memories, that startle and awaken any sleeping dreams and aspirations. It's moments like this that you drink in your morning coffee when you are 54, and upon recollection the memories dance in your mind and strengthen your resolve.
As I reflected on the moment, with lightning crashing on the horizon and beyond I looked up into the dark sky and offered a silent prayer. "I could not ask for more."
As I alighted, I saw one of my matatu's pull in to the stage. My lucky day this time, because I didn't want to walk the 10km with my heavy backpack full of coconuts, books and other spoils from Mombasa. And it looked like it was going to rain. Already the rain pounded hard on the ride over, forming streaked puddles in the dips and valleys of the road. It must also have been raining for some time, because large pools collected in various places and a few Maasai could be seen bathing in the dirty water- though undoubtedly not as dirty as their nomadic skin.
But luck was not with me this time around; as I approached the matatu I realized it was packed full to the brim, still with 7 people waiting to get on. With a long sigh I mentally steeled myself for a long and cold journey home. After glancing at my watch I quickened my pace, it was 4:40pm and the sun sets at 6, with the last bits of light fading not more than a half-hour later. The ominous rain clouds darkened the sky, and I knew I had less light to work with. I hoped to make it home in two hours.
Not 200 meters down the road, the matatu rolled by- the conductor looked at me as if to ask if I wanted a ride, and I shouted, “nitasimama!” or “I will stand!”, hoping there was enough room to save me from the long journey home. The matatu stopped, and I boarded the side, standing on a platform where a child or elderly lady would use to boost them up to the cabin. I felt around for anything I could possibly grab on to, as my heavy backpack threatened to pry me from my grip. In front of me stood the conductor who usually stands if the matatu gets full, and behind me another passenger. It was the second time I stood on the outside of a matatu.
Each jerk and bump on the muddy road assaulted my fallible grip and stung the muscles in my arms. I pulled in closer at times to the car, trying to keep both me and my backpack safe from the overhanging thorn trees off the side of the road. Passengers whose heads knocked into my elbows didn't seem to mind, and each time I glanced back at my fellow standing passenger, he cracked a wide, gap-toothed smile.
During my ride, I noticed the ash-grey sky looming over the hills to my left, and the clouds pouring over the tops like ocean waves breaking on the rocks. The wind blew my hair back and large drops of rain began to fall, landing hard on my face. Through squinting eyes I saw in the distance long streaks of lightning pierce through the sky, illuminating the dark clouds and sending shivers of awe down my spine. The bolts were perfect, picturesque, as if Zeus himself were hurling them from the clouds above. With such vicious and unavailing bolts, I expected booming thunder, but the thunder was muted by the rushing wind in my ears, and further by the screaming children who came running after the matatu, splashing dirt in the shallow puddles behind.
I smiled to myself. It's moments like this that become instant memories, that startle and awaken any sleeping dreams and aspirations. It's moments like this that you drink in your morning coffee when you are 54, and upon recollection the memories dance in your mind and strengthen your resolve.
As I reflected on the moment, with lightning crashing on the horizon and beyond I looked up into the dark sky and offered a silent prayer. "I could not ask for more."
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
On Love and Harassment
The first time I proposed to my fiancé, I did not have a ring. I also did not assume the conventional kneeling position during my proposition to her. And I had only known her for two hours (i was just that sure). She did not answer me, but instead asked me where the ring was. Marriage isn't something to be taken lightly, you know. And it would have been bad signs if she had said yes so quickly. Just what I would expect from my fiancé.
The second time I proposed to my fiancé, I did have a ring. It was a toe ring; a crude, brass thing that was unconnected at the back (potentially adjustable), and molded into the crest was the “peace” symbol. I was wearing a lime green suit, sandals, and I played “Amazing Grace” on the harmonica as I kneel-ed in front of her. Who could refuse that?
Therefore, I have a fiancé. Her name is Alison and she lives in Paraguay.
As fate would have it, I have come to Kenya and I have fallen in love with a local. After all, who can control the whimsical feelings of a passionate heart? Her name is Maggie, and she is a beautiful Kenyan. She also hates me. And she is two years old.
When I first got to my small rural village, Maggie's mother (who is 24 years old) and I became instant friends, simply because she could speak English. I spent the first few weeks with her as she showed me around the neighboring villages, introduced me to all the people, and made me feel welcome. As we meandered together through dry fields, she would knowingly reach out and caress a tree leaf or a shrub between her index finger and thumb, explaining what type of fruit or food the plant bears or what other uses it has. It felt like I was in the Disney movie Pocahontas.
As a general rule, women are attracted to money. Me being a white person, I am the walking, talking, singing and dancing embodiment of money. Therefore, women here in Kenya are attracted to me. Dora is no exception.
Because cultural norms make it inappropriate for women to confront men with their emotional feelings, Dora has been all but forthcoming in her “subtle hints”. When we spent time walking through the fields, she would say how the other villagers think we are married. And since Maggie turned out a little bit browner as opposed to a dark black complexion, it is as if the baby was the product of a racial mix (i.e. the baby was MINE).
It had become a vicious circle of love. I love Maggie, who in turn loves her mother, and her mother “likes” me, but to go the other way around, Maggie hates me, I do not have feelings for Dora, and Dora tires of Maggie because she cries all the time. I am not going to lie, for a moment or so I considered marrying Dora just so I could keep Maggie. I am not kidding.
Once, Dora asked me why the only women in the 'pornography films' were white. The question took me aback on two levels. First because such a subject would appear on the mind of the rural, conservative Kenyan mother, and second because this rural, conservative Kenyan mother had been exposed to pornography. Dora continued to press the issue, asking me if Kenyans were not as beautiful or desirable as white women because of our their skin. I told her that I thought Kenyans were astoundingly beautiful, and that I didn't think they were less or more so than other cultures. Then I told her that I have a fiancé, and I cannot take another women, and all during this exchange, I couldn't help but think about the movie “The Graduate,” the part where Dustin Hoffman boldly states, “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me.”
From that point on, I decided to claim Alison as my fiancé, producing pictures of me proposing to her (which actually exist) to prove to the community that I am truly engaged. My fiancé has become my means of crowd-control, my harassment prevention method, my protection from the onslaught of willing Kenyan women, or worse—Kenyan mothers that offer their daughters or cousins to me.
So here in my village I am engaged (well, I really am engaged). Every Mama knows I am engaged, and a surprising amount of people remember her name. Every now and then, a Mama would ask me, “So how's Alison?” and then follow up with, “Ah, two years? That is a long time. If I were you, I would not wait for her. Just take a Kenyan wife.”
Two years is a long time, and romance is a big deal – in both Kenyan and American cultures. Luckily for me, romance has been among the last things on my mind. I have been trying to cultivate a different type of love, one that is pervasive and addicting and enduring. The kind of love that inspires compassion and kindness. On the subject of romantic love, someone could give me a soap-box and a megaphone, and I would stand up and speak into it until the batteries ran low (and my trigger finger was sore) but I will spare my readers for now. There is a place for romance, and despite my spoken resistance to it, I am among the most susceptible to its wily charms.
As for Alison, my “Fiancé” is simply in name only. I cannot claim that any feelings are attached from her end. It would be hard to imagine being romantically involved with someone so out-of-reach, so intangible. Yet many other volunteers maintain long-distance romantic relationships, and to them I offer my sincerest regards.
As for me, my romance is confined to my attempts at poetry in my quiet times. This poem was written for no one in particular, but with someone in mind. It goes out to all the long distance relationships that us volunteers subject ourselves to.
Maybe She Waits
Maybe she waits,
she waits for me only.
Maybe I've gone,
I've gone too far away.
Maybe she waits,
She waits patient and lonely.
Maybe I'm wrong
to have asked her to stay.
Maybe she thinks,
She thinks of me only.
But maybe her thoughts
were mine, just for one day.
Maybe when I,
When I come back I'll be lonely.
But maybe her heart-
Not so easy to sway.
But if she waits,
she waits for me only.
When I return
I will hold her and say,
“I'm sorry that I,
That I left you here lonely.
Never again
Will I leave you that way.”
The second time I proposed to my fiancé, I did have a ring. It was a toe ring; a crude, brass thing that was unconnected at the back (potentially adjustable), and molded into the crest was the “peace” symbol. I was wearing a lime green suit, sandals, and I played “Amazing Grace” on the harmonica as I kneel-ed in front of her. Who could refuse that?
Therefore, I have a fiancé. Her name is Alison and she lives in Paraguay.
As fate would have it, I have come to Kenya and I have fallen in love with a local. After all, who can control the whimsical feelings of a passionate heart? Her name is Maggie, and she is a beautiful Kenyan. She also hates me. And she is two years old.
When I first got to my small rural village, Maggie's mother (who is 24 years old) and I became instant friends, simply because she could speak English. I spent the first few weeks with her as she showed me around the neighboring villages, introduced me to all the people, and made me feel welcome. As we meandered together through dry fields, she would knowingly reach out and caress a tree leaf or a shrub between her index finger and thumb, explaining what type of fruit or food the plant bears or what other uses it has. It felt like I was in the Disney movie Pocahontas.
As a general rule, women are attracted to money. Me being a white person, I am the walking, talking, singing and dancing embodiment of money. Therefore, women here in Kenya are attracted to me. Dora is no exception.
Because cultural norms make it inappropriate for women to confront men with their emotional feelings, Dora has been all but forthcoming in her “subtle hints”. When we spent time walking through the fields, she would say how the other villagers think we are married. And since Maggie turned out a little bit browner as opposed to a dark black complexion, it is as if the baby was the product of a racial mix (i.e. the baby was MINE).
It had become a vicious circle of love. I love Maggie, who in turn loves her mother, and her mother “likes” me, but to go the other way around, Maggie hates me, I do not have feelings for Dora, and Dora tires of Maggie because she cries all the time. I am not going to lie, for a moment or so I considered marrying Dora just so I could keep Maggie. I am not kidding.
Once, Dora asked me why the only women in the 'pornography films' were white. The question took me aback on two levels. First because such a subject would appear on the mind of the rural, conservative Kenyan mother, and second because this rural, conservative Kenyan mother had been exposed to pornography. Dora continued to press the issue, asking me if Kenyans were not as beautiful or desirable as white women because of our their skin. I told her that I thought Kenyans were astoundingly beautiful, and that I didn't think they were less or more so than other cultures. Then I told her that I have a fiancé, and I cannot take another women, and all during this exchange, I couldn't help but think about the movie “The Graduate,” the part where Dustin Hoffman boldly states, “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me.”
From that point on, I decided to claim Alison as my fiancé, producing pictures of me proposing to her (which actually exist) to prove to the community that I am truly engaged. My fiancé has become my means of crowd-control, my harassment prevention method, my protection from the onslaught of willing Kenyan women, or worse—Kenyan mothers that offer their daughters or cousins to me.
So here in my village I am engaged (well, I really am engaged). Every Mama knows I am engaged, and a surprising amount of people remember her name. Every now and then, a Mama would ask me, “So how's Alison?” and then follow up with, “Ah, two years? That is a long time. If I were you, I would not wait for her. Just take a Kenyan wife.”
Two years is a long time, and romance is a big deal – in both Kenyan and American cultures. Luckily for me, romance has been among the last things on my mind. I have been trying to cultivate a different type of love, one that is pervasive and addicting and enduring. The kind of love that inspires compassion and kindness. On the subject of romantic love, someone could give me a soap-box and a megaphone, and I would stand up and speak into it until the batteries ran low (and my trigger finger was sore) but I will spare my readers for now. There is a place for romance, and despite my spoken resistance to it, I am among the most susceptible to its wily charms.
As for Alison, my “Fiancé” is simply in name only. I cannot claim that any feelings are attached from her end. It would be hard to imagine being romantically involved with someone so out-of-reach, so intangible. Yet many other volunteers maintain long-distance romantic relationships, and to them I offer my sincerest regards.
As for me, my romance is confined to my attempts at poetry in my quiet times. This poem was written for no one in particular, but with someone in mind. It goes out to all the long distance relationships that us volunteers subject ourselves to.
Maybe She Waits
Maybe she waits,
she waits for me only.
Maybe I've gone,
I've gone too far away.
Maybe she waits,
She waits patient and lonely.
Maybe I'm wrong
to have asked her to stay.
Maybe she thinks,
She thinks of me only.
But maybe her thoughts
were mine, just for one day.
Maybe when I,
When I come back I'll be lonely.
But maybe her heart-
Not so easy to sway.
But if she waits,
she waits for me only.
When I return
I will hold her and say,
“I'm sorry that I,
That I left you here lonely.
Never again
Will I leave you that way.”
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