(Written by Lorenzo Nava, PCV)
It was just a little under two years ago that I received a letter in the mail saying, “Hey, you wanna go to Kenya for 2 years or what?” Excitement ensued followed quickly by the sentiment “Well, what am I supposed to bring?” So I made wagers with fate on what to pack, did my best to predict what I would and wouldn’t need, and have spent a good part of my time here learning from my limitations in foresight. It’s been about two years now and according to my calculations a new group of would be volunteers is about to receive their invitation letter in the next few months, and my hope is that a few of them will stumble across this blog post. Now for those of you future volunteers who are reading this, I’m sure there are all kinds of evidence based guidelines and scientific formulas devised to help a person pack for two years of Peace Corps service, but here’s a couple of pointers from myself and another volunteer living where you’re about to go. For everyone else, I’m not saying you can’t read on, but if you have anything else you’d rather be doing I won’t be offended if you choose to devote your time elsewhere.
Bring It:
Pens – You never truly appreciate what you have until it’s gone and its replacement leaves your hands, clothes, and underwear in a sticky, inky mess. The average life span of a local pen here is approximately 30 days before the self-destruct mechanism is triggered and the writing device shatters mid-stroke, inexplicably releases its entire bolus of ink, or simply stops writing for no reason whatsoever. It seems simple enough, but treat yourself to an enjoyable writing experience for the next 2 years by tossing a few extra pens in your bag and don’t give them away.
Computer – Unless you have a really good reason for being adamantly opposed to bringing anything electronic you should go ahead and just bring a laptop. In addition to giving you the ability to send emails in a timely fashion it will serve as a useful tool giving you more versatility in the work you perform. Netbooks are great for their portability and low power consumption. Most volunteers have reasonable access to electricity and for those who don’t a solar setup capable of charging a computer is more affordable and readily available here than you might think. A good sized external hard drive (think in the terabyte range as these things can fill up quick) for pictures, music, and other files is recommended as you should back up EVERYTHING. While you can find a decent selection of gadgets, devices, and technological what-nots here in Kenya you’re going to pay a premium for such luxuries so you’re best off bringing anything plugin-able from home.
Games – We recommend Bananagrams.
Musical Instruments – Studies have shown that you are used to playing a musical instrument back home you are guaranteed to miss it within a month of arriving without it if you are foolish enough to leave it behind. Additionally, music is a great way to charm your way into the heart of anyone you meet here. There is a limited availability of quality instruments so you are best off bringing something from the US (ideally second hand if losing your instrument would be like losing a body part). Don’t forget strings, reeds, picks, harmonica wax, or any of the other necessary accessories.
Funny Shaped Sports Equipment – Frisbees, footballs, baseballs, gloves, speedos, pucks, hockey sticks, badminton gear, and lawn croquet sets. If you have an interest in any sport other than rugby, volley ball, or soccer (ahem…proper football) and you are interested in sharing that interest with the community you’re living in for the next 2 years then you had better plan ahead unless you’re prepared to do some serious improvising.
Maybe:
Toothpaste – Along with the worldwide distribution of refined sugar came the worldwide dissemination of most dental hygiene products. So unless you have a special loyalty to a brand like Tom’s of Maine don’t waste the space packing a two year supply of anything other than waxed floss.
Deodorant, Shampoo, Petroleum Jelly, Pomade, etc. – You’re not spending the next 2 years in an underwater research facility cut off from any sort of supply line. Follow the toothpaste rule: Unless you have some special brand loyalty save yourself the time and trouble and just go to the store when you get here
Red Cross Wind-Up Flashlight – Guaranteed to be one of the most useful items you own until the wind-up handle snaps off in your hand with no warning (seems to happen for most volunteers around month 6) rendering the thing useless. If you’re going to bring one of these handy devices consider throwing a tiny screwdriver in your bag as well so you can strip it for parts when the time comes.
Batteries/Things That Use Batteries – Aside from being heavy, available in nearly every village in the country (you’ll feel pretty foolish walking through the battery aisle in Kenya after carrying 20 pounds of Duracells through customs), and prone to ooze acid into all the places you really don’t want acid, there are exactly 0 environmentally friendly ways to dispose of old batteries here. If you’re planning on bringing a head lamp or something battery operated the best course of action would probably be to pack some rechargeable batteries (not those cute, underperforming USB chargable batteries) and a wall charger.
Wall Socket Adapters – US price: $20, Kenya Price: $1-2. Plan accordingly.
Quirky Cookware - Most culinary instruments from whisks and mashers to non-stick skillets and stainless steel pressure cookers are available, but those who need to flip their pancakes “just the right way” might consider bringing their own. If you are in love with your spatula, or have a very specific potato peeler, I might recommend bringing it.
Don’t Bother:
Solio – Light weight and light duty, this is probably a useful device if you’re backpacking through the Amazon, but not so much here. The amount of babysitting and repositioning required to get a decent charge out of this ting during the non-rainy season alone make it somewhat unpractical, while leaving the device unattended during the rainy season is a sure way to drown your investment. Chances are you’ll be somewhere within reasonable proximity to power and in the outside chance that you aren’t, you’d be better off using the money you would have spent on this thing to purchase something cheaper, weather proof, and more versatile here in Kenya.
Water Purification Anything – Let’s face it, aside from the days spent between bathing and the sometime redundant menus this isn’t a camping trip. There are plenty of fast, cheap, and effective water purification methods available here in country that make more sense than bringing something from overseas. As cool and light saberesque as other water purification methods may be, you’ll probably only be wasting money and space by bringing them.
Clothes – Anything white. The purpose of doing laundry here, at least for a busy volunteer isn’t so much to get things clean as to get them “less dirty”. Get a head start on tough stains by not bringing anything lighter than “smokestack gray” or the Crayola color “ashtray”. Also bear in mind that the days of loin clothes and banana leaves are over. Thanks to well off do-gooders elsewhere you’ll be able to get top-quality name brand stuff that you couldn’t afford back home for rock bottom prices in the second hand markets here, so don’t bother packing like you’ll never see clothes again (unless of course you’re a big and tall size and don’t want to tempt fate). Also, for people who go through underpants like a college athlete through a buffet you might bring a little extra of a comfortable style. It’s not that you can’t find bras and knickers here, but 2 years can be a long time to deal with an awkward fit in those sensitive places.
Lesson of the Day:
The big thing to remember is not to bring too much. Aside from a few essentials which may be hard to come by here you can get everything you need and more for a reasonable price while supporting local merchants and all that stuff. So relax and look forward to it, the P word is nothing to be afraid of.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Artificial Lights
It is pitch black outside. From the far western side of the sky, brilliant flashes of light intermittently sever the darkness. The flashes of lightning are deep in the distance, so deep that the expected thunder gets muffled and lost against the hills and the trees in its futile attempts to reach me. Yet, despite their distance, the flashes are so distinct they illuminate the entirety of the heavens.
The sight is breathtaking. I run outside with my camera, hoping to capture the clear bolts of lightning on film. With the dim light of my cell phone I take careful steps outside of my compound, where I could stand and see the beautiful spectacle unobstructed. But as I reach the front of my compound I am blinded by the security light hanging from the underside of the roof. The single light bulb sheds so much light it dampens the brilliance of the distant lightning and mutes the twinkling stars above. Frustrated, I search the walls around the light for a switch to put it off. Defeated, I move further in toward the darkness and toward the road so as to get the best view I can.
I smile with awe as I see the lightning bolts arch and twist, some stretching their unrestrained energy all the way to the ground below. The bolts seem to linger for more than just moments, or perhaps it is their remnants that linger as negatives in my corneas. With each bolt, I can see the sharp outline of a dark, ominous cloud presumably where the bolts are borne. I thought to myself that nothing can be more sublime, nothing more natural and paradoxically peaceful, aside from the single glowing light bulb some distance behind me.
He comes up to me stumbling. It is only 9:30pm, but he has had enough to drink and is on his way home as he sees me standing there. “Ahhh Mwadime,” he greets me with slurred words in my local name.
“Look!” I exclaim in Swahili and point earnestly toward the horizon, shedding my excitement on him. He turns slowly and asks me, “What?” He is not in the least amused by the lightning in the distance; to him its natural display of power is nothing of consequence.
“The lightning. It is very good, isn't it?" I replied.
“What? That?” He looks and points at the horizon. “Pffffff. That?” he repeats, his words reeking of alcohol as they reach me. Finally he says, “That's not lightning. That is.”
He points behind me, to the single light bulb hanging from the outside of my house.
“That.” He repeats, his arm locked straight with a single pointed finger fixed at the end.
His drunken insight offends me at first. It seems shameful to claim something like a light bulb more substantial than an awesome display of lightning on the horizon. And furthermore, that same light bulb that I found bothersome and tried so desperately to extinguish he finds more worthy of attention. But as I continue reflecting on his words, I consider how commonplace light bulbs are to me, just as lightning is to him. I consider that this village may have only had electricity wired in a decade ago, and still only the ones in proximity, or the ones wealthy enough are able to enjoy what electricity brings. Never had I smelled the burning of kerosene as I study by its light, or had to leave my cell phone at a shop all day to have it charged for me. I think back and realize that I have never known a life without electricity. Save for a few camping trips, I had never been without electricity for more than the rare two hour black-out would allow.
He stumbles off in the darkness, leaving me alone to watch the bolts traverse the pitch black sky. As he leaves he does not take a single look on the horizon; the magnificent thunderstorm remains entirely ignored as he hurries home to undoubtedly turn on his television. Perhaps WWE wrestling is on.
The sight is breathtaking. I run outside with my camera, hoping to capture the clear bolts of lightning on film. With the dim light of my cell phone I take careful steps outside of my compound, where I could stand and see the beautiful spectacle unobstructed. But as I reach the front of my compound I am blinded by the security light hanging from the underside of the roof. The single light bulb sheds so much light it dampens the brilliance of the distant lightning and mutes the twinkling stars above. Frustrated, I search the walls around the light for a switch to put it off. Defeated, I move further in toward the darkness and toward the road so as to get the best view I can.
I smile with awe as I see the lightning bolts arch and twist, some stretching their unrestrained energy all the way to the ground below. The bolts seem to linger for more than just moments, or perhaps it is their remnants that linger as negatives in my corneas. With each bolt, I can see the sharp outline of a dark, ominous cloud presumably where the bolts are borne. I thought to myself that nothing can be more sublime, nothing more natural and paradoxically peaceful, aside from the single glowing light bulb some distance behind me.
He comes up to me stumbling. It is only 9:30pm, but he has had enough to drink and is on his way home as he sees me standing there. “Ahhh Mwadime,” he greets me with slurred words in my local name.
“Look!” I exclaim in Swahili and point earnestly toward the horizon, shedding my excitement on him. He turns slowly and asks me, “What?” He is not in the least amused by the lightning in the distance; to him its natural display of power is nothing of consequence.
“The lightning. It is very good, isn't it?" I replied.
“What? That?” He looks and points at the horizon. “Pffffff. That?” he repeats, his words reeking of alcohol as they reach me. Finally he says, “That's not lightning. That is.”
He points behind me, to the single light bulb hanging from the outside of my house.
“That.” He repeats, his arm locked straight with a single pointed finger fixed at the end.
His drunken insight offends me at first. It seems shameful to claim something like a light bulb more substantial than an awesome display of lightning on the horizon. And furthermore, that same light bulb that I found bothersome and tried so desperately to extinguish he finds more worthy of attention. But as I continue reflecting on his words, I consider how commonplace light bulbs are to me, just as lightning is to him. I consider that this village may have only had electricity wired in a decade ago, and still only the ones in proximity, or the ones wealthy enough are able to enjoy what electricity brings. Never had I smelled the burning of kerosene as I study by its light, or had to leave my cell phone at a shop all day to have it charged for me. I think back and realize that I have never known a life without electricity. Save for a few camping trips, I had never been without electricity for more than the rare two hour black-out would allow.
He stumbles off in the darkness, leaving me alone to watch the bolts traverse the pitch black sky. As he leaves he does not take a single look on the horizon; the magnificent thunderstorm remains entirely ignored as he hurries home to undoubtedly turn on his television. Perhaps WWE wrestling is on.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Funny Accents
All Americans, although reluctantly, agree that the British accent is better in nearly every way. A British person who comes to the States is generally lauded for his cutting wit and inexhaustible charm, and a Brit will always have the upper hand on an American in wooing the ladies, despite how crooked his teeth may be. We may joke at how they call a “flashlight” a “torch” and the funny way they say “herb” by distinctly pronouncing the “h”, but there is no doubt the American accent is inferior.
Kenya was a British colony for a long time, and has therefore been subjected to the British way of speaking. But because English tends to be taught as a third language to many Kenyans, it becomes incorrigibly altered and twisted in the most interesting ways.
A few examples of this interesting fusion: In Mombasa there is a place called “Marikiti” pronounced “Mar-ee-key-tee.” It is a place where many people come to sell their produce and their goods. Only later did I find out that the name is actually supposed to be “Market” but it was just spoken in a Swahili accent, and the name stuck. As another example, I was looking over the attendance list of a woman's group, where each woman was required to write their name and sign. Some of these women have not had much schooling, and one particular lady named “Caroline” wrote her name as “Rarolini” or “Ra-row-lee-nee.” Because people pronounce her name “Rarolini,” she wrote her name as she thought it to be spelled. It sounded more like a type of pasta than a name, and I couldn't help but think it was the cutest thing ever.
Certain tribal languages in Kenya often mix and match the “L” and the “R” sounds. Kikuyu people especially have a difficult time saying words like “Large Ladders” or “Parallelogram”. But my favorite is how people call semi-trucks “Rollies.” The British term for semi's is “lorries,” but because of this L-R confusion, it comes out perhaps more appropriately as "rollies" - Those semi's do have lots of wheels.
But sometimes this dependence on phonetics becomes a barrier to communication.
I walked up to the taxi driver and I asked him in Swahili to take me to the “Leopard Lodge,” which I said in English. He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was saying. I was amazed to think he did not know of the place. Taxi drivers usually have an incredible working knowledge of their area, and I had just seen a massive sign with the “Leopard Lodge” written on it, so the place was definitely not obscure. I repeated myself, speaking very slowly this time. Still, he looked at me puzzlingly, trying to mimic the name I was saying. At last I just said the Swahili word for “Leopard” and he then looks at me with an eased expression, “Ohhhh,” he breathed. “You want the Lay-oh-pard Lodge.” I chuckled as I heard him pronounce it. I had forgotten that the Kenyan way of saying English words is to pronounce every single letter, so he could not at all make out the way I was saying it: “lep-rrd.”
The other day I asked my counterpart if she was going to watch the meteor shower at night these coming nights. It was supposed to be one of the biggest showers of the year, and it was to be visible in the southern hemisphere. My counterpart is very fluent in English, yet she still looked at me completely confused. “What am I going to look out for tonight?” she asked worriedly.
“The meteor shower!” I said again.
“What?”
“Meteor. Shower.”
“The meat, what?” She repeated, exasperated.
“Do you know what meteor is? Here let me write it down.”
I wrote it down. M-E-T-E-O-R. S-H-O...
“Ooohh. May-tay-or!” She exclaimed, as she saw the first word completely written.
“Ah, yes. May-tay-or. Sorry!” I laughed again to myself. The way we Americans pronounce meteor is more like, “meet-ear” so it is no wonder others cannot understand us.
Some other words that are unintelligible if pronounced in an American accent are: tortoise (tore-toy-see, buffalo (boo-fallow), ballet (bah-let), and any word that ends with a hard “R”: gutter, robber, roar (gut-ah, row-bah, row-ah).
We may all agree that the Spanish accent is passionate and fierce, the French accent is sexy and lyrical, and the Italian accent fantastic. But there is no other accent in the world as phonetically dependent as the Kenyan English accent. And it still beats the American accent hands down.
Kenya was a British colony for a long time, and has therefore been subjected to the British way of speaking. But because English tends to be taught as a third language to many Kenyans, it becomes incorrigibly altered and twisted in the most interesting ways.
A few examples of this interesting fusion: In Mombasa there is a place called “Marikiti” pronounced “Mar-ee-key-tee.” It is a place where many people come to sell their produce and their goods. Only later did I find out that the name is actually supposed to be “Market” but it was just spoken in a Swahili accent, and the name stuck. As another example, I was looking over the attendance list of a woman's group, where each woman was required to write their name and sign. Some of these women have not had much schooling, and one particular lady named “Caroline” wrote her name as “Rarolini” or “Ra-row-lee-nee.” Because people pronounce her name “Rarolini,” she wrote her name as she thought it to be spelled. It sounded more like a type of pasta than a name, and I couldn't help but think it was the cutest thing ever.
Certain tribal languages in Kenya often mix and match the “L” and the “R” sounds. Kikuyu people especially have a difficult time saying words like “Large Ladders” or “Parallelogram”. But my favorite is how people call semi-trucks “Rollies.” The British term for semi's is “lorries,” but because of this L-R confusion, it comes out perhaps more appropriately as "rollies" - Those semi's do have lots of wheels.
But sometimes this dependence on phonetics becomes a barrier to communication.
I walked up to the taxi driver and I asked him in Swahili to take me to the “Leopard Lodge,” which I said in English. He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was saying. I was amazed to think he did not know of the place. Taxi drivers usually have an incredible working knowledge of their area, and I had just seen a massive sign with the “Leopard Lodge” written on it, so the place was definitely not obscure. I repeated myself, speaking very slowly this time. Still, he looked at me puzzlingly, trying to mimic the name I was saying. At last I just said the Swahili word for “Leopard” and he then looks at me with an eased expression, “Ohhhh,” he breathed. “You want the Lay-oh-pard Lodge.” I chuckled as I heard him pronounce it. I had forgotten that the Kenyan way of saying English words is to pronounce every single letter, so he could not at all make out the way I was saying it: “lep-rrd.”
The other day I asked my counterpart if she was going to watch the meteor shower at night these coming nights. It was supposed to be one of the biggest showers of the year, and it was to be visible in the southern hemisphere. My counterpart is very fluent in English, yet she still looked at me completely confused. “What am I going to look out for tonight?” she asked worriedly.
“The meteor shower!” I said again.
“What?”
“Meteor. Shower.”
“The meat, what?” She repeated, exasperated.
“Do you know what meteor is? Here let me write it down.”
I wrote it down. M-E-T-E-O-R. S-H-O...
“Ooohh. May-tay-or!” She exclaimed, as she saw the first word completely written.
“Ah, yes. May-tay-or. Sorry!” I laughed again to myself. The way we Americans pronounce meteor is more like, “meet-ear” so it is no wonder others cannot understand us.
Some other words that are unintelligible if pronounced in an American accent are: tortoise (tore-toy-see, buffalo (boo-fallow), ballet (bah-let), and any word that ends with a hard “R”: gutter, robber, roar (gut-ah, row-bah, row-ah).
We may all agree that the Spanish accent is passionate and fierce, the French accent is sexy and lyrical, and the Italian accent fantastic. But there is no other accent in the world as phonetically dependent as the Kenyan English accent. And it still beats the American accent hands down.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
The Silence Screams
She is 14 years old. A school girl. Her 20-liter jerry-can hangs awkwardly from her back. It is too late to fetch water; the road is hard to see and the wind howls furiously. She walks briskly, staggering under the weight of the water she carries back to her house. The sun has set, the last traces of light momentarily linger on the hills and the horizon. Dusk yields itself to darkness as she trudges home. This night in particular is especially dark, as if evil itself were casting its shadow over the village and infecting the hearts of the villagers with its sinister intentions. Perhaps it was.
He creeps up silently, and without warning grabs her. His large hand holds fast to her thin arms, his rough skin feels violent against hers. His other hand forcefully muffles her surprised and horrified screams. Abrasive. Suffocating. He carries her to a nearby shack, pins her to the ground and lifts her skirt. She struggles in vain, feeling suddenly vulnerable and completely exposed. One minute passes. Two minutes. Each minute longer than the last. The darkness conceals his face, saving her from witnessing his lips quiver with contorted pleasure from each forceful, unsolicited thrust, In just minutes he finishes, fixes his trousers and disappears into the darkness. She lays there shaking, gasping for breath.
Her feelings twist and wrench inside her. Dutifully, she returns home with her jerry-can full of water, unsure of how to feel; unsure if she should scream, or shout, or swear-- unsure if she should cry. As she looks into her mother's weary eyes, her lips tremble as if longing to say, “Mother, I was raped.” but the mere thought of those words felt suddenly so shameful, so absurd. She doesn't sleep at all this night, she just lies awake shaking, recounting again and again how it happened. Thinking how she ought to have covered her legs more, worn more conservative clothing. Thinking how she should not have been walking so slowly, how her laziness was to blame. Perhaps it was her fault.
Her eyes are empty now. It is innocence that causes the spark and vibrancy in young souls; it is innocence that burgeons the wonder and excitement just to be alive. But hers are empty. Inside them only silence. He took it all from her. He stole from her the very things she had not yet known were sacred – her innocence, her dignity, her confidence, her future.
But this girl is not the only victim. Another girl, the youngest of four daughters. Her body has just begun to show the signs of woman-hood. Her three older sisters have already been victim to their very own father's lust. Now, he is after her. Her mother knows, and sternly instructs the sisters to keep family matters private. Should word get out to others in the area about the father's behavior, it will be hell to pay for them all. “Don't be with Father alone,” one of her older sisters advise. She knows her inevitable fate, that soon she will be raped by her father. But she's not sure she wants to be. Frightened, suffocating – in her own home she moves about like a thief in the night. Her father, the very person who represents protection and security for young daughters, represents for her the most frightening figure in her life.
Still another. She was three years old. Grandfather would place her on his lap, and while doing so, he would lift up his shuka and insert himself subtly into her. Her shrill screams were dismissed as the usual whine of a child. Nobody knew. Nobody understood why she would cry when they told her to go to Grampa. She was a three-year old without her virginity. Those memories seared into her mind, traumatizing her from childhood through adolescence. She bore her burden in silence.
The stories are innumerable.
With all these girls and women, the echoes of their pain linger in contrived laughter, and memories from the past stalk them like their own shadows. The fear of being shamed, the judgment from their families and peers, the view that they are no longer pure – too many reasons to keep from speaking out and opening up to others. They suffer alone with a burden that is too heavy for one person to bear.
Their silence is suffocating.
90 of 100 cases of rape are not reported. 90% of the time rapists in Kenya go free from their crime. In the goodness of all our consciences, we scream for justice. It is difficult to think of a single act more evil than rape and incest, how in just minutes rapists can take away the entire future of their victims.
My heart cries for all the girls, and it burns angrily for those who make these girls subject to their sick lust. One does not understand the sheer gravity of rape until one becomes its victim. And in these victims' eyes is a longing for help, a cry to just be understood. In their eyes they are searching furiously for normalcy, for refuge.
In their eyes, the silence screams.
He creeps up silently, and without warning grabs her. His large hand holds fast to her thin arms, his rough skin feels violent against hers. His other hand forcefully muffles her surprised and horrified screams. Abrasive. Suffocating. He carries her to a nearby shack, pins her to the ground and lifts her skirt. She struggles in vain, feeling suddenly vulnerable and completely exposed. One minute passes. Two minutes. Each minute longer than the last. The darkness conceals his face, saving her from witnessing his lips quiver with contorted pleasure from each forceful, unsolicited thrust, In just minutes he finishes, fixes his trousers and disappears into the darkness. She lays there shaking, gasping for breath.
Her feelings twist and wrench inside her. Dutifully, she returns home with her jerry-can full of water, unsure of how to feel; unsure if she should scream, or shout, or swear-- unsure if she should cry. As she looks into her mother's weary eyes, her lips tremble as if longing to say, “Mother, I was raped.” but the mere thought of those words felt suddenly so shameful, so absurd. She doesn't sleep at all this night, she just lies awake shaking, recounting again and again how it happened. Thinking how she ought to have covered her legs more, worn more conservative clothing. Thinking how she should not have been walking so slowly, how her laziness was to blame. Perhaps it was her fault.
Her eyes are empty now. It is innocence that causes the spark and vibrancy in young souls; it is innocence that burgeons the wonder and excitement just to be alive. But hers are empty. Inside them only silence. He took it all from her. He stole from her the very things she had not yet known were sacred – her innocence, her dignity, her confidence, her future.
But this girl is not the only victim. Another girl, the youngest of four daughters. Her body has just begun to show the signs of woman-hood. Her three older sisters have already been victim to their very own father's lust. Now, he is after her. Her mother knows, and sternly instructs the sisters to keep family matters private. Should word get out to others in the area about the father's behavior, it will be hell to pay for them all. “Don't be with Father alone,” one of her older sisters advise. She knows her inevitable fate, that soon she will be raped by her father. But she's not sure she wants to be. Frightened, suffocating – in her own home she moves about like a thief in the night. Her father, the very person who represents protection and security for young daughters, represents for her the most frightening figure in her life.
Still another. She was three years old. Grandfather would place her on his lap, and while doing so, he would lift up his shuka and insert himself subtly into her. Her shrill screams were dismissed as the usual whine of a child. Nobody knew. Nobody understood why she would cry when they told her to go to Grampa. She was a three-year old without her virginity. Those memories seared into her mind, traumatizing her from childhood through adolescence. She bore her burden in silence.
The stories are innumerable.
With all these girls and women, the echoes of their pain linger in contrived laughter, and memories from the past stalk them like their own shadows. The fear of being shamed, the judgment from their families and peers, the view that they are no longer pure – too many reasons to keep from speaking out and opening up to others. They suffer alone with a burden that is too heavy for one person to bear.
Their silence is suffocating.
90 of 100 cases of rape are not reported. 90% of the time rapists in Kenya go free from their crime. In the goodness of all our consciences, we scream for justice. It is difficult to think of a single act more evil than rape and incest, how in just minutes rapists can take away the entire future of their victims.
My heart cries for all the girls, and it burns angrily for those who make these girls subject to their sick lust. One does not understand the sheer gravity of rape until one becomes its victim. And in these victims' eyes is a longing for help, a cry to just be understood. In their eyes they are searching furiously for normalcy, for refuge.
In their eyes, the silence screams.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Duke of Titles
During some swimming competitions, swimmers may be asked for a “bio” or “history of accomplishments” so they can be read as the swimmer's name is announced. Perhaps if someone was National Champion in a certain swimming race, it would be a perfect title to jot down on the bio. Being a swimmer, I also turned in my fair share of bios, and one of my favorite things to do was to write interesting (yet true) facts about myself which have nothing really related to swimming. For example: Ranked 1st on the Cal Men's Swim team in table tennis, or 2nd place in the county spelling bee competitions in the Second Grade.
Now that I have been in Kenya for over a year, I have broadened my repertoire of skills. Here is a list of titles I can now claim upon myself, surely many of them will be very handy on a resume.
The Dung Decipherer. Whether it be a cow, goat, chicken, elephant, camel, buffalo, monkey, dog, or human, either by size or by shape and texture I have the ability to tell which animal has taken a poo. I can even give a list of uses for many of the dungs I come across.
The Green Thumb: Even without much water, my small backyard garden is showing healthy, consistent growth of tomato and kale plants. Just being among the growing vegetables gives me a sense of accomplishment, and the first time I picked and prepared vegetables for a meal entirely from my garden, I felt more proud of myself than anyone rightfully should.
The Drip Irrigator. The benefits a farmer has by implementing a drip irrigation system are substantial: less water use, better crops, preservation of the soil. The biggest negative aspect, especially for poorer farmers, is the high costs involved. One way to get around these high costs is to assemble one yourself. And I have done that. Just a bucket, a ½ inch rubber hose, a needle, a lighter, and a few plastic plugs will water 80 crops with less than $20. Now if only there was some water to put in to the bucket...
The Charcoal Maker. A very handy trick for all the times the charcoal runs out at a barbecue. With just a 200 liter metal drum, any solid biomass, and 3 hours, some fresh charcoal will be ready for use.
The Iron Stomach. When we first arrived in Kenya, the medical team warned us never to go without treating the water and always encouraged us to soak vegetables for at least 20 minutes in chlorinated water if they are to be eaten raw. After one year and some months here, I eat raw fruits and vegetables sometimes without even rinsing them, even straight from the garden. Many people I know observe the “5-second rule” where any piece of food, if dropped on the floor, is still edible if recovered within five seconds. But I dare to extend my rule...to a few days. I feel like I could drink from a dirty puddle and come away unaffected.
The Masaai Bead Weaver. Recently, a fellow volunteer taught me how to weave bead bracelets like a Maasai, and now I am teaching anyone in my village who wants to know how to do it. I was teaching one specific group of former sex workers how to make these beads, and among their group was a Maasai woman. I grinned at the irony of teaching a Maasai the very skill they are famous for – especially because I represent the demographic that purchases these beads at extraordinary prices.
The Water Harvester: Perhaps this is more of an unhealthy complex now, but any drop of rainfall from my roof puts me all hands on deck trying to save that water as if it were my very child falling to her death. Once, it started raining when I was at work. I looked outside and saw the dark clouds extending as far as I could see, so I assumed it was raining ten kilometers down the road where I lived. I instantly dropped everything I was doing, saddled up on my bicycle and furiously pedaled home so I could put my buckets, basins, and pots out under my roof. I don't think I ever cycled home so quickly, and though both my backpack and I were thoroughly soaked, it was worth it.
The Sound Sleeper: One year has thankfully granted me immunity to the morning rooster crow. I know other volunteers live near more difficult animals (donkeys in the morning could substitute large church bells), but I soundly catch my Z's until my body naturally wakes me up – at 7:30am.
It's too bad I don't have another opportunity at those swimming bios. I would have quite a few more titles to put down.
Now that I have been in Kenya for over a year, I have broadened my repertoire of skills. Here is a list of titles I can now claim upon myself, surely many of them will be very handy on a resume.
The Dung Decipherer. Whether it be a cow, goat, chicken, elephant, camel, buffalo, monkey, dog, or human, either by size or by shape and texture I have the ability to tell which animal has taken a poo. I can even give a list of uses for many of the dungs I come across.
The Green Thumb: Even without much water, my small backyard garden is showing healthy, consistent growth of tomato and kale plants. Just being among the growing vegetables gives me a sense of accomplishment, and the first time I picked and prepared vegetables for a meal entirely from my garden, I felt more proud of myself than anyone rightfully should.
The Drip Irrigator. The benefits a farmer has by implementing a drip irrigation system are substantial: less water use, better crops, preservation of the soil. The biggest negative aspect, especially for poorer farmers, is the high costs involved. One way to get around these high costs is to assemble one yourself. And I have done that. Just a bucket, a ½ inch rubber hose, a needle, a lighter, and a few plastic plugs will water 80 crops with less than $20. Now if only there was some water to put in to the bucket...
The Charcoal Maker. A very handy trick for all the times the charcoal runs out at a barbecue. With just a 200 liter metal drum, any solid biomass, and 3 hours, some fresh charcoal will be ready for use.
The Iron Stomach. When we first arrived in Kenya, the medical team warned us never to go without treating the water and always encouraged us to soak vegetables for at least 20 minutes in chlorinated water if they are to be eaten raw. After one year and some months here, I eat raw fruits and vegetables sometimes without even rinsing them, even straight from the garden. Many people I know observe the “5-second rule” where any piece of food, if dropped on the floor, is still edible if recovered within five seconds. But I dare to extend my rule...to a few days. I feel like I could drink from a dirty puddle and come away unaffected.
The Masaai Bead Weaver. Recently, a fellow volunteer taught me how to weave bead bracelets like a Maasai, and now I am teaching anyone in my village who wants to know how to do it. I was teaching one specific group of former sex workers how to make these beads, and among their group was a Maasai woman. I grinned at the irony of teaching a Maasai the very skill they are famous for – especially because I represent the demographic that purchases these beads at extraordinary prices.
The Water Harvester: Perhaps this is more of an unhealthy complex now, but any drop of rainfall from my roof puts me all hands on deck trying to save that water as if it were my very child falling to her death. Once, it started raining when I was at work. I looked outside and saw the dark clouds extending as far as I could see, so I assumed it was raining ten kilometers down the road where I lived. I instantly dropped everything I was doing, saddled up on my bicycle and furiously pedaled home so I could put my buckets, basins, and pots out under my roof. I don't think I ever cycled home so quickly, and though both my backpack and I were thoroughly soaked, it was worth it.
The Sound Sleeper: One year has thankfully granted me immunity to the morning rooster crow. I know other volunteers live near more difficult animals (donkeys in the morning could substitute large church bells), but I soundly catch my Z's until my body naturally wakes me up – at 7:30am.
It's too bad I don't have another opportunity at those swimming bios. I would have quite a few more titles to put down.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Just Pictures (Part 2)
During the rainy season, sometimes the roads get a bit muddy for the public transportation system. As we climbed up a hill, twice we all had to get out and help push the matatu forward. Although not depicted in this picture, it was interesting watching big, well dressed mamas pushing the vehicle through the mud.
It is a bicycle pump.
A very old grandmother without teeth building a grass-thatched roof for a small hut. Her small cell-phone pouch she wears around her neck has the words "Jesus Loves You" written on it. I love this lady.
During a trash clean up project, I had the kids make art shapes out of bottle caps. Displayed here are two students proudly showing their bottle-cap elephant.
In the background of this photo are rare African Violets. Our tour guide informed us that this rare spot up in the Taita Hills is the only place in the world these precious flowers grow, so obviously I had to put my face next to them for a picture.
A Kenyan eating contest - 300ml of coke and 200 grams of bread. The winner of this contest was a woman.
Two women gathering grasses for their livestock. The women here can carry unimaginable quantities on their heads.
This "poster" hangs in a nursery school as a reference for the children to learn the English names of different items. Interestingly enough, the English word: "cooking pot" or "pot" was substituted for the Swahili word "Sufuria". I would think "pot" would be a little easier to learn.
This is a natural rock water catchment that stores the rain water. The small wall was built in 1961 by the inhabitants, and has served the community without fail until 2010, when a small leak was found and repaired. Now there is talk of building the wall higher and increasing its storage.
Here a teacher stands with some students during a sanitary pad making project. The teachers are always exquisitely dressed in the local patterns and fashions, and the students are always in uniform. Beautiful.
Just Pictures (Part 1)
Maasai. Beautiful. The most traditional and most displayed culture in Kenya, showcased on all travel brochures. Here they are performing a traditional maasai dance during Madaraka Day.
My evening bike ride home with the sun setting on my right shoulder. When I am late heading home, my silhouette keeps me company.
During the track/field village competitions, a student from our local school is performing the shot put.
An overturned truck seen along the Nairobi-Mombasa highway. Unfortunately this is a fairly frequent sight.
The water problem in my area. Women with their jerry cans line up behind a water truck, patiently awaiting their turn for water. These water trucks are a rare blessing, usually the people must walk miles and miles with only as much as they can carry. This truck has saved many of these women about 6 hours of walking.
Some nearly naked children playfully jump into the channel where the ferry crosses. Hopefully they don't venture too far out; sharks and other dangerous aquatic life are said to roam these waters.
The "Anti-Corruption Box" displayed on many government buildings around Kenya. Kenyans understand the biggest problem in their country is the corruption of government employees, so these "suggestion/question" boxes are an effort to keep them walking the straight line.
This is a traditional Duruma house, made with grass roofing and wooden beams and clay. A family of 9 live inside this home.
Roasting marshmallows in my room with all the kids from my compound. There's nothing like a roasted marshmallow to melt away all one's troubles, and it's times like these I will never forget.
A home made drip irrigation kit. It was quite a celebration when we poured water in it and realized the water was actually coming out of the tubes.
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