I only went to one formal dance in high school. Prom. I was very timid of dancing and of girls, but this time around I had someone important I wanted to bring. I remember very distinctly the song we slow-danced to: Daniel Bedingfield's “If You're Not The One.”
Although romantic feelings for my high school prom date have long been buried and forgotten, every time I hear that song, I cannot help but recall fond memories of her and of that time we shared together. Music is powerful in that way. It can serve as a strong reminder of meaningful people and experiences. Since I have been in Kenya, I have found that some of the songs I listened to growing up have been redefined. From old bands like U2 and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, I have forged an even tighter affinity toward their music. Here are a few of the songs I mean:
“Where the streets have no name.” (U2)
The only way to find a place in the United States is by the street name and the address. Clearly typed out on Google Maps, one can find any place that has a street sign hanging like a name tag on the corner. But deeper in the rural areas of Kenya where I live, there are no street signs. There are no corner roads and gas stations. People give directions by telling you the person who lives nearby, or which tall tree must be followed. Mailing addresses consist nearly exclusively of P.O. Boxes. Yet, the fact that these dirt roads remain unnamed does not mean they are unknown; they are always traveled and deeply well known by all who live nearby.
“Cattle in the marketplace” (Paul Simon – You Can Call Me Al)
Even before coming to Africa, I felt I could already strongly relate to Paul Simon's – Graceland album, but this line now hits home on a whole new level. Back in California, the cattle are tucked away into the smelly armpit of the state: Bakersfield, where at least 150 miles set me apart. One would call animal control if they ever saw a cow in a produce market in California, but here the domesticated cows and goats are a common sight among the fruits and vegetables in the marketplace. Goats often loiter around to clean up fallen morsels, and the mooing of cattle is never out of earshot.
“when you see the southern cross for the first time, you understand now why you came this way” (Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young – Southern Cross)
The Southern Cross is the simplest of constellations dancing about in the Southern hemisphere. It is just 4 stars in the shape of a kite or a cross, but in its simplistic beauty it holds a very useful tool. No matter what time of night, there is a way to tell which direction is due South by measuring the diameter of the constellation. The first time I saw this constellation, I was climbing Mt. Kenya, where the sky was crystal clear. Despite the bitter night's cold and the altitude, I could not help but stare upon the heavens with a deep sense of serenity.
“I bless the rains down in Africa” (Toto - Africa)
For the first two months after arriving at my site, I witnessed constant suffering on account of the lack of water. Women carried 45 pounds of water on their heads for miles day after day because there literally was no water nearby. The area was desiccated, the trees and bushes had shed their leaves and focused all of their energies on survival, and the soil was deeply parched.
I was in the church building when it happened. It was a Friday at 4pm, we were condoling the passing of an esteemed old lady in the village. Just as we had finished the ceremony and turned to leave, a thundering sound began to emanate from within the church. Huge droplets of rain pounded viciously upon an iron roofing, and the stone walls and floors only reinforced the deafening sound. I looked out the window of the church and saw the dry dirt turn deep red, as if drinking deeply after a long and difficult stretch. Each blessed drop that fell seemed to alleviate the suffering of the villagers, of the plants and the trees. Such a simple thing like rain, but the blessing was substantial, and well received.
Music - among many other things, it serves as a medium for fond memories. Just as I feel deeply connected to my high school prom date whenever I hear Daniel Bedingfield, I will carry with me the precious memories of my African experience through the songs I love.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Small Business Adviser
The biggest mystery in the Peace Corps is its job description. Nobody actually knows what a Peace Corps Volunteer does, or what he or she is supposed to do. Often this applies to the serving volunteer himself, even as he is in the field. Before coming to the Peace Corps they had given us a pamphlet to read on what to expect as a volunteer, and from that I had it in my mind that I would be traversing dangerous wilderness, where I would stop by and visit mud-hut to mud-hut, drinking ceremoniously from a buffalo's horn while teaching people basic business skills and economics. I figured that I would be welcomed with open arms by everyone, and the knowledge I imparted would be immediately received and automatically life-changing. The description was literally that vague.
During our pre-service training we were all taught to memorize a phrase in Swahili that identifies what we are supposed to do as volunteers. The phrase goes, “Mimi ni mshauri wa biashara ndogo ndogo” which means “I am a small business adviser.” I remember how impossible it was to remember all of that at once, how foreign it felt in my mouth when I spoke it, and how I did not even know the meaning of the actual words. It was symbolic even, representing how little I knew about how I was actually going to spend the next two years of my life.
We repeated them countless times during pre-service training, so when we got out to our work sites it would be the first thing that would spout out of our mouths. We were adequately warned that people will see us as donors who bring money and start projects. That is why we put extra stress on the word “adviser.”
I have spent more than a year and a half in my site. In that time, I have taught computer skills to multiple people, facilitated guitar and piano lessons, taught bead making, made charcoal, started a table tennis team, organized a trash clean-up, made sanitary pads, and promoted gender equality. Although many of these activities are good, none of them had anything to do with being a business adviser.
A short while back, I met with a women's group which takes loans to pay for school fees. The problem with this group is that they have trouble paying the 20% interest rate on their loans, and paying for school fees is not exactly a good way to use a loan. I started out speaking slowly, introducing myself in Swahili and then continuing. We discussed the business of making food for selling like a restaurant would, the general concept of how money from a loan must be used to make more money, how much one will have to put into a savings box per day in order to have enough money to pay the loan at the end of the month, and what kind of business activities might be suitable for earning income. I pleaded with them to invest in rain gutters and tanks, and they asked me a great deal of questions about their loans. At the end of the session, they smiled and thanked me profusely for my time. None of them asked me for money.
I left feeling satisfied completely. After more than a year, I finally did the very thing I was expecting to do. I could now live up to the title I was forced to memorize, and could claim that now it was true. I am a small business adviser.
During our pre-service training we were all taught to memorize a phrase in Swahili that identifies what we are supposed to do as volunteers. The phrase goes, “Mimi ni mshauri wa biashara ndogo ndogo” which means “I am a small business adviser.” I remember how impossible it was to remember all of that at once, how foreign it felt in my mouth when I spoke it, and how I did not even know the meaning of the actual words. It was symbolic even, representing how little I knew about how I was actually going to spend the next two years of my life.
We repeated them countless times during pre-service training, so when we got out to our work sites it would be the first thing that would spout out of our mouths. We were adequately warned that people will see us as donors who bring money and start projects. That is why we put extra stress on the word “adviser.”
I have spent more than a year and a half in my site. In that time, I have taught computer skills to multiple people, facilitated guitar and piano lessons, taught bead making, made charcoal, started a table tennis team, organized a trash clean-up, made sanitary pads, and promoted gender equality. Although many of these activities are good, none of them had anything to do with being a business adviser.
A short while back, I met with a women's group which takes loans to pay for school fees. The problem with this group is that they have trouble paying the 20% interest rate on their loans, and paying for school fees is not exactly a good way to use a loan. I started out speaking slowly, introducing myself in Swahili and then continuing. We discussed the business of making food for selling like a restaurant would, the general concept of how money from a loan must be used to make more money, how much one will have to put into a savings box per day in order to have enough money to pay the loan at the end of the month, and what kind of business activities might be suitable for earning income. I pleaded with them to invest in rain gutters and tanks, and they asked me a great deal of questions about their loans. At the end of the session, they smiled and thanked me profusely for my time. None of them asked me for money.
I left feeling satisfied completely. After more than a year, I finally did the very thing I was expecting to do. I could now live up to the title I was forced to memorize, and could claim that now it was true. I am a small business adviser.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
A Dollar A Day
One dollar per day. By the United Nation's standard, those who live with less than a dollar per day are classified as living in “extreme poverty.” I remember learning about statistics such as these during my undergraduate studies, and I always thought to myself, “How could anyone live on one dollar per day?'” It sounded impossible, especially because I had no gauge to compare it to besides the expensive standard of U.S. living.
Now, I am living in a developing country. What a perfect opportunity for me to gain perspective on this seemingly unfathomable statistic. What is it like to live on one dollar per day? I decided that the best way to find out is to try it for myself.
So here was the plan: Twenty seven full days, February 7th to March 6th,, to live off of one dollar per day.
Here were the rules I outlined: I had 80 Kenyan shillings per day, just under the current exchange rate of 83.5 Kenyan shillings to the dollar. This would have to account for everything: food, travel, washing materials, etc. Also, if I were to accept something given to me for free, I would have to count it in my running total.
But I gave myself some amenities: sunscreen, work related internet/electricity, and rain-harvested water were all free. Also, my malaria medicine I counted as free. Here are the justifications - for the sunscreen: I decided that it wasn't worth risking unnecessary skin damage for this (If I had included sunscreen, I would have stayed indoors during the day). For the work-related internet/electricity: because I would have been useless for the month. For the rainwater: it is minimal cost and difficult to account for. For the malaria medicine: because if I stop taking those and Peace Corps finds out, I get sent home (I also might get malaria).
As much as I love challenges, the night before I was almost afraid of what was to come. Although I did not eat an exorbitant amount that night, I noticed a few things I ate which I knew I wouldn't be able to afford: chocolate, American candies, oats, and even bread. I wondered if it was going to be like holding your breath underwater, where it would get slightly more and more uncomfortable until coming up for air again. Or maybe I would just get used to it, perhaps enjoy it?
The first few days I was excited about the restriction. I proudly ate my banana in the morning (4pennies or 3kenyan shillings) and held out until a large dinner in the evenings. When I would politely refuse things from people, I would be obliged to explain what I was doing in order to exculpate my apparent rudeness. Conversations would go something like this:
Friend: Hey Louis! Welcome in for a cup of tea!
Me: I can't today, thanks though.
Friend: How come?
Me: I am trying to use less than 80 shillings per day.
Friend: Why?
Me: So I can understand what it is like.
Friend: Okay, well don't worry, the tea is free.
Me: Even if I accept free things, I have to count it.
Friend: Eh?
During the market days, I would purchase much less than I usually do, and the ladies at the market would ask me why. After telling them that I was on a tight budget for the month, they would look at me sympathetically and then they would give me things for free, which I could not refuse. On two separate occasions, the tomato lady gave me two pounds of tomatoes, and another lady gave me a pound of french beans, just because they felt sorry for me. To be honest, those kind gestures warmed my heart deeply. Two years ago, the ladies in the market would try to rip me off with double the standard price. Now, they give me free things when I am in trouble.
During my challenge, it was mango season. Decent sized angoes were about 3 to 7 U.S. Pennies. Despite my budget restriction, I still managed to have a mango nearly every single day (usually I would have 3 to 4 mangoes a day, going by last year's rate...the mangoes are truly that delicious).
An average day of spending looked something like this:
Breakfast: 2 cups cornmeal (6 pennies), 1 banana (4 pennies)
Drinking water: 3liters (3 pennies)
Dinner: 1 plateful of Ugali (17pennies), 1 plateful kale with onions (20 pennies)
Dessert: 2 bananas (8 pennies), 1 mango (6 pennies), handful of peanuts (8 pennies)
Soap/gas for cooking/toothpaste/etc..: (4 pennies)
Cooking spices, oil.. (3 pennies)
I could not afford the use of shampoo, deodorant, or lotion.
If I got a flat tire on my bike, it would cost 12 pennies to repair. If I used my cell phone for a text message or a 1 minute call, it would cost about two to four pennies. If I did laundry, it would cost at least 25 pennies in washing soap for the load. During this 27-day period I did laundry twice, got 3 flat tires, and sent close to 10 unnecessary text messages on my cell phone.
In January, the prices of nearly all vegetables doubled. As a result, I found myself purchasing the bare minimum. On this current budget, I could no longer afford carrots and tomatoes, it would just be onions and kale for vegetables. And when peeling the onions, I would take twice as long in order to try to maximize the edible amounts, wanting to use every bit.
Most of the meals were the same. I could not afford variety in my foods; I ate the cheapest meal possible (ugali and kale) in order to satisfy my caloric and nutritional requirements. Though, sometimes I caved in to get some variety (assorted vegetables and rice or pasta), though when I did I could not afford enough to satisfy my hunger. As a point of reference, corn flour is about 50 pennies per kilogram, wheat flour is close to double that price. White rice is 75 pennies per kilogram. A 400gram loaf of bread is 60 pennies. Beans are about 85 pennies per kilogram. (1 kilogram = 2.2 lbs) For 24 days out of 27, I had some type of corn flour or whole corn meal. The other three days were pasta, rice, and chapati.
I made it. I was nearly 25 pennies under budget. The day after the ordeal I had a couple pieces of chocolate, a packet of fruit snacks, and half a loaf of bread as a celebration. I've found that under a dollar a day living is not impossible, but it is agonizingly debilitating. Something as simple as food variety is a treat. It is difficult to fathom that some people here have done it all their lives.
Now, I am living in a developing country. What a perfect opportunity for me to gain perspective on this seemingly unfathomable statistic. What is it like to live on one dollar per day? I decided that the best way to find out is to try it for myself.
So here was the plan: Twenty seven full days, February 7th to March 6th,, to live off of one dollar per day.
Here were the rules I outlined: I had 80 Kenyan shillings per day, just under the current exchange rate of 83.5 Kenyan shillings to the dollar. This would have to account for everything: food, travel, washing materials, etc. Also, if I were to accept something given to me for free, I would have to count it in my running total.
But I gave myself some amenities: sunscreen, work related internet/electricity, and rain-harvested water were all free. Also, my malaria medicine I counted as free. Here are the justifications - for the sunscreen: I decided that it wasn't worth risking unnecessary skin damage for this (If I had included sunscreen, I would have stayed indoors during the day). For the work-related internet/electricity: because I would have been useless for the month. For the rainwater: it is minimal cost and difficult to account for. For the malaria medicine: because if I stop taking those and Peace Corps finds out, I get sent home (I also might get malaria).
As much as I love challenges, the night before I was almost afraid of what was to come. Although I did not eat an exorbitant amount that night, I noticed a few things I ate which I knew I wouldn't be able to afford: chocolate, American candies, oats, and even bread. I wondered if it was going to be like holding your breath underwater, where it would get slightly more and more uncomfortable until coming up for air again. Or maybe I would just get used to it, perhaps enjoy it?
The first few days I was excited about the restriction. I proudly ate my banana in the morning (4pennies or 3kenyan shillings) and held out until a large dinner in the evenings. When I would politely refuse things from people, I would be obliged to explain what I was doing in order to exculpate my apparent rudeness. Conversations would go something like this:
Friend: Hey Louis! Welcome in for a cup of tea!
Me: I can't today, thanks though.
Friend: How come?
Me: I am trying to use less than 80 shillings per day.
Friend: Why?
Me: So I can understand what it is like.
Friend: Okay, well don't worry, the tea is free.
Me: Even if I accept free things, I have to count it.
Friend: Eh?
During the market days, I would purchase much less than I usually do, and the ladies at the market would ask me why. After telling them that I was on a tight budget for the month, they would look at me sympathetically and then they would give me things for free, which I could not refuse. On two separate occasions, the tomato lady gave me two pounds of tomatoes, and another lady gave me a pound of french beans, just because they felt sorry for me. To be honest, those kind gestures warmed my heart deeply. Two years ago, the ladies in the market would try to rip me off with double the standard price. Now, they give me free things when I am in trouble.
During my challenge, it was mango season. Decent sized angoes were about 3 to 7 U.S. Pennies. Despite my budget restriction, I still managed to have a mango nearly every single day (usually I would have 3 to 4 mangoes a day, going by last year's rate...the mangoes are truly that delicious).
An average day of spending looked something like this:
Breakfast: 2 cups cornmeal (6 pennies), 1 banana (4 pennies)
Drinking water: 3liters (3 pennies)
Dinner: 1 plateful of Ugali (17pennies), 1 plateful kale with onions (20 pennies)
Dessert: 2 bananas (8 pennies), 1 mango (6 pennies), handful of peanuts (8 pennies)
Soap/gas for cooking/toothpaste/etc..: (4 pennies)
Cooking spices, oil.. (3 pennies)
I could not afford the use of shampoo, deodorant, or lotion.
If I got a flat tire on my bike, it would cost 12 pennies to repair. If I used my cell phone for a text message or a 1 minute call, it would cost about two to four pennies. If I did laundry, it would cost at least 25 pennies in washing soap for the load. During this 27-day period I did laundry twice, got 3 flat tires, and sent close to 10 unnecessary text messages on my cell phone.
In January, the prices of nearly all vegetables doubled. As a result, I found myself purchasing the bare minimum. On this current budget, I could no longer afford carrots and tomatoes, it would just be onions and kale for vegetables. And when peeling the onions, I would take twice as long in order to try to maximize the edible amounts, wanting to use every bit.
Most of the meals were the same. I could not afford variety in my foods; I ate the cheapest meal possible (ugali and kale) in order to satisfy my caloric and nutritional requirements. Though, sometimes I caved in to get some variety (assorted vegetables and rice or pasta), though when I did I could not afford enough to satisfy my hunger. As a point of reference, corn flour is about 50 pennies per kilogram, wheat flour is close to double that price. White rice is 75 pennies per kilogram. A 400gram loaf of bread is 60 pennies. Beans are about 85 pennies per kilogram. (1 kilogram = 2.2 lbs) For 24 days out of 27, I had some type of corn flour or whole corn meal. The other three days were pasta, rice, and chapati.
I made it. I was nearly 25 pennies under budget. The day after the ordeal I had a couple pieces of chocolate, a packet of fruit snacks, and half a loaf of bread as a celebration. I've found that under a dollar a day living is not impossible, but it is agonizingly debilitating. Something as simple as food variety is a treat. It is difficult to fathom that some people here have done it all their lives.
Friday, February 24, 2012
The P Word Revisited – A Peace Corps Kenya Packing List
(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.
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.
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.
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