Liars

“You carry men's clothes?” I asked the vendor in Swahili.
“All of these are men's.” He replied enthusiastically, gesturing to all the hanging slacks and trousers, as well as the pile of clothes on the floor.
I am not much for clothing shopping, but I was primed to purchase another pair of jeans. The two pairs I brought from the States had worn through and been patched too many times. I rifled through the clothes on the floor, coming across a pair with “waist 33.” Perfect. I thought to myself. Somewhere between 32 and 34 fits me perfectly, plus 33 was my favorite number.
“How much for these?” I ask.
“500 shillings ($6).” was his reply.
“I'll give you 100 ($1.20).”
So we haggled and finally agreed on 200 shillings, or $2.40. I put the jeans in my bag and went off merrily.
When I reached my house, I unrolled my jeans and tried them on. I struggled to pull them up, they were a bit tight over the thighs. They also flared out a bit at the bottom. Must be a European fit, I thought to myself. The waistline was slightly elastic too, which was a strange but pleasant surprise. They fit my waist perfectly. Then, as I reached my hands into my pockets, barely half of my hand fit in. I tried the zipper, and it was about half the length of zippers I was used to. Hastily, I checked the brand – Ralph Lauren. I was wearing a pair of women's jeans.
My first thought was that of perplexity at the dysfunctional pockets of female jeans. These pockets are so shallow, they are essentially unusable! I thought. How do girls manage? I sighed at my misfortune. With no changing room and no proper labels, I was easily tricked into purchasing a pair of jeans that were the wrong sex. A flash of anger rose in me at the guy who deceived me into thinking I was purchasing male jeans, especially because I specifically asked him. He robbed me of my $2.40, which does not seem like much, but if you consider that I can purchase 30 delicious mangoes for that much, it becomes quite a bit. I was cheated, and it resonated in me. “That liar,” I thought to myself.

It wasn't the first time I had been cheated. Time after time, in produce markets or tourist shops, the sellers try to rip me off. It is common knowledge that salesmen all over the world are notorious for saying everything and anything in order to close a deal. But here in Kenya, it is a strange, unwritten code among Kenyan salesmen to charge certain prices based on a person's appearance of wealth, status, race, and naivety. And no place executes this unwritten code better than Mombasa.

Mombasa is like a secret network of conspirators, an infallible infrastructure meant to cheat all unsuspecting tourists out of their hard-earned money. Once while on a tour of Old Town, our friendly tour guide brought us into a jewelry shop carrying locally excavated gems. The owner tried his best to convince us that these gems were nearly priceless, saying that, "the Chinese are purchasing these like crazy." I looked a ring with a tag written "800" on it. The ring was nice, but I decided that 800 shillings ($10) was a bit too much. After I asked him if he could lower the price to 500 shillings, he told me that the price was not in shillings but in dollars. $800? HA. I chortled reflexively and walked out of the store.

But on this occasion I was in Mombasa, searching for kikois to send as gifts to friends and family back home. I knew for a fact that they were about 300 shillings each and could be found in a place called Marikiti. My only problem - I did not know where Marikiti was. I wandered aimlessly around, asking shopkeepers as well as people on the street if they knew where to find these things, and how much I could get them for. I politely asked a man on the street, “Excuse me, do you know the standard price for kikois?” His seemingly honest reply was, “The price is between 700-900 shillings for each piece, but if they try to charge 1500 they are deliberately cheating you.” Interesting, I thought. This man does not know the real price. So this time I specifically went to a lady who was wearing a kikoi around her waist. Ladies generally are more honest and they bargain hard for anything and everything, so I had no doubt she knew the right price. I asked her the same question. I received the exact same answer as the man I had just asked. “Wow, you really don't know the price?” I asked her rhetorically, and walked away in frustration. How was I getting the exact same answer from everyone, especially when I knew it was wrong? Everyone here is in on it, or something, I thought.
After some time, I finally stumbled upon the town's trading center, Marikiti. I asked an Arab looking man where I could find kikois at a cheap price, and he grabbed me by the wrist and told me that he would show me. As he was pulling me past rows of shops down narrow pathways, he assured me that he would give me a fair price. When we finally reached his shop, I marveled at the warehouse full of materials and things stacked nearly fifteen feet high. “So, what price will you give me?” I ask him in Swahili. “Just choose, I'll give you a good price. A very good price.” He repeatedly assured. I began sorting through his wares. I was there for nearly half an hour, enjoying the texture of different materials between my fingers and marveling at the vibrant colors. The Arab man was amicable as well, creating small talk as he helped me choose my items. He even complimented me on how well I knew Swahili, which always makes me blush and swoon like a little girl. Perhaps I can trust this guy, I thought to myself. After choosing an array of kikois and lesos, I asked him how much each piece cost. “The price is 800, but because you are buying lots of them,” He began, “I will sell you each piece for 600 shillings.”
“What?!?” I stated in disbelief. It was his arrogance, his unhesitating response to take advantage of a seemingly naïve customer. “Are you serious? I know the real price is 300 shillings. I wont pay any more.”
He looked somehow stunned. After composing himself, he refuted my claim and lowered the price to 500 shillings per piece. I was fuming. There are very few things that get me angrier than getting ripped off, especially by someone whom you think is trustworthy. I yelled at him, calling him a racist, a cheater, a liar, and any other words of shame I could think of. I had never spoken so quickly in Swahili in all my life, but I was fueled by fury. I stood there in the shop and argued with this man for a half hour straight. He was stubborn, continuing to insist that the real price was 800 shillings, and that he was doing me a favor. At last, I told him that I was leaving, that I did not have any more time for his tricks. As I walked out the door, he broke. He summoned me back and told me that I will have my price of 300 shillings. Despite my anger at the man, I broke as well and purchased most everything I picked out.

As I left with a large bag full of things, I heard the usual, “Mzungu! Welcome!” from every shop I passed by. I was sick of being harassed, sick of the facade of kindness that all of these shopkeepers maintain in order to help turn a bit of profit. But I was happy for getting a good deal on all the items I wanted to purchase. As I walked back through Mombasa, I asked a lady on the street if she knew the proper price for kikois, and where I could buy them. I already knew, but I just wanted to see what answer I would get. She told me they were about 700 shillings and that she personally could sell them to me. I smiled and told her the price I had just paid, and she looked at me and smiled back, as if I had broken the code.

It was a month later when I found myself back in Marikiti, Mombasa. As I calmly brushed through the narrow streets and shops, I heard, "Mzungu! Welcome!" off behind me. Without turning my head, I heard another voice say, "Don't bother that one, he knows." I smiled deeply at the recognition I had gained.

Just recently, I asked my neighbor who is a seamstress if she could make the pockets on my pair of women's jeans a bit longer. She did it for free. Now, I wear them all the time.

How Rude!

American culture and Kenyan culture are undoubtedly different. But how different? At times, some things which are perfectly normal in Kenyan culture can be taken as plain rude in an American setting. Below, is the list of the Top Ten rudest actions. Enjoy!

10. The Subtle Touch
In a supermarket, my friend was leaning against the refrigerator door when another lady came up from behind her, placed her hand on my friend's back, and gently pushed her away from the door. My friend looked at me with bewilderment written all over her face at the strange gesture.

Explanation? People here speak a plethora of languages, and sometimes those languages do not overlap. In this case, I would suspect that the lady who performed the “rude” gesture found it more comfortable and more clear to communicate without using words since she would not know what language to use to properly convey her message.

9. Where Are You Going?
“Where are you going?” “What are you doing?” I am constantly asked these questions by my neighbors whenever I leave my building. None of your business, I think to myself, but I usually respond politely. How tiresome though, to incessantly be interrogated in this way.

Explanation? Security & accessibility. People in the village need to know everything they can about everyone else so that they know each other are safe, and they know where to find someone in case of emergency or in case someone is searching for them.

8. Customer Service
I was with my father in a small restaurant when he ordered a cappuccino from the menu. The waitress smiled politely and went off to fill his order. Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. Things usually take a bit longer here, but at this point we were beginning to get restless. Then, the manager came up to us and said, “I'm sorry, we are all out of the cappuccino.”
“What took so long for you to figure that out and then tell us?” I asked impatiently.
He responded apologetically, “The waitress was afraid to come tell you."
I laughed at the answer, but waiting twenty minutes for that? Definitely rude, right?

Explanation? Because there is such a low value on time in general here, being made to wait for anything is not seen as a big deal. In the case of this waitress, she must have been yelled at once or more by impatient tourists, and she did not want to experience that again. Ironically, the longer she took to tell us, the more frustrated we got.

7. The Summon
I was walking briskly to my office and I had a lot to do. Suddenly I heard my name called, so I looked to see my counterpart lounging in her chair outside. “Come.” She commanded, and made a hand motion similar to crumpling paper. It was the common motion to signal people to come. I sighed, frustrated – first, she was lounging back not doing anything, and I was walking quickly, and she had the gall to summon me to her? Second, her tone was blunt. No please, no nothing. Just come. Rude!

Explanation? Elders can impose their will upon anyone younger than they are without shame. Children are often summoned with the come command, and must do the bidding of their elder, and they must do it cheerfully. And from the child's perspective, it is an honor to be called by an adult and to be of his or her assistance, so everyone wins.

6. Begging
"Give me sweets! Give me money! Give me!" This is the daily chorus from children I pass on the roads, especially children who do not know me. And adults do it as well. "Give me your bag. Give me your bicycle. Give my your camera." This behavior gets tiresome, especially because i was brought up to think that begging is shameful, and must not be done.

Explanation? Begging is taught as a form of humility, and is almost honored. The justification is that it is better than stealing. And often people are in much greater need or much more dire situations and do not have much of the social and financial infrastructure that Americans enjoy.

5. Line Cutting.
I was standing at the small shop's window, waiting behind the two people in front of me who were crowding the small space. Suddenly, I see a hand stretch past me from behind with money in it. As the hand reaches inside the small shop window, the voice attached to the hand orders, “Half kilo of sugar.” I look back at the man in amazement and tell him bluntly, “I am waiting here.” He looks at me with big eyes and replies, “Oohh, i'm sorry, sorry!”

Explanation? I have no idea.

4. The Cell Phone
We are in the middle of a meeting. High ranking officials and management staff are in attendance. The chairman of my CBO is giving a speech while all are listening intently. Suddenly, his phone begins ringing inside his front shirt pocket. He is still giving his speech as he reaches for the phone, then in mid-sentence he answers his phone, speaks for half a minute, tells his caller that he is in a meeting and hangs up, then continues his sentence where he left off. We all sat there in silence for every single one of those thirty seconds, listening to his conversation. I looked around and everyone else seemed to consider this to be appropriate behavior. I was confused.

Explanation? Phone etiquette has not yet reached the more rural areas, partly because cell phones are a new technology in Kenya (relatively..the past 5 years), and people are just as much excited about owning one as they are of being the recipient of calls. As an added incentive to being vigilant about answering, here in Kenya the caller is the one who pays for the call, so many prefer to answer instead of waiting to call back.

3. You Are Fat.
People have no problem stating physical attributes of a person. Whether they are white, black, fat, short, one legged, or mute, these are all very appropriate descriptions for someone. They do not go so far as “ugly” though.

Explanation? Being fat is not negative here, nor is white or black or short or deaf. Often I get told that I am looking too skinny, that I look sickly and almost pale. I respond with a cheerful, “Thank you!” understanding that they are only concerned with my well-being, and not so much with my appearance.

2. Peeping!
When I first arrived to Kenya, I remember all my neighbors, children and adults alike, would look into my windows and proclaim proudly, “I am peeping!” It made me feel awfully uncomfortable, like a zoo animal. About a year later, when my Swahili got good enough to explain things, I told them that peeping is a serious offense in America, and you could actually go to jail for it. They were incredibly apologetic.

Explanation? There is no privacy anywhere, ever. Peeping is accepted as normal, and the actions of my neighbors were driven by curiosity, not perversity.

1. The “Borrow”
A guy sitting close to me in a meeting asks if he could borrow my pen while we were taking notes. I reluctantly lend it to him, it being my only pen, but I assumed he would just use it shortly and return it. Five minutes pass, then ten. I begin staring at him to get his attention, but he does not turn. Though while I stare at him, I watch him raise my pen slowly towards his face and then proceed to put the end into his mouth. I did not ask for it back.

Explanation? There is almost a general sense of community ownership with everything. People feel they are entitled to everything their neighbor has, and visa versa. To “borrow” does not really exist, because the view is that everyone has equal share in one's personal possessions.


As a bonus, here are a few of very rude things people do in the States that would be unacceptable here:

3. Clothing: (Showing your knees or shoulders for girls/wearing shorts for men) Here in my village, prostitutes are made known by the way they dress, so showing a lot of leg or skin for a girl essentially means she is a prostitute. For shorts on men – only children wear shorts they say.

2. Not Greeting: If you pass by someone without greeting them. It is absolutely rude. Someone would assume you are just unfriendly, or that he or she has wronged you in some way to make you behave like that.

1. Elderly Respect: It doesn't matter if they are uneducated, sexist, tribalist, unfair, or simply stupid, one must always listen to an elder and acknowledge his or her wisdom (generally “his”). Not caring for one's parents or grandparents is serious shame to one's family.

Witchcraft & Papayas

The baby was staring at me, his eyes bulging widely as if he had never seen a light-skinned person before. He otherwise looked undisturbed, sitting peacefully on his mother's lap in the back corner of the matatu. I had just climbed into the van, and found the last open seat just next to the mother and this child in the very back, and as I reached my seat and made eye contact with the mother I gave her a non-verbal greeting with a wave and an amicable grin. She smiled back kindly, and then turned her attention to her small child who was still fixated on me. Suddenly, the mother says to her small boy in Swahili, “Look at the witch,” pointing directly at me.
“Witch?” I replied to her, in a shocked tone. It was a grave accusation to call someone in the village a witch, and I truly was shocked to hear this lady speak of me that way to her child.
She looked at me with an expression similar to that of her child: eyes bulging and mouth gaping open. From her expression, she did not expect me to know Swahili.
“Hey, I am not a witch.” I replied. “I am just a human being, like you.” I then turned and faced the front, not giving any more attention to the mother and her child. Then I heard her tell her child, “Look at the human being.”

Witchcraft. This culture is inundated with fear and respect of it. Its existence is unquestioned and its power is unbounded. When I ask people about it they become all too solemn, as if they are reflecting about a time they were deeply affected by witchcraft's tainted powers. They are even afraid to know too much about the whole subject, some afraid of the very accusation that one could be a witch. They say that witchcraft leads to wealth and prosperity, but at the sake of one's sanity. They could go so far as to hunt albinos to be killed, experimented on, and used in spell-casting. And a witch's curse is not easily broken.

The most popular curse is the “fatal infatuation curse.” Men and women who are perhaps stricken by lust, love or infatuation with someone who does not return those feelings may find themselves seeking the aid of a witch. Through unintelligible mutterings, sacrifices, and specific rituals, they can curse that desired person into falling deeply infatuated as well. Experiential evidence has reported that friends whom have been inflicted with this particular curse are perfectly fine one day, but the next they are following someone around like a loyal dog follows an owner, desperate and unable to control their actions, and they continue to behave this way for extended periods of time. This behavior, they say, is undoubtedly the power of witchcraft.

Witches also have control of natural phenomena. It was reported that a witch was driven off from a village when all the surrounding villages received exceeding amounts of rain while the village the witch lived in did not get a single drop. The witch was accused of stopping the rain, or that his evil presence drove away the blessing of rainfall. Although, it was indeed a strange situation. For more than two months during the rainy season this village did not receive any rain while every other area, even just 2 kilometers on each side, was getting record amounts. To the alleged witch's credit, even after he was driven off, their still was no rain. (How terrible though, to be accused and driven off from your home and your land just by the speculations and superstitions of your neighbors).

There are methods to identify a true witch, though, so that accusations can be verified. My friend Carol gave me a detailed account of one of these ceremonies. It went like this: The villagers stood in a circle, and a few who were accused of practicing witchcraft were present among them. The leader of this ceremony explained the procedure which went like this: everyone must eat a piece of papaya for which the witch will be unable to swallow. The leader then pulled out a whole papaya and drew his knife, cutting equal pieces and passing the tray around. As each person took and swallowed his or her piece, they looked pensively around at one another, expecting..perhaps hoping..something would happen. Suddenly, he began to cough and his throat swelled to twice its normal size. This witch was identified.


I was skeptical, though. There always seems to be a reasonable explanation to strange phenomena. I bombarded her with questions or explanations:

Louis: He probably just choked.
Carol: No, he really couldn't swallow. He tried multiple times.
Louis: Maybe he was sick?
Carol: He looked just fine before eating.
Louis: Perhaps it was allergies?
Carol: He has eaten papaya before.
Louis: One slice of the papaya was poisoned or tampered with.
Carol: It was cut in front of them, all the same, with washed knives.

I paused, unable to think of another explanation, but knowing that their had to be. Then I asked, “What did they do to him?”
Carol: I don't know.

“Why papaya?” I asked, curiously.
She smiled at me, then replied, “Papaya is easy to swallow.”

Due Justice

There was a Terror in the neighborhood. From the rumors, this Terror stalked like a shadow. It could slip through even the smallest hole or disappear into the ground in a puff of dust. It killed instantly, and without sound. This Terror was immune to fire, cold, and poison. And it was not afraid of snakes.

This Terror's prey were chickens large and small, and any other animal that can be easily assassinated and inconspicuously carried off. Elusive and annoying, this Terror was a menace to all the chicken and rabbit keepers in the area who all wished dearly for its abrupt demise.


My neighbor's bitch had recently given birth to four puppies. Although she was a grainy yellow, each puppy she birthed had its own unique color: solid brown and white, smokey black, Oreo cookie, and a blended brownish black. The children on the compound took special interest in each puppy, naming the one they each liked best, and secretly playing with them when my neighbor was not looking (they say that if you play with puppies when they are small, they become worthless as watchdogs when they get older).



The puppies were nearly two weeks old. Their eyes had only just fully opened and they were learning to walk. At times we would just stand and watch as they awkwardly took each step and then paused, bow-legged, with their cute faces searching around for approval.

On one fateful Saturday, the children were playing outside when they heard an unusual wail from the puppies, followed by desperate and incessant yelping sounds. The children and the housekeeper ran to investigate the commotion to find The Terror with the smallest puppy in his mouth trying to escape, but obviously encumbered by the weight of its prey. The children screamed. Instantly the housekeeper surveyed the ground, grabbed the biggest stone in proximity and hurled the projectile at The Terror. With a great thud, the stone made impact, knocking the puppy free and disorienting the Terror. The children did not stand idle, they grabbed their own weapons and began hurling, beating, and abusing the Terror until the housekeeper came by with a larger rock, and loosed it on the head of the beast, killing it instantly.

The children rushed to the puppies, to find that all of them had been injured by The Terror, but that they were thankfully all still alive. The puppy being carried by The Terror was in the worst shape; blood trickled from his neck down his foreleg, and open gashes splayed across his belly. After checking that the puppies were alright, they ran to the carcass of The Terror.



“Let's roast it,” one child said after they spent minutes staring at the dead animal. So they got to work placing sticks and dry grass under the carcass and then setting fire to the dead beast. The children all huddled around, the younger ones screaming in delight at the sight of the open fire while the others watched intently as The Terror's hair burned away and the skin began to bubble and melt. After half an hour, The Terror was well-cooked, and so they carried the roasted meat to the mother and the four puppies.




“Eat.” The children commanded the dogs, as they laid the meat in front of them. “Eat, so that you heal quickly!” The children felt it was only fair that the bitch and her puppies were fed the meat of their attacker. The dogs usually had vegetarian food, so this was actually a treat for them. Hungrily the mother ate her fill and breastfed her puppies.

The housekeeper glowed as neighbors lauded her for her great aim and triumph over The Terror. Finally, after months of poaching chickens and puppies, The Terror had been slain. Finally, due justice had been paid.

From hearing rumors of The Terror, I was suspecting a much more vicious, malicious, monstrous creature. But in the end The Terror simply turned out to be a mongoose. No wonder it wasn't afraid of snakes.

The Matatu Race

Two vans screamed down the road, kicking dust into the air like a raging wildfire in a strong wind. We all turned our heads away from the dust, shutting our eyes and mouths tightly to prevent the particles from entering. As they flew by, I recognized the vans to be two matatus, the 14-seat public transportation vehicle in Kenya. “Why are they going so fast, and so close together?” I asked my friend. Matatu drivers are known to be reckless, but even I had never seen them go so fast.
“They are just racing.” my friend replied.
Just racing. I thought to myself. Seems a bit dangerous..
If you think about it, two registered public transportation vehicles racing down a one-and-a-half lane dirt road while carrying more than the capacity of passengers is not exactly the safest mode of travel. But who can blame a couple of matatu drivers for wanting a bit of excitement to spice up the day, right?

It was morning, I walked out leisurely from my friend's house with a few large bags. A good thirty kilometers of bumpy, dirt road separated me from my home, and I was hoping I did not have to wait too long for a matatu to come. As I came in sight of the bus stage, I saw two matatus revving up, kicking dust from the ground, and spewing black smoke from their exhaust. The conductor looked back at me as if to telepathically ask me if I wanted to go, and with my affirmation he made the signal for me to hurry to him. I began to jog awkwardly with my cumbersome luggage, but his impatience prompted him to meet me halfway and help me carry my things. He grabbed them, threw them in the trunk of the vehicle, and nearly shoved me in, all the while yelling, “Twende! Twende!” or “Let's go! Let's go!” to the driver.

The other vehicle had the jump on us, and was already just a billow of dust in our windscreen. The driver smiled confidently as he shifted the gears, second to third, third to fourth. He knew the roads better than anyone, feeling the corrugated bumps and the muddy soft spots twice every day. The matatu shook violently as it hit bumps, rocks and uneven terrain. With each violent jostle, all of the passengers leaped out of their seats, me included, and every now and again my head would strike the metal roofing with a muted thud. But personal comfort or safety did not matter now, nor did the integrity of the van's suspension. That billow of dust ahead was all that mattered, and it began taking the form of a vehicle. We were catching up.

“Wait!” The conductor yelled, beating furiously on the metal roof to signal the stop. We had just hit an especially large bump, and the trunk had flung open. I looked back through the rear window to see some luggage had spilled out as well, and was scattered behind the van on the road. I chuckled to myself at how reckless these guys were, spilling people's luggage without consideration. Then, as I looked closer, I realized that it was my luggage that had fallen out! Angrily I glared at the conductor for his negligence, while hoping that nothing had broken. As the van came to a stop, the conductor ran out to gather the luggage and hastily fasten the trunk again. We were off again, and this time, we went faster.

Up ahead the other matatu had stopped to pick up a passenger, and so we took our chance for the lead. We were finally ahead after 10 miles, and still with about 20 miles until the finish. Yet, passengers speckled the road side, and we too stopped to pick them up. A game of “leap frog” then ensued, trading off abrupt stops to pick passengers, while trying to maintain the lead. I realized then, the matatu with the lead actually picks up more passengers and has a greater financial benefit because of it. That financial incentive was probably the underlining motivation for the festive matatu race. It felt like I was living in a rural version of the old video game “Crazy Taxi,” as each matatu was still going at reckless speeds, and each driver was not willing to yield a passenger or be second at the finish line.

For a good stretch of road we developed a lead, so much so that we could no longer see our competitors behind us. But again, with a loud Thump! The matatu hit a huge bump and the trunk opened wide again, splaying my luggage again across the road. “Put the luggage in the cabin, not the boot!” the driver yelled at the conductor, his frustration soaked deeply into the tone of his voice. This time I laughed as the conductor rushed out to gather my things. I couldn't help but enjoy the whole experience. It gave enough time for the competing van to appear behind us, raising the tension of the race again.

My home was still on the racecourse, so as I approached, I told the conductor that I would alight as quickly as I could. As the van screeched to a halt in front of my home, I wished them luck so they would win the race.

I have no idea if they did.

Songs To Relate To

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.

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.