Digging up the past

The Rwandan Genocide Memorial sites unarguably serve a crucial role in ensuring history does not repeating itself. I cringed when reading BBC's recent article regarding the Rwandan Government's supposed forced exhumation of murdered Tutsi and moderate Hutu. Imagine having to go through the horror of your family and/or close friends murdered in cold blood and then having to reopen that wound by exhuming their remains years after they've finally been allowed to lay in peace. Exhuming loved ones should not be by forced, but only voluntary. Rwandans have already been through enough without such unnecessary trauma.   

Floating between two worlds...

Celebrated my big 3-0 this past weekend with a house party and gobs of dear friends. My cottage in Westlands is barely big enough for 2 people, let alone the approximately 35 that showed up. Thanks to the enthusiasm of my friends, some dear attendees/friends who were willing to help out and the creativity/devotion of a particular someone, the party was a huge success. I’ve been told by a number of people that the party was a blast and for that I am thrilled.

As is true for many of my experiences on this continent however, the party was not without its lessons in Kenyan culture. I have spent literally a THIRD of my life living abroad, be it as a student, tourist or full-time employee. Still, my familiarity and comfort in foreign countries is still very much based on my experiences in Thailand and Japan. As one might expect, the cultures of Africa are still very much new to me. I love what the traditions I am being introduced to and am ever curious to learn more. Regardless, even after a year and a half in Kenya, I still find myself experiencing those culturally shocking moments where I am left feeling dumb-struct and awkward. My party was a case in point. A rule of thumb in America is that when you are invited to a party at someone’s home, you should at least bring something small, as a token of your gratitude for being welcomed into that person’s home. The “something small” can be anything, be it a card, bottle of wine, bowl of salad, bag of chips, flowers, people get creative. To come to someone’s home empty-handed is taboo. The host/hostess will not comment or treat you with any disrespect, of course, but you run the risk of being considered a mooch and impolite. This is ESPECIALLY true when you are invited to a birthday party. In the case of my party, I had of course prepared some drinks and food for my guests, but that was with the assumption that others would bring contributions as well. As is our culture, the American invitees all brought something, be it a snack, card, flowers, gift etc. The vast majority of Kenyan invitees (who made up about 80% of the guests mind you) however, didn’t bring a thing. Though I was begging myself to ignore this trend, it honestly struck me as rude, not to mention awkward. On top of that, some of the Kenyan invitees decided to invite their own friends to the party, all of whom I had never met before. My humble opinion is that if you want to invite a friend to a party (especially a birthday party), you at least ASK the hostess first. Personally I didn’t want any strangers at my place for security reasons, but also because I just wanted the party to be filled with familiar faces. There ended up being about 10 people at my party that I had never seen in my life…as much as I tried to be the gracious hostess, I did feel awkward with the situation.

Of Chicken bones and simple pleasures

Num num num num nummm...

The past several months have seen a lot of firsts for me. Indeed, I feel like I really started to experience Kenya as a potential Kenyan (as opposed to a full-blooded mzungu) around mmmm, mid- to late- October (won't mention the obvious reason why). This is as opposed to my actual arrival date in Africa back in March 2010!  Thanks to a certain someone I have accumulated gobs of black Kenyan friends recently. These friends have had an enormously positive effect on my knowledge and impression of the so-called Mother Land, especially our dear Kenya (did I saw “our??”). Imagine, these days I catch myself referring to Kenya as "home!" Anyway, amongst these African friends of mine, I have become particularly fond of a certain ethnic Luya lady that I shall refer to in this blog as...mmmm, Ms. Slowwwly (yes, I know this blog is full of inside jokes, but stick with me). Since befriending Ms. Slowwwly, I have learned and grown quite impressed with the Luyas love for chicken. In fact I have been told by a certain ethnic Luo gentleman (a very handsome Luo gentleman, I might add) that the Luyas are so fond of chicken that they prefer not to wash their hands after eating chicken in an attempt to keep the chicken “fragrance” close at hand (pun intended)! What is even more interesting is that you will never see a Luya leaving any trace of chicken meat on the bones. In fact, they love chicken SO much that they will even chew, and in fact EAT a considerable amount of, the bones themselves! I thought this was the strangest quirk until just the other day during a quick visit to Kenyas' favorite chicken joint - Kenchic. I was absolutely and completely famished by the time we finally got to town, so I ordered double my usual portion. I gobbled up the chicken meat faster than I believe I ever have, but was still left unsatisfied. ...And so, I tried it...one munch on that bone, another munch on another, and before I realized it, I had practically eaten all the bones on my plate! BONES! ME! A MZUNGU! I felt like a dog eating bones like that, but God, they were GOOD! It was such a shocking revelation that I could enjoy such a thin. Needless to say I will be returning to Kenchic as soon as I am back in Nairobi. Luyas - Chicken bones! Delicious? Who knew!!! 

A tribute to mi familia...

Am freshly back from a lovely (though emotionally intense) family reunion in Villasimius, Italy. By family reunion I refer to my family's usage of the term - my parents, brother and I.  No sisters, nieces, nephews, second cousins and whatnot for me, just my tiny, but wonderfully close-knit family of 4.

Living abroad for most of my adult life has meant that I see my immediate family once a year, twice if I am lucky. I see my extended family - uncle, cousin and aunt (yes, my family is that small) even less, once every few years. As much as I appreciate and adore international life style, I must admit that being  physically separated from my family so often has been the most painful of sacrifices. Regardless of the miles and time that tears us apart however, my parents and brother remain my most dedicated and supportive friends. My parents have raised me not just as their daughter, but as their confidant; their most trusted friend. My brother, though he is 3 years my junior, watches over, protects and loves me like an older brother would his baby sister. I love my family for the love they've given me. I am consistently finding myself overwhelmed with a deep sense of gratitude as I realize time and time again that I can go to them with even the most private of concerns. Love you guys...so much.