Lesson of the day - Matatus hurt.

Today started like any other. My alarm clock went off at 5:45. I did not get out of bed right away, but rather opted to stare at the ceiling for 45-minutes and mentally prepare for the day ahead. As much as my bed is welcoming when I dive into its covers at night, its comfort level has always skyrocketed by morning. It is therefore only logical that I fully appreciate my bed by only stepping out onto on the cold floor below at the last possible moment. Regardless, by 7:15, I have washed up, dressed, drank my tea, packed my bag and am out the door. 

My daily commute to the office takes 20 minutes. This involves a mere 3 minutes in a matatu and costs 10 shillings. Regardless, there are two hectic parts of my journey, the worse being attempting to cross Waiyaki Way (Westlands' main highway). In Kenya, stop lights, cross overs and cross walks are rare. Where they do exist, they are ignored. Pedestrians are therefore left to cross roads and highways at their own risk. To me, crossing a Kenyan road is like being in Frogger, level 50 (if there even is that high of a level). Cars, lorries, matatus, bicycles and buses fly by at top speed and it is up to you to figure out when is the safest time to cross. There must be something in the water in Nairobi, because when someone gets behind the wheel in Kenya, they drive as if they are on CRACK! One would think that if a pedestrian (vulnerable human being with no metal protection) is crossing in front of your MOVING vehicle, you would SLOW DOWN! Here in Nairobi the ding bats actually SPEED UP!???? What the ______?!! <Mummy and Daddy raised me proper, but pls insert your fav angry curse word here for your reading pleasure J>. I was told somewhat recently that Kenyan kids are taught never to run across the road as it "confuses the drivers." This strikes me as absurdly counter-intuitive though. Basic human survival instinct tells you that if a car is speeding towards you, you RUN like a bat out of hell! Who cares about confusing the driver! Pedestrians don't have airbags!

As mentioned above, I usually leave my house at 7:15 so that I have plenty of leeway to get to the office before SOB. This morning I left at 7:30 – woops (I blame the cold floor…), but managed to cross Waiyaki Way and board a matatu in good time. I was just about to reach my office when I spotted a matatu heading right in my direction. I tried to dodge the damn thing, but there was barbed wire preventing me from jumping a safe distance to the side. The matatu came literally a millimeter away from hitting me head on. A split second later, the matatu’s side mirror snagged my bag pack, dragging me down the street! The matatu stopped soon after, but not before I was covered in Africa’s red dirt, shaken, bumped and bruised. The matatu driver DID apologize, as did all the passengers inside the matatu. Regardless, I gave the driver a good talking to – “Are you crazy, asshole?! Why the HELL were you driving like that? You matatu drivers are completely mad! It’s not just about getting passengers to their destinations to get coins in your pocket you know?! You are responsible for getting them there SAFELY and minding the safety of the pedestrians and other vehicles out there! God, you could have killed me! What the helllllllllll!” By that point in my rant our KK Security Guards (they are awesome, by the way) were on the scene in large numbers, not to mention our office’s head of Security ("S") and the head of our HR Dpt ("G"). As "G" and "S" escorted me inside the office, I felt my entire body start shaking uncontrollably and tears welling up in my eyes. "G" and "S" showed genuine concern for my well-being and started shooting me with a bunch of questions as to my condition, what had happened, would I care for a cup of tea  etc. I felt like I was going to start crying hysterically at any moment though (not the sort of thing I want to do at the front gate of my 300 plus-staffed office), so I excused myself, promising to brief them in 5 minutes time. I headed straight to my boy's department, urged him to step out into the hallway at which point I let myself fall apart. I was in dire need of a close and trusted friend to listen and calm me down. He did exactly that despite the fact that I probably looked monstrous with all my mascara streaming down my cheeks (the guy has definitely seen me at my best and worse!)! I headed to the bathroom next, cried and sobbed some more, cleaned off my ruined make up, took several deep yoga breaths and headed out for the day ahead. Wooooooiii, what a way to start my week! ------------------------------------------

WHAT IS A MATATU....

Matatus are Kenya's main form of public transportation. They are public commuter vans that pack in at least 14 passengers at a time. They are the preferred mode of transportation because of their cheap fares, round-the-clock service, booming music and loud designs. At the same time, they are infamous for their reckless driving. Accidents involving matatus, including hit-and-runs are common occurences. Matatus are easy targets for pick pockets and car jackers. Matatu conductors often try to exploit their passengers in trying to get them to pay more than the normal fare (this is a common experience for mzungus and Indians alike).  

Village Girl Wide-Eyed in the City

I grew up in the small village of Cooperstown, New York - population 2800. Growing up in such a rural location, one truly gets the sense of how it is the community and culture, not just the immediate family, that inspires and molds the mind of a young child. 

Cooperstown has 2 elementary schools/kindergartens (one public, one private) and one middle/high school (public). When my classmates and I graduated in 2000, we were a predominantly racially homogeneous, close-knit class of less than 100. Everybody knew everybody's business to the extend that if you liked a boy, you could get his personal history (inclusive of baby stories, dating history, educational performance, drinking habits, and family status) just from asking around. People are known by their family, who they associate with and what their job is. To this day, I am known by locals as "F and/or N's daughter." With the exception of those who moved to Cooperstown after I graduated, I feel like most locals will be able to tell you my basic life history - that I lived in Japan "for years and years" and speak the language, that I used to date an Arab (God forbid!) and a Japanese (or maybe he was Chinese?), and that now I am "doing something, somewhere in Africa." My dear brother likes to spread the rumor that I am "handing out blankets." Good grief. I'm sure that by now Cooperstonians are also aware that I am dating a black man (again, God forbid ). What he does and what a great guy he is - that's not important - he's black. Can I hear an "oh my God, did you hear that?!" <rolling eyes>

As much as I tease my fellow Cooperstonians (yes that is an actual word, not coined by me), I adore my village to the fullest extent possible. In fact, I am sure that I drive my non-Cooperstonian friends crazy with the many fond childhood memories I so often rattle on about. I would return to village life in a flash if I could somehow also manage to find challenging employment in humanitarian aid and raise my children in a multi-lingual/racial/religious/cultural environment. Unfortunately, I doubt that is possible so stuck in a metropolis I shall remain. Regardless, you can take a girl out of her village, but you can never take the village out of the girl. As much as I try to adjust to city life, be it Kampala, Addis Ababa, Tokyo, Yokohama, Monterey, Bangkok, or my current Nairobi, the villager in me always resists and remains strong. For instance, though I've mastered some street smarts like holding my purse close, acting like I know where I'm going (even when  I have no clue) and avoiding alleys when I'm on my own. I know not to wander around at night unless I am with a Kenyan, I know not to accept the first price offered to me (especially in Kenya), I know not to leave my drink unattended and not to dance with random guys. I know that, in Kenya at least, I should avoid sidewalks, not "jump off matatus," always ask the price before getting on public transportation, or give to beggars. Fine. But can I figure out the twists and turns of city streets? Figure out where my matatu stops in town? Not scrunch up my nose when a fowl smelling bus goes by or get upset (and even offended) when somebody litters? It's just not going to happen. I still find myself surprised with the city dweller's inclination towards distrust, their tendency to be self-centered, their love of business and their ability to remain so long away from fresh air and greenness. As much as I love being in a metropolis full of opportunity and excitement, I miss the genuineness and peacefulness that the countryside offers. I miss people really knowing each other. I miss the feeling that if I, or someone close to me, falters or falls on hard times, that my fellow "townies" will have their back. I've come to acknowledge that it is infeasible for city dwellers to show genuine kindness to everybody - they'd be exploited, go broke and be walked on in no time. Awareness and acknowledgement aside though, it makes me sad. I often find myself staring off into space, thinking of my village, remembering, appreciating, ...and smiling. 

A nigt to remember

Spent the evening with my best friend from MIIS and her husband of many years. We enjoyed fresh Tilapia  right on the shores of Lake Victoria, Africa's largest lake. The beach that they choose for our dinner was fabulous - the Munyonyo Common Wealth Resort Beach. Apparently the beach is owned by President Museveni (Uganda's Head of State) himself! There was a wonderful mix of people present - Ethiopians, Ugandans, Kenyans, Indians, Somalis, you name it. Pretty sure I was the only American there, but whatever - REPRESENT! Getting to the resort beach was quite the experience. It seems that Museveni was around so security was tight tight TIGHT! We had to go through multiple checkpoints with police and military personal standing guard everywhere with their AK47s close at hand. Felt like I was going to a war zone, not a beach. lol Joyce and I had to leave our car twice at the last 2 check points, the latter of which we had to even walk through a scanner and have our car completely searched, inside and underneath. Imagine, all this to visit a beach. But a beautiful beach it was! And so CLEAN compared to the Kenyan side! There were even people swimming! Can't imagine somebody trying to do that on the Kenyan side - feel like they'd be tangled up and drowned by all the hyacinth growing there. <sigh> I wish Kenya would get on the environmental bandwagon. Imagine, they don't even recycle there. It tears at my green heart every time I see people throwing their plastic bottles and "paper bags" (as they call plastic bags...don't ask) on the ground. Am seriously thinking about calling up environmental activist, Wangari Mathaai to get her to join me in a Clean Kenya campaign. Just think how even more breath-taking Kenya would be if its residents learned to have more respect for its lush terrain! Oh the possibilities...

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.