Washoku (Japanese food) and pipe dreams

Today I visited the Asian Food Market on 91 Colvin Street in Albany. I went in telling myself I would only buy quality green tea, a thick pack of seaweed and wasabi - three things I always find myself missing in Nairobi. But try being a Japan-ofile like me and walk into a well-stocked Asian grocery store with LITERALLY a whole 25-meter long aisle full of just Asian teas!! And then another, just-as-long aisle of Japanese food products. I was in my own, personalized heaven on earth. I went in thinking I'd spend 20 bucks max; I left having paid a bill totaling $115! No guilt felt here though. We can't be penny wise and dime foolish after all deshou? And for me at least, stocking up on my version of comfort food (Japanese food) is a key ingredient to my long-term happiness and health. :) So miso soup and kare-raisu nights in Nairobi - here I come!! :) 

I must also point out another one of my favorite cash gobblers, <cough cough>, I mean boutiques, is just a 20 minute drive from the above Market. The place is called Violets - the boutique has a wonderful selection of stunningly elegant, but youthful items that always make my eyes sparkle and my pocketbook itch. I am not sooo much into fashion, but I do enjoy looking nice (my Kenyan friends would swear that's the Luo in me talking) and Violets just so happens to have clothes that make my particular body type look nice. Too bad an outfit there is at least $100. I like to dream about dressing nice though so every time I'm home in New York, I stop by and leaf through the clothes, very pole pole-like, soaking in the beauty of each item. I miss nice clothing shops, even if I don't actually have the income to buy from them. Kenya doesn't have such shops. At least, none that I'm aware of. When I buy clothes there, it's out of desperation and then, much to my chagrin, the items start to fall apart and loose their shape and color after only a couple washings. Unless, of course, you're willing to spend $50 on a simple, not-all-that sweater from Woolsworth, clothing shopping in Nai is just not worth it.  

Swift winds of change

Gosh, I haven't updated this thing in ages. Sorry for that, folks. Not sure if anybody reads this anymore, but since I've a bit of time on my hands these days (and fast internet), I'll update regardless.

I won't go into the personal details, but the past month or so has been one of the most trying periods of my life. Work has served as a sort of detox, but my thoughts have very much been on more personal matters, family matters, relationship matters...on my most recent ride in Rwanda, I felt like I was there physically, but that my mind and spirit were far away, dashing back and forth between Nairobi and home. And then the unexpected happened. Life screeeeched to a halt and sped up all at the same time. Kigali, Nairobi, Dubai, NYC, Albany...and at long last, home - where I needed to be. 

Most of us are aware that Life is never static, it constantly changes, presents us with new challenges, opportunities and windows of hope. We are told time and time again that we better appreciate those around us, especially our loved ones, but how many of us are really as grateful as we should be? One of my closest friends once wrote me a very tear-filled letter after the death of her father. She advised me that I should never go to bed angry with the ones I love. "Always forgive and make up," she urged. I'd advise people to take that one step further, especially those who do not see their loved ones (especially family) often (like us expats living abroad). Don't put off that that phone call home. Don't tell yourself, I'll write my brother as soon as I get a chance, tomorrow or this weekend. Don't get angry with your significant other for petty things. Appreciate them, love them, write to them, call them TODAY...don't wait till tomorrow when you may not still have a chance.  

I am one of the lucky ones. I live literally on the other side of the world from my family, my country, the way of life I know best. I'm guilty of not staying in touch as often as I should and traveling elsewhere when I know my mom would rather I just come home. And yet, my family still loves me as if I were at their dining room table yesterday. When I come home, there is a spot for me in their lives that will never be filled by another - I am still my brother's best friend, my father's confidant and my mother's baby girl. This realization fills me with more overwhelming sadness and gratitude than I can explain.

Forced instruction and observations of the Great Divide

My trip to the States was wonderful. The trip back home was smooth, but GOD, was it LONG! As I had selected Emerites as my means of travel, I transited at Dubai  - a lovely airport full of all the fountains and fancy shops that you imagine the UAE's international airport would have. After enjoying around 3 hours of free wireless internet, I hopped on my last flight for the day - Dubai to Nairobi. My plan was to sleep the entire ride so that by the time I finally reached my bf's waiting arms, I'd be awake and coherent. Much to my chagrin however, the Indian Kenyan gentleman who was seated next to me decided my time was better served hearing him tell me his entire life story. I tried sending him hints like putting on my earphones, pretending to read my Nook, etc, but none of my tactics for peace and quiet worked. He was a nice enough guy, but I was just so bloody exhausted....in a vain effort to at least keep the conversation interesting, I ended up picking his brain about the "African Kenyan"-"Indian Kenyan" divide. As I expected, his opinion of the African Kenyan population was not pretty yo say the least. He described a deep mistrust by the Indians of the African Kenyans. He bragged that, unlike his fellow Indians, he was "good" to "the Africans," but added the caveat that this was because should he not be, "they'd stab me in the back." "If you're bad to them, he explained in a matter-of-fact tone, "they remember, you know. They'll never forget the unkindness you showed them. And one day, they will get back at you. You know, those people, they never separated completely from the animal. They act first and then, only after they have attacked you, that is when they will think about that action that they have taken. They can be very dangerous people." He went on and on...I just looked at him dumb-founded, wondering what he would say if I told him I completely disagree, that I have numerous African friends who are perfectly lovely and trust-worthy, or how I've fallen in love with an African man (oooh, God forbid!) and couldn't care less if anybody disapproves of the relationship we've formed. My Indian seatmate, however, interpreted my dumb-struck expression as portraying "interest" and thus went on to tell me how one of his distant family members "actually married an African." I'm surprised they are still together," he remarked, "because most Indians who try relationships with Africans don't see success. Yet those two have made it so far and they even have a kid! But what a funny-looking kid it is. I always laugh when I think of that funny looking kid..." And he went on and on...

I never did get any sleep and as a result zonked out in my bf's arms at the early hour of 8 in the evening.  

Every other country I've visited, I've observed interracial relationships between the local populations, be they different colors, ethnicities, what have you. In Kenya, it is common enough to see "African Kenyans" forming relationships with wazungu (whites), but I have never seen a couple made up of a "African Kenyan" and "African Indian." It just doesn't happen. And the divide seems to go further than that. I never see the two populations mix and there seems to be a bitterness between the two. "Indian Kenyans" have been around for decades, if not generations. Many have Kenyan passports, speak fluent Swahili, and feel more comfortable in Kenya than they do in India. Indeed, many young Indian-Kenyans have never even been to India at all! And yet, despite all the years they have lived here, Indian-Kenyans still somehow manage, and seem to prefer, to keep themselves separate from the African majority.  

Baby making

Am sitting in Mom's office enjoying this country's high speed internet when one of Mom's nurses stops by to say hello and to give me her 2 cents at the obvious - "your mom really wants grandchildren, you know. I already have 2," she says with a proud grin. "And just so you know, you don't need a husband to get a baby anymore. Back in my day, if you had a child out of wedlock, you were called a slut, but these days, oh no, you can have a baby without a man with no problem to ya." She goes on to tell me how her daughter just went ahead and got impregnated by a sperm donor and "she's doing just fine." She gives me a hinting look as if to say, "you could do that too, you know!" I grinned back at her and, just for kicks, told her that I'd definitely consider her idea.

A conversation with Dad

My father is coming to East Africa for the first time early February. To get him upbeat and excited about the trip, I've been giving him a daily sprinkling of cool aspects of daily life in Kenya. Here is this morning's tidbit:

Me: "Dad, Dad, so in Kenya, one of the cool things you'll need to try are the  hard-boiled eggs with pilipili."

Dad: "Pilipili, huh?"

Me: "Yeah, there are these vendors that stand out on the street. They carry with them these huge plastic containers full of freshly boiled, hard-boiled eggs."

Dad "Uhuh."

Me: "When you order one from them, they have this neat way of grabbing you're selected egg with a plastic bag and pealing it without having ever touched the egg with their bare hands. So it's sanitary, you see, Dad?"

Dad: "Yup, gottit, so what's the big deal about the egg?"

Me: "Well, after they peal your egg, they slice it open with a knife, sprinkle it with salt, and then cover it with this spicy salsa that is just to die for."

Dad: "And then what?"

Me: "Then you eat it."

Dad: "What about the broken shells?"

Me: "They throw those on the ground."

Dad responds by raising an eyebrow in disapproval about people throwing eggshells on the ground part, as opposed to in the garbage or compost (love my Dad for that - he's so GREEN).

Me: "Yeah, but anyway, Dad, the egg and salsa...it's really good."

Dad: "Hymm, well how do you eat it?"

Me: "Just like that, Dad. They just give it to you in the plastic bag they've been using to prep your egg."

Dad: "They don't give you a fork and knife?"

I take a moment to study Dad's expression. No humor there. That was a serious question. I smile, "no fork and knife, Dad. You just pop the egg in your mouth. 2 or 3 bites and you're done! You'll love it, don't worry."

Dad: "Hymph. We'll see." Then he lightens up a bit, "I might have difficulty eating something like that though." He turns and gives me his famous I-just-made-a-joke-grin, "my whiskers would get in the way!" He chuckles to himself and walks away.

For all his idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, my Dad cracks me up more than any human being on the planet. He and I drive each other nuts sometimes, but you know how it is... Our parents are the ones who raised us, have seen us at our most ashamed, proud, emotional, what have you. They've been there to help us clean up the pieces after this or that relationship, to boast on our behalf and pull the curtain when we're not doing so hot. Our love for, and dedication to them runs so deep that not even the most bitter of disagreements or longest periods apart can change how much we care for them. So as much as I have certainly learned the importance of deep, chaturanga breathing during Dad's emotional moments, I adore him to pieces. And by the way, for the record, you will never see a smile on face in your direction if you mistreat him. Treat him like gold however and I will love you, bending over backwards in your times of need. 

Sometimes Fate calls and sometimes it YELLS!

October saw me leading my first circuit ride to the sandy expanse of Dadaab, Kenya - home to the world's largest refugee settlement. Though certainly not free of challenges, the ride was a success both in terms of refugee processing and in me keeping my team safe in the midst of the escalating insecurity that has now led to the current war between Kenya and al-Shabaab. I returned home to Nairobi thoroughly exhausted, but relieved having done my very best during a ride where so many things COULD HAVE, but DIDN'T go wrong.

In the field, members of our field team works long hours on weekdays, weekends and holidays. When we get back to Nairobi therefore we are given much deserved R and R. This time around, I was allotted 8 days. 

Now, I am not usually the most superstitious person. If a black cat looks like it might cross my path, I do hold my breath hoping that it won't, but if it does walk in front of me, I won't let it ruin my day. If I find a heads-up coin or a four-leaf clover, I will count myself as lucky, but I am not the type to go planning my days according to my horoscope. Last week however, an idea popped into my head as if slipped in there by God Himself (well, actually by my bf) and then Life found a way of popping in coincidences that just so happened to work in favor of that very idea becoming a reality. 

Before revealing the idea though, I must interject that recently I have been struck by an almost overwhelming amount of homesickness - the kind of homesickness that leaves you in tears staring forlorn into the unseeable distance. The ME wanting to be strong was frustrated with these feelings, but for the life of me, I couldn't shake them. I started stressing myself out wondering when I'd be able to move back to the States (if ever), wanting to live close to my parents like my brother, and even feeling bitterness towards my bf seeing him as the one keeping me far away from home as opposed to the job I've chosen and still enjoy. Needless to say, I wasn't in a good spot emotionally. And so, my ever patient bf suggested to the teary-eyed me that I try going home for a visit rather than immediately entertaining rash ideas of moving back completely. 

It started just like that. A simple idea planted in my head by someone I love.

Coincidence 1: I Expedia (yes I'm making that a verb) round-trip tickets to the States. I expected the rates to be at least 1.5K. I find a ticket for 1,017USD, inclusive of all taxes. 

"Interesting," I think to myself. 

Coincidence 2: My 8 days of R and R conveniently line up with Thanksgiving and the Friday after (also an office holiday) meaning 2 full weeks of me having nothing to do. 

"Interesting," I think to myself. 

Coincidence 3: I must admit that after the above 2 coincidences, I did get a tad bit excited, but that optimism was immediately dampened by the realization that I no longer had my passport in my possession. Just like in any country, foreigners working in Kenya require a work permit issued by the Kenyan Government. Mine was about to expire so my office had re-submitted my passport to get a new permit issued. The problem, however, is always that nobody knows when the Government will actually issue you your permit. Sometimes it takes 2 weeks, other times it take months. My passport had been with the Government for a month, so it was anybody's guess as to when it would come back to me.

The following workday, I asked my friend and colleague in HR to check up on my passport. "I'm toying with the idea of flying home to surprise my parents, but can't even consider the idea if I'm without my passport. Do you think it might be ready?" She gave me a doubtful look, but agreed to do me the favor of checking in. 

The next day rolls in and my friend/colleague has a big grin on her face. "You'll never guess what I have with me," she says to me, barely able to conceal her excitement. "No way...," I say as I realize what she might be hinting at. She then dives her hand into her pocket and reveals my passport with my new permit intact! "You're good to go, lady! Go surprise your family!" 

I bought my tickets as soon as I returned home, booking a departure for the following Monday at 10:55PM. But there was one more possible hitch. I was scheduled for surgery Monday morning, a surgery I could no longer put off. 

 Coincidence 4:  The weekend flies by, as it always does when I am in Nairobi (I blame it on a certain Kenyan). Early Monday morning, my bf takes a jumpy me to Aga Khan Hospital. I haven't packed anything for my trip and I'm nervous that something will go wrong during the surgery that will keep me in the hospital longer than planned. We're shown my room in the private wing, I change into my surgical gown and I'm wheeled off to the theatre (aka "operating room"in my part of the world) where I'm told corny jokes by the nurses and knocked out cold moments later by the anesthesiologist. 

I end up having to stay at the hospital till 6. Thankfully my bf is there for me throughout and assist the very groggy and dizzy me get home safely. I distinctly remember feeling as if I had somehow downed 5 shots of Zappa. All I wanted to do was crash and even the simplest questions by our driver or even my bf seemed to be the most confusing ever! Fortunately I didn't crash and managed to throw at least a shirt or two in my bag before my bf carefully led the very chemically drunk me to the airport-bound taxi. 

Coincidence 5: Both my flight to Dubai and my connecting flight to JFK were on-time and smooth. 

Coincidence 6: My JASC friend from way back agreed to host me for an overnight in NYC and just so happened to have an apartment located 2 minutes from Penn Station (where I take my trains to Upstate NY). 

Coincidence 7: ...And this is perhaps the most shocking of them all, my father who LOOOOVES to talk was actually able to keep it a secret from my mother that I would be visiting. 

------

And then comes the grand finale. 

Dad calls Mom at work and tells her this grand fabrication about how 2 of their old buddies from NYC had randomly decided to pop by Cooperstown (our village) for a surprise visit. "Oh how wonderful," Mom replies, "will I be able to see them too?" "Oh yes," Dad answers smoothly, "I actually already invited the 2 of them to join us at Bocca  for dinner this evening. We're meeting at 7. You'll meet us there?" "Got it," replies Mom obliviously. 

Several hours later, a confused Mom walks into Bocca. She sees Dad, but no buddies from NYC. "Where are they," she asks Dad while craning her neck to look around. I walk out from my hiding spot. Mom had thought that she wouldn't get to see me for another year mind you. She looked at me and her mouth dropped. 

"Wha...what are you...what are you doing here," she asked me, her voice already faltering?  

And then the flush to her cheeks came. "What are you doing here??" <bear hug> "What are you doing here, Amity? What are you doing here?" <question repeated x100> And then the happy tears came. And came and...it was one of my happiest moments. Those happy tears of my mother, they're the stuff I live on. 

It feels so good to be home.  

Nippon ni modoritai

Perhaps it is because so much of my life has been focused around work lately, but I have been increasingly nostalgic for the life in the States and Japan recently. The latter feeling was intensified yesterday when I payed a visit to a local fishery in Westlands, called Aloha. Every Tuesday and Friday they get shipments of freshly caught fish straight from Mombasa.Yesterday being Tuesday, I was able to purchase SUSHI GRADE tuna for the very affordable price of 350 shillings. Inspired by the mere idea of having access to sushi grade tuna in AFRICA, I rushed off to the home business of a Japanese friend of mine in order to purchase nori (seaweed), wasabi (horse radish) and Ugandan rice (the closest thing Kenya has to the sumptuous short-grained, sticky rice of Japan). My Japanese friend seemingly hadn't spoken in Japanese for a while and gladly chatted on and on with me for, ohhh, I'd say a good 30 minutes! Surprisingly my Japanese skills are still very much in tact, even after a year and a half away from Japan. It felt so GOOD chatting away with her. Not that we talked about anything that interesting, but the stereotypical mannerisms she has as a native Japanese seriously made my heart pound with pure joy! I really miss Japan. I miss the people, the food, the culture, I miss the little things that made up my life there. I left in March 2010. Wonder when I'll finally get a chance to go back again?