Rafiki wangu ni wazuri (my friends are amazing)

         20 hours of flight time and an 18 hour layover in Heathrow later, I finally landed in Southern California- jet lagged, tan, and completely shocked at the stark differences between what I was seeing in California compared to the life I had been living the past four months.  Despite the cultural reentry shock and the confusion of my body internal clock (still haven’t slept for more than a couple of hours a night), I spent the best five days at home.  Since graduating high school, I have been back to California for short periods of times, never for an extended time, and always rushing away long before I fully catch up with my friends  Every time I go home, I wonder if this will be the trip home that my friends will have moved on and the time that I feel completely out of placed.  Luckily for me, every time I go home, my friends are saints- still welcoming, still willing to catch up regardless of how long we have, and still willing to reminisce on the good ol’ days while looking towards our futures.  This time around was even weirder due to the five days at home as my conversations basically consisted of “Hey! Long time no see…Kenya was amazing-okay see you in December.”  The feeling, though, of knowing that no matter how far I go or how long I stay away I will still have friends ready to welcome me with open arms is absolutely irreplaceable.

            I think it will be impossible to judge the effects of studying abroad in Kenya until I have had time to settle down into a routine and reflect on how my personality and outlook has changed since studying abroad.  In the past week, reality has been anything but that as I transitioned from a villa overlooking the Indian Ocean to a night back at Njema foraging for food in my empty kitchen to five days eating ethnic food and enjoying the company of some of my best and longest friends.  The transition has not yet sunk in as a routine has not been established and I have no concrete plan as of yet (thanks to my time in Kenya, though, it doesn’t worry me as much as it probably should).

            I am very curious to see what this summer will bring but I am infinitely grateful to the friends that I saw the past week whether from school, church, or the neighborhood that once again welcomed me with open arms and dealt spectacularly with my jet lag, disorientation, and overwhelming desire for all food ethnic.  Thanks all.

Is Violence the Answer?

            In the past week, there have been at leas four riots in Nairobi and Narok by university students who feel that their voices are not being heard when issues arise.  On one occasion a student was killed by a security guard at a club and the students turned a peaceful march into the stoning of cars and burning of looting of property in the area near the club in Nairobi.  A few days later students at the University of Narok took to the streets burning tires and signs because a student was reported as missing.  As I write, University of Nairobi students are blockaded a road to town to protest the two week disappearance of one of their colleagues. 

            As a student studying peace and conflict resolution, it is an invaluable experience to be placed in a situation where I am actually exposed to conflict and the frustrations of the populace that turns into violence.  It is easy to say, when reading a textbook, that there is a peaceful alternative to a conflict and that violence should never be considered acceptable (I know others would say that there are situations where conflict is necessary but I digress).  In the past week though, I have spoken with people who speak of being marginalized and abused by those in power or “the man” or the system.  They tell me of the injustices done to them and their inability to do anything because they are youths, or live in the slums, or are held responsible by a corrupt and ineffective legal system.  What, they ask me, would you do if every day you see injustices being committed around you and nothing that you say is an effective means for change?  What other alternatives are there when you live in a society that does not give you a voice?

            I don’t know the answer.  I sincerely wish that I did and maybe the violence is bothering me so much because of my inability to fix or rationalize it.   All I know is that when the riots/protests/demonstrations are occurring, the violence does not affect those in power but affects the individuals in the surrounding areas.  It affects those unfortunate enough to be on the road that day or have their shop next to a targeted location or the people who are unable to travel due to violence on the road.  By protesting, the rioters antagonize the community when it is community support that they need in order to be effective.

              Even in a country like Kenya where accountability may not be at its best, change can be enacted.  The government has no choice but to listen if enough people mobilize, and while Kenyans may believe that their voice is being heard through riots and protests, the effects are fleeting and all that is left is the ill will of the community.  Some of the men and women that I have worked with thorough Sisi ni Amani have shared remarkable stories about their role to diffuse violence during the post election violence.  At times, I look around and see a mass of Kenyans turning to violence out of desperation, but I gain hope whenever I think of the fact that there are people who believe in and are knowledgeable about nonviolent activism.  In this case, I think education truly is important and people need to understand that change is possible.  It may be a solution unique to Kenyans and their history and their culture, but it is there. 

            All I know is that I am very grateful for the mechanisms in place both at American Univeristy and in the US in general that leave the majority of people feeling as though they have a voice and have the capacity to change an unfair situation.  The feeling of being so powerless must be incredibly frustrating…

Mzungu, Mzungu! (and proud of it)

          I would be remiss if I didn’t at least write a little bit about being a white woman in Nairobi.  In Cross Cultural Communications at American University we learn about the white knapsack and how being white distinguishes you and gives you tools that you may not always know that you have but are always there for you to use.  I never really believed that theory, but living in Kenya has definitely opened my eyes to what it means to be a white person in another country.

            I was spoiled growing up in Southern California- the ethnic diversity was such that the color of your skin really wasn’t the end all be all.  I had friends of all different nationalities and it didn’t mean anything besides the fact that sometimes they would have conversations in languages I could not understand and I was lucky enough to try a lot of really good homemade ethnic food.  Going to university in Washington D.C. meant that there were a few more white people, but the number of international students was so high that I still had such a high exposure to people of different beliefs and culture and it was not out of the norm to interact with a diverse range of people.

            Now to Kenya: 97% of Kenya is black African leaving the other 3% to Asians, Chinese (they get their own category according to Kenyans), expats, and development workers.  That leaves the number of people who are blond hair, blue eyed very, very limited.  Not including the other girl in my program who is blond, I may see a handful of blond people a week.  Standing out to such a degree has been really difficult on me.  In one respect, I am naturally a very clumsy person and knowing that every time I trip or stumble on a dirt path or jumping off a matau dozens of eyes will be on me makes me nervous and even clumsier.  In another regard, it is difficult to be unable to blend in anywhere that I go.  The only place where I can let my guard down is within the gate of my apartment- everywhere else I am pushed and pulled as people ask me for money, signatures, or my hand in marriage.  The word “mzungu” (foreigner) is one that I have come to dislike strongly as the word is my greeting from the vendors at the market, people on the street, and children incessantly pointing.  Being white is the go ahead to charge double, sometimes triple, for a anything at the market.  In matatus they may charge 10 to 20 bob over if we aren’t careful and don’t even get me started on how much they overcharge at souvnier stalls.   Lately, I have started asking the vendor whether they will charge me the Kenyan or mzungu price in Kiswahili and they almost always fall over in shock to see that 1) I recognize that I get ripped off 2) I speak their language. 

            With all of the attention and the ever present belief that I am wealthy and influential (not the poor college student I am), there are benefits that come with being a white person here that I do not ask for but received anyway- my knapsack.  When a matatu or bus pulls up, it almost always pulls up in front of me first so that I can get on.  I can enter any sophisticated hotel or restaurant to use my computer or their toilet (that for sure will have toilet paper) without getting stopped because most people assume I belong there even if I’m not looking my best.  Restaurants will serve me more food because they want me to be impressed so I come back and give them more business.  If I’m ever lost, I know there will be dozens of Kenyan men who will not only give me directions but also walk me there (as long as I don’t mind being asked for my phone number over and over again).  When going to meetings with local representatives at Sisi ni Amani, my boss or I are often asked to attend because matters will go smoother if someone with white skin is there.  In its most basic form, that concept of white privilege is still glaringly there due to misperceptions of the wealth and grandeur of the white world.  Even if I don’t ask for it and am ashamed at being treated as such, it is impossible for me to be treated any other way.  My white knapsack is firmly in place and short of changing my skin color and hair, there is nothing that I can do to change the perception of random people I meet in the street.

            In the beginning of my time here, this attention bothered me a lot- I hated being called mzungu, I hated when a taxi assumed I would want to pay their expensive price rather than walk ten minutes, or when people followed me trying to get money or a visa, ect.  Very quickly, however, I realized that there was nothing that I could do to change this misperception and I had to adjust as best as I could.  While it is still difficult, and I still at times feel very much like an outsider, it forced me to evaluate who I am and my beliefs about the world and I have found that for the most part being here has strengthened what I think both about the world and about who I am.  At times I wanted to change who I was or what I did because I thought that it might make me stand out a bit less, but every time, I found more satisfaction in being the person that I really was- not the person I was trying to pretend to be.  And being who you are in a country where you don’t fit in only makes you a stronger person.  I have come to realize that being comfortable with who I am, especially here, is one of the best lessons that I can take with me.

           

SIsi ni Amani (We are Peace)

        Two weeks ago I began my internship at Sisi ni Amani (We are Peace in Kiswahili) and it has completely and absolutely consumed me.  If I did not already have a plane ticket home, I would be making plans to stay in Kenya for as long as possible to continue my work with Sisi ni Amani, so I would like to share a bit of my experiences with you all (since I probably won’t be able to stop talking about it when I get home).

            Sisi ni Amani developed in response to the post election violence in 2007-2008.  After the violence occurred, Kenya was a magnet for peace and community groups all working together to try to bring stability and peace to the region and strengthen societal ties in order to prevent something similar from happening in 2012.  Sisi ni Amani formed to deal with the issue of disjointedness between all of these communities- so many groups were mobilizing but there was no connection between them which often created disorder and chaos.  Sisi ni Amani is using new SMS technology to link members within a group to each other as well as linking the groups as a whole utilizing local leadership structures that are already in place to create a reliable and expansive network dedicated towards peace and community empowerment.

            As an intern, I have several responsibilities ranging from administrative work to social media to field work.   Very few of my responsibilities am I actually qualified for (I sent my first tweet last week and it was one of the most stressful things I have done!), but I am learning in leaps and bounds and absolutely love everything that I do.  One aspect of my work here is that of the administrative, day to day tasks.  I compile phone numbers (thousands of them) into our database, take notes at meetings, research funding opportunities, and am in the middle of writing a grant proposal to expand our operations into hopefully Narok and Naivasha.  This work has given me a better grasp of what it takes to run an organization and how to best go about recruiting leadership, networking, and interacting with people of different beliefs and backgrounds then my own.  In addition to administrative work, I update our various forms of social media as often as I can through facebook, blogs, and tweeting.  It is interesting how even small, frequent posts can make a difference in an organization’s reputation and how the more medias you use the better it is for your organization. After every meeting, outreach, or piece of positive news, I write a short blog post to be put on our website in addition to tweeting about it and adding a new facebook post.  In addition, I compile bios about the community groups and community leaders that we work with and add it to our website.  Besides that, I also contribute footage to videos detailing the importance of Sisi ni Amani, Peace through SMS, and the contrast between post election violence and today by interviewing various community partners.  *To those who know me, my strong suit is the farthest thing from technology so it has all been a very, veryeducating experience.  Lastly, I work on outreach with two different communities: Narok in the Rift Valley and the Korogocho and Baba Dogo slums in Nairobi.  In Narok, I have attended several meetings regarding the planning and implementation of their various outreaches and will be attending the culmination of all of this planning for two days in town this week.  Towards the end of my time here, I will attend their strategic planning session and observe the groups creating a plan for the sustainability of the program as well as their discussions on the causes of violence in Kenya.  In Korogocho and Baba Dogo, I have attended several planning meetings with our local leaders which has given me a much better sense of community dynamics and am looking forward to working with them and their outreach over the next few weeks.

            What I love about Sisi ni Amani is the fact that they utilize local partners to create change in Kenya.  The director is an American from Tufts, but she is always very adament that it is our local leaders who are in charge- not her which is a sentiment that empowers and strengthens the networks already in place at the community level.  Following this method has challenged me to listen more and check my preconceptions that I come with as an American from the Western/First World/Global North (whatever you want to call it).  There are so many issues that are impossible to understand without first meeting and interacting with the people who live here, it doesn’t surprise me how to see how ineffective large NGOs are that waltz into an area with a plan and no room for compromise.  Of all that I have learned thus far, I think one of the most lasting will be the fact that I know very little about the world and I can create the most impact first by sitting, listening, and giving my skills and talents to those who know what need to be done. 

SIsi ni Amani (We are Peace)

        Two weeks ago I began my internship at Sisi ni Amani (We are Peace in Kiswahili) and it has completely and absolutely consumed me.  If I did not already have a plane ticket home, I would be making plans to stay in Kenya for as long as possible to continue my work with Sisi ni Amani, so I would like to share a bit of my experiences with you all (since I probably won’t be able to stop talking about it when I get home).

            Sisi ni Amani developed in response to the post election violence in 2007-2008.  After the violence occurred, Kenya was a magnet for peace and community groups all working together to try to bring stability and peace to the region and strengthen societal ties in order to prevent something similar from happening in 2012.  Sisi ni Amani formed to deal with the issue of disjointedness between all of these communities- so many groups were mobilizing but there was no connection between them which often created disorder and chaos.  Sisi ni Amani is using new SMS technology to link members within a group to each other as well as linking the groups as a whole utilizing local leadership structures that are already in place to create a reliable and expansive network dedicated towards peace and community empowerment.

            As an intern, I have several responsibilities ranging from administrative work to social media to field work.   Very few of my responsibilities am I actually qualified for (I sent my first tweet last week and it was one of the most stressful things I have done!), but I am learning in leaps and bounds and absolutely love everything that I do.  One aspect of my work here is that of the administrative, day to day tasks.  I compile phone numbers (thousands of them) into our database, take notes at meetings, research funding opportunities, and am in the middle of writing a grant proposal to expand our operations into hopefully Narok and Naivasha.  This work has given me a better grasp of what it takes to run an organization and how to best go about recruiting leadership, networking, and interacting with people of different beliefs and backgrounds then my own.  In addition to administrative work, I update our various forms of social media as often as I can through facebook, blogs, and tweeting.  It is interesting how even small, frequent posts can make a difference in an organization’s reputation and how the more medias you use the better it is for your organization. After every meeting, outreach, or piece of positive news, I write a short blog post to be put on our website in addition to tweeting about it and adding a new facebook post.  In addition, I compile bios about the community groups and community leaders that we work with and add it to our website.  Besides that, I also contribute footage to videos detailing the importance of Sisi ni Amani, Peace through SMS, and the contrast between post election violence and today by interviewing various community partners.  *To those who know me, my strong suit is the farthest thing from technology so it has all been a very, veryeducating experience.  Lastly, I work on outreach with two different communities: Narok in the Rift Valley and the Korogocho and Baba Dogo slums in Nairobi.  In Narok, I have attended several meetings regarding the planning and implementation of their various outreaches and will be attending the culmination of all of this planning for two days in town this week.  Towards the end of my time here, I will attend their strategic planning session and observe the groups creating a plan for the sustainability of the program as well as their discussions on the causes of violence in Kenya.  In Korogocho and Baba Dogo, I have attended several planning meetings with our local leaders which has given me a much better sense of community dynamics and am looking forward to working with them and their outreach over the next few weeks.

            What I love about Sisi ni Amani is the fact that they utilize local partners to create change in Kenya.  The director is an American from Tufts, but she is always very adament that it is our local leaders who are in charge- not her which is a sentiment that empowers and strengthens the networks already in place at the community level.  Following this method has challenged me to listen more and check my preconceptions that I come with as an American from the Western/First World/Global North (whatever you want to call it).  There are so many issues that are impossible to understand without first meeting and interacting with the people who live here, it doesn’t surprise me how to see how ineffective large NGOs are that waltz into an area with a plan and no room for compromise.  Of all that I have learned thus far, I think one of the most lasting will be the fact that I know very little about the world and I can create the most impact first by sitting, listening, and giving my skills and talents to those who know what need to be done. 

Spring Break: Partying it up in Ukambani!

         Last week, for my spring break, my classmates and I spent a week in rural Ukambani (Land of the Kamba) living, working, and eating with out host family.  While the focus of our program is to study urban planning and development, we went to live in a rural village to give us a more diverse perspective on life and culture in Kenya.  For one week we used pit latrines located outside of the house often crawling with cockroaches, lizards, and centipedes, awkwardly bathed using a bucket bath, walked long distances with donkeys to fetch water, and wore khangas (pieces of fabric that you use almost as a skirt but also serves as a towel, blanket, pillow, and band aid for when you cut your hand open with a scythe).  In addition, we received many stares as most of the inhabitants has seen very few white people and even less blondes.

            I stayed with a woman named Jacinta and she had seven children, three of whom worked in Nairobi, and her husband who was in the military but came home at the and of the week for the party.  Of the four children that were still at home, one daughter had a slight deformity with her foot making it hard for her to walk long distances, one son had a mental illness that prevented him from speaking, writing, talking, or understanding most of what was being said, and a young son and daughter who had way too much energy for the small house we lived in.  Only the eldest daughter spoke enough English to have somewhat whole sentences with me and the rest of the family preferred Kikamba to Kiswahili so it was an interesting week of me mixing English, Swahili, Kamba, and hand gestures to explain what I needed or wanted.  The layout of the house itself was a living room where one of the girls slept, a side room where I and the eldest daughter shared a bed that doubled as a storage room, a room for the boys, and a room for the parents.  Outside of the house there was another building that was used for the chickens, turkeys, and cooking and another one farthest away from the house that served as the choo.  My family had an extensive amount of animals influding turkeys, chickens, goats, sheep, cows, and a donkey that all roamed freely around the compound during the day and expansive farmland.

            In terms of the work I did…it was never more apparent how absolutely useless I am than during this week.  I don’t think my host mom understood that life in America is not congruent to life in rural Kenya because she was shocked every time I did not know how to carry out the tasks that she gave me (which was every single time).   One of my chores including finding twigs from around the compound to turn into a broom to then sweep the compound.  Their compound was quite large and the broom I had very short so I was bent over for at least an hour trying to sweep up the stray mango pits, animal dung, and random pieces of trash that had been blown all over the compound.   To dispose of the trash, I had to shovel it onto a feedbag and throw it into the cow pens bringing me way to close to their horns.  Another chore involved me going down to the shamba and cutting long grass with a scythe for hours.  Anyone who knows me knows that me and sharp objects do not necessarily mesh and the cuts on my hand and foot will testify that I have not much changed over the past two months.  To cut the grass, you had to grab the base of the grass (often the grass was dried and tough or intermingled with plants that had thorns or briars) and then cut with the scythe using the jagged edge along blade making almost a sawing motion.  From there I had to bundle large amount of grass, tie it, and then create a harness so I could carry it back up the shamba tied around my head… I was quite a sight in my skirt, khanga, and head wrap tottering as I attempted to carry bales of grass up a hill.   In addition, I gathered dried corn husks and bundled those and threw them into our storage bin for the cows and donkey to eat during times of drought.  While doing this I got a bit too close to a cow’s mouth and it tried to take my foot instead of the corn husk.  One of my most memorable chores including going to the family well along the dried up river bed to collect water with the donkey.  The well was a giant hole with some boards thrown on top of it and to get water I had to stand on the rickety boards, lower the bucket into the water (that had almost died up by this time) and then pull it back up.  Unfortunately, the rope got caught on the wood and when I went to pull up, the rope caught and I was almost flung headlong into well.  The old women who were around me definitely got a kick out of my skinny self flailing helplessly with a bucket of water…

            Eating was also a very different  from what I am used to and I left Ukambani gaining at least a ton because of it.  Every morning we would take chai (cups of tea ladled with milk and way too much sugar) with Blue Band and honey sandwiches or left over chapatti and fried egg.  This is much heavier than the yogurt and piece of toast I generally have and my host mother was not satisfied until I had at least three servings of everything.  In between breakfast and lunch my host family would give me three or four mangoes which I absolutely loved.  To eat them we bit into the skin and peeled it with out teeth and flung all of the scraps to our dogs and turkeys.  For lunch we made either gytheri (a mixture of beans and corn) or sikumu wiki (the Kenyan version of collard greens) and ugali (a mound of flour basically).  Again, the food was good, but my host mother was not satisfied unless I took two or three giant portions of it with at least two cups of chai.  After lunch we had more mangoes and for dinner we had cabbage, rice, and either chicken, or goat.  Goat is a very popular meat here but very fatty and chewing it is like chewing bubble gum and because I was the guest I was given the most and the fattiest pieces- something that I I could have done without.  On my last night there, they killed a chicken in my honor and I watched as they strangled it, defeathered it, and took out and sorted all of the internal organs for us to eat.  Never before have I had so many strange and indecipherable pieces of meat and it took all of my will power to swallow it and not feed it to the dogs under the table.  On the very last day, I and my friend Emily were lucky enough to watch them slaughter the goat for our going away party (sarcasm: it was one of the most traumatizing experiences ever).  We watched as they led the poor goat to the tree, hung it, and then cut the goats neck with a knife, stepping back as the blood spurted.  We were also there to receive a lesson on the internal organs of a goat and how to tell if it is sick or healthy and how to clean out a goat’s intestines with water in order to make blood sausages.  I do no think I will be able to eat goat again…Besides eating the food, I also learned how to cook most of it with sanitation practices that would shock anyone (like rolling the chapatti on the same spot where the chicken was killed without washing it with boiling water) and using instruments that gave me several burns and cuts.  I would sit there over an open flame with some sort of cooking plate on top trying to stop the rickety device from falling, while awkwardly cutting the ingredients needed with a knife that had no handle, feeding the flames twigs and moving the sticks around with my hand when the fire got low, and taking the food of the boiling hot plate with my hand rather than any sort of oven mitt.  In the space of a week, I do not think I have ever received so many cuts and burns but it was fascinating to learn how to cook in a traditional fashion. 

            Living in a rural village is interesting.  It is an experience that I will remember for the rest of my life but for as amazing as it was, it is sobering to remember that for me it was some sort of adventure while for the people of Kuya (where I lived) it was reality.  I got severe food poisoning one night and all I could think of was in two days I will be back with running water and a flushing toilet inside the house and I can eat what I want to eat whereas to my family this was what they experienced every day and there was no escape from it.  What was most interesting was trying to explain to my family what they didn’t have.  They would ask me what I did instead of hand washing my clothes or sweeping the floor of the house, and they couldn’t understand the concept of machines that did the work for you.  They barely understood when I told them about running water and showers.  There are so many things in Washington DC that I took for granted that I realized I could live without when I came to Nairobi- like electricity, hot water, Netflix.  After last week, I learned there were so many things that I took for granted in Nairobi that I could, not happily, live without when I went to Kuya- like running water, toilets, and English speakers.  Rural week was an amazing spring break and I know that in no other setting could I have learned so much- either about myself or the culture of the people I lived with.

And occasionally I go to class...

          Almost six weeks into the program I felt that it is time to reassure everybody that I do indeed take classes and all of the money that I spent upon coming here is not going to safaris and hikes (unfortunately).

            I take two courses at USIU, one of East Africa’s most well known universities, on Mondays and Wednesdays for 1 hour and 40 minutes each.  The classes that I take are Negotiation and Mediation and Simulation Excersise- courses that will hopefully help me to learn more about diplomacy and cultural nuances.  I say hopefully because it has only been within the past week that my professor has shown up earlier than twenty to thirty minutes late and turned on a powerpoint presentation let alone effectively convey the information.  It was only today that I actually received a course outline (and because I have the same professor for both classes the course outline is pretty much the exact same).  My professor is a former ambassador who loves regaling us with stories of the work that he did, regretting that he never went to UC Berkeley for his Masters, and insisiting that we bow when we leave the room so as not to create an international incident.  His two most memorable quotes thus far have been “diplomacy is all about image’ and “war is an extension of diplomacy”- two sentiments that I disagree with very strongly.  In my first class, out of sixty students about eight of them are wazungu which at times can be reassuring but in my second class I am the only mzungu and he delights in telling me to “Tell those natives!” whenever the subject of California or English proverbs arises.  I must admit that the majority of his classes are using the time to finish my Swahili homework and getting to know my classmates, most of whom are friendly and interesting to talk to.  There have been some anti- American sentiments which can be difficult to handle when it is you versus 59 East Africans but at the very least I will come back an ardent Patriot and eloquent debator.

            My other two classes are of a completely different caliber and I leave each class feeling like I have compensated for my lack of learning from my USIU classes.  I take Swahili and Politics in Culture through a program overseen by American University and it is much more efficient, organized, and well, American.  I take Intermediate Swahili with my three other apartmentmates and every day we somehow manage to give our professor a saying in Swahili, discuss our week and our future plans in Swahili as well as cram an incredible amount of grammar into our head all while trying to deal with the very depressing Swahili examples.  Whereas in America we might have “the happy boy ate cake” as an example, my book says “the refugees died of hunger” or “the boy was beaten with sticks.”  They are very different from American fairytales and childhood stories and a constant source of shock to us.  My other class is one that I take with the other nine students in my program and we spend six hours a week discussing urban planning, development, informal settlements, and politics.  The centerpiece of this class is a final research paper (due in two weeks!!) that we compile using secondary sources as well as local newspapers and interviews.  Topics range from prostitution to sanitation to perceptions on health.  I am doing my paper on the lack of a common ethos from the Kenyan government that necessitates the dependency that many Kenyans have to their tribal affiliations.  Between these two classes, I am already starting to mix my English with Swahili and I spend way too much time looking at identity and its implications on ethno political conflicts. 

            Between kissing giraffes, getting hugged by elephants, and watching cheetahs hunt, I do indeed go to class.  At times I learn more from the people around me than from the actual lecturer but every day is a learning experience and I am looking forward to seeing what else I have learned in the next ten weeks.

Safari Time!

      I have always been more of a nature-y girl rather than a city girl preferring the beach or climbing a tree to the hustle and bustle of the city so living in Naoribi has been a bit daunting.  Every weekend we have managed thus far to get out of Nairobi if for just a day to experience a different side of Africa- the sweeping planes, blazing sun, and exotic animals.  I know that this is not necessarily “the real Africa” but it is definitely the Africa that novels and movies attempt to portray more often than not.  The first weekend we arrived we were in Naivasha, a horiticulture community with zebras and monkeys, the second weekend we went to the Giraffe Center in Karen with lush trees, a nature walk, and kissing giraffes, and the third weekend we went on a Safari Walk in Nairobi National Park and spent an hour with baby, orphaned elephants.  This past weekend, however, we had the most stereotypyical African adventures- we went on a three day safari in Masa Mara.  For someone getting frustrated with the traffic and craziness of the matatus, the dirt and grime of a busy city, and the crowds of people constantly moving through Nairobi, it was a breath of fresh air.

            Going on a safari, I really did not know what to expect- the only thing that I could think of was whether or not it would be similar to the Lion King and crazily enough-it kind of was.  As soon as we entered the park we saw gazelles and zebras grazing next to each other with birds flying overhead- all it needed was a monkey holding up a baby lion on a giant rock and it would have been perfect.  On our first trip out we saw giraffes, a lone elephant, meerkats, the famous dik-diks, and warthogs.  After a few hours in the Mara we finally went back to our camp, and became acquainted to our hybrid tent/cabin (which had amazing hot water).  After a satisfying meal we met the other wazungu at the camp- two ardorable, elderly Dutch men who funnily enough recongnized me from Rhapta Road and a guy from Chicago.  It was peaceful chilling there- me with my coke and everyone else with their Tuskers listening to the monkeys, talking, and watching the glow of the fire of the Maasai whose job it was to guard us from the lions.

            After getting up insanely early we went back into the park to see the sunrise over the reserve.  One of our first major finds was three male lions- two of whom eventually picked a fight with the littler one.  Driving farther and farther into the Mara we passed by a tree that held the remains of a leopard’s kill and stumbled upon a rhino entering into the brush (there are only five in the entire reserve).  On top of these discoveries, we saw more antelope, gazelle, warthogs, birds, and monkeys.  After a very late breakfast and a much needed bathroom break we showered,  napped, and then spent the early afternoon laying in the sun reading our respective books about development and peace and conflict.  Early that evening we went back to Masa Mara and came upon a female lioness basking in the sun and a family of elephants who did their best to hide behind a clump of trees.

            The mot striking memory of that day was when we found ourselves in the presence of a cheetah teaching her two cubs how to hunt.  The drivers have a radio that they use to signal to other vans when they saw something of significance and there were dozens of vans of wazungu circled around this poor cheetah waiting for it to make the big kill.  There was something about watching and eventually disturbing the cheetah’s hunt that made me reflect on the role of a tourist in such a country.  Heretofore I had done my best to remain as inconspicuous as my blond hair and pale skin makes possible but in this instance, vans were inching upon the mother trying to hunt and coming between her and her prey.  I felt incredibly superfluous and very much like an intrusive outsider.  In the end, the cheetah did not make her kill that night but when we returned the next morning we did see her bring down a gazelle and feed it to her cubs.  In the end it was  an experience that was humbling and awe inspiring but I am still not sure if it was worth the cost.

            All in all, the safari was an amazing way to celebrate my first month in Kenya.  I became incredibly tan, saw animals that I have only seen in zoos or on television, and was lucky enough to spend time getting to know the amazing people in my program.  As stereotypically toursity as it was- it will be an experience that I remember for the rest of my life.

An afternoon with the Masai

          Today we went into Masai Land after spending the morning looking at artifacts Olorgesaille, the famous dig site of Dr. Louis and Mary Leakey- ranging from hippo and elephant bones to human skulls and tools.  After the tour, a long, dusty bus ride into Masailand led us to the ward of Chief Joseph who met us in the middle of what seemed like nowhere in order to spend the afternoon with us.

            From our bus, he took us down a dirt path taking the time to point out the tracks of a leopard and a family of cheetahs.  The weirdest thing- this part of Kenya looks very similar to central California.  To see the foothills and the windmills, I would think myself back at home…except for the fact that our guide was Masai and we were looking for giraffes. Anyways, our first destination was that of a ritual house for the boys of the Masai where they eat meat before the ceremony to become men.  We were lucky to be able to get in, if we had been there in August for the actual ceremony, we would have had to stand outside of the hut.  Well, David and Victor would have been able to watch but where would that leave the rest of us girls?  While there, Joseph showed us where the men slept and how they stored the meat on top of the tree because they do not have refrigerators.  Additionally he took the time to point out several pants that had very sharp thorns- something I desperately wish I had paid attention to as I got cut pretty badly chasing giraffes.

            After looking at the ritual hut, we began the walk to look for the wild giraffes.  Along the way we stumbled across some wild antelope.  Once they began to run, Joseph told David to run and help him herd the antelopes so we could have a longer look.  Joseph is a sprinter- a stereotypical Kenyan and he had no problem running at a breakneck speed to catch the antelope in the blazing sun for a significant period of time.  Watching the two men was a lot of fun- especially as I was not the one running in the blazing sun.  From there we took off into the brush looking for wild giraffes.  It was a long walk until we reached the trees where the giraffes were eating.  It was such an iconic view that I almost feel guilty for describing it: the green trees, white clouds, blue sky, and about twenty giraffes peeking neck and head over the trees.  Once we got close enough we just sat down in the bush and took pictures and watched them.  This was nothing like going to a giraffe center and kissing giraffes (and I definitely did not kiss these wild ones).  This was wild, real, and breathtaking.

            Following our time watching the giraffes, we went back to Chief Joseph’s compound.  Once there he showed us the pen where he kept his cows, goats, and chickens.  Our arrival was greeted by several children running around the compound with the three dogs and women walking en masse singing to us.  After our introductions (including many handshakes, supa!,  ipa!, and patting the children on the head) the women brought out our meal which  consisted of peas, cabbage, goat, mashed potatoes, and chapatti- modern fare according to them- usually they dine on meat, blood, and milk.  After our meal Chief Joseph introduced himself and his wife and four children to us and then explained to us portions of his life as a Masai.  Chief Joseph actually has been to American University to give talks to students so it was awesome to have that connection with him.  He showed us his warrior ostrich head dress which we all tried on (a faux paus I’m sure since the majority of us are women and not warriors) and passed around his leadership staff. Eventually he took back the headdress and joined the women for a song.  They kindly gave us a tour of their home, a mud hit with two beds, a fire, and cooking area housing thirteen people.  Unfortunately, our time there came to an end and after bartering for some Masai goods, we headed back to Njema Court.

            The Masai people and the Masai culture is one of the most iconic facets of Kenya and being invited into the home of Chief Joseph was such an amazing opportunity.  It is days like this that make the stress, dirt, and insanity of Nairobi completely worth it.  Such an amazing day- one that I will carry with me for a very long time.

Adjusting

         I have been here for a little over two weeks and I must admit that until very recently I was convinced that I would never be able to figure things out.  Forget fitting in, I was just concerned that the overwhelming oh-my-gosh-I-understand-and-recognize-nothing feeling would never subside.  Funny thing though- things are starting to make sense.  For all that I am living on a different continent 8/11 hours ahead of my home in a country with a culture, demographic, and socio-economic status completely different from my own, I have begun to develop and cultivate my own routine. Never mind that it consists of getting up at 5:30 every morning to go to the work out so I can shower with hot water, walking 40 minutes to school every day on dusty, uneven roads, attending an inefficient, infuriating university were I am a very tiny minority, and studying ethnic/tribal division and its affect on urban life and a country’s stability.  To give you all an idea of some of the differences  I have been facing, here is a list - sorry it is a little long- but then again, it has been an immense adjustment.

Njema Court:

            I live in an apartment with three other people in a space that is absolutely enormous when compared to my dorm back at American University.  We have our own balcony, laundry room, kitchen, two bathrooms, a living and dining area, and three bedrooms.  Initially I wasn’t sure how to handle not living with forty other people and confining my belongings to a space a little bit bigger than my bathroom here, but I must admit that the privacy and the silence is starting to grow on me.  The walls here are thin- I can hear our next door neighbor’s dogs barking long into the night and early in the morning- definitely making me nostalgic for my neighbors back at the dorms who would listen when asked to quiet down- dogs don’t care what hour it is I have come to find. 

            We also have a maid and a laundry lady here- something that I am sure every college student wishes for – someone to clean up your messes every day and wash your clothes twice a week.  Many may think that this is something to be envied- yet it has its downfalls.  The maid loves rearranging our stuff (occasionally ending up in things falling and breaking) and if we are in the apartment after 8am I get the distinct feeling of being underfoot and useless.  Having our laundry done is great, but very often we don’t know when the laundry is coming back which at times can cause chaos. Instead of rummaging through my clothes hamper for that pair of gym shorts like I would have at school, I now have to run around the apartment complex (not worth it). 

            Hot water is a big difference here as well.  Here we have to pay for our electricity and hot water is one of the biggest expenses so instead of having a hot, long shower every day (my biggest comfort in the US) I wake up at 5:30 every morning and go to the gym to work out and have a warm shower with low water pressure before walking to class.

Transportation:

            Never before have I had to travel a substantial distance to go to school (minus moving to Washington D.C.): my elementary school was three houses down, my middle and high school were a fifteen minute drive away, and my classes at American University were on campus.  Now to go to school, I walk forty minutes to the study abroad office, trekking down concrete and dirt roads, past fences made out of barbed wire (not good for an oblivious, klutz like myself), and past a river.  From there, when I need to go to USIU, I take a matatu into town and then take a bus from town to Thika Road were my university is- about an hour journey in lawless traffic where it is common for the bus or matau to drive on the sidewalk or into oncoming traffic all the while blaring Kenyan rap or 90s American music.

             On the subject of matatus- they are absolutely insane and would never be allowed in Washington D.C.  Imagine a van that carries fourteen people with seats worn down and exposed metal parts cramming sixteen to twenty people in the car without seat belts.  When driving, they swerve in an out of traffic often going against traffic or onto the sidewalk in order to pull ahead of the Los Angeles-like traffic all for a price that you have to negotiate once you get inside the car.  Crazy, right?  Well, now I am matatu-ing with the best of them. 

Food:

            I have never been such a great food snob that I would turn down AU’s TDR and I must admit that every day I spend away from TDR the more and more I miss it.  While the food there may not have been the best, it was consistent, convenient, and clean. We don’t have a meal plan here and must cook all of our meals on our gas stove at Njema or brave the various food stands in Nairobi.  Before coming here, I had never used a gas stove so the trial period led to many burns and frustrations but now my meals are coming out much more edible, luckily for me.              Additionally our grocery stores are about a forty minute trek into Westlands and the walk back is torture when carrying heavy groceries.  Kenyans also don’t believe in the big refrigerators that we have in the states for eggs, milk, yogurt, and cheese…that was hard on me when my stomach was still adjusting to food here.  It is also more popular to go to the butchers than to buy frozen meat, so my diet has seen much less meat as the thought of trekking to the butchers with the flies, blood, and animal parts make me lose my appetite instantly. 

            As someone used to every eating establishment having a lettered grade and being relatively safe to eat, the fact that I have to be very cautious on what I eat here is difficult- and my absentmindedness often has dire consequences.  I am someone who loves fresh vegetables and fruit and the fact that we cannot have uncooked vegetables or fruit that cannot be peeled takes getting used to.  The produce here is often grown in the informal settlements and the water used often has human/animal waste in it so the warning is to be taken very seriously.  Finally, food sold on the side of the road can smell wonderful, but can prove to be very dangerous as it may have been weeks since the cooking oil was last changed.  As good as it smells, that moment of pleasure is not worth days of being sick.  To end, there are very few American foods here.  There are no McDonalds, Starbucks, Taco Bells (there is a Taco Club but they sell chicken, chips, and ugali), ketchup, ice cubes, and desserts.  Needless to say my first few days back home will be full of Chipolte, pizza, burgers, salads, and fruit.

I know I haven’t learned all that there is to learn yet and every day a dozen small things pop up that I must learn to adjust with.  But hey, this is Kenya and I am loving it. 

Don't come looking for answers, only more questions

       When writing about Africa, one must be careful of two things 1) one must make sure not to idealize the country and shy away from the reality and practicality of the circumstances and 2) one must make sure not to overemphasize the suffering and neglect the humanity that is in each of us.  For the most part, I do not envision this becoming an issue when writing about my experiences in Kenya, but today I find myself struggling in trying to figure out what to write about my experience in Kibera.  Kibera is located just outside of Nairobi and dates back to the early 1900s as a place for Nubian soldiers to retire after World War I.  While they still have their own section in Kibera, it is now mainly inhabited by hundreds of thousands of Kenyans.  At the latest government census, it was estimated that about 350,000 people live there but many aid workers and residents of Kibera cite much closer to one million people in residence.  In the western world, Kibera is known as the largest informal settlement (slum) in Kenya and the first or second in all of Africa (disputed with an informal settlement in South Africa).

            Kibera is a paradox.  So often when the Western World portrays informal slums such as Kibera, they talk about HIV/AIDs statistics, infant mortality, lack of sanitation, starvation, and listlessness.  I would lose all credibility if I were to say that some of these characteristics were not accurately applied to Kibera; however, my short time there only served to show how Kiberans far surpassed the Western perception of them.  Many characteristics of that list are true.  Although I do not study HIV/AIDs, I am sure that they do not have an enviable rate and I know that rape and sexual abuse is common because living conditions place men and women in a context that makes it more of a possibility.  It is true that the sanitation was poor- when visiting a school, we passed by several children urinating right next to us in a puddle by the door and there were flies and dirt everywhere.  Additionally, it is true that the room for the woman with five children we met was smaller than my kitchen back at the AU, had mud walls, an uneven cement floor, and a leaky roof.  Our friends told us that most Kiberans can only afford to buy food and supplies in very small quantities such as a spoon of cooking oil and there were times when there is little money and food becomes scarce.  Some of the teachers at the school told us that the meal of rice and sometimes rice is the only meal some of their students get every day.  All of these things and more were true about the living conditions of Kibera, but there is so much more to Kibera than negative statistics. 

            Upon walking in Kibera, we weaved through the mazes of shop stalls that suggest a bustling, if isolated, economy, and passed scores of houses with children yelling  “Hi! Hi! Mzungu! Hi, How are you?”   The first place we were taken by Tony and Sabina was to the railroad tracks that overlooked one of the communities of Kibera, giving us a better perspective of just how vast Kibera was.  As far as we could see were the houses- some with colorful lines of laundries, others with makeshift antennas contrasting the fact that this is supposed to be a temporary settlement rather than a home.  Backtracking, we were taken to a construction site where they have been working for 2.5 months on building a school with six classrooms for a group of about 140 children.  The lady in charge kindly took us around the lower level and then used a piece of the wall so we could climb up to the second floor and look at all of the individual classrooms.  From there we met a woman who, though she looked little older than me, shyly introduced us to her youngest of five children.  She took us to her home, the tiny one mentioned above, and energetically wished us Karibuni (welcome) and answered all of our questions as we looked around at a space so tiny the 7 of us could barely fit when sitting.  As we left, she wished us many blessings and welcomed us back to her home in the future so we could meet her other children (two of whom were sponsored to attend school).  Never before have I felt so welcomed into a stranger’s home- a characteristic that I am quickly discovering is shared among Kenyans.  From there we went to the current school that the students were using- one big room with about 130 students in it- 6 different classes all in one room.  As we entered, the children sang a greeting to us and the teachers welcomed us and the students all reached to give us high five and share sweet, shy smiles- attention that I must admit I am still uncomfortable with.  We were invited to look around, ask questions, high five the students with a degree of warmth that I know for sure my high school back home would offer to random strangers walking into a class. 

            The biggest discrepancy that I noticed between how the West portrays Kibera and what I saw is that the Kiberans were happy and productive.  Never would I purposefully belittle the conditions that they were living in.  At the end of the day, I was able to go back to my apartment in Westlands with running water, a working toilet, and spacious and secure living conditions.  I can never know what it is like to be a Kiberan, but I do know that people are not unhappy and listless as they are often portrayed.  Stalls selling goods, children running around the slums, and men and women going about their lives is a testament to the fact that Kiberans are not sitting around waiting for the Western World to assist them.  When it comes down to it, this is a functioning community that supports hundreds upon thousands of individuals and could use assistance but is surely not at our mercy.  They have their flaws- but then again what community doesn’t?

             We were told early on that we should not come to Africa looking for answers- only for more questions.  I must admit, after my trip to Kibera, the questions that I have regarding development, living standards, people, and just life in general only seem to be multiplying. 

Blending in Naivasha as a mzungu

            Naivasha is a small town in Kenya in the Great Rift Valley an hour outside of Nairobi and well known as a horticulture town for their roses, tulips, and sunflowers.  It was also where we had our orientation for the first three days and was introduced to the concept of being a mzungu (foreigner). 

            After an intense security briefing where we were told how we needed to act and what to expect when walking around the streets in Kenya, I decided to walk down the main street on Naivisha on my own.  While this may not sound intimidating, it was probably one of the scariest experiences of my life.  Being a mzungu, one can expect different treatment in numerous ways.  It is more acceptable for white women to wear jeans, speak up to men, and drink alcohol.  It also means that you are judged based on Hollywood/MTV standards so everyone assumes that American women are looking for a good time.  Walking down the street, every single head snapped towards me and I heard murmurs of mzungu constantly.  We were told not to look at them and not to acknowledge people who were trying to sell us things in order to avoid being followed or harassed, so I walked with my eyes down, trying to act as confidently as possible, while whistles, hisses, and cries of pretty-pretty followed me through the entire walk.  Walking down the road, it crossed my mind that no matter what I did, I would always be a white mzungu struggling with Swahili trying to understand the culture but never being able to fit in because of the color of my skin.  Never before have I been in a place where I stuck out so completely.  It didn’t matter that I was wearing a skirt down to my knees and my shoulders were covered, my hair was still blond and my sin was still pale.  Both California and Washington D.C. have a very diverse population so anyone can walk down the street without turning every single head on the street but on this walk I was the only white person in the city which created such a barrier between me and everyone else.

            The next day we had a random drop off in Naivasha where the bus dropped off us by ourselves and we had to navigate to Naivash Kubwa by asking directions of the people living in Naivsha.  At first I was terrified because of my experiences the day before- I was afraid everyone would just stare and no one would be willing to help- but it was an amazing experience!  The first lady I met was the director of an orphanage and gave me directions right away while asking me why I didn’t just hop on a motorcycle (before we left we had to give up our money, phones, and everything else that would help us out).  Walking down the street, I found a woman who gladly told me how to make irio and discussed life in Nairobi.  I had a conversation with a man comparing Kibabki and Obama in Swahili and played with a bunch of kids and their mothers, and  I also tripped and almost fell into a ditch numerous times (my clumsiness has remained constant from the states to Kenya).  Once I reached the Naivash Kubwa, I spoke to a bookseller who explained to us the complexities of the Ocampa Six and met a man who bought me sugarcane and taught me how to eat it.  It was so embarrassing spitting it out in front of the group of men.  To cap off the experience, we had a 45 minutes conversation with an woman named Mary in Swahili discussing her take on the post election violence and life in Kenya. 

            When I first arrived in Naivasha, I was terrified at the prospect that I would be unable to be anything besides an awkward mzungu stumbling around a city and a culture that I did not fully understand but after the drop off I learned that though I may be a mzungu there are things that are universal like laughter at someone at falling in a ditch and appreciation for a willingness to learn and discover.  I am so excited for what the next three months have in store