Anticipation

Anticipation, that’s part of what Christmas is all about right? I can remember in church when the nativity Joseph and Mary moved closer and closer to the manger each Sunday. I remember waiting anxiously for thanksgiving to pass so I could start playing my Christmas music. I remember looking forward to my visits home in the month of December to see what lovely baked goods my mom had prepared and the anticipation for the pie on Christmas eve along with the scraps of pie crust that I had to fight my sister for. We wait all year for this season of good-will and cheer and you can’t help but smile when “Its beginning to look a lot like Christmas” or “Jingle Bells” comes on the radio. Part of the anticipation is in the memories of Christmas. Remember what was so great about past years, makes the next year even more anxiously awaited.

I find myself taking a seven hour bus ride to Nairobi, followed by a 7 hour wait in the airport, followed by a 6 hour flight to Rome to celebrate Christmas this year with my sweetheart, Adam. Part of me mourns the fact that I won’t be part of my family traditions this year. I won’t be decorating Christmas cookies or making Lefse or joking about how horribly my dad wrapped my mom’s Christmas presents. However, I find myself more anxious for this Christmas than any other. Ok, granted it may be because it is taking me almost two days to get where I am going, and it may be because I haven’t seen Adam in almost 7 months. But I think it also has a little to do with the anticipation for the future. This Christmas won’t be like any I’ve had in the past, but that’s what makes it great. Being away from family and loved ones truly makes you love and appreciate them even more. I have been dreaming and thinking about Christmas more this year than any year before and the anticipation is nearly killing me! For those of you who are lucky enough to be around family on Christmas, give everyone a little extra hug this year and put a little anticipation into making next year even better.

Mabera Youth

A member of my community, Brother Richard, is doing his seminary training at a nearby catholic parish in the town of Mabera. He told me he was planning a youth seminar and asked me if I could help with it. So this weekend I made the trip out to Mabera, but I was not really sure what to expect.

My first day, I got the lay of the land.  The tour included the Catholic Church compound where we would host the seminar, the new church being built across the road, and the catholic girls school. There are 42 different tribes in Kenya, and along with the physical introduction, I got a cultural introduction to the people of the Kuria tribe who live in this area. It is holiday break, but the school is full of over 120 young girls who have run away from their families because they do not want to be circumcised. Every three years the Kuria tribe gathers all of their young girls between the ages of 7 and 13, takes them out to a field and performs female genital mutilation (FGM). Although it is technically illegal in Kenya, it happens anyways and you can hear the drums, singing and dancing that goes along with the ceremony. I won’t go into the details about what actually happens when a female is “circumcised.” It can be easily googled for those of you who are curious, but just know it is an awful and barbaric practice. Not only can it cause problems physically, but it is supposed to signify a girl becoming a woman and this leads to many of these very young girls dropping out of school and being married off. There are a few brave girls who escape circumcision but it often means disobeying their parents and a few are unable to return home. I felt a heaviness in my heart that lifted a little as the girls gathered around to sing me a welcome song.

The next morning I got the agenda for the seminar. This included me teaching lessons on self-esteem, assertiveness, communication, friendship, and romantic relationships for about 4 hours each morning. Then I arranged some group building activities and games before we had free time to kick the soccer ball and toss the volleyball around at the nearby field. We had almost 70 youth attending the seminar ranging in age from 14 to 22 years old.  In our free time, some of the girls taught me their traditional dances and in turn I taught them the electric slide and the Macarena. It was an amazing experience and I think I got just as much out of the seminar as the youth did.

The only difficulty of visiting a new community is that everyone wants to feed you. I would start my mornings with breakfast and only one cup of chai was never acceptable. Approximately two hours later it was time to take a chai break… yet another cup of chai. Then a few hours later it was time for lunch. If you do not fill your plate, you will be asked to please take more. Then for dessert you will be asked to take a mango, then a banana, and then an orange because you haven’t had one of those yet. Then another few hours later it is time for more chai. On one of these days we went to visit some members of the community at their homes and I ended up eating two lunches because it is impolite to refuse food when it is prepared for your visit. I came back to the parish with a bloated stomach to drink more chai and then force myself to eat dinner.  I don’t think I will eat for a week now…

I had such a wonderful weekend dancing, singing, and both teaching and learning from this group of young people. I know some of them will do great things in Kenya.

A little Christmas cheer

I had a wonderful two weeks at my peace corps training. It was nice to have a chance to be in Nairobi… which feels more and more like America. It was also nice to spend time with my fellow Americans. I got to drink a real vanilla latte and “real” beer on tap. I also ate some protein for the first time since I killed my last chicken (about a month ago) and took hot showers (sometimes twice a day… just because I could). It’s always hard coming back to taking bucket baths, dealing with lots of bugs (sometimes in my food), and struggling with cultural and language barriers being the only white person in my rural village.

I expected to feel a little depressed coming back to the village but I wasn’t prepared for what I would find. I spent my entire Peace Corps stipend and then some in Nairobi so coming back to the village I had just enough money to pick up my packages from the post office and for transportation to my house. Of course I came home on Sunday when the post office was closed so after I paid for my transport back to my house, I didn’t have enough left over to go back to town and pick them up the next day. That’s just how it goes I thought; I’ll get to my packages eventually. Little did I know there had been no rain while I was gone and my outside water tank was completely empty. Also, there had been a lot of male circumcisions while I was gone and the staff used my gas for the autoclave to sterilize the surgical equipment which also left my gas tank completely empty. So here I am, in the middle of a Kenyan village with no water, no way of cooking my food. I am left with one half-full indoor water tank which I need for washing two weeks’ worth of clothes, bathing (although it would be cold because I have no way to heat my water), and drinking. That also leaves my food choices to milk, peanuts, raw oatmeal and jelly. I figured people eat raw oatmeal in granola bars and such, so I poured milk over it like cereal and added a little jelly to flavor for breakfast. It wasn’t awful but I had to eat something because I was going to spend my whole day walking around the village for our last round of the polio vaccination campaign. Was I internally freaking out about what I was going to eat or how I was going to solve my problem of not being able to cook my food? Of course I was. Was there anything I could do about it? Not really. I didn’t have any money to buy gas, let alone pay for the transport to get to town and back with my 50lb. gas tank. Also, the way Kenya works, there was no guarantee that if I went to town, that there would even be gas at the station for me. It seems to be a rare commodity and difficult to get when you need it.

I had already searched my Peace Corps cook book for ways to make “no-bake” granola bars with my peanut butter and oatmeal when Sister Mien came up to me and said “I’m sorry the clinic had to use your gas. They have gas in Rongo and I’d like to go fill up your tank for you.” I asked to go along in order to pick up my packages. Now here I sit with a full tank of gas, warm water for my bucket bath, and I’m listening to my favorite Christmas music with a Christmas tree smelling candle burning and more food and snacks than I could eat in a month.

Buffalo Jerky, twislers, butter and cheddar flavored seasonings, boxed macaroni and cheese, and did I mention the candle that smells like a Christmas tree? I guess everything happens for a reason and I couldn’t feel happier or more loved. Thanks for keeping me going and Merry Christmas.

Traveling Kenya

I was doing the final touches of packing for my trip to In Service Training (IST) in Limuru for two weeks. I looked out my windows and happened to see groups of people (mostly men) walking around with spears, sticks (that look like clubs), and pangas (a machete type knife). I didn’t think much of it because there had been a group of men with dogs that had been wandering around my village hunting with their dogs earlier in the week. I assumed it was just a BIG hunting party. I was finally packed up and on my way out of the village when I came to the junction that is one kilometer from the dispensary to see a large mob. This mob consisted of men and women of all ages with their hands full of spears, sticks, and pangas forming a circle around a few individuals. There were so many people it was impossible for me to pass and I had to wait for the mob to die down to continue on my way. My co-worker explained to me that there had been a few robberies in my village that night and all of the villagers had come together to hunt down and capture the people responsible. Those guilty thieves were now in the center of this angry mob and tensions were high. There is a way of handling such situations in Kenya called mob justice. Mob justice is where a group of people severely beat or kill a guilty party for whatever reason and there are no repercussions for their actions. If a mob kills someone, the police simply pick up the body and the mob goes on with their day. Now I am standing at the junction with no way of passing and wondering if I am going to see some people beat to death in front of my very eyes. Luckily the police arrived, nobody died (that I know of) and I was able to pass and continue on my way.

The junction in my village

The next leg of my journey I am traveling on a matatu. A matatu is Kenya’s form of public transportation in which they pack 14 to 24 people into a 11 seater van. There are typically people hanging out the doors and it feels like a rollercoaster as the driver speeds down an unpaved dirt road littered with pot-holes. This drive normally takes 2 hours, but today it was took me almost 4 hours due to bad road conditions, and the frequent stops to pack more people in. I had almost reached my destination for the first leg of my trip when the matatu was stopped by a piece of rope stretched across the road. This is a common way to stop traffic for police to check vehicles for correct registration or to charge a fare to continue down the road. Our matatu was stopped because we had an illegal amount of people inside and I could hear the police officer yelling in Swahili for the driver to pay him a bribe in order to let us pass. “Leta Pesa!! Leta Pesa!” The man working the door and the driver both jumped out of the car and started yelling back in the police officers face. Some passengers jumped ship and disappeared into the woodworks. Then to top it all off, the entire side door to the matatu fell off. I eventually made it to my destination after the door was put back on the vehicle. It was just a reminder that you should never be in a hurry to get anywhere in Kenya. I am getting a lot of practice in patience and no day goes by without a little cultural experience.

Children

I have had the chance to witness a few funerals in Kenya and continue to be amazed at the stark differences from what I am used to. When someone dies it does not matter how little money a family has, they spare no expense when it comes to the day of the funeral. The body will sit in a mortuary for a few days while arrangements are made. The evening before the burial (what we call a wake) you can hear people wailing and screaming long into the night. The more people who gather and wail represent a sort of status symbol of the person who has passed. The next day the family home will have tents, plastic chairs, and speakers set up all around. People will come from every corner of Kenya to attend a funeral with buses sometimes chartering people in. There will be music blasting as the people gather and drink the soda (a posh luxury) that the family provides. If it was the husband who died, he is to be buried on the right side of the house. If it is his wife, she will be buried on the left side of the house. Often there is a procession of people, and buses, making noise, wailing, and screaming as the body is moved from the mortuary to the family home where a crowd has already gathered throwing their arms in the air and singing while the music is blaring from the speakers. Another key ingredient is livestock. Cows and goats must be brought to the gravesite, and if it was the husband who died, one will be sacrificed. The coffin will then be lowered into the hole that has been dug on the appropriate side of the house and the family will provide a meal for everyone who attended the funeral. The meal that is provided is comparable to what would be served on a major holiday such as Christmas. Chickens, goats, or a cow will be killed, sodas will be passed out to all, and people will eat and sing and dance often into the late hours of the night. I have been kept awake all night to the thumping bass of reggae tunes as funeral attendees danced up until 7am the next morning.

I was sharing my story about what funerals are like in America with one of my colleagues when it occurred to me to ask the question “what do they do when a child dies?” Most families have ungodly amounts of children to which they cannot afford the healthcare for. In my home visits during the polio campaign a man told me he wanted nine children, and the reason was because if three of them die he is still left with six. This is both a testament to the high rates of child mortality but also to the value of a child’s life within the family structure. The answer to my question of “what do they do when a child dies” was just as dismal as the question itself. When a child dies, they are buried that day or the very next. They are placed in a coffin and buried somewhere behind the house or a short distance from the family home. They are not taken to a mortuary and there is no money spent on a funeral. A few family members may gather to say a prayer as the coffin is lowered into the hole. The end.

Super Women

I have recently started the third round of Polio vaccinations around my village. My crew consists of a local volunteer who knows the villages and homes inside and out. Second is my colleague Emmanuel, and then myself who give the oral polio vaccine drops and mark the children’s fingernails. We joke that the day is not finished unless we have crossed at least one river, there has been a marriage proposal, and I have made at least one child scream and cry in terror at my skin color. My crowning achievement today was convincing our community volunteer that my blood is blue. He was going on and on about how he wanted to marry a “white lady” and his defense was that our blood is all red and all the same it’s just that our skin looks different because of our environment. Without going into details about the circulatory system, oxygenated vs. deoxygenated blood, veins vs. arteries, etc. I point blank told him my blood is actually blue, not red. I wish I could have taken a picture of this 20-something year old man staring wide-eyed at the veins in my arm saying “I don’t believe it” over and over. I didn’t feel a need to clear anything up especially after this guy had been making chauvinistic comments all morning about the women in the village. For example, he was talking about this woman who was “not right” and when I asked what was wrong with her he went on to explain “oh, it’s because she is divorced.”  Women in Kenya are purchased with a dowry and I found out today that a woman’s value is based on education, physical ability, and fertility. How the fertility part is determined I’m not sure because a virgin can be worth as many as 50 cows, while a “used” woman is worth maybe one cow plus a goat and will be married to an old man. In my many marriage proposals I always tell the men who think they want to marry a “white lady” the same thing; they would not be able to effectively woo an American woman. I am so proud to have grown up in a time and place where I have rights to choose the kind of life I want and not be valued based on my womb. I do have a lot of respect for the women who build their homes, bear and rear their 10 children, cook, clean, work in the fields, and follow their traditions without a word of complaint. They are truly super women.

Poverty and Materialism

It's strange because peace corps has made me both more and less materialistic at the same time. I see people who literally have nothing. Their children have no shoes and walk around in shredded clothing that are so threadbare they can hardly be called clothes. They also can’t afford a uniform or pay school fees to go to school and end up being uneducated and exactly where their parents are; Poor and destitute. It makes me feel selfish and rich with all the varieties of food in my cupboard. My stipend amounts to about $190 a month which seems like nothing compared to what I would make as a nurse in America. However, in Kenya, a man can work as a night guard and be paid approximately $20 a month and has to make that stretch to feed his 6 children at home. I don’t even want to guess what the farmers in my village take home each month when they are selling me avocados for 5 cents each and a bag of tomatoes for 20 cents.

 On the other side of things I appreciate material things more than I ever did back at home. Things like a nice shower, candy, starbucks coffee, cheese, new clothes, a nice phone, etc. I count down the days until I get paid again so I can buy myself little luxuries or to take a little trip out of my village. I find myself living for those little luxuries.  I guess it’s the idea that the grass is always greener on the other side, or you always want what you can’t have. I go weeks without cheese in my village (because I don’t have electricity to support a fridge, AND there is no cheese for at least 40 miles). When I finally see cheese, I don’t even think twice about spending $3-5 on a block of it (an unimaginable expense for rural villagers). How is it that amidst some of the most tragic poverty I have ever experienced, I am still craving an eggnog latte and would gladly pay any amount of money to get one?

Tradition vs. Education

A man and his wife came to our clinic a few days ago to be tested for HIV at the VCT (voluntary counseling and testing) center. The woman had been feeling ill off and on and the two decided to come in to be tested, even though they had both tested negative a few months ago. The results are in and the woman starts crying as they are both faced with positive results. What happened in those past few months you might ask? The tribe in my village is Luo and they practice a cultural tradition called “wife inheritance.” Ultimately this means that if a woman is left a widow following the death of her husband she is inherited by one of her husband’s brothers. I can understand how this practice was beneficial since women are not allowed to own property and therefore it is essential to their survival to be absorbed into an existing family. Unfortunately if the death of her husband was because of HIV/AIDs, it is just shy of a death sentence for the family that inherits such a woman. In the case of my couple who tested positive for HIV, their polygamist family had inherited a 4^th wife recently following the death of the man’s brother. Furthermore, it gets even more complicated because one of the younger wives had just given birth and without the administration of prophylactic antiretroviral medication (the medication that prevents transmission of the HIV virus across the placenta and through breast milk) this baby is probably infected as well. Within a matter of months this virus practically destroyed an entire family because of tradition. Luckily we have a program at our clinic to dispense free antiretrovirals for this family to live a relatively normal, healthy life. But that’s the easy part; the family must first ALL get tested, accept the results, walk to the clinic diligently each month to get their medication, take their medication exactly as prescribed (which is often 2-5 drugs sometimes twice a day per person), eat a well-balanced diet, and rise above the stigma that goes along with the diagnosis. I can’t even imagine the strength it takes to do all of that especially when you are dealing with poverty where most often food and shelter come before medication and health. So if this family is forced to choose between harvesting their sugarcane and walking to the clinic… the sugar is going to win.

Danger

Before I left for Kenya many people said the same thing to me “be careful.”  Well there is danger no matter what country you are in and it’s something I have always been conscious of in all the countries I have visited. I guess the danger I expected is not what has presented itself.

I have been enjoying my morning 5k runs. This means I wake up around 6:30 and take a leisurely jog down the road from my house to the next town, Ringa, and back. It is the one time during the day where the temperature is perfect, there is no rain, and the sun has just risen. I wave to people working out in their fields and smile at the kids walking to school. The best part is that I don’t have to talk to anyone, I can just stay in my simple little world and get away from the clinic where I spend all the other 23 hours of my day. My neighbor Emmanuel came to my door the other night and said some people in my village had heard some of the young men in Ringa talking about me and that they had “bad intentions.” When I thought about the dangers of coming to Kenya I knew being attacked, assaulted, or mugged was something I was going to have to be cautious of. However, am I a target because I run? Because I’m a girl? Because I’m the only white person for miles around? I guess what bothers me so much is that in America I could stand a chance of being attacked after dark walking back to my apartment, but this would be a crime of opportunity. It feels different knowing someone is specifically targeting me and plotting a strategy to catch me, like prey. I’m sure these punk kids are just shooting their mouth off, but it still means I have to be extra cautious and stay closer to home or take someone with me if I walk around. My only mirror is 5x5in and hangs in the far corner of my room, so I guess I sometimes forget how conspicuous my white skin and light hair are.

For those of you who keep up with international news, you may have heard that Kenya declared war on Somalia over the weekend. To sum it all up, there is a terrorist group called Al Shabab that has been kidnapping and attacking tourists on the coast of Kenya and along the Kenya-Somalia border. In order to protect the tourism industry and safety of Kenya, the government is fighting back. In response, Al Shabab has threatened to “take down tall buildings in Nairobi.” It may not mean the same thing to the Kenyans, but all it makes me think of is 9-11. Luckily I’m tucked away in a tiny village on the far Southwestern side of Kenya. It kind of makes the kids in Ringa seem like small stuff though. You may have heard different things in the news over the past year with negative comments about Peace Corps, but I just want to say amidst all this “danger” I feel incredibly safe. We have an amazing Safety and Security team that keeps us up to date on safety issues around the country and who also personally called me and my supervisor to investigate my personal safety in my village. It’s nice to know I have an entire team at my disposal. For those of you that told me to “be careful,” I promise I will continue to do so.

Delicacies of Kenya

I have had the opportunity to try many different foods in all the countries I have visited.

Gibnut: Belize (Small wild guinnea pig type rodent)

Jerk Chicken: Jamaica

Termites: Guatemala (The tiny ones found in trees and they taste like mint)

Chicken cartilage and Octopus: Japan

Tatarak: Czech Republic (Raw ground beef patty covered in a raw egg yolk)

Wild Boar: Hawaii

Cream Cheese Hot Dogs: Seattle, WA

My palate in Kenya has been a strange mixture of local and “lets see if this goes together” type of foods.

Githeri (Nyoyo): This is by far my favorite Kenyan dish. It consists of beans and corn being boiled together for hours. For those of you that know how I love my corn, you know I can’t go wrong! Give me a bowl of this stuff and a cup of chai and it’s a meal!

Matumbo: While learning Swahili, I was also learning the different names for foods. One fateful lunch I accidentally ordered this dish instead of the bowl of beans I had intended. I was horrified to receive a bowl of steaming cow intestine. Mmmm. One bite was enough, and I sent it back for beans.

Samaki (fish): For those of you that know me well, know that fish has never been a food of choice for me. I have sampled some of the finest Pacific Northwest Salmon and had homemade fried fish that I caught myself in a Minnesota Lake. I have tried it all, and never had a taste for it. Strangely enough what started out as an “I’ll eat it out of respect” turned into a genuine enjoyment of Lake Victoria’s sweet Tilapia. While visiting one of the Islands out in Lake Victoria, I found myself eating an entire fish for lunch and dinner.

Peanuts: My staple food. When you go to the supermarket at home and buy a bag of peanuts, you have no appreciation for what goes in to producing that nice, dried, edible nut. When a neighbor gave me a plastic bag of peanuts dug up from the ground I had no idea what to do with them. For your information they can be shelled, boiled and eaten immediately. They can also be dried, shelled, rinsed, then baked and eaten.  Seems like a lot of work, but sometimes I have nothing better to do than sit on my porch and shell peanuts (that I must then rinse and bake before eating).

Kuku (chicken): Another food that you take for granted that you can just take it home and eat it; or just buy the pieces you want to eat. Here in Kenya, $2-3 will buy you an entire chicken. The catch is that you have to slaughter it, pluck it, chop it up, and then decide what you want to do with it. I would give anything to cut a chicken open and discover its body is entirely composed of white breast meat! You know how people in America pay almost double the price for a chicken that is “free-range Organic.” Well, they can take my stringy, lean, tiny breasted chicken and I will gladly take the genetically modified, steroidally enhanced,  and juicy 2lb breasted chicken that has done nothing but sit in its pretty little cage. Sad, I know.

Meat: About 80 cents will buy me ¼ kilo of pure beef. Most Kenyans prefer the fatty pieces, so I can get a pretty nice cut for a good price. The only problem is that all the meat in Kenya tastes like a rotten, rancid, piece of gamey mystery meat. How on earth do we get our meat in America to taste like meat? Is this how meat really tasted before we regulated our cattle’s diet and pumped them with antibiotics? Anybody know how to turn a dead animal into a tasty meal?

Salad: The one thing Kenya does really well is garden fresh produce. The carrots are the sweetest carrots I have ever tasted. The green peppers and tomatoes have such powerful flavors that you hardly need more than olive oil and a little salt to call it a salad. Every person has their own chamba (garden) in which they grow what they need. It is fantastic. Now, if I could only get the people in my village to grow more than just kale, tomatoes, and onions.

Termites: Enjoying a warm beer I see a woman walk into the bar with a giant tub of “snacks.” These termites were essentially tasteless except for the salt on them. The bad part was how juicy their bodies were… like those gushers fruit snacks. The worst part was that some of them were not dead yet. It was awful having to watch the few live ones struggle to walk over the graveyard of dead ones in my plastic bag.

Obama: Because everything in Nyanza province begins and ends with Obama.

Me: “I’m from America.”

Kenyan: “Oh you mean you are from Obama’s country?”

Another Kenyan: “Ah, you are from the land of Obama!”

On another note, the only English spoken during my 5 hours in church today was when everyone shouted: “Yes we can!”

Things you just do not expect

It’s a Friday night and I’m going to meet my friends in the town of Kisii tomorrow so I can’t wait to fall asleep. The only problem is that there is a funeral in the soccer field that is literally 100 meters outside my bedroom window. When I say funeral, I mean a Luo funeral which to the untrained ear could sound more like a wedding or a crazy block party. I kept looking at my clock wondering how late the bass would bumping and how long I would have to lay awake listening to someone yelling into a loudspeaker while blasting Kenyan and reggae tunes. I remember thinking, the sun will start coming up at 6am and people have to start heading home by then right? I was absolutely wrong and the music continued until I left for Kisii the following morning at 9am. Needless to say, I was completely exhausted and sleep deprived as I walked myself to my bathroom to use the toilet and wash up a little bit.

My “toilet” is a grand porcelain looking bowl that is cemented into the floor. It can be “flushed” by pouring a few pitchers of water into it and gravity does the rest. I have become accustomed to using it and really have no problem squatting and doing my business. Today was different. I was squatting down and happened to see what looked like a tarantula claw crawling out of the dark hole and making its way up the side of the porcelain bowl. I jumped up mid-stream and backed up towards the door to the bathroom to try and figure out what in the world was in my toilet. From my vantage point with my back against the door and my tired, bloodshot eyes trying to make out the shape of this creature, I determined it was either a rat or a bat and I had not the patience or energy to deal with it.

Upon my return on Sunday my bat friend was still clutching the sides of the toilet bowl but unable to climb out. I determined it was a bat because I used my camera to take a closer look at the thing without having to be physically so close. I guess I figured having it nearly between my legs the day before was as close as I ever cared to get to it again. I kindly asked my co-worker to help me with a “problem” and he came to remove the creature from my toilet. With two long sticks he picked up the bat, brought it outside and smashed its head against a rock as it let out a little batty squeak. Before coming to Africa there were many things that I mentally prepared myself for: feeling dirty, living without running water or electricity, getting sick etc. Peeing on a bat that was stuck in my squat toilet was definitely not on any such list…

Village Polio Vaccinations

I wake up in the morning, strap on my chaco sandals, fortify myself with a big breakfast (today it was rice with milk and cinnamon, an Avocado the size of my head, and some tea), pack my bag full of water, a PB&J,  sliced carrots, and I’m ready. We do a thorough check to make sure we have the right paperwork and all the vaccines have been put in the cooler and begin the morning walk.

Me and Emmanuel drew the map of the village we were going to today and I’m lucky he knows where we are going because our map consisted of a square with the name “Aguom” on it. There are no paved roads or landmarks where we are going other than the river that we would have to cross to get to some of the homes. We walk down dirt trails, cross through corn fields, and I joke that it is like we are on a scavenger hunt because once we reach a house we have to ask them where the next house is. It’s like we are picking up little clues as we go along. Some of the homes are as long as 10 minutes walk from each other. We are searching for every child we can find under the age of 5 to give them the polio vaccine. At our clinic we vaccinate against the Polio 1 strain, but the outbreak in our village was of the Polio 3 strain and we must try and reach as many children as possible to vaccinate against both strains. The polio vaccination is easy because all you have to do is drop 2 drops in the child’s mouth. We then record the child on our tally sheet, mark their left pinky finger with a henna marker and write a code on the door to their home to signify we have been there. I used my limited Luo to greet the families, thank them or say goodbye; most chuckle and smile saying “Oh you know Luo!” I suppose my three words have now made me fluent in the language. We walk in the sun for hours, without food or bathroom breaks, and I soon realize the sunscreen I put on is probably not sufficient. I can see the dirt and scratches on my legs from bushwhacking from house to house and my favorite part was the “bridge” we had to cross. It was like something from Dirty Dancing; just logs thrown across to bridge the gap between land. I was also amused by the children who shriek in fear of me. Yesterday the small toddler covered her eyes when she saw me and started wailing and crying when I came close. Today it was a small boy who was around 3 years old. His mother had to chase after him through the field because he ran away when he saw me. He was thrashing around in his mother’s arms trying to get away and screaming at the top of his lungs when I got close. I had to let Emmanuel do everything (vaccination and mark the child) because he would only calm down when I walked away. I suppose if I saw a green skinned person in Seattle, I might be taken aback or wonder what sort of disease they had etc.

I finally ate my lunch on the walk home and though my feet were aching and I could feel the tingle of sunburn on my skin, my heart was full. For the second day in a row, we vaccinated over 100 kids!

Chenin Blanc and Cheddar Cheese

Home Sweet Home

The clinic where I live and work. My room is the yellow door in the middle behind the tree.

I live despairingly far away from civilization. I am 12 kilometers from the nearest town which houses a supermarket and since I will be kicked out of the Peace Corps if I ride a pikipiki (motorcycle) into town AND since it would take me almost 3 hours round trip to ride my bike to town, gets dark at 6:30pm, and I get off work at 4pm, do the math… I am pretty far away from some of the basic things I need to survive on (like wheat bread, oatmeal, sunflower oil, rice etc.). On Wednesdays and Sundays I have the fortune of walking 15 minutes to a local market for: tomato, kale, oranges, bananas, and potatoes. If I am lucky they have onions or eggs, maybe both if it’s not raining. Oh yeah, and it rains just about every afternoon.  What I am getting at, is that it’s imperative to my nutritional status for me to stock up on some key non-perishable items that I, both, like to eat and know how to cook. It’s also imperative to my sanity that I get a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips every once in a while.  I was getting low on food for consumption which lead me to make a version of “fried rice,” but all I had to put in it was garlic, tomato, eggs, and soy sauce. It really turned out to be a sort of salty Spanish rice with egg in it. I broke down and asked sister Tina to take me to Rongo or Kisii the next time she was driving there.

Today was that day. We drove the 30 minute drive to Kisii so I could do some shopping at the Nakumat  and Tuskys (Kenya’s versions of walmart). Sister had told me she wanted to get her internet modem fixed, so I ran my errands around town going to the bank and stocking up on minutes for my phone while she did her computer stuff. We then went to the Tuskys right in town to do some grocery shopping. Sister said to me, and I quote, “oh I don’t need much. I really don’t need to do any shopping.” I assured her that I had a list and knew what I wanted and promised to be in-and-out. We agreed to meet in the front of the store when we were both finished. In a somewhat leisurely yet focused pace, I expertly managed my way through the store picking up each and every item I needed to fill my cupboards. I finished my shopping, paid for my items and walked to the front of the store to drink my yogurt. Yes, I had to drink my yogurt because it’s nice and runny here in Kenya and I frankly didn’t care because it’s the first time I have had yogurt in a couple months. I honestly didn’t even think twice when I realized the seal was broken and parts of the yogurt were dried spilling out of the top of the lid. I’ll let you know if I get sick… it’s supposed to be “good” bacteria right? I stood there waiting for sister Tina.

Waiting in the front of a busy store in Kenya is no easy task. There are young Kenyan men that walk up to say “How are you” attempting conversation but can’t go much further than that. There are men who stare from a distance. I’m talking about the stalker sort of attempting-to-lock-eyes-but-continually-alternating-glances-from-head-to-toe-while-slowly-turning-their-body-towards-you-and-winking-or-head-knodding-in-attempts-to-make-the-staring-more-intense kind of stalker creepy. I sometimes forget that my skin looks so different because the people in my village are so welcoming, and I don’t have a mirror to constantly remind me of what I look like. However, there is nothing like a good waiting period in front of a busy store to remind you that your skin is blindingly white, your hair is yellow and fluffy, and no matter how hard you try to dress like the locals… you always look funny. I had a nice conversation with Adam on the phone which helped me escape for a little bit. After our chat, the security guard graciously brought me a plastic chair to sit in. I didn’t even realize how tired my legs were, or how long I had actually been standing there. The guys bagging groceries were taking turns staring at me, in that creepy stalker way, and I exchanged glances with almost everyone who entered the store. I looked at my watch only to realize I had been standing, now sitting, in front of this store for an hour! What happened to “I don’t really need to do any shopping?” What on gods green earth was sweet 4 foot tall sister Tina doing? This place was hardly a quarter the size of an American grocery store and she lives here, so she can’t be nearly as star-struck as I get with the “bounty” of stuff on the shelves?  More staring and nodding from the grocery baggers.  No marriage proposals yet, but it could have only been a matter of time. Thankfully I see the tippy top of Tina’s head in one of the checkout lines. Grocery list obviously included: 3 loafs of bread, shoes, rice, sanitary pads and a garden hose. Nice.

It started to rain on our way home, like it does almost every afternoon. But, it was the nice kind of rain. It was the kind of rain where the sky opens up in a downpour, but you can still see the sun shining. As we got closer to home I had one of those “I can’t believe I live here” moments. My village is beautiful, lush and green. Sometimes it reminds me of Maui because there are velvety green rolling hills and fields of sugar cane and banana. Kenya definitely has its ups and downs. I may not be eating the foods that I want to or enjoying all the pleasures of life. But I have learned that nothing could make me happier right now than a beautiful sunset, warm cheddar cheese, and a room temperature glass of Chenin Blanc.

Sunset at the field behind the clinic



Things I’ve forgotten were not “normal”:

Every culture has its own set of beliefs, values, and sense of what behavior is acceptable. I can imagine my Kenyan counterparts have their own list of “things the strange Mzungu does.” As I have come to adapt to the culture I realized there are some things that have stopped surprising me and I have taken them to be “normal.”

1.       Masai men can be seen in traditional dress (i.e. red robes, beaded jewelry, and a stick) walking down any street.

2.       “How are you” is used as a general greeting and not meant to actually find out how you are doing.

3.       The response to “how are you” is ALWAYS “I am fine” no matter what.

4.       Tea, or chai is compulsory.

5.       “No” means “yes” especially when a man is asking a woman on a date.

6.       “You look smart” does not mean you look intelligent, and often times it actually is used to mean you look strange, or ill-dressed.

7.       Washing clothes should be done bent over a bucket on the ground without any sign of a bend in your knees.

8.       If you feel tired, you have malaria.

9.       If you have a fever, you have malaria.

10.   If you have a headache, you have malaria.

11.   A western style toilet is of no practical use if it does not flush.

12.   When a meeting is scheduled to begin at 10AM, no one is expected until 10:30 or 11.

13.   If a gathering is planned from 10AM-1PM, at least a quarter of the participants will arrive at 1PM.

14.   If an individual does not know the answer to a question, an answer will be made up and vehemently defended without regard to common sense. This is often seen when asking directions.

15.   When asking directions the answer is always “it is near” whether the destination is 10 feet or 10 miles away.

16.   Small children think white skin feels different than black skin.

17.   There is no time limit for blatant staring.

18.   Plastic garbage bags make perfectly fine rain coats.

19.   It is acceptable to write IOU’s for services rendered.

20.   It is perfectly acceptable to say you do not have change.

21.   Upon arriving at a shop to buy goods one must first locate a small child who will then be sent to find the shop owner.  Approximately 10-20 minutes later once the shop owner has arrived one must search their vocabulary to determine the appropriate language to speak.  After being told that this particular bread shop does not have any bread to speak of, one must thank the shop owner and hope for better results tomorrow.

22.   A menu at a restaurant is merely for decoration.

23.   Oranges are not orange.

24.   A meal without 3 types of starch is not considered a meal.

25.   Beer is sold, served, and drank at room temperature. In Kenya this is typically 75 degrees F.

26.   Ice does not exist.

27.   Despite the abundance of tomatoes, ketchup is labeled “tomato sauce” and generally has the taste and consistency of pink unflavored gelatin.

28.   Work ceases if it is “too cold” or raining.

29.   Dogs are an annoying creature that should be beaten, not fed, and expected to guard the home.

30.   If you see a place to wash your hands, do not expect soap. If you find soap, do not expect it to be clean. If you do happen find soap that is not covered with dirt, do not expect it to be there tomorrow.

31.   If you ask any public transit where they are going, they will immediately ask you where YOU are going and claim that is where they are headed.

32.   There is no such thing as customer service.

33.   If you order eggs and bread for breakfast, do not expect eggs and bread.

34.   If you are purchasing 6 tomatoes and have established a price, after paying you then ask the seller to “add a little” to which you will  be given one or two additional small tomatoes.

35.   Something is wrong with you if you do not own land and grow crops regardless of profession.

I could quite honestly continue forever... but i'm sure thats enough for now.

It's a girl!

Today was a fantastic day. I woke up and started my day with a few lunges and crunches in my little home. It felt good to get the blood pumping a little bit. This was followed by a failed attempt at french toast so I had the usual oatmeal instead and the best cup of coffee I’ve had in a long time. My French press makes a whopping 12 cup so I took my time enjoying about 5 of those. There is something therapeutic about having a 9am start to your work day and it’s especially easy when you live at your work place. Needless to say, I was feeling pretty good.

I started in the maternal-child health clinic where I assessed a few expectant mothers measuring their bellies and listening to the fetus’s heart rate through an old school looking cone shaped device. I always feel like I’m back in the 1800’s when I use that thing. Then I registered a few babies while sister Gaudie administered their immunizations. As soon as we cleared the line, I walked to the main clinic to see if anyone needed help. The woman who was in a motorcycle accident a few days ago was back again to get her dressings changed. Emmanuel, the lab tech guy, was about to do the dressing change and I could tell he was relieved that I stepped in for him. She has 5 major wounds on her knees and all over her face. They have been improving pretty well considering all I have to work with is iodine and gauze to dress the wounds. (I’d give anything for some santyl or collagenase right now for all you nurses out there). I can’t communicate with this woman in words because she is older and only speaks Luo but I try and be as gentle as possible while I’m exfoliating the dead skin off her cheek and she smiles at me, knowing I’m doing the best I can. I’m not sure how far she has to walk to get to the clinic, but I know she has been coming diligently every day since her accident to pay approximately 50 cents (that she probably doesn’t have) to pay for treatment.

In the next room over, we have an 18 year old girl who has been in labor since last night. Her contractions started to become stronger around lunchtime and after her water broke, I knew it wouldn’t be too much longer before we had a new baby in the world! Now some of the Kenyan women I have seen in labor hardly make a sound and you wouldn’t even know they were giving birth until you hear the newborn baby cry. This birth was not one of them… Nurse Pheobe was on the business end of things making sure she was fully dilated and checking for the head to show up. Our mother-to-be asked me for water which she threw all over herself as she thrashed around on the bed. She almost pulled her IV out and she was clutching me for dear life with each round of contractions. Pheobe yelled at the girl telling her she was going to kill the baby if she didn’t push like she was supposed to. I did my best to comfort our new mommy by letting her grab onto me and helping her push with each contraction. After what seemed like eternity, we had a new beautiful baby girl!

Another mom had given birth on her way to the hospital, so after getting mom #1 settled in bed with her baby, I got to weigh and assess baby #2 while Sister Gaudie took a look at the mom. I think I was the most excited person in the whole clinic as I proudly announced that there were “two beautiful baby girls” to the people in the waiting room who understood nothing of what I said. The day wrapped up with a flashlight and tweezers as Sister Suzie asked me to take the “insect” out of her ear. Unfortunately it had crawled back into the depths of her ear before I could take it out. Now I am just waiting for the houseboy from the convent to bring me my chicken to slaughter for dinner tonight. My mouth is watering already. All in all, I couldn’t ask for more today.

Mom #1

Mom #2

Polio outbreaks and fish

The news came to me while I was gone this weekend and it felt like I was getting a telegram from the 1930’s or something! There was a confirmed case of polio in a 3 year old girl at the Rongo District Hospital. It seems so strange that there is a CURE for this disease, yet the newsletter accurately stated that Polio will continue to be a threat to the world if even one child has it. Time to beef up on the vaccinations!

On a lighter note, I would like to describe my weekend get-away to Mfungano Island. Me, brother Richard and four of the sisters hopped in their car at 6am Saturday morning. I got to witness a beautiful sunrise around 6:30 and we had an impromptu breakfast at the side of the road where I shared the left-over fried chicken I made the night before. (I chopped the head off with a dull knife… it took nearly twice as long as it should have because the knife was so dull. Pictures say a thousand words, so check out the chronicles on facebook). We then had to take an hour and a half boat ride from the town of Mbita across Lake Victoria before finally reaching the Island. It was so nice to be near the water. I find myself truly missing the sound, feel and look of being around water. I almost felt as though I was riding through the San Juan Islands at home, except the boat was really more of a ramshackle canoe so that brought me back to Africa real quick.

We got a tour of the Catholic Church compound, health clinic, and youth center and ate our second breakfast. Next we walked down to the lake shore and I taught the sisters how to skip rocks. It was nice to bask in the sunlight a little, even though I was covered from head to toe with my long skirt and blouse. Then we were called back for lunch, and since fish is such a prized possession around the lake, I ate and actually enjoyed a nice fillet of Tilapia. Those of you who know me best probably won’t believe me when I say this, but I ate fish for lunch and dinner two days straight this weekend. The father then took us again to the lake shore to help the locals fish. This consists of spending, sometimes, over an hour dragging in a single net that has been deposited on the opposite side of the lake. It makes you appreciate where the fish comes from after getting blisters on your hands and feeling tired after only a single hour. These people do this from sunrise to sunset day after day. It was incredible to watch, and help! At one point during a stroll down the beach there were two young boys (maybe 3 years old) who came running as fast as they could to meet us yelling “muzungu, muzungu, amosi, amosi!” That means hey white girl, I greet you. Sister Gaudie thought it was so funny that they wrapped their arms around my legs like they knew me and then persisted to follow me around for the next few hours. I almost had a small child wrapped around every one of my fingers during our stroll.

We went back to the compound for porridge while we waited for dinner to be ready.  I honestly felt like I was at grandma and grandpas house because all these Kenyans wanted to do was feed me every scrap of home cookin’ they could! The food and hospitality was amazing. At church the next morning I was asked to introduce myself to the congregation, then the father announced to everyone that “Christina will be bringing her parents here next year!” FYI mom and dad… I ate more, and ate more, until it was finally time to leave. I’m sure I will fall into a deep sleep tonight.

Like Niagara falls but...

My life at the dispensary has been filled with ups and downs; often both within the same day. My first three months at my site I am supposed to be preparing my “Community Needs Assessment” report for Peace Corps. This involves making a map of my community and tracking different social calendars such as when schools are in session, when people are busy harvesting or planting crops, and tracking the history and development of my community. There is no science for how this is done and since I have yet to be able to have a conversation in Luo, most of my research has to be done simply by observation. Most of my “down” days are when I sit around the clinic all day waiting for something to happen, counting down the hours until lunch, and then counting down the hours until the work day is over so I can stop trying to look productive and crawl under my mosquito net and watch movies on my computer. If I had grand visions of what Peace Corps is, this was not it. It is these days that I question why I am here, and it’s on these days that I feel the pains of absolute boredom and loneliness.
A wise Peace Corps volunteer who served back in the 80’s once told me that if I ever felt like I wanted to go home, I should pack my bags but then wait three days. If I couldn’t find anything to keep me where I was after three days, then I should just throw in the towel and go home. I haven’t even considered packing my bags, but there are little things that happen every day that remind me of what he said. Each of these little things is enough to make me pack my bags in America and start this whole process over again to be where I am right now. I’d like to share a story from yesterday that encompasses several of those “little things.”
Monday morning:
I spent over 4 and ½ hours in church on Sunday. The Father asked me to stand in front of the whole congregation (100 or so people) to say a few words of introduction about myself and this was in the 4th hour. I had started counting the planks in the ceiling at this point because the whole service was in Luo, which I don’t understand yet, and the two hours of announcements where like white noise.  I needed food at the market, so after the service I ventured down to the nearest market while getting caught in a torrential downpour and ended up standing under a storefront for 3 hours to wait out the rain. Needless to say, I didn’t expect my Monday to be any better. Mondays never are right?
My alarm went off and I considered snoozing for a little bit because it was 8am and the clinic doesn’t get busy until at least 9. Unfortunately I heard Sister Gaudie’s voice outside my window and figured if my supervisor was already at the clinic I better get my butt in motion because it takes about an hour to make my oatmeal and coffee in the morning. And yes it really does take me an hour to make oatmeal because I have to pick all the little worms out of the oats before I cook them.  When I walked into the clinic to report for duty there was a big line-up of people waiting to be seen and a mother in labor who was resting in the delivery room. I jumped at the chance to not be sitting around bored today and sister Gaudie gave me a lesson in midwifery using our pregnant mother as the case study. This particular woman had been in labor for a few hours, it was her 5th child, she was 6cm dilated and her water had not broken yet. Sister informed me that with the rates of HIV in this area that it was recommended to keep the membranes intact for as long as possible to reduce the baby’s exposure to the HIV virus. I stress the words “as long as possible” because they truly were intact “as long as possible.” I was in the room next door waiting for a malaria blood smear to be analyzed in the lab when I heard Sister Gaudie call out “CHRIS, CHRIS!!!” (Most Kenyans shorten my name to Chris because it’s just easier to say). I ran into the delivery room to find the mother lying on her side and in literally a split second her water broke as the baby popped right out. It was basically Niagara falls but with blood, placenta, and a baby boy. Sister was holding the baby by his feet with one hand and trying to block the sprays of water and birth with her other hand. It was spectacular! We diagnosed several children with Malaria that day, and I finally got to see what the Plasmodium that causes Malaria looks like under a microscope.  This was not the Monday morning I thought I was waking up to.  I still feel like I am in the way sometimes and that I don’t have a clearly defined role at the dispensary yet, but it truly is the little moments like this particular Monday that remind me of the reasons I packed my bags in the first place.

Me at the rural outreach clinic assessing pregnant mothers.
 

Day one

I spent my first night in the house with the sisters. There are four sisters and two that are in training. They were so wonderful and welcoming that I instantly felt at home with them. They even celebrated my arrival with ice cream and cake from town! I had a great night of sleep and felt prepared to start my first day.

The beginning of day one started off with whole wheat bread covered in butter and honey, alongside cheese, chicken sausages, and REAL coffee made from a French press. This may not sound so exciting for everyone at home, but I’m sure all my fellow peace corps volunteers are drooling! It was absolutely amazing. I then walked down the dirt road to the dispensary (small clinic) where I will be living and working. I met the nurses and lab technician that I will be working alongside and we had a meeting to discuss our plans for the next few weeks. Shortly after I had arrived, I was asked if I wanted to see a circumcision performed. It is not the tradition in Kenya to circumcise children when they are born. In fact, IF it is tradition to perform circumcision in ones’ particular tribe, it is usually done as part of a “coming of age” ceremony when they are in their teens. However, in current research it has been shown that HIV transmission can be decreased by up to 60% if a man is circumcised, so young people are making the choice to be circumcised even if it is not part of their tribal traditions. The young boy who sat on the table today was probably around 14 years old. I still cannot even comprehend what must have been going through his head when they brought out the needle of lidocaine to numb him up. I’ve seen blood, guts, and surgery before, but there was something about the nonchalant manor in which they snip-snipped this young boy while joking around and not even closing the door to the room. I think I was more traumatized than the boy! The rest of my day went smoothly and I rode with the sisters the 12 kilometers into town to see what there was to see.

We first visited the Rongo District Hospital so the two sisters could get a paper signed for school. We sat outside the “outpatient department” which is this hospital’s version of the ER. I sat next to a mother and her 3 year old girl who was trying to get medication for malaria. The baby’s name was Sharon and we enjoyed a little game of pic-a-boo. Almost instantaneously a dark cloud rolled in with a clap of thunder and the sky exploded with rain. This must have been a prelude for what was about to unfold. A young man and a small boy raced up to the door of the outpatient department. This boy, who was probably 6 or 7 years old, stood in front of me sopping wet from rain, shaking violently and trying to hold back the tears as the tip of his tiny ring finger dangled by a strand in a bloody twisted mess. There was no mother to coddle him and tell him it would all be ok. There was just the young man who pushed him towards the door entrance after asking the rest of us if it was ok for him to cut in line.

Following my experience at the hospital, the two sisters and I went to town to pick up some things at the supermarket. We stopped briefly to watch a funeral procession parade down the street. There were a large group of people wailing, screaming, and waving tree branches… as is the custom for a funeral. Amongst what I had seen today and the torrential downpour, I was happy to make the drive back to the safe haven that is the sisters’ house.

Day Three

I spent my first night and cooked my first meal at my new home! I have three beautiful rooms at the dispensary. First is my bedroom. I have a bed, desk, dresser, and two chairs. It is spacious and the mattress is incredibly comfortable by Kenyan standards.

Next is my sitting room. I have a table, two chairs, a cupboard to put all my food and dishes, along with a bookshelf to store things. There is a little gecko that I’ve seen twice now every time I open one of the windows in this room. I think I’ll name him Ivan.

The third room is my kitchen. I have a gas stove with a working oven, a sink, counter top and small water tank. I have solar powered electricity but no running water. There is a door to the dispensary in this room and another door that leads out back. This is where I like to sit and watch the cows graze and children walk by. It’s a nice quiet escape and the views are excellent!