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?