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