Mambo! It has been about two weeks since I arrived in Kenya and already I feel “at home” here. Every morning I am woken up very early either by the neighbor’s rooster, the call to prayer from a nearby mosque (which usually begins around 4:30 or 5:00 and seems to never end), or Nina and Thomas (my ducks) fighting below my window on the patio.
Olypmic is always full of life with watoto (children) playing in the streets, men cooking nyama choma (roasted meat) and maihindi choma (roasted corn), women selling fruits (matunda) and vegetables (mboga) and dogs scrounging for scraps in every nook and cranny. On the way to school we (Sandy, Eve and I- which I will refer to as “the trio”) pass kiosks selling anything from charcoal to top up minutes for airtime on simu (cell phones). But out of all of the places that we pass, there is this one shop that stands out among the rest. It sits right on a curb where matatus suicidally come bounding up the hill honking for people to move out of the way. Its blue-chipped walls are lined with foreign and old DVD posters and the constant reggae music completely blocks out all noise within feet from passing it. This is the one spot where I always feel life swirling around my body, consuming me whole- people brushing past, dirt tanning my feet, and the lovely smell of car exhaust.
After returning from Kisumu Sunday afternoon, which I will go into detail later, I went to visit the other part of the trio who live right around the block from me. As we were sipping maji ya maembe (mango juice) a light pitter-patter on the tin roof turned into loud raptures of rainfall, the first to fall this season. The smell of fresh rain filled my nostrils and I began to smile because I knew that the dust would settle and the earth would cool off. What I did not know is that my trek to school the next day would require me to resort to my childhood of rock hopping in the creeks of Montreat.
So this morning heading off to school the trio was greeted with tiny streams and deep mud. Traversing these newly formed obstacles required balance and constant preparation of where to place your next step. My shoe of choice unfortunately did not provide the best traction, so for at least half an hour we slipped and slid on our way to the SIT office. As the day progressed the weather worsened into heavy pellets of rain accompanied by the drumming of thunder and cracking of lightening.
When 5:00 rolled around the rest of us left in the office decided we would make the trek home though mother nature’s wrath. Once outside we realized that it was going to be nearly impossible to return home without trudging through rivers of overflowing road gutters and pothole lakes. Sandy and I both agreed that we actually enjoy our walk home, and yesterday was just another exciting adventure adding flavor to the daily routine. At one point, reaching Fort Jesus, there is a fork in the road and the water was nearly up to my knees. It was so funny to watch all of the Kenyans freaking out about the water. People literally run everywhere in order to avoid getting wet, which includes self-made rain gear out of tarps, Nakumatt bags tied around hair, and clinging onto poles of kiosks. At first I just found it completely amusing, then I started to think about all of the diseases and waste that was in the water covering my feet.
…Which segways into my rant on the trash (taka taka) here. If there were one thing that I am not fond of- it would be the lack of a trash system here. Everywhere I look trash exists, covering all surfaces of the road, polluting water sources, even blocking off entire sections of sidewalks (not that they really have them). The idea of implementing a system seems so basic or simple to me that I get frustrated that this country cannot seem to grasp it. People do not even know where the proper dumping ground is for trash. In my homestay we do not even have a single trashcan (at least I have yet to find one). On the back patio is a small grocery bag that my mom throws all the waste in, which will eventually be taken somewhere and burned down to ashes. A system could be so beneficial for this society, not just because is creates a healthy environment, but it brings jobs too. It is said that the government usually will sell the plots of land that are supposedly designated for dumps- corruption at its finest.
I know many of you are eagerly and patiently waiting to hear about my adventures of this past weekend so I will start from Friday evening when my Mama and I took the “Easy Coach” all the way to Kisumu…
The road to Kisumu is an endless trek of potholes and speed bumps, and eight hours long depending on how brave the bus driver is. After waiting for about an hour outside for our bus to load, I plopped down in 6B by my Mama with 40 other strangers for our wild ride West. Not until we passed the boundaries of Nairobi did the occurrences of being sky rocketed into the air become more frequent. As we ventured further into “undeveloped” territory, potholes were so close together that our driver would swerve left to avoid one and then immediately jerk back right. Now this was all done at a relatively insane speed in the middle of night/early morning on backroads that had absolutely no street lamps. Several of the passengers were enraged at our driver yelling “POLE, POLE!” (Slowly, Slowly!) or tisking and commenting, “How careless!”
Eventually around 6:00 am my Mama and I reached the small village of Siaya, which is about an hour outside of Kisumu, and just near the village where she is from. One of her good friends, or as she likes to say daughters, is just settling down on a new plot with her husband and their 1 ½ year old son, who became my new best friend. Joyce works for the CDC and James is a doctor, so sometimes they commute back and forth to Nairobi. However, living outside of the city seems much nicer with the fresh air and hardly any traffic. The dirt is redder here and the mountains of Uganda and from the eastern part of the Rift Valley swallowed us whole in a low fog as we drove into the village. Everything was greener and lush and farmers were already out working their crops, which range from sugar cane, rice, or my favorite- tea leaves.
Arriving with little sleep and a soupy brain from the ever-rickety bus, Joyce greeted us with bucket showers and breakfast. The house was actually quite spacious and in the process of being built. I found the multicolored, hexagon stain-glass windows near the ceiling very pleasing, and learned that they were to keep the bats out. Soon I found myself plopped in the back of a tiny, white vehicle being given the grand tour of my surroundings and attempting to understand the gossip in Luo. Just rolling down the window gave me a nice coat of dust and a handful of stares, as I was probably the only mzungu (white person) around for miles.
Soon we were driving through a narrow passage that opened up to three little mud huts with thatched roofs and intricate paintings on the side. This is where my Grandma (nyanya) lived, along with my Uncle, his wife, and their little baby boy. My Uncle George’s motorbike sat to the side near Martha the dog, which was chained to the hut that stored grain and corn. Chickens clucked about when all of the sudden from the main hut emerged this tiny woman with the most beautiful patterned kanga. Her head was wrapped tightly so you could barely see the white fuzz poking from the back. She was darker than night and her face was filled with joy at the sight of her daughter. Now Grandma only could speak in Luo, so there was actually no way to have a real conversation with the wonderful woman, but there was this mutual understanding between us throughout the day when we were together.
Ducking under the doorway I entered a small sitting room with frames lining the walls filled with family portraits. I saw photos of Mama when she was just a kid, wearing that same ol’ smile she always has on, even when she’s had a hard day. I learned about my family, how one of my Aunt’s died young, leaving four children to be taken care of by my Mama, and how her father passed when she was just a child, so Grandma was then married to his brother (part of the culture here).
On this visit I learned that my Mama supports almost her entire family financially. I always knew she was a good woman, but her hand has given generously to those she loves the most. Her Mama does not work, and neither does Uncle George, so she sends money to them often and hired a girl to help cook since George’s wife has absolutely no idea how to actually “help out”. Mama also helped raise the four children of her sister’s, and supports her eldest son Jeff, who has been looking for work for quite some time. (Sidenote- yesterday my Mama told me that Jeff passed an interview and just got a job, so we are all so excited for him, because now he can provide for his family!) My Mama Rose Kochola is a strong woman who carries her family on her back, even when she may have little to give.
Soon Mama, Grandma, and I were off headed to Kisumu for the funeral of a close friend. Grandma had changed in some of her “finest” attire- a long, flower-printed dress accompanied by a floppy hat and rather nice leather bag. My right side was smushed against the window of a matatu driving through the hills of Western Kenya and the slow hum of the engine softened my eyes into a nice doze. The driver was racing up and down the mountains picking up people, dropping them off, slamming the door shut. At one point the car was overwhelmingly full and speeding so fast that when we hit small bumps the front of the matatu would scuff the pavement, sparking from the friction. I could smell the smoke from the clashing, and eventually the driver slowed down.
Now usually if someone close dies, I expect that one would know exactly where the funeral was taking place. However, this was not the case. Reaching Kisumu the three of us began a goose chase filled of riding in about 5 different matatus and walking down different alleyways just to find my Mama’s good friend’s funeral. After an hour of dirt, sweat, and numerous calls, we walked around a corner to find over 50 people gathered in between two houses sitting in plastic chairs honoring the dead. Now as I entered, one of the daughters of the deceased, who my Mama is also good friends of, greeted us and asked me a question. But with the two men whose voices were booming through the microphones, I could not understand what she had asked. I could feel a sea of eyes cutting into my back as I followed my Mama up front, only to realize that the daughter had asked if I was going to see the body.
There I stood in front of the entire congregation peering into the casket where I laid eyes on the first dead body of my life. Rivers of sweat ran down my back dampening my shirt in the afternoon sun and all I could manage was to bow my head and pray for the dead. The moment may have only been three minutes most, but standing there felt like eternity.
Later on after attempting to listen to the preachers speaking in Luo, Swahili and ever so often English, the crowd rose to their feet to join in song. This was followed by a procession of carrying the casket around the corner to the freshly dug hole for the deceased. I stood against a wall near the back watching as children struggled to mount the rock pile to peer in as the men lowered his body. Then with the final words spoken and the first shovel of dirt thrown onto his casket, a sharp wail pierced the air crying out for the loss of her loved one. A quick breeze swirled around the crowd blowing my hair across my face. As the wails crescendoed into animalistic moaning, the hairs on my arms stood straight up and my sweat turned cold.
Not until I returned to Siaya did Mama inform me that the deceased had been a discreet polygamous. Apparently at the funeral a woman and her children had shown up mourning the death of a loved one, pronouncing that they too were his family. Being good friends of both the initial wife and her late husband, my Mama said everyone was shocked. Her friend had been a well-known figure in the community, and had managed to maintain a private, second life across town with another family. Discreet polygamy is not uncommon here in Kenya, as well as Africa. Polygamy is also viewed as “normal” in certain parts of the country.
Making it back to Joyce’s place, James decided that we needed to venture to the next village over- Kogelo. For those of you who do not know why Kogelo has any significance, it is the village where Barak Obama is from. His grandmother, Sarah Obama, is a farmer and a well-known philanthropist of the community. She has put numerous children through school, taken care of orphans, and much more. So despite the exhausting past 24 hours of my life, I hopped back into the car with Joyce, James, Baby Brian, and Mama and headed to Kogelo.
Throughout the village are signs everywhere noting Barak Obama’s relationship with the community- Senator Obama Secondary School, Bama Hospital, a new cultural center, a hotel being built by his brother, and then finally Sarah Obama’s place. Even though her visiting hours go up to 4:30 in the afternoon, we walked in around 6:00 and were well received.
The plot of land is of a decent size with cows tied up, beautiful trees shading the sitting area, and off to the side are the graves of both Barak’s father and grandfather. There were many people milling about in the back working the land, doing chores, and then out of the house emerged a rather robust woman wrapped in blue cloth.
For the next fifteen minutes or so we all sat with Sarah Obama conversing, me in a little Swahili, and taking photos. They asked me if I had any questions for her, and in that moment I felt completely off guard, and being exhausted from the day’s adventures, I managed to mutter- “How long have you lived here?” Really? What kind of question is that? Out of all the questions to ask the Presidents grandmother, “How long have you lived here?” Then after she responded, “Once your married to the place it becomes your home forever,” the conversation turned to Luo so I struggled to follow along. So yes, I met the President’s grandmother and that is that.
The next day was filled with the 8-hour trek home on the Easy Coach, but during the day so I got to see the farms of tea leaves, sugar cane, rice, and all of the villages in between Kisumu and Nairobi. Right outside of the city I actually spotted a herd of zebras (Ant and Rawana- I cannot remember if herd is the correct term for zebras, so shame on me if I am incorrect!). Spotting their stripes made me miss safari so incredibly much, and I cannot wait to visit a game park here during my stay!
Tomorrow the group and I leave for Shirazi, a tiny, extremely rural village just south of Mombasa. We will be living with families for 10 days and then “vacationing” in Mombasa for 5. All of us are eagerly anticipating our travel outside of Nairobi and heading to the coast to get a stronger taste of the Swahili culture. I will not have internet access for our stay in the village, but will hopefully be posting a new entry when I return to Mombasa.
Thanks to everyone for being patient as I struggle to crank out these entries! I know you all are dying to hear about my life in Kenya. Yesterday we went to Carolina for Kibera, which is literally in my backyard. So some of us are going to hopefully participate in their Saturday programming once we return in March!
Alright it is time for Kiswahili class, so until next time…
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