Looking up I became fixated on the night’s mysterious blanket, barely warding off the day’s heat. Even though the sky tried to surround me in a terrifying darkness, tiny holes of light poked through the surface filling my eyes of a twinkling delight. Below the palm fronds, I began to dip the tin can into the water basin and wash the day’s grime from my body that was slightly illuminated by the low burning kerosene lamp at my feet.
The cool water began to soothe every fear racking in my brain, wondering how I would converse with my new Baba and Mama only in Kiswahili, how many pounds of ugali (main staple of Kenya- like grits, but more solid) and samaki (fish) I would be consuming, and if the plants rustling in the wind were really people watching the mzungu bathe.
Nervous about the unknown, about what I would encounter in the following weeks, I let my fears wash over me and accepted Shirazi as my home for the next 10 days.
Walking through the endless coconut groves, Shirazi is a rural village located about an hour south of Mombasa. This tiny haven is hidden just off the main road that runs along the Kenyan coast. Driving by the thick groves plunging skyward one would not even ponder the thought that a community of about 700 people lies beyond the shady palm fronds. But lo’ and behold, once you enter through the wall of thick trees, mud huts populate the red earth.
Before arriving I decided to map out where I would be traveling to live with my new family. Pulling out my map I searched and searched to find the dot with the correct seven-letter name, only to discover that it’s not even recorded on the country’s travel map. So if you were looking at the country of Kenya- go south of Mombasa until you hit Funzi Bay, which is around the general location of this natural sanctuary of beauty.
After a night of constant stirring due to bathing in my own puddle of sweat, I awoke to several sounds; only one remained the same- the trusty call to prayer (I’m gonna miss it when I return to America). The crickets chirping eventually hushed over as the calls of several monkeys began to cry out teasingly. My family happens to have four wonderful dogs, which I had encountered unknowingly when driving into the village. Upon turning down the dirt road into Shirazi, we came across two young boys and the dogs carrying something of significant size on a stick, a fresh kill. I expected it to be a wild pig or an animal of feasting value, only to find a baboon dangling with its limbs tied together. Notorious for stealing food from farms, my family has kept the four dogs to protect the land from these big guys. So early in the morning the dogs would return, and sometimes bark back at the teasing monkeys hanging in coconut palms- another exciting element to the morning.
Because I could probably narrate each day in Shirazi word for word, I am going to highlight some of the main events experienced throughout my stay.
Sunday…Wrapped tightly in colorful khangas, moo moos, and kikois, all 24 of us, as well as Odoch (one of my Academic Directors), clamored onto the boats bound for Paradise Lost in the outskirts of Funzi Bay, which the Indian Ocean feeds into. The coast of Kenya is inhabited by three main species of mangroves lining the white sandy banks, and as we cut through narrow passage ways opening up to the broader sea, I half believed I was in the Santee Delta with my Grandmother Mames and good friend Gabe scouting for gators. The resemblance between the two is remarkable, aside from the mangroves and the occasional bird tower in the Delta. I so longed to spot a crocodile, one of my favorite wild animals, only to find out that they populate the fresh water rivers nearby that flow into the bay.
Eventually the horizon opened and from afar I spotted a sparkling white sandbar that hovered just above the crystal sea. We had found Paradise Lost. The sandbar/island got its name from the ever-changing tides that will sometimes hide it completely. But it is a paradise nonetheless. It is nothing but sand, and one can walk the circumference of it within 30 minutes, depending on the pace.
The sand soft on our feet, we began to strip our colorful cloaks of modesty, and I knew I had found a little slice of heaven on earth. The feeling of freedom was unbearably surging through my body, but swept over with an intoxicating joy of pureness. I could feel myself escaping my body physically for a split second to look down from above and fathom at the reality of life. Here I was basking in the equator’s sun on an unknown sandbar for class- there is no fiddle of sorrow, or complaints, Woe is NOT me! I knew then and there that this was a moment of rarity, that I will look back on fondly, perhaps in a time of crisis or reflection, or even just part of life’s natural progression of growing old and reminiscing on the good. I will think to myself, “Man, to have another day on Paradise Lost…”
Because Shirazi is a rural village, without even a store or shop, just a community of people, the main transport on the sandy pathways is typically by foot, or the notorious Piki Piki’s (motorcycles). I have been well educated on the dangers that can ensue from a ride on these hawses (sp?) by my lovely parents, and many others too. I believed that I would never ride a motorcycle/bike ever in my life, but as the saying goes- never say never.
One day our group was scheduled to travel to Bodo, the village over, to visit their clinic and learn about its impact and influence on the surrounding communities. Since the walk there is over an hour, and by 8:00 am the heat is unrelenting, our AD had to search for another means of transport…only to come to the last/“worst” scenario of all of us taking a herd of Piki Pikis to Bodo.
Once Kiswahili class was over, the rumble of engines grew closer as we anticipated our departure to Bodo. I felt like I was in a motorcycle gang. Mounting the back of a bike with my friend G, and holding onto the driver’s gut like a sack of potatoes, we were off on our 15 minute drive to Bodo. I felt like I was in a movie- it was just this scene of me riding the bike under a sparsely clouded, Carolina blue sky, with Coconut trees hovering over the path way. The sun kissing my skin warmly competed with the bike’s speed breeze and my hair began fly wild. The only missing element was a nice instrumental track to complement the scene’s adventure.
So I rode a Piki Piki there and back and that is that (Sorry Mom and Dad). Sawa...
Along the line of clinics, SIT, my program, has actually been working to build a clinic right in Shirazi since most people have to walk to Bodo for their medical needs. The clinic in Bodo only undergoes a number of medical treatments, primarily administering immunizations for their main case- malaria. But it also has been helpful with women who immediately have gone into labor, among other diseases like TB and such. However, people fighting HIV/AIDS have to continue walking to another nearby town to receive ARVs. Although the means seem limited, it has aided a significant amount of people. The Bodo clinic survives and sustains itself by trust that was founded by a foreigner who had visited the island/community and witnessed the need for medical services. The trust also provides an ambulance back to the mainland in Mombasa if cases are too serious to handle in the clinic.
The clinic in Shirazi has been under construction for a couple of years now since they only work on it when we come to visit each semester. At first I could not comprehend why this was the case, until I was told that they do not have access to the necessary materials that are needed. So when we roll up in the bus, we bring supplies and labor. One morning after Swahili class some of us actually helped build it, which took me back to the four weeks in Mexico building Villa Infantil de Maya with my youth group. The heat was blazing on our backs, which were already extremely sun burnt from the lovely day on Paradise Lost, but it was nice knowing that we would have an impact on the future of Shirazi beyond our stay.
Because most of our afternoons were free to do as we please, our “hangout spot” became resting under a makeshift shelter of palm fronds and sticks chini ya mti nazi, also known as Odoch’s office. Eventually the kids from Shirazi would follow us from class to the office to join in on our rest, chow, and chatter. Since neither of my homestays have had young children, I really reached out to make many friends with the watoto. Soon enough I had my own entourage of kids that I spent videoing and photographing- a camera definitely attracts mass quantities of kids since they love seeing their picture…which leads me into a quick digression on the topic of possessions here.
Most all of the houses are built out of mud and sticks, occasionally a cement or brick house crops up, but rarely. The typical structure within a house is a straight hallway to the back so that you can literally see through both doorways. Upon entering, there is usually a little foyer/sitting room, which is used for eating meals. Then the hallway will have about 3-4 doors that break off as rooms for people. So in my house the sitting room was on the right, not wider than 6 feet and longer than 12. Then across from that was the doorway to my room, down the hall were 2 more doors, one for my parents and the other room empty. Then entering the “backyard”, which is typically fenced with stick and woven palm frond walls, is a mud hut kitchen, a small shower stall, and if you open the back gate, there lies the wonderful latrine! Keep in mind that the walls are mud, the floor is dirt, and the doors are wooden or scrap metal, and the roof just thick fronds. Meals were spent sitting on a woven mat, by kerosene lamp (ta) at night. My room had a bed, and then my baba moved a little wooden table and stool in and that was it. People here literally have the clothes on their back and a few furnishings for the house, and that is it. No photos hanging on a wall, no bookshelves, no couches, no actual chairs, no carpet or rug, no electricity, no running water, just mud and sticks. It is impressive how they live simplistically. Food and shelter come first before anything else.
Now in the village everyone in the group was given a name, mine being Matime, which I adopted rather quickly since kids and people would dub me by this only. One kid, who became a good friend, was Hamisi, only 6 years old. He was always up to an adventure, climbing mti wa koshoro (cashew nut trees), or singing a Safaricom commercial and dancing around with troublemaker Idrisi (the king of the bunch). The kids here literally run around without parents, fearlessly chopping coconuts open with machetes, swinging from rafters, jumping rope, and playing tons of football (soccer). Some of us introduced makeshift bowling with our Nalgenes as the pins and then taking a buoy as the ball, it was quite a sight. I taught Hamisi how to play thumbwar, which became a popular favorite.
Most people in Shirazi do not work, so often I wondered how they spend their day. My baba is a retired fisherman, 77 years old, and is a father of 8, the youngest being 18. The family practices Islam, so like most men in the village he wears his kofia. I soon found out that there was a little drama within the family since he divorced his first wife about a year ago. My house was one of three located in the same dirt patch (not really sure what else to call it). The other two belonged to one of my baba’s daughters, and the other for two of his sons. When he divorced his first wife, she moved into the house with the daughter, literally 15 paces from my front door. Now my baba is remarried to my mama, and according to the daughter there is definitely some tension towards this new female.
Although I would like to consider myself a pretty “hard-core” person, as in being able to “rough-it” for a little while, Shirazi was probably one of the most intense experiences of my life, full of incredible highs and challenging lows. One night I awoke with a nest of red ants climbing up my legs and all over my bed, as well as inside my pack. My tolerance for bugs is usually high, but an army of ants is a little too overwhelming for my taste, especially when they are crawling all over you in a sweaty mess. This was only half way through the stay, so I decided to create a battle strategy against the buggers. The remainder of my nights were definitely not the most peaceful as I would wake up on the hour scanning the entire circumference of my bed. And whenever I felt the slightest twitch on my arm or body, I no longer suspected it as sweat rolling off my skin, but an ant returning to avenge the person who had probably killed off half of their population.
Also because my family could only speak Swahili, communicating with them was very challenging, and at times frustrating. Because of the language difference, even at home I was having to work in order to converse, which was limited since my vocabulary is not very extensive. However, after 10 days, returning to my family in Nairobi, I realized that I had improved significantly.
But returning to Nairobi, even just Mombasa was definitely a slight culture shock. It’s like coming out of the woods after almost two weeks, and seeing cars everywhere and people bustling about. I realized I was in a completely different world, almost like a bubble. Most Shirazians, for lack of a better term, never leave their village. The farthest they travel is to Bodo, Bara Barani, Ramisi, and maybe Mombasa. I try to imagine what it would be like to live in a constant, rarely changing environment. How much would I know about the world that lies beyond the sunny side of the coconut grove? Would I wonder what exists down the one paved road that cuts between the neighboring village? Would I want to leave?
…Mombasa greeted us with a paralyzing heat that I combated with my first shower since orientation. Running water felt like Christmas. The next 5 days were spent with morning lectures covering Traditional Medicine, Marine Biology and its impact on Kenya’s development, several NGOs, and visit to a school for children with Cerebral Palsy, KEMRI, and to A.P.D.K. With our afternoons free, several of us decided to venture to the white sandy beaches just around Mombasa (Diani and Nyali). They were absolutely gorgeous, and Diani was filled with wazungus (quite a shock). Nyali was public, so it was filled with Kenyans.
One of my favorite parts of Mombasa is TUKTUKS! They are three-wheeled cars that fit usually fit 4 people in the back. They were so much fun to ride in and fairly cheap if you bargained with the drivers, a ride across town would cost a tad bit more or less than 1 US dollar. People say that life in Mombasa is pole, pole (slow), which is very true, and makes it much more enjoyable than the crazy matatus that bound through the streets of Nairobi.
I cannot believe that it has already been over a month here. I feel as if there are never enough hours in the day. The pace of work is picking up over the next couple of weeks, and then we will be headed off to Tanzania before our month of Independent Research. I appreciate all of your patience for my lengthy novels and thoroughly enjoy receiving your emails! I also would like to take the time to give a little shout out to my fellow Tar Heel fans, “HOW BOUT THEM HEELS BABAY!” I hate that I am going to miss the Madness of March, so keep me updated!
The sun is starting to set in Nairobi so I must return to the chaos of Olympic.
So until next time…
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