notes from a lying panglot

Dear all,

I read over my past emails in Zanzibar and was thoroughly disgusted with way I've been presenting my experience here. Nausiated is I think the best word. I decided not to write until I could gather my thoughts together which, thank god, I've finally done.

Before I start it's vital I convey to you how difficult it is to describe my life here. For those who have travelled, or better yet lived abroad, especially in a third world country, this will make perfect sense. For everyone else I'm not sure what to say. Only understand that I am incapable of fully describing the daily whirlwind of emotions, constant introspection, challenges to my "world view", and the overwhelming amount of sights, sounds, smells, tastes I have to process every nanosecond. Caught in this storm, I have not had the patience to candidly describe my experiences, most often because I was still trying to understand them myself. Once I understood, once I had digested this new life, I didn't have the heart to share it. Is it possible to describe what went through my mind as I watched a cripple crawling through the muddy streets of Mombasa? Probably, but I chose not to dwell.

I suppose now that I've started in Mombasa and on the subject of poverty I suppose I should continue. Many of the streets are lined with grandmothers begging. Dirty, tired and toothless, they bow their heads and hold out their hands, crumpled under the weight of their poverty. How much of that poverty is feigned is beyond me so I walk by, eyes to the ground. I did it in Hong Kong at 10 years old and I did now at 21. On the bigger streets hang the street children, who without fail get money from an mzungu (a non PC word for foreigner - the Mau Mau used it during the fight for independence to describe the white colonials; it is on some level an insult). The street children have no parents, no home, and hardly any future beyond the hellish poverty they live in. The money they get goes to someone else - I don't know how they live. The girls are in the greatest danger. There are 9 and 10 year olds in Mombasa and Nairobi who are pregnant. Not surprisingly many die during childbirth. I wouldn't expect anything less when children have children. There is a belief in Kenya, and other parts of Africa, that the way to cure AIDS is to have sex with a virgin - the younger the better. The street girls are taken from their "home", raped (sometimes they're paid) and left for dead. Most girls who reach puberty, if they reach puberty, become prostitutes. Unprotected sex is more profitable than protected sex. When the option is starvation or a slow death which would you pick? HIV positive men believe that if they sleep with enough women the AIDS virus will leave their body. Contemplate the consequences of this myth.

Everywhere there are heaps of garbage; there isn't enough infrastructure for a adequate dumping system, let alone an environmentally friendly one. Children, sometimes months old, play in feces, rotting foods, razor blades etc. They make toys from the trash they find and eat someone elses left-overs. Is this disturbing? Of course. Is there anything I can do? Not now at least. Do I see it everywhere I go? Yes.

It's sickening to say this but I've gotten used to the poverty and the squalor. I had to. It's not as heart wrenching as it was the first week or compared to how I felt in Cambodia when I was 13. Thankfully the begger children in Mombasa have all their limbs - there arent many land mines in Kenya. However, I shouldn't get too cheery. I have yet to visit the slum areas of either Mombasa or Nairobi (I saw one figure: 70 people to one latrine in an area of tens of thousands of people). Urban poverty is far, far worse than rural poverty. At least the poor in Kaloleni had thier land and livestock. The destitute in Mombasa have nothing.

In this Mombasa vein let me describe again the matatus. I know I've written fondly of my rides home: the music, the people, the excitement. Let me re-describe the memory. Matatus are essentially mini-buses. They are meant to hold 12-14 people but often cram up to 20. Accidents happen every day. People die. The drivers drive impossibly fast to make enough money so they can bribe the police who stop them. The roads are horrific. My heart was in my throat a number of times as I watched the driver swerve left and right, coming dangerously close to multiple collisions, just so he could avoid the pot holes. One evening I went with my Mombasa homestay mother (Ramla) and one-year old sister (Amne) to an Eid celebration (end of Ramadhan festival). We were crammed into a bulging matatu, Ramla in the back and me in the front seat with Amne. I sat with this fragil body on my lap, her tiny hands clutching my hijab. I couldn't watch the road I was too scared. Had the matatu stopped suddenly Amne and I would've gone through the glass windshield - there are no seatbelts and no airbags. When I said matatu rides are exciting, I was trying to look on the brightside. I tried not to think about the possibilities, especially when my matatu got stopped by the police.

Now to Kaloleni...
I lived in a mud hut and my homestay was one of the more well off in the village. At least they had food everyday. Once Mei lost her fear of me we were "3 peas in a pod" in our little bed. Except I'd wake up almost every hour because Mei was really sick. She was coughing so bad she was gagging, she nearly vomitted a couple of times. I'd lie awake as long as I could just to make sure she wouldn't choke in her sleep. This was almost every night. There was nothing I could do. I had no medicine and neither did my family. All the children were sick. The parents all work and live elsewhere, leaving the children in the care of the grandmothers. This is I think, the only reason why my family was so well off (relative to other houses I saw). Just an update on the rain: "Kenya faces a humanitarian crisis following the displacement of up to 60,000 people by torrential rains in Coast Province." (the Daily Nation, November 16). I'm safe, Lamu is north of all the rain, but I don't know if my family in Kaloleni is alright. My brother Francis called from Malinidi so I'm assuming the children have left the area for safety reasons. Kenya is working hard at getting supplies to the affected areas (including Kaloleni) but I don't want to think about what life is like for them. Mud houses don't last too long in a lot of rain. Roads, houses, bridges, latrines all collapse. People drown. I want to know if the boys at St. Georges are alright. I don't know if I really want to continue. There's so much more. It's so much easier to keep this all to myself, I don't have to think about it all the time.

Everywhere we go men propose to us. They romance on the off chance one of us girls will fall in love and take them out of the hopeless hell they live in. Their hope is equal to their desperation. Some just want an mpenzi (lover) who will bring money and gifts every vacation season.

Poverty in both Kenya and the US has been part of my education. Learning about US poverty from Torrie, Shay, and Jasmine has been as eye-opening as what I see around me. It's frightening how blissfully unaware most white, upperclass Americans are about the world just beyond thir picket fenced neighborhoods (me included). I've heard Americans talk about poverty as if it only exists in countries like Kenya. True, destitute, slum povert like in Nairobi is hard to find in the US. But finding a family who doesn't know how they will eat the next day, though they live in a house and have a car, isn't hard at all. I balk at my ignorence when it comes to the many nuances of poverty. No matter how much my heart goes out to the people here, Torrie and Shay never fail to remind me of how imperfect life is in the US and the work that needs to be done there.

...what else...
I've already given you enough positive. I'll leve this letter as it is. I have neither the time, the patience, nor the will to describe the current economic, political and social issues facing Kenya. I'd just got more frustrated and depressed. I do not wish to an apathetic West, too much cyncism is bad for the liver (I can already feel the bile slipping into my bloodstream). Nor do I wish to describe the natural beauty I've seen here. It is such a contrast to everything else, I wouldn't no where to start.

correspondence

I vividly remember that reading and how hard I thought it was at the time. Hopefully I would be able to handle it now but who knows, I think my academic skills are getting a bit rusty here in kenya. I'm sure the classes thing will work out, it was just mildly frustrating to have my house of cards come tumbling down. In Kaloleni the deputy head-master of St. Georges told me a Giriama proverb which I've seriously taken to heart: You can only itch as far as you can scratch. Did I mention that in my last email? It's been my mantra recently whenever I get frustrated with life.

It's a bit odd being in Zanzibar because it's such a tourist town. I can walk out in my trousers!!!! There are foreigners everywhere and people don't stare at me as much. Last night we went out to a bar which was bizarre to say the least. I hadn't had a drink (let alone multiple drinks) since I'd been in Seattle. I even danced, which felt amazing. It was odd doing very "american" things like drinking and dancing. We went out with two Canadians who are travelling the world together. I didn't quite realize how much I missed interacting with men. It was so relieving to flirt with someone who was on the same cultural page as me. I knew my actions wouldn't be interpretated incorrectly. Actions, words, body language have an entirely different meaning here but unfortunately lust is universal. This can create complications. Women also have a tendency to crave protection when in a new environment, which translates into a need for physical attention (we had an entire lecture about this from our professsor of anthropology). What's even worse is I'm finally in a society that considers my body type extremely attractive. It's WEIRD!!! I see girls in magazines, on TV, on posters, in ads that I would never see in the US.

correspondence 11/3/06

To the best of my ability I know exactly what you mean. As I read your email I felt a rush of empathy and relief. It's a relief to know that there will be someone I can go to at Scripps who will understand what I've been through here in Kenya. I'm not going to pretend that either of us will know EXACTLY what the other experienced, but it's a start. I'm so sorry to hear about your brother, I have faith that he will be alright. Trust me when I say they take good care of people in trauma centers, especially survivors of car accidents (at least that's been my experience). You can get through this even though you're apart from your family. This may be silly but I always found it comforting to know I was under the same sky as those who were far far from me. We never leave the ones we love, but carry them inside of us. Your brother has you close to his heart even though you're an ocean away. I hear your voice in my head some times as I walk down the streets in Mombasa, I know you'd enjoy this or that of what I'm experiencing. If you're in my head and we've only known eachother for a short time, imagine how strong your presence is with your family.

I can't believe how quickly my time here as flown by! We start our ISP on Nov 11. I'll be living on a small island doing archeological work. I may be alone, I'm not sure. Will I see the stars and be 50 ft from the ocean? Yes. Is that the reason I chose to do my ISP there? Of course.
I'll miss you next semester when you go to Italy. Shall we plan a phone date for when we're both back in the US?

miss you and stay strong!

notes from a small village 2

Hamjambo!

I've just spent the past 2 hours glaring at the computer trying to work out my classes for next semester. Of all the idiotic things to worry about when I'm in africa CLASSES!?! I'm in Zanzibar right now, the "Spice Islands" as they are known to history, but I'll write later about that. Let me begin where I left off.

Kaloleni...
On my second night with my homestay we visited an aunt who lived about 2km away (a matriarch of the family I think). We walked through fields of corn and palm trees in glow of the setting sun (no rain that day thank god). I watched with sick fascination as my brother Peter slaughtered a chicken for dinner. What a process! We, Gracie and I, were the local attraction at the village. There was a gaggle of children gawking outside the house who would flee if we made direct eye contact. Gracie and I helped cook dinner by chopping veggies, sifting rice and watching the others cook. Have any of you ever sifted rice? It wasn't exactly sifting, we had to go through the rice looking for minute rocks. Talk about a needle in the haystack. But as the saying goes, "many hands make light work" and the job was soon finished. Again with rather sick fascination I watched my other brother Francis gut the slaughtered chicken (gut...is that the right expression?). The process was so new and different I knew I had to try it myself - if the opportunity came up (I expressed this wish to Peter who I think relayed the message to my brother Moses - btw, if you couldn't tell Kaloleni was predominently Christian). Well, an opportunity arose the next evening. I was playing with my sisters when Moses walked up holding a chicken in one hand and a knife in the other. I asked if I could slaughter the bird, which made him laugh but he agreed. With his help I decapitated my first fowl. Gracie documented the event with her digital camera. There's a great photo of the dead, bloody chicken at my bloody feet (I sound far too thrilled about the entire experience - it was a bit creepy). I didn't gut it though, I saved that for my mom (the process looked too complicated and I didn't know where to start). Eating something you've killed is definitely an interesting experience. I'm not going to lie, I kinda got the shivers when I bit into dinner that night. However, I feel very powerful everytime I look at a chicken now. The roosters in Lamu will never know what hit them. I'll be the Jack the Ripper of the Lamu roosters. Never again will they wake me up at 4am. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha.

We had one day of no rain while we in Kaloleni, and we were there for 7 days. Two bridges collapsed, there were landslides, crops were destroyed and one of the out houses collapsed too. I couldn't understand how in 4 months the entire place would be a desert. That part of Kenya is known as semi-arid. It rains but only for a short period, and the soil can't retain the water. This means yearly starvation and drought for the surrounding villages. According to one source 400 people died last year in Kaloleni because there was no water. If a family is lucky they will stay with relatives in Mombasa or Malindi - anywhere where they can get water. Our director decided we should leave early because the roads were so bad. I cried when I left my family. They'd been so welcoming and understanding...yet more than that. Again words fail me when I most want to express what I felt and saw.

I knew I'd miss my bucket shower in the gray dawn of the morning. I'd miss sleeping next to my sisters (Mei finally got over her fear of me and we were 3 peas in a pod by the last night). I liked hanging out with my brothers and sisters. We all liked to laugh, dance and play cards. Gracie was amazing to have around. She's very easy going and understanding. She cried too the day we left. I have to go back there.

Mombasa felt crowded, noisy and scary when I first got back, but the feeling went away quickly. I'd been speaking so much Kiswahili it became second nature. Conversing was no longer a chore but a joy! I tried to speak every day with as many people as I could. I also bought a buibui, a ninja and a headscarf. I was covered head to foot in black with only a slit for my eyes. I'm not sure how to explain this but there is an element of power in wearing the veil. There is power in the anonimity, if that makes sense. No one could tell what I was thinking, who I was, my expressions etc. Men were far more respectful towards me than before. There's also something incredibly attractive about only being able to see a woman's eyes. Believe it or not, much can be said with only the eyes. It can be very sensual. One of the more surreal moments was riding in a matutu, wearing my buibui and my ninja and listening to Coolio on the radio (and singing along under my ninja). Needless to say I loved it but there are some ethical and cultural issues that I still have to work out. I often feel like a wolf in sheeps clothes when I wear the veil.. I now wish I had my buibui in Zanzibar, but nevermind. I'll wear it in Lamu.

After a week in Mombasa we had our final Kiswahili exam and then it was off to Zanzibar...but I'll save that story for another time. Athman, my academic director has been waiting for the internet for about 4 hours. I should share shouldn't I? If I remember any other detail I'll be sure to include it in my next email.