As I sit here writing to you, I am slightly tired, in a moderately good mood, and ready for the most productive weekend I think I may have in my time here. Now, let's piece our way through this statement so that you all get some idea of what's on my mind...
Now that we've been in Nairobi for over a month (and of course only have a few weeks left) I seem to have finally found myself a number of really cool people to hang out with. I've gone out with them a few times, hung out, and had a really great time in general with them. Last night, we (a number of students) started the evening at a friend's host family's bar, where we had drinks with Swahili teachers, and tried to get their actual life stories (some of them seem to enjoy pushing the boundaries of what they can tell us, what we understand, and what we actually believe), despite not really accomplishing much in that regard. From there, one of my friends from the program, her host brother, and I all went out and met up with some of my new friends for what ended up being a very fun evening, full of dancing, talking, and wandering around near where I stayed with my parents when we were in Nairobi. So, the "slightly tired" part can be attributed to the fact that I only got three hours of sleep last night. The night was unfortunately also slightly dampened by the pickpocket that managed to get my phone, my friend's phone, and her money. It's not a huge deal, just sort of a pain to find ways to contact everyone... so for the few of you that had sent me texts via google, I'll let you know my new number shortly. This "happy go lucky" sort of attitude is also a pretty useful outlook to have on a morning like this (by which I mean one where I woke up 7 hours earlier than I otherwise would) because I am at school right now waiting for a meeting with an advisor that doesn't seem to be coming in today.
Part of my study program is a month at the end during which the students perform research on basically anything they could want to research, though most topics are related to the program's theme of health and community development. On the one hand, this seems like an incredible opportunity to look into some really interesting matters, and the program has provided us with all kinds of connections and potentially valuable resources to use for our projects. On the other hand, though, nothing here seems to be the least bit organized, and even when you can be "absolutely" sure that something is going to happen, or that someone will be at a certain place at a certain time, and then you confirm another 3 times just to make sure, it still doesn't seem to happen. So, here we are a few weeks away from the beginning of this research period, and we were finally given the opportunity to meet with one of these really great professors from University of Nairobi who has provided us with a fantastic lecture series over the past weeks, and we were told to come to school today (Saturday) no later than 8 am mzungu time (aka actually on time, or maybe a little early). Well, now it's 10 'till 9, and he definitely has somewhere else to be in 10 minutes. Rumor has it he accidentally threw his keys out the window this morning (and hence, couldn't make it), but... well.... really? So there you have it: in a pretty good mood (a good night, and I'm in Kenya!), a bit tired, and ready to do a lot of thinking about research-related things, especially if I don't end up getting the guidance here that seems to linger perpetually just beyond my fingertips.
Now, let's backtrack a little bit. As I recall, I had provided you all with a brief overview of Shirazi, the rural coastal village where we stayed for a week. Well, after our week there we returned to Mombasa, where we stayed for another couple of days for a few lectures, guest visits, and time to wander around and discover Kenya's second city. Mombasa is a city whose complexity and beauty I can hardly begin to describe here, what with the swahili culture, muslim influence, white sand beaches, gorgeous architechture, and fascinating history. We stayed in Old Town (the most pretty part in my opinion, even if it was full of other wazungu), which is full of slightly dilapidated buildings with beautiful Arabic architecture, that looked absolutely beautiful, even when you really couldn't see it very well because of sweat running into your eyes.
Also, one of Adrienne's friends from high school, Morgan, has been a godsend as far as contacts are concerned... Luckily for me, Morgan is a truly delightful person who everyone here remembers very fondly from when she did this same program a few years ago. So, for my time in Mombasa, I had a family, extended family, and important/knowledgeable friends to show me around and give me a break from all the lovely whites. For those of you with facebook, there may/may not be pictures up. So, in a nutshell, Mombasa consisted of beauty, beach, sweat, Shamsa's wonderful family, going out, and the best food I've had in Kenya. I think I might just go back soon.
I don't remember if I mentioned this in my last post, but my last night in Shirazi I stupidly sat out on the dock on the Indian ocean with all my village friends for a few hours. I knew I was getting bitten a little, but had no idea what would come of it... The result? No less than a week and a half of what I thought might just be the worst chicken pox imaginable. Turns out, there are these little things called "Usubi" which are like sand flies, or sea flies, or something of the like. What you need to know is that they are tiny, numerous near the ocean at night, and SOSO itchy. So somehow, the heat and sweat of Mombasa made the itchiness pretty unbearable.
So, back to Nairobi to find the old swing of things, new friends, pollution, bearable climate, and all that work that the program hid from us during the first half of our time here. Oh, and did I mention danger? In the past week our group has experienced two muggings (one of which involved a gun) and two pickpocketing incidents. Great.
All in all, things are good. Dealing with Americans in the States is a real bummer, but let's face it: when is it not? On that note, I'm off to study swahili for my oral exam in a few days. How well that works remains to be seen.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Blog post numba 3: I can’t believe you offered that with your poop hand.
So last I left you, I believe I was about to leave for Mombasa. So the journey to Mombasa begins on the Friday night that we were to catch the overnight bus, in order to arrive on Sat morning. “What’s this,” you ask? “Taking a Friday night away from a bunch of study abroad students?” Not to worry, several of my classmates decided to meet at a pub before going on the trip, so while we were all at the bus terminal waiting for our overnight, there were plenty of white people rapping, singing, and being generally drunk whilst I’m sure all the other locals sitting there were stuck halfway between general amusement and fear of having a seat next to one of them (sober and boring, I think it’s safe to say I was not included in those thoughts) though it reminded me quite strongly of the way that people look at a baby while waiting to board a flight; with a combination of amusement at the baby’s cuteness and hope that the general cuteness is supposed to sit far, far away in case of tantrum. Luckily, the drunkenness subsided, and we all had an equally semi-miserable time trying to sleep on our way to Mombasa.
Upon our arrival, I think everyone was struck immediately by two things: the incredible culture apparent even in just the little architecture we could see in the pre-dawn darkness, and by the humidity. The humidity became more and more apparent as we all started to realize that we were sweaty even before having moved anywhere, and before the sun had risen. Then, after a nap at the SIT office and some terrible shopping (somehow haggling just isn’t the same when you’re part of a group of 23 white people all trying to buy things simultaneously) for lesos (kangas- African cloths that women tie around their waists, among their other uses), moo-moos (giant, light, shapeless nightgown-type things women wear in an effort to be modest without dying of heat), and a few other things, we were on our way to Shirazi for a week with our rural homestay.
That first day was incredible as we got the taste of so many cultures that were so, so different and enticing, though it was also pretty difficult, as we all must have sweated out at least 2 litres of water, were running on very little sleep, and ended up in some new village trying to communicate with our new host families in Swahili, all the while forgetting essential words like “forget”, “practice”, “no problem” “are you sure”, etc etc. Turns out, being cordial is a lot easier in your own language.
Living in Shirazi for the next week was an incredible experience for so many reasons, but especially for the people there. My host family (immediate family) was AMAZING (except for one of my host brothers—ask me about this in person… it’s not a story that I have the time or inclination to include here), and I have to say, I wouldn’t have thought it possible to bond with a group of people the way I did in such a short time. Nearly everyone in the village was Muslim (including my fam), so the first few days were definitely an adjustment, as modesty has never really been one of my strong points, especially in intolerable heat/humidity.
That being said, I came to learn that a headscarf is actually an incredibly convenient tool for wiping sweat off, and is not quite mandatory, even when you are walking places where you encounter other people. I remember the first time I went on a walk with one of my friends, I finally decided that it would be appropriate to ask him if I could tak it off, when we were somewhere where we clearly would not find other people (we were hiking down the river to hunt a crocdile)… at first I thought it might give the wrong impression, given the fact that he was a boy about my age, and maybe me asking something like that would be perceived as promiscuous. Then, though, I just thought “screw it” (or words to that effect) and asked, and he gave me some response that clearly meant “uh… of course its okay… why wouldn’t it be?” Unfortunately, making costume adjustments wasn’t quite so easy when it came to playing mpira (football/soccer) at one of the Shirazi league games… between continuously pulling my leso back up as it fell down, keeping my headscarf in place, and picking thorns from the bottom of my feet, I ended up mostly just making a fool of myself more than I actually touched the ball, despite the fact that I was playing with a bunch of little kids. I guess that’s what playing with little kids is all about, though…
So family and friends in Shirazi: In my family there was Fatuma (Mama), Ali (Baba), Wafula (one brother), Mohamed (another brother), a third brother whose name I don’t remember, and then Mariam (a sister) and Ashura (another little sister—the one after whom I was named while I was there… I was Ashura Mkubwa (Old Ashura) and she was Ashura Mdogo (Little Ashura)). Everyone in the extended fam lives near one another (like within 10 feet of the next house) so around our house pretty consistently were uncles, cousins, grandma, etc. At first when people would introduce themselves to me and tell me how we were related, I would try to keep track, though I quickly found this to be near impossible for two reasons. The first is that ideas of family there are a little different, so culturally/linguistically, it’s pretty hard to differentiate between things like mom and aunt, or brother and cousin, so when people would translate over from Swahili to English, nothing quite matched up. On top of that, people had kids at all kinds of ages, so a number of my uncles, for example, were my age. A few of the other kids on my program had host mothers that were younger than they were… Regardless, everyone in the immediate and extended family were wonderful, welcoming, and plenty forgiving as I learned about things that were(n’t) allowed, doable, polite, etc. I have to say, looking back on a lot of the mistakes I made in my cultural assimilation, I’m incredibly thankful for all those times when my family clearly noticed I was doing something wrong, but didn’t mention it, like the first day or so that it took me to realize why everyone reclined on their left hand, and ate with their right. SO nice of them to not mention that I was touching our shared food (we all ate from a giant plate) with the hand meant for wiping my bum.
I’ll post more on Shirazi and Mombasa later, but I know how short some of your attention spans are, so I’ll give you a break for a few days before boring you with more details. In the meantime, I think you all should know, if you go out in public wearing a leso (kanga) as a skirt, everyone will laugh at you. I was about to do this, and was on my way out the door to school when the house-help, Jess, laughed in my face and told me that I definitely would NOT look smart unless I put on my trousers.
Upon our arrival, I think everyone was struck immediately by two things: the incredible culture apparent even in just the little architecture we could see in the pre-dawn darkness, and by the humidity. The humidity became more and more apparent as we all started to realize that we were sweaty even before having moved anywhere, and before the sun had risen. Then, after a nap at the SIT office and some terrible shopping (somehow haggling just isn’t the same when you’re part of a group of 23 white people all trying to buy things simultaneously) for lesos (kangas- African cloths that women tie around their waists, among their other uses), moo-moos (giant, light, shapeless nightgown-type things women wear in an effort to be modest without dying of heat), and a few other things, we were on our way to Shirazi for a week with our rural homestay.
That first day was incredible as we got the taste of so many cultures that were so, so different and enticing, though it was also pretty difficult, as we all must have sweated out at least 2 litres of water, were running on very little sleep, and ended up in some new village trying to communicate with our new host families in Swahili, all the while forgetting essential words like “forget”, “practice”, “no problem” “are you sure”, etc etc. Turns out, being cordial is a lot easier in your own language.
Living in Shirazi for the next week was an incredible experience for so many reasons, but especially for the people there. My host family (immediate family) was AMAZING (except for one of my host brothers—ask me about this in person… it’s not a story that I have the time or inclination to include here), and I have to say, I wouldn’t have thought it possible to bond with a group of people the way I did in such a short time. Nearly everyone in the village was Muslim (including my fam), so the first few days were definitely an adjustment, as modesty has never really been one of my strong points, especially in intolerable heat/humidity.
That being said, I came to learn that a headscarf is actually an incredibly convenient tool for wiping sweat off, and is not quite mandatory, even when you are walking places where you encounter other people. I remember the first time I went on a walk with one of my friends, I finally decided that it would be appropriate to ask him if I could tak it off, when we were somewhere where we clearly would not find other people (we were hiking down the river to hunt a crocdile)… at first I thought it might give the wrong impression, given the fact that he was a boy about my age, and maybe me asking something like that would be perceived as promiscuous. Then, though, I just thought “screw it” (or words to that effect) and asked, and he gave me some response that clearly meant “uh… of course its okay… why wouldn’t it be?” Unfortunately, making costume adjustments wasn’t quite so easy when it came to playing mpira (football/soccer) at one of the Shirazi league games… between continuously pulling my leso back up as it fell down, keeping my headscarf in place, and picking thorns from the bottom of my feet, I ended up mostly just making a fool of myself more than I actually touched the ball, despite the fact that I was playing with a bunch of little kids. I guess that’s what playing with little kids is all about, though…
So family and friends in Shirazi: In my family there was Fatuma (Mama), Ali (Baba), Wafula (one brother), Mohamed (another brother), a third brother whose name I don’t remember, and then Mariam (a sister) and Ashura (another little sister—the one after whom I was named while I was there… I was Ashura Mkubwa (Old Ashura) and she was Ashura Mdogo (Little Ashura)). Everyone in the extended fam lives near one another (like within 10 feet of the next house) so around our house pretty consistently were uncles, cousins, grandma, etc. At first when people would introduce themselves to me and tell me how we were related, I would try to keep track, though I quickly found this to be near impossible for two reasons. The first is that ideas of family there are a little different, so culturally/linguistically, it’s pretty hard to differentiate between things like mom and aunt, or brother and cousin, so when people would translate over from Swahili to English, nothing quite matched up. On top of that, people had kids at all kinds of ages, so a number of my uncles, for example, were my age. A few of the other kids on my program had host mothers that were younger than they were… Regardless, everyone in the immediate and extended family were wonderful, welcoming, and plenty forgiving as I learned about things that were(n’t) allowed, doable, polite, etc. I have to say, looking back on a lot of the mistakes I made in my cultural assimilation, I’m incredibly thankful for all those times when my family clearly noticed I was doing something wrong, but didn’t mention it, like the first day or so that it took me to realize why everyone reclined on their left hand, and ate with their right. SO nice of them to not mention that I was touching our shared food (we all ate from a giant plate) with the hand meant for wiping my bum.
I’ll post more on Shirazi and Mombasa later, but I know how short some of your attention spans are, so I’ll give you a break for a few days before boring you with more details. In the meantime, I think you all should know, if you go out in public wearing a leso (kanga) as a skirt, everyone will laugh at you. I was about to do this, and was on my way out the door to school when the house-help, Jess, laughed in my face and told me that I definitely would NOT look smart unless I put on my trousers.
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