Daily Interactions…

Hello.

Hello, how are you?

I’m fine. How are you?

Fine. How is your day?

Fine, and yours?

Fine. 

 

I cannot even begin to fathom how many times I’ve had the interaction displayed above. Coming from a culture where it’s acceptable to be strangers with the neighbors, this culture baffles me sometimes with their sometimes ‘eloquent’ greetings. Not a day passes where I do not have an interaction like the one above with a Kenyan. It doesn’t matter whether I know the person very well or if they’re just someone passing me by along the road – this is the greeting standard. If the person is someone that you have a strong dislike or disdain for, the culture requires that one proceed through the motions of the standard greetings regardless. I suppose that’s largely influenced by the Christian faiths present within Kenya, specifically the notion that one must forgive.The greeting standard, in my experience, is used heavily among hearing Kenyans.

The Peace Corps encourages cultural exchange. Some days, I take that encouragement a little too literally and act as if I were walking around on the wide sidewalks of some place in Los Angeles. I briskly walk past all those whom I don’t consider acquaintances or friends. The gleam of being wronged as I refuse them the greeting ritual is always evident in their eyes. It’s quite interesting, really. The following day, I would revert to using the ritual and some Kenyans would inquire about or express their feelings of being wronged the preceding day. Very few do either but most do the former. I’d share that it’s often done in America and as I don’t really know you, this is what I would do in America. This causes some to attempt to strengthen our relationship but scares most people away. 

In all honesty, I’m tired of the redundant greetings. If behaving like an American some days scares the bulk of the redundancy away, it’s for the better. 

A thought entered my mind – perhaps that’s yet another reason to add onto my very long list as to why I feel so comfortable around the deaf students. Whenever I pass a deaf student or enter the school grounds, there’s none of that redundant greeting procedure but rather an expression of delight at their seeing me or a question to something they were thinking about or something I did. Sometimes, it’s seamless as if we’re continuing a conversation we left off earlier. It reminds me most of my relationship with my family and friends. 

Aesop’s Fables

A weird coincidence happened today. I walked into the school compound a little late today, like I do every Friday. There is a Christian Religion Education lesson, named PPI,  that goes from 8:00 to 8:55 every Friday. We all know I’m a celebrated atheist, and it is for this exact reason that I prefer to avoid anything relating to religion in Kenya. (Why? Because by attending, one of two things will happen. One, the people will ask me why this is the first time I’ve attended leading me to inform them of my atheism which will in turn cause either heated questioning or an awkward silence. Two, the people will have already known of my atheism but poke and prod my belief even though we’d been down that road dozens of times already.) 

Using the time I had wisely, I decided to write onto the board one of Aesop’s Fables: The Fox and the Crow. It’s a wee bit tedious writing out anything with chalk so writing slowly was a welcome thing, especially after all the times where I’ve written as fast as possible to make the most of my allotted 35 minutes. By the time PPI was finished and my class 8 students were streaming back into the classroom, ready to learn KSL, I was finished writing my fable. 

For those who don’t know the fable, here’s a summary. A fox sees a crow with a piece of cheese in her beak, proceeds to flatter the crow and make her sing, and triumphantly eats the cheese as it falls out of the crow’s mouth while singing. “Never trust a flatterer,” was the moral of the story. 

I had the students sign each word followed by a KSL rendition of the story. The students who understood the story enjoyed it immensely. I think I’ll make it Fable Fridays from now on. It teaches them much needed vocabulary while learning a good moral and enjoying a short story. 

The ironic coincidence came much later in the day. Remi, a Polish Swede who’s here for the week before he goes 6 weeks in Homa Bay, asked me to assist him in distributing lolly-pops and biscuits to all the Deaf students. I happily obliged. As we were walking towards the school, I sent two passing students to gather any other students that may have been at the administration block within the mission compound. (The Komotobo School for the Deaf is outside of the mission compound. Weird, I know, but the school used to be inside the compound as well before the Swedes decided that the school should build their own facilities. It’s in the middle of a transition period at the moment.) Remi and I continued into the school and were greeted by wild hoots and shouts from the students themselves. No teachers nor staff were within the compound. As soon as the two students returned from the administration building, we started to distribute the treats to everyone. As soon as we started to distribute though, two workers for the school walked quickly towards us as if their presence was of the utmost importance. As a facade, they made sure that the students were kept in line and that everyone was getting one of each thing even though Remi and I had everything under hand. When all the students had gotten their share, the two workers loomed over Remi and showered him with flattering statements.

Remi decided to give the remaining treats evenly to the students. After all was done, the workers stormed  away to the other side of the school compound. Never trust flatterers indeed. 

 

(I would not have been against the workers getting some of the treats but I have seen this sort of behavior far too often during my time in Kenya and have come to despise it. Blatant brown-nosing and flattery.)

Way Things Run

In Kenya, things are run quite differently than they are in the States. 

Last week, the Teachers Service Commission (TSC) sent a message to the Government of Kenya saying that they would go on strike should the Treasury not release the necessary funds schools need to continue. Kenya has a free Primary Education for all. The money comes from the Treasury of Kenya. This year, the government had not given the money to the schools which led to the TSC and their message. A one week strike notice was given with teachers planning to go on strike tomorrow. 

What happens today? TODAY. The day prior to the expiry of the strikes’ notice. The Government of Kenya decides to release a partial amount to the schools in hopes of deterring strikes occurring tomorrow. 

I see it as akin to bargaining at the market. The two parties bargain for whatever it is that they want. The provider wants as high a price as possible while the consumer wants as low a price as possible. The consumer often resorts to “This is my final offer. Take it or I’ll leave.” While this is an extreme analogy, I can’t help but see how the bargaining culture may have an effect on the larger scale of how things work. 

On one hand, I’m glad the funds came through before the strikes actually happened. On the other, why did it have to be a partial release allowing for the possibility that the strikes may still occur. Food for thought.

Comfort Food

Comfort food is a big part of everyone’s lives. At least for me, it really helps in soothing out the aftermath of a bad day. 

I remember olives, hummus, pita bread, figs, Nutella, green tea ice cream, and those delicious rice cake mochi balls with ice cream interiors being some of my comfort foods back in the U.S.

In Kenya, all of those things are nonexistent. Well, Nutella is the only exception but can only be obtained from the ever elusive Nakumatt (not really, the nearest one is Kisii, a 4 hour trip away.) for 950 Kenyan Schillings. Onto the volunteer’s budget, that single 500g jar of Nutella would make a giant dent. So, what’s become my comfort food in Kenya? 

Chapati. Homemade cookie dough. Guavas fresh off the trees. Powdered Coconut Milk. 

Chapati is much like a tortilla except that its made with flour and is rather oily. The only downside to this is that it’s difficult to make supple without the excess oil. Spread some of that weird looking jam onto the chapati though, and it’s one of the most delicious things here! Alternatively, I sometimes spread Blue Band and sprinkle cane sugar on top. 

Homemade cookie dough. I make it with Blue Band, a popular margarine here, mixed with flour, sugar, an egg, and some vanilla essence. It’s probably a really bad idea to be eating raw egg but after a day of witnessing some heavy caning, I personally don’t care if I get sick or not. Just watching a defenseless kid get hit sickens me enough already. 

Guavas are self explanatory, I think. Unfortunately, they’ve gone out of season. Many of the guavas ripened quickly on the trees and the flies were quick to insert their eggs into the ripe yellow balls. I learned quickly to avoid the yellow ones for they harbored little white maggots swirling around inside. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the days where I could climb high atop a guava tree and just sit at the top, munching on the fruits. Side story: two Kenyans were passing by under the tree I was up in. When they were almost directly under me, they noticed I was atop the tree and called up to me to say matter of factly that I’m a prime example that white people are direct descendants of the monkeys. I was just about to say No… but I held my tongue and let it slide. 

Powdered Coconut Milk. I never thought this would be something that I’d even DO but I do it. I take heaping spoonfuls from a packet of coconut powder and just let my saliva liquefy the powder. Mmmm coconut goodness. 

 

A Journey into My Own Hogwarts

The past week, I’ve had the Deaf school experience that I’d never had. It was amazing. Words cannot describe how I felt roaming around Nina School for the Deaf, watching all the different schools play the different sports while the spectators’ hands waved around furiously, full of meaning and life.

It was the Provincial Games held in each of Kenya’s 7 provinces in April of each year. I didn’t get the opportunity to attend last year’s provincial games due to the DEO (District Education Officer) somehow ‘misplacing’ the funds that were set aside for Kaaga School for the Deaf students to attend the games. Well, this year I went. The 29 students and 10 teachers from Komotobo were packed onto a school bus that seats about 50 or so with about 30 students and 10 teachers from Ntimaru School for the Deaf. What a fun ride that was, I’m sure you can imagine. Smaller students were sitting on the bigger students’ laps while the teachers sat comfortably up front. I felt guilt seeping through my veins. We left Komotobo at around noon, after the organizers telling me that we would be leaving at five o’ clock in the morning. After picking up the Ntimaru folk; we finally made our way for Siaya, nine hours away.

It was dark well before we reached Kisumu and it had rained in Siaya before we reached the area. The soil there is more on the clay side so driving safely on the dirt roads is a bit of a challenge. The bus slid back and forth on the road and had every single soul cringing on the bus. Eventually, we finally made our arrival to Nina School for the Deaf and split up rapidly to our respective sleeping places. The students and female staff slept on the school compound while the male staff slept in a house about 4km down the road. Yes, we had to carry our belongings and trek through the horrible mud in the black of night. It was funny at some points where the teachers started joking about how clearly they could see me walking on the road while I admitted that it was rather difficult for me to see them.

The house that we slept in was already nearly full. There were four spacious rooms filled with bunk beds but it still wasn’t enough. Two of my co-workers and I opted to sleep on the floor and found it quite comfortable aside from the midnight comings and goings of the temporary residents. When 5am came around, I was awakened by the bustle of Kenyans getting ready for the day. I was so groggy and a little bit pissed because the sun hadn’t even risen yet, everyone was already up and prodding for me to do the same. Around 6am, the sun sent the smallest slivers of red light and with that, I rolled out of bed. I was greeted by a row of five naked ebony bodies throwing water on themselves from basins. The morning bathe. I was taken a little by surprise and couldn’t help myself from looking (!!) but as soon as I saw some of them beginning to notice my presence, I made quick movements towards the water pump so that I could get water for myself to bathe. I didn’t have much choice in where to bathe, so I just beelined for the wall and opted to have my blindingly white rear face the traffic. Sure enough, I attracted some attention which was quickly diverted whenever I looked behind my shoulder. It was quite an experience having to bathe in front of adults because that time I bathed in the river with my students wasn’t as awkward as it was with these adults, even though the students had bluntly asked me about some of the differences between our penises.

Life goes on, even after being a little panic-stricken from having to bathe naked for all the world to see. (There was a main road to which I had my rear. Later, I realized that there was a much better location with bushes and a tree. We all learn.)

We made our way to Nina School. There was breakfast for the masses – students got tea and bread while teachers got the same and an egg. I never understood why teachers get better meals than the students but that’s the way it is here. Students are often stuck eating githeri (a mixture of maize kernels and beans) while teachers get a luxurious meal of ugali, sukuma, and meat. After breakfast, there were the track and field events. The day went by pretty quickly between watching and cheering for the students partaking in the various races and storying happily with the plethora of new deaf individuals I met.
For the briefest of minutes (and an hour) I would lose myself into the moment. I felt like I was neither in Kenya nor America but simultaneously in both places. It was a bizarre experience. It was like an American football game, with concession stands and all. There were stands selling samosas, sugar cane, guava, mandazis, chapati, rice and beans, sodas, tea, and more. I could see a sea of smiles as students greeted friends new and old and as hands flashed too quickly for any normal hearing person to comprehend. I had entered my own Hogwarts; one that belongs to users of sign language. In this respect, I can safely say I’ll gladly enter House Slytherin in terms of defending sign language and its uses but not in terms of ‘keeping the bloodlines aka Deaf Families’ pure. I eagerly exchanged ideas and stories with hearing educators as well but had little to no patience for the ones that I quickly summed up as to ‘not having the heart’ for the Deaf. By that I mean, they’ve been teaching the Deaf for over 5 years and had very weak signing skills. I think that says a lot. I’ve been in Kenya for nearly two years and I’ve managed to muster up my KiSwahili skills up to an awkward conversational level and that’s without any formal education and without full time immersion in the language. (The people here often opt for English whenever they see a mzungu.) Those teachers, on the other hand, theoretically should have had immersion into the language for 8 hours a day IF they were showing up for work.

I also met three new mzungus that day! They were Deaf Education PCVs from the new education group. All very nice! After a long day, and a lunch that was served at 4:30pm, I was looking forward to going to dinner, and quickly thereafter to bed. Dinner wasn’t served until about 11pm. When the food was brought into the room, the teachers SCRAMBLED to get into line and started elbowing one another to get a better spot in line. It was like watching children fight for a spot in line. The first thing that came to mind was this: “They needed to be caned in primary and secondary school to line up correctly. There’s no one to cane these teachers. I guess this is what happens. It explains a lot.” By then, I had entirely lost my appetite. I desperately wanted to go to bed but was barred by the fact we were 4km away and it was nighttime where I was like a firefly glowing in the dark. I waited until midnight before we finally loaded up the bus and went to sleep.

The next day was ball games. I watched my students play football, netball, handball, and VOLLEYBALL! I had trained with my students long and hard at school this term. Both the boys and girls won their first Volleyball games! The second match, the girls lost but it was a very close game. The boys won against a formidable school – Nyangoma. They proceeded to the finals versus Maseno. The referees decided to make the sets 15 points down from 25 due to lack of time. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was PISSED about this, along with a number of other rule violations that they allowed.) The first set went to Maseno with 17 – 15. The second set went to Komotobo with 8 – 15 and the final set went to Maseno with 15 – 10. It was an exciting and intense game but alas someone had to lose. They were all winners in my heart and I allowed them the rare opportunity to see me teary-eyed. They all pointed it out and said I wasn’t being manly (it’s shameful for men to cry or show ANY weakness in Kenya) and I said I didn’t care because I loved them all. I bought them sodas.

That afternoon was the awards ceremonies. There was an interpreter facing the VIP table with the teachers, mostly hearing with a sprinkling of deaf, sitting behind the tables. I became upset when I learned that there was not a second interpreter facing all the DEAF students whom were congregated around the FRONT of the table, and to whose faces the interpreter’s back was faced. I walked onto the field unannounced and started interpreting while looking at the interpreter for whatever I didn’t understand. I ended up doing it for two hours straight without anyone else offering to switch for me while the interpreter interpreting for the teachers and VIP was replaced three times. Oh Kenya. After it all, though, I was rewarded by the mass of students as they patted my back in thanks for interpreting for them. Warm heart.

Easter.

I believe that the main purpose of religions is to explain the unknown. Easter has a history before the rising of Christ. Ironically, it’s roots lie in the pagan circles. The German Ostara is Goddess of Spring and Dawn. In ancient Babylon, they worshiped Ishtar, Goddess of Romance, Procreation, and War. Easter has had long to do with the rising with the new. No surprise there as Easter is around the time of Spring, and that’s when new plants grow. Before the appearance of modern science, people needed to explain certain occurrences. It’s understandable that they believed in a divine power being the reason for things’ occurrences. Everything is also an evolution of the old. I wouldn’t be surprised if the modern belief that Christ rose from the grave on Easter has its roots from the pagan beliefs. The history and brief analysis aside…

 

Nothing pisses me off more than religious holidays in this country. In California, I was living happily in my own blurred definition of what I believed in. It was somewhere muddled along the lines of athiesm and agnostic peppered by things I ‘liked’ to believe in such as the horoscope, vampires, demons, and whatnot. All in all, I thought very little about god in the traditional sense and encountered very little conflicts about what I believed in, or didn’t, and why.

In Kenya, it’s literally a daily conflict. Most days, fortunately, it’s rather minor along the lines of a local commenting on how they’d never seen me at church and my explanation followed by raised eyebrows and a confused look. Usually, that’s when they offer friendly advice for me to join the local church or that they would pray for me. I nod and that would be the end of it most days. Those occurences are like gnats flying at my face but it doesn’t bother me so much anymore.

Today, however, was Easter Sunday. Jesus rose from the grave and all that jazz. None of that matters to me but I understand that it means something big to those who devote their time to their faith. My instincts warned me not to go outside my house until at least after 3pm by which time the churchgoers would have had dispersed. Against my instincts, which were stabbing me by the time I opened my front door, I went outside to buy some bananas. I ran into some students, whom I always enjoy talking to. The church is directly in front of my house and there is a big open field where everyone inside the church is able to see whoever is coming and going. The church has almost a 360 degree view of the mission. Naturally, everyone inside could see that I had refused, yet again, to attend church. I got the bananas and returned to my house. At around 3pm, I went to the girls’ dorms/cafeteria/main office and saw 3 teachers lounging around, supposedly preparing for our trip to Siaya tomorrow. I greet them by shaking hands with them all, as is the custom. (Sometimes, It drives me mad having to enter a room with 20 people and be culturally obligated to approach every single person and shake hands.) I shake hands while wishing them a Happy Easter.

The teacher to my right tells me that it’s good to see me because he believed I was in Nairobi celebrating the Easter holiday. (All three teachers were explicitly made aware of my religious beliefs, or lack thereof, on at least three previous occasions.) I instantly snap back with a “You know I’m not religious. Easter is a religious holiday.”

What came out of this person’s mouth next infuriated me. “You must change your behavior. You must start attending church and give yourself up to God.”

“I’ve lived 25 years without god. I’ve done quite well all this time. I don’t need to change anything. I respect your CHOICE to worship someone but it’s my choice to not believe in god or follow a religion. Please respect that.”

“We all pray for you everyday to join us on the right side of things.”

I nodded in disbelief and left the office before the situation blew up. I’ve definitely learned a lot of things about life and myself during my time in the Peace Coprs. I’ve definitely learned when it’s time for me to exit the room lest I aim to unleash the anger running through my veins on them.

It baffles me as to why so many Kenyans are so unquestioningly devout, borderlining towards something like a cult mindset. Another baffling element is that “The White Man” supposedly eradicated the local religions and cultivated Christianity in its many forms in its stead. Kenyans are fully aware of this historical occurence. I’ve encountered many religious Kenyans and brought up this point. The most common response I got was that the White Men saved them from the darkness. I asked if the Africans resisted. Yes. Why? Because we didn’t like our cultures, beliefs, and ways being altered. And yet you allowed them to be – if an alien race came today and tried to do something the way the White Men did long ago, how would you react? Much the same way – resist. Why? We believe that we are right. That’s what I’m doing – I’m resisting because I do what I believe is right — leave me alone.

Dedicated to Emma Bixler

I’m dedicating this blog post to Emma Bixler. She personally emailed me asking for me to keep my blogs public. I realize I haven’t been blogging much these days but that’s largely due to the fact that things feel normal and with normality comes a sense of ‘not much’ in terms of news, I’ve noticed. Regardless, much has transpired and as I begin writing this entry, I find myself unable to express all the things I want to share. Luckily, this is the first day of my travel to Nairobi for medical. I’m in Kisii at present as a halfway stop between Komotobo and Nairobi. Don’t worry, I’m not sick – I’m going for medical as in to re-repair my hearing aid, check up on my thumb that I injured while playing volleyball, and check up on a possible cavity 😡 (Damn all those daily sugary Kenyan teas during Staff breaks.)

 

That point in your life when you’re living in a new place and everything suddenly seems as if you’ve never lived anywhere else. Okay, maybe not never but that’s how I feel these days. I don’t wake up or look to my right and have it remind me of something back home as much as I used to. In short, I don’t feel homesick anymore. I could see myself living here for the rest of my life if I had to.

Luckily, I don’t have to. I don’t want to.

Here’s Beast.

Like everything in life, there are good things and there are bad things. It’s up to the individual to make the best out of things. I can confidently say that I’ve made the best out of things here. One of many things holding me back from giving Kenya a solid chance of calling it my permanent home is the level of corruption that prevails. In America, one seldom hears about corruption aside from the occasional Enron incident or from tales of Medieval times long past. Here, it’s glaringly obvious in all levels of life: the government and its officials, businesses and their employees, schoolteachers and headmasters; right down to the schoolchildren. I’ve seen corruption range from disobeying the law in its various forms such as corporal punishment, packing 13 people into a 5-seater vehicle and the drivers later bribing the very officers who were supposed to be inspecting and citing violators to skimming money off school funds to renovate one’s home. Granted, I’ve grown used to some of the forms of corruption I witness here (namely the packing of vehicles) but I’m finding it increasingly more difficult to tolerate the other forms of corruption I witness, namely corporal punishment or the skimming of funds to be diverted for selfish purposes. Unfortunately, I am at best powerless to fight against these atrocities if I wish to remain here and complete my service; which I do. 

Kenya truly is the land of … I’m not sure what the word is but something along the lines of Beauty and the Beast or Jekyll and Hyde sounds about right. There’s beauty in almost everything for those whom don’t look closely. Look closer and you start to catch glimpses of the uglier side of things that many Kenyans try to hide from visiting wazungu (white folk). I’m someone who looks closely at the ‘why’ of things and I’m here for too long to be called a mere ‘visitor’.

Here’s Beauty.

Just the other day, I was marveling at the fact that I was on the African continent enjoying a strange local fruit, red-black and olive shaped with a flavor that’s reminiscent of boysenberry mixed with something else. Sitting on top of the strange fruit tree, I towered over everything and had an excellent vantage point. I could see my very own house, the school, the river that the students sometimes bathe in (including myself – twice), the market I do all my shopping at every Thursday, and the waving hands of the many students whom wanted to share my delight in the fruit. I shake an unreachable branch so that the ripe ones may shower the sea of hands. A shower of black and red followed by Deaf sounds of joy and the brilliant white gleam of teeth reflecting the sunset. (I say deaf sounds of joy because each and every student has their own distinct joyful sound. Those of you who know the Deaf well enough know what I’m talking about.) I was in bliss. To top it all off, there was a natural event: a sunset. Not one of those sunsets that set behind the clouds or trees but a picturesque African sunset. The sun, red-orange and large, set on the unobstructed horizon. Days like that, where I don’t look too closely at things, are usually perfect.

Next post – bathing in the river with some Kenyan eyes on me! 

Guavas

Guava. It is a green golf ball with a ghostly interior when raw, slowly giving way to, at it’s best, a yellow baseball with a pink center as it ripens. I walked down the mere two steps it takes to enter my abode not five minutes ago from what I like to call “Guava Hunting”. Despite the guava trees being nearly endemic around these parts, the locals fear climbing the trees. Oftentimes, the guavas are left on the treetops to become an incubation sac, of sorts, for the maggots. Alternatively, they become food for the birds or the monkeys that take up their residence in the nearby bush a mere five minutes walk away the opposite direction from the daily route I take towards the school. The route towards the bush is the same route I must take every week to reach the market for any food (besides these guavas, which are now coming into season!!) You can tell how excited I am to be having these fruits just there for the taking. I’m having the time of my life just climbing the trees’ sturdy branches. Not even the giant black ants pinching at my calves deter me from obtaining my bounty. Today, I climbed one of the trees nearby where I weight-lift and met an angry mama weaver bird trying to protect her beautifully woven nest. Imagine a common nest, looking very much like a sideways ‘c’. Well, the weaver bird’s nest is like that but with the addition of a larger sideways ‘C’ on top of the smaller sideways ‘c’. There is a small gap between the little and big C’s. That’s where the bird enters the nest and in the cup of the smaller ‘c’ is where the eggs are. The larger ‘C’ atop is to protect the nest from predators as well as the hot equatorial sun. Ingenious little birds. Anyway, mama weaver squawked loudly at me on a branch opposite where her nest hung in an attempt to distract me. I smiled and slowly stepped down, after taking my yellow baseball of course.

Prior to my treetop adventures, I was playing volleyball with my students. They really are improving and I am shocked at how good of a coach I am. Considering the fact I have almost zero volleyball experience, I’m still able to coach. Throughout most of the game, Chase Burton, whom I almost always as a consequence think of when I think of or play volleyball. Hunter Beck and the days I spent watching the brothers of Lambda Sigma Pi play IM Volleyball slide in and out of my mind. At one point during the game, quite literally, I turned to a student and asked them to smack me in the head. I asked because I was thinking of all the wasted opportunities I had to play volleyball. Currently, I’m trying to teach the students the importance of teamwork and the team spirit as well as how to properly hit the ball from overhead (rigid hands in the shape of a bent 5) and hit under (hands ‘fisted’ together or held together in the shape you would sign for money). As you can tell, I don’t even know the proper names for these things. Any volleyball tips y’all have for me, I’ll GLADLY take.

There was a point in the day where it became unpleasant, but I’ve thankfully learned how to let things like this slide off my back. This doesn’t mean that I didn’t have my temper rise a few degrees. One of the teachers was telling me about how it’s ‘AFRICAN’ (I DESPISE when Kenyans call themselves ‘Africans’ or say ‘this is how we do it in Africa’) for African men to beat their wives like cows when they are being unfaithful or unwilling to present themselves to their husbands for sex. That topic somehow led to rape and I pointed out to him that since husbands beat their wives for sex, it is a form of rape. All the male staff, of course, disagreed while the female staff simply sat in silence. I wanted to hear no more of it so I just nodded my head for the rest of his rant. Eventually, he got the gyst and just stopped spewing.

I can hardly believe January is nearly through. It seems just like yesterday I waved my parents off to the Jomo Kenyatta Airport. Here’s to a wonderful 10 months remaining. (AHH!)

Do I emit some unknown pheromones?

Today was such an amazing day! I played volleyball and just bonded with the students. I made a sweet thai-themed pasta for dinner and it’s blowing my taste buds’ minds!! There’s electricity right now to top it all off!!

The following is an entry I wrote on Thursday – quite hilarious. I seem to be a magnet for these kinds of things.

I returned earlier today from the market. Thursdays are market days in the ‘nearby’ town named Centre. It’s a solid 45 minutes walk as opposed to a mere 10 minutes via vehicle or piki piki (what they call motorbikes here… oh wait.. Americans call them motorcycles. Geez, my American English is going.) Too bad the Peace Corps forbids all volunteers from using the pikis and there’s rarely ever a vehicle passing by. I remember an occasion where I thought I would be lazy and just wait by the side of the road for a vehicle to take me to Centre. I waited a little more than an hour and only one vehicle had passed me, arms and heads overflowing out of its windows. I gave up and started walking. Anyway, it’s not like it matters anymore because I’ve grown accustomed to walking the distance. In fact, I actually enjoy it at the times where the roads are quiet. I try to avoid the times where the schools let out because then I’ll be faced with an onslaught of Kenyan children vying for my attention. Anyway, onto the point of why I wanted to write this entry.

I decided to arrive at the market a bit later today because in the weeks past, the selection of foods lying atop plastic burlap bags was just atrocious. Onions, tomatoes, potatoes, and omena (Small fish the size of the pinkie, head, eyes, and all fully intact for your eating pleasure……). I’m a foodie. I need more than this. People told me that at later times, carrots, cabbage, and a variety of greens make their appearance. My entire body perked up at the mention of carrots. Looking back on my life, I’ve taken carrots for granted many times. (Potatoes too but the lovely little white baubles they call rice still wins my preference.) So, yes, I enter the market and I’m greeted by a momentary silence as the marketfolk register my presence, followed by waves of “..jf sdfbdf ijdf MZUNGU hebuf…” left in my wake. It’s become normal. I admit, I do look forward to the days where I can enter a locale without even drawing an eye to myself. But then again, that ‘power’ would be nice to have in certain places, if you know what I mean. Among the many eyes that followed me as I made my rounds at the market comparing between two mamas’ products for their quality, one followed me more intently than the others. The one even began to follow me physically, albeit slowly at that. It was a few minutes before I noticed and it was only because I was taking in the sight of a large pile of carrots. (This is after not eating any form of carrots in a little over two weeks.) An elderly woman with drooping earlobes, decked out in lessos (the traditional fabric for women), and hobbling on a wooden leg and cane, which has a thick material from tyres furled around it. (The drooping earlobes are traditional for the older folk, although the tradition is now dead among younger generations, for back in the day if a child was misbehaving, the parent would make a small cut on the ear. The cut would be in the area between the earlobe and the cartlidge leading into the ear canal. If the child continued their misbehaving, something heavy would be hung from the hole, stretching the skin. Ow. So in a way, simply by looking at a person you can determine whether they’ve been a very very bad child.) Rather loudly she declared, “Nipe kumi!” In Kiswahili, it means “Give me ten!” Of course, I knew she was referring to ten schillings. I ignored her and began to inspect for carrots I’d want to buy. The woman was relentless. “Nipe kumi kwa Mama Mwita! Nipe! Wewe mzungu, ninajua pesa hapo katika (tapping my back pocket)” (Give me 10 for Mama Mwita! Give me! You rich-white-person, I-know money there in..” I became uncomfortable but stood my ground. After a little while, she started to lightly spank my bottom with the stick while almost chanting “Nipe kumi, mimi (me) Mama Mwita!” I felt spots of red burn on my cheeks but I tried to just step aside and let it slide off my back. Right then, she poked at my crotch while saying something I didn’t understand and proceeded to unfurled the tyre piece from the stick and threatened to whip me. Right then, I walked to the other side of the market, which isn’t that big mind you – about the size of Boyd’s old classroom at CSUN. Follow me, she did. Grr. I was forced to leave the market but not before catching her whip on my bum. Ayiyi.

New Address, Among Other Things

Before I get lost in the flurry of bringing back memories of what’s transpired since the last time I’ve updated, I’m going to share my new address for the current site I’m at.

Joshua Josa, Peace Corps Volunteer (BE SURE you put this, otherwise hefty charges may be added)
PO Box 164
Kehancha – 40413

Now, onto the regular blogging experience.
I often notice myself starting a blog with something from earlier during the same day. The memory triggers another memory from earlier in the week, which is the direction I can see my thoughts drifting towards even as I type. It’s true what they say: “Peace Corps is the toughest job you’ll ever love” for many bizarre reasons even I would never have fathomed prior to coming here. At this very moment, for instance, I am feeling an insanely hightened sensation of glee simply because I am able to be typing on my netbook with Adele’s “Someone Like You” blasting in the middle of an electrically-lit room.

Alternatively, I feel a sense of bravery, heroism (although why heroism is one of the feelings, I’m not altogether sure), and a sense of mystery all wrapped up in a tight little ball of delight as I watch the candlelight dancing among the shadows with mosquitoes buzzing around the fringes of the shadows, forever attempting to evade my keen deaf eyes so they can proceed to plunge, suck, and buzz away, engorged.

Today, I love my job. The fact that it came immediately after sitting with what was nearly a full morning of dark annoyance. What happened is that someone whom I thought had literally walked out of my life for good had returned, spitting venomous words of blame at me through my innocent little Nokia. I quickly closed the deal but found myself unable to control my annoyance at things that normally bother me but I’m able to control my feelings with Kenyan Sign Language differences and theology being the chief annoyances. Y’see, with KSL there are hundreds of sign variations depending on what part of Kenya one hails from but the KSL section during the KCPE (The national Class 8 exams held at the end of every year. This is the very same exam that determines the fate of a student’s enrollance into secondary school.) is done in the dialect of KSL hailing from Nairobi and is rapidly spreading throughout the country. You can imagine my annoyance when a fellow schoolteacher challenges my logic of teaching in the KSL from Nairobi in the interest of doing well on the KCPEs with the logic that because the students are signing this particular form of dialect, the teachers should conform to the students so that the students are able to comprehend the lessons. Alas, the feeling subsided by lunch. The teachers filled their stomachs with a sort of watery bean dish with a chapati. (Sort of like a crepe, but thicker and not sweet. Or like Indian naan but cooked with more oil.) It was a welcome relief from the daily lunches consisting of ugali (corn meal + water cooked) and sukuma wiki (kale). It’s a bit disconcerting that if I go more than two days without ugali and sukuma, I experience sort of a withdrawal. 

Here’s what made my day. I was teaching KSL to class 8 and during the lesson, I caught one of the students trying to conceal his signing to his neighbor. Here’s what he said: “He’s the best teacher I’ve ever seen! His signing is phenomenal and it just blows my mind away.” I couldn’t help but feel like a shining star right at that moment. There’s a constant that I notice during my service – when the light seems to fade, it’s nearly always the students that’ll bring me to see the light once more. 
Last night, I watched Brokeback Mountain. I stand by my opinion that it should have won the Oscar in 2005 against Crash for its groundbreaking content and vision of its time. Crash was a great movie, yes, but I feel Brokeback Mountain deserved it’s place. Anyway, as I was sitting in the darkness with my laptop’s screen brightness set to the lowest possible setting to conserve battery, I felt as if I was living a sort of Brokeback life here. I’m looking forward to living in a place where I don’t have to be conscious about what I say around people.

Oooh – yesterday, I struck a deal with one of the teachers living in the bigger town of the area named Kehancha (as you saw on my address up there, its where I have to go for Posta. It’s about a 30 minute drive from here) to buy me things I can’t get at my local market such as MANGO! Today, she walked into the staff room with a mango in each hand. JOY!

Speaking of food, the bread in the market that I go to sucks. A distinct moldy flavour can be detected and it disgusts me. As a result, I’ve been baking breads of my own. I dub Sundays and Wednesdays as my bread baking days. Thus far, I’ve made a thyme-onion, jam (I know, right? It’s really good too), and chili breads.

Life is good these days. I’m looking forward to seeing progress with my students and for all the wonderful things to come such as a region-wide meet-up with volunteers in a nearby city in February and regional/national sports with the students in April!