Safari Njema

After our Kilimanjaro adventure we spent a few days recuperating in the luxurious Fairview hotel in Nairobi. I truly did not know that a place like that haven existed in Kenya! There a spectacular breakfast buffet that had STRAWBERRIES! I had not seen a strawberry for 10 months! Needless to say, I contemplated a peace corps site change to the Fairview hotel. After a few days, a few showers, and a few hot meals, my family and I met up with Caitlin, my best friend from high school, to embark on our next set of adventures. Since a picture shows a thousand words, here are some of my favourite snapshots of our vacation:



At the elephant orphanage we watched baby elephants (awwwwww) get fed with giant bottles of milk and then play soccer.





Caitlin and my Mom getting smooches from giraffes at the Nairobi Giraffe Centre. Giraffe tongues are rough and slimy, not at all kissable.



At Carnivore restaurant where you are served an endless buffet of wild game from crocodile to ostrich. This is the happiest I saw Robbie on the trip, and quite possibly in all his life.




We ventured to the Masai Mara to begin our safari. We first stayed at Keekorok Lodge in comfortable wooden huts. Note Caitlin’s excitement for our first game drive! There was also a hippo pond with lots of snuggling hippopotamuses.



Below are some pictures of the wildlife we saw in the Masai Mara. It was fascinating (and slightly scary) to see all of the giant game roaming in their habitat.












Seeing all of the animals above almost felt like a Disneyland ride/Lion King movie set (I did have to sing the circle of life a few times!). Out of sibling rivalry, Robbie and I came up with a competition to see who could spot the most animals throughout our stay and assigned points to the most elusive of animals. I lost miserably! I missed a sleeping lion right in front of me, mistaking it for a dead buffalo…..



This is the second lodge that we stayed in, Mara Serena, which had gorgeous view of the Mara river. The rooms were modeled after traditional Masai huts, but with the luxury of running water, toilets, etc.



From the view of our rooms, the wildebeest migration across the Mara river was seen. Unfortunately for me I missed the whole crossing as I was blissfully enjoying a massage! Oh well, at least from this picture you can see the sheer number of wildebeest…quite amazing.



The view of the Masai Mara were breathtaking. You could see for miles and spot wildlife off in the distance.



And there were absolutely beautiful sunsets. The colours of an African sunset are just so pretty!





Caitlin and I attended a Masai Dance where we witnessed some traditional songs and dances. The Masai tribesmen dance by jumping as high as possible in a circle.





After our safari in the Masai Mara we headed to Kisumu in the Nyanza province. We stayed at Kiboko Bay Resort located on the shore of Lake Victoria. There was a lot of delicious fresh fish to be enjoyed as well as bird watching.





We went on a boat ride in Lake Victoria and saw many fisherman at work catching tilapia and omena (small sardine like fish). We also saw a group of emerged hippos, many beautiful birds, and a giant water lizard.



We ended our vacation at my site where my family and Caitlin had a chance to meet all my students and staff at Bishop Abiero Girl's Secondary School. The students asked them many questions about themselves and America.



My visitors also got to meet all of my house’s animal inhabitants (invited and uninvited). I was glad that they were able to see my house, school, and community to get a real feel for what it is like living in Kenya as a Peace Corps Volunteer. My mom described my house as “camping for two years” while my brother euphemistically called my living situation “an adventure” (in reference to the daily battle with rodents, bumblebees, spiders, etc that have infested my house). And even though Caitlin had a nightly staring contest with the mice living in my rafters and Robbie was attacked by a million mosquitoes, I want to believe that they enjoyed their stay in Magwar (although I know they will not miss using a choo). Come back to visit again soon!

Mt. Kilimanjaro

Since this is my blog, I really should be able to describe climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in any way I like; as in I reached the top first, was able to withstand the freezing cold, and completely triumphed without any signs of altitude sickness because I’m just that awesome. Sadly, I feel compelled to tell you the truth which unfortunately ends up being the complete opposite of my ambitious dreams for a kili climb.

In reality, the experience was close to miserable. On summit night, it was freezing (and many of you know I HATE the cold!). I mean, really, who in their right mind would want to walk up a mountain in -20 degree weather? Definitely not me. Besides the cold, the altitude was quite difficult. We would literally take one or two steps then have to stop to gasp for air…there was hardly any oxygen at 5895 meters! At least there was a was beautiful sunrise above the clouds and some breathtaking glaciers. Too bad I hardly remember the scenery since I was too worried about the possible impending amputation of all my toes due to frostbite…..:







As some of you know, the main reason we decided to spend a week of our “vacation” on this torturous mountain was to celebrate the 50th birthday of my mother. She is now half a century old! But age, clearly, did not matter on Kili. She was a beast of a 50 year old and powered up the mountain beating both of her children to Uhuru peak. All of the porters were sincerely impressed with her strength and endurance and kept telling her she was the strongest 50 year old they had ever seen! When I was sick due to the altitude she literally carried me down the mountain leaving the porters in awe of her brute strength. While my brother and I swore that we would never attempt to climb a mountain again, my mother was hardly phased by Kilimanjaro, the tallest point in all of Africa. She is an amazing woman and I can only hope that at 50, I can do half the things she can do (not including climbing mountains). Happy Birthday Mom, I love you!







While the memory of Kilimanjaro is still too fresh in my mind to not be scarred by the cold and altitude sickness, I know that in a few months (ok maybe years) I will look back at the experience as one of the most rewarding accomplishments. Summit night was quite possibly the worst night of my life, but besides that night, the spectacular scenery of the mountain and the atmosphere were very memorable. We walked through so many different ecosystems from lush jungle to dry desert. We had the opportunity to meet and talk with some amazing porters who climb Kili for a living. And my brother and I bonded over our shared misery. While I might complain about the aches and pains, bruises, and general dirtiness of the being on the mountain for a week, I know that I will always treasure the experience and, of course, the bragging rights :)

In the eye of the beholder

Do you ever one of those days when everything seems beautiful? When you can hear every bird song crystal clear, every cloud looks fluffy and playful, the sunrise and sunset are spectacularly breathtaking, and every person’s smile is incredibly heartfelt? I had one of those days today, which was well needed. As you may have guessed from my previous blog entries, I’ve been having more trouble adjusting to life here than my initial few months. Today, when everything here was beautiful and perfect, reminded me to see the beauty in things. I hope to truly savour these moments that make me blissfully happy. Today made my smile shine from within and showed me that in a land where many things seem so illogical, there is still beauty. These are some of the things that I find beautiful, here in Magwar:

My sunrise walk to school. The field I pass through each morning is full of beautiful birds, grazing cattle, and silence. I love this peaceful journey with just me and my dog and the quiet of Magwar. I’m not being followed by loads of rambunctious school children, I’m not being asked for money, and I’m not being scorched by the equatorial sun. It’s peacefulness that prepares me for my day.

Prayer drums during planting season. It’s a humbling experience, seeing women bent over plowing their fields into neat lines to the beat of drums calling to God/whoever else may hear, to grant them a fruitful harvest. I find myself looking up to the sky like the little old lady drummer does, and wondering if someone above hears the beauty and reverence vibrating in her huge cow hide drum.

My students: Over half of my students are orphans, many face challenges that I cannot even describe or fathom. They are poor, sometimes hungry, often cold, and frequently exhausted from a Kenyan day’s household chores. But they have amazing spirits. They are dedicated to their education even if it means sacrificing so much. They are charismatic, curious, and persevering. I gain so much of my strength from them.

Children For any of you who know me, you know that I adore children. But, living here, and standing out like some kind of freak sideshow I often become somewhat of a spectacle to children. Thankfully, to some extent, a bit of their excitement in my newness has worn off. I no longer am hassled EVERYWHERE I go and followed by an army of children. But I do have one faithful fan, who early morning or late evening, rain or shine, will sprint from wherever he may be and whatever he may be doing to greet me. He is about 2 years old and named Eriki. He has an enormous pot belly topped with the largest outie belly button I’ve ever seen. He is shy, with questioning eyes, a determined handshake and is sometimes adorned in a pink flowered smock, but he makes me happy. His loyalty to my daily handshake makes me smile everyday.

Baby animals. I realize that I am a huge sucker for animals (look at my growing farm of pets). The plethora of baby cows, newborn goats, fuzzy chickens, and suckling puppies makes me say “Awwww” on a daily basis. A moment that makes me laugh is when I accidentally tested a mother’s protective instinct. I was at the market with my friend Emmah when I saw a trail of baby chickens following their mother along. Overcome with a baby chick’s cuteness, I reached to pick one up. Bad move. The mother, seeing that I had one of her babies in my potentially killer hands, flew up and began attacking/pecking/squacking/thrashing her wings in my hair. That moment made me laugh out loud, my adoration of anything young overrode me common sense of a mother’s protective nature. The cycle of life is quite a beautiful thing.

A sense of community: Property lines and street signs divide American communities. While those walls and property lines may exist here, there is a sense of togetherness that lingers and runs beneath class and community segregation. A sense of community means: knowing that if your crops fail then your neighbour will feed you. If there is a drought then water will be shared. If you are sick members from the community will come to your house to wish you a speedy recovery and bring you loads of food. If a death occurs, the whole village will be there to mourn with you, to share your pain. It’s witnessing these moments that are heartfelt and warming and true. While maybe not beautiful on the outermost level, inherently, a sense of togetherness and oneness is truly amazing.

So, these things show me the beauty of my community. And while I realize that I may not appreciate these things on a daily basis, knowing that they are there is reason enough for me to get through the difficult days. So when I’m frustrated with the lack of behaviour change, feeling helpless in the face of poverty, or just homesick, I’ll try to remember to look for the beauty in things.

Thoughts

Dear friends and family,
Sorry I have not been updating you all lately. To be honest, I haven't been as happy here as I used to be and I don’t want to bore you with my complaints about the little things that annoy me and have me wishing I could teleport back to California. It’s the little things that add up over time, making me burst out in an angry rage at the smallest provocations. I’m now used to the lack of running water, inconsistent electricity, and lower standards of personal hygiene. But what really gets to me is the everyday occurrences ( people always asking me for things, or assuming I have a ton of money, or calling me mzungu (I have a name!) )that truly get to me.

I also think my frustration stems from the fact that I feel like I’m not doing enough here. Sometimes the problems just seem too enormous to even fathom conquering. For instance, when I first arrived and school fees seemed to be a major issue, with your help, we were able to at least partly solve that problem. However, when you add the other common struggles of hunger, rape, gender inequality, AIDS related deaths and so many other awful consequences of poverty, it makes conquering any task seem impossible. I understand that I’m not here to change the world, or even change Kenya, but is it too much to ask to be able to change something?

Maybe it’s my own expectations that create this discrepancy between what I can and cannot do. I knew coming here that I was going to be a teacher and that was going to be a full time job. However, some days, I feel like I should be doing so much more than just teaching. It’s been six months that I’ve been at site now and I feel like I should have more to show. I realize that education is not immediately tangible, but I still have a hard time grasping just how measurable of a success my time is supposed to be here.

I’m not regretful about my choice to join the Peace Corps, I guess I’m just at a stage where re-evaluation is necessary. I’m taking a few mental health days in town to get a massage, maybe a manicure or a movie, and definitely taking some time to think about what I want from this experience, what is indeed feasible, and what will make me happy.

Love,
Jenny

A Kenyan Haircut: A seemingly ordinary experience gone askew

Disclaimer: This entry contains some sexual content and is therefore rated PG-13

This past weekend, I decided that I was in drastic need of a haircut. For those of you who know me well, I am not a huge proponent of hair brushing. In the states, I would brush my hair a few times a week and the Peace Corps factor lessoned the frequency to about once a week. This somewhat hippy habit got out of control last week when my weekly hair brushing broke my only brush into pieces (literally). My hair was too long and too tangled to do anything with so I concluded that I would have to take the risk of letting a Kenyan cut my hair.

As you may have deduced from my blogs, Kenyans do things differently. Everything from clothing style to current music trends seems to be behind American standards. For instance, on the street a man tried to sell me Westlife, Backstreet Boys, and Dolly Parton CDs as the “most popular” music now. You can therefore understand my hesitation with letting a Kenyan cut my hair. Furthermore, the regularity of weaves and shaved heads added to my doubts of anyone having knowledge of cutting my type of hair. I also have a somewhat irrational attachment to my hair. After some horrific haircuts (my childhood nickname was Mogli due to my jungle book hair style) and dye jobs (my hair once closely resembled Tony the tiger) I believe that I am justified in my worries. I also have had my hair cut by the same woman for the past 6 years and have refused to trust anyone else with my precious hair. I also had this scene from Little Women replaying in my head where Jo cuts off all her hair and one of her sisters cries, “Your one beauty!” Despite these silly fears, I decided that after the hairbrush breaking incident, it was time to cut my hair to at least a manageable length.

On Saturday afternoon I entered a salon in Kisumu that claimed to specialize in Asian/Caucasian hair (How many Asians are even in Kenya?? I thought I was the only one..). The salon proceeded to tell me that the person who normally cuts wazungu hair was out. Then, a man sitting in the waiting room offered to cut my hair, claiming that he could do a good job (this should have been my first warning sign). This is where the story gets a bit strange. He started to comb out my hair and, seeing the state of my tangled hair, called for backup. A team of three men armed with fine tooth combs spent a good 20 minutes combing out the half-dreads that had formed in my hair. After a quite enjoyable hair wash, he began cutting my hair by holding up chunks of hair and hacking off pieces with what resembled gardening shears. And while I have no idea what is taught in Kenyan beauty school, I’m going to argue that step one should be “Do not hack off pieces of hair with gardening shears.”

At this point, I closed my eyes. I had come to acceptance that parting with my untameable hair was necessary. But what came next was not part of the plan. I’m 88% certain that the man cutting my hair was somehow aroused by this haircutting business and had a large erection that he kept pushing up against my shoulder. I was quite uncomfortable at the time and kept hoping that it was just a curling iron or rollers or something else penis shaped.

So, after a tortuous time watching my hair falling to the ground in uneven pieces through half open eyes, he finally finished. If things could get stranger, they did. He then walked out of the salon and called a random passerby to help blowdry my hair. In between singeing my hair, the other random man kept petting my head as he helped hold the blowdryer. After, the haircutter looked proudly down at his work and asked if I liked it. To my amusement, I had to point out the fact that the left side of hair was a good 3 inches longer than the right. “Oh!” he exclaimed and continued to hack some more. Once the sides were relatively even (or even enough for me not to care) he proceeded to put so much pomade and hair product in my hair that I could have doubled for John Travolta’s hair double in Grease…that much slickness. (A fellow PCV told me he could see his reflection in my hair). I let him style away to his hearts content then went straight to my hotel and washed my hair 3 times to get out all the product.

After this haircutting fiasco, I realized that, here in Kenya, something as mundane as a haircut can be quite an adventure. I’m going to avoid haircuts for as long as possible from now on. If I come back looking like Cousin It, you’ll now know why:)

Kufa

I haven’t been too homesick since arriving in Kenya, until this week. I was sad on Christmas when I missed my family, traditions, and home, but didn’t really want to go home. And now, I’m at a strange and somewhat confusing state of homesickness. I don’t want to go home necessarily, because, what would I really do there? But I don’t really want to be here either. It’s not that I’m bored or overworked or any other emotional extreme that would cause someone to want to move. But it’s the overwhelming frequency of death. Maybe I’m being immature, but dead things terrify me. Whether it’s the full chicken head (beak and rooster waddle thing included) that ended up on my plate or the horrifically mutilated rat that met its demise in my rat trap (and that hung for my ceiling dripping blood until a colleague helped me remove it) there is something odd about once living things. Not that I fear wilted flowers or browning fruit nor even dead insects that I willingly squash with my shoe. But there is an eerie association for me with the death of something that once breathed, and moved, and had a life of its own. And, lately, I feel like there has been much too much death here (There are least a few funerals every week). While I in no way can compare the death of a colleague to the death of a pesky house rodent, both deaths still evoke a similar peculiar sensation in me, somewhere between remorse and wonder; remorse that I didn’t have any final positive moments with my colleague and wonder to where he is now, remorse that I may have brutally murdered a rat patriarch and wonder if it was a good enough scare to drive the rest of his family out of my house
To be honest, before coming to Kenya, death was something that was not a part of my community, my life. I’d been to only one funeral before, and never seen a dead body. But in accordance to traditional Luo burials, the dead are to be viewed before being buried in the family’s backyard (which is much less grotesque than another Kenyan tribe that traditionally buried its dead with the head above ground). As a result, I have seen more dead bodies than I would have liked to in the past 4 months. The same senses of remorse and wonder enter my mind at the sight of a lifeless body. Sorrow for remaining family and wonder as to what really happens after death.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this question lately. And while religion dictates heaven or hell or purgatory (LOST fans anyone?), I want to believe that there is more to it than that. While I don’t consider myself religious, I see the appeal to something constant, like religion, especially in a place like Kenya. Poverty, and the associated challenges, are unexplainable in so many ways (Why are some people born into suffering? Why do some people go to bed hungry? Why do some many people die of AIDS?) that it seems logical to place the culpability in someone else's hands.

To help me sort out my scattered thoughts, I went to church today. And while I didn’t understand a word of the Luo ceremony and found the final hour sitting under a heat amplifying tin roof tortuous, I felt somewhat calmed by the music, the people, and the cohesive energy. While the singing and clapping and drumming passed, I was able to silence my mind filled with questions. Closing my eyes, hearing the beautiful Luo songs, feeling the vibrations of that church walls, I was able to conclude that death’s finality makes it both feared and fascinating. And while I have to in no way enjoy the dead chicken head or bloody rat or untimely passing of a colleague, I must accept it as a part of life. To Mr. AG, wherever you are, RIP.

Immunity

It’s a funny thing, this concept of immunity. I’m teaching about it in my Form 2 Biology class. It’s quite fascinating how our bodies react to pathogens to build up antibodies in order to protect us from future harmful micro organism invasions. In essence, our bodies’ immune systems are so intelligent that they are able to provide us with protection against future disease. Or in some cases, with the help of a few vaccines, or in my case MANY, our bodies are even further strengthened. However, I fear, that is what is happening to mind; I feel immune to things lately. So many devastating things have happened in my community this week, and yet, I feel immune to it all. Just like an over vaccinated body, has my mind experienced too many traumatic events that now I cannot feel anything?
The teacher I wrote about earlier this week died today. He succumbed to the dreaded disease that is afflicting so many people in Africa. The region I live in, Nyanza province, has the highest AIDS rate in all of the country (16% compared to the national average of 7.4%). This is due to a variety of factors including cultural practices (wife inheritance, polygamy, no male circumcision) and social concepts (AIDS stigma, refusal to use condoms, the topic of sex being taboo). The teacher that referred to his housewife as a housefly, who spent his salary on the local brew, who refused to be tested for HIV, died of AIDS. And while no one here will say it out loud, they all know, he died of the most stigmatized disease of all. I was shocked that he died, but not surprised.
A few days ago, one of my favourite Form 2 students, who is my neighbour, confessed that she was raped on her walk back from school one night. We live about a 50 minute walk away from school and our houses follow a shaded, winding, rocky path away from the main road. The students and teachers must be at school at 6:40am and leave school at 5:20pm (or sometimes much later). With a stop at the market or a few mandatory Kenyan greetings to random passerby, this results in often walking to and fro school in the dark. To my great horror, my 15 year old student was raped on her walk home. I was saddened, but not surprised.
And to top off this week, I found out my top Form 3 student is pregnant. Despite people from every direction preaching abstinence, despite my urgings to use condoms, despite her better judgment, one of the brightest girls in the school must drop out. She’s just 16 years old and will soon be a mother. She is the third student in Form 3 to drop out of school in the past 3 months due to pregnancy. I was disappointed, but not surprised.
Because I haven’t been surprised that any of this has happened, because I’m not crying over a dead colleague, because rape and early pregnancy seem to be a common occurrence, am I now too immune to cry, to empathize, to feel? I’m terrified that I’ve lost my ability to show emotion. I remember when I first got here, how strange I thought it was that Kenyans do not show emotion. They give handshakes, they don’t hug. They sometimes get frustrated, but never furious. They may laugh in public, but they certainly do not cry. But now I’m starting to understand. They don’t show emotion because their bodies have built up a defense mechanism against the pain that comes along with the seemingly common events of death, rape, and so many more daily problems associated with poverty. It’s much easier to be indifferent towards something than be emotionally, physically, mentally drained from all the various challenges. However, I’m nervous that all these awful events, instead of making me feel motivated to make a change, are making me feel nothing. I fear that I’m turning into the tin man who has lost a heart. So, rather than scurrying off to Emerald City hand in hand with Dorothy, Toto, a scarecrow and a lion, how am I supposed to get my heart back? Or is my body, like my strengthened immune system, doing what is best and protecting me from future pain?