I'm home!!! And no, that is not a sentimental euphemism for Bev's children's home. I am back home in MN, huddled up inside against sub-zero temperatures and 5-ft mounds of snow. My original plane ticket was for March, but I decided that I was ready to come home. With the emergence of a still unidentified infection on my stomach I decided that rather than drag out the last few weeks just for the sake of making it to my original return date, I wanted to leave on a good note and have some extra time at home.
I spent my last two weeks in Kenya back in the village of Rabondo (where I taught for my first two months) working on the Sanitary Pad project I mentioned in my last post. It was a small project, but it dealt with an important and overshadowed issue and could lead to something bigger. The part I helped with while I was in Rabondo was dispensing reusable sanitary pads which had been fund raised for by the Rabondo Community Project. There were not enough pads for all the girls in the school, so the principle helped us determine which girls needed them most and I met with those girls to explain how to use them. I realized during that meeting that this was the first time I had really focused on the girls in Kenya. I taught girls, but they were mixed in with boys and there were so many students that I didn't have a chance to really focus on individuals. And the children's home was of course all boys. So working with these girls was a new experience and it opened up my eyes to how disadvantaged women and girls are in Kenya. The first and third place on the primary school final exams went to girls. Girls are taking the lead in schools all over Kenya, and yet women are noticeably absent from government and official positions. The expectations of women in Kenya are unbelievable. They are expected to go to school, but then pressured by all the men around them to have sex at a very young age. They then have to raise children alone or submit to the housewife role of working the fields, washing, cooking, cleaning, raising children and serving every man around them. Women have no outlet in Kenya. There are few facilities, if any, for battered women, women who choose to leave their husbands, and widowed women. During my small meeting with the Rabondo girls I felt a timid but overwhelming desire from them to be heard, to be given even the smallest push toward a new life with options and possibilities. Safely back home in the land of freedom and opportunity I am realizing more than ever that the women are where I want to devote my energy in the future.
It's amazing how much my perspective has changed coming back home. Things on both sides feel so surreal and absurd. America feels excessively clean and contained almost to a comical degree. I remember laughing at the thought of trying to carry hand sanitizer as the filth of Kenyan streets swelled up around me, and wondering just how far the minuscule bottle of jell would take me in a world swimming with bacteria and fungus. When I do venture out onto the sterile cold streets of Minnesota, I am amazed by the silence. It feels strange walking past children and not having them chase me calling out Mzungu, and I have to consciously stop myself from shaking hands with everyone who passes in my direction. "How are you?" has taken a whole new meaning for me after hearing it 5000 times a day in Kenya, so I just smile and say fine, remembering the way that phrase seemed to fly at me from the bushes and hills as I used walked down the road.
More than anything though I have reached a clearer understanding of the way I was treated in Kenya. I spent my first few months in Kenya trying to convince everyone that they had an exaggerated image of the luxury in America. When parents would ask me to take their children home with me and every child I met said he or she wanted to get to America some day I would try to explain to them that America has problems too. But being back here I have to admit that life is just easier here. Yes there are struggles and poor people and crime, but there are so many more facilities and institutions set in place to counteract those issues. And so many day to day tasks that are overlooked here as routine even by the poor are half a days work and energy over there. The poor of Kenya don't take their clothes to the laundry mat.
I still maintain the belief that I articulated in earlier posts that their lifestyle holds many wholesome values that ours has lost sight of, but that said it is a gruelling life and I have a much better understanding of any bitterness I felt directed at me simply for being a privileged American.
I am not fully adjusted to my luxurious home life yet, but I have been home enough to start to evaluate and truly appreciate my experience abroad and it has only left me yearning for more. I want to keep travelling and see as many different parts of the world and different types of people as possible. I learned more on this trip than I have in any classroom and I want to keep learning and discovering for the rest of my life. I cannot recommend travelling enough and for anyone who wants advice or tips I would love to talk about it. Thanks so much to all of my loyal followers and for all of your support. Knowing I had people who cared about me truly got me through this trip.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Uganda
As all the proper facebook stalkers who are reading this know, I travelled to Uganda last week to visit the Jewish community.
Overall it was an amazing trip. Coincidentally I was there the same weekend as their first ever youth convention, so I got to meet Jewish teens from all over Uganda. Even more coincidentally, three Californians were there for the convention and two of them had been on seminar with me! Crazy things happen in Africa...
The 9 hour bus ride from Kenya to Uganda was the aspect of the trip I was most nervous for, and with good reason; it was an adventure to put it lightly. The bus was scheduled to leave at 11 PM which complicated things because the station was outside of town and getting there at night is a hassle. I ended up riding to the bus station on the back of a bicycle. It was just after dusk and the highway stretched into the blackness ahead as if it led of the edge of the earth. The huge trucks and vans sped past us in a dizzying whir of wind and headlights. All of my night travelling in Kenya has given me this strange dream-like sensation, one of the strangest feelings I have ever experienced. The whole world is so dark, which only makes the unnaturally bright lights of the roadside stores glow more luminously. Everything is silent and I begin to remember I am in a desert - land that was so recently a wilderness, and it is the blunt contrast of the florescent lights that puts me in such a trance.
I waited for a few hours at the bus station, only to find when the bus finally arrived at midnight that my seat had been taken. I asked the woman to move, but when she refused I could do little more than stare helplessly at her and block up the aisle. The conductor found me an open spot at the back where every bump and rut in the road is exaggerated to a painful extent. And bumps there were in plenty. The bus driver seemed to think the bus was big enough to just speed over the shattered road, but he was sorrowfully wrong, and my rump suffered the consequences.
Although I didn't get much sleep things were generally OK until about 4:30 AM. The bus stopped, but only about half of the passengers got off so I figured it was just a routine stop. Not knowing if or when the bus would stop again I decided to risk getting off to find a bathroom. I was immediately ambushed by vendors and bicyclists, everyone shouting and pointing me in different directions. I just repeated the work "toilet" as loudly as I could in a questioning tone until one man heard me and said, "Oh, come!" I followed hesitantly as it was dark and a strange man was leading me into a deserted alleyway, but I was also afraid the bus would leave so there was little time to dawdle. Travelling alone frequently puts you in positions where you have to trust complete strangers with everything you own, including your life. That is sometimes scary in a place where so many people are constantly trying to rip you off, but it is also a good opportunity to learn about people and to realize how you judge on appearance.
The trip to bathroom turned out fine, although I have peed under more sanitary conditions. When I reentered the bus though, more people had gone and worry began to nag my senses, because as any traveller knows, when in an unfamiliar place the smartest thing to do is follow the crowd. The problem was that the crowd had dispersed into the night, but as I sat trying to formulate a plan of action a man came on the bus and made a stern announcement in Swahili, of which I understood only the word "passport". The guy next to me of course spoke not one word of English, but the remaining passengers were getting up so I took my passport and followed them off the bus. It was still chaotic outside and hard to know whom to follow, but I recognized one guy from the bus and to my relief he spoke English so I tagged along with him up to a small building where we had our passports stamped. The bus then picked us up and drove 50 ft only to drop us off again at the end of a long road. I found my new English speaking friend who informed me that we had to get our passports stamped again at the other end of the long road.
Safely back on the bus I tried to get a little sleep as our bus wasn't scheduled to arrive until 9 AM and had left an hour late. My last surprise came at 6:30 AM when the bus stopped and my friend told me we were in Mbale (my stop). Momentarily I was gripped with fear that he was trying to trick me off the bus early, but what could I do? I got off the bus with him. It did turn out to be Mbale, and after a short scare in which my phone didn't work, I got through to the Rabbi of the Jewish community and he sent someone to pick me up.
It was a journey I will not forget anytime soon and the ride back to Kenya was an adventure to match the first, but the trek was worth the stay. There were people from Israel and the from US for the convention, and everyone thought I was there with the three USYers who came from California so I got to help with the planning and tag along to all the events! "Plans" have a whole different way of taking shape in Africa (and by that I mean they usually don't take shape at all) so the convention had a rather chaotic feel, but it was OK. Things came together and discussions and sing alongs cropped up where there was extra time. There was a dance and a soccer game and best of all a day long hike to Sipi falls, these magnificently beautiful waterfalls, which we got to climb down to and get completely soaked.
The Jewish community, the Abuyadayah, originated from a group of converts in the early 1900s and was discovered in the '80s. The Rabbi was then taken to California and ordained and later returned to convert his whole community under the conservative movement. It was hard to tell what in the community had been affected by all the outside attention they have recently received, but regardless it was cool. While in some ways they seemed to be less observant than my home community, in other ways they were more directly in touch with the laws and traditions of Judaism. They sang many of the psalms in L'uganda and when we ate cow and goat the animals were slaughtered, kosherly, by members of the community right on the compound. Some of the guys my age had formed a hip-hop group and many of their songs included Hebrew and part of Jewish prayers.
I really wanted to stay longer and see what the community is like under normal conditions, but I had to get back to Kenya. There will be a next time I hope. I am now back at the children's home in Kenya and trying to figure out how best to spend my remaining six weeks. I think I will go with a Kenyan friend to her home in Nairobi for a week, after which I will return to Rabondo for a bit. In Rabondo I will be working on a project supplying reusable cloth sanitary pads to girls in the village who are currently missing school each month because they cannot afford sanitary pads. After that I hope to return to the children's home in Nakuru and volunteer for the last few weeks at a nearby preschool.
It's hard to believe how soon I will be seeing you all!!! Please keep in touch though, six weeks is not SO short.
Overall it was an amazing trip. Coincidentally I was there the same weekend as their first ever youth convention, so I got to meet Jewish teens from all over Uganda. Even more coincidentally, three Californians were there for the convention and two of them had been on seminar with me! Crazy things happen in Africa...
The 9 hour bus ride from Kenya to Uganda was the aspect of the trip I was most nervous for, and with good reason; it was an adventure to put it lightly. The bus was scheduled to leave at 11 PM which complicated things because the station was outside of town and getting there at night is a hassle. I ended up riding to the bus station on the back of a bicycle. It was just after dusk and the highway stretched into the blackness ahead as if it led of the edge of the earth. The huge trucks and vans sped past us in a dizzying whir of wind and headlights. All of my night travelling in Kenya has given me this strange dream-like sensation, one of the strangest feelings I have ever experienced. The whole world is so dark, which only makes the unnaturally bright lights of the roadside stores glow more luminously. Everything is silent and I begin to remember I am in a desert - land that was so recently a wilderness, and it is the blunt contrast of the florescent lights that puts me in such a trance.
I waited for a few hours at the bus station, only to find when the bus finally arrived at midnight that my seat had been taken. I asked the woman to move, but when she refused I could do little more than stare helplessly at her and block up the aisle. The conductor found me an open spot at the back where every bump and rut in the road is exaggerated to a painful extent. And bumps there were in plenty. The bus driver seemed to think the bus was big enough to just speed over the shattered road, but he was sorrowfully wrong, and my rump suffered the consequences.
Although I didn't get much sleep things were generally OK until about 4:30 AM. The bus stopped, but only about half of the passengers got off so I figured it was just a routine stop. Not knowing if or when the bus would stop again I decided to risk getting off to find a bathroom. I was immediately ambushed by vendors and bicyclists, everyone shouting and pointing me in different directions. I just repeated the work "toilet" as loudly as I could in a questioning tone until one man heard me and said, "Oh, come!" I followed hesitantly as it was dark and a strange man was leading me into a deserted alleyway, but I was also afraid the bus would leave so there was little time to dawdle. Travelling alone frequently puts you in positions where you have to trust complete strangers with everything you own, including your life. That is sometimes scary in a place where so many people are constantly trying to rip you off, but it is also a good opportunity to learn about people and to realize how you judge on appearance.
The trip to bathroom turned out fine, although I have peed under more sanitary conditions. When I reentered the bus though, more people had gone and worry began to nag my senses, because as any traveller knows, when in an unfamiliar place the smartest thing to do is follow the crowd. The problem was that the crowd had dispersed into the night, but as I sat trying to formulate a plan of action a man came on the bus and made a stern announcement in Swahili, of which I understood only the word "passport". The guy next to me of course spoke not one word of English, but the remaining passengers were getting up so I took my passport and followed them off the bus. It was still chaotic outside and hard to know whom to follow, but I recognized one guy from the bus and to my relief he spoke English so I tagged along with him up to a small building where we had our passports stamped. The bus then picked us up and drove 50 ft only to drop us off again at the end of a long road. I found my new English speaking friend who informed me that we had to get our passports stamped again at the other end of the long road.
Safely back on the bus I tried to get a little sleep as our bus wasn't scheduled to arrive until 9 AM and had left an hour late. My last surprise came at 6:30 AM when the bus stopped and my friend told me we were in Mbale (my stop). Momentarily I was gripped with fear that he was trying to trick me off the bus early, but what could I do? I got off the bus with him. It did turn out to be Mbale, and after a short scare in which my phone didn't work, I got through to the Rabbi of the Jewish community and he sent someone to pick me up.
It was a journey I will not forget anytime soon and the ride back to Kenya was an adventure to match the first, but the trek was worth the stay. There were people from Israel and the from US for the convention, and everyone thought I was there with the three USYers who came from California so I got to help with the planning and tag along to all the events! "Plans" have a whole different way of taking shape in Africa (and by that I mean they usually don't take shape at all) so the convention had a rather chaotic feel, but it was OK. Things came together and discussions and sing alongs cropped up where there was extra time. There was a dance and a soccer game and best of all a day long hike to Sipi falls, these magnificently beautiful waterfalls, which we got to climb down to and get completely soaked.
The Jewish community, the Abuyadayah, originated from a group of converts in the early 1900s and was discovered in the '80s. The Rabbi was then taken to California and ordained and later returned to convert his whole community under the conservative movement. It was hard to tell what in the community had been affected by all the outside attention they have recently received, but regardless it was cool. While in some ways they seemed to be less observant than my home community, in other ways they were more directly in touch with the laws and traditions of Judaism. They sang many of the psalms in L'uganda and when we ate cow and goat the animals were slaughtered, kosherly, by members of the community right on the compound. Some of the guys my age had formed a hip-hop group and many of their songs included Hebrew and part of Jewish prayers.
I really wanted to stay longer and see what the community is like under normal conditions, but I had to get back to Kenya. There will be a next time I hope. I am now back at the children's home in Kenya and trying to figure out how best to spend my remaining six weeks. I think I will go with a Kenyan friend to her home in Nairobi for a week, after which I will return to Rabondo for a bit. In Rabondo I will be working on a project supplying reusable cloth sanitary pads to girls in the village who are currently missing school each month because they cannot afford sanitary pads. After that I hope to return to the children's home in Nakuru and volunteer for the last few weeks at a nearby preschool.
It's hard to believe how soon I will be seeing you all!!! Please keep in touch though, six weeks is not SO short.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A Little Reflection
I am fast approaching the two month mark of my return home and have now spent more time in Kenya than that which remains, so I have been thinking a lot about my experiences here and how they have affected me.
It struck me the other day that my journey in Kenya has followed a progression very similar to my time spent on the Apple Valley Swim Team. Both experiences have been the type that are challenging to the point that I often doubt my sanity in pursuing them. Each day is both physically and mentally gruelling, and often times when confronted with small day to day tasks I am overcome by the same panicky dread that used to wash over me as I would watch my swim coach write the next swim set on the board. Washing clothes by hand for example is something to which I have not and will not ever adjust. The cold unwelcoming water of a basin of filthy clothes is eerily similar to that of a swimming pool as I procrastinate the unavoidable pain of the awaiting task. Things that should be simple and easy always seem to have some complication or twist. Like swimming, chopping vegetables is not something that is in itself painful. But like swimming at race pace without rest for hours on end, chopping vegetables as the sun scorches your nose and hands and poo-covered flies crawl unabashedly up your arms and legs, becomes quite another story.
All of that sounds miserable, I know, so you are probably asking yourself why I stayed with it for so long. The answer to that question lies in the reason I stuck out an entire swim season and joined the team again the following year. For all the daily hardship I know that I will come out of the experience a stronger and healthier person. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, and I am learning so much about myself and about the world. And for every time I have become discouraged someone has been there to pull me back up and remind me what I am here for. The relationships I have formed here have proven well worth any struggle I have undergone. As with swim season I reached a sort of peace, I can't say exactly when, with the difficulty of the situation and learned to find humor and appreciation rather than frustration.
The street children in Nakuru town who cluster around me as I walk down the street used to overwhelm me with their clutching hands and strong stench of glue, but I now recognize and differentiate between them and can chat and joke with them as we walk. I have even reached an understanding with the aggressive street vendors. I spent a day selling cookies on the street with some of the boys from the home (much to the amusement of all the Kenyans) and I found myself becoming just as forward and annoying as all the other vendors, pushing costumers who clearly had no interest. I can now commiserate with them over the suckiness of their job, but more importantly I respect them for trying. The strong air of dependency that ravages Africa and produces beggars and thugs leaves me no choice but feel deep respect for even the most annoying salesperson.
The whole issue of dependency and expectancy towards the mzungu is still something I struggle with, but I am learning to take it less personally. On the matatu a snobby little girl poked my arm and asked as she chomped on bubble gum if I would buy her a cake. I just smiled and said, "why don't you buy me a cake; you're the one who just sucked down a lollipop." She stared at me in confused silence and I returned my attention to the wide horizon where sun rays pierced fiery clouds and a sunset of colossal structures, angelic pink and majestic purple, tumbled into the mountain tops. I will certainly miss the beauty of Kenya and of the African skies.
Appreciating Kenya's landscape came along with learning how to slow down in general. During my first few months I wanted so badly to be part of the community here, but at the same time as a volunteer I felt the need to be constantly doing something. It took me a long time to see the discrepancy between my two main ambitions. African culture is slow, there is just no way around that. My need to be always moving and accomplishing was getting in the way of my simply being with people. It took me a while to be able to just sit with people and do nothing for hours on end, but that's what it took to form real relationships with them.
There is one area however where Kenyan culture is not slow: the roads. All of the pent up energy that is not spent in daily life bursts forth on the roads like a wild animal loosed from a cage. Matatus (small buses) speed and maneuver through crowded junctures like there's no tomorrow (which there very well may not be for the overstuffed passengers). It's strange though that they rush because once they get where they're going they act as if they have all the time in the world. It's like a race with no final destination; everyone is just frantic to get somewhere. It makes me wonder about my conception of time and purpose in general. In America we are always in a hurry, always reaching and striving, planning and proceeding. We so rarely remember just to live in the moment and appreciate where we are while we are there.
On another matatu ride the driver suddenly slowed and looking out the window I saw that a motorbike had been hit by a car. The driver of the motorbike was lying on road, dead, a river of blood streaming from his head. It was there and then gone so suddenly. There was no build up, no dramatic soundtrack. It scared me that life could end so suddenly and so unceremoniously. It made me want to stop wasting my time trying to get somewhere and just be here because who knows if I will have time to get where I am going. What if I spend my life striving and die before I reap the benefits? How much would that suck?
Of course it is easier said than done to "live in the moment", but it is something I am learning about and working on. As Kenya's drought gives way to massive flooding, displacing tens of thousands of residents, I think the whole country is waking up a bit to the irony of life and appreciation. You never know what's coming in life, but that is especially true in Africa. Looking back over the adventure of the past for months, I get a tingle of excitement and anticipation wondering what the next two months could possibly hold in store. All the same I can't help looking ahead a bit to the end of that two months when I will be home and see you all again. Keep in touch!
It struck me the other day that my journey in Kenya has followed a progression very similar to my time spent on the Apple Valley Swim Team. Both experiences have been the type that are challenging to the point that I often doubt my sanity in pursuing them. Each day is both physically and mentally gruelling, and often times when confronted with small day to day tasks I am overcome by the same panicky dread that used to wash over me as I would watch my swim coach write the next swim set on the board. Washing clothes by hand for example is something to which I have not and will not ever adjust. The cold unwelcoming water of a basin of filthy clothes is eerily similar to that of a swimming pool as I procrastinate the unavoidable pain of the awaiting task. Things that should be simple and easy always seem to have some complication or twist. Like swimming, chopping vegetables is not something that is in itself painful. But like swimming at race pace without rest for hours on end, chopping vegetables as the sun scorches your nose and hands and poo-covered flies crawl unabashedly up your arms and legs, becomes quite another story.
All of that sounds miserable, I know, so you are probably asking yourself why I stayed with it for so long. The answer to that question lies in the reason I stuck out an entire swim season and joined the team again the following year. For all the daily hardship I know that I will come out of the experience a stronger and healthier person. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, and I am learning so much about myself and about the world. And for every time I have become discouraged someone has been there to pull me back up and remind me what I am here for. The relationships I have formed here have proven well worth any struggle I have undergone. As with swim season I reached a sort of peace, I can't say exactly when, with the difficulty of the situation and learned to find humor and appreciation rather than frustration.
The street children in Nakuru town who cluster around me as I walk down the street used to overwhelm me with their clutching hands and strong stench of glue, but I now recognize and differentiate between them and can chat and joke with them as we walk. I have even reached an understanding with the aggressive street vendors. I spent a day selling cookies on the street with some of the boys from the home (much to the amusement of all the Kenyans) and I found myself becoming just as forward and annoying as all the other vendors, pushing costumers who clearly had no interest. I can now commiserate with them over the suckiness of their job, but more importantly I respect them for trying. The strong air of dependency that ravages Africa and produces beggars and thugs leaves me no choice but feel deep respect for even the most annoying salesperson.
The whole issue of dependency and expectancy towards the mzungu is still something I struggle with, but I am learning to take it less personally. On the matatu a snobby little girl poked my arm and asked as she chomped on bubble gum if I would buy her a cake. I just smiled and said, "why don't you buy me a cake; you're the one who just sucked down a lollipop." She stared at me in confused silence and I returned my attention to the wide horizon where sun rays pierced fiery clouds and a sunset of colossal structures, angelic pink and majestic purple, tumbled into the mountain tops. I will certainly miss the beauty of Kenya and of the African skies.
Appreciating Kenya's landscape came along with learning how to slow down in general. During my first few months I wanted so badly to be part of the community here, but at the same time as a volunteer I felt the need to be constantly doing something. It took me a long time to see the discrepancy between my two main ambitions. African culture is slow, there is just no way around that. My need to be always moving and accomplishing was getting in the way of my simply being with people. It took me a while to be able to just sit with people and do nothing for hours on end, but that's what it took to form real relationships with them.
There is one area however where Kenyan culture is not slow: the roads. All of the pent up energy that is not spent in daily life bursts forth on the roads like a wild animal loosed from a cage. Matatus (small buses) speed and maneuver through crowded junctures like there's no tomorrow (which there very well may not be for the overstuffed passengers). It's strange though that they rush because once they get where they're going they act as if they have all the time in the world. It's like a race with no final destination; everyone is just frantic to get somewhere. It makes me wonder about my conception of time and purpose in general. In America we are always in a hurry, always reaching and striving, planning and proceeding. We so rarely remember just to live in the moment and appreciate where we are while we are there.
On another matatu ride the driver suddenly slowed and looking out the window I saw that a motorbike had been hit by a car. The driver of the motorbike was lying on road, dead, a river of blood streaming from his head. It was there and then gone so suddenly. There was no build up, no dramatic soundtrack. It scared me that life could end so suddenly and so unceremoniously. It made me want to stop wasting my time trying to get somewhere and just be here because who knows if I will have time to get where I am going. What if I spend my life striving and die before I reap the benefits? How much would that suck?
Of course it is easier said than done to "live in the moment", but it is something I am learning about and working on. As Kenya's drought gives way to massive flooding, displacing tens of thousands of residents, I think the whole country is waking up a bit to the irony of life and appreciation. You never know what's coming in life, but that is especially true in Africa. Looking back over the adventure of the past for months, I get a tingle of excitement and anticipation wondering what the next two months could possibly hold in store. All the same I can't help looking ahead a bit to the end of that two months when I will be home and see you all again. Keep in touch!
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