That Time My Host Parents and I Finished a Box of Wine While Watching the Presidential Debate...

Well we’re back in Nairobi. Classes are classes and well, after feeling like I’ve been on a month-long vacation, it’s tough to get back in the swing of writing papers and reading scholarly articles.  Yes, I know what you’re thinking “Oh Emma, you’re so spoiled. All of us at WashU are swamped with work and you’re off playing with giraffes and writing reflective papers about your incredible experiences.” Well, I’ll have you know that I have THREE papers due Friday. Ok, so maybe I received these assignments over a week ago and I’ve had plenty of time to write them (but obviously haven’t cracked a book). Whatever. I’m definitely not using this blog post as an opportunity to procrastinate further.

My newest host family is GREAT. They live on a beautiful compound only a few miles from our compound in Karen. My father is a chemical engineer who went to university in Bulgaria and then England, and has travelled all over Europe. We love to chat about politics, which really means that I love having him teach me about politics, Kenyan history, and the upcoming election. Usually I’ll bring up some current events issue from the day (to seem as if I’m a big shot and know what I’m talking about), and then my father will proceed to clarify the issue and branch off into a more pressing matter that Kenyans actually care about. He’s smart. He’s funny. He’s awesome.

My host mother is a sassy businesswoman who now does HR consulting. She’s organized, straightforward, loves to go on long walks, and treats herself to massages every once in a while. She considers me her daughter and wants me to live at her home for the rest of my time in Kenya even though my homestay technically ends this Friday. I certainly would not be one to object. Their home is huge, equipped with Wi-Fi, gym equipment, a greenhouse, and 11 dogs (5 of which are 3-week old puppies).

I also have two younger siblings. My brother is 19 and commutes to university each day. He loves Lil Wayne and drives a Mercedes…in other words, he’s obviously too cool for me. My sister is 14 and attends an American-style school in our neighborhood. I’ve always wanted a sister and we’ve become fast friends. On Saturday we spent the entire afternoon watching the newest season of Glee, and on Sunday I taught her how to bake brownies from scratch.  Everyone in our family was very impressed that she hadn’t just added water to a Betty Crocker mix. 

We talk about hair a lot. I admire her long, braided extensions with strategically placed streaks of green and blue braids. She wishes she had my hair so that she could bleach it, dye it, cut it, and magically not damage it whatsoever. When she asked me why I don’t alter my hair dramatically, I told her that it’s because I don’t want to go bald before I’m 30.

Perhaps my favorite member of the family (although it’s hard to choose) is Ruth, our house help. She claims she doesn’t know any English, but of course she communicates that to me in English. In fact, all of our conversations have been in English, and they’ve actually gotten pretty heated. She’ll serve me a heaping pile of food and tell me that she’s going to help me gain 2 kilos before I leave. Then I proceed to cry out that I’m going to be sick from eating so much food. She plugs her ears and starts singing. I moan in agony…and shovel the food into my mouth. I can never win with her. Of course she only drinks tea all day and barely eats anything come dinnertime. It’s just not fair!

I’m the first Jew that Ruth has ever met, which has started some pretty interesting conversations. She’s baffled by the fact that I don’t claim Jesus as my savior and I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I can’t wait to see what she’ll do when I tell her that our services are on Saturdays! I’ve promised to go to church with her one weekend, and I told her that I will take her to the synagogue in Nairobi one day. She’s my pal and I’ll miss seeing her everyday once I leave.    

The way our classes are scheduled during the weeks when we’re at our urban homestay goes as follows: Monday through Thursday we have Kiswahili at 8:30 am followed by three 1.5 hour blocks of classes. The first block is followed by our lunch break. It feels like I’m back in middle school. I wake up at 6, get dressed, pack my lunch, quickly eat breakfast, and then get driven to the neighborhood Nakumatt (think Target but BIGGER) at 6:30, which acts as my makeshift bus stop.  A cab picks up my friend Chloe and me (whose host family lives in my neighborhood) and proceeds to drive us for two hours into Nairobi for class. Keep in mind that Nairobi is barely 30 minutes away without traffic. The roads are literally bumper-to-bumper getting to school. Add in the crazy matatus and you’ve got yourself one hell of a traffic jam. Last week we had some trouble with our taxi service.  Wairimu had systematically planned out a transportation schedule so that they would pick each of us up in the morning and return us home in the evening. They didn’t follow through so well on their end of the bargain, so being the boss that she is, Wairimu fired them! Now one of my mother’s personal cab drivers takes my friend and me to school. <3 John!

On Fridays we have Kiswahili followed by some afternoon activity. Last Friday we went to Kibera to experience what life is like in the slums. Just imagine 1 million people squeezed together in tiny shacks that together take up only 1 square mile of land. It’s unbelievable. There is no plumbing or sewage system, so people resort to using flying toilets. What are these thrifty contraptions? Well, because there are no toilets or latrines available, people put their waste into plastic bags. Keeping bags full of human waste in one’s home isn’t the most appealing idea, so people in Kibera toss these bags into whichever open areas they can find when no one is looking—hence the name “flying toilets”.  One of the main problems with this “solution” is that the bags are tossed near water pipes that bring drinking water into the slums. These old, rusty pipes often develop holes and leaks.  As a result, waste from the plastic bags seeps into the pipes and people end up drinking contaminated water because it is the only source available to them. That is why diarrhea and other gastrointestinal diseases are so rampant in Kibera. It’s a serious problem that NGOs are trying to resolve.

The main purpose of our trip to Kibera was to learn about different businesses and organizations that were started in the slums. We were split up into four different groups, and my group went to visit the SMOLFISH Project. This family business was started in 2001 as a hobby and later developed as a commercial venture in weaving kikoy fabrics and canvas. They have worked with various groups to teach individuals how to weave. What I found most interesting was that they train prison officers for about a year on how to make the fabric from start to finish. Then these officers go back to their prisons and teach inmates how to weave so that they can practice this trade once they are released.  We were given a brief introduction on how these kikoys are made, and I even got a chance to use the loom!  I regret to inform you that there is no photo evidence, only fond memories.

At one point the man leading our tour, who also happened to be the founder of the organization, left briefly to go “pick up something”. When he came back he was HOLDING A BABY. The cutest little 1 year old was resting in his arms with her head on his chest. Turns out he’s a father—who knew?! We asked him how many other children he has and he said he didn’t know.  Apparently he has multiple wives and multiple children, but he can’t keep count. When he saw the shock on our faces, he responded, “I don’t know how many children I have. Women come up to me. They say ‘this is your child’ and you either believe them or you don’t”. What a character! He told us that he would make each of us a special gift and deliver it to our compound later this week. We’ll see if he actually follows through with his promise.

Don’t worry Mom—I did get a chance to hold the baby and she didn’t cry. She actually fell asleep in my lap. Maybe I won’t be such a horrible mother after all.

Over the weekend I hung out with my host family. On Sunday my sister wasn’t feeling well so we stayed home and watched Glee as mentioned earlier. On Sunday, my brother drove us to the National Park and we went on a nature walk to see all of the animals. There were lions, tigers, but sadly no bears. There were, however baboons that roamed around freely. It was pretty cool interacting with baboons as if they were squirrels. Afterward, my sister and I met up with my mom at the local club for lunch. Then we went to visit my mother’s sisters who live only a few minutes away.

My host sister and I at the park

Last night was the second and final presidential debate before the general election on March 4^th. I had planned on working on my papers all night, but who can pass up such a monumental event? This was only the second presidential debate in Kenyan history! So to celebrate this historic occasion, my father cracked open a box of wine. It was “special” wine from South Africa. I’m not sure whether the wine was for celebrating or maintaining our blood pressure while we watched the candidates deliver empty promises, but we had a good time. That box of wine may or may not have been finished by the time I went to bed. It was definitely one of the best nights I’ve had so far. My host parents and I had such a fun time laughing at candidates like Mohamed Abduba Dida, the teacher from who-knows-where who has never pursued a position in politics before. My mother cheered for Uhuru Kenyatta, “her man” as my father refers to him. My host father and I rooted for Peter Kenneth, the articulate, well-educated candidate from the Eagle Coalition whom everyone likes but refuses to vote for because it’s his first time running for president.

I am anxiously waiting to see what will happen next Monday. My prediction is that there will be a run-off because Kenyatta and Odinga are neck-in-neck. If that happens, my fingers are crossed that no violence will break out as tensions run high leading up to the second vote. Whatever the case, we will be safely residing in Tanzania starting this Saturday. My visa is good for 90 days, so if worst comes to worst I will not have to return to Kenya for some time.

To all of my friends and family: I am safe. I am happy. And I never want to leave Kenya. Someone will have to drag me out of here come May.

Cheers to a peaceful election!

Kwaheri ya kuonana!

Mombasa: Working Hard, or Hardly Working?

After our first week of classes in Nairobi, we departed for a week on the coast.  For those of you interested in my academic endeavors this semester, I am studying Kiswahili, Gender in Traditional and Modern Kenya, and Biodiversity and Conservation in Kenya.  The Mombasa field component is typically scheduled toward the end of the semester as a spring break-ish trip.  However, because the coast (in particular Mombasa) is a swing region in the upcoming election, the program decided to move up our visit so as to avoid any potential post-election violence.

Everyone I talked to in Nairobi prior to our trip to Mombasa kept telling me how hot Mombasa is:

“Oh you’re going to Mombasa? It’s soooo hot.”

“So I’ve heard, but isn’t it also beautiful, full lush forests and gorgeous sunsets over the Indian Ocean?”

“Yeah that too, but it’s sooooooo hot.”

Little did I realize how hot Mombasa actually was!

Over the course of our ten-hour drive to the coast, the weather got progressively hotter and more humid.  There is no air-conditioning on our bus, only windows. Needless to say, those ladies who chose to rock the popular Hanes white v-neck disembarked the bus looking like participants in a wet t-shirt contest.  Ok, obviously this is a little exaggerated, but you get the idea.

We stayed at the Jumuia Resort and Conference Center: a quaint little getaway for tourists and business gatherings.  Luckily for us, we checked in during the middle of “no tourist season”.  We were the ONLY people at the resort…at least until Wednesday when there was a conference for Kenyans planning to work at the election polls in March.  There is a new electronic voting system being introduced for this election, so training programs have to be arraigned. 

Who wouldn’t want to work at the election polls this year?! You become more tech savvy and you get put up in a 4 star resort with all-you-can-eat meal service (until the food runs out), plush beds (equipped with bug nets that reek of body odor), daily pool access, and 24-hour beach access FO’ FREE! Sign me up!

Resort pool

Going into the Indian Ocean was an interesting experience to say the least.  Because the beach is public, beach boys are free to harass you into buying their products.  I’m not talking about the musically talented Beach Boys whose records your dad played on repeat during road trips when you were a kid. I’m talking about unemployed 20-somethings who try to sell you shells and starfish (which is ILLEGAL on the coast! You’re welcome, environmentally conscious friends), after which they invite you to visit their village.  A word of warning: inviting you to their village=soliciting you for sex. I’m sure your twelve-toed great-grandmother is very nice, but I’m not willing to risk my dignity to go meet her.

Indian Ocean

So I know it seems like I was on vacay for a week, but that’s because I was on vacay for a week. Ok, but I actually did do some work.  The academic component of this field trip involved interviewing members of the Mijikenda (the native tribal community whose religion is based on the presence of ancestral spirits) and the Swahili (the wealthier, Arab-influenced Muslims who migrated to the coast as a result of overseas trading).  We interviewed two panels, each representing one of the ethnic groups.  It was clear that the two groups had very different impressions of one another.  The Swahili people portrayed their relationship with the Mijikenda as a mutually respected acquaintanceship.  The Mijikendas, on the other hand described their relationship with the Swahilis in a less favorable light, where they had been subjugated and enslaved by the Swahilis.  The Swahilis were much wealthier and educated than the Mijikendas, so when they immigrated to the coast they used their good fortune to their benefit to take advantage of the indigenous people.

Other highlights included our visit to Fort Jesus. [I honestly couldn’t tell you a single thing about Fort Jesus because our tour guide was so terribly monotone and unenthusiastic.  Afterward he gave us a tour of Old Mombasa and narrated the outing with comments like “This is coconut tree”.  Newsflash: This is NOT the only coconut tree in Mombasa. Please provide more details.] 

Don't look too excited Mr. Tour guide Man

Not to worry, my patience was rewarded with free time to shop in the marketplace.  The old city reminded me of the Muslim quarter in Jerusalem.  The streets were packed with vendors begging us to come into their shops.  As soon as they noted my skin color, they doubled or even tripled the price of everything they had.  Luckily, Sue and Rob Trachman taught me the importance of good bargaining skills from a young age.  The following is a transcribed conversation that I had with one shop owner whom I encountered in Old Mombasa.  I was on the hunt for a traditional tribal mask carved out of wood:

Overly-eager-shop-owner-convinced-he’s-going-to-rip-me-off: [Pointing to a wooden serving spoon] “You like? I sell you for good price”

Me: “No thanks. I want that” [Points to painted mask, the size of a book cover]

Shop Owner: “How much you want to pay?”

[Note: Another saleswoman in the shop had tried to sell me the same mask about 5 minutes earlier for 650 shillings. When I told her that was a ridiculous price, she "generously" lowered it to 450 shillings before I rolled my eyes and walked away.] 

Me: “200 shillings”

SO: “Oh no. I give you for 400 shilling. That’s a very good price. Usually is 650”

Me: “Sir, mimi ni mwanafunzi” [Translation: Sir, I’m a student]

[Subtext: HELP ME I’M POOR (said in Kristen Wiig whiney voice)]

SO: “I buy this for 300 shillings. If I give to you for 200 shillings, I lose money”

Me: “Fine. Let’s come to a compromise. I want to pay 200, and you want me to pay 400. Let’s settle on 300 and call it a day.”

SO: “350”

Me: “Come on. We’re all friends here. You’re my friend aren’t you? C’mon. Let me have it for 300”

SO: [Raises an eyebrow]

Me: “Pleaseeee. Mimi ni mwanafunzi. Tafadhali.”

SO: “Ok fine. I give you for 300”

SUCCESS!

We also had the opportunity to visit a sacred forest owned by the Mijikenda.  The land has been preserved for centuries as an ode to their ancestors who founded the land.  The ancestral spirits are said to watch over the Mijikenda and provide healing powers.  Hence, there are witch doctors and the like within Mijikendan society.  Even nontraditional societies in Kenya have proven to be very patriarchal.  Mijikendan women are not allowed to participate in ritualistic sacrifices and practices, and only the elder men who have undergone years of training are allowed to attend.  Women simply have the “honor” of hauling the materials through the forest that will be used for the rituals. 

Ironically, I happened to be wearing pants with a very similar print to the kikoy that one of the elders was wearing. Obviously I had to get a picture with him. So readers, now it’s time for some audience participation. Who wore it better?

Our second to last night, we were treated to an evening dinner cruise on a channel just off the Indian Ocean.  It was FABULOUS! I enjoyed a four-course meal, which included seafood salad, tomato soup, grilled lobster, and chocolate cake, and a free drink all paid for by KSP (Kenya Semester Program).  It was glamorous, relaxing, and certainly not what one would expect for a semester abroad in a developing country.  Hence, please note the title of this post.

Life is rough

After completing group presentations the next day on what we had learned, we had the chance to visit Haller Park.  It’s a hot tourist spot for visitors hoping to see animals indigenous to Kenya.  I got the opportunity to feed giraffes, pet a giant tortoise, and watch crocodiles and hippos being fed. You might be thinking to yourself Oh ha ha, that’s funny. It must have been like the game Hungry Hungry Hippos. NO! A word of warning: hippos are not cute! They are the deadliest animals in the region and kill more tourists each year than any other animal in Africa.  So yeah, they don’t just feed on dime-size ping pong balls. The also enjoy petite, young Jewish girls looking for love and adventure in a foreign country.

Sun's out, tongues out 

Now we’re back home in Karen and tomorrow we meet our urban homestay families.  We’ll be living with them for two weeks while we take classes in Nairobi.  Afterward, we set off for Tanzania for another two weeks.  Rest assured readers, I will be posting once more before I leave for Tanzania.

Stay young! Stay fresh!

Peace, love, and 70 degree weather in Karen.

Kwaheri ya kuonana!

Meru Homestay: Survival of the Fittest

This past week I lived in a rural community in the mountains of Meru, near the base of Mt. Kenya.  I stayed with a lovely family on their farm where they raised cows, sheep, goats, and chickens.  The chickens had the pleasure of running around freely on the property, and I soon learned that they are greedy little bastards.  They will eat ANYTHING! Trying to sort rice under the shaded tree? Better have a stick or pile of rocks ready to pelt at the pests who are prepared to pounce on that night’s side dish.  My 200-year-old toothless grandma had quite the arm (and quite the aim).  Those chickens had no chance when she was wound up and ready to fire.

Word of advice: Goats don't make the best playmates. They're pretty cliquey.

Seeing as my last post was organized and aesthetically pleasing, I have decided to format this post into a list as well.  Here are the highlights from my 7 days in Meru:

First Impressions:

I met my host parents, Margaret and Henry Ndugu, who are approximately the same age as my biological parents.  I called them Mama and Baba.  They live on a farm with their son Humphrey, who is 23 and lives in his own house on their property.  In Meru culture, the daughters are married off and go to live on their husband’s farm.  The sons inherit their parents’ property as soon as they pass away.  If there are multiple sons, they split the inheritance.  Luckily for Humphrey, he’s the only son in his family.  Two of my sisters are married off and living closer to Meru town.  The youngest is studying at Kenyatta University in Nairobi.

What I quickly learned during my homestay is that education is the golden ticket out of Meru.  In Kenya, the education system is organized into an 8-4-4 structure.  Students go through eight years of primary school and then they take a standardized final exam.  If they pass, they continue on to secondary school for another four years.  After secondary school, students take another final exam.  Those students scoring in the B+ and above range go to university where they can become doctors, lawyers, and professors.  Those students scoring a C or higher can go to a college where they become teachers and nurses.  Anyone scoring lower than a C cannot go on to get his or her degree.  All of the adults I met in Meru had ended their education after secondary school and started a family.  However, they all have hopes that their children will test well enough to move on to university where they can live in Nairobi and have more opportunities than they themselves had. 

Bottom line: If you don’t go to university, you stay in Meru.  If you’re smart enough to score well on your final exam, you go to school in Nairobi and stay there permanently as long as you can find a job.  Many people’s ultimate goal is to move to America, but Nairobi is a close second.

Accommodations:

My home in Meru did not have electricity or running water.  Therefore, my bathing consisted of taking sponge baths out of a basin.  As for the bathroom, I used a latrine (otherwise known as a 6-foot deep hole in the ground).  We listened to the radio for entertainment and after 6pm we relied on flashlights and my headlamp for vision.  What I failed to realize was that not everyone in my group was “roughing” it as much as I was.  When we reminisced on our bus ride back to Nairobi, I learned that many of them watched Spanish soap operas dubbed in English for the duration of their homestay.  Silly me.  What kept me sane was knowing (or rather, believing) that 22 other students were experiencing the same agony that I was. 

Meeting the Neighbors:

Walking on the dirt roads of my neighborhood was quite the experience.  I learned basic Kimeru greetings (because obviously there shouldn’t be any reason for me to use the Kiswahili that I spent the last week intensively studying). Everyone in my community is fluent in Kimeru, and I was lucky to meet anyone proficient in English.  Kimeru is a local dialect based off of Kiswahili, so I was able to get around well enough.  One of the most frustrating things during my week in Meru was not being able to speak English quickly and articulately.  I had to simplify everything I was trying to say and verbalize it VEEEEERRRRYYYYY SLOWLYYYY. 

Anyway, back to walking on the street.  Everyone loved seeing the “mzungu”.  It was like witnessing an alien that had just emerged from the mouth of a lion and was breathing purple flames.  Their eyes would widen as I approached, their head tilted slightly to the side.  As soon as the white girl smiled brightly and said “Muga!” [“Hello, how are you?”], they would respond “Muga mono” [“I am fine”] and erupt into a bout of laughter.  I wasn’t trying to be funny.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do almost anything for a laugh.  But that time I was just trying to be friendly.  The sheer fact that a white girl knew even one word of their local language was enough to make them chuckle uncontrollably.   

Sorry American friends. You've been replaced.

Gender Roles:

The main thing I noticed on the second day (that I had observed on the first day as well) was the gender gap between men and women.  My mother lived to serve my father.  He would come home from work around 5, sit on the couch, and turn on the radio.  He wouldn’t get off the couch until it was time for bed.  Meanwhile, my mother and I would be doing fieldwork, milking the cow, and preparing dinner.  If there was ever a time that he needed something, my mother would have to stop what she was doing and tend to his needs.  Dinner took between 2-3 hours every night to prepare, but a couple of times we had to stop halfway through to prepare tea for my father because he was thirsty.  By the second day, I wanted to walk up to my father and yell, “Get off your ass and make it yourself!”  What I soon realized, however, was that my mother and father really loved and respected each other.  The culture they were raised in engrained this behavior in them.  They’ve never known anything different.  My father never talked down to my mother.  In fact, a couple of times she called him out, like to tell him to turn off the radio while we prayed before dinner, or to stop reading me the story of Passover from the Old Testament after I told him I was Jewish.  I learned to appreciate my role as his subservient in some respects but his equal in others, like dinner conversations when I would interrogate him about Meru culture, religion, and politics.

Ladies who lunch (otherwise known in Meru as ladies who sort beans, gossip, and drink chai)

Jew in the Land of Gentiles:

I went to church for the first time on Sunday and IT! WAS! GREAT! I have never had so much fun at any Bat Mitzvah service, not even my own.  There was praying. There was singing. There was dancing.  There was a DJ.  I greeted the 200+ church members in Kiswahili…and they loved it.  The best part: there was an auction!

To raise money for the church, people from the community donated their crops, which were then auctioned off and the proceeds went to support the church.  People bought carrots, potatoes, mangoes, bananas, onions, and tomatoes.  Then, out of nowhere, the auctioneer whipped out a chicken! Yes, a real, live, flapping chicken! It was sold for less than 3 US dollars. 

But that’s not all!

Then a box labeled “drinking chocolate” was placed on the table.  People started yelling out bids and they were getting pretty high, closing in on 400 or 500 shillings.  Then, the auctioneer reached his arm into the box.  It was like a magic show! Out of this cardboard box he pulled out a RABBIT! Poor little Thumper was sold for the equivalent of 7 US dollars to be eaten later that night.  My friend Caitlin, who I ran into at church, had to literally pick my jaw up off the floor.

Post church

(From left: Minister, Caitlin, Caitlin's host mother, me, my adorable nephew Bret, my host father)

Cuisine:

Speaking of strange eating habits, the food I ate this past week could have been featured on Andrew Zimmern’s Bizarre Foods.  On Sunday night we had beef stew full of cow liver, cow lungs, and cow kidneys.

The last night, my mother prepared a “special” going away dinner.  Like all other dinners, it consisted of steamed cabbage, some form of starch/carb such as chapate (Kenyan version of a tortilla…THE BEST) or ugali (maize flour-based flavorless wedge), and meat stew.  Whereas other nights’ meat had been bought from the market, my last supper was marked with the sacrifice of one of our beloved chickens.  Luckily I missed the beheading, but I did have the honor of receiving an anatomy lesson from my mother.   I now know the entire internal structure of a chicken. Lucky me! Because my family wasted NOTHING, I watched as my mother tossed out the intestines and stomach, but threw the rest of the remains into the pot.  She added some tomatoes, onions, salt, water, set it on the open fire and called it a night. I may or may not have consumed the chicken’s heart that evening.

  My family after dinner in our living room

(From left: me, Mama, Baba, Humphrey)

This past week was filled with new people, new places, and new experiences.  At times it was difficult, but for the most part I have very little to complain about.  My family treated me like royalty even though they were instructed to put me to work, I had access to an endless supply of the best mangoes IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, and the community members were eager to meet me and hear about my experiences.  Of course, realizing that I am highly allergic to the grass used to feed cows wasn’t all that fun because I developed a pretty nasty rash and my eyes swelled up like those of lizards!...but who really cares now that I look human again.

Tomorrow we start our classes in Nairobi and Saturday we leave for a week in Mombasa.  For those of you who have gotten this far, I’ll do my best to make my next post a bit briefer.  Time to go pick out my first day of school outfit! Kwaheri ya kuonana!