Wrapping Up

I don't know how I keep missing it, but there's one lesson that Kenya has been trying to teach me since I arrived. I say I've learned it from time to time, but clearly it hasn't been entirely internalized because I keep ignoring it's inevitability. The lesson is this: no matter what you plan for and no matter what you think will happen, things here will never materialize in the way you expect. It may be for better or worse, but it won't be what you anticipate.

This truth has manifested itself in small ways throughout my service. Maybe an event is rescheduled at the last minute due to rain or transportation issues or for the mere sake of convenience. Maybe there is an expectation of how long a church service or staff meeting should last, only to find that it's surpassed that expectation by five hours. And maybe after weeks upon weeks of the kids in class four writing sentences like "the bannana is purble" or "me name is house", they all surprise you on the same day with proper grammar and spelling. Between vehicle breakdowns, cultural differences, small miracles and baffling inconsistencies, things often appear chaotic. I thought I'd gotten used to it, that I hadn't been holding on to plans too tightly. But last week, I was reminded of how I still expect things to go a certain way, and how futile it is. It was a tough reminder.

I had high expectations for my last few weeks in Sipili. I had almost every day booked solid, every space in my calendar was filled. I'd assigned time to reviewing class material with my students, finishing up a few Peace Corps reports and projects, visiting friends to say goodbye, and even taking a trip to see the rainforest in Kakamega that I'd been dying to see. I should have known that as soon as I made so many plans, they'd be turned upside down. And of course that was the case; last Saturday I was called into Nairobi because of a serious security incident in Sipili. It was unexpected and shocking, because I've always felt safer in Sipili than any other place I've lived. It was also heartbreaking to be called away from my work, my home and my students just a few weeks before I was due to leave anyway. I had so many unanswered questions - how will the issue be handled and resolved? How long will I be away? Will I even be back in Sipili, or will Peace Corps send me home? I stayed in Nairobi for about a week, as the security staff visited Sipili to assess the security of Jessica's and my sites, and I tried to be patient. Each day I looked at what I was supposed to be doing in my calendar, and felt guilty that I wasn't there to teach or to fulfill my plans.

The unexpected beauty in it all though, was the grace of my community. I got daily phone calls and text messages from neighbors and coworkers who were worried, who hadn't seen me around and had heard rumors that I'd left. And even if I haven't internalized the lesson of "letting go" and not having expectations, my Kenyan friends have. They weren't worried that I wasn't in class or that I had to cancel plans, they just wanted me to take care of myself and hurry back whenever I could. It was humbling, and I've never felt as close to my community as I did when I was far away from them. When I returned on Saturday after getting the go-ahead from Peace Corps, everyone had something to say. I was stopped on the street, in the shops and the market with cries of "umepotea!" or "you have been lost!". Everyone had heard about the incident, and were quick to offer a "pole" ("sorry") and kind words about being happy for my return. The best reunion was with the kids, though. I'd felt like I had abandoned them, but they were quick to erase my guilt with huge smiles and an excited welcome. I explained why I had left, and that I would be back in class until school closes. It was a great restoration - I've rarely felt as content as I did with all the kids sitting around me, catching each other up on what had happened in our lives during the week when we were apart.

As I sit now and reflect on the unexpected chaos of the past week, I am once again dwarfed by what I have learned by not being in control. Despite a terrible situation, I learned about my community and how I have been surrounded by their care and concern. And even though it was painful, I got a taste of what it will be like to leave my students and coworkers for good. It's hard to accept, but it's a reality I'll have to face in a few short weeks. I'm better off now that I have an idea of what to expect. I am even more thankful for these last few days at my home, because I missed it so terribly when I was away. The moment of stepping off the matatu into Sipili when I returned almost brought tears to my eyes - this place has grown and molded me into someone I am grateful to be. Although the two years here are nearly finished, this place is determined to keep teaching me lessons and challenging me to grow until the very last moment.

I spent all Sunday cleaning my house and packing. In the short time I had been gone, a rat and a snake had moved in. I had to evict both of them, using a broom and a lot of yelling. The packing is strange - I'm trying to fit everything into the same two bags I brought with me. I'll end up with what I started with - an empty house, and two bags packed to the brim. Although now my hair is longer, I'm a lot less idealistic, quite a bit more cynical, more patient, and deeply touched by people who used to be strangers, but who I now consider dear friends.

Now I'm also starting to think about what I'm going back to. My mind is here and there simultaneously, coexisting in my two homes. I've been on craigslist a lot lately looking at apartments in Anchorage, and I finally registered for the MCAT in April. I have a couple weeks of travel throughout the US starting on the 28th, visiting friends and family on both coasts and ending up in Alaska. I'm getting nervous as it approaches, because over the course of two years, the US has become a sort of mythical place, and I honestly have forgotten a lot of what it's like to live there. Maybe you think I'm exaggerating, but I'm dead serious, and I'll say it again: I honestly have forgotten a lot of what it's like to live there. I can't imagine constant power and running water, sidewalks, refrigerators, microwaves, hair dryers, fast food, driving, and snow. I'm excited about it, but I anticipate it will all be quite overwhelming. I'm counting on patience and support from friends, especially when I do really weird things like respond to a question in Kiswahili, use my eyebrows to say yes or my lips to point instead of using words, or say things like "nice time", "hellos" or "slowly by slowly". I also may have a meltdown when I am in the grocery store for the first time - I've heard cautionary tales of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers being rendered immobile in the middle of the aisle by the number of choices of things like cereal or soup. I also might do that annoying thing where I start every sentence with "Well, in Kenya..." or withdraw whenever I miss the things that have become so familiar. It will be an adjustment, but I suppose it's all part of the adventure.

As I enter into this final chapter of my wild experience, I'll do my best to really remember the most important lesson Kenya has offered me. I'm not in charge, and plans are never set in stone. There's always room for the unexpected, and it's better to embrace it than to fight it. It's freeing, if you really think about it.... 

Ok, so I'm going to call it now - this is my final blog entry in Kenya. I'll write one more in a couple months, to reflect on the end of everything, and to chronicle my experience of re-entry into the US. But to all the people who have read what I've written over the past two years, thank you. Thank you for being part of my story, and for making my experiences richer by sharing them with me. Stay in touch, keep following your own adventures and always live life to the fullest.

Asanteni sana!

Highs and Lows

Well, look at this. A bonus blog entry for September! I've had a lot of free time on my hands (to be explained in this entry) so there was a chance to do a little extra writing.

One of my favorite ways of catching up with friends after being away for a long time is playing a round of “highs and lows”. It’s been just over a week of life back at site full-time, and even though I’ve been living here for almost two years, I find myself having fresh, surprising and challenging experiences every day. I figure the best way to share them this time is through a round of highs and lows. As tradition dictates, I’ll start with the lows, so I can end on a high note.

Lows:

• A nation-wide teacher’s strike started at the beginning of the term, and lasted for three weeks. Considering it’s only a nine-week term to begin with, the strike cut out a huge chunk of learning. We'll have to make up the weeks at the end of the term, so I'll be teaching pretty much up until the day I get on the plane. Plus, it was mind-numbingly boring to sit around in Sipili without being allowed to teach. I probably cleaned my house ten times, just because there wasn’t anything else to do.
•  Bats have moved into my choo. If I haven’t explained it before, a choo is like an outhouse, but with no toilet seat. It’s essentially a shack with a hole in it. I guess it wouldn’t be so gross if the bats just hung out on the ceiling of the choo and flew away when I opened the door, but I’m not so lucky. Instead, when I open the choo door in the afternoon, I’m greeted with 4-5 little bats hanging upside down from the ceiling, who all briefly point their little bat faces and little bat ears in my direction before swooping down INTO THE HOLE. Yeah. They live IN the hole. Maybe this is too much information, but it’s hard to bring oneself to use the facilities with the knowledge that there’s a family of bats living inside the hole that could fly out at any minute.
• The other day, while reading in my bed with my headlamp, I saw one of the most gigantic, hairy spiders I’ve ever seen with these weird pincers – scurrying across my bed sheets. Now, I’m usually pretty mellow when it comes to bugs. I don’t usually kill spiders, because I know they feed on mosquitoes and other pests. But that guy elicited an embarrassingly shrill scream, and an immediate smackdown from the book I was reading. That experience paired with some suspicious-looking bug bites on my legs prompted an immediate disassembly of my bed and a dousing of all the parts with bleach water (in the middle of the night).
• Also recently, while cooking breakfast, I cracked an egg into the pan. However, instead of the usual egg I was expecting, there was a partially formed chicken embryo. That prompted another scream, mostly from surprise, but also because it was just as gross as it sounds. (All this recent screaming has got to have my neighbors wondering what is going on at my house.) I think the most humorous aspect of the experience was my reaction after the initial shock wore off. I turned off the stove, set down the spatula and just stared at it in the pan for a good few minutes thinking to myself, “well… now what?”
• I’m starting to realize that my goodbyes have already started. There are people here who I see only every few months, or who are moving somewhere new for a job and won’t be back to Sipili until the holidays. By then, I’ll be back home. It’s draining to think I’ll be feeling this deep sense of loss, pretty much constantly, until I leave.
• I left the house the other day wearing an ankle-length skirt, a long-sleeve shirt, a fleece jacket and a scarf. It’s currently about 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Based on this overcompensation of my adaptation to the weather here, I am genuinely concerned for my health and ability to function at sub-zero temperatures within a couple of months.
• One of my closest friends in my village, Dorine, passed away during the August holiday. She taught at Jessica’s school, and it was because of her encouragement, knowledge and friendship that I started coaching drama at my school. She invited went with me to the drama workshops, and talked me through my frustrations and questions I had as I put our drama performance together. I stayed with her family in Nakuru one night when we were there for a workshop, and she was always so generous and giving. I never felt like a foreigner with her, she took the time to know the real me, past my nationality. It was a total shock to hear she had passed, and it was even more bitter when I thought about her very young daughter back at her home. It still hasn’t completely sunk in – I will really, really miss her.

Highs:

• Two of my students from last year, who are now in secondary school, came to visit Sipili School for the Deaf yesterday. They both had rocky starts at their new school, but now they’re almost finished with their first year and are excited for the second one to start. They’ve matured in their attitudes, behaviors, breadth of expression, and abilities to dream and plan. I spent a good few hours with them chatting about life at school and home, until we walked over to the classroom map and talked about traveling. Some of the younger kids were there too (the older students who are back visiting are always surrounded by younger admirers) were asking questions like “how is it night in America right now, but it’s day in Kenya?” and “are there Deaf people in Canada?” It was heartwarming to watch the two older students answer their questions confidently and correctly. Although I don’t see myself working as a teacher in the future, it’s those kind of moments that make teaching the most rewarding job I’ve ever had. I don’t know if I’ll see those old students again before I leave Kenya, but I have a feeling our paths will cross someday in the future.
• I started packing up a few things in my house, just to see what kind of room I’ll have in my bags, and because there wasn’t anything else to do (told you, the strike was SO boring). I came across a whole folder of papers from staging, which was our one-day orientation in Philadelphia back in 2010 before we all flew to Kenya. It was the first time I met my fellow volunteers, and it was the true beginning of this adventure. One of the items in the folder was a workbook we’d filled out during staging, full of questions about our hopes and dreams for our service. It was humorous to go back and revisit the expectations I had before I left, but there was one  question, and my written answer, that really struck me. It read “I will feel successful as a Volunteer when…” and I wrote “I see my students use a skill outside the classroom that I taught them, or when I feel like Kenya is home.” That reminded me of all the moments I’ve nearly burst with pride while watching a student mature in their actions, and the feelings of comfort and safety I have here, at home in Kenya. It seemed like such a distant hope in Philadelphia, but it’s somehow, slowly and imperceptibly, become a reality.
• I'm attempting to download the new Mumford and Son's album. I've been waiting months for it's release. Of course, since I'm in the village with terrible internet access it may take multiple days, multiple swears, and a few failures and restarts, but I have faith it'll happen. I'm really, really excited about it.
• Remember that KSL class I was teaching for community members? All nine of the students took their exam at the beginning of August, and we’d been waiting for the results ever since. So, during my last trip to Nairobi, I met up with the examiner who delivered the certificates to me – and everyone passed!! All nine people are certified proficient in basic sign language. I’m so glad the project was successful, and I’m really proud of the effort put forth by my coworkers to show solidarity with my students by learning their language and getting certified. It makes it easier to leave, knowing there are people outside of the school who genuinely love the students and their language.
• The toddler daughter of the storekeeper at my school has always been afraid of me, ever since I got here. I think my skin color scares her (it wouldn’t be the first time in Kenya). I’ve tried to talk to her and pick her up, but she always ends up crying. Yesterday, she walked up to me, and held out her hand to greet me. Then she smiled. I tried to play it cool and shake her hand her like it was no big deal, but I felt pretty triumphant inside.
• The pineapples are ripening in the garden, and they seriously taste like candy. I’m afraid I’ll dissolve my teeth from the acid exposure that I fear may come from overdosing on pineapples.
• I visited my coworker and her baby twins on Saturday, and they are still adorable with their little nails and soft, curly hair – I almost agreed when she asked me if I wanted to take one home with me when I go.

Now that the strike is over, it's time to get back into the classroom and get everyone ready for exams. I know there's not much time left for me over here, but I bet there are still lessons to learn, failures, successes, and probably some ridiculous anecdotes bound to play out that I can't begin to imagine now. So, stay tuned for all that.

On the Move

Although the school term should have started last week, there's not a lot happening in any of the schools in Kenya these days. All of the major teachers' unions are on strike, which has paralyzed learning completely. That's bad news in any case, but is especially problematic this year since under the new schedule, term three is drastically shorter than the other terms. I have a feeling that once this all gets resolved, we're going to have somewhere around seven weeks of instruction time before the kids have to start their exams. Here's hoping that we can blast through sufficient review to get the kids good scores despite the time crunch! And if this sounds like déjà vu, it is. The same thing happened last year.

In the meantime, I'm in Nairobi getting medical clearance to return to the USA. So far it's all good news - no tuberculosis or anything.

Strikes and shots aside, the last month has been pretty incredible. After the mountain, Kelsey, her mom Carla and sister Julia made the transatlantic journey to Kenya. Their visit was fantastic! After a couple of days in Nairobi to see some sights, acclimate and get over jet lag (during which I dragged them all to see Brave in the theater - my second movie in the same number of years) we flew to the Masai Mara for a safari. I went on safari last year with my family, but it was just as amazing as it was the first time around. It's mind-boggling how visible and accessible all the animals are, even the relatively elusive ones. But they weren't my ONLY source of entertainment - during our game drives and back at camp, I constantly tried to make conversation with our guides in my meager Kiswahili. We could get a few sentences into a conversation, and then they'd start to talk a little too fast or drop a verb that I didn't know, and I'd just stare blankly and smile, saying "uh... nini?" which means "what?" That always got laughs. I did learn a few new words, though, and it's always fun to laugh at yourself, so I'm glad I wasn't afraid to make a fool out of myself. In all seriousness, that's one of the most important things I've learned in Kenya - never be afraid to look ridiculous. I constantly look ridiculous as a foreigner struggling through life in a different culture anyway, so why not just do whatever makes me happy without worrying about how it makes me look?

After the Mara, we headed to the coast, where we enjoyed lounging by and swimming in the Indian Ocean in Kilifi before Julia had to leave to go back to school. The three of us remaining made our way to Watamu where Kelsey went diving, and then continued on to Lamu. I'd been looking forward to visiting Lamu ever since I heard about it from a fellow volunteer toward the beginning of my service - it's an island off the Kenyan coast, about six hours of driving north of Mombasa. There are no motorized vehicles on the island (just donkeys!) and you have to take a boat from mainland to the jetty. Also, the culture on the island has a very strong Arabic influence, but is distinctly Bantu as well. I suppose that's typical of many Swahili areas on the coast, but the art, architecture and prevalence of Islam is is much richer on Lamu than other Kenyan towns. Paired with the laid-back coastal attitude, antiquated transportation methods and small-town feel (although it was full of tourists), it's so distinct, so unique. I could have stayed there for a month. It's as though time stops as soon as your feet hit the ground on the shore of the island. During our time there we took a dhow (old wooden sailboat) ride to an empty beach, ate seafood and spicy Indian-influenced concoctions, bought beautiful fabrics and admired all the woodwork throughout town. The boats, doors, signs and buildings all feature gorgeous carved wood, with a bit of a nautical feel to it. The old buildings are all stone, with high walls, and the narrow alleyways that weave between them feel almost European. It was rejuvenating to be surrounded by so much beauty - not to mention the ocean, the full moon one night, and great company.

After Lamu, which was hard to leave, we headed to Naivasha for my Close of Service (COS) conference. Kelsey and Carla were able to go to Hell's Gate and Crescent Island during the days (which I'd done last year with my family), while I sat in a conference hall, facing the reality that I'm almost finished here. Our whole education group was there - everyone still left in country who'd flown here together. We reminisced about the start of our service, talked about how our attitudes and outlooks have changed and evolved, and dreamed about our next steps. We had lectures about all things surrounding our re-entry, from reverse culture shock (I, for one, am not ready for touch screens on every dang thing) to marketing our PC experience during our job search, to insurance and other fun bureaucratic paperwork. It was really sobering to get everything set in stone, especially travel plans. The exciting (and scary!) news is that I'm officially flying out of Kenya on the evening of November 28th. For those of you not counting, that's 76 days from now. A blip on the radar of two years. I'm going to try not to think about it until I absolutely have to, because I'm not so sure I'm ready to say goodbye.

After Naivasha, Kelsey and Carla got to see a little bit off Nyahururu and Sipili. It was great to have them up in my neck of the woods, even though it was brief. Unfortunately not many of the kids had shown up to school because of the strike, but there were a few! Plus, all of the playground equipment that had been in disrepair had been fixed over break, so we taught the kids how to use the swings and the see saw. And to Kelsey's great credit, at the very end of her visit, she took the matatu ride from Sipili to Nyahururu! From what I hear, it's not for the faint of heart.

To see some pictures from the trip, click here!

Now that we're halfway through September, I'm ready to get back to Sipili and into the classroom. I don't plan on leaving the village much at all until classes end. I want to spend as much time as possible with my students, coworkers, friends and family there. Sipili really is home. 

In my downtime these next 11 weeks (when I'm not studying for the MCAT, which is my first priority), I'm sure I'll be working on my itinerary for when I get back home. New York, DC, San Diego, Portland, Alaska... they all seem like a fantasy, but I'll see them soon enough! Both studying and planning will be much easier, because I'll be able to use my computer - I now have power IN MY HOUSE! It still cuts out sometimes, and I can't get an internet connection, but it's a help nonetheless.

Oh, and Alaska friends, I'm sorry for the termination dust on the mountains. I'm getting so excited to see snow again that I may have willed it to fall. Sincerest apologies.

To the Summit

I'm sitting in Nairobi again, and it's a rainy afternoon. My lungs are full of oxygen, and my calves are sore. Yesterday I finished the long descent from Mount Kenya, which I started climbing with eight other friends on Sunday, August 12th. We met up on the evening of the 11th in Naro Moru, just outside of Nanyuki town, at a fellow volunteer's house to divide up our gear and make sure we'd packed everything we needed. We were a ragtag band of American travelers, made up of six Peace Corps Volunteers, two visiting family members, and one Fulbright Scholar. Some of us knew each other before we started the journey, but there were a lot of new acquaintances and subsequent friendships. The journey was incredible, definitely not one I'll soon forget.

On the morning of the 12th, we traveled into Nanyuki to meet up with Charles, who coordinated our whole excursion. We divvied up rental gear, picked up some medicine for altitude sickness, got a good breakfast and hit the road. We drove about an hour to the Mount Kenya National Park, at the Sirimon Gate where we met our team. There were two guides, Mike and Gertrude, a cook and his assistant, three porters to carry personal belongings, and five porters to carry food/other gear. (Side note: these porters were some of the strongest humans I'd seen, flying up and down the mountain with ease, and chain smoking at every camp. It was baffling, and frankly impressive). After a quick picnic lunch, we all eagerly started our 9k hike at a gradual incline. It was the first day, so we were all bright-eyed and energetic, and took a quick pace. The weather was nice and warm as we passed through tall, dense forests, and then into bamboo forests as we climbed higher. We reached Old Moses camp in the evening, in the midst of a light drizzle. We played games and ate a warm, delicious meal prepared by the cook. It was so quiet, such a nice change of pace from our daily negotiations of responsibilities, cultural exchanges and routine. We went to sleep with a feeling of excitement for the next day... but sleep didn't come easy. We'd rented two four-person tents from our company, but instead we got two three-person tents. We had brought one 2-3 person tent of our own, occupied by two people, and one of the rented three-person tents held the appropriate three people. But we had stuffed four people in the other rented three-person tent, and I don't think ANY of us got sleep that night. Although, it did break down some barriers in getting to know one another! Luckily, we fit another person in the smallest tent after the first night, so we were able to get rest after the initial disaster.

Day two and three followed a similar schedule - an early morning breakfast and departure from camp, and arrival at the next camp in the early afternoon. Each day we hiked about 7 km, and we went through a few other vegetation zones as the altitude changed and became too high for trees. It was incredible to feel the changes in our bodies as we adjusted to the altitude. A short distance of hiking would leave us out of breath, hearts pounding. We kept the pace slow enough to sing some trail songs together without getting too winded, though.

On the morning of the fourth day, we woke up at 2 AM to the most magnificent night sky. The air was biting cold, and we all silently bundled up, rolled up our sleeping bags and filled our backpacks in nervous anticipation of the hardest part of our climb. We were scheduled to head out at 3 AM, but due to some nausea and some dead headlamp batteries, we were delayed until about 3:30. At that point, we set off with a shiver and a little prayer. We were thousands of meters above sea level, the oxygen was thin, the rocks were frosty and our muscles were sore, but we moved as a team. We slowly climbed the craggy side of the mountain in a race against the sun that was going to rise. We took water breaks, we passed labored whispers of encouragement to one another, and we climbed. We passed climbers who had gotten sick and others who couldn't catch their breath, but still we climbed. We looked to the left, and saw the waning moon above the patches of snow and jagged rocks. We followed our guides slowly, and we kept our eyes focused upward. Finally the sun began to barely lighten the sky, and we knew we didn't have much further to go. We pulled ourselves up, gripping cold stone, until we were walking on snow. It was 6:30 AM. Then, a few more meters. And a few more meters after that. A small iron ladder embedded in the rock, and then we could see it: the Kenyan flag on the summit. We were drawn to it like a magnet, and our windburned and sunburned faces softened into smiles. We cheered and we shivered (I cannot express how cold it was on top of that mountain) while we took pictures and sips of brandy. I wish we could have stayed up there longer, to watch the sun complete its journey into the sky, but it was freezing, and we still had a long way to hike. So we looked out over Kenya from above the clouds, took a moment to understand and appreciate where we were and how we'd arrived, and for the first time in four days, took some steps downhill.

We descended the mountain over the course of the next two days via the Chogoria route. We toasted some champagne on the last night, with a bottle that had made it to the top of the mountain and back (without bursting, which has to be some kind of miracle) just like all of us. Yesterday we rode back into Nairobi, and now I'm sitting at a table in a restaurant with wireless internet. I can't believe that only a few days ago I was on the top of the world, and now I'm back to reality. But, I know those memories, struggles and friendships will stay with me long after the windburn has healed.

I know I'm constantly trying to pull metaphors out of my experiences here, and I know that sometimes they're tenuous. But the experience of climbing the mountain helped put me at ease as I start to think about my last three months in Kenya, and what kind of posture I should take toward the endless unknown that I'm approaching. Sometimes we take a hiatus from what's expected of us. And instead of taking it easy, we go somewhere or do something challenging. It tests us, it changes us, and it's something we choose because we hope we're molded into something better than we were before. There's also a selfish element, a desire to become more interesting by virtue of a unique experience or accomplishment. But in the end, I find that both in the shadow of Mount Kenya and in my 23rd month of Peace Corps service, I am the one humbled and dwarfed by the very things I expected to conquer. It was never about me - it was about entering into something enduring, something that will remain long after I've left. It's about letting my interactions with those things change every perception, limit, and fear I've ever held.

Through my time here as a whole and the experience of climbing in particular, I have watched myself do things I never believed I could do. I don't mention that because I think it says anything about me - it's not to brag. I mention that because it's helped me realize how deeply powerful we all are, by virtue of being human and being able to challenge ourselves. Because we have the ability to imagine a reality, we have the ability to manifest that reality. I have had a lot of conversations in the past where I've said "If only I had this, or knew this, or was this kind of person... well then surely I could make this happen!" I still hear the same self-imposed limits when I talk to people at home who say "I wish I could travel like you do." Or when I hear Kenyans say "I wish I could visit your country" or when some of my students say "I wish I could go to high school." It's not fair to dismiss any of those comments with a cavalier attitude, brushing people off by saying "well, you can make it happen if you work at it." But I would say that in my experience, my deepest, most crippling limits were all self-imposed. And they have been uprooted not only through hard work, but by throwing myself into scary, difficult, strange situations. Sure I've behaved foolishly, I've made mistakes, and I've been deeply frustrated and disappointed along the way. And on that mountain, there were moments when I would have done anything to turn back, to fill my lungs with oxygen and feel warm again. But if I had, I would have never seen the top. And you know what? Because I kept trying to do things I never thought I could do, I've "summited" back at site, too. I've watched coworkers and friends fall in love with the Deaf students I care for so deeply. I have absolutely no fear for them once I go. I know they will still be loved and remembered by their community. I may have had a very small part to play in them, but those changes happened organically. That's how I know they'll last.

I share these reflections because there are a lot of changes ahead for me. But that's not new - there are always a lot of changes ahead for all of us. I'm just trying to keep in mind that if my plans aren't scary, they're not big enough. And that's not just true for me, that's true for everyone.

Now, the REALLY exciting news is that Kelsey and her family get here in two days. I have a little bit of time to catch up on work and e-mails, and then I'll be off on adventures with them until the beginning of September. I can't wait to share my home with people I love - it's always a real treat. And as we head into the downhill of August, I have my head and heart focused on fully engaging in this final term of teaching. I have very lofty goals for my students in these last few months, but I'm confident we can make them happen.

Until then, go climb a mountain. Figuratively, if you'd like. Either way, the view from the top is amazing.

Eventful

Looking back, I can’t believe how much happened in the last month. I knew it was all going to happen, but it’s a little disorienting to be on the other side of it all. The experiences were eventful, so this update might take a while!

The Lewa Half Marathon was incredible. To risk sounding dramatic, I’d say it’s one of my top ten life experiences thus far. Lewa Downs is a little more than halfway between Nanyuki and Meru, and it’s a gorgeous conservancy. It’s exactly what one imagines when thinking of African grasslands, with its shallow undulating hills and golden vegetation that waves in the warm breeze. The color of the grass camouflages the ubiquitous impala, but you can spot their dark spiral horns that stick out above the grass, while the zebras’ stark stripes stand out against the beige background. Acacia trees are bunched in sparse clusters, where you can find the giraffes reaching for the top branches with their prehensile tongues. Just riding into the conservancy on the afternoon of June 29^th was awe-inspiring, I couldn’t believe I’d be running through the picturesque surroundings the next morning.

There were six Peace Corps volunteers running the race, and a couple other friends with us. We set up camp at the self-catering campsite area . The rich wazungu who had flown here for the race had their own set-up with fancy accommodations and food, but we were on a volunteer budget, so we brought our own tents, sleeping bags and gas cooker, and made an adventure of it. After a quiet spaghetti dinner under the stars at our campsite, we all went to bed early with our running gear laid out for the next day. We woke up slowly in the chilly morning on the 30^th, a couple hours before the race was scheduled to start, and we couldn’t tell if our shaking was from shivering or from nerves – or a mixture of both. About 20 minutes before the race, I realized I had lost the safety pins for my running bib, so I was running around asking everyone if they had extras. No one did, of course. Luckily, I had the genius Anna Martin by my side, who suggested I use my earrings to pin my bib to my shirt. Leave it to PCVs to find a resourceful solution in a pinch! It worked great.

The race kicked off at 7:30 AM (right on time! I couldn’t believe it) and the whole setting was perfect. It was about an hour after sunrise, and there was still a slight dewy chill, but the sun was already starting to warm us up, and running took care of the rest. Those hills that looked so beautiful as we drove in proved to be a little less inviting as the course climbed their slopes, but it wasn’t really that bad. I’d made the perfect music playlist and I had prepared adequately, so I was able to keep my pace for the majority of the run. I can’t explain the feeling of seeing the sign toward the end of the race “500 M to the finish.” It was right next to a sign for the full marathon runners: “for 2^nd lap, turn here.” At that moment I had infinite respect for the runners who were doing the full marathon. I couldn’t imagine running the course I’d just run AGAIN. I was relieved to make my turn, and cross the finish line. My legs felt like rubber and my insides were all jostled, but I’d finished. It was an awesome feeling.

Not four hours later, I was on a matatu back to Nairobi for the conference at the UN. I had a couple blisters and one black toenail (it’s still black, nearly a month later – not really sure about what happened there), but I slipped on a pair of pumps and a blazer and changed roles completely. It was time to be professional and quick thinking, which was an incredible change of pace. My job in the village is by no means easy, but it is much slower-paced than any activity happening at the UN headquarters in Nairobi. It was fun to think quickly on my feet and rush from one session to the next, take notes and synthesize them into summaries. There were people from all over East Africa, and there were so many good ideas about how to get East African youth interested in volunteering. There were some interesting counter-points, though – a lot of youths here view “volunteering” merely as thinly veiled free labor. There is a good deal of mistrust of government and NGOs on the part of the youth, and honestly, it’s not unwarranted. Even in my own job, I find that many “reputable” organizations are doing things completely contrary to the needs of my community (read on for a recent, specific example). I’m excited for the way that Peace Corps can partner with the people who are starting the East Africa Peace and Service Corps to address some of the concerns, since we have the unique privilege of working one-on-one with rural youth. Because as amazing as it was to be at the UN, it is SO removed from the reality of the people and groups who will be the largest stakeholders in the project. Anyway, the bottom line is that we had a productive and fun time, and I’m excited to see what comes out of the conference in the coming months. Also, the 4^th of July party at the US Ambassador’s house was pretty incredible. There were hot dogs flown in from Michigan, wines flown in from Napa, and all kinds of interesting people. Not to mention gigantic American flags and a jazz band. It was a really good reminder that although we have our own issues and challenges in the USA, I have developed a deep respect and gratitude for the opportunities I’ve had thanks to being a US citizen. It’s easy (and I’d argue, important) to criticize the things we do wrong as a nation, but it’s equally important to recognize and appreciate that our right to criticize is fiercely defended. It was also a good personal reminder toward the end of my service here, as I look toward a future career, that with great privilege comes great responsibility.

One other fun fact – the ambassador’s son lives in Alaska! I spoke with the ambassador’s wife for a few moments, and she said he lives in Eagle River. It was really nice to feel a small connection to home, even while thousands of miles away.

After a couple of weeks away from site, it was so nice to come back to Sipili. But the relaxation was short-lived. I got back on a Sunday, and there was a field trip for the whole school the following Tuesday. This wasn’t a field trip I was excited about, though. We were going with all of the kids to pick up the hearing aids we’d been fitted for last term. Sure, it was nice to take the kids to Nakuru, especially the little ones who had never really been on a big trip. But, the whole event was a disaster. As much as I try, I can’t think of too many redeeming qualities of the day. Maybe it was nice that the donors had good intentions, but I have very little patience for that being an excuse for a poorly planned and executed event. It’s obvious how I feel about it, but let me attempt to explain the proceedings without using biased language, and maybe you, reader, can see where my frustration stemmed from.

Last term, two Kenyans (a head teacher from Ngala School for the Deaf, and a doctor) came to take ear molds of all the children in my school. There were no audiograms taken before this visit, so the children who are profoundly deaf got ear molds, as did the children who are hearing but have no speech. There was minimal sign language explanation of what was happening. The process of taking ear molds includes inserting small cotton balls into the ear to block the canal (so the mold material doesn’t go too deep into the ear) and then an “injection” of a rubbery substance into the ear that hardens and creates the mold, from which the earpiece of the hearing aid will be made. This mold ensures a specific fit for each child’s hearing aid(s). Molds have to be updated for each child as they grow, because the ear shape changes as the child ages. After the molds were taken for each child, the two men left with the molds, which would be shipped to the USA for manufacturing of the earpieces.

Fast forward to our field trip. We arrived at Ngala School for the Deaf (where the hearing aid distribution was taking place), and there was one large red tent with about eight stations manned by red polo-clad volunteers from an organization called Starkey in the USA. The volunteers did not know Kenyan Sign Language. The Deaf kids sat in an assembly line, with the earpieces (made in the US from the molds, and distributed upon their arrival) inside their ears. They, one by one, sat in a chair with an American volunteer who spoke to them, saying “Hello, my name is ____. Tell me if you can hear this.” The volunteer then attached a hearing aid to the earpiece, stood behind them and said “ba ba ba ba” or some other repetitive sound. Then using gestures (not Sign Language) and spoken English, asked “do you need it higher or lower?” Based on the kid’s response and the volunteer’s interpretation of that response, the hearing aid was adjusted or replaced with a different hearing aid, until the volunteer was satisfied with the fit. I saw a couple sign language interpreters, but they were not actively involved in the process. After being fitted with hearing aids, the kids moved on to a booth where they were given a small packet containing a few months’ worth of batteries, and a sticker for a job well done.

My emotions were very high throughout this whole ordeal. I had no power to make any changes to the procedure, so I did my best to improve the experience by interpreting for my students, and explaining what was happening, because there was a LOT of confusion and miscommunication. I also made it very clear to my coworkers that although I am from the USA and the volunteers from Starkey were from the USA, we don’t  have the same philosophies on how to work with Deaf kids. We also briefly discussed whether it’s appropriate to just accept any donation that comes along, or if we should think critically about whether it would actually help our students and react accordingly. I also got into a few conversations with some of the volunteers from Starkey. They noticed I was interpreting, so they’d call me over to help them ask the kids whether their hearing aids were too high, too low, or just right. It was a tough job, even knowing sign language, and the whole thing  was rushed. A lot of the kids were confused, scared, or unsure of what to say. Some of the kids didn’t even have any KSL skills, so even my signing wasn’t helping them to communicate. Finally after about an hour of my help interpreting, one of the ladies said “gosh, thank you! Maybe I should know some sign language…” I just smiled and nodded, which was all I could do to keep from shouting “OH, REALLY? YOU THINK SO??” and embarrassing myself. I moved on to ask the people handing out batteries where the kids could get more when these ones ran out. They said they didn’t know. I also asked about how the kids were supposed to get updated ear molds. They also didn’t know.

Perhaps the most frustrating moment of the day was an interaction I had with one of the kids (he was 10 years old) who was with Starkey. He was the son of one of the volunteers, and he knew the ASL alphabet, how to say his name, and use some very basic signs. This made him the resident sign language expert. However, the only difference between the ASL alphabet and the KSL alphabet is the letter “t.” In KSL, the ASL sign for “t” is vulgar; it’s the sign for a certain part of female anatomy that is not discussed in polite society. Of course, the boy’s name began with the letter “t.” So every time he introduced himself, he shocked all the Deaf kids. He also misunderstood most of their signs. One of the Kenyans asked him if he liked Kenya and why. He said “yes! I like being here, because I get to help people!” I think that served as a pretty good metaphor for the whole day.

Once the whole process was over, we got back on the bus, everyone armed with new hearing aids and a few batteries. Almost immediately, some of the hearing aids started to make feedback sounds. You know, the sound a microphone makes when it’s near a speaker, or that hearing aids make when they're not fitted or used properly. Not annoying at all. By the end of the bus ride, most of the hearing aids had been taken out. Over the course of the next week, most of the smaller kids’ aids were broken, the bigger ones weren’t adjusted properly, and most kids admitted they didn’t help them hear. Probably a total of eight hearing aids (in a school of about 70 kids, who each got two hearing aids) are helpful, and are still being worn, maintained and used properly. But they will be rendered useless once the batteries run out and/or the kid outgrows the ear mold.

The real kicker? One hearing aid costs tens of thousands of Kenyan shillings. I can only dream of the teaching materials, books, uniforms, play equipment and other useful things that could be purchased with the same money spent on the hearing aids.

For the record, I have nothing against hearing aids, if the decision to use them is made by the student and the parent together, with appropriate support from the teacher. I also believe that poverty should not be a barrier to accessing such devices, if they are in the best interest of the child. However, I am very much against irresponsible spending, cultural insensitivity, unsustainable projects, and reinforcement of the donor/beneficiary relationship between industrialized nations and the global South. I am offended that although there is no excuse for donors to remain ignorant of the places they are going to “help,” there is oftentimes no effort to educate oneself about the environment they’re entering into, and that remains culturally acceptable. It’s neo-imperialism, it’s self-serving and it’s incredibly embarrassing.

Excuse me as I get down off my soapbox now. I could go on forever, but it’s time for some less emotionally-charged news.

The past couple of weeks have been pretty quiet (minus the occasional chorus of feedback playing from the few remaining hearing aids), which has been nice. I’m excited for August, because I’m climbing Mount Kenya with some PCVs, and my dear friend Kelsey is visiting along with her mom and her sister. They’re like a second family to me, so it will be incredible to see them. In the meantime, I’m continuing to work with my community KSL class, who will be taking their exam on August 4^th. I have high hopes for them – they’ve been preparing diligently! But the strangest news from the last couple weeks has to do with the weather. It’s been hovering around 18 degrees C, which is uncommonly cold for Sipili. It also has me deeply worried, because I’ve been absolutely FREEZING. I’ve been wearing scarves, multiple jackets, wool socks, the works. It seems I’ve completely acclimated to this region, which is not good news for my return to Alaska. Especially since I’ll be getting back in the middle of the winter. It may get ugly.

As I move into the last couple weeks of this term and my last school break before heading home, I wish you all (in the US) a lovely second half of summer. Also, for anyone who may have stumbled across this blog who has gotten their invitation to be a Deaf Ed volunteer arriving in Kenya this October, feel free to get in touch!! I’ve heard that some people are already getting their notification. They’ll be our replacements. How time flies…

The Days Are Running

Here in Kenya, when you want to say that time is going really fast, you say "the days are running." Sitting here looking at the calendar, realizing we're over halfway through June, I am convinced. The days are definitely running. Very, very quickly. There are less than five months left until I'm on a plane out of here - that thought simultaneously makes me feel queasy and elated. But lately, it makes me feel a little more of the former than the latter.

Term two is in full swing, and luckily it’s been more relaxed than term one. Of course I’m still teaching a full load of classes, afternoon KSL class for secondary students and another for community members, but at least I’m consistently leaving school before it starts to get dark, which is an improvement over last term. It affords me enough daylight to go on evening runs, which are a fantastic way to de-stress. Not to mention, they’re incredibly necessary – the half marathon is less than two weeks away! I am a little nervous about it because the terrain of the course is rough, there is no tree cover, and, well, it’s 21 kilometers long. But I’m up for the challenge. And my one consolation is that I’ve been training at an altitude about 300 meters (~ 1,000 feet) higher than the course. So, hopefully my red blood cells/hemoglobin will be at their oxygen-carrying peak.

After the run, I’ll be in Nairobi for close to a week, for a really exciting reason: I was invited, along with six other Peace Corps Volunteers, to the “African Conference on Volunteer Action for Peace and Development” (ACVAPD). It will take place at the UN Headquarters, and will feature influential leaders in politics, youth development, health, environmentalism, peace building, and volunteerism from East Africa and around the world. Participants are coming together for a few days to initiate the inception of an “East Africa Peace and Service Corps” that would be dedicated to fostering the spirit of volunteerism in East African youth. If you’ve been following my personal evolution of discovering how I believe we all should interact with one another, you’ll know that this sounds like a dream to me. Through experience and observation I’ve come to the conclusion that people, regardless of nationality, can realize their potential to make a positive difference in society through service without monetary compensation, and I believe that such service is one of the surest routes toward global understanding and peace. In Sipili, I see countless brilliant, disenfranchised young people every day. There aren’t enough local jobs for all these youths, which breeds desperation, and young people can be easily hijacked by ill-meaning individuals or organizations who recognize desperation and know how to manipulate it. Some girls who have finished high school but can’t afford college will sell themselves to men at the nearby military post. And young men in similar situations are, as we’ve recently seen, joining groups like Al-Shabaab with chilling frequency, lured by promises of financial stability and honor. Opening opportunities for young people to volunteer is an exciting if not necessary way forward, and I’m really excited to attend (and contribute to!) this conference.

The only downside? I’m going to need to buy some new clothes. And shoes. As much as I love them, I wouldn’t feel right shaking the hands of foreign dignitaries while wearing my Chacos.

In the meantime, life in Sipili is passing at its usual, leisurely pace. There was some excitement at the end of May, when four women from the US visited the school. Two of them have been in partnership with the school for a few years now, and they’ve worked on funding small-scale projects that benefit the kids directly (a cow that provides milk for the porridge, sweaters for the school uniform that the kids wear while they’re at school, etc.) It was really nice to visit with all of them and swap Peace Corps stories with one of the women in the group who served as a PCV in Kenya years ago. It was a lucky coincidence that they were here during my birthday, too! We had a lovely dinner together (at the infamous Olivia’s), and they even gave me some cards and a cake. It’s not always easy being so far from friends and family during birthdays (they’re not celebrated at all in Sipili), so it was really thoughtful and encouraging to have a little celebration with people from the US. Although I think I may be losing touch with home – when the ladies first arrived, I couldn’t keep up with what they were saying. People from the US really do speak quickly.

There is some bad news from the school, too. Last week, one of our two cows fell into an open pit, being dug for a latrine at the neighboring primary school, and died. No more milk from her, but he kids ate a lot of meat that week. Personally, I’m overjoyed the cow has been fully consumed and that we’re back to beans.

I feel like there a million other little updates that I could share (we have a new teacher at school, one of the other teachers just had twin girls, the weather is nice and cold, the bean and pea crops are almost ready for harvest, my friend’s grandmother’s burial was this past weekend) but it dawned on me that all the little things combine to tell a bigger story. I know I’ve written before about how integrated I feel (or don’t feel), and about how I constantly have to work to navigate my identities. When I first got to Sipili, I was “mzungu” to everyone. I made children cry from my appearance alone (which can do a number on one’s self-esteem, by the way), and people would charge me an inflated price for almost everything. Kids would use a nasal voice (because apparently that’s how American English sounds to them) to imitate me, and the greeting I heard was “Jambo!” Then, months passed, and people realized I was a fixture in town. They also learned I am a teacher, so I became “mwalimu” instead of “mzungu.” Greetings changed to the more natural “mambo” or “habari,” and the mamas at the market knew which vegetables I would buy when I approached their stalls. That was encouraging, definitely. But there was still something missing – people knew of me, but people didn’t really know me yet.

Now, finally, after over a year and a half in Sipili, I’m “Madam Jennifer” to almost everyone. I swap stories and news with the women I buy food from, and I shake hands with at least a dozen children on every walk home (and promptly wash my hands upon arriving to my house). When a child from another town is visiting Sipili and they call me mzungu, one of their local family members will turn and defend me, saying “hapana! Ni Madam Jennifer!” When I go on runs, people will join me for a kilometer or two here and there (even the grandmothers – these women are made of the strongest stuff) or cheer me on as they’re digging in their farms that flank the road. Now the greeting I get is “We mwega?” which is in Gikuyu, the local tribal dialect. And these days, I even know how to respond: “Nikowega muno!”

So, all the other little updates, too numerous to mention, are now part of my life because I’ve finally, fully become part of life here. I have the privilege of holding newborn babies, joining in prayers for rain, mourning deaths, and contributing to discussions about current events. And although this emergent property that arises from joining little instances together is difficult to describe, it’s the most important update I can communicate to all of you who have been with me on this adventure.

Before I sign off, I want to wish everyone back  in the USA (and especially Alaska) a happy summer. Congratulations to all the graduates (especially USD grads, my brother and three cousins – you guys are amazing) and I hope everyone gets a chance to take a vacation and enjoy the sun. Have a great 4^th of July, too. If all goes according to plan, I should be celebrating Independence Day with the US Ambassador to Kenya. Who would have thought?!

Soundtrack of My Life

I know it's been a while since I gave an account of what's been happening over here. I'll sum it up in bullet points, and then get to the real substance of this blog post:

• Term one (January-April) was insanely busy, getting prepared for games (we actually got to go and compete in the provincial competition this year!!) and drama (something new to our school, that I jumped into headfirst as the coach, without having any idea what I was getting myself into), and I found myself at school almost seven days a week, from morning until evening. I don't know if that will be the case this term, but I hope I can dial it back a little!
• In March, three teachers and I traveled to Kericho with the drama team (ten kids), along with all our costumes and backdrops for the10-minute mime performance I'd written, directed, and had spent the past few months coaching. We competed in the provincial drama competition there, and won first place in our category! That qualified us for the National Drama Festival in Kakamega, so we traveled across the country to Western Province as soon as school closed, and performed on April 10th. The kids absolutely rocked their performance, and I sat in the audience almost in tears - I was so proud of all their work. They ended up getting second place in their category, and we also got awards for Best Actor, and Best Script/Choice Mime. I went to Nakuru last week to pick up the three trophies (of course they were super bulky and I had to schlep them around in torrential rain) and certificates, and  the kids have been admiring the trophies with wide eyes as they get to school. I hope they can get first place next year!
• Also in April, I attended and helped facilitate a workshop for the parents of our students. We talked about the causes of deafness, how to support kids who are Deaf, and we had a few basic KSL sessions. It was a sometimes confusing (the facilitation switched between four languages - Kiswahili, Gikuyu, English and KSL) but incredibly heartwarming few days - definitely a highlight of my service. About 20 parents were there, and were genuinely interested in learning about how to support their kids. They got contact info from one another, and plan to start a parents' group of their own. I hope we can have at least one more similar session before I leave. I know it was a success, because some of the kids have shown up to school saying "Did you teach my mom how to sign?? She knows how to ask me questions and spell my name! Can you teach her more??"
• During the first month of May, I held a one-week intensive KSL class for some teachers from neighboring schools. It was a blast - I think they'll be joining  the KSL class I teach for the secondary school students twice a week. Our goal is to be proficient enough by the end of the year to get a certification in KSL, hopefully opening up job opportunities for the people who get the certificates, and spreading general awareness of KSL.
• After all the excitement of April and early May (there was a trip to Nairobi in there somewhere, too), it's time to get back to school. The kids are slowly trickling in, and we're starting to teach here and there. I expect we'll be back in full swing by mid-week. I'm also glad games and drama are over, because I have other things to focus on this term. Most importantly, I have to get extra serious about preparation for the Lewa half marathon I'm running at the end of June. I told the kids they're training with me - that means running after school every day! They're all on board, and genuinely excited about it. Chances are, they'll kick my butt. I'll just try to keep up with the third graders.

Now you're caught up. And now we can talk about something a little more interesting.

I know saying "I love music" is like saying "I love puppies" or "I love chocolate chip cookies". Sure, there are people who don't care for music, but I think it's a nearly universal human experience, and it's been one of the most fun things to experience in Kenya. I've talked a lot about some of the other cultural experiences I've had here regarding the food, the languages, and the lifestyle. But I was thinking about it today, and I couldn't believe that I hadn't said much about the music here.

So, let's take a little tour through my Kenyan music experience, starting with my arrival in Nairobi that fateful night in October 2010:

1. When I landed in Nairobi, half asleep and really disoriented, the first thing we encountered right out of baggage claim was a group of Kenyans, singing and beating drums with really big smiles. As far as I could tell, they were dressed in "traditional" clothing, and singing "traditional" music, despite a lot of "Jambo Kenya!!" and English lyrics, too. We all got halfway into the spirit as we hauled our bags to the bus that would take us to our hotel. It was actually kind of exciting - it made me feel like I was finally in Africa. Going back over a year later to pick up my parents, though, I saw the same guys. Let's just say they're not as "traditional" as they seem.

2. During my time with my host family, I heard a lot of American music, because my host mama had DSTV. There were more channels on that TV than I'd ever had before, and my host brother and sister liked to watch American music videos. But there was one moment on a bus while I was traveling with my mama, when I heard a song that got stuck in my head. I had no idea what the lady was singing about, but I liked her voice. So when I heard one of our language trainers playing it on her laptop later that week, I had to ask the name of the song. And this was the first Kenyan song I downloaded:

I didn't know it was a gospel song, and I didn't know she was from the coast. It just sounded nice to me, and I could pick out a Kiswahili word I knew here and there. Another memory from Machakos was my host mama's ringtone. She's since changed it, but I'll always think of her when I hear this song by Wahu, which is a Kenyan favorite:

3. After swearing in, Jess and I took that crazy trip to our site. I met the family I would spend the next couple years with, and I was kind of overwhelmed. I slowly amassed some furniture, and read a lot of books, since I had no work yet. I tried to get to know the family, and we opened up to each other as the weeks passed. Within those first few weeks, I'd gotten a jumbled folder full of Kenyan music from Jess, and after sorting through it, I kept a few of the songs I recognized. I'd heard them on the radio that played all day in the kitchen, ten feet from my house. I put the music on my ipod, and listened to it while washing the dishes in my house. One day I got brave enough to show Joyce (the niece of the parents on my compound) my ipod, and she asked if I had any Kenyan music. When I played this song for her, her eyes lit up, and we sang it together. Then it was official - we were friends.

4. One thing people will tell you about music that plays on Kenyan radio, is that about half of it isn't Kenyan, or even East African. There's a good deal from Jamaica, which I love. Another large chunk is from the US - but not contemporary music. Occasionally you'll find a radio station with Top 40 hits from the US, but much more frequently you'll hear Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Celine Dion, Phil Collins, Shania Twain, Westlife, Michael Jackson, and other artists who reached their musical peak 20-30 years ago. But there's this really magical fusion that happens, where Jamaican music and old-school music from the US meet. And of course, since it's the best of both worlds, Kenyans love it. This song has been playing regularly since I got here, and doesn't show any signs of letting up:

There are tons of other mashups like this. I can understand why - everything sounds better with a reggae beat. Even The Commodores and Phil Collins.

5. At some point last year, the teachers at my school decided that we should have a TV in the staff room. I was never a fan of the idea, but one against seven doesn't hold much weight. So, we got a TV and a DVD player, and the rest is history. From then on, the TV is either playing Kenyan news, Nigerian films (cleverly coined "Nollywood" films... do yourself a favor and watch one if you can, they all feature an evil mother-in-law) or Kikuyu music videos. I don't know how, but one of my coworkers has a seemingly endless supply of Kikuyu music video DVDs. His very favorite artist, based on the frequency with which his videos are shown, is Franco wa Sabu. Now, this is a big shift from the other songs I've listed previously. Most of those are played internationally, and have mass appeal. Franco, on the other hand, has a lot of... let's call it "local flavor". He sings in the tribal language of my region, Gikuyu, and his videos are very low-budget. At first I couldn't sit through one without laughing, which made me look like a jerk in front of my coworkers. But now, when I get back to Sipili after a long time away, I love hearing the high pitched "gling gling gling!" sound that is characteristic of Kikuyu music. Franco is the quintessential example of the kind of music you hear in my village 24/7.

Side note: "bibi" means girl. This song is essentially about a guy who has a girlfriend who becomes such a huge pain, that he is "forced" to find a second girl - his "bibi no. 2". Once I made a comment in the staff room about how I would never be anyone's bibi no. 2. This was met with thunderous laughter, and one of my male coworkers saying "Oh yes you will. You just won't know it!"  

6. I don't know when, how or why it happened, but there came a time (last August, I think?) when a certain song TOOK OVER Kenya. No matter where you were or who you were with, you would hear this song about five times a day. It's a Nigerian song, mostly in Igbo, and it's actually quite racy. However, Igbo isn't spoken in Kenya, so everyone considers it pretty harmless. In fact, the words in the song's chorus (Sawa, sawa, sawale) are nonsense, filler sounds in Igbo that are meant to indicate someone walking, but it sounds like the word "sawa" which, in Kiswahili, translates to something like "ok" or "cool" in English. Kids love to sing the song, which makes me smirk, because I looked up the Igbo meaning, and the song is about a "lady of the night". There's no denying it's incredibly catchy, though!

7. Speaking of insanely popular songs, this list wouldn't be complete without the most popular gospel song in Kenya. I know some people (especially Peace Corps Volunteers) who want to scream whenever they hear this song because it's so ubiquitous, but it just reminds me of the kids who live on the same compound as me. They love to sing it, and it's adorable.

8. The start of 2012 was pretty exciting. I was with my family, I had survived a FULL YEAR of teaching, and I was seeing a side of Kenya I'd never seen before, full of giraffes, lions and fancy hotels. I knew it would be back to the daily stresses of teaching in the village soon, which was a daunting thought. And I knew I'd be facing the challenges without one of my coworkers, who had been transferred to a different school. He'd always helped me feel integrated, and I knew I'd miss talking with him - plus, us teachers who were left behind would have to take his work load. I was looking down the barrel of a rough term. During one of the last days of the holiday, I was thinking about the idea of new beginnings, and I came across a Kalenjin song that had actually been my coworker's ringtone. Not only that, it had a really good message for the new year. This song was my new years resolution song, and I continue to listen to it whenever I get stressed out or bogged down. 

Side note: the Kalenjin tribe was pitted against the Kikuyu tribe during the post-election violence in 2008. The fact that my coworker, a Kikuyu, had this song as his ringtone, continues to inspire me. He lost his home in the deadly clashes, and his mother is still displaced. But he always preached (and practiced) acceptance and reconciliation between tribes.

9. It's no secret that it's difficult to live isolated from the people and culture that you're used to. It's hard to always feel like a foreigner, and no matter how integrated you are, you will always be a foreigner when you look, speak, think and act a little different from everyone else. So I consider myself incredibly lucky, because although Sipili is pretty remote, there is another Peace Corps Volunteer here with me. Jessica's house is roughly a 15 minute walk from mine, and her school is neighbors with mine. She's the best site mate - laid back, friendly, hilarious, and always up for a weekly beer at Olivia's. When I say Olivia's is a hotel, I'm probably stretching the term (just ask my mom), but it's the fanciest place in town. The beer is sometimes a little cooler than room temperature, and they have a TV. Jess and I go there about once a week to have an Allsopps (500 ml of warm, sub-par beer for 110 shillings - about $1.50), and shoot the breeze. We talk about frustrations in our jobs, ideas about how to improve our schools, plans for life post-PC, and whatever else is on our minds. She doesn't mind when I zone out (something that happens to a lot of us after being in the village a long time), and we both stare at the TV when it's playing music videos. When it's Rihanna or Drake, we gripe about missing the US. When it's Justin Bieber, we thank our lucky stars we're over here. And when it's Kenyan music, we laugh or take notes, depending on whether it's a song we want to remember, or just another insane mash up of poorly edited dancing. These next three songs remind me of Jess. The first one is her jam, and the second two are songs we discovered while in our Allsopps/equatorial sun-induced stupor one Thursday afternoon:

Please notice the random mzungu in the last video. This is a common theme in Kenyan music videos. In fact, the PCVs up in Maralal were approached by a group of people shooting a music video, and ended up in TWO Samburu music videos. I'm keeping my eyes peeled for anything similar happening around these parts. Maybe I can weasel my way into a cameo.

10. Now I'm in the downhill slide to the end of my service. It's weird, because I've gotten really used to life here. I had a moment the other day when I realized that when I go, I'll actually miss Kenya. Not just the kids, and not just the family with and their awesome fruit farm. I will miss sitting in a matatu with nowhere to put my feet, because there are dozens of chickens underfoot. I will miss people asking ridiculous questions like if I know Obama, why I'm not married, or if I'm immortal because I'm white. I will miss the rains after months of drought. I will miss the way little kids look at their palm after we shake hands, to see if some of my (lack of) color wiped off on them. I will miss the languages, the towns, the long skirts and the animals. But I'll really, REALLY miss the music. I was listening to this song as I had that realization:

This song reminds me of my time here, because it's a mixture of English and Gikuyu. It's modern, and it's a throwback. I can dance to it like I would in Nairobi, but the old Kikuyu man reminds me of Sipili. It's going to be hard to say goodbye to all of that, but I guess I can just be grateful that's still six months away.

And on that note, let me leave you with some Franco. Because, let's be honest. This dude can rock a cowboy hat.

Interconnected

I've spent the last month crafting this blog post. It's a lot more work than I usually put into my journal-style entries. It was important for me to be intentional this time - instead of ranting about the frustrations I alluded to last month, I figured that some research and analysis could enrich the conclusions I've drawn from my own experiences.

Whenever I think of how the world really is a small place, and that we're all connected to other people/locations/experiences in one way or another, I remember a scene from one of my favorite movies. "I <3 Huckabees" is about a man who repeatedly experiences the same coincidence, in which he is convinced there lies profound meaning. He begins to search for it's significance, aided by two married "existential detectives" (Lily Tomlin and Dustin Hoffman) who, in the course of their sessions, try to reveal to him the nature of the world. Hoffman attempts to illustrate it by draping a blanket over his hands, and poking his fingers upward to give topography to the flat plane, saying:

"Say this blanket represents all the matter and the energy in the universe, okay? This is me, this is you, and over here, this is the Eiffel Tower, right, it's Paris!"

We do really share one blanket. One, for all of us in the world, and we have to share it responsibly while coexisting peacefully - all 7 billion of us. I think it's safe to say that at this point, our efforts leave a lot to be desired. Learning how our global interactions should look and the reality of how they look now has been a constant journey during my time in Kenya.

It's no secret that there are discrepancies in how much different people "own." Our earth is not shared equally, and that's a result of a host of reasons that aren't really the point of this blog. People from all over the world and from all different backgrounds like to imagine solutions to global problems, which oftentimes arise from such discrepancies. But ironically, the ability to put such ideas and dreams in action is the privilege of those who can afford it. After all, it's no secret - "helping" isn't cheap. Not financially, and not in terms of time.

From my angle as a US citizen, it has become clear through media and personal conversations that most people from my "Western" tradition perceive the most pressing global issues to be centered around "lack." We are very concerned about lack of things like food, water, education, clothing, shelter, knowledge and/or religion, in places that are quite culturally and spatially removed from the USA and Europe. We also typically hold two interesting beliefs: that our own nations don't have the same problem with "lack" as less industrialized countries do, and that there's not a lot that our beneficiaries can offer in terms of dreams for their own future, plans for actualizing those dreams, and/or resources to make it all happen. The solution we come up with to deal with all this "lack" (that makes us feel the pang of injustice at best and pity at worst) is to travel somewhere where we perceive a lack, and fill the void with our own perceived surplus. Or, if we can't travel or don't want to travel, we give money to someone who will.

I don't want to cast judgment, because I have held those exact thoughts. Also, it's important to mention that there are absolutely valid reasons and responsible ways to travel internationally, experience new cultures, and contribute to a process of healing and growth in our broken world. I just think it usually looks different than tradition suggests. I want to tease apart some of the things I've thought about, read about and experienced within the past year and a half that have made me seriously re-evaluate our culture of "helping."

My story begins with my first encounters with poverty. I'd seen people without homes in the US, but traveling to India and Jamaica in college exposed me to communities that were crowded, looked dirty, and had few of the familiar comforts I was used to at home. My knee-jerk reaction was to give. Empty my pockets in response to wide eyes or hungry faces. It was an instinctive desire to DO something, to quench the guilt or shock that my previously-sheltered conscience was experiencing. However, that reaction was ultimately about my own comfort. It's also important to note that in my guilt-driven generosity, the faces in front of me were interchangeable. I wanted to throw money and make the dirt, hunger and discomfort go away because they scared me - not because I knew, loved or understood any of the people with their hands outstretched. I may have wanted to know, love and understand them, but how is that possible in a matter of weeks?

Once I'd flirted with the symptoms of poverty, I felt like I'd stumbled upon something mysterious and hidden, yet raw and incredibly pervasive. I began to internalize what I'd been told all my life, that "the fact that you can read, write, go to college and have clean water and food puts you in an incredibly small percentage of humanity." Well... that's not exactly what I'd been told. People had used the word "top" instead of "small," which I'm not sure I agree with. More on that later.

To look back on the period after these travel experiences and pre-Peace Corps is to glimpse myself during an interesting window of time. When I wanted to express my empathy with those in poverty, I bought a pair of TOMS shoes or donated money to a mission trip. I wanted to establish myself as someone who cared more than I wanted to (or even knew how to) do the legwork necessary to address gross injustices that result in poverty. I was much more idealistic and a touch less cynical than I am now. When I was accepted for the Peace Corps, I was so excited to have a job with purpose, and to make a lasting impact. Why I thought I had to travel halfway around the world to find purpose and make an impact is still lost on me. Any job can be purposeful, and we all inevitably make an impact. Nevertheless, I feel blessed to work here not only because I've had the adventure of a lifetime, but because I've been able to live with people whose living conditions are similar to those who I offered coins to in India - and it's been humbling to say the least.

Kenya is economically strong compared to many of its East and Central African neighbors. It's a land rich in natural resources and human capital. There is untold potential unlocked by the passage of a new constitution in 2010, and there is a feeling of optimism for the future. But there are a few things that keep Kenya from functioning in the way it's citizens yearn for. Most notably there are ethnic tensions born out of British colonial tactics of subverting the natives that still pervade every aspect of life, especially politics. This is probably the greatest contributor to inequality, because it begets corruption and results in misappropriated resources. And because Kenya is one of the many African countries who has been played like a pawn in the interests of globally influential countries (beginning with the Berlin Conference, continuing through the Cold War and into the present day) there are cycles of dependence that were created and are partially perpetuated by "help" from Westerners. Many times, charitable and government aid does more harm than good, and marginalizes Kenyans who could and want to manufacture the supplies or earn the money that Westerners give them. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I have lost all patience for most of the forms of aid I've seen. This time, I'm standing with my Kenyan students on the other end of the cash flow, and I resent the Westerner's knee-jerk reaction, the same one I had myself while navigating the winding slums of Delhi. Now I'm the one with dirty feet and no electricity or running water, next to kids with no shoes - but it isn't scary. It's my lifestyle, my reality, the existence I've grown to love. Through my students, I've had a glimpse of what it's like to be pitied, and it leaves me feeling dirtier than my feet could ever get. I find myself yearning for the same thing as the kids - "Know us. Love us. Understand us." But instead, the pity usually gets us a different kind of "help" than we'd hoped for.

To give some examples of "help" my school and students have received:

1. Hearing aids without hearing tests that are not only unsustainable (parents here can barely afford school fees, much less batteries or new ear molds as their children grow) and fragile, but are also mostly useless (some of the kids are profoundly deaf and wouldn't hear anything even with an aid, and none of the kids here speak - they would need intensive speech therapy to do so, and we have no speech therapist). No parents were notified of the decision to provide their children with hearing aids, so there was no opportunity to opt out. The whole process is unbelievably expensive. But it's a tax write-off for the donor organization, Minnesota-based Starkey.

2. Visits by foreigners overflowing with candy and good intentions. School and lessons are stopped in the middle of the day, and the visitors are "entertained" with a song/dance by the kids. Then the visitors play soccer with the kids - that's the "helping" part. Learning comes to a screeching halt, except for the one lesson that is reinforced every time : white people have cameras and candy to give us. They are important enough to stop school for. They are always the ones who give, we are always the ones who receive.

3. Flush toilets. Two million shillings and counting have been poured into this project. The toilets are perpetually broken, the septic tank is always flooded, and there are perfectly good pit latrines mere steps away.

Yet how many of us would hesitate to pull out our wallet if someone said "I'm raising money for hearing aids for Deaf kids/a trip to Kenya to spend time with Deaf kids/toilets for Deaf kids?" I wouldn't have. Not before I met the Deaf kids.

For me, that's where the most important truth lies. Ours is a culture where we can say a few buzz words and the money comes pouring in. "Disabled" or "orphan" or "African," to name a few. We focus on labels that make us feel pity, and we don't get to know the people, their lives or their stories. We don't ask questions - for example, why isn't the community or government rallying around the cause we're funding? Is it because they know they can get someone from the West to pay for it? A staggering number of times, the answer to that question is yes. It's the reason why, whenever I leave my house, I am prepared to encounter someone who asks me for money. We've brought it upon ourselves, but more tragically, we've caught countless cultures up in the same lie. As my Kenyan friends often tell me, "I'm sorry to say, but whenever we see white skin, we just think 'money.'"

This seems like an appropriate time to address the Peace Corps' place in this whole thing. If I'm so anti-aid, why am I pro-Peace Corps? Isn't my job a sort of aid? First of all, I'm not entirely anti-aid. I'll explain that toward the end. Second of all, yes and no. It's true that the U.S. government is responsible/pays for me, and that the Kenyan government has requested the presence of volunteers. However, I am not taking a job from a Kenyan (there is a shortage of trained Kenyan teachers qualified to work in schools for the Deaf, since so many have sprung up in the past decade... our sorely understaffed school is a good example) and the main problem I have with intergovernmental aid is the interest that accrues, leaving the borrowing nations in mountains of debt. There is no cost for a volunteer, and there is no debt. Also, I believe that cultural exchange is the best way for us to break down walls of misunderstanding. I can tell you that since being here, I've debunked some pretty interesting myths and beliefs held by both Kenyans and Americans.

Giving has become a response to guilt, and has grown very trendy in the process. It's about quieting the voice inside you that says "how is it fair that I have so much, while these people have so little?" But within that statement, degrading falsehood breeds. It's true that there is a group of people who truly have next to nothing, who suffer and die because they have no water, no food, no access to medical care. But I believe that acting responsibly with less impoverished communities will give support to their struggle. Less impoverished communities like mine. It's a community FULL of aid, but much more full of blessings and resources that are always overlooked by fly-by-night donors. There is a strength of family that I've never experienced in the USA. Almost everything eaten is fresh, locally grown and healthy, and there is usually enough for everyone. People here know the language that their ancestors have spoken for thousands of years. The lack of electricity which we may view as archaic ensures dark, quiet, peaceful nights. I've learned more about what it means to be human after a year and a half in Sipili than I have during my whole life in the USA. This place is incredibly rich. When I say this to my coworkers, they say "but you Americans are so far ahead! What could you really learn from us? We have so little." Comments like that break my heart. It is a lie that I have more than them. It is a lie that they have less than me. We both have different, incomparable blessings. I'm still wrapping my head around that thought, because it's SO contradictory to everything I've ever been taught. And in my opinion, that's where the real lack is. It's a lack of understanding that is incredibly important for us to address, especially if we ever wish to address other areas of lack.

I know it's hard to shake, but there needs to be an intentional abandonment of our identities of "whites in shining armor." Kenya has almost entirely beat it out of me - and while it caused a mini-identity crisis, I am so grateful it happened. Now I know that the best solutions to Kenyan problems are born and grow in Kenya, not my mind. It's the same with any country. I think the best thing we can do as partners in a community's growth is to get behind local efforts to change - IF that's the desire of the community. We can start conversations with our friends who live overseas, or those who live in the USA who are part of a diaspora and/or have strong ties to their homeland. We can foster relationships based on trust and understanding, and share values and ideas. Equality in our partnerships and humility in providing assistance are the keys to future confidence and self-reliance.

So, let's think before we give money. Think before we buy TOMS (why are we sending foreign-made shoes to kids instead of buying them locally and stimulating the economy where those kids live?) or a KONY 2012 bracelet (will it really help find a man who has eluded countless manhunts if we give money to an organization whose founders are paid close to $90k a year and support intervention by the ethically questionable Ugandan military? For a red waxy string?) Think before we write checks, buy t-shirts and go to benefits. Let's first spend time learning, listening, reading and thinking critically because I believe that a deep understanding of our fellow blanket-sharers is the only road to peace and justice. If money follows, let it be for something we fully comprehend, support and have the ability to CONTINUE to support.

If that sounds complicated and hard, I agree. But I think worthwhile things always are.

If you're interested in what I read to explore my questions, check out the books "Dead Aid: How Aid is Not Working and How There is Another Way for Africa" by Dambisa Moyo, "It's Our Turn to Eat: The Story of a Kenyan Whistleblower" by Michela Wrong, as well as the blog "Good Intentions Are Not Enough" by Saundra Schimmelpfennig (an RPCV, as it turns out). I'm not finished exploring and understanding how we all can contribute to a collective brighter future for the globe, so if you have any other reading suggestions, please send them along!