I hope this will be an exciting post. It certainly entertained me.
I begin with Saturday. After sleeping in, Erin, Sharon and I went shopping downtown Nairobi. There are these buildings that usually have five or so floors of the equivalent of a market stall, selling mostly clothes, shoes, and bags. The prices are fair, unless you're white, of course. The shops are in the Somalian area of town. As Sharon said, they started as refugees, and now they're everywhere. [It was a pretty cool experience, though. Everything closed at five o'clock for prayers, and as we left we could hear the call coming from the mosque.] We would walk past shops to shouts of "Karibu, customer!" or "Welcome, muzungu!" (These two phrases essentially mean the same thing.) Immediately afterward, people would begin their pitches, peddling their wares. I will tell you stories of the two most entertaining pitches of the day.
The first came as we sat in a shop, the owner of which had run downstairs to see if he had a certain shirt in a different size. The boys working at the shop across the hall started asking us where we were from. I said Canada, and Erin said America. They smiled and said, "Obamaland!" as so many people here do. One of the boys was Somalian, but the other was clearly Kenyan, and they began to try to sell us on the idea that he was Obama's cousin. As I'd gotten this from several students in my class and in other classes, I discounted it.
The second and most interesting pitch came from a perfume salesman. Sharon and Erin were standing in one of the shops and I was standing out in the hallway. The perfume salesman approacheth. I sort of looked away, expecting to avoid a sales pitch, but it was much more than that. First he told me that I "look good today." I tried to pretend I didn't hear him. Then he spoke up and told me he liked my hair. I looked at him and said thanks, which he took as an indication to further compliment my eyes. I said thanks again and looked away. He continued on to tell me that even though he "manages perfume sales" (or something to that effect), what he's really looking for is a white girl to love him. I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing right in front of him before I went into the store, saying, "not gonna happen."
On Sunday, a group of volunteers including Erin and myself went to the monkey park in Nairobi. We took a matatu into town and caught another matatu from there. The monkey park is a park in the city where monkeys roam freely. People there sell peanuts to feed the monkeys. The monkeys are well adjusted to people, and are very aggressive. If they dare, people will picnic there, but occasionally you will hear shouting and watch a monkey peel across the grass and up a tree, holding a stolen banana or mango. Much fighting ensues amongst the monkeys of that tree. And yes, I got a monkey to sit on my shoulder. We were a group of about six white people, though, and we began to suspect that we were as much or perhaps more of a spectacle than the monkeys. One little boy saw me and another girl feeding the monkeys and said "Muuuzuuunguuu," with such amazement that the other girl couldn't help but make fun of him. I laughed along. (So did he, slightly more sheepishly.)
And then Monday [editor's note: it was actually Tuesday], possibly the most exciting of the stories. As usual, I went to school in the morning. But Erin had to go to the post office, which closes at four and is downtown, so she didn't want to travel alone. We left our respective schools at one thirty, and after stopping at the apartment, boarded a matatu at two-ish. I was sitting by myself on the back bench when two men boarded and sat beside me. We were nearing downtown when I felt something scratch my leg. I picked up my backpack, which I had left slouching on my lap, to see what was going on. The side pocket of my backpack was wide open and my wallet, which had been there, had vanished. I looked at the man beside me and said loudly, "Sir, I think you have my wallet." He told me that he didn't and it must have been someone else. A vague argument ensued, but he definitely took that as his cue to leave, which he and his partner did very quickly. As soon as he left, a Kenyan lady, a Kenyan guy, and two German girls got in an argument with the fare taker, saying he shouldn't have let them off. But, there was nothing to be done about it. I was slightly upset, but I realized that I had been duped by a well established system. My lack of self-awareness is the only thing to blame for the situation.
Erin and I got off the matatu shortly after. We had to go through a metal detector in order to get into a building where we were told Erin's package would be. We both went inside, but I came out before her as I was anxious to call my mom so she could cancel my debit card. After I finished calling and texting, I was worried that I would have nothing to do waiting for Erin. Thank goodness the security guards were so professional. There were two standing opposite me on the other side of the doors and one had the courtesy to dare the other to come over and hit on me, effectively amending my dilemma. Erin came outside in time to rescue me (just as the guard was asking me for my number) and she told me that we had been sent to the wrong building; the post office was across the street. She was told that her package would be on the second floor. We crossed the street and went up to the second floor, where we learned from a pair of security guards that her package would be on the next floor. So we went down a floor, found some lifts, and were able to get up to the "second" floor (translated, I suppose that means the third floor). They pinballed Erin from desk to office and desk and desk to office, after about an hour (not including the half hour at the wrong building), she got her package.
We caught a matatu headed back to Suna, but it was rush hour and there was a huge traffic jam covering a huge stretch of Ngong Road. Our matatu driver thought he would be clever and edge his way around another car (a nice car, too). He failed miserably -- which is not common for matatu drivers -- completely ripping the bumper off the other car. The fare taker hopped off to survey the damage and Erin and I hopped off without paying when we were sure he was on the other side. We walked about a mile (mostly uphill) before stopping at a bus station and hopping an official bus back home.
Thus ends our eventful day, particularly because Erin only left me a certain amount of money for the internet and I'm running out. Also, for those who are interested, the contents of the wallet: about 3000 shillings (45-ish dollars), my debit card (cancelled), my health card (replaceable), and my drivers license (but there's no point in replacing that).
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
It ain't easy being white... part two
So the last post never really got into how "ain't easy" it is "being white." But it shall be explained. I wrote about how I got here, now I will write about what I do here.
I've probably said this before, but I work at Lighthouse Grace Academy and Care Centre. In addition to being a school starting from preschool (or as stated on the door, Pre-Unit) and going to Standard 8 (grade eight) -- although I think a few of the classes are combined -- it is an orphanage that houses approximately 40 children. The kids are a lot of fun, but I'm not quite used to them yet. I'll get there.
I teach a Standard 5 class. There are usually six students in my class, and I focus on teaching them English. The first day that I was there (Tuesday), they were writing exams. First in English, then Kiswahili, Social Studies, and Science, with Math on the following day because the "short breaks" that I gave them were too long. The average mark on the exams were between 35 and 50%, if they were lucky. The highest mark was a 78%, and the rest of the students seemed thoroughly impressed. After they finished writing exams and I finished marking them (which brings us to Wednesday afternoon), I am left to find something to occupy the students. But I'm not a teacher! I have little to no idea what to do! If anyone has suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them.
Anyway, Lighthouse Grace is pretty cool. There are two other volunteers working there: Joe is from Massachusetts and is here with IVHQ, while Stephanie from New Hampshire is an older lady who came with IVHQ before and has returned independently. Joe doesn't really teach any class unless Stephanie is gone for the day, he mostly just hangs out. Stephanie teaches the Standard 3 class beside mine; she calls them little hellions. Before I arrived, Joe had arranged for the courtyard of the school to be paved with very rough concrete so they could put up basketball nets. The first day they worked on it was Tuesday, and it was finished by Wednesday afternoon. So for today and Friday, we've been taking it easy and giving the kids lots of breaks from class to play basketball. Joe is teaching them as much as he can.
Taking it easy seemed to me to mean that the two teachers who taught the older grades took the day off, and I was left with about twenty kids as opposed to the traditional six. So I had to occupy them. I did as much as I could. I wrote out English exercises on the board and they copied them into their books. We had a brief "Teach Meghan Kiswahili" time, but of course I don't remember any of it. I gave them a half hour break at some point, I let them out early for lunch and delayed calling them in again for as long as possible. We played a spelling game, but we stopped because the teacher next door (Stephanie) was tapping on the wall between the classes and shouting. Then I did more English exercises with them, before letting them out again 45 minutes early. I stayed late because James, Mike, and Joe from Fadhili were there, then I hung around a bit with Stephanie and Joe the volunteer. Then I walked home. I do a lot of walking here. Plus, I live five stories up and it's all stairs. I'm not used to that many stairs at home, so I run up them every time unless Erin is walking in front of me to pace me.
That's all for now, I'll write when I have something more exciting.
I've probably said this before, but I work at Lighthouse Grace Academy and Care Centre. In addition to being a school starting from preschool (or as stated on the door, Pre-Unit) and going to Standard 8 (grade eight) -- although I think a few of the classes are combined -- it is an orphanage that houses approximately 40 children. The kids are a lot of fun, but I'm not quite used to them yet. I'll get there.
I teach a Standard 5 class. There are usually six students in my class, and I focus on teaching them English. The first day that I was there (Tuesday), they were writing exams. First in English, then Kiswahili, Social Studies, and Science, with Math on the following day because the "short breaks" that I gave them were too long. The average mark on the exams were between 35 and 50%, if they were lucky. The highest mark was a 78%, and the rest of the students seemed thoroughly impressed. After they finished writing exams and I finished marking them (which brings us to Wednesday afternoon), I am left to find something to occupy the students. But I'm not a teacher! I have little to no idea what to do! If anyone has suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them.
Anyway, Lighthouse Grace is pretty cool. There are two other volunteers working there: Joe is from Massachusetts and is here with IVHQ, while Stephanie from New Hampshire is an older lady who came with IVHQ before and has returned independently. Joe doesn't really teach any class unless Stephanie is gone for the day, he mostly just hangs out. Stephanie teaches the Standard 3 class beside mine; she calls them little hellions. Before I arrived, Joe had arranged for the courtyard of the school to be paved with very rough concrete so they could put up basketball nets. The first day they worked on it was Tuesday, and it was finished by Wednesday afternoon. So for today and Friday, we've been taking it easy and giving the kids lots of breaks from class to play basketball. Joe is teaching them as much as he can.
Taking it easy seemed to me to mean that the two teachers who taught the older grades took the day off, and I was left with about twenty kids as opposed to the traditional six. So I had to occupy them. I did as much as I could. I wrote out English exercises on the board and they copied them into their books. We had a brief "Teach Meghan Kiswahili" time, but of course I don't remember any of it. I gave them a half hour break at some point, I let them out early for lunch and delayed calling them in again for as long as possible. We played a spelling game, but we stopped because the teacher next door (Stephanie) was tapping on the wall between the classes and shouting. Then I did more English exercises with them, before letting them out again 45 minutes early. I stayed late because James, Mike, and Joe from Fadhili were there, then I hung around a bit with Stephanie and Joe the volunteer. Then I walked home. I do a lot of walking here. Plus, I live five stories up and it's all stairs. I'm not used to that many stairs at home, so I run up them every time unless Erin is walking in front of me to pace me.
That's all for now, I'll write when I have something more exciting.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
It ain't easy being white...
Kenya is awesome, as my previous picture stated. I was a touch disappointed that nobody commented on it, I worked hard on it. I will now proceed to tell you about my life as a muzungu (a white person).
I left on Friday night. I took one seven hour flight to London, and an eight hour flight from London to Nairobi. Heathrow is undoubtedly the junkiest airport I've been to yet, although I'm sure that I will encounter worse. The Nairobi airport is a strong adversary, however, as I waited in a customs line for two hours in order to get my visa, and there were others who waited longer. It was abominable. When I finally got out of the line and found my bag (not as easy as you'd think at an airport with three baggage carousels in one room), I busted outta there. I was met by two staff from Fadhili and two other volunteers: Cleopas, who does a lot of stuff at Fadhili although I'm not sure of his official title, Mike, the driver, who's super awesome, Feng, a 24 year old volunteer from China, and Mike (we call him Big Mike), a 22 year old volunteer from Virginia. Also coming off planes from Heathrow were Becca, a 17 year old volunteer from Chicago and Ammabel, a 24 year old volunteer from the Philippines who lives in Scotland.
Mike and Cleo dropped Ammabel and I off at the home of a Kenyan couple, Phillipa and John, where we spent Saturday and Sunday night. I didn't have a mosquito net, so I got attacked by mosquitoes. The exciting part is that I had forgotten to start my malaria regimen, so I started it the next morning, only a week late. Cross your fingers for no malaria! I don't actually know the symptoms. On Sunday morning, Cleo came to pick me and Ammabel up and we walked to his church, just down the road. It was pretty cool, but being one of three white people in the building -- there was an Irish priest sitting on the other side of the church -- I felt a bit too insecure to get into it. I was also very tired. And Ammabel isn't technically white, she's Asian. Coming home from church, Cleo called another volunteer, Erin, and arranged for us to meet her and go shopping so we could get such essentials as water and mosquito nets. We walked to the shopping centre along a back road that was interesting. The first building was a private school with fancy buses, which set the tone for the street. The rest of the building were heavily gated, privately guarded affairs. You could just see the tops of the beautiful houses and trees peeking over the walls.
On Monday, it was orientation. Cleo walked over to pick us up again, being that the house we were staying at was a two minute walk from the tiny Fadhili offices. When we got to the offices, we met Pedro, a volunteer from Portugal, and the four of us set out for the orientation that was being held in a conference room a few minutes away. We arrived before the other volunteers, only two of whom I hadn't met: Claire, a mom from Florida (staying for ten days, of course), and Agnete from Denmark, staying for six months. Ammabel is only staying for ten days as well, while Feng and Pedro are staying for three months, like myself. Becca is staying for three and a half months and Big Mike is staying for six (I'm jealous). We met the Fadhili staff as well: there was Cleo and Mike, Boniface, the PR manager, James, the project director, Joe, a sort of co-director, and Maggie, who manages the office and the internet cafe that they have there.
After they gave us the appropriate lectures about safety, public transit, Kenyan culture and customs, Kiswahili, our work, and our accommodations, we walked back to the office and piled into a van bound for everywhere. I shared the front bench with Pedro and Mike, and Pedro and I tried to teach Mike some Spanish. We drove all through Nairobi, which is super awesome. I was the last volunteer to be dropped off. I was staying a minute further down the road that I stayed on the first night, but that doesn't count the time it takes to get up the stairs. I'm staying in an apartment with a Kenyan woman named Sharon, and also with Erin. Sharon's apartment is five stories up, and there's obviously no elevator.
I wish I could write more, but I've been on the internet for two hours now; I have to pay for it myself and there's a line up of people waiting. I'll write more about the school/orphanage that I work at later, perhaps tomorrow.
I left on Friday night. I took one seven hour flight to London, and an eight hour flight from London to Nairobi. Heathrow is undoubtedly the junkiest airport I've been to yet, although I'm sure that I will encounter worse. The Nairobi airport is a strong adversary, however, as I waited in a customs line for two hours in order to get my visa, and there were others who waited longer. It was abominable. When I finally got out of the line and found my bag (not as easy as you'd think at an airport with three baggage carousels in one room), I busted outta there. I was met by two staff from Fadhili and two other volunteers: Cleopas, who does a lot of stuff at Fadhili although I'm not sure of his official title, Mike, the driver, who's super awesome, Feng, a 24 year old volunteer from China, and Mike (we call him Big Mike), a 22 year old volunteer from Virginia. Also coming off planes from Heathrow were Becca, a 17 year old volunteer from Chicago and Ammabel, a 24 year old volunteer from the Philippines who lives in Scotland.
Mike and Cleo dropped Ammabel and I off at the home of a Kenyan couple, Phillipa and John, where we spent Saturday and Sunday night. I didn't have a mosquito net, so I got attacked by mosquitoes. The exciting part is that I had forgotten to start my malaria regimen, so I started it the next morning, only a week late. Cross your fingers for no malaria! I don't actually know the symptoms. On Sunday morning, Cleo came to pick me and Ammabel up and we walked to his church, just down the road. It was pretty cool, but being one of three white people in the building -- there was an Irish priest sitting on the other side of the church -- I felt a bit too insecure to get into it. I was also very tired. And Ammabel isn't technically white, she's Asian. Coming home from church, Cleo called another volunteer, Erin, and arranged for us to meet her and go shopping so we could get such essentials as water and mosquito nets. We walked to the shopping centre along a back road that was interesting. The first building was a private school with fancy buses, which set the tone for the street. The rest of the building were heavily gated, privately guarded affairs. You could just see the tops of the beautiful houses and trees peeking over the walls.
On Monday, it was orientation. Cleo walked over to pick us up again, being that the house we were staying at was a two minute walk from the tiny Fadhili offices. When we got to the offices, we met Pedro, a volunteer from Portugal, and the four of us set out for the orientation that was being held in a conference room a few minutes away. We arrived before the other volunteers, only two of whom I hadn't met: Claire, a mom from Florida (staying for ten days, of course), and Agnete from Denmark, staying for six months. Ammabel is only staying for ten days as well, while Feng and Pedro are staying for three months, like myself. Becca is staying for three and a half months and Big Mike is staying for six (I'm jealous). We met the Fadhili staff as well: there was Cleo and Mike, Boniface, the PR manager, James, the project director, Joe, a sort of co-director, and Maggie, who manages the office and the internet cafe that they have there.
After they gave us the appropriate lectures about safety, public transit, Kenyan culture and customs, Kiswahili, our work, and our accommodations, we walked back to the office and piled into a van bound for everywhere. I shared the front bench with Pedro and Mike, and Pedro and I tried to teach Mike some Spanish. We drove all through Nairobi, which is super awesome. I was the last volunteer to be dropped off. I was staying a minute further down the road that I stayed on the first night, but that doesn't count the time it takes to get up the stairs. I'm staying in an apartment with a Kenyan woman named Sharon, and also with Erin. Sharon's apartment is five stories up, and there's obviously no elevator.
I wish I could write more, but I've been on the internet for two hours now; I have to pay for it myself and there's a line up of people waiting. I'll write more about the school/orphanage that I work at later, perhaps tomorrow.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Blog is go!
Welcome to Meghan Meets Kenya, where I will catalogue my trip to Kenya. And since there aren't ten more blogs relaying an identical trip (reference to Belize), I will try to be more faithful in my posts than I was last time. Props to Ben vanderWoerd for the title of this blog.
Here is the information that I would tell you in person if I could remember it:
I am leaving on Friday, February 13th, 2009 on a flight to Nairobi, Kenya. I will be staying there for three months, living with a local family and working at an orphanage. The organization that I signed up with is called the International Volunteer Headquarters (IVHQ). They are based in New Zealand, and work internationally with pre-existing organizations. The Kenyan organization that I will be working with is Fadhili Helpers. While there, I will get the chance to go on a safari. While on safari, I fully intend to grapple with an alpha-male lion (or baboon, whichever charges the jeep first). I will emerge victorious, with a few strategically-placed, super-awesome scars, which I will refer to as visual aids for my autobiography, Meghan van Hoeve: Stories of Success, Survival and Awesome.
Everytime someone asks me if I'm excited, I halfheartedly offer a "yes," and a weak smile. Or I skip the smile and tell them that I'm "a bit nervous." Both of which are lame responses. For some reason, the only time I get really excited about going to Kenya is when I think about Belize. I should be excited. I've booked my tickets (through London on the way there and Zurich on the way back), I've bought a backpack (one that fits and is awesome), my iPod has been repaired (which is Apple-speak for "replaced"), I have all my needles (6 needles in one day), and I have Barack Obama's autobiography to be my guide to the country (yay!). Don't worry, I have a real guide book, too. I even have malaria medicine, of all things -- tropical diseases are like Pokemon, you gotta catch 'em all! The point is, I'm not excited because I'm scared as hell.
I'm not afraid of the things that I should be afraid of. My parents were worried when I told them I was going. (Permission? I do what I want.) John was angry. My grandpa was afraid that I would get AIDS. Liesl's worried that I'm going to bring home a black guy. Well, "worried" is probably the wrong word; perhaps "expectant," "excited," or more appropriately, "hopeful." I'm not afraid of malaria, yellow fever, AIDS, walking barefoot, getting sunburnt, getting lost, getting robbed... I'm afraid of meeting people. When I went to Belize, I didn't have to be afraid of meeting people, because I had my two best friends right there, and I made more best friends as I went along. But this time, I'm out on my own, for real. But this fear is the best feeling in the world. Who needs to feel comfortable and safe when I can feel scared and excited?
Now I'm excited.
Here is the information that I would tell you in person if I could remember it:
I am leaving on Friday, February 13th, 2009 on a flight to Nairobi, Kenya. I will be staying there for three months, living with a local family and working at an orphanage. The organization that I signed up with is called the International Volunteer Headquarters (IVHQ). They are based in New Zealand, and work internationally with pre-existing organizations. The Kenyan organization that I will be working with is Fadhili Helpers. While there, I will get the chance to go on a safari. While on safari, I fully intend to grapple with an alpha-male lion (or baboon, whichever charges the jeep first). I will emerge victorious, with a few strategically-placed, super-awesome scars, which I will refer to as visual aids for my autobiography, Meghan van Hoeve: Stories of Success, Survival and Awesome.
Everytime someone asks me if I'm excited, I halfheartedly offer a "yes," and a weak smile. Or I skip the smile and tell them that I'm "a bit nervous." Both of which are lame responses. For some reason, the only time I get really excited about going to Kenya is when I think about Belize. I should be excited. I've booked my tickets (through London on the way there and Zurich on the way back), I've bought a backpack (one that fits and is awesome), my iPod has been repaired (which is Apple-speak for "replaced"), I have all my needles (6 needles in one day), and I have Barack Obama's autobiography to be my guide to the country (yay!). Don't worry, I have a real guide book, too. I even have malaria medicine, of all things -- tropical diseases are like Pokemon, you gotta catch 'em all! The point is, I'm not excited because I'm scared as hell.
I'm not afraid of the things that I should be afraid of. My parents were worried when I told them I was going. (Permission? I do what I want.) John was angry. My grandpa was afraid that I would get AIDS. Liesl's worried that I'm going to bring home a black guy. Well, "worried" is probably the wrong word; perhaps "expectant," "excited," or more appropriately, "hopeful." I'm not afraid of malaria, yellow fever, AIDS, walking barefoot, getting sunburnt, getting lost, getting robbed... I'm afraid of meeting people. When I went to Belize, I didn't have to be afraid of meeting people, because I had my two best friends right there, and I made more best friends as I went along. But this time, I'm out on my own, for real. But this fear is the best feeling in the world. Who needs to feel comfortable and safe when I can feel scared and excited?
Now I'm excited.
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