Penniless in Kenya.

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).