This is the third time I'm trying to start this blog post. I'm very behind, as usual, and instead of putting my adventures in three consecutive blogs as I tried last time, I will summarize each adventure as simply as possible.
The first was a three day safari at the Masaai Mara National Reserve. Three days of sitting in a safari van was about all I could take, although it was really cool. We saw everything except for rhinos, leopards, cheetahs, and hyenas. So to translate, it was bunk. Just kidding, it was pretty good. I had to be satisfied with seeing zebras, gazelles, impalas, giraffes, hippos, crocodiles, buffaloes, wildebeests, and several other -beests. The mara hadn't gotten rain in quite a while, but the weekend before we came and even while we were there, it rained some. So the excitement for the trip came whenever a van got stuck in the mud. Notable pinches include when another safari van got stuck right beside a pride of lions preparing to hunt (every camera in the vicinity was trained on that van, waiting for an attack that didn't come) and when our own safari van got stuck about ten feet away from four lionesses who were finishing off a wildebeest (it smelled delightful, and I got lots of pictures of that graphic escapade).
The second adventure was a second trip to Uganda. I went rafting again, twice this time, and I made plans to go back a third time, two weeks after the second. I'm getting a bit better at this rafting nonsense (some call it an addiction), so there were no instances of almost drowning. After the second day of rafting, I met a pair of British girls who invited me to their house just outside of Kamapala, so I went there the following night. They had been volunteering on their own -- they hadn't come with an organization -- in Uganda for three months, were finishing up the following week and continuing on to backpack South East Asia. So they showed me around Kampala, which, as far as I'm concerned, is a far more lovely city than Nairobi could ever be. It was safe, friendly, and very clean. I recommend Kampala and all of Uganda to anyone who travels, it's fantastic. If I volunteered in East Africa again, Uganda would be the place. I hear good things about Rwanda as well, and I'm very much looking forward to traveling there.
The third adventure was a trip to Hell's Gate National Park in Naivasha District. We stayed at a camp on the shores of the Lake, although, as it's a small, warm lake, we didn't really go down there much. I should mention that "we" was a group of volunteers from IVHQ (myslef, Jenny from England, who I currently live with, Jon from Chicago, Andrew from Australia) and another Canadian girl from Vancouver named Abby who we met in the matatu on the way to Naivasha. The main activity was a bike safari through the park, which was amazing. I biked within ten feet of zebras. The road went through a valley and was mostly flat, which made it an amazing ride. Our destination was the rangers' post, where we would hire a guide and take a walk through the famous gorge (which I hear was featured in a Tomb Raider movie). We stopped on the way there, though, so that Abby and I could do some rock climbing on an odd out-cropping called the Tower. When we got to the rangers' post, we hired a guide and set out on a two-hour walk of the gorge. It was beautiful, and I did most of the walk barefoot due to the alternation between climbing rocks and walking through water. Our guide was really cool. His name was John, and he talked to us all about his life story, which was amazing, about the park, and, as all Kenyans do, about the politics of the country. When we finished the walk, Abby, Jenny and I decided to take an alternate route to exit the park. The ride was absolutely miserable. We biked about 20 kms, with a good portion of it being uphill. We were thoroughly exhausted by the time we got back to camp, and delighted in hot showers, huge dinners, and early bedtimes.
Our guide John was so interesting that I feel he warrants a separate paragraph. As we walked through the gorge, he gradually told us some of his story. At fourteen, he was walking home from school with his brother and some friends when they were ambushed suddenly by gunmen. I don't know of the other boys, but John's twin brother was killed. When John was sixteen, his younger sisters (also twins), were supposed to be circumcised, as was the custom of his tribe (the Samburu tribe from the North of Kenya). He said that the circumcision's main purpose is to indicate to the men of the tribe that the girls were ready to be married; they were eleven years old. They had a big party in the days before the circumcision, and on the day of the actual event, John woke his sisters very early and made them walk to a school very far away, where he talked the head teacher into admitting the girls with the promise that he would pay later. Days after the failed circumcision, he was grazing his father's herd of cows when he sold five bulls to pay for his sisters' education. He had to lie to his parents about the bulls, and they were convinced that the girls had run away, died, both, or worse. He only told them the truth after two years. He then joined the army so he could continue to provide for his sisters; he joked that he couldn't marry until his sisters were finished with school, because he was married to them. He was with the army for three years, and during that time, participated in operations in Uganda and Sudan. He left the army, though, after he was deployed as a peacekeeper during the 2007 post-election violence. He told us about the things that he had seen that journalists and photographers hadn't seen, and wouldn't have been allowed to talk about. He said he left the army because he was worried for his mental state. He joined the park rangers after that, because he said that being in the natural world saved him from going insane. And going on the walk with him, we could tell that he was in love with the park and the gorge. He told us about how he went on runs in the morning, through the gorge or through the park, how he went on long walks in the evening to see the animals, how he had trained a wild owl to sit on his shoulder (his father killed the first one because it was a bad omen, but he trained another, and told his father that if he killed the second, he would have him arrested), and how he camped in the caves of the gorge and showered under the hot springs from which Hell's Gate gets its name. Every time we had to climb, he would help all three of us up after he walked up without any effort. Another thing that he loved to do was stop and help the animals and bugs that we would see. He cleaned cobwebs off a stick bug, lifted up a beetle that had a short leg, and picked up a chameleon who was in the middle of the gorge and brought him over to some trees. I'd be very happy to go back again, but only if I could get the same guide. His love for the park showed through everything that he did.
So I have a few adventures coming up. This coming weekend, I'm going to Uganda for a third time. The guys at Adrift have started discounting my one-day trips (from $125 USD to either $65 or $50, depending on how much the guy taking the money likes me), but I'm going on a whopping two-day trip, so that will put a dent in the bank account. The following weekend, I'm hoping to go to Lamu with Jenny. Lamu is a little island on the northern coast that is supposedly the pinnacle of Swahili culture, so we're looking forward to that. I think most of the month of May will be fairly quiet, although I'd like to check out Amboseli National Park and Lake Nakuru, and perhaps I'll climb Mount Longonot. I'll try to post more frequently from now on, so you don't get little blitzes like this anymore.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Uganda and the new religion
I arrived home from the school trip a bit late on Friday. I had been expecting to get back around five or five thirty, but I got back at six. I had to pack my stuff for a long weekend and catch a matatu so I could ride 45-minutes (or more, because it was rush hour) to the city centre, then scramble to find the bus offices again. My bus was to leave at seven. That clearly was not going to happen.
I almost ran home, looking disgusting and feeling great, so I could throw my stuff into my too-small backpack within fifteen minutes and scamper next door to meet up with the other volunteers I was traveling with. When I got there, the woman who answered my knocking at the gate told me that they had left earlier that afternoon. I had to laugh. So I rushed down the road to the Fadhili offices, hoping to get a cell number for one of the volunteers. The first number they gave me was wrong, but on the second try I got through to Scott. He was in the area and sent a taxi over to pick me up at the offices and take me downtown to the offices of the bus company.
A little third-world primer: here in Kenya there is no bus station. There are offices spread throughout one neighborhood of Nairobi, this neighborhood having particularly narrow streets and tight corners. All the buses leave at set times throughout the day: seven in the morning, nine in the morning, two in the afternoon, seven at night, and nine at night. At these times, the streets are mayhem, in addition to the regular (heavy) traffic at seven in the am and pm.
I arrived at the office at seven thirty, due to heavy rush hour traffic. I got there in time to hear the conductor of the bus telling the other volunteers I was traveling with that he couldn't hold the bus any longer. They were so relieved that they hugged me, even though I hadn't met them before (besides Anna). The volunteers I traveled with are Anna, a 22-year-old student from Tennessee who studied in Wales for two years, Scott, a 34-year-old park ranger who works in Alaska, Cory, a 24-year-old nurse from somewhere in the States. I hang out with so many Americans these days, I forget which state they say they're from.
After the miserable bus ride and crossing the border at 3 am, we arrived in the small town of Jinja, Uganda, at 7 am. Thank goodness all the business began to open at eight thirty. What a relief. We wandered around the town, which consisted of one main street with a market at end and a hospital at the other, until the most American looking restaurant opened up and we could order breakfast. We discussed our options over the meal, and, after we eliminated all the others, we decided to go for a boat ride on Lake Victoria that afternoon.
The boat ride was wonderful. The sun was warm, the water was calm, and the breeze was cool; I could barely keep my eyes open to take in all the beautiful scenery, having barely slept on the overnight bus. The highlights of the boat ride was the tour of a fishing village and the stop at the source of the Nile. After the tour, we hopped a pair of boda bodas (motorcycles) to the Adrift campsite. As we got on the boda bodas, we tried to tell the drivers that we should be paying less because we were putting two passengers on each bike. During this exchange, Scott mentioned that we would be riding like Canadian coffees, double-double. I laughed and warmed to him instantly when he confessed his love for Tim Hortons, saying that he eats there all the time when he goes into the Yukon (he is a devotee of the bread bowl chili). Although I hate Tim Hortons, it's been well bred into me that I should be proud of this symbol of Canada, despite how poorly the actual company reflects on Canadians.
The Adrift campsite was fantastic. We stayed in a dormitory, the second cheapest option after bringing our own tent, where the bunks were stacked four high and covered in colorful fleece blankets. The food was cheap and delicious: a personal pizza for 10,000 Ugandan shillings. That doesn't sound cheap, but it works out to 385 Kenyan shillings, and about 5 Canadian dollars. We all went to bed early, but were woken up in the night by a thunderous rain storm (including lightning), a delightful relief from the drought in Kenya.
On Sunday, we woke up late, ate a cheap breakfast (USH 4,000/KSH 154/$2 CDN), and hung around until Scott, Cory, and the new arrival, Jennifer, got back from church. Scott met Jennifer at church in Kenya; she's a 30-something American woman who has been living in Kenya for over a year now establishing an NGO program. That afternoon, we went for a hike through the jungle with Erin, a girl from New Zealand who was there with a large tour group, but was the only one staying in the dormitory with us. I wish I could upload pictures, especially of the tree that we all took turns climbing; the roots formed an arch that had almost a ladder up one side. It was an irresistible climb.
The excitement came on Monday: white water rafting on the Nile River. This is the aforementioned "new religion." The route along the Nile took us over six fair-sized rapids (fair-sized being class 4 and 5) and a few class threes. I don't remember anything lower than that, probably because they would have been boring enough to warrant forgetting. Seven of us were in the raft: myself, Jennifer, Scott, Anna, Cory, Ryan (a guy from California who quit his job in finance before he got fired and came to Uganda with his wife to volunteer teaching), and our guide, an Englishman from Leeds known as Clarky.
Besides the practice flip, we flipped three times going through rapids. The instruction when the raft flips is usually to hold on until everyone surfaces, then flip the raft over and climb back in. I usually ended up getting pulled back in by the lifejacket by the guys already in the raft. Of the three flips, I held on once. The first time, I got pushed under the raft, then resurfaced and floated down the river a little ahead of the raft until a kayaker paddled over to rescue me. (There were about seven guys in kayaks with us -- two of them manned a video camera a still camera, to record our progress over the larger rapids -- in addition to the two guys in the safety raft.) The second flip over the Big Brother rapid was just before lunch, and was larger and more exciting. My recollection tells me that we were going over the rapid when suddenly, the paddle in my charge was no longer in my hands and the raft was no longer beneath me. I was surrounded in a watery abyss, and it tugged me and pulled me in any direction it felt was necessary. My helmet was being pulled up, my legs were being pulled down, and the rest was being pushed forward at an alarming speed. I resurfaced suddenly, only to see a wave that could have been classified as HUGE coming toward me. I gasped air and squeezed my eyes shut as I passed through the wave. I emerged on the other side, hyperventilating now, and knocking heads with Ryan. He pulled me around to face him and hollered at me, checking if I was okay, but the water pulled us apart before I could reply. He was washed almost directly into a kayaker, and he grabbed the handle on the back and began to kick toward me. The worst feeling of the day came as I was being washed down the river, no more than three feet away from the kayaker who couldn't get to me across the current. As I was pulled under by my feet another time, I recall thinking: So this is it, this is how I go. Not awesome. And I began kicking toward the kayak with all the effort left in me. The only effect it had was that I brought my feet closer to the surface, and so, wasn't pulled down as much. When the kayak got to me, I grasped the handle on the front and wrapped my legs around the body of the kayak, gasping for air, closing my eyes, and laying my head back on the water.
The third flip was the best, because I finally held on to both the raft and my paddle. The rapid was called Fifty/Fifty, because those are the chances you have of flipping. The chance of flipping increases, though, when you discuss with your guide beforehand about whether or not he'll flip you. Anna and Jennifer got out of the raft and into the safety boat, because they didn't want to flip, but the rest of us did. It garnered a laugh from all of us when the safety boat got inches away from flipping (due to a metal chassis in the middle of the boat, it is considerably more difficult to flip it right-side-up). This time, I was on the right side of the boat, and as we flipped, I was thrown right over Cory. I watched as we approached the rapid, as the boat rode up the wave and kept going up until it flipped. I thought only of keeping my grip on the rope of the raft and the handle of my paddle. And I did. After being pulled into the raft, I gave a number of triumphant shouts, and would've jumped, if I hadn't remembered that I was in a boat.
My love for rafting was immediate and strong. I'm hoping to return to Uganda in the middle of April, the beginning of May, and the end of June, simply to raft (and probably to bungee jump at least once -- 44 metres!). I was encouraged by the guide known as Rooster, who paddled the safety raft, to take roll classes and learn to kayak on the Ottawa River, where I hope to conveniently move in September. New career path, here I come!
I almost ran home, looking disgusting and feeling great, so I could throw my stuff into my too-small backpack within fifteen minutes and scamper next door to meet up with the other volunteers I was traveling with. When I got there, the woman who answered my knocking at the gate told me that they had left earlier that afternoon. I had to laugh. So I rushed down the road to the Fadhili offices, hoping to get a cell number for one of the volunteers. The first number they gave me was wrong, but on the second try I got through to Scott. He was in the area and sent a taxi over to pick me up at the offices and take me downtown to the offices of the bus company.
A little third-world primer: here in Kenya there is no bus station. There are offices spread throughout one neighborhood of Nairobi, this neighborhood having particularly narrow streets and tight corners. All the buses leave at set times throughout the day: seven in the morning, nine in the morning, two in the afternoon, seven at night, and nine at night. At these times, the streets are mayhem, in addition to the regular (heavy) traffic at seven in the am and pm.
I arrived at the office at seven thirty, due to heavy rush hour traffic. I got there in time to hear the conductor of the bus telling the other volunteers I was traveling with that he couldn't hold the bus any longer. They were so relieved that they hugged me, even though I hadn't met them before (besides Anna). The volunteers I traveled with are Anna, a 22-year-old student from Tennessee who studied in Wales for two years, Scott, a 34-year-old park ranger who works in Alaska, Cory, a 24-year-old nurse from somewhere in the States. I hang out with so many Americans these days, I forget which state they say they're from.
After the miserable bus ride and crossing the border at 3 am, we arrived in the small town of Jinja, Uganda, at 7 am. Thank goodness all the business began to open at eight thirty. What a relief. We wandered around the town, which consisted of one main street with a market at end and a hospital at the other, until the most American looking restaurant opened up and we could order breakfast. We discussed our options over the meal, and, after we eliminated all the others, we decided to go for a boat ride on Lake Victoria that afternoon.
The boat ride was wonderful. The sun was warm, the water was calm, and the breeze was cool; I could barely keep my eyes open to take in all the beautiful scenery, having barely slept on the overnight bus. The highlights of the boat ride was the tour of a fishing village and the stop at the source of the Nile. After the tour, we hopped a pair of boda bodas (motorcycles) to the Adrift campsite. As we got on the boda bodas, we tried to tell the drivers that we should be paying less because we were putting two passengers on each bike. During this exchange, Scott mentioned that we would be riding like Canadian coffees, double-double. I laughed and warmed to him instantly when he confessed his love for Tim Hortons, saying that he eats there all the time when he goes into the Yukon (he is a devotee of the bread bowl chili). Although I hate Tim Hortons, it's been well bred into me that I should be proud of this symbol of Canada, despite how poorly the actual company reflects on Canadians.
The Adrift campsite was fantastic. We stayed in a dormitory, the second cheapest option after bringing our own tent, where the bunks were stacked four high and covered in colorful fleece blankets. The food was cheap and delicious: a personal pizza for 10,000 Ugandan shillings. That doesn't sound cheap, but it works out to 385 Kenyan shillings, and about 5 Canadian dollars. We all went to bed early, but were woken up in the night by a thunderous rain storm (including lightning), a delightful relief from the drought in Kenya.
On Sunday, we woke up late, ate a cheap breakfast (USH 4,000/KSH 154/$2 CDN), and hung around until Scott, Cory, and the new arrival, Jennifer, got back from church. Scott met Jennifer at church in Kenya; she's a 30-something American woman who has been living in Kenya for over a year now establishing an NGO program. That afternoon, we went for a hike through the jungle with Erin, a girl from New Zealand who was there with a large tour group, but was the only one staying in the dormitory with us. I wish I could upload pictures, especially of the tree that we all took turns climbing; the roots formed an arch that had almost a ladder up one side. It was an irresistible climb.
The excitement came on Monday: white water rafting on the Nile River. This is the aforementioned "new religion." The route along the Nile took us over six fair-sized rapids (fair-sized being class 4 and 5) and a few class threes. I don't remember anything lower than that, probably because they would have been boring enough to warrant forgetting. Seven of us were in the raft: myself, Jennifer, Scott, Anna, Cory, Ryan (a guy from California who quit his job in finance before he got fired and came to Uganda with his wife to volunteer teaching), and our guide, an Englishman from Leeds known as Clarky.
Besides the practice flip, we flipped three times going through rapids. The instruction when the raft flips is usually to hold on until everyone surfaces, then flip the raft over and climb back in. I usually ended up getting pulled back in by the lifejacket by the guys already in the raft. Of the three flips, I held on once. The first time, I got pushed under the raft, then resurfaced and floated down the river a little ahead of the raft until a kayaker paddled over to rescue me. (There were about seven guys in kayaks with us -- two of them manned a video camera a still camera, to record our progress over the larger rapids -- in addition to the two guys in the safety raft.) The second flip over the Big Brother rapid was just before lunch, and was larger and more exciting. My recollection tells me that we were going over the rapid when suddenly, the paddle in my charge was no longer in my hands and the raft was no longer beneath me. I was surrounded in a watery abyss, and it tugged me and pulled me in any direction it felt was necessary. My helmet was being pulled up, my legs were being pulled down, and the rest was being pushed forward at an alarming speed. I resurfaced suddenly, only to see a wave that could have been classified as HUGE coming toward me. I gasped air and squeezed my eyes shut as I passed through the wave. I emerged on the other side, hyperventilating now, and knocking heads with Ryan. He pulled me around to face him and hollered at me, checking if I was okay, but the water pulled us apart before I could reply. He was washed almost directly into a kayaker, and he grabbed the handle on the back and began to kick toward me. The worst feeling of the day came as I was being washed down the river, no more than three feet away from the kayaker who couldn't get to me across the current. As I was pulled under by my feet another time, I recall thinking: So this is it, this is how I go. Not awesome. And I began kicking toward the kayak with all the effort left in me. The only effect it had was that I brought my feet closer to the surface, and so, wasn't pulled down as much. When the kayak got to me, I grasped the handle on the front and wrapped my legs around the body of the kayak, gasping for air, closing my eyes, and laying my head back on the water.
The third flip was the best, because I finally held on to both the raft and my paddle. The rapid was called Fifty/Fifty, because those are the chances you have of flipping. The chance of flipping increases, though, when you discuss with your guide beforehand about whether or not he'll flip you. Anna and Jennifer got out of the raft and into the safety boat, because they didn't want to flip, but the rest of us did. It garnered a laugh from all of us when the safety boat got inches away from flipping (due to a metal chassis in the middle of the boat, it is considerably more difficult to flip it right-side-up). This time, I was on the right side of the boat, and as we flipped, I was thrown right over Cory. I watched as we approached the rapid, as the boat rode up the wave and kept going up until it flipped. I thought only of keeping my grip on the rope of the raft and the handle of my paddle. And I did. After being pulled into the raft, I gave a number of triumphant shouts, and would've jumped, if I hadn't remembered that I was in a boat.
My love for rafting was immediate and strong. I'm hoping to return to Uganda in the middle of April, the beginning of May, and the end of June, simply to raft (and probably to bungee jump at least once -- 44 metres!). I was encouraged by the guide known as Rooster, who paddled the safety raft, to take roll classes and learn to kayak on the Ottawa River, where I hope to conveniently move in September. New career path, here I come!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Mutinda
I had a rather busy weekend, and I will attempt to encapsulate it in two posts. The first post (this one) will be shorter, as it concerns itself with Friday, and the second post concerns itself with Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.
So I arrived at school on Friday morning to see the kids lined up and ready to go on a trip. They packed large volumes of water, as well as a large pot of rice and a large pot of green beans, which is what the boarders would be eating. We packed all of this onto a "City hoppa" bus, packing five or six kids onto a bench where only three adults could fit. I sat on a bench intended for two with one girl in class five, but I held the orphanage baby, Davey on my lap. [Since the trip, the teachers have started telling me that I'm Davey's adoptive mama, and he seems to get the idea.] He sat for a small part of the ride, but when we gave up the window seat to Naomi, Davey decided he still wanted to look out the window, and he began standing on my knees. It was my job to put my hands on the seat in front of us so that he wouldn't fall to the left or right. I had little control over him falling forward, but I managed to get my hand between his forehead and the metal bar in front of him most of the many times that he fell forward.
The first stop we made was on the side of the road that descended into the Rift Valley. I'd seen mountains before, but usually in ranges. Mount Longonot rose up out of the flat plateau of the valley entirely on its own. It was one of the most incredible sights I have seen in my eighteen short years. Anyway, the highlight besides the view was when a local shopkeep came over to me while I was holding Davey and asked me if Davey was mine. I laughed and said no, but it was bittersweet.
The second stop was another random side of the road, this with nothing to distinguish it except that this was where we were going to eat a snack, because lunch -- although I didn't know this -- was going to be at three o'clock, at yet another random spot on the side of the road.
The third stop, though, brought us to what seemed like another random side of the road, but was actually the intended destination. We loaded off the bus and took a path at the side of the road toward Lake Naivasha. The path was completely surrounded by cacti, as if to enforce just how dry and dusty the path was. Davey sat on my shoulders, because if he had had to walk, he wouldn't have been able to breath; I barely could. The students were instructed by Pastor Regina, the head teacher, to hold either their sweaters or a handkerchief over their mouth and nose. Most of them emerged with a light coating of white dust on their hair, faces, clothing, and cutest of all, their eyelashes. It was like reverse mascara. After the dusty cactus pathway, which resembled a tunnel at some parts, we entered a small grove of beautiful acacia trees that opened onto an open plain: the beach. The grass was short on the plain as it was being mowed by herds of cows, goats, and sheep. I had hoped that I saw zebras, but no dice.
The lake was beautiful, although the kids were too afraid to touch the water. If I could, I'd post the picture that I took of the whole school of kids standing on the edge of the water just looking at it. Pastor Regina paid eight hundred shillings so that the kids could all take a brief boat ride around the lake. Everyone laughed as the first returning boat wailed toward the shore, literally wailing, as Davey was sitting in the middle, sobbing and screaming. I went around the lake in a boat with the teachers, and was sure to get good pictures of the herd of hippopotamuses sitting in the shallows near an island. I was also sure to get video of the kids walking across the field with the newest teacher, Teacher Lawrence, singing praise songs in English and Kiswahili.
The highlight of my day came on the ride home. Davey stood on my knees until we stopped for "lunch" at three. When we boarded the bus again, the boy that I was friends with first at the school, Mark Mutinda from Pre-Unit (preschool) decided that he was going to sit with me. For the first half hour of the two hour ride home, we goofed around, him making faces and me giving him wet willies and the like. Every few minutes, he would pull himself up on the seat in front of us, lean back and shout, "Brrrrrriiiaaaannnn!" to his friend (Brian, clearly), rolling his r's in that adorable way that he has, before giving Brian a huge grin that said, "I'm up here, you're not." Occasionally, this would be followed by a short argument in Kiswahili. But after he got sick of all that, he put his arms around my neck and rested his head on my collarbone. I wrapped my arms around his back and his legs, and he slept like that for the next hour and a half of bumpy road, waking sometimes when he got too jostled, only to shift his position and fall asleep again. I fell asleep a few times, resting my head on the top of his. But when I wasn't sleeping, I was thinking about how I'd be back at a country here in Africa in ten or fifteen years, and the little boy sleeping in my lap wouldn't just be the little boy who took a shine to me in my first week there. I imagined riding on a local bus, on terrible roads, holding onto my adopted son (or daughter, whatever happens), going back to a makeshift home in a cheap apartment or hotel room. [However, that country will not be Kenya, as the Kenyan adoption laws are very strict. To adopt here, you have to have lived here for five years, and if you adopt after that, you can't just move out of the country; you have to live here to the child stays Kenyan.]
When we arrived back at the school, I shook Mark awake, but he continued holding onto me, hoping to keep sleeping. He was thoroughly disoriented, but I had to rush off to make sure that I could pack and make it downtown before the bus I had a ticket for left for Uganda. As I walked back to the flat, I drew looks from the locals, mostly due to the state of my clothing. My previously clean denim shorts had acquired a layer of light brown, but their filth paled in comparison to my green shirt. It was covered in dirt (from having kids climb all over me all day), sweat (because it's not cool riding on an overfull bus with a sweaty little boy sleeping on your lap), and drool (which just entertained me as opposed to disgusting me). Not to mention the coating of dirt and dust I had acquired on my legs and feet from the lake and pathway. I find that people in third-world countries like Kenya pride themselves on not leaving the house without their clothing in immaculate condition. They couldn't understand what would possess a person to be as filthy as me. But for me, it was the best feeling in the world.
So I arrived at school on Friday morning to see the kids lined up and ready to go on a trip. They packed large volumes of water, as well as a large pot of rice and a large pot of green beans, which is what the boarders would be eating. We packed all of this onto a "City hoppa" bus, packing five or six kids onto a bench where only three adults could fit. I sat on a bench intended for two with one girl in class five, but I held the orphanage baby, Davey on my lap. [Since the trip, the teachers have started telling me that I'm Davey's adoptive mama, and he seems to get the idea.] He sat for a small part of the ride, but when we gave up the window seat to Naomi, Davey decided he still wanted to look out the window, and he began standing on my knees. It was my job to put my hands on the seat in front of us so that he wouldn't fall to the left or right. I had little control over him falling forward, but I managed to get my hand between his forehead and the metal bar in front of him most of the many times that he fell forward.
The first stop we made was on the side of the road that descended into the Rift Valley. I'd seen mountains before, but usually in ranges. Mount Longonot rose up out of the flat plateau of the valley entirely on its own. It was one of the most incredible sights I have seen in my eighteen short years. Anyway, the highlight besides the view was when a local shopkeep came over to me while I was holding Davey and asked me if Davey was mine. I laughed and said no, but it was bittersweet.
The second stop was another random side of the road, this with nothing to distinguish it except that this was where we were going to eat a snack, because lunch -- although I didn't know this -- was going to be at three o'clock, at yet another random spot on the side of the road.
The third stop, though, brought us to what seemed like another random side of the road, but was actually the intended destination. We loaded off the bus and took a path at the side of the road toward Lake Naivasha. The path was completely surrounded by cacti, as if to enforce just how dry and dusty the path was. Davey sat on my shoulders, because if he had had to walk, he wouldn't have been able to breath; I barely could. The students were instructed by Pastor Regina, the head teacher, to hold either their sweaters or a handkerchief over their mouth and nose. Most of them emerged with a light coating of white dust on their hair, faces, clothing, and cutest of all, their eyelashes. It was like reverse mascara. After the dusty cactus pathway, which resembled a tunnel at some parts, we entered a small grove of beautiful acacia trees that opened onto an open plain: the beach. The grass was short on the plain as it was being mowed by herds of cows, goats, and sheep. I had hoped that I saw zebras, but no dice.
The lake was beautiful, although the kids were too afraid to touch the water. If I could, I'd post the picture that I took of the whole school of kids standing on the edge of the water just looking at it. Pastor Regina paid eight hundred shillings so that the kids could all take a brief boat ride around the lake. Everyone laughed as the first returning boat wailed toward the shore, literally wailing, as Davey was sitting in the middle, sobbing and screaming. I went around the lake in a boat with the teachers, and was sure to get good pictures of the herd of hippopotamuses sitting in the shallows near an island. I was also sure to get video of the kids walking across the field with the newest teacher, Teacher Lawrence, singing praise songs in English and Kiswahili.
The highlight of my day came on the ride home. Davey stood on my knees until we stopped for "lunch" at three. When we boarded the bus again, the boy that I was friends with first at the school, Mark Mutinda from Pre-Unit (preschool) decided that he was going to sit with me. For the first half hour of the two hour ride home, we goofed around, him making faces and me giving him wet willies and the like. Every few minutes, he would pull himself up on the seat in front of us, lean back and shout, "Brrrrrriiiaaaannnn!" to his friend (Brian, clearly), rolling his r's in that adorable way that he has, before giving Brian a huge grin that said, "I'm up here, you're not." Occasionally, this would be followed by a short argument in Kiswahili. But after he got sick of all that, he put his arms around my neck and rested his head on my collarbone. I wrapped my arms around his back and his legs, and he slept like that for the next hour and a half of bumpy road, waking sometimes when he got too jostled, only to shift his position and fall asleep again. I fell asleep a few times, resting my head on the top of his. But when I wasn't sleeping, I was thinking about how I'd be back at a country here in Africa in ten or fifteen years, and the little boy sleeping in my lap wouldn't just be the little boy who took a shine to me in my first week there. I imagined riding on a local bus, on terrible roads, holding onto my adopted son (or daughter, whatever happens), going back to a makeshift home in a cheap apartment or hotel room. [However, that country will not be Kenya, as the Kenyan adoption laws are very strict. To adopt here, you have to have lived here for five years, and if you adopt after that, you can't just move out of the country; you have to live here to the child stays Kenyan.]
When we arrived back at the school, I shook Mark awake, but he continued holding onto me, hoping to keep sleeping. He was thoroughly disoriented, but I had to rush off to make sure that I could pack and make it downtown before the bus I had a ticket for left for Uganda. As I walked back to the flat, I drew looks from the locals, mostly due to the state of my clothing. My previously clean denim shorts had acquired a layer of light brown, but their filth paled in comparison to my green shirt. It was covered in dirt (from having kids climb all over me all day), sweat (because it's not cool riding on an overfull bus with a sweaty little boy sleeping on your lap), and drool (which just entertained me as opposed to disgusting me). Not to mention the coating of dirt and dust I had acquired on my legs and feet from the lake and pathway. I find that people in third-world countries like Kenya pride themselves on not leaving the house without their clothing in immaculate condition. They couldn't understand what would possess a person to be as filthy as me. But for me, it was the best feeling in the world.
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