12 Step Program [Reposted from 12/2/08]

I realize that I haven't been talking about the babies nearly enough. This may very well be because my days have become routine (up until now, that is, with my recent illness):

I wake up at 6:15am, have breakfast, leave for the orphanage (the matatu rides take about an hour collectively), and arrive at Imani at 8am. From there, I feed the babies, change diapers and clothing, straighten up the room. If the weather is nice, which it usually is, we'll take the babies outside into the courtyard, where the older ones in my group (usually around 4-6 months old) sit in basins to practice sitting up. At 10am, the kids get water. The younger ones lie sideways on cots. Then, we feed them lunch at around noon (porridge for the older ones, formula for the younger), change them again, and have lunch ourselves at around 1pm. At 1:30, we start cleaning up outside, and start bringing the babies back in. Then, around 2:30, it gets hectic: we have to bathe and change 12 newborn-to-three-month babies in just over an hour. It's quite the challenge.

The volunteers are split up amongst the age groups, and the auntie in charge of the youngest group specifically requested me on the first day of work: "Get me that American girl." From that point on, it's just been me and the littlest ones, and they are so beautiful and sweet, it's impossible not to fall in love with them. Here are the twelve:

1. Yuri: I have yet to take a photo of him, but he is the most precious thing. He's one of the "oldest" of the young babies, he smiles uncontrollably, and really has trouble keeping the drool in his mouth. He has many ladies at the orphanage, including my auntie and another of the volunteers. As such, I've given him up to them(though I do plan on stealing him when no one's looking). Edit: new photo of him. He is beautiful, no?

2. Jimmy [pictured]: this guy is my little fatty. You know those rolls of fat that are just so unbelievably cute on babies? He's got them in spades. He's a handsome one, completely adorable, prone to smiles, and the favorite of many.

3. Marco: the oldest of the babies. He's the tiniest, most volatile, most curious of the bunch. He's ready to break into tears at any second, but he's doing very well developmentally. He loves to grab things, is entranced by new colors and sounds, and his curiosity is infectious.

4. Lydia [pictured]: this is my girl. She's the only girl in the "older" group, and I think she's taken as much of a liking to me as I have to her. She's got these beautiful eyes, and every time I sing to her, I can make her smile. She is so beautiful and so precious, I can't stand it.

5. Moses [pictured with me]: the last of the older babies. He is a grouch, usually the sole crying baby. He gets quite greedy at mealtimes, constantly craves attention, and has a respiratory illness (so he sounds like a little froggy. The aunties thought it was hilarious that I called him Little Froggy.). When he smiles, though, watch out.

6. Benny [pictured]: Oh, Benny! Quite difficult to feed him, as he's prone to squirming. He looks like a little muppet, what with his perfect sideways "D" smile, his button nose, and his wide eyes.

7. Jessica: Jessica, Precious, and Michelle are sometimes difficult to tell apart. I've found some distinguishing characteristics between them, though. Jessica has got some beautiful eyes. She's relatively tame, neither smiling nor crying excessively, and she's quite lovely. Edit: they are no longer difficult to tell apart. Jessica has quickly become one of my favorites, as she's learned how to smile, not just with her mouth but with her entire face and body. It's exciting to see her smile, completely electric and having her so wholeheartedly trusting in you. She has beautiful eyes still.

8. Precious: Precious is a handful. She tends to get sick and vomit pretty easily, cries a lot, and, of the little ones, is the one most often found wailing. When she's sweet, though, she is wonderfully so, and cuddles up to you when you hold her.

9. Michelle: Michelle is the most prone to smiles. She's almost laughing now, and her little chuckle is adorable. She's frequently placed next to Obama because the two are "married."

10. Obama [pictured]: this is my little precious, my little President. He is frequently seen with a look of profound concern on his face, brows furrowed, eyes intense. When I first got there, he was the youngest, and his only activities were sleeping and crying. He was crying when he wasn't sleeping and vice versa. Now, though, he's gotten older and relatively tame. He almost smiles. He's somewhere around four weeks old. I will take him home with me.

11. Anton [pictured]: the youngest of our group. When he came, he was only 2 days old. He's getting stronger by the day, and I find that one of the most rewarding things I can do is to pick him up. He has this way of making you feel so special, so loved. As soon as you pick him up, he stops crying, he smacks his lips a couple times, and curls up to you. His body stops shaking. He is so beautiful and so lovely.

12. Edith: Edith is right between the oldest and youngest of our group. She's a happy girl, mostly calm, and enamored of sleeping for long, comatose stretches at a time.

I will edit this further as I get more information and inspiration. My current state of illnes is keeping me from writing as well and as much as I'd like to, so I'll hopefully keep this an open entry, adding to it as I see fit.

P.S. Photos aren't allowed, so...you didn't see these from me. These are clearly stock photos of babies.

I lied.

I guess that last entry was not, in fact, my last one from Kenya.

Today was the kids' Christmas party--it's a national holiday today, much like American Independence Day, and all Imani kids of all ages celebrated as if it were December 25 (on which date, incidentally, they do not celebrate at all).

I've just gotten home. I had to say goodbye to my babies, and I thought it would be a simple process. I've done it before, in Romania, with no problems. We have a total of 15 babies in our group, and I got through ten of them thinking, "Oh, this is going to be a breeze."

Then, gradually, my allergies started to get worse. I started sniffling quite a bit. When I got to Lydia, whom I'd saved for last, I found my eyesight blurring, my sniffles getting worse, and suddenly, I was violently sobbing into Lydia's pajamas.

I can't explain what exactly was going through my head. I can only say it was purely feeling, something entirely primitive, much akin to a mother leaving her child. The aunties were actually very kind for once, saying that I would surely come back, and by then, Lydia would be running up to the gate to greet me. I hope this is true.

Tabitha, the big boss lady (i.e. director), even took some photos of me with Lydia and Obama because I was sobbing so badly.

All in all, it was a stressful, tearful last day that I cannot even begin to process as of yet. It's even difficult to write about it, and all I know is that I am very, very, very sad to go home.

[photo is one Tabitha took of me crying with my baby]

Oh, sawa.

Well...I only have a few days left in Kenya, and I'm filled with far more regret than I thought I would be. I managed to take a lovely video of my babies today, for which to remember them and all their eccentricities. Michelle was crying, which is uncharacteristic, and Lydia seemed more intent on staring at the camera than her usual giggly smiles.

Anyway, I have a few essays planned out in my notebook, but because I don't have much time, and because I'd rather be doing other things than typing for the next couple hours (I'm learning to make chapati today!), I will save those essays for when I get home. When I'll be in some deep withdrawal.

So now, let me leave you with a list of Swahili words and phrases I actually DO use, just so you can decipher the gibberish I will be unconsciously saying when I get back:

Sasa?
(What's up?/How are you?)

Fit.
(Fine.)

Habari?
(Same as 'sasa,' but more formal)

Pole.
(Sorry.)

Pole sana.
(Very sorry.)

Asante.
(Thank you.)

Asante sana.
(Thank you very much.)

Sawa.
(Good./OK.)

Sawa sawa.
(That's fine.)

Nataka ____.
(I want ____.)

Chakula
(food)

Maziwah
(Milk)

Maji
(water)

Zombie

I find that I quite like walking around Buru Buru when dark falls. It's the small neighborhood within Nairobi in which I currently live, and I don't have the pleasure of doing that walk very often. The air is cool, the dust is mostly settled, and the sky seems somehow deeper, darker than what I have at home. What deters me from doing it more is not, in fact, that it is dangerous to walk alone at night (especially as a mzungu), though, to be quite honest, that really should be a deterrent.

No, instead, the reason I don't do it more often is because, in the dark, the crowds of pedestrians walking the streets at night, with their darkened silhouettes lurching toward me on this dusty road, all look like zombies.

And if there's anything I learned from all those zombie movies I've watched, it's that you do NOT go outside in the night in the open with zombies afoot.

Baby Got Back

I was once on a matatu going to Nairobi city centre that was so crowded, the matatu man had to go through and make all the people standing in the aisle stand up straight in single file. He even gave one of the standing men's bags to a seated woman in order to minimize space wastage.

So, here we were, all in claustrophobic chaos, when I felt my head suddenly pitch forward to about a 45 degree angle. It wasn't an accident or some kind of emergency braking maneuver because I felt a steady pressure on the back of my head.

No, it was, in fact, the man collecting matatu fares who had shoved himself into the fray. He was bending himself over at the waist to talk to the people seated catty corner to me, and as a result, this forced his buttocks to protrude into the back of my neck.

Annoyed, I shoved him away, but he simply planted his feet more firmly and shook his butt into the back of my head, back and forth, taunting.

The butt jig was disconcerting at the time, but actually quite hilarious in retrospect. This matatu man truly puts the 'ass' in 'classy,' and for that, I give him props.

Matatus, Part II

Apparently, no guilt was necessary for missing work today: all the volunteers missed work, as there's currently a matatu strike in Kayole, the part of Nairobi where our orphanage is situated. I can't imagine whom the matatus are striking against, and I also can't imagine a matatu union, so we'll see what the outcome is.

Speaking of matatus, I do feel I should mention that I've been on a total of 3 matatus pulled over by police for various reasons. 2 of those drivers have been arrested. Fun fact.

Oh, and here's another interesting tidbit I found in my Kenya health guidebook:

"Traffic in Kenya drives on the left. The country has one of the highest road fatailty rates in the world. Excessive speed, unpredictable local driving habits and manners, poor vehicle maintenance, bumpy, potholed and unpaved roads, and the lack of basic safety equipment on most vehicles are the hazards most evident on Kenyan roades. When there is a heavy traffic jam either due to rush hour or because of an accident, drivers are known to drive across the median strip and drive directily towards the oncoming traffic.

There are also fatal accidents reported that involve long-distance, inter-city buses, or local minibuses caled 'matatus.' They are typically driven at unsafe speeds and erratically cause accidents with other motorists or pedestrians."

So, given all this, is it strange that I have yet to witness a matatu accident? Or any accident at all?

If you're wondering why I'm online so much the past few days, it's because my host mother's sister left her laptop here, and all of us have been using it to access the internet. So, my recent prolonged illness has actually given me ample time for web surfing, oh joy!

Also, as a side note, given the amount of vomiting I've been exposed to the past couple of days, I would just like to say that I have never, and I especially do not now, understand bulemics.

Catholic Guilt

I had to stay home from work again today, which has brought on, of course, an onslaught of my old friend, Catholic Guilt. I miss my Lydia baby and my Obama baby, and I don't have much time left with them--just six days.

Last night, I underwent another fit of vomiting, this time quite unexpected after the first square meal I've had in three days. My host mother, Violet, got so worried, she made me go to the hospital at 10pm. (Hospital isn't as dire as it sounds--here, they don't have individual doctor practices, so if you need to see a doctor, a hospital is your only choice.)

The doctor last night prescribed me 4 different medications, 2 for whatever bacterial infection I have, 2 for my cold. And then, the pharmacy proceeded to rip me off at a cool 2,250 Ksh. I found out today that I could actually bargain at the pharmacy, which seems somehow wrong. It's like those coupons we used to get in the mail in Los Angeles that advertise Lasik eye surgery, "second eye free!" Souvenirs, I would bargain for, yes. Clothes, shoes, absolutely. Food...maybe not the best idea, but okay. Things related to health, however, are not things you typically should want to get for less, especially when involving drugs or scalpels.

With any luck, this will all clear up soon. I'm feeling much better today, but I think I do tend to feel better in the daytime, when I feel I should be doing other things...like taking care of babies.

Too Dull for You? Apologies.

I'm Too Ill To Write.

That should be the name of my next album.

I'm feeling really sick right now, so that'll be the end of my posts for today, even though I have about a billion essays planned out. I feel like I'm not as fun and/or entertaining as I'd like to be at the moment, so anything that comes out of me will be sub-par. Thank goodness for my little pocket notebook.

To come:

-Accidental Hitchhiking
-Mzungu Diaries
-More that I can't think of right now; brain is broken.

Wish me luck in beating this bug!

Happy Thanksgiving!

I do know this is quite late, but Happy Thanksgiving to you all! As sad as I am to have missed Thanksgiving with my family, I'm just as grateful for this little guy, who arrived on the same day.

His name is David, he's about two weeks old, and he was rescued from a latrine. The Nairobi police brought him to Imani, where we volunteers began looking after him.

As of now, he's still in the hospital. He was severely malnourished, and he won't be released until after he's gained an appropriate amount of weight. He barely knew how to eat, and he had entirely too many wrinkles. His skin didn't return back to normal when pinched.

I'm inexpressibly thankful that he was found, saved, and will be taken care of. Hopefully, he'll come back soon so I can give him some hugs and kisses.

A Slew of Posts

Many apologies for the lack of posting lately. Things have been interminably difficult for the past week.

This weekend was spent at a passion fruit farm in Emining. It was electricity-less, running water-less, and generally very beautiful. Unfortunately, it also got me very, very ill.

Last night was spent in probably one of the worst, most disgusting states of sickness I have ever been in, the sickness commonly refered to as "Traveler's Diarrhea." Except with less diarrhea and far more vomiting, to the point where I spent the majority of last night completely dehydrated, and, as a result, am spending today sipping World Health Organization-sanctioned Oral Rehydration Salts to battle the water loss.

That's probably more than you ever needed to know about me.

Anyway, expect a slew of new posts, and mourn (or rejoice?) with me as we celebrate my just-past-halfway-done point!

Language Barriers

This weekend, I spent some time in Mombasa, where I was greeted with a very familiar kind of strangeness. This is a beach city whose heat made me claustrophobic, the weak fan in our hotel room doing nothing but circulating hot air. I could feel my sweat seeping into the mattress that seemed to be entirely made of foam: if I lay on it, I could feel my tailbone hit the wood at the bottom. The sheets were well-worn and see-through.

"We are kuku for chicken!"

Kenya has a chain of restaurants called Chicken Inn in which they serve chicken in as many forms as the ladies behind the counter have hairstyles. "Kuku" in Swahili means "chicken," so I've always found it a bit odd that the Chicken Inn slogan translates to, "We're chicken for chicken," which essentially says the opposite of what they intended. I know it's a pun, but for me, that's beside the point.

I've found that this kind of nitpicking follows me from country to country. In Romania, I asked a group of foreigners what a rooster would say in their respective countries. I am terrible at keeping a poker face, so my barely contained amusement at the noises they made attempting to imitate a rooster understandably drew their ire. There was "co-co-ree-ko," and "ki-ki-ri-ki-ki," and "kikerikie" from Germany, and "kukkokiekuu" from the Finns.

I was fairly ready to hush everyone up and tell them the correct answer, but my confidence unexpectedly wavered at "cock." Then, my throat physically constricted at the "doodle," and I found myself stunned by the thought that what I had considered the only right answer was not, in fact, the right answer. In fact, we were all wrong. The real sound a rooster makes is: "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

The accents, the syllables, the letters, are all fabricated and broken down into things we can understand in our own languages, things we can sing to our children.

This is the type of confusion I currently find myself in. Driving lanes, for example, are fairly definite in the U.S. There are lanes, in the traditional sense, in which vehicles travel going one direction on one side, and the other direction on the other side. Here in Kenya, we have what I would call "lanes," which is essentially a large-scale game of chicken with 5000 takers. I've so often found myself in a vehicle accelerating head-on toward another accelerating vehicle that I have discovered it's just best not to look.

This was Mombasa for me: a sweltering haven of noise, flies, fluorescent lights, and matatus which constantly get pulled over by the police and have their drivers arrested. A place where, at night, the heat does not cool but instead stokes the nightlife to an electrifying pitch, if I'm allowed to mix metaphors. I had heard that life was lazy and slow here, but I found myself wound up, matatu-to-matatu.

Yet just on the outskirts of town are people I'd like to meet. There are shacks made of rusted corrugated aluminum, with roofs of tarp and milky white plastic. Large sticks of wood make up the basic structure, and these shacks huddle together to form a kind of village where the people always seem happy, and don't need anything. A painted sign simply says, "Cafe." It is an open booth with only rows of benches. This is the Mombasa I like.

Not the one by which I'm accosted by strangers, not the one in which a strange, creepy, smiling man asked to sit next to me on an empty bus. Not the one that features tourists on private beaches burnt to a crisp, shiny and red like suckling pigs.

Or maybe they are the same Mombasa, and it's me who can't seem to get a grip on it. I remember laying on my hotel bed and wondering: what else had this bed sucked up? And what would happen when it was finally full, like a waterlogged sponge? What things would begin to seep back out? Liters of sweat, maybe. The smell of couples, probably. Some odds and ends here and there--some soda spilled, or maybe toothpaste. But ultimately, the only thing I would find was my own tiredness, climbing through little pockets of air and dirt to greet me in the morning.

I met someone!

Yes...I know. It's a bit odd, but I've found a boyfriend already. My parents have always told me not to move too fast, but I really couldn't help it with this one.

He's incredibly handsome, and he couldn't stop smiling at me from across the room. His name is Yuri. He's really sweet, he's always so positive, and he generally smells good.

Some might find the drool and the toothless smile off-putting, but that's just because they don't know him like I do.

I hear he has another girlfriend at the orphanage, though, so I really should watch my back. I hear she's pretty mean if she doesn't get what she wants.

[Yuri is about 3 months old...and the love of my life.]

Return

I have so much to catch you all up on! Here's the brief, and then I'll break into stories afterward:

Finally got to work with the babies on Friday, they are wonderful but exhausting. Went to Mombasa, a beach town, this weekend, and the trip really only served to further emphasize how irresponsible some of the staff members of the volunteer organization are.

Went to work again, have just gotten back.

That is all, that's my only excuse for being AWOL.

I also miss you all very much.

Things I will never need to say in Swahili:

Here is a much briefer list of the useless things my Swahili phrase book has taught me. Don't worry, Mom and Dad: I will never use these. But they seem to tell a story, no?:

He/She is hot.
Huyu amependeza sana sana.

He's a bastard.
Yeye ni mshenzi.

Can I accompany you to your home?
Nikusindikize kwako?

Excuse me, I have to go now.
Samahani, lazima niondoke sasa.

Leave me alone (now)!
Niache (sasa)!

Do you want a massage?
Unataka kuchuliwa?

Touch me here.
Niguse hapa.

I have a condom.
Nina kondom.

Don't worry, I'll do it myself.
Usiwe na wasiwasi nitafanya mwenyewe.

It helps to have a sense of humour. (Keep in mind this is in the "sex" section of the book. I think we can all guess what happened.)
Husaidia kuweza kucheka.

Easy, lion!
Tulia, simba!

Are you seeing someone else?
Umekuwa unatembea na mwengine?

He/She is just a friend!
Yeye ni rafiki tu!

You're just using me for sex.
Unanitumia kwa mapenzi tu.

I never want to see you again.
Sitaki kukuona tena daima.

Again, I'm not anticipating having to use any of these phrases, so don't worry.

Oh, yes!

And for all those who DID, indeed, want to spend astronomical amounts to speak to me for a couple seconds, a.) kudos to you, and b.)my phone number is as follows, but I'm not exactly sure how to dial it:

[country code: +254] 0728-978-582

Please note that Nairobi is +3 hours from London, +9 from Houston, and +11 hours from California. PLEASE.

P.S. I love Kenyan food. Especially chapati.

Matatu Time!

Oh, goodness. I finally have some time to write, but unfortunately, it's already taken me about 15 minutes to get to my blog website alone, so it doesn't exactly bode well for getting this thing to publish...but, of course, it's worth a shot.

I've decided that I'm not going to bother talking about the things I do every day. I think those things tend to ramble and get pretty boring, so instead, I'll dedicate this blog to things that I find espeically fascinating, and if those things are accompanied by stories (preferably the funny and/or entertaining kind), so be it.

Today, we were finally able to recapture my missing luggage from the airport. The story I have, however, doesn't have to do with my bag so much as with the cab driver we had. His cab had a broken odometer. Not just an inaccurate, or wavering, or otherwise sort of semi-busted, but it was completely, unequivocally, dead at 0 mph. The odometer seems to have, much like myself, completely given way to the utter impossibility of accurately and predicatbly measuring the driving system of a Kenyan taxi. Or a Kenyan driver, for that matter: I've yet to see what might suitably pass for remotely sane driving.

The rather insane car ride was further accentuated in its ridiculousness by our cabbie's radio station, which serenaded us with a steaming hot reggae rendition of Sonny and Cher's "I Got You, Babe." Followed by one Miss Shania Twain herself, telling me she's gonna get me if it takes all night while we dart in and out of traffic at irregular and unnatural angles, and while my heart ceases to beat because I am forgetting to breathe. It was, as German Eva would say, "interesting."

Speaking of drivers, yesterday was the day Eva and I first encountered the Nairobi matatus. It's a bit difficult to explain what, exactly, a matatu is, so imagine with me if you will: think of the most crowded bus you can think of. People are standing, it's gotten quite hot, there's barely room to breathe or stand up for your stop. Then, shrink that bus by about 40%, double the number of people, and you'll get a sense of how crowded these things are. Okay, now add to that a devastating lack of air conditioning (don't call me spoiled; no one quite understands the wonders air conditioning works in dissipating the oh-so-lovely smell of body odor from some 50-odd men), the sweat of the 90% male matutu population, and the craziest driving in the most unspeakable traffic you have ever imagined (as will be futher detailed later).

And now, the piece de resistance: the interiors of these otherwise run-down, shady-ass, smelly buses are all completely outfitted with a state-of-the-art, completely pimped out sound system (complete with booming sub-woofers) AND flat-screen video monitors (up to 5 per vehicle) placed periodically in the spray-painted, monstrously decal-ridden inside. And a large flat screen up front. With which to blast American rap music until your ears bleed. Mine were still cloudy this morning.

We sat in the back, next to the speakers, and I swear I've been to heavy metal concerts that were quieter. The noise is like death.

They also have some lovely lights on the inside of the matatus that light up at night. Not just any lights, but club lights. Disco lights. It's a disco on ghettofied wheels at 50 Kenyan shillings per ride. Let's remember that this is the most common mode of transportation. Even as I write this, I can hear a matatu's booming bass from the street below. And their breaks sound like a parrot drowning.

The outsides of these matatus, however, are decorated not with lights and video screens, but with copied decals of singers'/rappers' faces and a logo bearing some sort of insignia that explains what kind of music that matatu likes to blast. I must say, there is nothing quite like seeing a giant Enrique Iglesias face and mole passing you at 100 km/hr on a dirt road.

Nothing.

Oh, and did I mention that the idea of curbs and crosswalks mean absolutely NOTHING to these people? It's appalling because there are no lanes. Or rather, lanes are more of a guideline, it seems. I can't decide if these drivers are terrible and terrifying or incredibly good and terrifying. I swear, I saw us scoot literally centimeters from other fast-moving vehicles, skewed at all odd angles and going in all directions on the road.

The reflexes of these guys must be magic. Every time someone drives, I feel absolutely postive that, yes, this is the time I'm actually going to die.

And the pedestrians! Sidewalks and crosswalks and walk signals are also optional for the tens of thousands of pedestrians encountered at the city centre. I wish I could show you the diagram I made for myself of what traffic looks like. Stopped cars in the middle of the street, cars at various angles jutting into each other, and pedestrians scattered into clumps all around the road.

Also, we should note that Eva, on her first day, did see a matatu hit a man. Just so you know.

I dont know where to start, so Iĺl start in the middle. (Please note that the apostrophes on the computers in this internet cafe dont seem to work...) I am in Nairobi.

Today, I was accused of being unable to stop smiling. To be quite honest, its been a while since someone laid a similar charge against me, so it was nice to finally have it back. But the reason I dont stop smiling is because, 90% of the time, I dont have a clue of what is being said around me. Either everyone is speaking in Swahili, which I of course dont understand, or the other volunteers are speaking German. So, I just sit and look and smile.

More later...time to go!

The First of the News

I am officially, unequivocally going to Kenya! For the first time in a long time (maybe ever), I'm being irresponsible. I'm quitting my job, subletting my room, and spending some quality time with myself and some beautiful, lovely Kenyan babies.

Also, do not ask me about the title. It doesńt mean anything, I just like how pretty it sounds.