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.
Monday, November 24, 2008
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.]
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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.
[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'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.
Monday, November 17, 2008
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!
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!
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