We got home safely this week from Nairobi, but not exactly in the way that I had envisioned. Like normal we grabbed a matatu from the City Centre stage and suffered through the dust, noise and danger that is modern Kenya's finest mode of transportation. We arrived with our lives and person intact in Kajidao, and set up a meeting with one of our counterparts. Julius was also worried about the looming water crisis and set about solving the problem. This was music to our ears as we have been saving bath water to wash our clothes in before dumping it on the few remaining green plants we have in the backyard. Its been pretty tight here water wise, which made our experience in Nairobi slightly more bizarre.
We met with our APCD on Thursday, and discussed, among other things, our emergency action plans. This roughly translates to discussing all of the worst case scenarios, and then laughing at the possibility of ever having to implement them. For example, on this particular trip, we discussed the riverbed we cross to leave our village. Its a dry beach for 11 months of the year, and a seething torrent in heavy rains. Under normal circumstances, if the river is raging, you just don't cross. This is a widely accepted method of coming away with your life, even if you don't get to town to buy peanut butter or luke warm soda. But like I said, we weren't there to discuss what normally happens.
A month ago, we had discussed the very same river crossing issue at site visit. I had laughingly suggested that, should we need to leave when the rains come, we could use a rope and some flotation devices to help each other across. Tie one end to a tree as the other person wades across, and then repeat on the opposite bank. So you can imagine my shock when we were handed a "life vest sign out sheet." I quipped that they must have made this form specifically for us, and got a rather annoyed glance in reply. Anyhow, we found ourselves the next day holding life vests in Kajiado, walking to a meeting with Julius.
Julius shares our concern over lack of water. In fact he took it so seriously that he arranged water and a ride for us back to the village. But like I have continually said about this experience, the aspect which I assumed was the strangest, took a close second to the massive tanker truck that appeared to chauffeur us to Orinie. We spent the final hours of our day, bouncing along the dusty track that leads to our home, squished between two truck drivers, a huge bag of vegetables, and two life vests, all headed, strangely enough, for one of the driest places I have ever been.
We arrived at dusk and helped the guys load our dispensary tank with water. At the request of Julius, I was to put a lock on the tank, which put me in an awkward position standing amongst a crowd of thirsty locals. I didn't get a hard time from anyone really, though I could tell they weren't happy. I was saved however by a scream from our house. I ran in to find Jennie in a pile of our dirty laundry, cursing like a sailor. In our absence, a mouse had set up his home in our clothing, and had found a way to nibble all the important aspects of our undergarments. We had made it safely, and with water, and had to laugh at life vests and risque underwear, because it was just another day in Orinie.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Dust Football
I have started playing football in the evenings with the kids here. The field is rough, extremely potholed, lacking goal posts or sidelines, and definitely not flat. But they don’t care, they just play.
As the sun sets, crowds of students battle in the rising dust. The action stops frequently to restitch the ball due to thorns and sharp broken glass. The kids huddle around and find some way to fix the ball, and then, amid screams and much chaos, play resumes. It’s so much shabbier than any field I have ever seen and I have no response to “Nicko, how do you see our field”? In the end, I guess what I see are kids, too enveloped in fun to notice how much they lack. And for their sake, I hope that this reprieve stays with them, and gives them joy through all the difficulties they face. There is so little here, and the small moments really do matter. Every little bit of enjoyment is squeezed out, reused and savored.
The fading of the light makes continuing almost impossible, and yet, there is always one final goal to score. “Last one is the winner.” At some point an enormous hum comes across the field, and for a minute we are covered in bees—millions of honey bees. They are migrating right through the middle of our match, and everyone is on their knees, shirts pulled up over heads, screaming, laughing. The bees pass, and one enterprising lad scores as the defense is still half-shirtless and cowering. The ball pops for a final time and it’s not repairable due to darkness. We all wander home coated in dust, sweating, and laughing at the bad plays I have made. This is how the games are savored, walking home in the dark, arm-in-arm. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, only maybe you won’t miss. Maybe you can actually send it in the direction of the opponents goal, just a suggestion, nothing personal. Do they have football in America? Do the kids sleep with their cleats on?”
I can see their outlines in the fading light, jumping, sprinting, arms raised, mouths open, eyes wide, chests heaving, feet furiously seeking the ball. They are playing because they can forget about herding goats, or hauling water. They can forget about typhoid, malaria and AIDS. They can breathe in the cold evening air, and exhale all the worries that 12 year olds carry here. The weight is lifted, even if only for a moment, and I can see their gleaming faces in the moonlight. They are children who must grow up fast. But for an hour or so, they are football stars, and I think I shall always remember them this way.
As the sun sets, crowds of students battle in the rising dust. The action stops frequently to restitch the ball due to thorns and sharp broken glass. The kids huddle around and find some way to fix the ball, and then, amid screams and much chaos, play resumes. It’s so much shabbier than any field I have ever seen and I have no response to “Nicko, how do you see our field”? In the end, I guess what I see are kids, too enveloped in fun to notice how much they lack. And for their sake, I hope that this reprieve stays with them, and gives them joy through all the difficulties they face. There is so little here, and the small moments really do matter. Every little bit of enjoyment is squeezed out, reused and savored.
The fading of the light makes continuing almost impossible, and yet, there is always one final goal to score. “Last one is the winner.” At some point an enormous hum comes across the field, and for a minute we are covered in bees—millions of honey bees. They are migrating right through the middle of our match, and everyone is on their knees, shirts pulled up over heads, screaming, laughing. The bees pass, and one enterprising lad scores as the defense is still half-shirtless and cowering. The ball pops for a final time and it’s not repairable due to darkness. We all wander home coated in dust, sweating, and laughing at the bad plays I have made. This is how the games are savored, walking home in the dark, arm-in-arm. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, only maybe you won’t miss. Maybe you can actually send it in the direction of the opponents goal, just a suggestion, nothing personal. Do they have football in America? Do the kids sleep with their cleats on?”
I can see their outlines in the fading light, jumping, sprinting, arms raised, mouths open, eyes wide, chests heaving, feet furiously seeking the ball. They are playing because they can forget about herding goats, or hauling water. They can forget about typhoid, malaria and AIDS. They can breathe in the cold evening air, and exhale all the worries that 12 year olds carry here. The weight is lifted, even if only for a moment, and I can see their gleaming faces in the moonlight. They are children who must grow up fast. But for an hour or so, they are football stars, and I think I shall always remember them this way.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Volunteers log: Day 135
Jennie has come through a rather nasty fight with a stomach bug. She spent the last few days camped out under the mosquito netting, feverish and reading a Jodi Picoult novel. Wednesday was site visit, which among other things brought, not one, but two boxes from France. Our supervisor Anne came by Land Rover to see us, and reaffirm that we are in fact, the most remote posting that she has under her domain.
As for the package, it contained every essential item necessary for survival in the bush. Jen tore into the Sudoku puzzles and wasn't seen or heard from for a full day except to sharpen her pencil. The package also had two gallon sized bags of M&Ms, which are at this moment being finished (2 days after receiving the package). There were also several large chocolate bars of possible French and or Belgian origin, though I can’t say with any certainty given that the wrappers are already torn, and the chocolate, likewise consumed greedily and embarrassingly fast. There were also some sticky things that probably glow in the dark, though we have not yet confirmed this. The packaging was entirely in French, and so we spent most of the time talking about how, despite several years worth of French classes, I still couldn't ascertain what the heck these things were. At any rate, we are enthused and plan to stick them on a board in the sun, and then around the house on the walls. Most likely, they will make good night lights for our resident frog population.
We must also report that toast is now possible. We have realized after many bread and butter mornings that grilling toast here not only works, but also thankfully removes all hair on my hands.
This means that Jennie’s trifecta of Oatmeal, bananas and cinnamon toast is complete. We have only to convince the local store owners that there is in fact a large market for diet soda. This has proven to be no easy task, but one that, working in tandem, we may be able to bring to fruition given two years worth of pleading and tantrums.
For me, I spent the morning trimming my beard. Usually about once a week I happen by a mirror and stand aghast at the freak staring in my direction. This particular morning, I decided I had the time, and the need to trim the thing given that I woke to find a moth fully dead and probably partially decomposed somewhere underneath my chin region. I wouldn't call the result a proper haircut or beard trim, but it certainly is shorter. I still make babies cry, old mamas snicker and school children flee, but I think they pause for a minute now before doing so. Sometimes I give them what they want and do something strange. Running at the kids, hands raised and growling like the abominable snowman is priceless, though I don’t have a sense for what it does to my professional credibility as of yet.
More than anything, we want to thank all of you for supporting us with kind words and packages. We miss home, and we miss family and friends, so your words, and your chocolate mean a lot. Stay tuned for a safari update, and our work with the school, and many, many thanks.
As for the package, it contained every essential item necessary for survival in the bush. Jen tore into the Sudoku puzzles and wasn't seen or heard from for a full day except to sharpen her pencil. The package also had two gallon sized bags of M&Ms, which are at this moment being finished (2 days after receiving the package). There were also several large chocolate bars of possible French and or Belgian origin, though I can’t say with any certainty given that the wrappers are already torn, and the chocolate, likewise consumed greedily and embarrassingly fast. There were also some sticky things that probably glow in the dark, though we have not yet confirmed this. The packaging was entirely in French, and so we spent most of the time talking about how, despite several years worth of French classes, I still couldn't ascertain what the heck these things were. At any rate, we are enthused and plan to stick them on a board in the sun, and then around the house on the walls. Most likely, they will make good night lights for our resident frog population.
We must also report that toast is now possible. We have realized after many bread and butter mornings that grilling toast here not only works, but also thankfully removes all hair on my hands.
This means that Jennie’s trifecta of Oatmeal, bananas and cinnamon toast is complete. We have only to convince the local store owners that there is in fact a large market for diet soda. This has proven to be no easy task, but one that, working in tandem, we may be able to bring to fruition given two years worth of pleading and tantrums.For me, I spent the morning trimming my beard. Usually about once a week I happen by a mirror and stand aghast at the freak staring in my direction. This particular morning, I decided I had the time, and the need to trim the thing given that I woke to find a moth fully dead and probably partially decomposed somewhere underneath my chin region. I wouldn't call the result a proper haircut or beard trim, but it certainly is shorter. I still make babies cry, old mamas snicker and school children flee, but I think they pause for a minute now before doing so. Sometimes I give them what they want and do something strange. Running at the kids, hands raised and growling like the abominable snowman is priceless, though I don’t have a sense for what it does to my professional credibility as of yet.
More than anything, we want to thank all of you for supporting us with kind words and packages. We miss home, and we miss family and friends, so your words, and your chocolate mean a lot. Stay tuned for a safari update, and our work with the school, and many, many thanks.
Much Love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie
Monday, September 24, 2007
Goats drive me insane with anger
I have avoided talking about work like the plague itself, because it's so hard to give the proper context. You can obviously understand when I say we are building a garden. But what you don't really get is what that entails here on the ground. For starters, we seem to be at the nexus of the known goat universe. Everyone here owns and grazes goats. And this presents certain unforeseen barriers to agriculture. For example, we planted a banana tree and routed our sink waste water into a catchment for it. This was our first foray into horticulture and we were really psyched about it. But the very next day goats stripped the tree bare, just short of killing it, and clearly indicating that a fence was necessary. And so, with the help of a local farmer, we erected what I thought was an impenetrable barrier.
Our fence is comprised of cut trees that are so hardy they continue to grow when chopped in half and replanted. And they have the nastiest thorns imaginable, such that pioneering Europeans named them "wait a bit.” I can only too well imagine my pale ancestors bloody and cursing the local plant life as they tried to explore the region. The trouble is that the goats seem almost immune. Instead of an impenetrable barrier, they seem to see a minor obstacle that is both sieve and smorgasbord. If they fail to make it through on the first attempt, they seem to delay a moment nibbling on the shoots to make better holes for their closely following brethren. This means that I obsess about goats getting into the yard. It would be funny if I wasn't such a freak about it. And I can only imagine what it must look like to the neighbors. Goats enter the yard, and in response, a large, bearded white man comes charging out of the house throwing stones and yelling, eyes gleaming with impotent rage at the inexhaustible appetite of the invading herd. So, here we are, doing development work, and it seems, protecting a smallish patch of earth from animals that raise my ire mightily. You can imagine Jennie's amusement as I feverishly stalk from desk to window attempting to write and defend said garden simultaneously.
If, by some miracle, we are able to defend our crops, our plans are to cultivate some vegetables for personal consumption. The walk not withstanding, it’s fun to do and a great learning experience. Apart from that, we want to accomplish several other, more important objectives.
Food security is hard to come by in this region. As such, we want to develop ways to encourage farming for personal consumption. To do this we needed to identify local crop varieties, how to grow them, and if anybody here actually wants to eat them. Cassava, for example, grows exceptionally well in arid conditions, and you can find a million books and websites touting its hardy and nutritious attributes. The problem is, nobody here wants to eat cassava, or do the work to grow it without any market in which to sell it. However, people here do love to eat corn and beans, and we have met several local farmers who have had success growing these crops. Our hope is that by highlighting their work, we can encourage people to do the same for themselves.
Our second goal is to create a small tree nursery. This area has been ravaged by the charcoal industry. Most of the trees that grow locally are chopped down and cooked in big piles of dirt to create briquettes for use in small clay stoves called jiko. This is a major source of fuel for the rural community here, and so its creation is also a major source of income for anyone with some energy and an axe. As an outsider you could come and talk ad nauseam about why this shouldn't be done due to soil erosion and global warming. But charcoal is the cheapest and most available source of cooking fuel and people will continue to exploit it until they are given a cheaper and more available alternative. So instead of trying to convince people to abstain, Jennie and I are hoping to continue talking about alternative energy sources (such as solar and wind), and the merits of tree planting. And we are also hoping to grow some saplings and have the local kids plant them.
This garden is one small piece in a host of projects we are working on, but like I said, there is too much context to just say it simply. I hope that you will come back again and read some more about what we are doing. We hope to write a number of postings related to our work here, and start to de-emphasize our own stupidity and almost complete lack of ability to live here without somehow injuring or subjugating ourselves to intense humiliation at the hands of small school children. Okay, the school is for another posting, but we really appreciate your following along. Much love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie.
Our fence is comprised of cut trees that are so hardy they continue to grow when chopped in half and replanted. And they have the nastiest thorns imaginable, such that pioneering Europeans named them "wait a bit.” I can only too well imagine my pale ancestors bloody and cursing the local plant life as they tried to explore the region. The trouble is that the goats seem almost immune. Instead of an impenetrable barrier, they seem to see a minor obstacle that is both sieve and smorgasbord. If they fail to make it through on the first attempt, they seem to delay a moment nibbling on the shoots to make better holes for their closely following brethren. This means that I obsess about goats getting into the yard. It would be funny if I wasn't such a freak about it. And I can only imagine what it must look like to the neighbors. Goats enter the yard, and in response, a large, bearded white man comes charging out of the house throwing stones and yelling, eyes gleaming with impotent rage at the inexhaustible appetite of the invading herd. So, here we are, doing development work, and it seems, protecting a smallish patch of earth from animals that raise my ire mightily. You can imagine Jennie's amusement as I feverishly stalk from desk to window attempting to write and defend said garden simultaneously.
If, by some miracle, we are able to defend our crops, our plans are to cultivate some vegetables for personal consumption. The walk not withstanding, it’s fun to do and a great learning experience. Apart from that, we want to accomplish several other, more important objectives.
Food security is hard to come by in this region. As such, we want to develop ways to encourage farming for personal consumption. To do this we needed to identify local crop varieties, how to grow them, and if anybody here actually wants to eat them. Cassava, for example, grows exceptionally well in arid conditions, and you can find a million books and websites touting its hardy and nutritious attributes. The problem is, nobody here wants to eat cassava, or do the work to grow it without any market in which to sell it. However, people here do love to eat corn and beans, and we have met several local farmers who have had success growing these crops. Our hope is that by highlighting their work, we can encourage people to do the same for themselves.
Our second goal is to create a small tree nursery. This area has been ravaged by the charcoal industry. Most of the trees that grow locally are chopped down and cooked in big piles of dirt to create briquettes for use in small clay stoves called jiko. This is a major source of fuel for the rural community here, and so its creation is also a major source of income for anyone with some energy and an axe. As an outsider you could come and talk ad nauseam about why this shouldn't be done due to soil erosion and global warming. But charcoal is the cheapest and most available source of cooking fuel and people will continue to exploit it until they are given a cheaper and more available alternative. So instead of trying to convince people to abstain, Jennie and I are hoping to continue talking about alternative energy sources (such as solar and wind), and the merits of tree planting. And we are also hoping to grow some saplings and have the local kids plant them.
This garden is one small piece in a host of projects we are working on, but like I said, there is too much context to just say it simply. I hope that you will come back again and read some more about what we are doing. We hope to write a number of postings related to our work here, and start to de-emphasize our own stupidity and almost complete lack of ability to live here without somehow injuring or subjugating ourselves to intense humiliation at the hands of small school children. Okay, the school is for another posting, but we really appreciate your following along. Much love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Mambo, Mwamba, Mwalimu
Last post I mentioned the "big five" thinking that it would make me sound safari savvy. The problem was that I hadn't really done my homework. It's actually a game hunting term used to refer to the five largest, and most difficult animals to kill in the region. So the "big five" refers to the Lion, African Elephant, African or Cape Buffalo, Leopard and the Black Rhino. While my inner vegetarian (one goat eating incident does not a carnivore make) cringed at the thought of advocating for such a term, the writer in me jumped at the chance to put my own spin on the subject. Many thanks to Annie for calling my bluff, and here is what I have learned about the big five.
The Cape Buffalo, also called the African Buffalo or "Mbogo" in Kiswahili, is big, ugly, gregarious and it seems, also quite dangerous. Like the Hippo, the African Buffalo has the mythological aura of having claimed the most human lives on the continent. It seems that researchers are currently engaged in a pissing match of sorts, over who has trampled, mangled or otherwise led to the demise of more Homo Sapiens. And all of this is particularly strange given that the Buffalo's closest genetic relation is the dairy cow, making East Africa's most seen safari animal, a bit like a heifer with a nasty hangover.
The Leopard, called "Chui" in Kiswahili, is one of the most dangerous and elusive animals in East Africa. The interesting thing about these guys is their ability to live in close proximity to humans. In fact, they are careful not to hunt in routine ways, making them tough to stop when they decide your livestock is dinner. I am told that they are the most feared animal in Africa, which leaves me with only one question. What does it say about a place when damn near everything is the "most deadly" or "most feared?"
The Lion, called "Simba" in Kiswahili and some Disney movies, is huge and famously lazy. It is said that their favorite pastime is sitting under large acacia and watching other animals hunt. When cheetah or hyena come down with a big kill, the lions snatch them with glee. I seem to remember a kid like that in my grade school cafeteria. It is also said, that of 42 tribes in Kenya, the lion chases 41. But lions know the tall loping gate of the Masai, and run from them. I have yet to see anyone actually prove this, but I will say that the Masai have lived alongside lions for many years, and they have a deep respect for the animal--unless of course their livestock get eaten, and then all bets are off.
The Rhino, of which there are two varieties, is called "Faru" in Kiswahili. The smaller of the two is the black rhino, which primarily forages in thick undergrowth. The white rhino is bigger, and prefers the open plains where more grasses are in abundance. The distinction between the two is not so much about color, but the unique adaptations they have evolved for consuming certain kinds of vegetation. So, as I understand it, the white rhino is actually a mispronunciation of the original description, or "wide rhino" given its wide flat mouth. The black or hook-lipped rhino is so called because of its smaller, more hook like orifice, which helps it eat more precisely around thorns and branches. It seems that in this region, there are many names which are some sort of perversion of an older, more traditional one, and some are just plain misunderstandings. I am told that Spanish settlers, first entering the harbor near the soon-to-be named city of Mombasa, were told by their deck hands, "Mwamba Sir." Which roughly would have meant, "hey look, a really big rock."
The African Elephant, called "Tembo" in Kiswahili, is Jen's personal favorite. These endangered and yet resilient creatures eat approximately 3000 tons of foliage a month in the Masai Mara, which, according to ecologists, creates a lot of poop. As such, Elephants are called the architects of their environment. They drop football-sized turds that are feasted on by a host of thankful dung beatles, who pull chunks off, and drag them into their underground burrows. It seems that along with their groceries, the beatles bring acacia seeds that become planted in the fertile soil, speeding up the normally slow germination process. So while the big fellas eat a lot, they also help to regrow the forest, which makes them at least as smart as most of the humans I know.
As always, many thanks for reading, and please check back often with our photos link as we are constantly updating.
The Cape Buffalo, also called the African Buffalo or "Mbogo" in Kiswahili, is big, ugly, gregarious and it seems, also quite dangerous. Like the Hippo, the African Buffalo has the mythological aura of having claimed the most human lives on the continent. It seems that researchers are currently engaged in a pissing match of sorts, over who has trampled, mangled or otherwise led to the demise of more Homo Sapiens. And all of this is particularly strange given that the Buffalo's closest genetic relation is the dairy cow, making East Africa's most seen safari animal, a bit like a heifer with a nasty hangover.
The Leopard, called "Chui" in Kiswahili, is one of the most dangerous and elusive animals in East Africa. The interesting thing about these guys is their ability to live in close proximity to humans. In fact, they are careful not to hunt in routine ways, making them tough to stop when they decide your livestock is dinner. I am told that they are the most feared animal in Africa, which leaves me with only one question. What does it say about a place when damn near everything is the "most deadly" or "most feared?"
The Lion, called "Simba" in Kiswahili and some Disney movies, is huge and famously lazy. It is said that their favorite pastime is sitting under large acacia and watching other animals hunt. When cheetah or hyena come down with a big kill, the lions snatch them with glee. I seem to remember a kid like that in my grade school cafeteria. It is also said, that of 42 tribes in Kenya, the lion chases 41. But lions know the tall loping gate of the Masai, and run from them. I have yet to see anyone actually prove this, but I will say that the Masai have lived alongside lions for many years, and they have a deep respect for the animal--unless of course their livestock get eaten, and then all bets are off.
The Rhino, of which there are two varieties, is called "Faru" in Kiswahili. The smaller of the two is the black rhino, which primarily forages in thick undergrowth. The white rhino is bigger, and prefers the open plains where more grasses are in abundance. The distinction between the two is not so much about color, but the unique adaptations they have evolved for consuming certain kinds of vegetation. So, as I understand it, the white rhino is actually a mispronunciation of the original description, or "wide rhino" given its wide flat mouth. The black or hook-lipped rhino is so called because of its smaller, more hook like orifice, which helps it eat more precisely around thorns and branches. It seems that in this region, there are many names which are some sort of perversion of an older, more traditional one, and some are just plain misunderstandings. I am told that Spanish settlers, first entering the harbor near the soon-to-be named city of Mombasa, were told by their deck hands, "Mwamba Sir." Which roughly would have meant, "hey look, a really big rock."
The African Elephant, called "Tembo" in Kiswahili, is Jen's personal favorite. These endangered and yet resilient creatures eat approximately 3000 tons of foliage a month in the Masai Mara, which, according to ecologists, creates a lot of poop. As such, Elephants are called the architects of their environment. They drop football-sized turds that are feasted on by a host of thankful dung beatles, who pull chunks off, and drag them into their underground burrows. It seems that along with their groceries, the beatles bring acacia seeds that become planted in the fertile soil, speeding up the normally slow germination process. So while the big fellas eat a lot, they also help to regrow the forest, which makes them at least as smart as most of the humans I know.
As always, many thanks for reading, and please check back often with our photos link as we are constantly updating.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Small Seven
Since I'm always writing about us, I was worried that we might come across as a bit ego-centric. So here is a thinly veiled attempt to write something that isn't directly about us, that in actuality, is really about us--enjoy.
This region is known for its amazing array of wild animals. Of course there is the “big five.” What you won't read about in the travel guides however, is the assortment of critters that are here in abundance that are much more a part of the daily experience. Jennie and I like to call these critters our “small seven”—a grouping of equally colorful life forms that not only brighten our days, but inhabit our house.
First on our list is the Dikdik. They don’t live in our house thankfully, but they do like our garden. The Dikdik is a very small and crafty little deer that scurries around in the bush. They have enormous black eyes, at least in relation to their bodies, and they have a black swatch across their face that looks like one of those really small party masks. These little guys made the list because they are cool looking, really fast, and love to nibble on freshly planted crops.
Our next life form inhabits, probably every continent, and scares the bejesus out of Jennie on every one of them. This is of course the spider, of which there are many large and hairy varieties here. Jennie has taken to naming them in an attempt to conquer her fears, but frankly, when push comes to shove, it usually happens in the form of the nearest large object and one really dead arachnid.
Our third buddy hails from the lizard category, though I wouldn’t take that to science class with you. We have salamanders, geckos and some other large green lizards with red heads. This seems like an incredibly cruel evolutionary experiment to me given that they repeatedly get eaten while sunning themselves. Regardless, they love the heat that the concrete and brick houses give off in the evenings, so they are everywhere. Unfortunate for me, they always seem to come crawling out of the pit latrine at just the wrong time, and nearly send me careening for the house, paper in hand, clothing not quite fastened, thinking all the while that the man-eating monster I had imagined has actually come to life and intends to devour me with special zeal given that I am, at present, only half clothed. Too much television for this kid I think.
The middle child on our list is the starling. These birds are beautiful shades of blue, black and orange. They are everywhere here, and are totally fearless. They love to drink from our kitchen sink, and they will all but tackle you for table scraps—when most birds flee, starlings seem to sneer. Jennie is concerned that we have started an obesity epidemic and has won their disdain by throwing out fruit peels instead of the French fries they love. They pooped on her clothes—I really can’t say anymore in case they read this.
Now, I wouldn’t say that our house is completely porous. I wouldn’t say that because a large dog couldn’t decide to come in when the doors are closed. But I also wouldn’t say that it’s an impenetrable fortress either. As such, we have embraced living with the mice that made this their residence long before our term as home owners began. If we were talking about cockroaches, well then I would say that we have taken a much more “shock and awe” approach for sure. But we have made our peace with the mice. Our neighbor on the other hand, does not share our love of nature. Solomon swears that the mice antagonize him. And so nightly we are treated to what sounds like a street gang mêlée, and not, one Masai, one broom, and one 2 oz mammal working out their differences. In response, we have set up a small refugee camp that provides old TIME magazines for bedding, and safety from aggressive, broom wielding Masai.
Not to be outdone in the personality category are the frogs. They come in at dusk, by crawling under our back door and through the sink drain pipe, which broadcasts their croaks throughout the house. It’s a bit unnerving the first time, and totally hilarious after that. The problem is that they are always under foot. They seem to wait until you are barefoot and sans flashlight—I think you get the picture.
Our final and most prized housemates are the bats. An enormous colony of them live in the upper half of the structure we call home. Most buildings here are one story, mud or brick constructions, roofed with tin. Our rather posh accommodations (I’m not being facetious) have plywood ceilings that demarcate bat from human quarters. The funny part is that the bats have the tin roof nearest their domicile, which amplifies every squeak, chirp and bat altercation amazingly well. They seem to get really quiet when Jennie puts on the BBC news, so we like to think that they are strong minded and socially conscious critters, that work hard every night to ensure we don’t get malaria. We do have to yell at them occasionally when it turns into an all night, upside down kegger. But you take the good with the bad I suppose—and that’s what we have come to love most about our time here.
Thanks for reading, and many thanks for posting.
This region is known for its amazing array of wild animals. Of course there is the “big five.” What you won't read about in the travel guides however, is the assortment of critters that are here in abundance that are much more a part of the daily experience. Jennie and I like to call these critters our “small seven”—a grouping of equally colorful life forms that not only brighten our days, but inhabit our house.
First on our list is the Dikdik. They don’t live in our house thankfully, but they do like our garden. The Dikdik is a very small and crafty little deer that scurries around in the bush. They have enormous black eyes, at least in relation to their bodies, and they have a black swatch across their face that looks like one of those really small party masks. These little guys made the list because they are cool looking, really fast, and love to nibble on freshly planted crops.
Our next life form inhabits, probably every continent, and scares the bejesus out of Jennie on every one of them. This is of course the spider, of which there are many large and hairy varieties here. Jennie has taken to naming them in an attempt to conquer her fears, but frankly, when push comes to shove, it usually happens in the form of the nearest large object and one really dead arachnid.
Our third buddy hails from the lizard category, though I wouldn’t take that to science class with you. We have salamanders, geckos and some other large green lizards with red heads. This seems like an incredibly cruel evolutionary experiment to me given that they repeatedly get eaten while sunning themselves. Regardless, they love the heat that the concrete and brick houses give off in the evenings, so they are everywhere. Unfortunate for me, they always seem to come crawling out of the pit latrine at just the wrong time, and nearly send me careening for the house, paper in hand, clothing not quite fastened, thinking all the while that the man-eating monster I had imagined has actually come to life and intends to devour me with special zeal given that I am, at present, only half clothed. Too much television for this kid I think.
The middle child on our list is the starling. These birds are beautiful shades of blue, black and orange. They are everywhere here, and are totally fearless. They love to drink from our kitchen sink, and they will all but tackle you for table scraps—when most birds flee, starlings seem to sneer. Jennie is concerned that we have started an obesity epidemic and has won their disdain by throwing out fruit peels instead of the French fries they love. They pooped on her clothes—I really can’t say anymore in case they read this.
Now, I wouldn’t say that our house is completely porous. I wouldn’t say that because a large dog couldn’t decide to come in when the doors are closed. But I also wouldn’t say that it’s an impenetrable fortress either. As such, we have embraced living with the mice that made this their residence long before our term as home owners began. If we were talking about cockroaches, well then I would say that we have taken a much more “shock and awe” approach for sure. But we have made our peace with the mice. Our neighbor on the other hand, does not share our love of nature. Solomon swears that the mice antagonize him. And so nightly we are treated to what sounds like a street gang mêlée, and not, one Masai, one broom, and one 2 oz mammal working out their differences. In response, we have set up a small refugee camp that provides old TIME magazines for bedding, and safety from aggressive, broom wielding Masai.
Not to be outdone in the personality category are the frogs. They come in at dusk, by crawling under our back door and through the sink drain pipe, which broadcasts their croaks throughout the house. It’s a bit unnerving the first time, and totally hilarious after that. The problem is that they are always under foot. They seem to wait until you are barefoot and sans flashlight—I think you get the picture.
Our final and most prized housemates are the bats. An enormous colony of them live in the upper half of the structure we call home. Most buildings here are one story, mud or brick constructions, roofed with tin. Our rather posh accommodations (I’m not being facetious) have plywood ceilings that demarcate bat from human quarters. The funny part is that the bats have the tin roof nearest their domicile, which amplifies every squeak, chirp and bat altercation amazingly well. They seem to get really quiet when Jennie puts on the BBC news, so we like to think that they are strong minded and socially conscious critters, that work hard every night to ensure we don’t get malaria. We do have to yell at them occasionally when it turns into an all night, upside down kegger. But you take the good with the bad I suppose—and that’s what we have come to love most about our time here.
Thanks for reading, and many thanks for posting.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Fear and laughing in Kenya
The house is starting to come together, albeit slowly given that most things must come in on our backs. The situation is such that we have a 2 hour walk of approximately 13 kilometers from our front door to the main road. From there we catch a passing Nissan bus called a matatu another 35km north to the market village of Kajiado. We can get most of our supplies there, food, furniture, tools and electricity. And I can proudly say that Jennie and I recently hand carried 2 large papaya, 3 pineapples, several large bags of random other fruit and veggies, 5 rolls of TP, a large tin of coffee, a gallon of paint, a shovel, several plastic lawn chairs, a pick axe, and at least three diet cokes. It puts a new spin on how quickly you choose to consume things, and it definitely makes recycling and reusing a huge priority.
The paint, as it turned out, was a putrid shade of mint green that must have come to East Africa by way of every other continents distaste. Our 1st clue should have been the price. So we did what any poor volunteer would do; we painted our toilet and bathing rooms with it figuring that we spend the least of our time there. The fact is, we were invested financially, and we lugged the can for hours, so the damn paint was going on a wall.
I do have to say that our new home is a place of contradictions. For all the toil, lack of water, and lack of electricity, we are treated to some ridiculously beautiful landscape. This last particular walk was saved by our first view of Mt Kilimanjaro. We struggled with our load up the final few kilometers, and just as I was about to crab at Jen about something phenomenally trivial, there it was. The snow capped peak had, until now, been hidden from view by a dense cloud cover. I would take a picture, but there would be no justice in it.
Beautiful as the scenery might be, there are also some really infuriating aspects as well. I already mentioned the charming two hour hike in, which gets old after the fifth time you do it carrying copious groceries and a days worth of dust and grime from the road. There is also the ad hoc nature of everything here which is quite baffling to American sensibilities. In the U.S., stuff just works. I cant explain it any better than that. But here, everything needs a little kick, or ingenious tweak to work somewhat properly. And so in this vein we come to probably the most angering and tear-jerkingly hilarious part of Jennie's journey. It's the type of thing that seems trivial, and yet is so uniquely Jennie in fashion.
Well, we all know that Jen is fond of her clothes. And here it seems that clothes take a particular beating. Add to that the strange and breakable (remember I said ad hoc) nature of the door knobs in our house, and you are headed straight for hilarity. Somehow, Jennie managed to break just about every door knob in the house. And by break I mean snap off such that a jagged edge remains upon a turnable and still sort of functioning stump. So after accomplishing the door knob massacre, Jennie repeatedly walked past the aforementioned knobs, resulting in the partial impalement, and subsequent tearing of, the right shoulder of every shred of clothing she owns in Kenya. From my perspective there would be a shriek, followed by cursing and frantic shirt changing.
Anyhow, we have a good chuckle when people ask about her clothing tears and subsequent tailoring with odd colored thread. Ironically, we are quickly adapting to the ad hoc nature of things by being, well, ad hoc ourselves. Take this blog entry for example. Three days ago I put our dead car battery on a truck and sent it to town for charging. The battery left, and with the truck, was arrested and impounded for a few days. When we had word that the truck, and battery had been released, it was finally taken to town for charging. Day three saw the battery return, and charge our computer for about 40 minutes and then die.. so needless to say, we are out of power until next time, much love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie.
The paint, as it turned out, was a putrid shade of mint green that must have come to East Africa by way of every other continents distaste. Our 1st clue should have been the price. So we did what any poor volunteer would do; we painted our toilet and bathing rooms with it figuring that we spend the least of our time there. The fact is, we were invested financially, and we lugged the can for hours, so the damn paint was going on a wall.
I do have to say that our new home is a place of contradictions. For all the toil, lack of water, and lack of electricity, we are treated to some ridiculously beautiful landscape. This last particular walk was saved by our first view of Mt Kilimanjaro. We struggled with our load up the final few kilometers, and just as I was about to crab at Jen about something phenomenally trivial, there it was. The snow capped peak had, until now, been hidden from view by a dense cloud cover. I would take a picture, but there would be no justice in it.
Beautiful as the scenery might be, there are also some really infuriating aspects as well. I already mentioned the charming two hour hike in, which gets old after the fifth time you do it carrying copious groceries and a days worth of dust and grime from the road. There is also the ad hoc nature of everything here which is quite baffling to American sensibilities. In the U.S., stuff just works. I cant explain it any better than that. But here, everything needs a little kick, or ingenious tweak to work somewhat properly. And so in this vein we come to probably the most angering and tear-jerkingly hilarious part of Jennie's journey. It's the type of thing that seems trivial, and yet is so uniquely Jennie in fashion.
Well, we all know that Jen is fond of her clothes. And here it seems that clothes take a particular beating. Add to that the strange and breakable (remember I said ad hoc) nature of the door knobs in our house, and you are headed straight for hilarity. Somehow, Jennie managed to break just about every door knob in the house. And by break I mean snap off such that a jagged edge remains upon a turnable and still sort of functioning stump. So after accomplishing the door knob massacre, Jennie repeatedly walked past the aforementioned knobs, resulting in the partial impalement, and subsequent tearing of, the right shoulder of every shred of clothing she owns in Kenya. From my perspective there would be a shriek, followed by cursing and frantic shirt changing.
Anyhow, we have a good chuckle when people ask about her clothing tears and subsequent tailoring with odd colored thread. Ironically, we are quickly adapting to the ad hoc nature of things by being, well, ad hoc ourselves. Take this blog entry for example. Three days ago I put our dead car battery on a truck and sent it to town for charging. The battery left, and with the truck, was arrested and impounded for a few days. When we had word that the truck, and battery had been released, it was finally taken to town for charging. Day three saw the battery return, and charge our computer for about 40 minutes and then die.. so needless to say, we are out of power until next time, much love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
