A Kiefer in Kenya

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Happy birthday to me...

Oh hai.

I am now 22. Which is terrifying - seeing that I have not been a multiple of 11 in 11 years, weird, right?

Anyway. We are in Mombasa. And it is gorgeous and incredible and life changing and I do not ever want to leave.

But, I return to America on Saturday. This Saturday, the 17th, at 6:30pm. CRAZY.

but here are some of my highlights in no order:

kenyan tea -- SO GOOD. It has whole milk and amazing sugar
The 15 amazing people I have met and loved since being here. Without them, this expereince wouldn't have half of it's meaning
the ladies at Amani ya Juu - they are the strongest and most beautiful people I have ever met
being tan/super blonde thru december (woots!)
the affordable public transportation
the weather - minus the rain, that sucked a lot, however the heat and the sun was nice
the prices of veggies -- 15 tomatoes for 70 cents? hell yes
the amazing people I have met during the walk to class/at rural week/in Rwanda
Rwanda. Life changing, still can't figure out how to talk about it
Frances, my amazing cab driver
Art Cafe - SO GOOD
allllll of the kitties at USIU
the funny things that Munene said
the funny things that the students in my classes said
The music in matatus
not having to show my ID when I buy wine
delicious boxed wine
being in Kenya
Being alive.
Being somewhere new
knowing that everyday was going to be something unforgettable
having someone do my laundry/dishes
THE FLASHLIGHT (torch, if you will) ON MY PHONE! so nifty - and also perfect for annoying people
not showering everyday, because no one showers everyday
malaria nets -- it's like a maze before bed.
having to turn the outlet on - thus having lots of things not charge because i forget
the power going out (sometimes it was fun? yes? maybe?)
Being in Africa
learning something new everyday.
learning Swahili
Being surrounded by beauty
seeing monkey's instead of squirrels (tho i miss squirrels)
This house that I am currently in (Mombasa is bad ass)
coke baridi (cold cokes) in glass bottles. Soda here is SO great
hot dogs and strawberry smoothies for 60 cents at USIU for lunch with Crista
watching movies/TV shows with my t9'ers

MORE TO COME

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

i am thankful for...

Before I went to Rwanda, I had this outlined plan on how I was going to construct a blog post highlighting the things I was thankful for. Surprisingly, this post was far more difficult to write than expected. I had wanted to list all I was thankful for with these articulate explanations to why I felt this way, and what not. What I have found is that perhaps simplicity expresses my thankfulness best.

I am thankful for my parents.

I am thankful for my sisters.

I am thankful the rest of my family, be it Kiefer, Whaley, Cornell or whatever.

I am thankful for my friends.

I am thankful for every opportunity that has come my way.

I am thankful for my life.

Yup. I should thank the gods everywhere that I am who I am. I get to wake up everyday and know that I will have a structure over my head, food in my stomach and medical care.

You know what – everyone who has that, they are the 1%. So, occupy poverty. And occupy injustice.

Kenya has helped me recognize that life’s gifts are to be acknowledged and praised daily. I shouldn’t wait until the third Thursday in November to give thanks.

Anyway. RWANDA WAS WONDERFUL.

I was going to write about Rwanda, however, I have yet to find a method in which to accurately portray what I felt about my trip. I am sure I will get there. I have been writing this post for about three weeks, it has been sitting in limbo in a random Microsoft word document, waiting for completion, perhaps tonight will be the night.

So my roommate is an intern at this really awesome refugee organization which provides a safe haven for Somali refguee girls who are unaccompanied minors who find themselves in Kenya after fleeing the conflict in their country and also girls from the DRC and surrounding East African countries. She speaks in tones of elations as we gossip in our beds, when she describes the glee that the girls bring to her life and how they smile everyday. It is a beautiful thought. These girls, coming together, learning, going to school, generating an income (they make beautiful scarves) and starting a new life?

Right?

Most, if not all, of these girls, have been brutally raped. By their family members, neighbors, or soliders. Or all of the above.

My friend was recently grading a test in which the girls answered questions about gender based violenced. It was a multiple choice question.

Which of the listed are most likely to sexually assault you?

A) stranger

b) family member

she wrote in: c) your cousin

I know I have had really sad posts as of late, but, I think it’s important to highlight the imperfections. I came to Kenya expecting to make some sort of difference. While I still strive to do so, I am recognizing that it is a larger fete than you’d think. You can’t just throw money and ideas at a problem, no matter how much you wish you could. Donations are vital. Playing your part in the global fight against injustice is vital, but what can we really do?

How do we make a difference?

We watch Law and Order: SVU and see men and women fight the injustices that occur against their bodies. That is not a reality here. Rape means dishonor, rape is a way of life. HIV/AIDS is the only reality. Syphilis, gonorrhea and herpes isn’t even one these women’s radar. They raise their children in a world were violence against women is an accepted reality. We live in a reality where violence against women is a reality. Most of these women are under the age of 17. They have one or two children, and they are beautiful mothers. They love their babies and they want a better world for them – but they have their doubts. I have my doubts.

Remember when people were afraid of nuclear bombs? Well, most of the population here is afraid of having their bodies used against them.

I don’t even know. I can’t even explain. The atrocities that mankind can commit against another human being can melt your soul.

I do believe that we can change the world. One hefer project at the time, one UNICEF donation, one humane society donation, anything, really. But when do we become accountable? We need to stop buying things that come from conflict zones. We need to demand that our government stands up for the poverty in the United States along with the rest of the world.

We need better gun laws. While I support the right to bear arms, I do not support the right to execute a child right next to my car while I babysit in Washington, DC and because it is a black child, have nothing happen. I would rather have no guns at all than that happen.

I am sorry that I am ranting. I know a lot of my parents friends read this and I wish I could write happy anecdotes of the funny things that happen to me daily. But, life happens to me. I am so happy I am here.

I am living. I am living life. I am thankful for the opportunity to survive. The opportunity to live my life to my full potential.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

yea.

I was once told, “don’t be the hero, Laura. You don’t need to be the hero.”

And I said to myself, “you know, I am going to be the hero. I am going to make a difference, I am going to be the change.”

Well. Today I had the opportunity to be the change. And I wasn’t.

So, I really wanted a sandwich today. So, after my internship, I ventured into Westlands in search of a wazungu deli to make me a tuna fish sandwich, complete with tomato, lettuce and perhaps even mayo! (nom)

But, during this adventure, I stumbled upon a nightmare.

I noticed these two men following/chasing these two young women with babies on their back. So, I followed them. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I turned the corner, after transitioning my brisk walk into a sprint and saw the men holding the women’s babies, after clearly taking them OFF the women’s backs and demanding money.

What did I do? I stood there. I stood there in my old navy skirt, with my $75 backpack on my back, and I stood there. I had over 30 USD in my wallet. And I just stood there and stared.

You always think you'll step up, do your part. Well. i stood there like an idiot. Watched this injustice and did nothing. go me. I just stood there.

Then they followed me to Sarit Center, and I cried. And cried. And cried. Until this huge eastern European man told me he would make sure whoever made me upset, pay.

You know what.

Sometimes the world is really cruel.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Set out runnin' but I take my time (a friend of the devil is a friend of mine)

Set out runnin' but I take my time, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine,

If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight.

A weekend in hell.

See, originally, a weekend in hell was supposed to be the title of this post, and it was supposed to be a mere pun. However, at times, this past weekend (the 12-13) was hell. In a good way, ish. If hell had a bunch of your friends, scenic view of the African plains (complete with zebras and giraffes) and a relatively decent hamburger, I would abandon my reasonably decent Christian ways and indulge in the vulgarity of the impure life. Who, besides Dante and the Bible, and mythology, says hell has to be bad? It was beautiful. Quite the opposite of what you would think a place called Hell, would portray. The constant beauty in this country has done nothing but astound me. While I recognize that America is a beautiful place too, there is just something about the beauty here that is above the rest. You cannot help but smile every time you look out a window or realize that, "Why yes, I do get to live here, aren't I incredibly lucky?"

Hell’s Gate National Park, that’s my little (wonderful and beautiful) hell on earth. Mind you, I have yet to find my own heaven on earth, unless lying in my cluttered pink bedroom with my overweight black cats counts (so I guess I have found one heaven). Due to recent security restrictions, we are not allowed to travel by public transportation that utilizes the city center as it’s starting point. Though I miss the adrenaline rush that comes with speeding towards oncoming traffic at an accelerated rate and the daily high of risking my own life for the sake of getting from point a, to point b. PLUS, I enjoy the luxury of taking taxis to the majority of my destinations. However, the matatu lifestyle is incredibly exciting. It is one of the best ways to interact with Kenyans and pick up on sheng (slang) kiswahili. Also! If you are lucky, you get to sit with a baby on your lap! And babies here are the cutest.

Frances, our trusty cab driver, is more of a father than a taxi driver. He demands we obey our curfew, provides us with strict, but fair rates, is on time and needs the occasional reminder of what our names are (I mean, when there are x amount of blondes and y amount of brunettes, it is bound to get confusing, however he always remembers Steven, lucky guy). So we took Frances and his chariot of cabs to Naivasha, which if you remember correctly, is where I spent my first few nights in Kenya during orientation.

The trip was far less overwhelming this time around. Perhaps I should take solace in the fact that the I have grown accustom to transportation in Nairobi, or perhaps I should be concerned that I no longer value my life enough to question my own mortality and openly welcome death. That is what driving in Kenya resembles – a highway of lethargic yet courageous operators who assume that the other drivers value their safety less than the next. As someone who drives somewhat (very) recklessly in the states and disobeys a plethora of driving laws, this driving approach is unattractive to me merely because while I am reckless, I am still a self-aware driver. However, I appreciate the integrity of George’s (my adorable grey vibe who I miss horribly) structural make-up or whatever you call the frame of a car, far too much to let a community of reckless drivers fuck it up. That being said, Frances is a good driver.

Thus, we arrived at Fisherman’s camp (our campsite destination). We quickly dropped our bags off in a random tent, claiming our Plymouth, placed strategically far from most of the other campsites yet close enough to the toilets (we go to college, we’re smart). Upon inhaling some homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (peanut tastes funny in Kenya, and the bread kind of sucks, but we survive), we lathered on bug spray and rubbed in the SPF and rented 5 dollar bikes, thus beginning our (first) weekend away. Yay, bikes! Right? Well, kind of. Traveling via bicycle did prove to be an excellent way to see the sights. You could go at your own pace, you got exercise, you looked like a college kid, and you got to ride your bike next to a bunch of zebra’s and giraffes. However, these bikes had no padding on the seats, nor did the gears function properly. After about 10 kilometers, most of us couldn’t stand the pain (in our bottom sides) anymore, and were thankful that there was an opportunity to go on a hike of a gorge.

And it was a gorgeous gorge (see what I did there?) We got to climb up and over some rocks, see where Angelina Jolie climbed up a rock while filming one of the Tomb Raider films and saw some incredible views. Oh! I forgot to mention, Hell’s Gate was where the creators of The Lion King spent 2 weeks to obtain inspiration for the characters that continued Disney’s legacy. So, naturally, every time we passed a large rock formation, I would ask if it was the Pride Rock. I am lucky people in my group like me so much, years of my mother just appeasing my annoying tendencies has made it harder for me to control them. So, yay Lion King fun fact! It was apparent that they were able to convey the beauty of the park in the film - you couldn't help but sing Circle of Life, not a bad existence. Not a bad existence at all.

Anyway, following the tour, our butts still hurt, so we walked our bikes much of the way. I eventually decided to climb back on, offering myself a pep talk the entire time:

“Laura, you only have to make it to that zebra, then you can stand up and wait for the others. Okay, now that zebra. You’ve got this! Just remove yourself from the unbearable bum pain you are currently experiencing and look at all of the beauty around you! WATCH OUT FOR THAT ROCK!”

You had to be very conscious of the gravel path we were biking on, so, unfortunately, you had to look down, more than up (it’s not like they provided us with helmets.)

BUT! I made it. We all made it, by the grace of God (or perhaps because the devil just didn’t want us to stay in hell…Again, not that a lifetime there would be a bad thing at all. There are worst things than being surrounded by constant beauty and inspiring wildlife.

Set out runnin' but I take my time,

A friend of the devil is a friend of mine,

If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight.

And sleep we did. Fisherman’s camp is QUITE the party spot. It kind of resembles Kepners, actually. A bunch of white, young people, drinking a lot, pretending to dance, and then walking to the respective sleeping arrangements (no parent/older/younger sibling pick-up). Oh Keps. But, it was quite the scene. One of the restrictions currently placed on us in Nairobi prohibits us from going to bars or clubs, so you would think we would be craving some nighttime debauchery.

Yea, not so much, we went to bed at 8:30. We all had a giant sleep over in a 10 person tent. It was adorable.

Enter day 2.

Mt. Longonot! But, more importantly, Kara’s birthday. See, my friend Kara turned 21 last Sunday, we had originally planned on going white water rafting on the Nile, but the big-wigs at AU Abroad hate fun (kidding [kind of]), so we had to make her the birthday the best we could in Kenya (not really hard to do when you are in a beautiful country). So, we wore some party hats, ate some cookies and sang to her before embarking on our crater climb!

Mt. Longonot is one of the 30 active volcanoes left in Kenya! And according to local legend, it last erupted in 1860! But that is only a local legend, from the 1860’s. Kind of like the legend of the American Civil War. So we began to climb! And it was beautiful, and fun, and we all laughed.

And then I couldn’t breath. And then we climbed some more. And then I could breath even less. Eventually, it was just my friend Crista and I – and we stopped once we reached the first peak. I kind of blacked out. I think I have determined that I need to get my asthma checked out when I return to the states. The mixture of the inimical air quality in Nairobi, the altitude, the sudden incline of the climb and my family susceptibility to asthma acted as quite the catalyst for my respiratory demise.

Oh well. Despite my inability to make it to 2nd peak, the view was not any less incredible. It was like looking out and seeing the entire universe in front of you. You can see how it is the cradle of humanity. There are rolling hills and mountains neatly organized around valleys and canyons. It is so peaceful. You don't even need to speak, it is almost like you don't need to breath. You just sit there and ponder your own existence and realize how fortunate you are to be sitting on that dusty rock, and seeing nothing like you've ever seen before.

After about 2 hours of chatting, meeting new people, eating sandwiches and enjoying ourselves, Crista and I made our way down the mountain. It was 300 times easier, we even ran at points. We were a wonderful little welcome party or our exhausted friends who had made it to the top and enjoyed the beautiful views from the tops. While I would have liked to have made it to the top, I was not willing to kill myself in the process. Despite my bodies protest, I was still able to observe something beautiful. Sitting on that peak for 2 hours, I got to enjoy two hours of beauty.

That is what this country provides. A never ending supply of breathtaking views and life-altering experiences. Yes, we are bored a lot, and as I write this post, I am fighting a dying computer battery because our power has been out for 3 hours. But while that is annoying, I get also get to sit around and talk for the first time in years. No one is checking their smart phones (bc those don't exist for us), no one is running to a meeting or an event. At night, we only have each other. And though we have to cancel skype dates and delay our anticipated school work schedule, we get to know each other. I only have 4 months with these 15 classmates, but it's amazing how well I know them, and how much I care about them. It's wonderful. We get excited about our futures, yet take solace in the fact that we are kind of afraid to grow up. But who isn't. I still want to be a cat when I grow up.

Or change the world.

There are times when you get hit upon

Try hard but you cannot give

Other times you'd gladly part

With what you need to live

Don't waste the breath to save your face

When you have done your best

And even more is asked of you

Let fate decide the rest.

I’ll be home in less than a month. I leave for Rwanda in 4 days. I cannot begin to process how I feel about any of this. While I cannot explicitly explain what I have learned, I know I have changed. Kenya has changed me. My walk to school changed me the first day. I don’t want this transformation to end.

“We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”

― E.E. Cummings

(thanks Afrika)

I forgot my camera...so these are all borrowed photos, thanks friends!

Happy birthday Kara!

looking over the view from Mt. Longonot's first peak
(renamed the Laura and Crista peak, photo thanks to Crista!)

Laura in a tent!

Oh hai Rift Valley

Hell's Gates (Photo: Lexi)

Gorge tour! (Photo:Lexi)

Oh hello friends (photo:lexi)

View from hell [i think that's what the rock was called]
(photo: lexi's self timer)

photo: lexi (isn't she super talented? She works with my roommate Ashley at Heshima Kenya)

Kara and I (photo: Crista)

Looking at my cousins, the giraffes (photo: crista)

pondering my existence (but really)
(photo by crista)

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

I bless the rains down in africaaaaaaaa

So, I think that this post portrays my experience in rural kenya far better than the previous one. It was difficult to convey the variety of emotions that were felt throughout the adventure, but I think this does a relatively good job.

Enjoy.

“Go, tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere; go, tell it on the mountain, that Jesus Christ is born.”

A camera captures a hazy image. As the blurred image becomes clearer, you notice that amidst the sleet, rain and dark fog, a lush, green mountain is ensconced in the shadows of the tempestuous night sky. Quickly, the camera focuses in on a pack of five, traveling up a dampened path, their shoes muddied and their bodies drenched. Of the five, one in particular stands out. Her flaxen hair is messily arranged on the top of her head and her ashen complexion, ripe with the evidence of rosy exhaust on her cheeks, is speckled with wet earth. The mzungu, a word meant to identify white people, but when is literally translated in Kiswahili means, “someone who roams around aimlessly,” was doing just that, in the name of Jesus Christ. And that mzungu was me.

During my four-month stay in Kenya with American University’s abroad program, myself and fifteen other students traveled five hours from our residence in the country’s capitol, Nairobi, to tropical Western Kenya. The purpose: a homestay in rural Kenya. I was placed with Ebby, a jovial woman with faith so enthusiastic that made Pat Robertson and the rest of the 700 Club’s entourage look like heathens, instead of evangelists. As I am a practicing Christian myself, Lutheran to be specific, I figured that I would be able to relate to this woman, at least somewhat, because of our shared faith. I have a decent grasp on the Bible. When I am home we pray before dinner and go to church on Sundays. Well, as it turns out, we were not quite as similar as I had (naïvely) expected (hence the climbing of the mountain). But I will get to that in a little bit.

Everyday before dawn, Ebby awoke and began a three-hour marathon of passionate, animated and loud prayers. The first morning I awoke in a panic. I thought Ebby was having an argument with some unidentifiable person or that she was crying out for help. Grabbing my glasses and flash light, I began untangling myself from my mosquito net, preparing myself to rush to Ebby’s rescue. However, I managed to tangle myself in my mosquito net even more. I began to listen more closely, my modest understanding of Kiswahili allowed me to deduce that the frequency of the words baba (meaning father), Jehovah (meaning Jehovah [this one was not as hard to translate]), mzuri (meaning good) and amani (meaning peace), that Ebby was praying.

I settled back into my bed and continued to listen, drawn in by the intensity in her voice. She was no longer speaking in her sweet, melodious tone, but instead, the house vibrated as she produced deep, guttural sounds. I silently marveled at her dedication to God. I have often struggled with my faith, combating the modern relevance of specific ideals and morals a decade of Sunday school had attempted to engrain in me. There, in Ebby’s four-room, clay hut, she was not struggling with the Bible’s view of modern, social issues, like pre-martial sex, abortion or gay rights. She was not damning non-believers to a life in Hell or cursing her hardships. Instead, she was thanking him for the gifts he had bestowed upon her and for the beauty of the world around her. The absence of anger and prominence of praise was astounding and inspiring. Even at the break of dawn. She was not going to whisper her prayers merely because she had a stranger in her home.

During the majority of my stay in Western Kenya, it rained. Now, I am not talking about April showers that bring May flower’s or a warm afternoon drizzle. No, I am talking about the rain that Forest Gump explained during the characters fictitious tour in Vietnam in Forest Gump. I am talking about the kind of rain that the band “Toto” is blessing in the chorus of their 1982 hit, Africa. It was the kind of rain that you could smell coming. Rain that turned the sky colors that you began to think, "you know what, maybe Harold Camping was on to something when he said that the world is ending." That kind of rain The first full day, the rainstorms deterred Ebby from the embarking on the long walk to her churches nightly bible study. I was relieved. Though I was growing accustom to her religious activities, I had doubt in my ability to fake a polite disposition to an entire congregation during an hour-long bible study. So, when we were met with rain the next night, I was again thrilled at the sound of the drops hitting the tin roof. The echoes of those drops were a false sense of security. Skipping one day was one thing, in Ebby’s eyes. But missing two? Well that was out of the question.

Thus began our hour-long trek that acted as an introduction to this article. I was livid, absolutely livid. My black sweatshirt was drenched, my glasses were becoming opaque as the heat from my skin clashed with the cold air, one of the four shirts I brought for this week of adventures was clinging to my moist skin and one of my two skirts was becoming translucent as I dragged my mud-caked Nike sneakers up the mountain. I muttered under my breath, “I’m not even allowed to go outside at this time in Nairobi,” and continued to feel sorry for myself the rest of the trip. Upon reaching the church, which was beautifully situated among the trees, now that I look back, I passive-aggressively smiled and greeted the others and inelegantly sat on the couch. The supercilious Pastor who greeted me as Lola the Quaker, after misunderstanding when I explained that I was actually Laura, the Lutheran did not remedy my mood. Despite my contempt for the entire situation, I participated in the bible study as Lola the Quaker, regardless of my differing interpretations of what the Pastor was saying. I complimented the porridge and enthusiastically snapped photos of those who were in attendance. By the end, my smile was less forced and I think I even smiled when a little girl asked if she could touch my hair. However, I was determined to be in a bad mood, so I ignored the joy I was beginning to feel, merely to spite myself.

As we began the unavoidable hike back to the village, I let out a relatively loud huff, a huff that I had not intended to be audible. Ebby quickly turned and asked if I was okay and if I was happy. My inner dialogue was screaming, “well, I am soaking wet and my teeth will not stop chattering. I am hungry. I am exhausted. I do not like all of these strange noises I am hearing in the dark. I cannot see a damn thing and I am not sure if I have enough dry clothes to wear tomorrow. Pooooooooor me.” “Oh Ebby, I am wonderful. Thank you so much for taking me to meet your friends,” I replied. Her smile was radiant, metaphorically brightening the darkness the surrounded us in the dense woods around our waterlogged path.

My verbal response and Ebby’s reaction acted as a solvent and dissolved the ungrateful, churlish thoughts that had flashed across my mind moments before. She had shared her culture with me, and I had internally complained about it. If she allowed every rainstorm to prevent her from embarking on her journey up the mountain, she would have to live the majority of her life on hold. She explained to me that she had been telling her congregation about my upcoming arrival for week and how excited they all had been to share the word of God with me.

My heart and head were screaming, “YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON FOR BEING SO SELFISH! You didn’t even finish the porridge in a sign of respect! You should be so ashamed!” I was so ashamed. Growing up in such a homogeneous town, I yearned for exceptional experiences; I wanted to do everything that no one else had done. Had I really become so sophomoric in what activities I was willing and unwilling to partake in that I had pouted when I had to take one single walk in the rain? By now I recognize that I am not going to melt. Hell, the Wicked Witch in the classic film (and novel) The Wizard of Oz technically does not even melt if you subscribe to Gregory Maguire's modern interpretation of the tale in his book, Wicked. I had failed to embrace everything Ebby and Kenya had already taught me. It cannot be about what you do not have and what you want, but instead, about what you do have and who you are with. I forgot to look at the beauty of it all. I had closed my mind before considering that I could enjoy this little mountain adventure. How many other people can say that they climbed a mountain during a beautiful but violent act of Mother Nature, adopted an alternate identity, explored religion while struggling with language and cultural barriers and did this in Kenya, at the age of 21.

Perhaps not all mzungu’s are meant to get wet, muddy, a little frightened and thrust out of their comfort zone. However, in the case of Lola the Quaker, the pious hike in the dark is just the beginning of her adventures.

RAINNNNN

Thursday, November 3, 2011

The Adventures of Lola the Quaker

Always an adventure. Always. An. Adventure.

I wish I possessed the capacity to convey everything I witnessed and everything I learned during my week long excursion, but I am sure the lessons I have learned will be conveyed in later posts.

Last week was rural week – meaning, we are assigned a host family in rural, western Kenya and we stayed with them for three days.

Our journey began at 4:30 in the morning when we loaded into taxis and began our trek to the Muchakos bus station. As I am sure many of you know, there were two grenade attacks last week – one of which was at a matatu stop (not a full on bus station), so we had extra security – one guard punched a man for trying to talk to Crista! We followed our fearless leader, Victor, through the maze of buses (we resembled 20+ year old baby ducks). Then began our 5+ hour bus ride.

It was hot, we got sweaty, we sort of slept and we were hungry (such is life). Katie, Steven and I thought it would be a good idea to shove the three tallest people in a row of seats, twas a tight fit. But, we survived (as always) and eventually alighted (got off the bus) and made our way to our villages.

You never come empty handed in Kenya. For our host families, we brought sugar, ugali, soap, a giant bowl, chapati flour, rice and a chicken – kuku, if you will. And we had to carry the chicken – our host families enjoyed watching us awkwardly clutch the chickens that we were presenting to them.

I stayed with Ebby, a mother of 6 and a guardian of 2 of her brothers children. She greeted me with hugs and kisses and praises – it was overwhelming, but I could tell that I was going to enjoy my time with her and her family. Most of her children were staying in town so I had a place to sleep, she has 5 daughters and a son. I meet most of them. The oldest was Sofia and she was 23 with a 2 year old son, Isaiah. She had daughters Timoni and Magazine (yes, magazine), the other two I did not meet, and a son, Felix. Her brothers children were named Elvis and Evon and they were 4.

As we wandered down a winding valley to her home – I was taken aback by the beauty of the small village. It was neatly tucked into a valley with a stream running through. Cows, chickens and goats supplied a chorus as we passed by each clay and mud home and neighbors would yell out “Mazungu!” (white person) and would run to greet me with long introductions.

Thank god I brough some pin pops (lolli pops) with me. A sea of 15 or so children demanded “sweets” as soon as I put my bags down, and they were relentless.

In Kenya, you always treat your guest to the largest quantity of food, even if their guest is a white girl who has never gone hungry in her life. Throughout the week, I found myself sneaking Evon and Elvis pieces of banana, pieces of chicken and avocado – I could always feel them watching me while I ate. I didn’t need the food like they did – yet there I was, trying to finish the majority of it so I did not disrespect Ebby.

Every day was Mazungu! Mazungu! How are you! How are you! Mazungu. And though my patience level was exceptional (shocking, I know), I found my frustration growing with the constant demand for acknowledgment by children, yet when I would try to speak with them, they merely erupted into giggles or asked me for things.

a-ha – life lessons and cultural differences. The core purpose of this rural excursion. For me, the hardest part was not the absence of electricity or the day labor that included milking cows, doing dishes and hanging up laundry. The hardest part wasn’t having to use a squat toilet (and I wasn’t allowed to use the toilet past 6:30 at night, we all began to ration our liquids quickly). It was the constant requests for gifts and money, because how do you say no to people who don’t have anything while I am sitting on a rock, petting a cow and reading my kindle?

I found myself asking, what is poverty? Ebby and the people in her village subsist on an incredibly sustainable method of living. They grow and/or raise what they eat, the don’t have water/electricity bills to pay, they can sell what they do not grow and then use those earnings to purchase what they cannot produce themselves. However, because of rampant unemployment – it has become impossible to survive solely by these methods. Ebby told me about her neighbor, who I met on a number of occasions as she did Ebby’s laundry and dishes, that this woman had lost two children in the last month to disease (most likely stemming from dehydration and diarrhea as a result of malnourishment). Both she and her husband were unemployed and it was not yet time to harvest their crops. They still had five mouths to feed and they were starving. Despite the absence of income for Ebby, she still employed her neighbor to do some tasks around her home and would pay her in flour and ugali.

These people have next to nothing – yet they take better care of their neighbors than most of us do.

The presence of religion is astounding. I quickly became Lola (bc laura is hard to say) the Quaker – because Lutheran sounds like new friends. I just went with it.

At one point, I climbed a mountain, in the rain to praise the Lord. It was cold and dark and muddy.

It rained the majority of the time – so being constantly wet and incredibly muddy was an adventure and often uncomfortable.

We eventually traveled to Kisumu, upon the conclusion of our homestay and toured Lake Victoria and sampled some local fish.

Then came the train ride from hell.

For some reason, our program director decided that it would be fun to take a 12-hour train ride, over night, from Kisumu to Nairobi. Since it was over night, we’d sleep most of the time anyway, right? Wrong.

The engine ended up being broken, so upon boarding our sleeper cars, we were told that we would have to wait roughly 6 hours for a new engine to arrive from Nakuru. This was around 7pm. When I woke up at 7am, we were pulling out of the station. The situation began to quickly resemble Sartre’s No Exit and Lord of the Flies. It was hot, it was cold, there was little food, we were running low on toilet paper, we were dirty, we were thirsty, we were getting motion sickness, we were cranky etc. etc.

All in all – we arrived in Nairobi at 11pm. A roughly 28 hour train ride.

It stopped being an adventure 15 hours in.

Yet, I survived. This is what I signed up for.