Oh, Kenya, yay. I breathe a sigh of contentment and relief as we land, yet dreading the waiting time it will take to get through customs and to my dad and Aidan. Fortunately, I've forgotten that, flying business class, I'm one of the first ones off the plane, and therefore, one of the first to the passport and visa booths. My luggage, serendipitously, also happens to be one of the first on the carousel, so I'm through customs in no time.
I go through to the waiting area, and there they are. My brother is the best thing I've seen in I don't know how long, but he's so excited I can only hug him briefly before he giggles and pulls away. We're a sight, he and I…shyly glancing at each other, and grinning wide. I stick my tongue out and poke him in the ribs, and he ducks his head, does a little hop, and laughs a little boy laugh that warms my heart. I'm talking to Dad and feel a little hand take a hold of mine. I squeeze, and he squeezes back and giggles again. Dad says that, after watching all these black women walking into the arrival area before me, Aidan asked if I was white. Hilarious, but also an indication of his mental state.
Aidan was born premature, like me, and only one ounce heavier than I was, at 4 lbs, 2 ounces. Like me, he was born with a severely lazy left eye. Like me, there was speculation that he would also be born with some disabilities. My original diagnosis of hydrocephalus and potential retardation was retracted by doctors, though the former was actually correct, and rediscovered at 25. Unlike me, however, there is some truth to the assessment that Aidan's mental and physical development would be stunted. He has been diagnosed with an extremely rare genetic disorder called Dubowitz Syndrome. There are only two hundred cases worldwide, and the symptoms and side effects are so numerous that they're overwhelming. According to doctors, he seems to be on the milder end of the scale, and before coming to Kenya, I was under the impression that at seven, mentally, he's closer to five or six. In reality, he's more like three or four. He doesn't quite understand what a sister means, other than that I'm family, and as a result, I could be blue for all he knows. He tells Dad later that he's glad I'm white like him.
Aidan's still using a car seat, both for safety, but also because he's small for his age, and can't see as much through the car window otherwise. Halfway through the trip home, I lay my head on Aidan's shoulder and put my hand on his knee. He puts one hand over mine, and with the other, he strokes my cheek. He's such a Cancer. This is more and more evident as the trip goes on. He starts talking a little here and there, and it takes me a minute to understand him; I forgot he sounds just like a little Kenyan. He hands me his water bottle and asks me to drive with him, says the bottle is my gear shift. We 'brrrr' and 'putputbrrrr' for the rest of the ride home.
First thing he says when we get my luggage into the house is "What you got faw me?" This reminds me of the numerous trips my parents would return from, and while I was happy to see them come home, it was always torture waiting for them to pull out whatever gifts they'd gotten me on their travels. I take great pleasure in pulling out toys, clothes, and movies for Aidan. Like a typical youngster, he tries on a couple of things, plays a bit, and quickly bores of everything. But that's okay; it's bedtime anyway. Dad has a song that he used to sing to me when I was little, and it is now the only song he sings to Aidan to put him to sleep. I still remember it, so we sit in Aidan's room and sing it to him together. Aidan and I hold hands the whole time. After a while, I stop singing, because my contribution is keeping him distracted and awake, and shortly thereafter, he falls asleep. He has a cold, so he snores. It's so damn cute I can barely contain myself. I go to bed a very happy woman.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
This country, my home.
There's something about the smell of Kenya – dusty, woodsy from the piles of leaves and shrubbery clippings people burn on the side of the road, an ever-present undercurrent of heavy vehicle emissions – that I just love. Even the occasional whiff of raw sewage, unpleasant though it may be, brings so many memories to mind. I roll the window down further to take it all in, and Dad asks me to roll it back up some, and also asks me to make sure my door is locked. He then tells me the story of a Kenyan friend of his, a regional director for CARE, who was recently driving home from evening church and bible study with his wife. They were in a convoy of other churchgoers for safety purposes, but somehow, managed to get carjacked. Even though he gave the men all of their valuables and car, he was shot in the chest, and died on arrival to the hospital. He left his wife and three daughters behind. That same day, four white women, driving to Nairobi from Mombasa, were stopped and robbed, and two of them were shot and killed in broad daylight before they even exited the car. Two days later, a prominent scientist and his son were carjacked, and because the scientist didn't exit the car fast enough due to a physical disability, he was also shot and killed. This is the first indication that I am in a Kenya that I no longer know.
When I first moved here in '86, the main crime that happened was petty street theft – pickpocketing, purse-stealing and the like – home robberies (almost always when the homeowners weren't present), and carjackings, in which the only thing anyone lost was their car and any valuables they had on their person. Even if they gave the robbers a hard time in the latter instance, a black eye or occasional broken bone was the worst injury they might have sustained. Hell, my first year and a half, at the age of ten, I lived in a major slum smack in the middle of some of the worst poverty of Nairobi, and still walked to and from school with no incident. Only once was I harassed by someone in the area who didn't know who we were, and immediately, a few members of the community stepped forward to protect me and inform the offender that I lived there and was not to be messed with.
In today's Kenya, even under a president who's an angel compared to the dictator that preceded him, the poverty level grows, and with it, the crime. Whole matatus (Kenyan buses) are now held up and jacked, and gods forbid anyone recognizes, or is recognized by, one of the robbers; that's pretty much a death warrant. Another friend of my dad's was recently on a bus that was held up by a man he knew, a man whose duka (a street kiosk selling milk, bread, cigarettes, general necessities) had recently been knocked down by the government. Forced into immediate poverty with children to feed, he turned to stealing, and by some miracle, didn't recognize my dad's friend, who surely would've been killed otherwise.
In yesterday's Kenya, a mzungu (white person) was rarely killed, often because they were either likely to be missionaries and it would have been an ultimate sin for even the lowliest robber to kill a messenger of God (so to speak), aid workers there to improve the quality of life and therefore good, or expats with the Embassy, in which hell would have been raised. In today's Kenya, we stand out because people assume we're rich. They aren't aware aid workers earn tiny stipends. White people represent money; the Brits were rich, so must we be. We are more of a target, which increases the likelihood we'll be killed, or at the very least, raped. To be clear, this is not to say it's any less common here than it would be in the States. If we are raped, our chances of contracting HIV are high. But being a black Kenyan makes no difference either. Crime here no longer distinguishes between color or status, and it doesn't creep around at night when the likelihood of getting caught is lower. Any time, any day, any place, anyone is a potential victim.
This is partly the result of Kenya growing richer. There are signs of Westernization creeping in; fancier malls and shopping centers, American and English brand names, more than two choices of anything at the grocery store, higher numbers of SUVs, BMWs, and Mercedes, cyber cafes and wireless internet, fast food restaurant chains hailing from South Africa – some of which carry the funniest names, most notably the Creamy Inn. Photos to follow. This is a mixed blessing for the Kenyans; they are starting to feel more connected to the world, more modern. Gradually, healthcare and technology is improving, and especially with Internet access, even those closer to the poorer side are able to network and create a space for themselves that previously didn't exist. The women are developing voices for themselves they were previously unable/afraid to use, and the people themselves are starting to voice their opinions about the way things are going, something that was potentially punishable by death under the previous leader, depending on who you were. Some of these, in my opinion, are absolutely necessary to the growth of a nation.
However, some of the uglier sides of Westernization are beginning to rear their heads. Tribalism, always an issue, is now worsened by the formation of gangs of young men who believe that their decision to segregate themselves is safer than their choice to unite. At the same time, large numbers of young Kenyans are throwing the baby out with the bathwater in lieu of being modern, and are completely abandoning their tribal traditions, so finally, it is less the values the gangs to defend, rather than simply the tribal name. These same young men aren't listening to the philosophical and loving message of real hiphop; they are embracing the disrespect of culture, women and themselves that ghetto rap espouses. Both men and women are dismissing their own fellow Kenyans as potential mates, mistakenly believing that Americans, Brits, or Europeans are somehow better. People are spending money they simply don't have on Western baubles and passing fashions, most of which are exorbitantly expensive because they are imported. And as it has always been, even in the Kenya of yesterday, corruption grows, and with it, the rich become richer, and the poor more desperate.
This living, breathing contradiction in society is one I struggle with on a deep level. As one born an American and acutely aware of both the great Western benefits and severe limitations, yet as one who will always consider herself a Kenyan by basic virtue of living as one in the slums of Nairobi, I am torn. I cannot deny that Kenya and its people need to feel they make some sort of difference, and this is why I admire that many among its younger generations (beginning with my own – the first generation to be raised in an independent Kenya) are eager to educate themselves in England or America, where they can bring much needed and far more precise skills home. I cannot be anything but happy that, as a result of the bad that is going on, more and more Kenyans are focusing their vocations in the realms of health, housing, HIV/AIDS, politics, international relations, and childcare. I cannot dismiss that young gang members see their own struggles in the American inner city music they listen to, and this is why they identify with it. I cannot pretend that a nation trying to make a place for itself in the world isn't inevitably going to fall prey to its flashy promise, and to some extent, begin to view its own culture as inferior.
But what I LOVE about the Kenya of my day was its simplicity, its ability to thrive and find happiness in the most adverse conditions, its faith in family, friendship, and God to sustain. I love the barter and trade that kept its street business thriving, and the hard work that went into handmade souvenirs, sculptures, and art. I love the easy laughter, and the acceptance that will prompt a Kenyan to readily adopt you as one. I love the children, with their bright smiles and beautiful brown eyes, and how, after sharing a few kind words and silly gestures, they are likely to slide up next to you and take your hand in a gesture of trust that takes your heart hostage and melts it on the spot. I love the occasional Maasai walking through town with a couple of cows in tow. In recent years, this was more common, and unfortunately so, because it meant the cattle were starving due to the drought, and the city was the only place they could find food. Fortunately, on this visit, the second long rainy season of El Nino is arriving, and the place is far more lush and green than it was when I was last here. When the rains hit, droves of flying termites (I don't know if they're actually termites or not, but that's what my dad calls them, but they're huge and bothersome, and that's all I know) will come out, and if you're around certain of the Kenyans, it's likely you'll see them catch some, and fry em up in a pan and make a snack of them. What can ya say, they're protein. ;)
I also love the courtesy and hospitality of the people here. These are major values, and you see them everywhere. On most signs posted around announcing various things, the heading is likely to begin with "Polite Notice: Please do or don't do this….". In a Kenyan home, it's extremely rare that you do not immediately remove your shoes when you enter, a custom I intend to reinstate in my own home at some point after my return. After arriving there, you will be fed bread, butter, jam and chai. When dinner rolls around, it will be at LEAST a three course meal, and they WILL make you eat more after you announce how full you are, and I don't care how full you are, you WILL eat more.
At a coffeehouse recently, I was sitting outside when it began pouring. Though the umbrella covering us was more than large enough to keep us dry, our absolutely adorable waiter came out with an umbrella and offered to escort us inside. I hope this kind of humanity and general courtesy never die, and it always reminds me of how much more I could be doing to pay it forward. I love this fucking country. Hell, I even love the bigass potholes in the roads, the gnarly traffic and maniacal driving stunts, and the red dirt that settles in your clothes and just DARES you to try and wash it out. I love the sunburn you get cuz you forgot that, even on cloudy days, you're over a mile above sea level and WILL get roasted. I forget that one every time. I look like a freakin tomato.
This place kicks ass.
When I first moved here in '86, the main crime that happened was petty street theft – pickpocketing, purse-stealing and the like – home robberies (almost always when the homeowners weren't present), and carjackings, in which the only thing anyone lost was their car and any valuables they had on their person. Even if they gave the robbers a hard time in the latter instance, a black eye or occasional broken bone was the worst injury they might have sustained. Hell, my first year and a half, at the age of ten, I lived in a major slum smack in the middle of some of the worst poverty of Nairobi, and still walked to and from school with no incident. Only once was I harassed by someone in the area who didn't know who we were, and immediately, a few members of the community stepped forward to protect me and inform the offender that I lived there and was not to be messed with.
In today's Kenya, even under a president who's an angel compared to the dictator that preceded him, the poverty level grows, and with it, the crime. Whole matatus (Kenyan buses) are now held up and jacked, and gods forbid anyone recognizes, or is recognized by, one of the robbers; that's pretty much a death warrant. Another friend of my dad's was recently on a bus that was held up by a man he knew, a man whose duka (a street kiosk selling milk, bread, cigarettes, general necessities) had recently been knocked down by the government. Forced into immediate poverty with children to feed, he turned to stealing, and by some miracle, didn't recognize my dad's friend, who surely would've been killed otherwise.
In yesterday's Kenya, a mzungu (white person) was rarely killed, often because they were either likely to be missionaries and it would have been an ultimate sin for even the lowliest robber to kill a messenger of God (so to speak), aid workers there to improve the quality of life and therefore good, or expats with the Embassy, in which hell would have been raised. In today's Kenya, we stand out because people assume we're rich. They aren't aware aid workers earn tiny stipends. White people represent money; the Brits were rich, so must we be. We are more of a target, which increases the likelihood we'll be killed, or at the very least, raped. To be clear, this is not to say it's any less common here than it would be in the States. If we are raped, our chances of contracting HIV are high. But being a black Kenyan makes no difference either. Crime here no longer distinguishes between color or status, and it doesn't creep around at night when the likelihood of getting caught is lower. Any time, any day, any place, anyone is a potential victim.
This is partly the result of Kenya growing richer. There are signs of Westernization creeping in; fancier malls and shopping centers, American and English brand names, more than two choices of anything at the grocery store, higher numbers of SUVs, BMWs, and Mercedes, cyber cafes and wireless internet, fast food restaurant chains hailing from South Africa – some of which carry the funniest names, most notably the Creamy Inn. Photos to follow. This is a mixed blessing for the Kenyans; they are starting to feel more connected to the world, more modern. Gradually, healthcare and technology is improving, and especially with Internet access, even those closer to the poorer side are able to network and create a space for themselves that previously didn't exist. The women are developing voices for themselves they were previously unable/afraid to use, and the people themselves are starting to voice their opinions about the way things are going, something that was potentially punishable by death under the previous leader, depending on who you were. Some of these, in my opinion, are absolutely necessary to the growth of a nation.
However, some of the uglier sides of Westernization are beginning to rear their heads. Tribalism, always an issue, is now worsened by the formation of gangs of young men who believe that their decision to segregate themselves is safer than their choice to unite. At the same time, large numbers of young Kenyans are throwing the baby out with the bathwater in lieu of being modern, and are completely abandoning their tribal traditions, so finally, it is less the values the gangs to defend, rather than simply the tribal name. These same young men aren't listening to the philosophical and loving message of real hiphop; they are embracing the disrespect of culture, women and themselves that ghetto rap espouses. Both men and women are dismissing their own fellow Kenyans as potential mates, mistakenly believing that Americans, Brits, or Europeans are somehow better. People are spending money they simply don't have on Western baubles and passing fashions, most of which are exorbitantly expensive because they are imported. And as it has always been, even in the Kenya of yesterday, corruption grows, and with it, the rich become richer, and the poor more desperate.
This living, breathing contradiction in society is one I struggle with on a deep level. As one born an American and acutely aware of both the great Western benefits and severe limitations, yet as one who will always consider herself a Kenyan by basic virtue of living as one in the slums of Nairobi, I am torn. I cannot deny that Kenya and its people need to feel they make some sort of difference, and this is why I admire that many among its younger generations (beginning with my own – the first generation to be raised in an independent Kenya) are eager to educate themselves in England or America, where they can bring much needed and far more precise skills home. I cannot be anything but happy that, as a result of the bad that is going on, more and more Kenyans are focusing their vocations in the realms of health, housing, HIV/AIDS, politics, international relations, and childcare. I cannot dismiss that young gang members see their own struggles in the American inner city music they listen to, and this is why they identify with it. I cannot pretend that a nation trying to make a place for itself in the world isn't inevitably going to fall prey to its flashy promise, and to some extent, begin to view its own culture as inferior.
But what I LOVE about the Kenya of my day was its simplicity, its ability to thrive and find happiness in the most adverse conditions, its faith in family, friendship, and God to sustain. I love the barter and trade that kept its street business thriving, and the hard work that went into handmade souvenirs, sculptures, and art. I love the easy laughter, and the acceptance that will prompt a Kenyan to readily adopt you as one. I love the children, with their bright smiles and beautiful brown eyes, and how, after sharing a few kind words and silly gestures, they are likely to slide up next to you and take your hand in a gesture of trust that takes your heart hostage and melts it on the spot. I love the occasional Maasai walking through town with a couple of cows in tow. In recent years, this was more common, and unfortunately so, because it meant the cattle were starving due to the drought, and the city was the only place they could find food. Fortunately, on this visit, the second long rainy season of El Nino is arriving, and the place is far more lush and green than it was when I was last here. When the rains hit, droves of flying termites (I don't know if they're actually termites or not, but that's what my dad calls them, but they're huge and bothersome, and that's all I know) will come out, and if you're around certain of the Kenyans, it's likely you'll see them catch some, and fry em up in a pan and make a snack of them. What can ya say, they're protein. ;)
I also love the courtesy and hospitality of the people here. These are major values, and you see them everywhere. On most signs posted around announcing various things, the heading is likely to begin with "Polite Notice: Please do or don't do this….". In a Kenyan home, it's extremely rare that you do not immediately remove your shoes when you enter, a custom I intend to reinstate in my own home at some point after my return. After arriving there, you will be fed bread, butter, jam and chai. When dinner rolls around, it will be at LEAST a three course meal, and they WILL make you eat more after you announce how full you are, and I don't care how full you are, you WILL eat more.
At a coffeehouse recently, I was sitting outside when it began pouring. Though the umbrella covering us was more than large enough to keep us dry, our absolutely adorable waiter came out with an umbrella and offered to escort us inside. I hope this kind of humanity and general courtesy never die, and it always reminds me of how much more I could be doing to pay it forward. I love this fucking country. Hell, I even love the bigass potholes in the roads, the gnarly traffic and maniacal driving stunts, and the red dirt that settles in your clothes and just DARES you to try and wash it out. I love the sunburn you get cuz you forgot that, even on cloudy days, you're over a mile above sea level and WILL get roasted. I forget that one every time. I look like a freakin tomato.
This place kicks ass.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Things that trip me out about Kenya or that l just love in general....
1. They have Big Brother Africa, Deal or No Deal, and American Idol West Africa. I mean, aside from the fact that there's satellite stations broadcasting all SORTS of shows that are regularly aired in the States (including shows that flopped after the first pilot there, but managed to gain a real audience here, and therefore have continued), it blows my mind that these particular shows have their own whole cast and crew here. The benefits of Big Brother and Deal (shows I never had any interest in) is that the last one standing gets a great deal of money, and in Africa, it's more than enough to both put you AND your children through school, but often to help care for your family as well. Where it's still sizable in the States, it's monumental here. Idol West Africa is extremely important to the up and coming musician. In the States, where it's not only common but incredibly easy to get lost in the throes of new artists and wannabes - whether you won Idol or not - here, you WILL be famous, no doubts. Western music may be ultra popular here, but African musicians have a deeply loyal following that far surpasses the Clayken teenyboppers. The money and opportunity a show like this brings carries a much deeper significance than it does for any American kid, no matter what tax bracket they hail from. It's just how it is.
2. Kenyan Karaoke is a RIOT! It's totally different; first of all, 80% of all the singers, if not more, are really, REALLY fucking good. But on the screen where your lyrics prompt is, the images that come up have NOTHING whatsoever to do with the song - or an unintentional tongue in cheek and highly hilarious sideshow. You could be singing Push It by Salt-n-Pepa, and at the same time watching children frolicking with their dogs, or men at a park playing chess. You never know what you'll get with the karaoke here.
3. There's a deeply ingrained protection and care for children and elders here. If you are riding a crowded matatu, and a woman and her child get on, it's inevitable that someone will pick up the child and put them in their lap. It doesn't matter if they know the mother or not, that's just how it goes, and it creates a trustworthiness and lack of fear in children that's a beautiful thing to watch. If an elderly person gets on, it's common for someone to offer their seat. Sometimes they won't (and sometimes they can't due to how packed it is), but they'll take whatever the senior might happen to be carrying and hold it for them.
I just recently read of a campaign based on a six year old Children's Act in which parents who don't make their children go to elementary school are punishable by up to a year in prison. Even orphans and abandoned children are encouraged to register through churches and community organizations as a matter of law. Since so many unfortunate children end up on the streets due to neglect, ill or dead parents (HIV/AIDS, diphtheria, meningitis, bilharzia, malaria, the list is long) and often end up in petty crime, this is an effort to help them find some purpose and meaning. The classes may be overcrowded and the teachers too few, but it's far better than the alternative.
4. The typos or unintended implications of names or phrases are often hilarious. You see them everywhere - in the paper, on billboards, restarant names. Back when we used to live here, there was a burger place downtown called Waterburger. You KNEW it had to have been inspired by Whattaburger, but to avoid lawsuit and still keep it as close to the original as it would go (or possibly because if you say Whattaburger in Kenyan English, it would translate to most as 'waterburger'), that's what they went with. There's a Creamy Inn here, which is actually a restaurant (there are a lot of "Inns" that aren't actually Inns, but South African fast food chains), but if it were in the context of a hotel, and even outside of it, it's too funny. I'll be taking a photo of that one. There also used to be a large burger chain called Wimpy. I think it's been bought out, but if not, I'm takin photos of that too. A recent headline: "Drivers want share of rally sponsorship kitty". While "kitty" in this sense means a certain prize money fund, I don't think I need to elaborate on how amusing this one is in regards to general American"kitty" associations. A friend of mine here recently wore pigtails and all of her students and fellow residents kept calling them 'pussy tails'. She couldn't really explain to the kids why she found it so funny, but the adults immediately dropped the 'pussy' from their vernacular after hearing the translation.
5. There's a word in a report my mom edited once for our friend Joyce Nyakeya, "anyhowly". I don't remember what particular context it was used in, but let's say it was a sentence addressing the shoddiness of a program she was observing, and the feedback reports were 'written anyhowly'. Joyce is a college graduate, and so Mom was surprised when she ran across this word, but she shrugged it off and left it out. When Joyce read back over it, she asked what happened to 'anyhowly', to which Mom replied that it wasn't a word, to which Joyce indignantly replied that it was a perfectly functional one. I think this word should have been part of the English language; it certainly cuts "any which way" down to only one word, and I'm determined to use it from here on out.
6. Kenyans not only occasionally make up words, it's almost impossible to take them literally in regards to time or distance. We all went down to the coast of Mombasa one Christmas, and needed some supplies. We were told that the nearest shopping center was "not fah", and so decided to walk. After about an hour and approximately four miles later, we asked someone else. "Oh, not fah!", they replied. When we questioned just precisely *how* far, we were told, "Oh, it's just thea, just close", so we kept walking. We finally found the center, an hour and another four miles or so later, badly sunburned and dying of thirst. It's safe to assume that, in a country where a large number of the people travel by foot, 'not fah' means it's probably at least two miles away.
Time is much more lackadaisical here. If they say they'll be there at one, expect them at four. There's no timetable whatsoever for buses or matatus, so if you want to get somewhere at a particular time, you make sure you're there early enough to make room for heavy traffic and rush hour, as well as the fairly common breakdown on the side of the road. I took a taxi from a friend's house to mine today, and was told by the driver that he'd be there in "some minutes". He showed up 45 minutes later, but you couldn't deny that it was, quite actually, *some* minutes.
7. During the light(er) traffic hours, there are two or three lanes on each side of a major road. During high traffic, it turns into about five, and rarely are they actually parallel. They are diagonal and sideways, and gods forbid if you get stuck on the inside lane of a roundabout - you could be there forever. Even if you're in the "right" lane, and say, going straight from a roundabout, it's inevitable several cars will cut in front of you from your left and go straight across to your right. You are guaranteed to narrowly miss either hitting a car, or being hit by one, at least once a day. In other words, people drive any-fuckin-howly they want, and your main goal should always be avoiding collision.
I'm sure there's more...will post them when I come up with 'em.
2. Kenyan Karaoke is a RIOT! It's totally different; first of all, 80% of all the singers, if not more, are really, REALLY fucking good. But on the screen where your lyrics prompt is, the images that come up have NOTHING whatsoever to do with the song - or an unintentional tongue in cheek and highly hilarious sideshow. You could be singing Push It by Salt-n-Pepa, and at the same time watching children frolicking with their dogs, or men at a park playing chess. You never know what you'll get with the karaoke here.
3. There's a deeply ingrained protection and care for children and elders here. If you are riding a crowded matatu, and a woman and her child get on, it's inevitable that someone will pick up the child and put them in their lap. It doesn't matter if they know the mother or not, that's just how it goes, and it creates a trustworthiness and lack of fear in children that's a beautiful thing to watch. If an elderly person gets on, it's common for someone to offer their seat. Sometimes they won't (and sometimes they can't due to how packed it is), but they'll take whatever the senior might happen to be carrying and hold it for them.
I just recently read of a campaign based on a six year old Children's Act in which parents who don't make their children go to elementary school are punishable by up to a year in prison. Even orphans and abandoned children are encouraged to register through churches and community organizations as a matter of law. Since so many unfortunate children end up on the streets due to neglect, ill or dead parents (HIV/AIDS, diphtheria, meningitis, bilharzia, malaria, the list is long) and often end up in petty crime, this is an effort to help them find some purpose and meaning. The classes may be overcrowded and the teachers too few, but it's far better than the alternative.
4. The typos or unintended implications of names or phrases are often hilarious. You see them everywhere - in the paper, on billboards, restarant names. Back when we used to live here, there was a burger place downtown called Waterburger. You KNEW it had to have been inspired by Whattaburger, but to avoid lawsuit and still keep it as close to the original as it would go (or possibly because if you say Whattaburger in Kenyan English, it would translate to most as 'waterburger'), that's what they went with. There's a Creamy Inn here, which is actually a restaurant (there are a lot of "Inns" that aren't actually Inns, but South African fast food chains), but if it were in the context of a hotel, and even outside of it, it's too funny. I'll be taking a photo of that one. There also used to be a large burger chain called Wimpy. I think it's been bought out, but if not, I'm takin photos of that too. A recent headline: "Drivers want share of rally sponsorship kitty". While "kitty" in this sense means a certain prize money fund, I don't think I need to elaborate on how amusing this one is in regards to general American"kitty" associations. A friend of mine here recently wore pigtails and all of her students and fellow residents kept calling them 'pussy tails'. She couldn't really explain to the kids why she found it so funny, but the adults immediately dropped the 'pussy' from their vernacular after hearing the translation.
5. There's a word in a report my mom edited once for our friend Joyce Nyakeya, "anyhowly". I don't remember what particular context it was used in, but let's say it was a sentence addressing the shoddiness of a program she was observing, and the feedback reports were 'written anyhowly'. Joyce is a college graduate, and so Mom was surprised when she ran across this word, but she shrugged it off and left it out. When Joyce read back over it, she asked what happened to 'anyhowly', to which Mom replied that it wasn't a word, to which Joyce indignantly replied that it was a perfectly functional one. I think this word should have been part of the English language; it certainly cuts "any which way" down to only one word, and I'm determined to use it from here on out.
6. Kenyans not only occasionally make up words, it's almost impossible to take them literally in regards to time or distance. We all went down to the coast of Mombasa one Christmas, and needed some supplies. We were told that the nearest shopping center was "not fah", and so decided to walk. After about an hour and approximately four miles later, we asked someone else. "Oh, not fah!", they replied. When we questioned just precisely *how* far, we were told, "Oh, it's just thea, just close", so we kept walking. We finally found the center, an hour and another four miles or so later, badly sunburned and dying of thirst. It's safe to assume that, in a country where a large number of the people travel by foot, 'not fah' means it's probably at least two miles away.
Time is much more lackadaisical here. If they say they'll be there at one, expect them at four. There's no timetable whatsoever for buses or matatus, so if you want to get somewhere at a particular time, you make sure you're there early enough to make room for heavy traffic and rush hour, as well as the fairly common breakdown on the side of the road. I took a taxi from a friend's house to mine today, and was told by the driver that he'd be there in "some minutes". He showed up 45 minutes later, but you couldn't deny that it was, quite actually, *some* minutes.
7. During the light(er) traffic hours, there are two or three lanes on each side of a major road. During high traffic, it turns into about five, and rarely are they actually parallel. They are diagonal and sideways, and gods forbid if you get stuck on the inside lane of a roundabout - you could be there forever. Even if you're in the "right" lane, and say, going straight from a roundabout, it's inevitable several cars will cut in front of you from your left and go straight across to your right. You are guaranteed to narrowly miss either hitting a car, or being hit by one, at least once a day. In other words, people drive any-fuckin-howly they want, and your main goal should always be avoiding collision.
I'm sure there's more...will post them when I come up with 'em.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)