This is where I lived with my homestay family during training.

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September 29, 2003

I am pleasantly surprised with my accommodations. Mama and Baba are upper middle class, so they have electricity and even a small B&W TV. (Note: An astute Kenyan reader pointed out how naive this statement was. Baba was employed, and that made him better off than most of his neighbors, but he was by no means 'upper middle class'.) Water comes from a community well a 5-10 minute walk from here.

The main house has a living room and three small bedrooms. The second house has the kitchen, chicken coop, and a room for Peter and another boy of undetermined parentage. The kitchen has a stone floor and contains only a charcoal stove and a kerosene stove.

I know everyone is curious, so let me say something about the choo (pronounced cho), or bathroom. I think ours is nicer than most, since it is clean, has a lock, and is not immediately adjacent to the bath house. There is a hole in the ground about 6 inches wide and 10 inches long, and raised wooden slats on either side for you to place your feet. I will only say that it makes for challenging business.

The bath is more difficult for me though. Mama fills my basin with warm water and points me to a raised wooden shack next to the cow. I have no washcloth or pitcher to scoop the water, and dunking my whole head in hasn't worked well so far. Also, it is offensive for Kenyans to see your underwear, so you are supposed to wash them daily during your bath and hang them in your room.

October 10, 2003

My family had a huge reunion, about 40 people came to the house and are still here, in fact. Mama has 8 sisters and 3 brothers, and Baba has about the same, only more brothers than sisters. It was completely overwhelming. Women started arriving at 8:00 to prepare the food. Luckily, the goat was already dead by the time I got up. I snapped the ends off of green beans for over an hour. All of the women were chattering away in Kikuyu until Mama came over and yelled at them to talk in Kiswahili so I could understand. It didn’t help, though, since I still only know how to say my name, where I come from, and whether I like to cook. Oh, and “This book is better than this cup.”

October 23, 2003

Today we had our language training at Erik and Lynnsie's homestay. We do this about 3 days a week. They live with Baba and Mama Sam. Baba Sam used to play basketball for the Kenyan national league, so they are considered wealthy in this area. They have the only 2 story house within miles. It constantly amuses me that what passes for wealthy here would be considered white trash in America. They have 2 cars that never work, a tank to collect rainwater, and a yard cluttered with clothes on the line, chickens, and a newborn baby calf. We sit in the garage for our lesson. Roosters come in constantly crowing, and hens occasionally lay eggs behind the broken satellite dish. The calf often wanders in looking for one of us to scratch her head. She constantly looks for udders under the women's skirts.

February 9, 2005

I headed back to town in a funk. On the way, three or four strangers asked me for money – one of them a full grown adult. I popped into the store to buy a yogurt, and a well-dressed boy approached and said, “Buy me one.” Walking in the states used to be a leisurely activity. Here, I find myself practicing in Kiswahili how to say, “You have two arms. You have two legs. Get a job!”

I was sure I’d truly reached the end of my rope before Christmas when a child no older than 4 said, “Give me money”, and I replied, “Why don’t you go earn some money?!” True story, sadly. I felt like Bill Murray’s dad in Scrooged. “So go out and get a job and buy a choo-choo!”

I realize after one year in Kenya that it’s not going to get any better. People are always going to ask me for money, because in their culture it’s not rude to assume white people are walking around with loads of cash just looking for a friendly face to accept it. But, here’s the thing. It IS rude! And their culture is just plain wrong. Somebody, stop me – I’m starting to sound like a missionary!

March 1, 2005

Debbie lives about 45 minutes south of Kisii in the midst of rolling hills and sugar cane fields. We alit from the matatu and walked through one of these fields. The cane was 10 feet tall and hung down, giving the impression of a jungle. As we entered the clearing, we came across the most African scene I’ve experienced – a vervet monkey in a tree and a topless woman bathing her naked children in the river!

I’d heard many tales of Debbie having to cross this river. Luckily for my visit the water was low and a bridge had recently been constructed.

The mud hut was nicer than I expected. It’s not entirely made of mud. The floor and inside walls are cement, and the outside structure is a mix of wood and mud. She has two small rooms – bedroom and living room/kitchen. Her big windows keeps the place less oppressive in the Western heat.

The view from her place is really stunning. Living in my dustbowl, I’m a sucker for green. I don’t see much of it in Narok! I met some of the family she lives with, but she tells me my visit was quiet compared to her daily routine. Most people in the area are 7th Day Adventists, so they were all at church.

Deb has no electricity and an outdoor choo and bathing area. We rushed to bathe before dark. Debbie’s eyes have become much more accustomed to her circumstances. She finally lit a lantern at 7pm, a few minutes before sunset as I strained to read.

We took a walk to Debbie’s orphanage later in the morning. After years of having nothing but a fence and a mud resource center (with TV and DVD player), the girl’s dormitory has finally been constructed. Ignoring all of Debbie’s advice, the group spent every last penny of the donor money on this one building made of cement with a faux brick back and the front side with verandah painted blush pink. The group’s idea was to make an impressive display so that some donor would give them more money to build the boy’s dorm, admin block, and mess hall. Three million shillings gone, and not a single orphan helped!

I don’t know how she puts up with that project. She kept advising the community to scale down – to build functional structures of mud and wood like the primary school next door. They could easily have finished the whole orphanage for the amount they spent and maybe even bought a couple of blankets! But no one would listen to her.

Awhile ago, the group held a clothes giveaway for the orphans using some donations received by the volunteer Debbie replaced. She advised them to go through the boxes first – to separate out different sizes and earmark items for the appropriate children. Instead, the distribution was haphazard. Group members hoarded the best clothing for themselves, hiding things under their kangas. By the time the last of the orphans had their names called, there were no clothes left. Debbie was furious but too kind-hearted to let them go home empty-handed. Instead, she went down to her house and rifled through her own clothes. We saw one of the orphans wearing a nice shirt from Bass while I was visiting.

April 3, 2005

Yesterday over chai, Jack [a Peace Corps trainer] told us the story of his life. Jack’s father had 3 wives and 22 surviving children. Jack’s mother was the first wife; she had 16 children, but 8 died under the age of 5. Jack got sort of lost in the shuffle for awhile, and didn’t end up going to primary school until he was 10 –when an older brother insisted on it and paid his schooling.

In Kenya, birthdays aren’t celebrated, so Jack, like many Kenyans, doesn’t know his own age. When a child is big enough to put his arm over his head and touch the opposite ear, then he’s ready for school. But Jack was much older than the other children attending. His brother supported him all the way through college.

After college, he couldn’t find a job. That’s when he met his wife, an educated nurse from his home area. While Jack’s family was poor, his wife came from money. Her father had been a chief before he died and had 7 wives. Jack’s mother-in-law had something like 16 children of her own.

The marriage didn’t happen easily. She was afraid her mother wouldn’t approve, because she was educated and employed, and he was jobless. He left for a month to stay with a brother, then came back to get her answer. She decided it didn’t matter what her mother thought. With that encouragement, Jack took her to meet his family. Their home was about 15km from her, so he borrowed a bicycle and put her on the back. He lost his balance twice and knocked her off!

Once his family had accepted the idea, he went to the mother-in-law. He showed up to the house unannounced and alone, completely flouting tradition. But he left with a blessing from the family and a wife. They never married in church or had a civil ceremony. The permission of the families was enough to call themselves husband and wife.

For two years, Jack’s wife went to work every day, while Jack, still unemployed, stayed home and washed clothes, cooked for his wife, and cleaned the house. This of course made him a laughing stock in the community. Several members actually came to his house one day to have a serious talk with him about it. In Kenya, when a man is “whipped” as we would say, Kenyans say the wife is “sitting on him”. The community members accused Jack of being weak and letting his wife have power. He simply told them it was his life and his marriage and none of their business.

June 15, 2005

Then an amazing thing happened. Florence. I can’t believe I’ve never mentioned her before. Florence’s mom used to sell roast maize outside the Kenol, and I would see them every day coming to or from work when I lived on that side of town. Florence has one leg and a huge smile, and every time she sees me she hobbles up and greets me with excitement. For several months I didn’t see her at all, even when I walked to the schools on that side of town. Then a few weeks ago she reappeared. She only speaks Swahili, and so I told her in that language, “You have been so lost!” She giggled and said, no, that I was the one who was lost. Tonight, I introduced her to Emma and then asked her if she remembered my name. She did. As we walked away, she called to me and said, “Amy, shike!” (Catch.) She handed me a beaded purple necklace. I was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to say, especially in my limited Swahili. She’ll never know what a gift she gave to me tonight. I’m wearing the necklace now. I’ll have to find a way to repay her kindness.