January 15, 2009

these woods

I live in the middle of these woods, these glorious trees surrounding my house, hugging up against it, hiding me away. I wish I knew their names – these trees – because maybe then I could convey their beauty. But I doubt it. I think they’ve seen much. And have stories to tell. Wires run through and beneath their branches, forming an electric wall around this compound. Every hour or so, one of our three Kenyan guards walk through our compound and press the button which keeps our wall “electrified.” I am insulated from Nairobi – Nairobbery – right now.

dogs barking
in the pit of my
stomach a slum
groans nearby but i can
skirt around it
take the right roads
and i’ll never know it’s
there a million-crammed
full. right now i’m running
with the rich
with the white
with those in semi-flight
from Reality – the real
Nairobi doesn’t exist here
doesn’t co-mingle with
those with whom i mingle.

the burning

Is the world on fire? I wonder most mornings at eye-lid opening. The burning of things, constant here. Smoke wafting into the air and into my eyes. I have the red eyes of an old African woman, a mzee (mu-zay), bent over metal pots of pilau.

Sometimes, the burning smells like feces.

Other times, the burning smells like the campfires of my childhood or bonfires with friends.

work, work, work

What do I do with my days? I work with an all-Kenyan team in the Public Relations office of New Life Home Trust (www.newlifehometrust.org ) to advocate for the orphans and vulnerable children in our care. We write grants, plan publications, get the “donor dollars,” etc. I’ll be finishing up with NLHT until mid-February and then transition full-time with Pioneers into regions beyond Kenya.

my pet monkey

We have monkeys swinging all over the place. I counted a family of ten the first week I was here. A friend of mine e-mailed me about my “pet monkey.” Hardly! She told me to throw that guy a banana once in a while. She has compassion because she doesn’t know that the monkeys around here are little bullies. For example, my neighbor can’t even sit in her backyard because the monkeys rule the roost. So she’s moved her table and chairs out front.

And who knew that cute gray monkeys could make such hellacious noises? I kept looking in the trees to identify the culprit – thinking it an ugly vulture or carion bird – when out swung a fuzzy little monkey talking up a storm, airing his complaints to the entire neocolonialist community and their dogs.

When I get home from work, I check the two bundles of bananas hanging on the two trees in my backyard – checking for signs of yellow. I’ve got to pull them before the monkeys do. They’re my bananas! Game on, monkeys!

the banana count

The Kenyan women peer into the pot of food I am heating on the stove at lunch – I worry, What are they thinking? Am I eating weird things?

“Ah, you can cook! Wow. Surely, she’s a good cook,” they say to each other.
“Yes, it surprises even me,” I say.
“How did you eat in the States?” they ask.

I honestly have to think for a second and then remember a nickname a roommate gave me – Leftover Queen. I would go out to lunch and dinner constantly with friends and with the enormous portions served at most restaurants, return home with one or two more meals to put in the fridge. So I hardly cooked.

Here, I cook a lot. And mostly from scratch – soups, stews, pasta sauces. I am amazed that it’s actually edible and enjoyable to do. I can’t believe I am saying this, but I like cooking.

So the Kenyans told me this week – “Take a banana.”
“No thank you,” I say gently. “I don’t want to take your food.”
“But we counted you for a banana,” they press me.

Then I got it. They counted me for a banana! Counted as one of them. So they’ve been feeding me bananas and sweet, Kenyan chai along with much laughter mid-morning, every day. This feels good, being taken in.

Michael Jackson mask

Confession. You know those white “germ masks” that Michael Jackson used to use to cover his mouth when out in public? Well, sometimes I want to be a freak and wear a mask around this polluted city. I feel as if I could chew the air at times. In fact, it’s so thick in places, you can’t help but consume it until you feel nauseous, approaching vomit point. Does Nairobi cancel out California’s Clean Air Act?

unpacking my mind

Unpacking your mind. That’s what psychologists and culture-entry experts term the processing of your culture shock, the thoughts and feelings that accompany your move into a foreign culture. It describes the entry phase perfectly – when you’ve unpacked your bags, but not your mind. Your mind is full. Brim full. But you don’t know what to unpack first – where to start? So you keep sitting on your suitcase, keeping it all stuffed in there. Contained.

My life is finally “arranged” into semi-coherency here in Africa. Trying to figure out how to get from A to B, how to get money, how to not get mugged, how to trust perfect strangers who look and speak differently than I, how to use the phone, how to say please in Swahili, how to count money.

I’m a toddler again.

It’s all so complicated and different. I don’t know much of anything anymore.

One thing I really like – I can grocery shop while stuck in traffic. Bananas, mangos, passion fruit, newspapers, passed through my window. I hate grocery shopping, so this provides a modicum of efficiency for me – I may be wasting time in a traffic jam, but at least I’m gaining it back by getting my grocery shopping done.

What a time-oriented American, huh?

Thanks for letting me unpack my mind ...