Pole Pole

In Swahili, “pole” means both “sorry” and “slowly”. This is not a coincidence. Everything in Kenya happens pole pole and people constantly say it. They actually even translate it into English. An actual conversation we had with Mzee Mungai the first week:
M: Mzee, how was your day?
Mungai: Fine, fine.
M: What did you do today? (it was a Saturday)
Mungai: I did some work in my room slowly slowly.

Life in Kenya is much less structured and everything is always late. They are thoroughly amused at the American custom of arriving on time to anything much less EARLY. School is supposed to start at 8 and we never start before 8:30. Church is supposed to end at 12:30 and never ends before 12:55.

There are some reasons for this: transportation is much less reliable [matatus break down a lot], travel times are extremely varied [matatus will stop constantly to pick up more people if there is a single square inch free in the vehicle], and people lack a lot of the “instant” technologies that we take for granted in the US [a lack of microwaves, refrigerators, etc. all extend meal times for example since prep is virtually from scratch].

The hilarious thing is that even though everyone knows in advance that things will be pole pole, no one ever seems to take steps to mitigate this. For example, the other day I watched the “Baby Class” (ages 2-3) at school while one of the teachers ran into Mombasa. She left early and said she would be back at school by 11. The previous day I asked her what work she wanted the children to complete in her absence and she left me about one hour worth of work total. I thought this was strange because I had at least 2.5 hours from 8:30 to 11 to kill but figured it would be fine.

Now, I didn’t expect her to be back at 11. I expected her to be back pole pole at around 1 – even with this guess I was off by almost 2 hours when she showed up at 2:45 which is basically the end of school. I’m not at all surprised by this incident but I was surprised that she didn’t leave me with more work. If you know that you’ll likely be delayed by several hours, wouldn’t it be smart to leave me with extra work, not minimal work? The end result was me sitting with 15 3-year-olds for over 4 hours singing every nursery rhyme and playing every clapping game I could think of. I think the kids thought I was insane although that’s commonplace here. M and I call these moments “crazy wazungu moments” because you can tell that’s what people are thinking.

Pretty much any description of activities includes pole pole. When asking what the itinerary would be for a safari, we were told that the first day would include “a game drive slowly slowly”. I have to admit that it’s sort of nice that no one expects you to be anywhere at a specific time although I can imagine it’s rather frustrating if you’re trying to accomplish something which is time sensitive. Luckily we aren’t particularly pressed for time so we’re adapting to life slowly slowly.

I just wish that mail weren’t delivered pole pole. We’re on day 17 of waiting for a package to get through Kenyan customs. I contacted someone and finally they informed that I have to go to Mombasa to retrieve it even though it was sent to Msambweni. Not sure how I was supposed to know that or when we would have been informed if I didn't ask. So, we’re going to Mombasa today to see if we can “finesse” it out of customs so we’ll update you on what is sure to be an interesting adventure.

Our Neighbor

When E and I arrived in Kenya at the apartment, we noticed that there seemed to be a lot of cars around with squeaky breaks, and they were particularly noticeable from our bedroom, at around 8 PM. However, we soon realized that the sound was not due to cars, but rather from our next-apartment neighbor, Mr. Parrot.

Parrots in America are typically taught to say idiotic yet charming things like “Hello” and “Polly wanna cracker?”. Apparently Kenyan parrots are left to their own devices though so our friend has learned the ambient sounds from his surroundings. He dazzles us every evening with such fan favorites as “Brakes”, “Car Alarm Arming”, “Car Alarm”, “Musical Scales”, and finally, “Jambo”. He’ll often reel off a string of five or six of these in a row, as if he’s showing off. Usually he wraps up at a reasonable hour, but occasionally, he performs well into the night. It’s pretty jarring to be woken up by a car alarm basically going off in our room. One night he must have spaced his calls out every five minutes or so, just enough that I kept waking from near-sleep, which resulted in the can’t-go-to-sleep anger that lead to me to contemplate going next door and releasing him into the wild / something worse.

They used to keep him on the front porch but he was becoming a menace to the matatus. Locals often whistle when they want a matatu to stop and Mr. Parrot was notorious for throwing down a long whistle right when they were going by. Now they keep him in the room next to ours where he’s a menace only to us but at least the matatus can resume driving at 900 miles per hour.

Finally, I’m getting my research on track in the lab. Untold amounts of politics are involved in working here, and I happened to be on the unlucky side of some, which delayed the start of my intended project for six weeks. It wasn’t all bad, as it gave me a chance to spend more time studying Swahili with E, more time in the operating room meeting other docs, as well as time to work on a proposal for another potential project while I’m here. However, I am very glad to have this limbo portion of our visit behind us (hopefully).

I'm mad

I’m not really sure who I’m mad at but I’m just plain mad. Today at school, a little girl got a deep cut under her eye. You see the swing set is rusted out so that there is no seat on one side and instead it’s just a rusted chain. The kids still swing on it and today somebody swung the rusted chain back and it caught Joann in the eye. There was a huge cut and it was gushing blood. (that’s her in the picture above, a few weeks ago we were playing with my hat and I snapped these photos)

As previously mentioned, the school has no soap. They also had no disinfectant or even a band-aid. Mary took her to wash it off while I ran over to the primary school (the kindergarten and primary are on different sides of Diani Beach Rd) to see if they had any. They didn’t so by the time I got back, her eye was swollen shut. The teachers rinsed her eye with the well water but my first thought was “untreated water is flowing into her eye which may have tetanus from the rusted chain. Awesome.”

I was so fed up that I grabbed my wallet and ran to the nearest supermarket and brought back soap, bandaids, and disinfectant. The suckiest (yeah, I know that’s not a real word) part was the fact that Mary kept apologizing to me. As if she has anything to feel bad about as she frantically tried to stop the girl’s bleeding with ice borrowed from one of the houses next door to the school. I helped her clean up Joann and we used my phone to call the girl’s mother to come pick her up. We handled the situation but I was mad and I’m still mad.

Mad because the school is supposed to have budgeted for disinfectant and included the price in tuition – so someone is either being lazy or mismanaging funds (Mary told me this and I believe her). Mad because if anyone would have spoken up to the US-based ministry that helps to support the school, I imagine that disinfectant could have been procured. Mad because at least twice a week tourists drop off idiotic things like candy instead of asking what we actually need and then providing it.

But as I think more about it, I think I’m mad because it’s just patently unfair. You know the phrase “there but for the grace of God go I”? That’s all I could think about. Why do some of us get born in the US where schools have nurses and decent (or at least non-injurious) playground equipment and others are not? It’s just really frustrating and there’s no easy solution.

Mary was very thankful that she now has the disinfectant but she did say that she’s now concerned that no one at the school will ever buy the supplies. She is concerned that once you give someone something for free, they now don’t want to buy it. So in the long run, I may have made the situation worse. I think that’s a risk I am willing to take though, I couldn’t have forgiven myself if her eye got infected because I didn’t buy the disinfectant. I just needed to do something. If I’m honest with myself, I’m sure it was to selfishly assuage my own guilt at being so privileged in comparison to these kids. So maybe I’m also a little mad at myself while growing up for ever being disappointed up with my lot in this world.

Shimba Hills

Over the past week, people from M’s lab have been arriving each day including M’s close friend from med school, A. Most people are here just for a few days though A and another person will be here for the next 3.5 weeks. To say M was a little excited about A’s arrival is an understatement.

Since A is only going to be here a few weeks, we have several trips saved up that we were waiting to do when he arrived. So yesterday we set out for an all-day tour to Shimba Hills, a small national park about 1 hour from Diani. The park is known in particular for the Sable antelope which is found within Shimba Hills and nowhere else in the world. We also knew there was a chance to see cape buffalo, elephants, and giraffes but these are much more rare.

We went on a short game drive in the morning and saw the Sable Antelope as well as a lone cape buffalo. The buffalo was simply sitting in the road and examined us with a combination of disinterest and disgust before moseying off into the bush.

The Sable Antelope was actually a complete herd including a mature male (he’s the black one) and several babies.


We spent the remainder of the morning hiking to a waterfall where we saw river cockroaches and a few tadpoles. What the place lacked in animals though was offset by the beauty of the waterfall. M and A in a romantic waterfall interlude are shown below.


As we drove toward the lodge for lunch, M spotted the rear ends of 2 elephants and as we neared we realized that they actually had a baby with them. They protected it by keeping it between them and disappeared into the bush without a trace. We were so excited to see two of the big five on our first safari. (The “big five” that everyone wants to see on safari are buffalo, lion, elephant, rhino, and leopard).

We ate at the lodge which is designed into the trees to look like an enormous tree house. It is frankly inexplicable that this structure has not been completely consumed by termites that roam the jungle (and let me tell you, the bugs here could join the big five...) but we’re glad that they’re holding off for now.



As we began our afternoon game drive, we discussed how amazing it would be to see a giraffe but that we knew it would be a long shot. There are only 6 giraffes in the entire reserve (the climate is not ideal for them) so it was extremely unlikely. We drove around another hour or so before we came upon a pack of baboons and saw this little guy riding horseback on his mama:



We started heading for the park gate and I randomly said “Giraffe yuko wapi?” which means “where is the giraffe?”. Clearly this was a rhetorical question but less than 30 seconds later someone yelled “Giraffe!” and we found Geoffrey:



He was pretty far away but we could see him quite well through the binoculars. (Yes, we confirmed it was a HE, I’m married to a budding urologist). All in all an amazing day.

The germ factory

This is Yasmin – she’s adorable right? I love her eyelashes. She, like all kids, is a germ factory though and my immune system is not accustomed to kindergartners. They’re constantly coughing, wiping their noses on you, and generally getting dirty. Plus, she loves playing with my ring and holding my hand.

So, now I’m congested and coughing too. The school has no soap so it’s impossible to actually clean your hands. They have a tap of running, salty water but nothing to disinfect or remove any actual germs. I mentioned this to Mary and it didn’t seem to concern or surprise her, apparently this is pretty normal. This was especially gross when we had a stomach bug going through the school last week (I didn't catch it thank goodness) and kids were vomiting. Apparently when kids have head colds, they stay home from school but when they vomit, they come to school. As mentioned in M's last blog, people are much more scared of colds and pneumonia than they are of stomach or GI illnesses.

I’m buying soap this weekend and putting it in the teachers closet. I’m not a germaphobe but I hope that washing my hands keeps me from getting sick too often (though on some level it’s inevitable).

It's getting hot in here

Though air-conditioned, the operating theatre here is not the cool 60 degrees that they spoil us with in the States. For those who have never been scrubbed into a surgery, once you add the surgical cap, a mask over the nose and mouth, a full-length gown, rubber gloves, and surgical lamps aimed at you, things can get pretty hot. The OR has to be very cold to keep the surgeon from dripping sweat onto the patient, as this is less than sterile. In the US, gowns are made of an impermeable paper (not sure how they do it), so they’re actually quite light. Here, one wears the big galoshes, a heavy rubber apron, and then a cloth gown over that.

The other day I was invited to scrub in to get a closer look at the surgery. I excitedly washed up (with a bar of soap, not the single use sponge/brush/fingernail cleaner from the Ttates), and put on my gown and gloves. Then, I noticed that the room was a little too quiet. One of the nurses had turned off the air conditioning because it was “too cold” in the room. Kenyans hate air conditioning; multiple people have told us that they came down with pneumonia from being around it.

It started with my back; beads of sweat marching towards my waistband. Soon, there was a line of sweat beads visible to me, dancing on my eyebrows, just waiting for my signal to drop onto the surgical field. The surgeon across from me displayed no sign of discomfort. It looked as it he’d just powdered his face. Soon, I would be soaked; I knew this. I was simply standing there, definitely not exerting myself, but the sweat did not abate. By the time the surgery ended, I had only dripped a little bit, and not near the incision, so that was good. However, my scrubs were not in were not so lucky. I took off my butcher’s apron, which revealed the damage. Those of you who saw me or picture of me at the Fitzpatrick wedding in Phoenix a few years ago have some idea of my appearance at this time. Malesi (a nurse) looked me head to toe and with a slight smile said, “you should change now”. What he didn’t say, but was on his face, was “crazy mzungu…”.

I am very much enjoying the operating theatre, but my European hypothalamus and sweat glands are not doing a good job of adapting to the climate here. I have since been asked “why do you sweat so much?”, and heard comments such as “you’re really suffering”. I’ll survive, but this is also the “coldest” time of year. Perhaps I’ll go on surgery sabbatical in January…

Our Indian Ocean View

One of the best things about our time here for me has been the opportunity to work on my photography. I took photography in high school and absolutely loved it but had little time for it in college or after college. Before our honeymoon, M and I invested in an SLR camera and now I have time to actually learn how to use it. In anticipation of this extra photography time, I purchased some amateur photo-editing software before we left and have been playing around with it. It’s a lot of trial and error but it’s really cool to be able to adjust my photos since I’m still learning how to take good digital photos.

My favorite subjects are my kindergarteners and our view. The view especially allows me to play with different settings, plus it’s a pretty great view. We are directly across the road from the beach (about a 5 minute walk)and the editing allows me to remove the phone lines from the view. Below are some of my favorite shots that I have taken and edited while we’ve been here.

Lunch

We decided that I would write about lunch since M eats food at local restaurants in Msambweni. I eat lunch at school every day. The children have the option of receiving lunch through school for 70 KSH (about $0.95) and teachers eat for free. The children who do not pay for lunch have food brought to the school by their parents. Interestingly there is not concept of a ‘cold lunch’, all the food whether purchased or brought is hot; no child is sent with a brown bag.

There is a schedule of five lunches that are served every week:
• Monday = Rice + beans
• Tuesday = Rice + lentils
• Wednesday = Ugali (basically dry polenta) + cabbage
• Thursday = Rice + beans
• Friday = Pilau (spiced rice + small amount of meat)

The lunch includes no drink, each child brings their own water since the well at the school is incredibly salty. The lunch is fairly filling but lacking in variety and nutrients by American standards. Most children eat the white bread and margarine at recess and then the lunch provided by the school. While they are calorically probably fine because of the rice, there are few fruits and vegetables included in their day at least to lunch.

I eat the lunch provided because the other teachers eat it and I have no desire to stand out by buying my own lunch in town. It would send myriad bad messages that I have no interest in sending. It also prevents me from having to buy lunch. M’s lab generously covers my meals eaten within our house but we need to pay for anything else I eat out of pocket.

We are served separately from the primary school since we’re across the main road. They bring our meals across each day in small plastic containers. Unfortunately, they have failed to increase the amount of food sent throughout the year to account for the fact that the children are growing. They still send the same amount they sent in January with little extra and all the children are almost a year older. Mary tells me that they’ve repeatedly asked for more food but it never comes. When the kids ask for more, we dish it out from our portions (we get larger “teacher” portions) so that they get enough to eat. This seems to be a pattern we’ve noticed, it’s better that there’s slightly less rather than anything be wasted here. No one is going hungry but no one is getting anything more than they absolutely need either.

Here are some photos of the meals from school:

This is pilau. The recipe calls for rice, meat, and veggies spiced with cinnamon, curry, and cardamom. In practice, it’s rice with spices and 1-2 bites of non-rice items.


This is the rice and beans. To be clear, the beans are only the top layer that you can see, the rice stretches the entire box. I usually can only eat half of the rice before I’m too full anyway so I’m happy that the kids like to eat it.

Many people in Africa still suffer from major food shortages with alarming frequency but I have a feeling that the lack of variety and nutrients is much more pervasive. I am really thankful for the hearty breakfast and the veggie-packed dinners every night.

Weekend funtivities

No crazy trips to report this weekend, though we did have an excellent time with some of our new friends in Kenya. There are few Americans in Kenya and they seem to come in two varietals: missionaries or kite-surfers. The missionaries are here longer and are generally more friendly and less drunk so we had a good time getting to know some of them this weekend. Whatever your position on missionaries is, these people all have fantastic hearts, have welcomed us with open arms, and are some of the most culturally sensitive and savvy people we’ve ever met.

The pastor at the church we attend (Dennis), his wife (Allison), and their two year-old daughter (Angela) had us over for dinner at their house on Friday, as we wanted to get together before they left for the US for the next five months. Allison is from the states, and Dennis is Kenyan but went to seminary in Texas, so it’s been wonderful to get to know them since we arrived, as they’ve made us feel right at home. They’ve given some good tips on how to watch sports, shop for veggies, and get various American foods that we’re bound to crave. Also, Dennis is 6’7”, and apparently they have a good tailor who can deal with men of our dimensions, so that’s good to have in the back pocket.

We arrived at their third floor apartment and were hit by the aroma of rosemary and garlic, two aromas what we’ve been missing for the last five weeks. Allison told us that she was preparing spaghetti bake and cheesy garlic rosemary bread. We definitely were ready for a completely western meal, and it was goood. We learned some more details about how Allison and Dennis met: she was working as a missionary in Kenya for several years, and he was at seminary in Texas before they met each other. He went back to Kenya after seminary, and they met and got to know each other for a few months before she returned to the US. They dated long-distance, and eventually got engaged and married in the states, before moving back to Kenya to head the church in Diani. I know that my and E’s long distance relationship was tough at times, but the US to Kenya takes the cake. It’s very obvious that people at church respect them both so much, and they really do go well out of their way to make everyone feel like family, from Ukunda residents, to long-term wazungu like us, to German’s on holiday for a week. We and the rest of the church are going to miss them while they’re gone, but we’ve met many other wonderful people through the church and it’s great they finally get to go back to the states for a few months. Allison has not been home for 3 years and in that time they adopted their daughter Angela (Dennis’ biological niece); they are so excited for her to meet her maternal extended family and we wish them a safe journey (they left today).

On Saturday, E and I headed to Msambweni, where the hospital is located. However, our intent was relaxing/fishing, rather than work. We boarded the two matatus necessary, and after a 90 minute journey, were there by around noon (of course, we did a long run on Saturday beforehand). We had planned to go fishing but couldn’t reach our contact so we settled for walking to a pretty amazing beach, which was much more deserted (read: fewer beach boys to harass you for money) than Diani beach. I very smartly forgot my book, so E read me a story entitled “The Media Relations Department of Hizbollah Wishes You A Happy Birthday” (her latest book). One beach boy did find us and though we usually ignore them, we dispatched him to procure coconuts, and he was happy to oblige. Those who grow up on the coast are adept at climbing coconut tree, and within 10 minutes, he was back with four fresh coconuts, which we promptly enjoyed. I’ve attached some pictures, and as you can see, save some seaweed, the beach is absolutely pristine, and basically deserted.





After the beach, we met up with Chris in Msambweni, and he drove us the short way to his house in town. Chris and his wife Jamie live with their five children in Msambweni. Originally from Texas, they have been in Kenya doing missions work since April of 2009. They work among the Digo people in Msambweni where almost 100% of the population is Muslim. To say their jobs are a daily challenge is an understatement. The kids (ages ranging from 13 to 3) and are homeschooled, so Jamie and Chris were very interested in hearing about my experiences with homeschooling.

They welcomed us with a very American meal of burgers, chips, veggies and dips, and chocolate chip cookies. We ate at a leisurely pace, discussed our relative paths in life, and enjoyed watching the kids dart in and out of the room. We also lamented the relative lack of American football here (they’re huge Cowboys fans), and agreed to figure out how to watch a few games together in the coming months.

I’m not sure exactly what we were expecting upon arriving, and I don’t think that this is quite it, but we couldn’t ask for a better start of our trip. While it is difficult and frustrating sometimes dealing with the constant assumption that we’re rich and should give money to everyone who crosses our path, it has been very easy to find people who are willing to offer us friendship, invite us into their homes, to feed us, and to genuinely try to get to know us. At the hospital, at the school, and at church, people have been equally welcoming, and we’re feeling less like foreigners every day.

M

Baking: Kenya Style

Many Kenyans do not have an oven but cook on kerosene stoves called “jiko”. This works just fine to cook many things but I assumed that baking would be pretty difficult. I was inspired last Friday night to try baking though when we were invited to dinner in the home of one of M’s colleagues, Francis and his wife, Atsubina. She managed to cook a cake on the jiko and it was pretty good. I would have used more sugar but most Kenyans don’t have a sweet tooth like I do. [to be fair, my sweet tooth is pretty legendary even in America]

We are going to have dinner at our pastor’s house tomorrow night so I decided to make toffee squares. This is a legendary recipe in M’s family that I made sure to learn immediately upon my return from my first visit. M’s entire family loves toffee squares and it’s a running family joke that his mom always makes them to carry to festive occasions thereby denying the family the chance to eat them. In fairness to her, the entire family consumes food with the speed of swarm of locusts, so I don’t blame her.

I have an advantage on Atsubina though because our flat does have an oven. It does have a hitch though: it only has two settings. One setting is “off” and the other is “on”. There is no temperature. Anyone with any [American] baking experience knows that baking requires exact cooking times and temps to achieve the desired result. Kenyan baking was a whole new experiment. The challenge was enhanced by the fact that we have no measuring cups and the recipe is in American measurements [1 cup, etc] and Kenyan ingredients are sold by the gram.

Check out this "cup" of brown sugar. It's as dark as coffee!


Nonetheless, M was game to help me figure out the measurements if it created a toffee square for him to enjoy in this hemisphere. Using what we had on hand [ yogurt containers, odd sized spoons, etc], we approximated measurements and used some old fashioned techniques. Below I am softening butter using an indirect heating method [that’s a nice way to say I nearly burned my hands off holding the pan that way].



We prepped the batter and slid the first batch in, setting our watches for the ~25 minutes of cooking time. Imagine our surprise when 7 minutes later, we smelled burning. So we’d functionally broiled it, awesome.

Max scrubs for surgery on the first batch. He excised the burnt parts and then promptly ate them. Apparently burned toffee squares are pretty tasty after a month of very little sugar!


There is only one rack so using a lower rack was not an option. Clearly we needed to do something to lower the temperature. What followed was a complex, very inexact task of turning the oven on and off to cook but not burn the toffee squares [it took about 35 minutes to complete the cooking of the second batch]. Luckily toffee squares have a very forgiving short-bread base so eventually we got a good approximation of cooking. Clearly though this oven is not going to work for a soufflé…

Here I am spreading the second batch:


The chocolate was melted, the nuts spread, we almost sweat to death [remember it’s 85 degrees in the kitchen and THEN we turned on the unvented oven], and the toffee squares were realized. Given the differences in flour, sugar, and nuts, they taste a little different but Kenyan toffee squares are pretty good! I’d invite M to say a few words about the experience but he’s busy smuggling toffee squares into his mouth, some things never change!

Theatre Musings

In the US, the operating theatre is known as a place where surgeons can “get away” from their patients. I know this sounds funny, but once the patient is anesthetized (put to sleep), and draped, to the surgeon, the “person” isn’t there anymore. What you have in front of you is a small window of skin, a canvas, if you will. This is why after the initial shock of seeing blood in the OR, that revulsion simply disappears for most people, as the blood doesn’t seem to be coming from a person who is in pain, but rather from a sterile field. I’m not saying that surgeons don’t still feel a great deal or responsibility for the person whom they saw in clinic, or with whom they discussed the risks and benefits of surgery, etc., but there is a certain remove once in the OR, as the patient is not conscious (there are exceptions, but this is the general rule).

In the OR where I’ve been working, very few cases are done under general anesthesia; most are spinal, so the patient is wide awake. This is something that I’m slowly growing accustomed to as I practice drawing blood and placing IVs on conscious patients; it’s strange to knowingly inflict pain on another person. However, the idea of being deep inside of someone’s abdomen while chatting with him just bizarre.

During some surgeries, especially ones with a lot of organ manipulation, the patient will actually moan in pain or give an “oww!” in Swahili! This usually encourages some sedative to take the edge off, but because the patient is lying on their back, there’s no opportunity to give more spinal anesthesia. There’s a real intimacy in knowing that a patient can hear everything that you say while you’re operating, and in being able to speak with and comfort patients at the same time.

This is something that we take for granted in the US. I’ve seen surgeons throw instruments across the room because the sedation was too light and the patient’s leg moved once or twice, though was still completely unconscious. Surgeons tend to let conversations wander; from “Hey Suzie, can you please call my wife and tell her that I talked to the plumber and he’s coming over this afternoon?”, to “I can’t believe that the Bachelorette chose Mark!” to things I cannot write in mixed company. I participate in this banter as well, and especially in urology, you can imagine that conversation tends towards juvenile jokes pretty quickly. While I’m not advocating surgery while patients are thrashing around, it might not be a bad thing to be occasionally reminded that you’re working on a person under those drapes.

Recess: Monkeying Around

(Click into the picture above to see the monkey in the center of the photo)

The older children (grades 3+) go to school from 7 AM to 6 PM so I see many of them walking when I head out to run at 6 AM. While this is a shockingly long school day by American standards, both parents typically work and education is seen as the only way to get ahead. A significant number of children must earn scholarships or they cannot go beyond 8th grade. Education is only “free” below 8th grade. “Free” is in quotes because they still have to pay school fees even for the poorest schools. We’ve heard ranges from 10,000-30,000 KSH per term (there are 3 terms in a calendar year) which equates to $125-$375 per term. In a country where an unskilled worker makes $1 to $5 a day, education is extremely expensive.

School starts for my kids between 8 and 8:30 AM. Kenya time is significantly looser than American time so we just start when the majority of the kids have arrived. We break at 10 AM for cocoa (or tea for the teachers) and snack. This is supposed to count as “snack” but I’m pretty certain that this is breakfast for the majority of children. The white bread and margarine that they are served is in stark contrast to the organic, peanut-free, health food required by many schools at snack-time in the US.

They typically eat in about 30 seconds and then scamper off to play. We dish out the bread and cocoa before retiring to one of the classrooms for a short tea break. On my first day, however, my cup filling duties were interrupted by blood curling shrieks from the children. I looked up to see them scattering away from one side of the play pit. I met Mary’s eyes and she said “Oh, it’s the monkeys, they scare the children.” Um, right.

Apparently the monkeys congregate at snack time to pick up bread scraps left by the kids. The teachers throw stones at them to get them to leave the kids alone while they’re eating. I actually saw a monkey catch a stone one of the teachers threw. These are not your average play-ground pests. The problem quickly became clear, however, when after snack the teachers threw the large scraps that the kids dropped to the monkeys. I really try not to question my fellow teachers who clearly know much more about Kenyan education than I do but I had to ask, “Isn’t that enticing the monkeys to come at snack time?”. Mary said, “Well yes, but where else would we put it?” “In the trashcan in the classroom?” I answered. “Well they’ll just come in the classroom” (and indeed later that day a particularly brazen monkey did launch a classroom attack for our trashcan). I suggested collecting them in a plastic bag and tying up scraps, etc. but these ideas were met with confusion. It just wasn’t a big deal to the teachers who knew that ultimately the monkeys were harmless.

My first inclination was to solve the problem to try and prevent the kids from being frightened but the Kenyan teachers didn’t see that as necessary so I dropped it. Life doesn’t need to be free from fear here, that’s not seen as a “right” of childhood. I’m not sure where I land on this specific monkey issue but I do understand their larger point. So, now I spend snack time pouring cocoa AND throwing rocks at monkeys.

Kickoff

Being in Kenya, we’re pretty disconnected from a part of the fall that we really enjoy: Football. After a few weeks here, I received an email from Williams-Sonoma (don’t judge me) inviting me to a cooking class to prepare various autumnal treats; apple cobblers, pumpkin tarts, roast meats. This of course reminded me of football and tailgating and I had a mini breakdown because it dawned on me that there would be no crisp, sunny fall days in Boston, drinking a beer before noon, having a pulled pork sandwich for breakfast, eating a delicious jam cookie, and heading into the stadium for the game. Alas, we chose this path.

We had pretty much given up on watching football for the year, save maybe the Superbowl, which I think is broadcast in Antarctica. However, we discovered that DSTV (the local satellite provider) had ESPN on certain packages, and we found a bar just down the road that carried it! We quickly looked online and the OSU-Miami game this weekend happened to be on ESPN. The planets aligned. The 3:30 kickoff made it a 10:30 PM start here, so we called the bar and the manager gave us the green light (fortunately there were no big “football” matches that evening). We headed to the bar at 9:30 to stake out a good seat near the TV, ordered a few beers, and began the countdown. On the couch next to us was a guy who was sleeping off what we guessed to be some serious day drinking. All the while, the bar was filling up with Europeans on holiday, very few looking older than 20, ordering shots and beers, which are impossibly cheap compared to in Europe and the States.

Two young British gentleman sat down across from us, the one on the right obviously more intoxicated than the other, but both quite cheery. They said that they had just finished up a few week stint in Uganda doing some volunteer work, and now were on the coast for a week to relax. We asked about what kind of work they were doing, and they said that they helped paint a mural. Now, I’m not anti-art; it can be beautiful, improve one’s mood, etc. However, seems to me that when things such as clean water and food are lacking, two university students painting a wall seems off-target.

Anyways, 10:15 approached, so I asked a man working at the bar to change the channel to ESPN. Within a few minutes, we saw an ad for the NFL on ESPN, and one saying that “College Football Lives Here”. Glorious, a slice of home. Then we saw tennis. I was hoping that it was highlights, but it continued. First set. “OK, well maybe they’ll just cut off the match at 10:30 and start the game”, we thought. 10:30 came and went. I asked the manager if there was perhaps another EPSN, and he said no, but that things were delayed an hour here. Alright, so it will be on at 11:30. We hadn’t planned on staying up watching football until 3 am, but so be it. We ordered another Tusker each and settled in. 11:25: Still in the second set. 11:35: Third set. At around 11:45, we threw in the towel.

While it’s unconscionable to an American (ok, mostly male Americans) that a #2 v. #12, a rematch of the controversial 2002 Fiesta Bowl, a game with big BCS implications, would play second shrift to a couple of Euros knocking around a ball while wearing their tennis whites, that is indeed what happened. This is the reality of living in Africa: No one cares, at all, about American football. We’re happy to expand our horizons in most arenas but the Ravens and the Buckeyes are pretty sacred in our house and I doubt that’s going to change any time soon.

Not for Sale

In the US, outside of commercial establishments, things are presumed to be “for sale” only if there are signs explicitly indicating their availability. We discovered this is not the case in Kenya where there are numerous signs letting you know that things are “not for sale”. We assume this means that everything else is “for sale”.

This is made more humorous because of the inclusion of contact information for the person who is not selling the aforementioned object. You know, just in case you’d like to discuss the fact that you can’t buy it. We imagine these conversations to include the standard greetings [Kenyans love greetings]:

Not Seller: Habari yako? [Translation: “Your news”; Meaning: “How are you today”]

Not Buyer: Nzuri sana. Na wewe? [Translation: “Very good. And you?”]

Not Seller: Nzuri sana. Habari za nyumbani [Translation: “News of home”]

Not Buyer: Nzuri tu, mke wangu ni mgonja [Translation: “Good only a little, my wife is sick]

They will go on with greetings of work [kazi], children [watoto], lifestock [ng’ombe, kuku, mbuzi, etc] until they run out of “news” at which point they can get down to not doing business:

Not Buyer: Nyumba yako kwa Diani siuzi? [Translation: “So your house in Diani, it’s not for sale?”

Not Seller: Ndiyo, siuzi. [Translation: “Indeed, it is not for sale”]

Not Buyer: Haya basi, kwa heri. [Translation: “Ok, well, goodbye”]

Not Seller: Kwa heri. [Translation: “goodbye”]

Interestingly, Kenyans love greetings but they are very brief with the goodbyes. Of course the above conversation is all theoretical but if we get really bored [which isn’t very likely], we may call just to practice our Swahili.

September 11th, 2010

When Kenyans discover that we’re from America, they are generally extremely welcoming. Besides Obama’s Kenyan roots, they love American music, movies, and clothes. When I visited my Swahili teacher’s house, all the apartments were blaring Beyonce and Jay Z and they quote American movies and TV shows frequently. Many people we’ve talked to have expressed great interest in visiting America above all other Western countries.

They seem genuinely surprised that we were interested to come here for a year and that we’re very eager to learn about Kenya. We are proud to be Americans but we do make it known that we don’t think America is perfect and Kenyans are generally very surprised that we don’t think America is always “better” or “right”. There seems to be a general consensus that anything Western is better and America is especially popular because it’s seen as a land of prosperity where you can work to get ahead.

It’s exciting to be one of the first Americans that most of my students have ever met; American tourism is extremely rare in this part of Kenya. Mary and I want to do a geography lesson with them so they understand where I come from and how it’s different than the European countries that send the majority of tourists. The headmistress also mentioned that she wants me to speak to the older elementary school students about the US constitution since parts of the Kenyan constitution were based on the US version. It’s a little daunting to represent an entire country of 300 million people but I think it’s important that I leave the kids with a positive impression of America. It certainly can only help that that they have a name to put with the country they hear so much about on TV.

We have not encountered any anti-American sentiment yet though we have heard that certain places in the north part of the country [near Somalia] can be dangerous for Westerners and Americans in particular. As previously mentioned, Kenya has a large and growing Muslim minority and in the coastal region about 20% of the people are Muslim with many pockets [including Msambweni] that are almost 100% Muslim. Nonetheless, we have been warmly welcomed as Americans but we do worry that will change if the Quran burning happens.

Multiple people have mentioned to Max and I that they have heard about this Quran burning idea. They want to know our reactions and the reactions of Americans. As I’m sure is clear to many of you, this is a horrible, horrible idea. Of course there are radicalized Muslims that may wish America harm but the majority of Muslims are like the Kenyan Muslims we’ve met, they have no problems with America and think it’s actually a pretty nice place. All this will change if they burn the Quran. The radicalized groups will still be radicalized but the average Muslim will be horribly offended too. It accomplishes nothing and serves to make a statement that America hates Muslims; it endangers us as a country and it endangers M and me while we’re here.

Some of my students are Muslim who just celebrated the end of Ramadan and I pray I don’t have to explain to them why my country burned their holy book on Monday. I can’t imagine anything more sad or disturbing for them to learn about America. Right now they believe that America stands for prosperity and freedom of religion and I hope that’s what they continue to believe.

Food blog #1: Breakfast (chamshakinywa)

Several people for home have asked us about the eats here, and there’s a lot to say, so I think we’ll address this in a trilogy of blogs, a la Lord of the Rings. A logical place to start is breakfast. E and I usually get up at around 6, as the people who work at the hotel behind us start chatting outside of our window at that time. Also, roosters actually begin to crow. We either go for a swim or a run, and then come back for breakfast, which we usually take (Kenyans always say “I took the eggs” or “I took the beer” instead of saying “ate” or “drank”) around 7:45. Thanks to Lucy, our breakfast is lovingly prepared for us. It is heavily biased towards fruit, which is abundant and cheap in these parts.

One of the more prominent fruits on the menu is oranges (machungwa). These are grown in the area, and on the way to the hospital, we always pass the farmers coming to Ukunda with the fresh picked oranges loaded into huge baskets on the back of their bikes. They’re usually a little more green than what we’re used to in the States, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s due to a gene that we’ve engineered into our fruit. Or perhaps they just pick them early. Regardless, they’re tasty, but not unlike oranges back home, except more seeds, which I’ve taken to eating, as I don’t have the patience to pick them out.

We then will take some papaya (pawpaw but pronounced “popo”). These are generally very tasty, though when they get overripe, they’re pretty foul. For the first week or so, mzee would have E’s piece, as she didn’t like it, but now it’s the first fruit that she grabs. Now if only I can make that happen with her and hot peppers…

We now move on to the passion fruit, known simply as “passion”. This is my favorite. We discovered the wonders of passion fruit while on our honeymoon in Thailand, and I was pleased to discover that they have them here as well. For those only acquainted to passion fruit shampoo, the flesh of the fruit actually looks revolting, much like orange grubs. However, it is juicy and so, so tasty although E doesn’t care for it so I eat her share every morning. Also, we’ve been told that there are three varieties; we’ve had two, but we’ll keep you posted.

On to the bananas (ndizi). They are everywhere here, and while they’re usually a little more ripe than I like, they are just like at home. I actually used my new Swahili bargaining skills today at lunch to buy some bananas in Msambweni, and was proud that I got two (mbili) for 10 shillings (shilingi kumi). Then I realized that that’s basically what I’d pay at Wal-Mart. So cheap bananas are.

Watermelon is an occasional visitor at the breakfast table, though I have nothing interesting to say about them. Next, we have tangerines. Don’t have much to say about them, except that they’re delicious. We don’t have all of these fruits ever breakfast, but probably four of them is average. Every other day on the way home from the hospital, we’ll stop in Ukunda and visit Mungai’s “pawpaw guy” or “ndizi lady”.

Many years ago, Mungai realized that Americans really loved peanut butter, so he keeps the house stocked with good ol’ fashioned chunky Skippy. I tell you, it is delightful to have a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the morning; it feels like home. We found E some nice strawberry jam at the grocery, with one odd feature: It’s in a tin can. We tear through the peanut butter, and I’m glad that we have it, as I don’t have the problem of getting hungry at 9 am.

Finally, we’ll often have a Kenyan-style omlette. Each is probably an egg and a half, and it has some peppers and onions mixed it. They are very flat and unrolled, but tasty nonetheless. Cheese is missing, but we can do without for a few months. A curious note about eggs: Mungai took the egg crates into market the week we arrived and probably received 5 dozen eggs. He came home and put them on the counter in the kitchen, and we noticed that they were there in the morning as well. And they were there a week later, and two weeks later. Refrigeration of eggs is apparently unheard of here. If you want eggs from the big Walmart-esque store here, just look on the shelf next to the canned goods. We haven’t been sick from eggs yet, so I guess we can’t knock it, but it just seems perverse. Also, the egg yokes here are milky-colored, not the bright orange we were expecting of the free-range (and I do mean free) chickens. We know that the orange depends on the beta-carotene in the chicken’s diet, and maybe they’re deficient here for some reason? If someone has an answer, please let us know.

Finally, no Kenyan meal is complete without chai. Add some sugar and tea masala (cinimmon, cloves, nutmeg, etc) and it’s quite nice. However, I have a problem with very hot tea in a hot climate. This is how breakfast goes: Eat fruit, eat bread and peanut butter, sip some tea, eat omlette, drink tea more quickly because food is gone, begin to sweat, listen to Mungai and E converse, sweat through my shirt, decide that it’s time to go to the bedroom and remove my shirt and splash water on my face, recollect myself, clothe myself, head back out to the table and finish my last sips of tea as if nothing happened. I’ll repeat, it’s basically winter here.

I'm somebody's kindergarten teacher

My cousin K was a 2nd grade teacher for several years before taking time off to have her own kids. She actually returned to work a few weeks ago as a kindergarten teacher. At our going away party, she remarked what a huge responsibility it is to be the first teacher that a child experiences. Now that I’m somebody’s kindergarten teacher, I know what she means.

I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t save up my cutest outfit to wear on my “first day of school”. I was a uniform kid for much of my life so I still get thrills picking out school clothes. I wore a brown knit skirt and a purple shirt made out of the traditional fabric that I wrote about a few weeks ago.

I showed up to the kindergarten section of the school grounds and was told that there are about 55 kids in kindergarten split among 3 teachers. I opted to work with Mary who has been patiently teaching me Swahili for the past few weeks. She’s been my angel here in Diani; she adopted me when I arrived, invited us to the church we now attend, and invited me to come to her house last week (that’s a blog in and of itself). Working with Mary is great because she knows M and also knows that I will need a flexible schedule in case of traveling, etc. It was funny though because the other teachers asked if I was a teacher in America. Um, not exactly. I opted not to dive into an overview of biotech strategy consulting at that moment and instead responded with “oh, I was in business”.

We have 20 kids in our class of 4 year olds (they start school young in Kenya) but we’ll often have up to 30 because one of the teachers is scheduled to leave soon.


Above are Gladys, Hope, Faith, Joann, Martin, and Abby taking chai and breakfast at school.

The class is split between children most comfortable speaking in English and those most comfortable speaking Swahili. This means that many directives need to be issued in both languages but the kids seem to have mastered communication between them.


Martin, the world's cutest trouble-maker.

Kindergarten is a relatively intense experience in Kenya compared to what I remember from American kindergarten. They can almost all write the alphabet, can count and write to 40, and some of them are reading short words. This is more amazing when you understand some of the challenges. The Swahili alphabet doesn’t have the letters “X” or “Q” and the fundamental sounds of the vowels are different. So when a child hesitates for what letter comes after “H”, you have to figure out if it’s because he can’t remember which letter sounds like “aye” or “eee” in his head (English vs. Swahili) and THEN help him write it.

A few visual aids that Mary created:


After kindergarten, instruction is in English and Swahili becomes a subject taught during one period of each day. This explains why many people don’t speak Swahili very well outside of the Kenyan coast since it’s only the “mother tongue” of about 8% of Kenyans.

I’m sure I’ll have many amusing anecdotes but today my main victory was getting the kids to stop calling me mzungu and start calling me Teacher which is how they address the other adults. The connotation is the all mzungu (white people) give the kids sweets because many, many people think it’s a fun field-trip to visit schools and orphanages while in Kenya to pass out candy before going back to their mixed drinks and sunbathing. It’s pretty awful (oh kid, it’s too bad that you don’t have school fees or money for a uniform but have a Jolly Rancher!) and I’m looking forward to dispelling that stereotype at least with my class. They’re adorable, I already have some favorites and I think I’m starting to understand what K meant when she said it’s a big responsibility to be someone’s kindergarten teacher!

Posing for the camera before class. Kids are the same in any country!

Wedding: Kenya Style

This was supposed to be M's post but he demured since "girls should really write about weddings".

The last 3 Sundays at church have included the announcement that two church members were getting married this Sunday. Apparently the Kenyan government requires the announcement of the upcoming nuptials 3 weeks in a row before allowing the ceremony to proceed.

We were surprised to learn that the ceremony would take place during regular Sunday service instead of at a separate event. We asked our friends about this and they said that although it is quite common for people to have weddings on Saturday like in the US, churches have started encouraging weddings on Sunday. Apparently Kenya, like America, has a rapidly declining marriage rate and many children are now born out of wedlock. Single parenthood is soaring and without the social safety net available in the US, it’s a real problem. Although we decry our current welfare system as inadequate compared to the European social systems, our system in still the envy of many Kenyans. To address declining marriage, the churches have been encouraging people to get married during regular service and church members cater a reception afterward. This lessens the financial burden on the couple and their parents and removes any financial excuse to avoid marriage.

The wedding began with two groups of children walking and dancing down the aisle. First, three little boys shyly shuffle-danced down the aisle and then two little girls more confidently followed dancing and blowing bubbles as songs in Swahili played. The bridesmaids followed dancing more exuberantly and took their time coming up the aisle. I would guess they danced for 2-3 minutes in their chocolate brown bridesmaids dresses (the color is currently also popular in the US for fall weddings, small world). With much fanfare, the bride walked down the aisle in a big, poufy, white, wedding dress and veil. She looked exactly like an American bride.

Instead of jumping right into the vows to complete the 20 minute ceremony that occurs in the US, the bride and groom were seated in the front and the preacher proceeded to speak about marriage for 45 minutes. He cited the common US statistic that 50% of marriages end in divorce and complained that they didn’t do these surveys in Kenya; nonetheless he felt the problem of divorce was just as bad. He lamented that Kenyans (and Americans too, I guess) seem to take their marriage advice from Tyra Banks and Oprah Winfrey, neither of whom are married. He detailed his recommendations for marriage, going into very specific detail about everything from sex to finances.

The sermon was excellent but definitely a departure from what occurs during an American wedding. It would be fairly taboo, for example, to discuss divorce during an American ceremony but the preacher seemed committed to using the occasion to teach the congregation. As we come up on our first anniversary, it was nice to hear his message loud and clear: marriage is hard but rewarding work.

Afterward the couple enjoyed the meal and cake prepared by the congregation and the day wrapped up. M and I agreed that we loved our wedding but that this simple version was nice too. How lovely to have your entire community come to your wedding and not to worry about invitations, favors, or guest lists. We did miss the dancing but something tells me that “Dancing in the Moonlight” would have been lost on this crowd anyway. Some things about America will just have to stay in America.

Totes McGoats

Goats (mbuzi) are a fixture in Kenya. As we walk along the road in front of our apartment, goats are bleating on our right and on our left. Big goats, little goats, black goats, white goats. We walked to the beach the other day and passed a line of six goats returning from the beach, as if they’d had enough fun in the sun for the day. We actually had to step out of their way since it was clear that they were not going to yield the path.

We drive through Ukunda, and goats walk alongside people, as if they too are running errands. In smaller towns, it is not unusual for the matatus to have to swerve around goats taking their afternoon sun in the middle of the road. Even in Mombasa, the 2nd largest city in Kenya, and very urban, goats still wander.

The idea of free-roaming livestock is foreign to Americans. American animals are neatly penned, and though I’m not a farmer, I would guess that the farmer knows the location of his animals the majority of time. Here, there is apparent chaos, as animals cross roads and generally mingle with the people, cows, and chickens. I asked our host how people know whose goats are whose. He said that the goats actually know how to get home. He then told us a story of an industrious group of goats that used to wait in line for the ferry into Mombasa in the morning, spend the day in town, and then catch the evening ferry home. Yes, commuter goats.

Goat is one of the more important sources of meat in Kenya, along with beef (ng’ombe) and chicken (kuku). It’s most popular form is nyama choma, which is grilled meat with various spices. Spending a lazy Sunday afternoon with a large pile of nyama choma is something of a ritual in many parts of Kenya, and Mungai is very excited to treat us soon.

From what we’ve seen, the male children appear to be responsible for herding the goats, as a small boy and his goats pass by our apartment once or twice per day. It’s sort of the Kenyan equivalent of the American dog, except that it’s the Kenyan child’s food source and one of his family’s measures of wealth.

Wasini Island

Today we put on our tourist hats again and took a trip to Wasini Island, about an hour south of Diani. We generally like to do things on our own without tours, but in this case, since M wanted to dive, we went with a tour. Kisite Marine National Park is off the coast of Wasini Island, and is regarded as one of the top diving and snorkeling sites in East Africa

They picked us up early and we boarded a dhow, which is a traditional sailing vessel borrowed from the Arab traders [the photo below is an example. The asymetrical sails make them tricky to navigate but it also requires less sailcloth which was very valuable]. We traveled out to the marine park where M was fortunate to be the only diver. This meant that he got a private dive with the dive master which was really amazing since that’s usually a very expensive luxury. We dropped him off and then motored away to the snorkel site so he got to see a much more protected part of the reef. He saw tons of fish, two turtles, beautiful coral, and when he was surfacing some dolphins swam up and he got to swim very close to them. They were actually circling and playing with M and the dive master!



Meanwhile, I went on a snorkel trip above the reef and saw octopus, several eels, and some very large reef fish. The reef is amazingly close to the surface in places which makes for great snorkeling. I also saw a hilarious tourist sighting: A very large man wearing a life jacket was clutching a life ring being dragged by a tour guide through the reef. At first I thought he had become ill or tired while swimming but it turns out that he just didn’t want to have to exert ANY energy. This was made stranger by his attire: a blue and white striped cotton long-sleeved button-down shirt (I’d put money on it being from Brooks Brothers) and khaki shorts. I actually swam closer to be sure I was seeing him clearly. Bizarre.

After our swimming adventures, we went to lunch on Wasini Island. While we were sailing in, we spotted some of M’s friends [see below] who played in the water for about 10 minutes before moving on.



Lunch was a delicious mix of crabs, fish, roasted coconut, and of course, Tusker beer. It was a really nice trip and nice to get M’s first Kenya dive under the belt but we both agreed that we prefer the non-tourist approach to our excursions.

Trousers, Mosquitos, and Ballpark Franks

Most Kenyan people know English amazingly well, but of course they speak British English. We are already choosing our words carefully because as E had to remind me the first day, I unwittingly discussed my underwear with several people in asking where to buy “pants”. Trousers it is.

In addition to word choice, we’ve had some fairly amusing pronunciation incidents. In church this past Sunday, one of the songs nearly brought us to tears. When singing in concert with a group, we try to keep our obvious American pronunciation to a minimum because it makes a jarring contrast with others as we sing along. You find yourself unconsciously singing with a Kenyan British accent. We sang along without thinking about it until we got to the part about being a winner in the Lord. The song emphasized that Jesus was a “winner” and Satan a “loser”, but it sounded as if Jesus was being equated to a certain ballpark food. We sang it without thinking about it but then started laughing as we processed what we had just said.

We are quickly learning to modify our word choice and clarify our pronunciation to get our point across though. Luckily the Kenyans are just as amused at our pronunciation and always willing to explain to us what they mean. I learned quickly to pronounce all the letters in words with native Swahili speakers so I spend my days studying “mos-skwee-toe” born illnesses.

We’re nearing the end of our third week and I’m excited because E gets to start at the school on Monday. Though she’s going to be teaching and helping out to some extent, I think that she probably feels a bit like a student going back to school as well. In fact, I believe she’ll be taking 1st grade Swahili! I bet she’ll be at the top of her class…

We’re heading south to Shimoni and Wasini island this Saturday to go diving in a marine park that’s supposed to be amazing. We'll update with pictures when we get back.

Laundry Day

It is Lucy’s job to handle most of the laundry in our place. Lucy is employed by Mungai to cook, clean, and do laundry. House help is extremely common in Kenya among anyone who works outside the home. Lucy is very sweet and has been teaching me to make tea and some traditional Kenyan dishes plus she doesn’t laugh at my terrible Swahili. In fact, Lucy and I first bonded when she did our laundry for the first time because she was quite distressed that she couldn’t get M’s socks clean. I assured her that I hadn’t been able to get them clean since the first day he wore them and she sighed and said “oh yes, it’s always like that with boys.” It opened the door for me to ask her about her family, it turns out that her son and M share a name. Small world!

As previously mentioned, modesty is a much bigger deal in Kenya so we wash our own underwear and running clothes each week. She would probably wash them if we mistakenly put them in her pile because she would never correct us but out of respect for her, we wash these things ourselves.

Since this falls solidly under the purview of women’s work, the laundry is my task. Not that M wouldn’t be willing to help but I think Mungai might be so horrified that it’s not worth it.

With few exceptions, washing machines are non-existent in Kenya so all washing is done by hand. In fact, hand washing is so ingrained that it’s actually a key part of a popular game show. The premise is that they offer you money or allow you to pick a prize. The prize may be larger than the cash offering or it might be a terrible prize like a t-shirt. The whole thing is sponsored by a laundry soap company so if you choose to take the prize, you hand wash a shirt to reveal your prize.

To hand wash clothes, you begin by soaking everything in hot water and the laundry soap. Of course this presumes you have hot running water in your home but that’s a different blog. We have hot water about 75% of the time so I plan laundry around those times. After about an hour soak, you start to wash the clothes by rubbing each piece of clothing between your knuckles to lather and scrub the clothes. Then, the soapy clothing is wrung out until all the excess water is gone and dunked into a bucket of clean water. The clothing is then wrung out again (over the bucket of soapy water lest you dirty your clean water) and hung to dry.

This is all very simple in theory but it’s actually a pretty tiring process since you’re kneeling on a wet floor, scrubbing and then wringing as hard as you can. Failing to wring out means it will take much longer to dry so you want to get it pretty well wrung out immediately.

After the first week, I knew it was one of things that I was not going to enjoy about Kenya though obviously it’s a minor inconvenience compared to the average women’s weekly washing here. Given that our single load of running clothes and underwear takes about 30-45 minutes, I can only imagine how long it takes to do a family’s laundry especially if you’re boiling water for each load.

It’s pretty hard on your clothes so I’m pretty sure we won’t be bringing much clothing home. I’ve also learned that the wicking and performance fabrics that we all love so much in the US are awful to hand-wash because they don’t lather well!

The upside is that it’s teaching M that wearing something for 5 minutes does not mean it’s dirty. I think the idea of “throwing a load in the wash” will never again be taken for granted in our house!