Waiting out Westgate

When we first arrived at the hostel, we laughed at the people who were there but zoned out in front of the television, seemingly uninterested in the beauty and opportunity around them. But on Monday, that's exactly what we all did. News from the terrorist attack kept trickling in. We read about the White Widow, a white woman who had been linked to several other attacks in the previous years. We read about possible American involvement and alleged interviews given by members of Al-Shaabab. We listened to advice from embassies and friends in Nairobi, going back an forth on whether or not it was safe back at our home stays. Florence and I were placed in Nairobi. Was it smart for two white females to walk the streets alone? Every person gave a different answer. So we turned to the familiar: cheesy action movies starring overrated American actors. We zoned out, it took the edge off. We smiled at each other,  appreciating the irony. 

The next couple of days were a lot of the same: swimming in a picturesque ocean, chatting with locals and fellow travelers, lounging by the pool once the tide came in. Mombasa is truly a place that sucks you in. I can see why so many travelers like ourselves have come for a visit and have never left. We bought jewelry and rode camels and ate seafood constantly. We spent a day lounging by the pool, laughing and playing games, happily slipping into the carefree life. 

But it began to feel a bit like exile. Although we were surrounded by beautiful scenery, this wasn't what we had traveled to Kenya for. We wanted to go back to reality, back to Nairobi. 

Tuesday night we boarded the bus. We got the thumbs up from several other volunteers who had decided to return the night before. Things were safe though unresolved. 

We crammed into the back of the bus and tried to find a comfortable position that would last for the next ten hours. This bus was 700 ksh cheaper than the one coming in, and we had the bruises to prove it. With each speed bump we hit, our bodies flew up in the air. If you were half asleep and unprepared, the hard seat bottom came rushing up to meet your tailbone. If you were lucky, you'd clench your thighs and brace for the impact. Sleep was not a featured accommodation on this ride. 

We arrived in a place unfamiliar, found our taxi and immediately crashed on the couches of the volunteer house. In just an hour I'd be whisked off for a day trip to Maasi land. Sleep would have to wait. 

Congo River Beach Feast

Kyle seemed to know his way around Kenya and all the newbie volunteers trusted and admired him. He was one of the few who came to Kenya and made a life out of it. He was hosting a seafood bonfire dinner on Congo River Beach and we were all invited

Twelve of us hopped in the back of a pickup truck. We made a quick pit-stop at Nakumatt for cooking supplies before carrying on to the beach. The sun was quickly setting and we immediately began preparing for our meal: digging pits in the sand for fire, chopping onions and tomatoes, purchasing fish and squid and prawns. It was going to be a feast.

We mingled, meeting other volunteers, hearing about their placement, discovering the motivations that led them to Kenya in the first place. In between beers and bonding, waves of seafood that had been cooked in the sand were spread out on top of Kyle's surfboard or flattened cardboard boxes. The calamari looked like giant rubberbands as they bounced in between the two ten-pound snappers caught just hours before. They were smothered in garlic and lemon and the hardened squid ink made each band look burnt and charred. The taste, however, was absolute heaven. We laughed and stared at each other in amazement, sitting down in the sand to claim territory in front of the best calamari I've ever eaten in my life.

The sky got darker as the stars got brighter, twinkling their lights and showing off. Some became unhinged and hurtled across the sky, exiting as quickly as they came. We didn't recognize the moon at first. The horizon seemed to be studded with ships drifting in the night, their cabins illuminated. It was only when a local pointed to the orb that had risen ever so slightly above the water that we discovered it. The moon had started so low, orange like an ember. We could see all it's craters and dents, the shadows seemed to undulate with the water. Over time it rose and took its familiar form, white and small, a keeper of the night.

With satisfied appetites and sleepy eyes, we rode back to the hostel. It was Sunday so the pool-side bar was quiet, the barkeep sleeping underneath the counter, half expecting one of us to disturb him for spirits. Eventually we all fell asleep, some outside on the couches, others in their tents. A few were able to find open beds inside the dorms. Beds were not strictly assigned.

Our bus reservation to Nairobi was scheduled for the following night. I wondered, as I wrapped myself in a thick blanket and settled into the hard ground, whether we would keep to our original plan.

Suspending Reality in Paradise

Kevin was sitting with his feet in the pool, smiling unconvincingly as his eyes squinted at the harsh morning light. His cigarette hung carelessly from his lips. We had all stayed out late the night before, dancing and swimming and laughing at the bar down the road called 40 Thieves. We rode pikipiki to and from the bar. I held onto the man driving the scooter through the dark night, looking up at the stars and seeing more galaxies than I could comprehend.

Kevin gave me a weak high give and a "hey". If felt divine to put my hot feet in the water, somehow cleansing and pure. He read his book and I walked to the kitchen. Chapati smothered in Nutella and bananas along with a jumbo sized instant coffee was all I craved. As I waited for my order, I turned on my phone and connected to the Internet. Westgate Mall was still under siege by terrorists. A Somali organization who called themselves Al-Shabbab was in control. There were hostages and deaths and claims that only Muslims were being saved.

That's how we spent the morning, plugged into the news. We relayed back and forth new accounts and claims, we wondered why those in charge of our volunteer organization hadn't contacted us yet. We contemplated the safest move. Stay in Mombasa? Leave Kenya? Were we going to be targets too?

But all the speculating got exhausting. We cleared our heads with warm Indian salt water and found someone to take us snorkeling. Captain Emery put us on his boat and we sailed to the open water. The sun burned through our sunscreen and waves relieved out heated thighs. The rain wasn't as threatening as the day before. Clear skies and soft winds propelled us further away from shore.

Captain and I chatted in Swahili. I picked up new phrases and found myself deeply enjoying the dance around languages, the brief pockets of confusion. Sometimes, he'd break our conversation to shout to his boat mate, speaking Swahili with such speed and rhythm that I had to sit back and laugh; I really didn't know Swahili at all.

The water was shallow and the sea life diversity was slim, yet for $5 our two hour excurtion was fully enjoyable and a perfect distraction from the reality in Nairobi. We dove and floated and spotted creatures both pleasant and dangerous. Thora, a teenager from Iceland, had us pose for underwater photographs. Without food to keep the fish interested, we were taken back to shore, saying our goodbye and thanks.

Not wanting to return to the hostel where Internet was free and information was constant, we splurged on a seafood lunch as fresh as anything I had ever tasted. We waited about an hour for our meal, but only because they had to go out and catch it. One volunteer, Nico, ordered the octopus. We watched the fisherman drag its jellied body ashore and swiftly smack if against the concrete. It died and Nico was full. We paid out shillings and returned to the hostel, waving to locals and smiling at children as the followed us a few paces behind.

Unable to resist, I turned on my phone and updated myself with the latest news once back at the hostel. Children were dying. Hostages remained. Explosions were seen and bodies were piling up. The number of deaths had reached up to 50 and there was no end in sight. And what was worse, we recieved no helpful advice or direction from our volunteer organization or embassy. We were abandoned, free to make our own decisions which could determine life or death.

I was completely overwhelmed. Was this the Kenya everyone had been warning me about? Was I so wrong about it all? Doubt shrouded over my and I wept. I wept for my security, I wept for my stubborn idealism and for the people and for the country and for the world.

I wept for the way I feared this would change me.

A Lucky Escape to Mombasa

"Rain," Sierra sighed as she put her phone on the table, "it's all rain." We looked at each other. I assessed the reaction of the others. "Oh well!" Florence declared, "Mombasa, here we come." We had only been working at our placements for a week, but the possibility of a beach escape with fellow Westerners was too appealing. We boarded the bus at 10:00pm and hoped that the forecast would reconsider.

There were ten of us in all. I spotted Nolan, my airport pick-up buddy, by his army-green hat and scruffy beard. We hadn't seen each other since orientation took us on our separate ways. It felt like I was reconnecting with a long lost friend, yet we hardly knew each other.We settled down on the bus, each claiming two consecutive seats of luxury bedding. Ten hours on the road was a completely reasonable journey considering my 30 hour trip just a week before.

By 5:00am I was awake and watching the sun encroach on the horizon. We watched in silence as locals skipped along the side of the road, heading to work at the break of dawn. Mombasa's city center was the usual bustle of taxis and buses. Sand dusted the streets and collected at the median. Wind from the coast left buildings filed down, looking soggy and tired. It seemed as if the Indian Ocean took its strength out on the beach towns just the same as the Atlantic and the Pacific.

We divided into taxis to take the remaining miles to the hostel in Diani Beach. The city streets eventually gave way to the rural scenery. We spotted beautiful homes scattering sparingly. Muslim girls were walking to Saturday school in their uniforms. Few words were exchanged as we absorbed a different side of Kenya. We stopped once to let a troop of baboons cross the road.

The others had already arrived by the time we entered the hostel. Some were settling in to a much deserved breakfast, others were taking advantage of the 24 hour bar. It was 8:00am and we had just arrived in paradise. The beach was a stone's throw from our beds and our available activities ranged from camel rides to snorkeling to nights clubs down the road.

White sand and blue waves expanded in both directions. Fishing boats made from tree trunks decorated the horizon. We walked past the camels that would later scoop us up and sway down the sand. After picking a spot that seemed clear of fishlines, we dove into the warm, shallow water. Our swim didn't last long; the waves stood up taller and the rain hit the sides of our faces, at first warm and delicate, then harder and with more passion.

We decided to find a matatu to take us into town. Before we reached the main road to hail one, locals were shouting to us, trying to outsell the other drivers to profit from mzungu prices. A car picked at random and 30 shillings later, we hopped out to find the familiar store called Nakumatt. It's equivalent would be a Target or a Walmart, selling cheap products from camping gear to toothpaste, all packaged for Western eyes.

I scoured the aisles for a sleeping bag. I would need one for the hostel tent I had booked. As I passed the shelves, I saw many sales associates gathered around the TV mounted on the wall. They were watching live coverage from Nairobi. A shopping mall called Westgate was under attacked. Westerners were the suspected target. It was 10 minutes away from where we had hopped the bus just twelve hours before.

I found the others and we stated our speculations. But our main feeling was relief. Our trip to Mombasa couldn't have had better timing.

Back at the hostel, I got a hold of Mom and Dad. It was about 5 or 6 in their morning their time, but I knew they would hear the news when I had already gone to sleep. I reassured them that I was safe in Mombasa, half a days travel from the chaos in Nairobi.

I hung up and reflected. I had originally said no to the weekend trip. What would I have done during my weekend in Nairobi? Gone to the Monkey Center? Probably. Met up with other friends? Most likely. Explored the giant shopping mall that catered to mzungus desperate for Western norms? No doubt. I shook off the shivers that found their way down my back and turned towards the pool. The bar had already turned on its neon lights and music boomed across the yard. I put a Tusker on my tab and joined the others in conversation. We didn't speak about Westgate Mall for the rest of the night. We assumed it would be resolved in the morning.

A Prayer and a Cheer

Today we got invited to attend the school church before classes. Prior to the service, the students formed assembly in the school yard and raised their flag. The prefects marched to the front and led the salute, three fingers at the forehead turned outward. The national anthem was sung by all the grades with one little boy dancing in the front row, his hips thrusting forward and back with vigor while his face remained comically stern.

After assembly we followed into the building. They removed the wooden divides that separated Grade 4 from Grade 5, fitting everyone into the space. Students scrambled to grab desks from the other rooms so each person had a seat. Florence and I were given our usual blue plastic chairs--the ones they reserve for visitors and guests.

Immediately, the room boomed with clapping and song. Each class led a call and response portion, then walked their way down the aisle keeping rhythm while singing their song. Then the teachers were greeted and prayed for, one by one. Each teacher, in turn, led the chorus--students clapping and making gestures to match the words. A drum was passed from one hand to the next.

Florence and I were next to be greeted. Teacher Steve signaled for us to stand up and lead a song of our own. We smiled and waved and said asanteni sana. We didn't know any Swahili songs and they knew just as much. The students giggled and the other teachers smiled our way.

Teacher Macori stood up to transfer the attention and started a prayer song. It was filled with musical notes running  past each other; the song was powerful and haunting. Slowly the students joined in, but their faces were somber. Macori's hand stayed in the air by her head, surrendering to a message we couldn't understand. While some students sang, they put their faces in their hands, Macori's face looked pained and sad. This was a song of grief--a public acknowledgement of hardships, a verbal plea for burdens to be lifted.

With a prayer and a cheer, church was over. Desks were run back to their original classrooms and students ran to their field for recess. Florence and I were invited to the teacher's circle to chat and exchange cultural hand games. We laughed and bonded and silently respected the release that church had provided just minutes before. Suddenly, the bell rang and class was to be resumed; another day of school at Rumwe.

Navigating Roads, Language and Lunch

Full bellies of chai and mandazi sent us on our way to school. The rain from the night left matatus stuck, owners and those passing by helped to push them out of slippery pockets. We skipped and jumped across puddles of water, mud, trash and waste. The street shops were already alive and selling. 

After greeting Principal Resper, we entered the Grade 4 classroom. Everyone was anticipating our arrival, teacher was still away at a funeral. We started with a game of Beat Detective during PE then played Around The World for math. We navigated poorly around language barriers as we tried to explain each game and their rules. 10 year olds are hard enough to control, throw in quizzical looks due to miscommunication and you get 20 minutes of direction, 5 minutes of game time. I tell myself  it will get easier. 

Florence and I packed leftover ugali and kale for lunch. No sooner had we finished our serving when we were summoned to the office. Principal Resper had a full plate of cooked banana and potatoes for us to have. It was a very kind gesture and a real treat. The kids were jealous of our good fortune.  I shrugged and dug in for second lunch. It's better to feel overstuffed and gassy than to feel the pang of guilt that comes with refusing a special. Good thing the food was delicious and her company was pleasant. 

I liked Resper. She had a warm smile and round happy features. She would hide her face when she laughed and was always agreeable.  She had a 7 month old son at home whom she very much wanted us to meet. Resper expressed her love of teaching and children. Even though her role gave her more disciplinary and administrative duties, she liked to drop in on classes from time to time to stay in touch with her students and teachers. 

I was so full and pleased with my meal, I almost forgot about the gathering of students waiting for her justice only an hour before. 

My eyes were heavy by 2:00. I wonder where to find a good cup of coffee nearby. Winnie only made chai in the morning which was not enough to kick start my day or override the starchy meals I constantly consumed. I couldn't be too upset though; during my next lesson I watched kids chew on wads of paper, passing the lump from one side to the other. Kids chew on pen caps all the time, I remember. Hopefully this is just another oral fixation. 

"I Want You to Stay With Us for Some Days..."

We walked to the school on our own this time. It's really a 20 minute walk turn 10 when you trade in African legs for your Western ones. Principal Resper greeted us and we chose a class at random to assist. I walked into Grade 4, hoping to see the charismatic boy named Francis who reminded me so much of a student I knew back in Baltimore. He was funny and friendly and seemed to have everyone's respect. Sure enough, his face was the first I found and I saw him silently cheer at my entrance. Oh yeah, we were buds. 

I sat at the back of the classroom as I had before, waiting for teacher to arrive. Everyone just stared. I stared back, smiling anxiously. After several minutes, I realized that the teacher was not coming. It was just me and them. Why hadn't Principal Resper told me the teacher was absent? Why hadn't she assigned us a classroom that was obviously in need of an adult? On the other hand, I saw this situation as amazing luck and eagerly jumped in to my first day of full-time teaching. 

It was double English period. Francis took the lead and showed me what page they had left off on and we dove into a lesson: the use of "a lot" and "a lot of" ( Matatus hoot a lot. Matatus do a lot of hooting). I realized that had I not been there, the students would have sat quietly in their classroom completing revisions in their work book. Maybe another teacher would stop by midday to give a quick instruction but for the most part, these kids had been unsupervised yet right on task. 

I fumbled through the day, making sense of their schedule and finding work for them to complete. Honestly, they may have been more productive if I hadn't shown up. Once I arrived they became loud, showing off and improvising school rules, quarreling over what exercise to complete and leaving me at the head of the room looking dazed and confused. But we rolled with it.

Lunch came and Florence and I ate leftover pasta in the office. We needed a break from continuous stares, pokes and hair pulls.  But we ate too fast and returned to the school yard after only 15 minutes. We headed to the yard to play hand games, answer questions and tell stories. Other teachers laid out on the grass, socializing, letting us entertain their students for a while. 

We sat down, trying to seem less conspicuous. One girl sat next to me on the  ledge and mentioned how some children were caught speaking Kiswahili on a English speaking day. Like most other things said that I didn't understand, I nodded and dismissed the comment. But then I saw students gathering in front of the classrooms. And Principal Resper sitting with a switch in her hand, eyeing them. The girl turns to me again, "they were caught speaking Swahili", she says, nodding towards the group. I understood. 

Principal Resper told us to go to the field. She didn't want people watching. Maybe she doesn't want mzungus watching. I didn't see where or how many times she hit them, and I knew my opinion didn't matter here. We resumed our stories on the other side of the yard as students trickled back one be two by three. One girl crouched by the wall brushing away tears but the rest of them jumped right back into play. I recognized some boys from my class. 

I taught the rest of the day, letting students play teacher for lesson reviews and drawing up a game of hangman during Kiswahili class. The last 10 minutes were revisions but quickly devolved into free time. Francis and Adalite scribbled notes in the back. 

A rush a relief hit at the sound of the last bell. Nothing is more exhausting than being perpetually confused. But as we said our goodbyes, I felt energized and proud. I made it through the day. And I get to do it all over again tomorrow.

We walked through the slum back to Winnie's, ignoring some shouts of "how are you!" and acknowledging others. Rain drops pattered and we wondered if we would get caught in the same downpour from last night, the one that allowed rising red dust to settle and stay. 

Once shoes were taken off and backpacks plopped on the beds, I unfolded the notes that Francis had given me at the end of class:

"From Francis to Helen

Dear Helen,

I want you to stay with us for some days, and if you a going do not forget us please. You and Florence are our best friends and will miss you. But if you go to where you live...if you want to please live (leave) for us your number so that we will call you. Tell Florence to leave for us her number. When you go and when you come back, come with your friends. 

Your Friendly,

Francis"

Rumwe Academy

When we arrived at Rumwe primary, the kids peeked around the building. It was their break time, they played in the dirt and grass. As word spread (mzungu mzungu!) more came to glimpse and we waved calling "sasa, sasa!" There was excitement and caution and shock and eagerness. I think I had a grin plastered on my face all day. 

The principal led us to each classroom and the students stood to greet us.  We presented a short introduction and the kids sang "hiii!" We walked outside to the next classroom, the school yard overlooking trees and rolling hills dotted with tin houses.  The sky was overcast, partly from the clouds and partly from the smoke rising from morning chapati and burning garbage. Over a short wall goats roamed and gardens of kale grew. It was hard to believe that the sticky city slum, crowded with sellers in their stands, stray dogs roaming lazily, women cooking mandazi and meat, goats mating casually in the road, was just outside the metal wall that marked the entrance of the school grounds. 

My Homestay in Kangemi

We woke up early, packed our bags and got picked up for orientation. I was stressed about having such a big bag and decided to transfer my belongings into a smaller duffel. I left my empty suitcase at Mary's, promising to pick it up later. 

Good food and good information met us at orientation. The coordinators wrote the wifi password on the chalkboard and we were all quick to check email before it began. I found out that I was being placed on the southwest outskirts of Nairobi in a slum called Kangemi. I got excited, knowing that I already had somewhat of a grip on the surroundings and had plenty of people to contact in the area.

After being put in and out of the same van (placement confusion) Florence and I headed to our home stay with Winnie, our host mom. She led us into her quaint, comfortable home where to two of us would live. Two bunk beds made up our room but no other volunteers would be coming.  Her toilet with a proper seat made up for the small company. 

I read the house rules and sighed. No alcohol allowed. Oh well. I guess my days of drinking Tusker with fellow volunteers before bed were over. But Winnie was kind and made excellent food. Florence and I settled in as we danced around conversation riddled with language barriers and thick accents from tree different regions of the world. 

Getting Comfortable in Kenya

Sleep didn't come as easily as I expected. I was exhausted but apparently jet-lag can take on many forms. 

Mary, our temporary House Mom, made us sweet cake and tea for breakfast. Emma, Christina, Nolan and I took eight year old Sarah as our tour guide into Junction later in the morning. 

We sat down at Java, a westernized cafe for caffeine and a second breakfast. A croissant sandwich hit the spot. Sarah ate a huge bowl of ice cream and played with our phones and sunglasses as we took advantage of the free wifi. 

Plenty of our moments are filled with pockets of silence. We sit and think and reflect and absorb what's around us. It feels so expected and natural but I sense the differences and the change. 

To Sarah's dismay, we decided to forgo the quick bus ride back to Mary's and walked the way. Some people stared, some ignored us, some shouted "mzungu mzungu!" We waved or smiled or just kept walking. Sarah demanded a piggy-back ride from Nolan about halfway. Kids pointed and followed her, her smile bobbing above Nolan's matted hair. 

A unsuccessful nap and a bit of lazy chatter followed. We quickly realized that we missed the window of sunlight to grab beers from around the corner. Warnings aside, the five of us tramped with empty Tusker bottles to deposit, returning home with several more warm beers to store in the freezer. 

Dinner was heaven. Maize and beans and vegetables in a salty broth paired nicely with semi-cold Tuskers. To my delight, the Kenyan version if American Idol was on TV and we had a blast watching performers shock and amaze the judges. 

We laughed then yawned then retreated to bed. I thought rest would hit me with strength, but to my dismay I experienced my first anti-malarial hallucination that night. I saw a shadow walk into the room. She said the name "Mary" twice, soft and questioning.  Then she just stood there, swaying in the middle of the floor. I thought, perhaps, one of my roommates was sleepwalking and it took several minutes to convince myself that 1) this wasn't a dream and 2) the person standing there was not real. I forced myself to close my eyes and go back to sleep. 

Karibu Kenya

The flight was smooth and we landed as the sun was rising. Only grass and a few bushes decorated the tarmac. A fast bus ride led us to baggage claim. Fifty dollars added the first stamp on my passport. I had finally arrived in Kenya. 

I slipped on a floor length skirt to cover my tight spandex, anticipating the conservative culture of Nairobi. Me and one other IVHQ volunteer were greeted by our driver, Andrew. Nolan the Canadian was no stranger to travel and had a small backpack to hold 9 weeks of personal belongings. We chatted as Andrew weaved us through crowded streets, passing overstuffed matatus and people walking to work. He drove us into oncoming traffic and swerved back into the correct lane just in time. 

We arrived at our temporary housing, my luggage hauled into a room with 4 other girls. They were just getting up and heading out to breakfast. I was so mixed up by the time difference that I though breakfast must be eaten very late here. In reality, it was only 8:00. 

We rode the bus to a place called Junction. It's the closest thing to a Western shopping mall and attracts all the tourists. Free wifi and coffee, a croissant and a bottle of water settled us in. 

I withdrew my first lump of Kenyan shillings and tried to familiarize myself with the size and numbers. Math under pressure is not my strong suit. But bartering is a challenge I'm willing to accept. 

We rode on a bus to to downtown, soundtrack courtesy of old r&b and pop (Brandy, ABBA). 

We perused some shops and some people bought souvenirs to take home. The shops seemed to cater to tourists but was priced fairly. We wandered the streets as others spent their final shillings. 

Texas the taxi driver pulled over and had the 8 of us pile in. We navigated street and dirt road (sometimes off the road) to the giraffe habitat. Traffic was heavier than before and the 8 of us sweated and squished as the car stopped and started and lurched and bent to the roads. 

The giraffes were overpriced and underwhelming. They all stared at us with tired eyes, sauntering over now and again to be fed with pellets. They seemed full and lazy, closing their eyes to get five minutes of sleep before obliging us with their presence and entertainment. The keepers banged on buckets and called them by name, ensuring that customers got their money's worth. 

My eyes were stinging from lack of sleep and my stomach churned from hunger. It had been eight hours since I had been picked up from NBO. Hardly having recovered from 30 hours of travel, I was craving water and quiet. The taxi ride was half as long the way back and we plopped down, ready for supper and sleep. 

2 Tusker beers, ugali and kale, chicken and goat stew. I used my hand to eat the meal and watched as Andrew mashed the ugali in his palm and used it to scoop up the stew. I tried it but the cornmeal cake only crumbled and became soggy with the broth. Oh well. 

We recapped the day, chatted with locals and slowly went to bed one by one. 

I made sure to piss in the hole one last time, hoping not to stumble into the dark bathroom, mid-night, and slip my foot into someplace unpleasant. 

A well earned sleep to follow