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.