At long last.... I'm back in the lap of luxury (Marcus' house) and able to update my blog. I know you all have been waiting in EXCRUCIATING anxiety for me to post again (especially you, Dad:), so I'm happy I can, albeit quickly, as I'm off to Lake Baringo to camp for the week. PC is giving us pretty much this whole week off without it counting against our vaca--they want us to go somewhere and stay there through elections. So...kar'BU vacation!
First things first: I have named the bat. In an attempt to remain culturally sensitive, I have, after much thought and internal debate, decided on "Popo." In the end, I narrowed it down to two choices: "Wewe" (translation: "you") and "Popo" ("bat"). Wewe is what I scream at it as I'm flailing my arms and running around my house...when it flies around before I'm safely under my bed net. It also can be used to shoo cows, dogs or small children. I decided on Popo, though, because I like the ring of it and I like the fact that it applies only to bats, as it means bat. In Kiswahili. Or Dholuo. I'm not sure which. I heard Baba refer to it as Popo a few times, so... I gathered (because I'm a cunning linguist, you know) that it means bat. In trying to get the true meaning of my bat's name, I asked Baba the other day if Popo is the word for bat in Dholuo or Kiwahili. He replied "yes." I pressed on... "So... it's the word for bat in Kiswahili?" ... "Yes." "Or.. is that how you say bat in Dholuo?" ..."Okay..." "Wait, Baba, I'm confused... Popo. That word... is that a word in Kiswahili or Dholuo?".... to which he replied "Nice time."
In other developments, I have started putting a little mat down every night in the spot where Popo pees and poos, so that I don't have to sweep it out the door every morning. The first night I did it, Popo didn't pee or poop. So the next night, I didn't put it down. And Popo peed and pooped like he hadn't done it for two days. I muttered, "wewe...." and swept it out the front door, laughing, because Popo clearly has a sense of humor. After that night, though, I decided I would just put the bat mat down every night, regardless... and now Popo seems ot understand that it is ok for him to go there. So... all is well on that front.
Since the last time I posted, I have been to Nairobi and returned (we had a week long training there). The training was... okayyyy.... the best part of it, to be honest, was returning to Umer after it. It was just nice to really miss life there. And to go back and feel like I had really been missed. Right when I got off the matatu in Bar Ober, some people I didn't even know ran up to me and shook my hand and said "Ann! Ann! Where have you been! You have been lost!! Welcome back! We have really been missing you!!" It was nice. Note: I know my name isn't Ann, but that's what people call me here. And when I got back to Umer, my mamas were laughing and clapping and dancing... and they hugged me and it was just... a nice moment. There was so much joy there.
I really feel like a different person when I'm in the village. A better person. And I didn't realize that until I spent that time in Nairobi and came back. In Umer, I have so many fewer concerns, but the concerns I have seem... more real, somehow. More important. More worthwhile. In Nairobi things are fast and dirty and busy and all over the place. It's easy to fall right in to that "go go go who what where" mentality. In fact, you kind of have to to not get eaten alive. But when I'm in Umer, I feel like I can breathe, and take time to look at the sky and to look at people-- I mean, to really look at them and smile at them and wave and ask them how they are and really care about their answer. And it's a wonderful feeling. I don't know that I've ever really had that or felt that. Don't get me wrong, I've definitely felt those things before, but never all at the same time or continuously as I do here.
As far as work is concerned, I've got big BIG plans for January. I started meeting with a guy named George who lives and is from Bar Ober. I have no idea how we got connected, but he basically (er...literally) showed up at my house one day... and we started talking. And it turns out that he does work in community development (he studied it in University in Nairobi) and that he has been trying to get people together to help...change things. He heard that I was here doing similar things, so he thought "two is better than one" and decided to seek me out and see if we could join forces. I said of course. George is educated (in agriculture, too...) and dedicated to helping his community and he understands where I'm coming from, from a community development standpoint, which is... a really, REALLY nice thing. He understands that money is a quick and often sloppy solution to many of the most common, deep-rooted issues in our community, but, because his family lives here and in poverty, he has helped me understand why people think and say many of the things they do. And he is punctual. Which I am not used to at all. But it's great.
So... George and I are now a team. And our first project is to gather some baseline data about the state of our community so that we can better know where to start developing. In other words, we're doing a "needs assessment" in the form of guided interviews. We've been working to develop our questions, using some standard community surveys I got from the PC and adapting them. We're going to spend January (and however much longer we need) to visit houses and talk to people. And then, we're going to analyze our little hearts out. And thennn... develop a plan of action, based on what people have told us. The plan for developing a plan of action will in large part depend on what the interviews reveal, but... of course, the idea is to be as participatory and community-based as is possible (because... my Mom has taught me well:).
I am really excited to do this, partly because I love meeting and talking to people, but also because I am interested to see how people percieve their life and their community and what they have to say when they have the opportunity to say.... anything. I've been really excited about helping get the dispensary built, and about getting a protected water source and about helping the primary school... but... maybe we'll find that something else is more pressing or more important to the community. Who knows.
Speaking of the dispensary, I found out how I can make it so that people in the US can make a contribution to my project through the PC (tax deduc. and all that). I have to write a proposal and get it approved, and then... PC will put a link on their website with my name and project information... and anyone in the world can go to the website, read about what I'm doing and donate (or not). That's another thing I'm going to do in Jan/Feb... (unless I find out through my interviews that no one in my community really wants a dispensary)... so I'll keep you all posted on that front. If anyone is interested.
Other than all that.... ahhh, well there's so much more I have to say, but I'm trying to get all my things together so that I can get camping. I'll have to write more next week(ish). And I promise to do so.
Happy Happy Happy Holidays.... keep your fingers crossed for a safe and successful election here, too (Dec. 27th!). Love and miss, as always.
xoxoxo H
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Pictures!!
Yayyy! Pictures!It takes FOREVER to upload pics from this computer... but I'll do as many as I can before I go crazy. I'll do commentary, too, where necessary. Enjoy:) H
Sooooo, this is....me.... making chapati. (Traditional Kenyan food. Kind of a cross between a tortilla and naan. Really greasy. Really tasty.) Mmmmmm.
This is Manu (Emanuel), my sister Emily's baby. He's not even a year old yet (December), but he is a big boy. Cutest kid in the world. We are friends. I know it looks like he's crying, but I swear, I didn't do it. He stopped crying right when I came. Really.
This is our boar hole (I talked about it in the most recent post). It looks a little sketchy here, but the water is crystal clear. I still filter and treat all my drinking water. So does my family. Except for Baba right then. :) He's alive and well, though. No pun intended.
A few community health workers (CHWs), not to be confused with commercial sex workers (CSWs). Sometimes I get those abrrevs. confused. It's really unfortunate when that happens. This is clinic the "reception" area.
This is the building where our clinic is held. The woman standing in the back is waiting to see the Dr. The arm sticking out in the middle is...a man talking to the nurse (where the meds are distributed). The lady in front is....pregnant. [Note: This is not the dispensary that I want to get built... this is a temporary structure that we're using. The "dispensary" as it stands now was behind me as I took this picture.]
This is the Rotary Drs.' magic time machine. Actually, it's just a car. But they do work magic...
The shamba crew, taking a photo break. From left: Resila, Helida, Conslata, Jen and Lilian (the chairlady of the women's group, Umer Women Against AIDS [UWAA], I work with). This pic was taken at about 7am. These are the strongest women I have ever met in my life. Have I mentioned that before? A few thousand times? They are wonderful.
Umer Primary School. This the better of their two classroom buildings. The students in the window are Standard 8 (8th grade) students. 10 of the 15 enrolled students in that grade are orphans.
The worse of the two classroom buildings. This classroom is supposed to be used for Standard 4 (4th grade). Yeah.
So... I was trying not to disrupt classes when I went to take these pictures. As you can see, I did very well. Right.
I think these are Standard 3-5 students. I told them to make a silly face. The kid on the far left is my favorite.
Ok. That's just the beginning... I'm off to go be productive for a bit. More pics and stories to come.
Love,
Hannah
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Can't...think...of...a...witty...title....
I'm sitting in my friend/fellow PCV Marcus' sexy apartment with my feet up on his coffee table, drinking yogurt out of a carton with a straw and...updating my blog. Life is good. So posh corps right now...
I've actually made a list of things to talk about so I won't go blank like I usually do when I sit down to write here. I'm sure this post will be as discombobulated mine always are, but... at least I have a list. My mom would be proud.
I've started jogging (or is it "yogging"? is it a soft J?) a bit in the mornings just for fun. Aside from feeling like I only have one lung and that it's an underdeveloped, asthmatic and TB infected lung (I'm blaming the elevation, not my lack of fitness), it's been really fun, mostly because I laugh at myself the entire time. Because I look like an ass. Not many people (um...no one in my village that I've seen yet) wake up to do more physical work than is required to live here. People in my village are SO strong and hard working. In the shamba most mornings, walking to get water (and then carrying 20 gallon jugs back on their heads), cleaning their land, keeping their animals (and small children), cooking, I could go on. But...running? Just to run? People find it really amusing. Some of my favorite comments so far: "WHAT'S WRONG??", "...where is your bike??", "...what are you doing...?" followed by knee slapping and hysterical laughing, "Ohhhh sorry! Sorry!" like whatever I'm doing looks painful to the point of them feeling bad for me. I naively thought that everyone would be a runner in Kenya. That's completely logical, right? Kenyans run. All of them. But, yeah. No. It's not the case. My village thinks it's hilarious, though. And that's reason enough for me to keep doing it.
I have been keeping myself really busy lately and it feels so good. Among a few other things, I've been meeting with a builder to talk about the quote for the dispensary, I've written a letter to the Rotary Dr. people to try to get a protected well for my family and the surrounding families (other than rain water, our water comes from an open boar hole, fed by a natural spring), I've met with the head master at the local primary school to do a little "assessment"--the better classrooms have no doors, no windows, no floors, the worse classrooms have been deemed a health hazard by the Ministry of Health but are being used nonetheless--so... I've got to come up with a plan to fix that, and I've visited the nearest medical facility in Murumba (about 13km away from my village), just to check it out. Not that I needed more inspiration to get our dispensary built, but... wow. I was not prepared at all for what I saw there. Below is part of what I wrote in my journal that day:
"...Perhaps the first sign that something was amiss was the huge fallen water catchment tank lying useless on the front lawn (their main water source?). Near and around that sat and lay sick people and family and friends and boda-boda(bike taxi) drivers. A bare mattress lay unoccupied on the grass; next to it, a man sitting, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I parked my bike near the other 15 or so in front; just beyond that were lines of people waiting to be seen, some waiting to see others. Mostly women, most carrying babies. The erie quiet was punctuated with bursts of desperate coughing coming from one corner and echoed by someone else accross the open air hallway. There was no "hospital building" (per se)that I saw, just open air walkways connecting rooms of different purposes. The "system" for visiting a patient was...non-existent. Baba and I walked up to a room marked "WOMENS WARD" and when the old mama serving as the only nurse to about 12 occupied beds in the ward emerged and opened the doors, about 20 of the people standing around outside rushed in to hold the hands and stroke the cheeks of their respective loved ones. I stood in the doorway, just...staring. It was the first hospital I'd seen that didn't have shiny white floors, clean white robes, plastic plants, generic wall paintings and calendars, a forced "hush"ness, that awful sterile smell. I missed that sterile smell. I fixated on the IV drips, which were actually just inverted plastic bottles connected to tubes. Some of the bottles were punctured directly with hypodermic needles (maybe these things are standard?); some of the IVs were hanging on the iron window bars because there was nowhere else to hang them. There was no sound of beeping, dripping, breathing. No curtains. No privacy.
And then, everyone in the room gathered around and in between the beds and I watched as they lowered their eyes and then their heads and were led in prayers by someone among us. I focused my eyes on the little baby in the bed closest to the door where I was standing, his chest rising and falling, so labored. I listened, not knowing the words that were being mumbled but somehow understanding them...and I reminded myself that these people were the lucky ones who had mad it there. I still couldn't step all the way in to the room...."
Sorry to be so Debbie Downer... but, shit. I was really affected by it. I know getting a dispensary built wouldn't necessarily change things at that hospital... maybe things don't even need to change. Sometimes I worry that when I think about "helping" I really am just picturing bringing the world I grew up in to the world I'm in now. And that's not necessarily appropriate or necessary. Still, a dispensary in Umer (my village) could maybe help people not need to get to that hospital? I don't know.
Anyway. My eyes are bugging out. I have a lot more to talk about, but I'll have to write another installment this week sometime. I'll keep you all in suspense. Wuahhh hahaha.
Much love,
H
I've actually made a list of things to talk about so I won't go blank like I usually do when I sit down to write here. I'm sure this post will be as discombobulated mine always are, but... at least I have a list. My mom would be proud.
I've started jogging (or is it "yogging"? is it a soft J?) a bit in the mornings just for fun. Aside from feeling like I only have one lung and that it's an underdeveloped, asthmatic and TB infected lung (I'm blaming the elevation, not my lack of fitness), it's been really fun, mostly because I laugh at myself the entire time. Because I look like an ass. Not many people (um...no one in my village that I've seen yet) wake up to do more physical work than is required to live here. People in my village are SO strong and hard working. In the shamba most mornings, walking to get water (and then carrying 20 gallon jugs back on their heads), cleaning their land, keeping their animals (and small children), cooking, I could go on. But...running? Just to run? People find it really amusing. Some of my favorite comments so far: "WHAT'S WRONG??", "...where is your bike??", "...what are you doing...?" followed by knee slapping and hysterical laughing, "Ohhhh sorry! Sorry!" like whatever I'm doing looks painful to the point of them feeling bad for me. I naively thought that everyone would be a runner in Kenya. That's completely logical, right? Kenyans run. All of them. But, yeah. No. It's not the case. My village thinks it's hilarious, though. And that's reason enough for me to keep doing it.
I have been keeping myself really busy lately and it feels so good. Among a few other things, I've been meeting with a builder to talk about the quote for the dispensary, I've written a letter to the Rotary Dr. people to try to get a protected well for my family and the surrounding families (other than rain water, our water comes from an open boar hole, fed by a natural spring), I've met with the head master at the local primary school to do a little "assessment"--the better classrooms have no doors, no windows, no floors, the worse classrooms have been deemed a health hazard by the Ministry of Health but are being used nonetheless--so... I've got to come up with a plan to fix that, and I've visited the nearest medical facility in Murumba (about 13km away from my village), just to check it out. Not that I needed more inspiration to get our dispensary built, but... wow. I was not prepared at all for what I saw there. Below is part of what I wrote in my journal that day:
"...Perhaps the first sign that something was amiss was the huge fallen water catchment tank lying useless on the front lawn (their main water source?). Near and around that sat and lay sick people and family and friends and boda-boda(bike taxi) drivers. A bare mattress lay unoccupied on the grass; next to it, a man sitting, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I parked my bike near the other 15 or so in front; just beyond that were lines of people waiting to be seen, some waiting to see others. Mostly women, most carrying babies. The erie quiet was punctuated with bursts of desperate coughing coming from one corner and echoed by someone else accross the open air hallway. There was no "hospital building" (per se)that I saw, just open air walkways connecting rooms of different purposes. The "system" for visiting a patient was...non-existent. Baba and I walked up to a room marked "WOMENS WARD" and when the old mama serving as the only nurse to about 12 occupied beds in the ward emerged and opened the doors, about 20 of the people standing around outside rushed in to hold the hands and stroke the cheeks of their respective loved ones. I stood in the doorway, just...staring. It was the first hospital I'd seen that didn't have shiny white floors, clean white robes, plastic plants, generic wall paintings and calendars, a forced "hush"ness, that awful sterile smell. I missed that sterile smell. I fixated on the IV drips, which were actually just inverted plastic bottles connected to tubes. Some of the bottles were punctured directly with hypodermic needles (maybe these things are standard?); some of the IVs were hanging on the iron window bars because there was nowhere else to hang them. There was no sound of beeping, dripping, breathing. No curtains. No privacy.
And then, everyone in the room gathered around and in between the beds and I watched as they lowered their eyes and then their heads and were led in prayers by someone among us. I focused my eyes on the little baby in the bed closest to the door where I was standing, his chest rising and falling, so labored. I listened, not knowing the words that were being mumbled but somehow understanding them...and I reminded myself that these people were the lucky ones who had mad it there. I still couldn't step all the way in to the room...."
Sorry to be so Debbie Downer... but, shit. I was really affected by it. I know getting a dispensary built wouldn't necessarily change things at that hospital... maybe things don't even need to change. Sometimes I worry that when I think about "helping" I really am just picturing bringing the world I grew up in to the world I'm in now. And that's not necessarily appropriate or necessary. Still, a dispensary in Umer (my village) could maybe help people not need to get to that hospital? I don't know.
Anyway. My eyes are bugging out. I have a lot more to talk about, but I'll have to write another installment this week sometime. I'll keep you all in suspense. Wuahhh hahaha.
Much love,
H
Monday, November 5, 2007
Kar'BU Kenya
Karibu (pronounced "kah-REE-boo") means "welcome" in Kiswahili. Our volunteers from the dirty south have coined an alternative, "Kare-BOO" pronunciation. I am... obsessed. So... woo! Kar'BU.
I got a ride to Siaya last week with the Swedish doctors who come to do a bi monthly clinic in my village. A little ways in, we saw a HUGE crowd of people along the side of the road, people running from all over, arms flailing. Immediately I thought, "Awww God, a gory vehicle accident scene"... I started fantasizing about the doctors having to snap in to action and do some emergency road side life savings and whatnot. As we got closer we saw that it was one of those huge petrol carrying tanker truck thingies that had jack-knifed and flipped on its side... and that no one was injured (that we saw)... that the huge crowd of people running from all directions and watching were actually people who had come from their houses carrying their water jugs to steal free petrol. For MILES after the accident we saw people who had come all the way from home to jack gas from the broken truck, carrying it on the back of their bikes, on their heads, wherever. There were two police officers around... half heartedly "controlling" road traffic, but it was a crazy scene... unlike anything I've ever seen on the side of the road in the states. Kar'buuu Kenya!
Things are going really well, aside from my bat (see previous posts), who has gotten really audacious and saucy lately. I thought we had an agreement-- he comes out once I'm secure under my bed net. But a few nights ago he just... went crazy and was flying all over the place, up and down and all around, making a scene, even pooping NOT in the place where he always poops. Because I'm my father's daughter, I'll say that this without question means that the bat has rabies and will, in fact attack me in my sleep. Baba a few months ago gave me a spear (a legit, like... arrowhead on a long stick) to kill the bat with. Um... right. I'm a sharp shooter, but my rabid bat spearing skills are not what they should be... so... I'm going to be all Tasmanian devil, breaking everything in sight trying to kill that thing. Do they have "have a heart" bat traps? Are there ways to house train bats? I don't really want to kill it... but, man.... he's freaking me out. Ha.
I went to a Halloween party in Migori this weekend and got to see a lot of PC (and non-PC) buddies. A highlight for me was seeing a 27 year old man dressed in a primary school uniform (sweater vest, short shorts, knee highs). I didn't really have a costume, but I was wearing my dancing shoes. I danced for hours on end and was told by some Kenyans that my dancing is "just, yes, so nice, yes." I was honored. Particularly since 7 year old kids can dance circles around me and make me look like the least coordinated ass EVER... they are so good. We had a good time, nevertheless.
So... I feel like I went on Spring Break to Cancun this weekend... I danced more and slept less than I have in... a really... long... time. I need to recover. From my vacation.
I'm off to eat samaki kubwa (big fish) on Lake Vic with peeps... one of my favorite things to do here. Hope all is well... more to come.
Love and miss,
Hannah
I got a ride to Siaya last week with the Swedish doctors who come to do a bi monthly clinic in my village. A little ways in, we saw a HUGE crowd of people along the side of the road, people running from all over, arms flailing. Immediately I thought, "Awww God, a gory vehicle accident scene"... I started fantasizing about the doctors having to snap in to action and do some emergency road side life savings and whatnot. As we got closer we saw that it was one of those huge petrol carrying tanker truck thingies that had jack-knifed and flipped on its side... and that no one was injured (that we saw)... that the huge crowd of people running from all directions and watching were actually people who had come from their houses carrying their water jugs to steal free petrol. For MILES after the accident we saw people who had come all the way from home to jack gas from the broken truck, carrying it on the back of their bikes, on their heads, wherever. There were two police officers around... half heartedly "controlling" road traffic, but it was a crazy scene... unlike anything I've ever seen on the side of the road in the states. Kar'buuu Kenya!
Things are going really well, aside from my bat (see previous posts), who has gotten really audacious and saucy lately. I thought we had an agreement-- he comes out once I'm secure under my bed net. But a few nights ago he just... went crazy and was flying all over the place, up and down and all around, making a scene, even pooping NOT in the place where he always poops. Because I'm my father's daughter, I'll say that this without question means that the bat has rabies and will, in fact attack me in my sleep. Baba a few months ago gave me a spear (a legit, like... arrowhead on a long stick) to kill the bat with. Um... right. I'm a sharp shooter, but my rabid bat spearing skills are not what they should be... so... I'm going to be all Tasmanian devil, breaking everything in sight trying to kill that thing. Do they have "have a heart" bat traps? Are there ways to house train bats? I don't really want to kill it... but, man.... he's freaking me out. Ha.
I went to a Halloween party in Migori this weekend and got to see a lot of PC (and non-PC) buddies. A highlight for me was seeing a 27 year old man dressed in a primary school uniform (sweater vest, short shorts, knee highs). I didn't really have a costume, but I was wearing my dancing shoes. I danced for hours on end and was told by some Kenyans that my dancing is "just, yes, so nice, yes." I was honored. Particularly since 7 year old kids can dance circles around me and make me look like the least coordinated ass EVER... they are so good. We had a good time, nevertheless.
So... I feel like I went on Spring Break to Cancun this weekend... I danced more and slept less than I have in... a really... long... time. I need to recover. From my vacation.
I'm off to eat samaki kubwa (big fish) on Lake Vic with peeps... one of my favorite things to do here. Hope all is well... more to come.
Love and miss,
Hannah
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Alright, let's try it again. This time I'm at the PC office in Kisumu, so I think whatever I write will be ok (and not get erased), but you just never know. :)
Everything is going well--really well, actually. I'm settling in more and more, learning a lot of Dholuo and even a little Kiluhya, since I live right in between Luoland and Luhyaland (and there's a lot of intermarrying); I'm getting to know my community(ies) and just.... keepin' on keepin' on. Living. I feel really comfortable and happy, though, and it's a great feeling, because I at the same time feel really far away from what and where my life was a few months ago. It's cool to feel yourself becoming at home in a place that is NOTHING like any place you've ever been.
The family on my compound is (I know I say this every time) wonderful and really like my real real (albeit surrogate) family. I feel so cared for and cared about and part of them-- unconditionally; I also feel really lucky to have been plopped down in the middle of their life and immediately accepted. They are (or at least seem) so interested in who I am, what I'm doing, what I think about... everything. They really value my opinions and ideas, they want to know what I would do if X, and what I think about Q and how Z is done in the United States. I chat without thinking and share my thoughts casually, and next thing I know people are saying that I have such good ideas and I will help so much (and I'm thinking "Shit, what did I just say, I was just blabbing outloud").
Two days ago 12 of the members of my women's group came to my compound at 6:30 in the morning (I'm not kidding) to help me dig and plant my shamba (Baba has given me a pretty nice sized chunk of land for planting anything I want). The 13 of us dug, hoed (is that a word?) and 4 hours later had planted seed beds: cabbage, green peppers ("pili-pili ho-ho", my favorite Kiswahili word. Another volunteer once introduced herself to a Kenyan police officer as PiliPili Ho ho. He was not amused), carrots, cilantro, ginger and garlic. I wish I could articulate what it was like to see these people--mostly women-- digging and hoing so so hard in MY shamba at 7am. There are no machines to aerate the soil, no animals to plough, no irrigation systems, nothing. Everything is done by hand and it is not light work. At all. I was so in awe of these womens' strength and their willingness to come, without a question, to help me plant. They worked and worked and worked, and THEN went back to their homes to start their days. And that's how it works every day. Spending a few hours in your shamba is how you wake up; it's what you do before taking chai or porridge (and damn, that porridge has never tasted better than it did when we got back that morning). And helping one of your own--a neighbor, a friend, a relative-- is just what you do. You know they'd do it for you, but that's not at all why you do it.
While we were in the shamba, Zacharia (my supervisor) told me that he had studied the map of the US that I let him borrow and that he now is sure that he can find where I live when he goes to America. I had circled places of interest on the map before giving it to him, so he knew where I'm from. "St. Pauls, is it?" he asked. I smiled. "Yeah, St. Paul." He continued, "So, when I get to St. Pauls, which way do I go?" I laughed. "Left. Take a left." He laughed. "No, I mean, in St. Pauls, what is the name of your village?" And from there followed a classic and wonderful PC moment; an "opportunity for cultural exchange" as we say. I told him that we don't really have villages like there are here, that all the streets have names and if you want to find someone's house, you ask where their street is. And that in my town all the roads are tarmac (not just one), and my neighbors live about 5 meters from me and we don't have a shamba (GASP!). And that's just the beginning. Where do you go from there? Every day, every second there are comparisons to make like that, but it's only relevant to say those things outloud when someone brings it up. I could have a running monologue, "I'm going to the choo. In America, we don't use choos. Even if we go camping, there are latrines with toilet seats that we can sit on... we don't squat over a hole. In America, having 5 large cups of tea in one sitting is...rare. In America, tea with whole milk is not the same thing as water. If you are full, drinking whole milk does not make you less full." Etc. etc. [Note, I do not mean to write in a hostile tone; on the contrary, these are aspects of life here that I now find endearing and will miss dearly]. Anyway, last week my dad asked me if I ever wish that I could just drop someone from my community here down in to my life in the US. That innocent dialogue with Zacharia only confirmed for me that, yes, I wish all the time that I could do that. But what on earth would they think?
More to come.
Love,
Hannah
Everything is going well--really well, actually. I'm settling in more and more, learning a lot of Dholuo and even a little Kiluhya, since I live right in between Luoland and Luhyaland (and there's a lot of intermarrying); I'm getting to know my community(ies) and just.... keepin' on keepin' on. Living. I feel really comfortable and happy, though, and it's a great feeling, because I at the same time feel really far away from what and where my life was a few months ago. It's cool to feel yourself becoming at home in a place that is NOTHING like any place you've ever been.
The family on my compound is (I know I say this every time) wonderful and really like my real real (albeit surrogate) family. I feel so cared for and cared about and part of them-- unconditionally; I also feel really lucky to have been plopped down in the middle of their life and immediately accepted. They are (or at least seem) so interested in who I am, what I'm doing, what I think about... everything. They really value my opinions and ideas, they want to know what I would do if X, and what I think about Q and how Z is done in the United States. I chat without thinking and share my thoughts casually, and next thing I know people are saying that I have such good ideas and I will help so much (and I'm thinking "Shit, what did I just say, I was just blabbing outloud").
Two days ago 12 of the members of my women's group came to my compound at 6:30 in the morning (I'm not kidding) to help me dig and plant my shamba (Baba has given me a pretty nice sized chunk of land for planting anything I want). The 13 of us dug, hoed (is that a word?) and 4 hours later had planted seed beds: cabbage, green peppers ("pili-pili ho-ho", my favorite Kiswahili word. Another volunteer once introduced herself to a Kenyan police officer as PiliPili Ho ho. He was not amused), carrots, cilantro, ginger and garlic. I wish I could articulate what it was like to see these people--mostly women-- digging and hoing so so hard in MY shamba at 7am. There are no machines to aerate the soil, no animals to plough, no irrigation systems, nothing. Everything is done by hand and it is not light work. At all. I was so in awe of these womens' strength and their willingness to come, without a question, to help me plant. They worked and worked and worked, and THEN went back to their homes to start their days. And that's how it works every day. Spending a few hours in your shamba is how you wake up; it's what you do before taking chai or porridge (and damn, that porridge has never tasted better than it did when we got back that morning). And helping one of your own--a neighbor, a friend, a relative-- is just what you do. You know they'd do it for you, but that's not at all why you do it.
While we were in the shamba, Zacharia (my supervisor) told me that he had studied the map of the US that I let him borrow and that he now is sure that he can find where I live when he goes to America. I had circled places of interest on the map before giving it to him, so he knew where I'm from. "St. Pauls, is it?" he asked. I smiled. "Yeah, St. Paul." He continued, "So, when I get to St. Pauls, which way do I go?" I laughed. "Left. Take a left." He laughed. "No, I mean, in St. Pauls, what is the name of your village?" And from there followed a classic and wonderful PC moment; an "opportunity for cultural exchange" as we say. I told him that we don't really have villages like there are here, that all the streets have names and if you want to find someone's house, you ask where their street is. And that in my town all the roads are tarmac (not just one), and my neighbors live about 5 meters from me and we don't have a shamba (GASP!). And that's just the beginning. Where do you go from there? Every day, every second there are comparisons to make like that, but it's only relevant to say those things outloud when someone brings it up. I could have a running monologue, "I'm going to the choo. In America, we don't use choos. Even if we go camping, there are latrines with toilet seats that we can sit on... we don't squat over a hole. In America, having 5 large cups of tea in one sitting is...rare. In America, tea with whole milk is not the same thing as water. If you are full, drinking whole milk does not make you less full." Etc. etc. [Note, I do not mean to write in a hostile tone; on the contrary, these are aspects of life here that I now find endearing and will miss dearly]. Anyway, last week my dad asked me if I ever wish that I could just drop someone from my community here down in to my life in the US. That innocent dialogue with Zacharia only confirmed for me that, yes, I wish all the time that I could do that. But what on earth would they think?
More to come.
Love,
Hannah
Monday, October 1, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
This is hard
Ok. There. I said it. This. Is. Hard.
I'm sorry I haven't posted in forever, it is for no reason other than that there is no computer near me, so I only post when I come to Kisumu. Alas.... here we are.
Everything is going. As the name of this post suggests, THIS IS HARD. Every day. All the time. But, I am settling in to life just fine (I'm pretty good at adjusting quickly)-- I'm learning Dholuo, which amuses people to no end; I can eat ugali like a Kenyan; the bucket baths I mastered in Kitui... so in the sense of living/survival, life is fantastically sweet.
What is so hard? I'm trying to figure it out, and I guess not knowing what exactly is so hard is also hard for me (have I lost you yet?); it's like there's not one specific thing I can work hard to get better at or fix, there is just a general feeling of being a huge let down to my community (already!). I have been invited to and visited tens of community groups of all kinds-- my Baba is kind of pimping me out to all the local groups, which is fine with me (I'm here to help, after all). But, EVERY time, without fail, after we do introductions, in one way or another someone in the group turns to me and says, "So, what do you suggest for our group?" Pause. . . . . what do I suggest about what? "What do you think we should do to make our group better?" Well, I really know nothing about your group, I just met all of you, so it will take a little time for me to identify problems, maybe you can ask me about problems you think your group has? Pause. "Oh, ok, well... we started this poultry farm to try to make money, and it turns out it's really expensive and a lot of work. What should we do to improve our poultry farm?" Hmm... well, I've never done any poultry farming so I really can't give you much advice about your farm...Pause. "Oh. Well... we want to plant cash crops. What should we plant? What do you think?" You get the idea.
I'm realizing that though I am here as a "Public Health Volunteer" (a neat and tidy tittle, if you ask me), because I'm here to help my community in the way that they want and not to force feed them HIV/AIDS information (as important as I think it is to impart that knowledge), if everyone wants to know about making money somehow, then... I need to figure out how to help them figure that out. I'm not limited to the kinds of activities you might picture a "Public Health Volunteer" doing. I'm not limited to teaching people things that I've been trained to teach them. Hell, I get excited at the chance to touch on HIV/AIDS briefly in the context of some other conversation ("I don't know about poultry farming, but poultry farming... is related to farming... which is kind of like "planting seeds"... which makes me think of SEX... which is related to HIV/AIDS?!?! Good! Yes!") When people are worried about providing for 5-10 kids and community elders and cows and goats and chickens, if they can't do that, who am I to say that learning about AIDS is more important? I mean, they are both important because they are both related to survival... but the former seems more like a necessity, relatively speaking.
It has been really hard for me to go to "anti-AIDS" support and self help groups with high hopes of presenting startling stats and doing condom demonstrations, only to have people say, (basically), "Yeah... AIDS is a really big problem. So... how can we make money?" No one is asking me personally for money, which is an improvement (believe it or not), but everywhere I am, I am seen as a way to get money. And I don't really blame them. We're talking about a couple thousand US dollars (MAX) that these community groups need to DRAMATICALLY change the quality of their lives. If I start thinking about the amount of money spent on shoes or hotels or frosting in the US (in my own life, too, surely) and I try to imagine how far the same amount of money would go here... I could just burst in to tears. It's not fair. Is it?
Until my grant writing frenzy begins (I'll get trained in grant writing in December)... I am trying to set little goals... celebrate little victories (lighting my charcoal stove by myself-- WOOOO!) and not be completely overwhelmed by... everything... but, shit. It's overwhelming. Not to mention frustrating, depressing, HARD....
.... and just, wonderful. These people, my Mamas, the kids... are incredible people who have taught me so much already. No matter how hard things are, the thought of leaving them is worlds worse than the thought of facing anything I might have to face (though I am really f-ing scared of the bat that lives in my house, don't ask me why). So... that's good. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? (I've got to make sure that bat doesn't attack me in my sleep.) :)
Anyway, that's the news from Lake Victoriagon... hope all is well in all of your lives.
Thinking of you all always, per usual. Be well. "I know I am!!" (Harry Carry reference, anyone? Will Ferrell fans...? I don't know how to spell his last name, but I really am a fan. Really. Zorgus. borgus. I just got bit by the, love bat... AND IT'S DRIVING ME MADDDD!!")
Take 'er easy.... she's my lady and that's what I said... No? No. Ok. I'm going.
Love,
Hannah
I'm sorry I haven't posted in forever, it is for no reason other than that there is no computer near me, so I only post when I come to Kisumu. Alas.... here we are.
Everything is going. As the name of this post suggests, THIS IS HARD. Every day. All the time. But, I am settling in to life just fine (I'm pretty good at adjusting quickly)-- I'm learning Dholuo, which amuses people to no end; I can eat ugali like a Kenyan; the bucket baths I mastered in Kitui... so in the sense of living/survival, life is fantastically sweet.
What is so hard? I'm trying to figure it out, and I guess not knowing what exactly is so hard is also hard for me (have I lost you yet?); it's like there's not one specific thing I can work hard to get better at or fix, there is just a general feeling of being a huge let down to my community (already!). I have been invited to and visited tens of community groups of all kinds-- my Baba is kind of pimping me out to all the local groups, which is fine with me (I'm here to help, after all). But, EVERY time, without fail, after we do introductions, in one way or another someone in the group turns to me and says, "So, what do you suggest for our group?" Pause. . . . . what do I suggest about what? "What do you think we should do to make our group better?" Well, I really know nothing about your group, I just met all of you, so it will take a little time for me to identify problems, maybe you can ask me about problems you think your group has? Pause. "Oh, ok, well... we started this poultry farm to try to make money, and it turns out it's really expensive and a lot of work. What should we do to improve our poultry farm?" Hmm... well, I've never done any poultry farming so I really can't give you much advice about your farm...Pause. "Oh. Well... we want to plant cash crops. What should we plant? What do you think?" You get the idea.
I'm realizing that though I am here as a "Public Health Volunteer" (a neat and tidy tittle, if you ask me), because I'm here to help my community in the way that they want and not to force feed them HIV/AIDS information (as important as I think it is to impart that knowledge), if everyone wants to know about making money somehow, then... I need to figure out how to help them figure that out. I'm not limited to the kinds of activities you might picture a "Public Health Volunteer" doing. I'm not limited to teaching people things that I've been trained to teach them. Hell, I get excited at the chance to touch on HIV/AIDS briefly in the context of some other conversation ("I don't know about poultry farming, but poultry farming... is related to farming... which is kind of like "planting seeds"... which makes me think of SEX... which is related to HIV/AIDS?!?! Good! Yes!") When people are worried about providing for 5-10 kids and community elders and cows and goats and chickens, if they can't do that, who am I to say that learning about AIDS is more important? I mean, they are both important because they are both related to survival... but the former seems more like a necessity, relatively speaking.
It has been really hard for me to go to "anti-AIDS" support and self help groups with high hopes of presenting startling stats and doing condom demonstrations, only to have people say, (basically), "Yeah... AIDS is a really big problem. So... how can we make money?" No one is asking me personally for money, which is an improvement (believe it or not), but everywhere I am, I am seen as a way to get money. And I don't really blame them. We're talking about a couple thousand US dollars (MAX) that these community groups need to DRAMATICALLY change the quality of their lives. If I start thinking about the amount of money spent on shoes or hotels or frosting in the US (in my own life, too, surely) and I try to imagine how far the same amount of money would go here... I could just burst in to tears. It's not fair. Is it?
Until my grant writing frenzy begins (I'll get trained in grant writing in December)... I am trying to set little goals... celebrate little victories (lighting my charcoal stove by myself-- WOOOO!) and not be completely overwhelmed by... everything... but, shit. It's overwhelming. Not to mention frustrating, depressing, HARD....
.... and just, wonderful. These people, my Mamas, the kids... are incredible people who have taught me so much already. No matter how hard things are, the thought of leaving them is worlds worse than the thought of facing anything I might have to face (though I am really f-ing scared of the bat that lives in my house, don't ask me why). So... that's good. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? (I've got to make sure that bat doesn't attack me in my sleep.) :)
Anyway, that's the news from Lake Victoriagon... hope all is well in all of your lives.
Thinking of you all always, per usual. Be well. "I know I am!!" (Harry Carry reference, anyone? Will Ferrell fans...? I don't know how to spell his last name, but I really am a fan. Really. Zorgus. borgus. I just got bit by the, love bat... AND IT'S DRIVING ME MADDDD!!")
Take 'er easy.... she's my lady and that's what I said... No? No. Ok. I'm going.
Love,
Hannah
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