Note:  I wrote this earlier this month, and have only gotten around to posting it today, as I figured I should post something for March … Languages and accents were everywhere I went, naturally, one does not expect to travel through various countries and areas for almost four months without expecting this.  In the past few months, I have encountered all kinds of languages and accents.  All these languages did not really bother me, as I was already a foreigner in my own country as a Deaf person – only a small percentage of people spoke my language, ASL.  I knew about accents.  I knew how they applied to ASL and KSL – if someone signed a sign a certain way, you could tell which region they grew up in, or which school they went.  I have read books with English accents in the dialogue, others with Scotland Highlanders saying, “Dinna ye know ye ken go?”  I understood, in theory, why people have a hard time understanding English in foreign countries, partly because of the slight combination of the country’s language and English, along with how letters are voiced out.  That understanding went from ‘in theory’ to reality, as pen and paper was my mode of communication with the various people I encountered. “Eny Cestions?” a guide in Egypt wrote, bless her heart, and it took me a few seconds to figure out what she was trying to ask as our tour ended.  I didn’t have any questions for her, but I realized that I had the good fortune to have it written down so I could take some time to figure out what she was trying to say, rather than only hearing it once and having it lost in the wind.  In the middle of the tour, she wrote “Tiebs driver” and for the rest of the time, I thought that was the name of the driver, until she made the universal sign for money, and I smacked my forehead and fumbled for some money.  Just when I thought I had gotten used to using “chemist” instead of the pharmacy throughout the two years in Kenya, I ended up in countries that uses the word pharmacy, alternating with other countries that uses the term chemist ... I have taken to using both words whether I need cough drops or rabies shots. In Kenya, tuk-tuks were the motorcycle taxis, with a bench and a roof on the back of the motorcycle, in India, it became an auto rickshaw, back to being a tuk-tuk in Thailand, but only this time it is with a lounge chair style of bench and painted various sparkly colours, and finally they are tricycles in the Philippines – motorcycles with a little sidecar attached. Now, I’m sure you’re a little confused about what all this have to do with the title of this blog post – well, here it is! I ran out of toothpaste in Viet Nam, and went to a small shop (a duka in Kenya, a bodega in New York City), and picked up a familiar brand’s logo, along with the familiar green colour, thinking I had picked up mint toothpaste, which I have used practically since I was a kid.  You can imagine my surprise when I tasted something akin to green tea when I brushed with that toothpaste for the first time.  I googled the translation of the Vietnamese words on the tube, and, yes, it was green tea flavored.   

As I travel, I met quite a few people, some friends of friends, some old college friends and sorority sisters, and some who were perfect strangers. All of these people have experiences in their lives that vastly differs from one another. Some lived in the countries that I visited, others are travelers for two weeks' vacation, some are in the country for work related reasons, and still others took six months or so off work to travel the world.

I had realized that fact when I saw a new friend stop to gawk at a goat in the middle of the road. I turned to look at this friend snap photos of this goat. I stopped myself from asking why the photos were being taken - I remember the first time I saw a goat walking down the road in Loitokitok over two years ago, and my reaction. I don't remember exactly when that became a daily thing for me, but definitely not long after I saw that first goat.

This friend came to me and gushed, "Isn't that the cutest goat ever?" I thought - this is one of the first tests of the numerous conversation that may relate to my two years' service. Should I be brutally honest and say that the goat looks just the right size to be slaughtered, and possibly would be eaten next week? Should I just off-hand mention that it's usually a normal occurrence in developing countries to have animals patrol the streets? Should I use that as a doorway to my experiences as a PCV in Kenya, to start a conversation that the other person probably doesn't want about the experience that was both hard and incredible for me? Or, should I just say, yeah, that goat is cute, and leave it at that?

My friend waited for a response, and I sensed that standing in the middle of the road wasn't the perfect time to begin a conversation of that degree, and I looked at my friend, who didn't look like someone who was ready to delve into the philosophy and ideals of aid to developing countries, so I took the easy way out, and said, yeah cute goat.

So, my life in the past two years vastly differs from the majority of the western world - I had lived in a developing country, and I am grateful for my travels as I meet various people and throughout this process figured out how to talk about my service so that I feel good about it, and not burdening people that aren't all that interested in it.

All because a goat decided to cross the street.

I thought that I should post something on this blog websie thingy at least once in the month of January. I guess I beat the end of the month by two days, and here's sort of what I've been up to in the past month and a half or so.

I went to four new countries, am currently in the fifth, read the best of Sherlock Holmes at least three times, saw amazing pyramids and rock-hewn churches, gorgeous mountains, met an old college friend who made a new life for herself in a new country and her friends, got bitten by a dog and got rabies shots, had a baby thrusted at me for photos, saw gorgeous temples and momuments, took over a thousand photos, read many books, went on numerous buses, trains, taxis, tuk-tuks, and planes (and had several crazy ticket experiences), met a good friend's boyfriend and traveled with him for a few days, joined couchsurfing, bargained a number of times, drank numerous cups of chai (damn the British for colonizing and spreading their love of good tea and bad coffee ....), bought a small trinket from each country, got so cold I had to buy mittens, got so hot I wished I was dipped in the Artic, was amazed at how fast the internet was in comparison to Kenya, watched a few movies (yay for foriegn accessible airlines!), met travelers from New Zealand, Australia, China, a couple on their honeymoon from India who admitted to being a Bridezilla and the poor suffering newly wed husband, ate incredible food (good bye bland food in Kenya!), planned various things for the next month and a half or so, and all in all am having a pretty good time.

Hope you all are having a good start of the year, and I'll try to post something next month ...

“This bus ride sucks.” I said for probably the 20th time to Matt when we were bouncing over dry river beds with dust swirling around and landing onto us, Kenyans, more specifically the Turkanas, their women sporting awesome mohawks and a full neck of necklaces piling into the bus until we were suffocating.

We were going to Lodwar, near Lake Turkana, with the objective of visiting the lake and doing some cool things around there, as our last trip before our Close of Service (COS), and just because we thought it would be something cool to do.

In a way, it was truly the perfect last trip for Paul and me, who will be leaving Kenya today, after two years of service (and Matt, in a few more months), as it was the truly bush Kenyan experience, nothing like our trip to Zanzibar.

Bargaining was definitely on the menu on this trip. And wasn’t about to leave at any point on this vacation until we jumped on the plane back to Nairobi.

We bargained the price of the tour of Lake Turkana, met with numerous people in the Kenya Wildlife Service, who we think probably wanted a piece of the pie we were providing, a few people from the other side of the lake, all wanting some certain amount of money.

We bargained the price of the cab from the crazy town of Kalokol, we bargained with the Beach Management Unit guy on the shore of Lake Turkana (and to this day, we’re not sure why we paid him, nor what service he was supposed to provide us). We bargained with the driver of the boat about not only the cost of the trip from Kalokol to the defunct Fisherman’s Lodge, but also from the lodge to Central Island. We bargained for the matatu from Kalokol to Lodwar, and for almost everything in between. Just writing about how much bargaining we did makes me tired.

Matt and I agreed – jumping onto that plane was one of the best decisions we ever made.

Last night, a group of us COSing PCVs along with a couple others went to the Ambassador’s residence for the annual Christmas party – which was exactly the opposite of our trip to Lodwar. It was almost like a company Christmas party at that place, a lot of food, a lot of drinks, and a good way to spend our last night in Kenya.

This morning, I finished the final few details and took care of the last few pieces of paperwork I had to do, and I have now officially finished my Peace Corps Service. I will be flying out this evening to meet a dear friend in Ethiopia, beginning my three months of travel.

I hope to be able to post a few photos here and there, but just a warning: posting will be very light, probably until I return to the States in mid-March, when I will try to figure out what to do with this internet bloggy thing.

On that note, I, along with my students at my school want to wish you a fantastic holiday season, a great New Year’s and hope to see you all next year!

A few weeks ago Mary and I visited the Gede Ruins to cross that off my Kenya bucket list. It was a gorgeous day, and we had a nice time.

On a lighter note ... a couple of months ago, I got a couple of new roommates! They moved into my bathroom sink while I was in South Africa.

Damn squatters!

Next week, on the thirteenth of November, I would have been living in Kenya for two years. Over the past few days, I saw on the facebook statuses of a variety of people from the group who came last year that they were here for a year, and I remember posting that very status on my facebook account last year.

Two years. It boggles the mind.

My close of service will be on the seventeenth of December, and I am set to end my two-plus years of service.

After two years of grammatical rules that I had to relearn and explain in KSL, on Tuesday I will be giving my last lesson to the Form Twos and Form Ones – on active voice and passive voice for the Form Twos, and phrasing grammatically correct questions and answers for Form Ones, before we start revision for the end-of-term examinations.

Two years of ups and downs, frustrations of trying to teach the phrase, “in spite of,” frustrations with the quality of the English textbook that never explain anything and expect the students to understand by utilizing only three examples, frustration with some students who would make mistakes in their homework assignments while they mastered the concept during class, frustration with students who seemingly mastered the grammatical rule in their homework assignments, but fail miserably at their exams. These frustrations I felt so keenly throughout the two years, as if the students’ failures were my own.

Over the two years, I discussed, a number of times, with students and other teachers, the American sense of accountability, and that because of the failures of the students, that also meant the failure of me as a teacher. My students were shocked and dismayed when I shared this with them, and this was a part of the process of getting them to open up, getting them out of the Kenyan mentality of not-asking-teachers-any-questions-to-avoid-offending-them, telling them that I wanted them to ask me questions when they did not understand a concept so I can better explain the concept or find a different way to explain the concept.

Other teachers were equally dismayed as this prompted some teachers to truly think about how they are teaching, and that the quality of Deaf education in Kenya is probably not the fault of the students, but rather the education system that failed the students.

In between all these frustrations, I went on a good number of absolute highs, better than anything I had experienced, when my students understood how to use past participates correctly, when they identified the vocabulary words on the exams correctly, when they improved their reading comprehension skills, and especially when I saw the quality of their compositions improve dramatically over the two years.

My students gave me almost all the credit for all this work they had done, all the improvements they had made throughout the past two years, and I have a hard time accepting this. My students talked about the uncertainty of who would be teaching English next year, and while I am grateful for the compliments and positive reviews of my work over the last two years, it is difficult and sobering to think about what will happen over the next few years in terms of their English education.

Today while typing this blog entry, I realized that I had made an impact on several students, inspired them to work harder on their reading and writing skills, I was surprised to find that it was enough. I wasn’t the idealistic Peace Corps Volunteer who started out my service with the aim to Change The World, but I did hope I would change a thing or two.

I think I did.

Oh, and by the way, only two more laundry days to go in Kilifi.

Many of the countdowns in my life have involved laundry.  Yes – you read that correctly – laundry.  Before we get to that, a thing or two about countdowns – there is about ten weeks left of my time here in Kenya.  A few weeks ago, Ginnie posted her 100 days to COS blog entry, two weeks ago, my group, the 2009-2011 folks, well, what’s left of us – 24 our of 42, came together for what could possibly be the last time we all would be in the same room for our COS conference.  There is about seven weeks of school remaining, and not counting the exam weeks, about five weeks left of instruction (probably less, as unexpected things have a way of happening around here).  I have numerous things to do before I leave, packing up my things, planning post-COS traveling with some people (there is already a long email thread between my group), finishing up my teaching, and trying to do a few last things on the Coast that I have yet to do so.  So, laundry.  During my freshman year in University, I lived in Krug Hall (to you current Gallaudetians, Ballard Residence Complex West, I think, but for me, it would always be Krug), the only dorm without an elevator on the campus. I lived on the 4th floor, the top floor of the dorm.  The laundry room, with only four washers and four dryers for approximately 300 students, is in the basement, so I became an expert in running downstairs to ensure there were free washers and dryers, then rushing back four flights of stairs to pick up my bin of dirty clothes and rushing back down. The last few weeks of my residency in Krug Hall, at the end of my freshman year, I was counting down the times I needed to do laundry.  I remember clearly the feeling of relief when I arrived to the fourth floor with my clean and folded clothes for the last time ever.  Years later, I was living in an apartment in Williamsburg, a neighborhood in Brooklyn known for tenement apartment buildings, where railroad apartments used to house immigrant families numbering in tens or twenties now only house two people.  For those buildings, bathrooms and laundry rooms were afterthoughts as immigrant families would use the outhouse in the backyard to do whatever they need to do and the laundry would always be washed by hand.  As a result of that, our bathroom consisted of an insanely small shower on top of the sink, and a toilet where you’d need to squeeze yourself in to sit on, and of course, no sight of a laundry room.  The closest laundromat is about a five minute walk from my house, and while the sight of Brooklynites walking around with drawstring bags of dirty clothes in carts is pretty common, I hated toting it down two flights, walking for five minutes and then doing laundry there.  I remember at one point thinking I wished I were back in Krug.  When I quit my job in New York, made arrangements to move out of Brooklyn, I remember making that last trip to the laundromat with glee. Yesterday, when I was washing my laundry, for the nth time, I wished I were in Krug, or even Williamsburg laundry-wise.  While doing my second load, the non-white clothes, I started trying to calculate how many more time I would be doing laundry by hand in my living room or on the veranda of my house, and I realized with a start, that many of my major life changes had included countdowns in loads of laundry. Seven weeks left of school? Pfft.  Five weeks left of instruction, whatever.  Ten weeks until COS, yeah yeah yeah.  Seven-ish laundry days left in Kilifi.  That I can relate to. 

“In America, are there pastors or preachers that makes promises and try to cure Deaf people?” Josephine asked with a dispirited air around her.  I was standing outside of my house talking with her and a couple of other students during our lunch break during the beginning of the last term.  “Unfortunately, yes.” I replied, uneasy of the direction this conversation would probably be heading into – religion is always a sticky area, especially here in Kenya, where they claim that no atheists exist – and knowing that I would hear yet another heartbreaking story. “I saw one of those pastors during the holiday.” Josephine began half-heartedly. “What happened?” I asked. “Mum took me to this church, not our regular Sunday church, and I had no idea what was happening.  All of sudden mum pushed me forward, and this pastor just grabbed my head and began shaking it.  I was scared and didn’t know what was happening.” “That’s terrible!  Was that for your Deafness?”  I exclaimed.  “Yeah.  I asked mum about what happened, and why it did – and she told me that she was hoping to be able to make me hear.” Josephine said.  “That’s just wrong.” I said.  “Do Deaf Americans have similar problems?” Monica asked.  “Yeah.  We don’t encounter these as often as you do here in Kenya, like I just heard about this pastor coming to Kilifi last weekend saying the same thing, but we do have a few pastors in the United States who said they could cure Deafness.  It’s always hard – it’s not easy being told that something that you are is not good enough.  It just sucks.”  I replied. This statement has been drilled in my kids time and time again, and really, not only in my kids, but in my friends and even myself as a Deaf person - I have encountered numerous people in the past, and will encounter quite a few more in the future that had and will have doubts of my capacity as a Deaf person.  Many of these people probably don’t realize they actually do this themselves, for example, not taking the time to communicate clearly with the Deaf person (essentially making them feel that they’re not worth the time or energy), looking at the hearing person for a response, rather than the more qualified Deaf person, and so on.  Needless to say all this drives me absolutely batshit. It especially drives me even more batshit when my students buy into that mentality and lack of self-confidence.  I know that this change will not happen overnight, but I do what I can to try and talk up Deaf people – trying to make my kids more confident in themselves as individuals, and especially as proud Deaf individuals.  “Oh, the hearing students are better at this than me …” “The hearing school plays football better than we do …” “The exams for the hearing schools are tougher …” I’ve heard these from my students many times over the course of last five terms, and probably will hear more of that over my last term.  Every time someone say something like that, I refute with an example, I talk about the time I borrowed the exam from the neighborhood secondary school for English, and compared to what I was doing myself – that some parts of my exam was tougher.  I talk about other Deaf Kenyans who have hearing family, brothers and sisters, and cousins that did not pass KCPE (the entrance exam into secondary school) while the Deaf individuals passed.  I reminded my boys of that one huge football match when they played a local all boys’ school and just absolutely killed them.  “Sure, Deaf people have challenges in their lives, but so do everyone else.” I would say.  Time and time again, I work hard to instill Deaf pride in my students, and I know I’m fighting the overwhelming tide, but it’s just something that I need to do as a Deaf person, to not only keep myself sane and feeling good about who I am, but also to hopefully see my kids grow up to become confident adults.  One evening close to the end of last term, after an especially bad day of non-communicativeness from teachers at my school, and a few exchanges of emails with Peace Corps that left a bad taste in my mouth, I walked around my school checking up on my kids to see how they were doing with their homework assignment and studying for the upcoming exams, we started a conversation about a couple of other teachers and how uncomfortable they felt in approaching them for something they need or whatever because the teachers would not communicate clearly with them. “So what does that say about me? That I’m an easy target?  That explains why you all ask me all these weird questions and for whatever you need!” I asked with a laugh. “Yeah, you’re easy!” Mercy said, slapping Shukurani’s hand, to laughter from the table I was talking with. “Don’t worry, we still respect you as a teacher.” Alii added with a smile, worried that I was offended.  From a table across the room, Lemmy stood up and signed, “Of course you’re easy!  You’re Deaf, we’re Deaf, and we love you!” The entire room erupted with laughter, as Lemmy was rarely that expressive.  After some more joking and correction of homework, discussing the focus of the exams with my students, I suddenly found myself in a much better mood.  Maybe some of the things I’ve been saying are starting to sink in. Just maybe.  

Photo taken by Mary - Ginnie and I saw the swish of this shark as she jumped for the bait.

This shark swam right in the front of our faces - maybe only a foot away - what a majestic and amazing creature!

Glee and smiles was all over our faces - I'm the one on the right.

This experience is one of the coolest things I've ever done, sharing a place right up there on the top with some of my most mind blowing experiences.

[9th attempt of writing of the South Africa trip blog entry] Hugging my travel mates, my partners in crime, the two people that I would spend the next ten days traveling across the southernmost country of the Africa continent, I didn’t know what I was into for as I sat down and started to chatter excitedly with them.  Sipping my cappuccino, we talked about the final few details and took a quick look over in the guidebook I had bought when I was in the States over the holidays.  After the usual Nairobi taxi debacle, we finally got to the airport, and then on the plane.  I thought, it’s finally here!  The trip I’ve been thinking about for almost a year and half as a gift to myself for turning 30, been planning for the past few months, and it’s finally here.  I hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed – I wasn’t, not in the slightest.  Is a travel tale truly a good tale if they don’t have a couple of bad taxicab drivers tossed in? We finally got to Soweto after a three hour cab ride – with the cab driver complaining that guidebooks should have not only the address of the hostel, but directions there – and there, in Soweto, I knew I got lucky with Mary and Ginnie – our first major inside joke began there.  We continued from Johannesburg to Capetown on the bus, after a few mishaps with the train – apparently they lost the engine – we were not quite sure what happened, but that was when I realized that we were truly Peace Corps Volunteers when we just shrugged and tried to figure out what to do … and watched a group of travelers complaining and arguing with the train staff.  Capetown was amazingly beautiful; our exhausted bodies and minds absorbed the positive vibes from the town.  We stayed at a hostel with energetic and welcoming managers – they welcomed us with quite a few shots of whiskey and tequila.  Table Mountain and the District Six museum were on our itinerary and we explored, ate, drank, and enjoyed Capetown to the fullest.  Picking up the tiny white car, Mary and I was excited to drive yet again, and especially on the wrong side of the road … we drove to Cape of Good Hope and hiked up to the lighthouse being knocked speechless by the beauty of the landscapes and the ocean.  It was good to see the Atlantic again – it was almost two years since I was last in that ocean.  Continuing on to our next port of call, Stellenbosch, we stopped by and saw the African penguins, where we snapped and gawked to our hearts content, glad to have a break from worrying about being culturally appropriate and being able to be truly tourists. Tasting wines at five different wineries, and a splurge on a cheese platter was next on our program, as we enjoyed the scenery of vineyards after vineyards, excellent food, excellent conversations – the trip was halfway over, and I was not sick of my friends, nor of their chatter – we had something good going right there. After Stellenbosch, we headed to Hermanus.  Hermanus provided to be a nice and relaxing place, a nice contrast to the Capetown vibe.  We watched quite a few whales pass the cliffs – Hermanus was one of the few places in the world that you could just stand on a cliff and watch whales pass by.  It was a perfect place to rest after the high of Capetown, the gluttony of Stellenbosch, and I could feel my mind wandering, and my shoulders relaxing.  The next day I posed for an Ellis Island portrait on the boat, rocking up and down on swells, in the middle of the driving rain gripping the steel railing with a pained expression, wind spent hair, and a scarf tied around my head, I looked for sharks in the water – and saw my first few Great White Sharks – excitement started to build as I knew I was about to jump into the cage and watch them in their world.  The waves increased and at the point before Ginnie and I was about to jump into the steel cage, the skipper informed us that we had only thirty minutes before we had to head into shore.  Jumping in the mind-numbing cold water, Ginnie and I gripped the steel cage, which was rocking with each wave, waiting for the sighting of the shark – I saw the first swish of the tail of a shark, and I couldn’t help my huge grin.  As the skipper command us to duck down again, I went under yet again, and saw this majestic creature saunter around the cage, completely in control, in its element.  After a couple more ducks and twenty more mind-numbing minutes, we had to go back to shore, but not without huge grins and amazement on our faces.  After the longest hot shower of the year, I finally warmed up, and then we headed to Cape Agulhas, the southernmost point of the African continent.  I stood there, knowing that this was one of the last days of our trip, looking at the Indian Ocean, the ocean of my current home, and the Atlantic Ocean, the ocean I had swum in numerous times throughout my childhood and adulthood, with a relaxed grin plastered on my face.  Looking back, I continue to think of moments of the trip that made me smile – the jokes, the chatter, the friendships - I couldn’t have asked for better friends to travel with, a better place to visit, nor a better way to spend my last break and vacation of my service.  

My inspiration - and my new favorite picture of the lovely Olivia! 

Outside one window, there was a fistfight going on between two matatu conductors, outside the opposite window, hawkers were hawking every type of DVDs imaginable, and I knew, with these sights, now that we were in Nairobi. My students, all six of ‘em were standing up trying to absorb every sight – it was the first time that some of them had seen Nairobi. “When we get off – we’ll need to rush to the shuttle bus to the camp, so just try to follow me – I’ll make sure that everyone’s still with me.” I said, when the bus started to slow down and reach the disembarking location. We got off, started filing down the street, and I looked back, seeing the boy from the dry and desert-like Hola with his mouth wide open in amazement, taking in every sight he could – I realized – he had never seen buildings so tall in real life. Content that everyone was still following me, I continue down the street, waiting for everyone to gather up before I crossed the street – asking everyone if they were all right, shining eyes and smiles were all the answer they could muster, and all the answer I needed. After a few more turns and twists, we got to the Embassy bombing site, the pre-arranged meet site with the rest of the students and a few of the staff of Global Reach Out. The bus had just barely enough room for the students, and they jumped into the bus, ready for their week long Kenya Youth Leadership Camp. Greeting Norma and Allen, we caught up, talked about complications and expectations of what was coming up over the following week – it made me all that more excited about what my students will learn and the people they would meet, get to know, and hopefully look up to as future leaders of the Deaf community in Kenya. The excitement is regardless of the long trip from the Coast – every time I travel on that bus to Nairobi, it gets longer and longer, and more and more painful … and the fact that the school that the camp was held at have been putting up barriers and problems left and right for the staff of GRO. Greeting a few old friends from last year’s KYLC, and from various other settings, I hugged some Kenyan delegates and introduced myself to the Americans of whom were all in college (making me realize that it was almost ten years since I graduated from Gallaudet – I’m getting old!). My realizations of how much older I was – was all swept away when one of the American delegates asked me if I was a teacher or a student. With a few chuckles, I replied, that indeed, yes, I was a teacher. Continuing into the dining hall, I put down my bag, and started to take a gaze around and the dining hall, watching the hands fly everywhere excitedly. It is always an amazing feeling for me to be in an all-Deaf environment even if I had been in this environment numerous times, where everyone, except for some of the school’s staff, was Deaf. It was a breather and a relief for me, as the recent term, for various reasons, was one of my toughest, not only for me but also for quite a few of my volunteer friends. Sitting in the dining hall, in a fancy neighborhood in Nairobi, where a technical school for the Deaf was located, eating traditional Kenyan fare with my students, I found myself chatting up a storm with them and in a grand mood. Hell, why wouldn’t I be in a good mood? I was set to work with smart young Americans and Kenyans, hopefully creating a new class of inspired leaders of Kenya. After this week, I was set to go to South Africa with two of the coolest people I know. Of course, I was in a grand mood. After dinner, a couple of the delegates started the program and discussed rules and expectations – during the first few questions, my students cautiously asked me if their answers were good enough, “If I say, ‘No Stealing.’ would that be a good answer?” “What do you think?” I asked them. “I think it’s a good answer.” “Then go with it!” I watched as their bright eyes become more confident, answering questions without asking me for approval, and interacting with the older students in the Western, Nyzanza, Central, and Nairobi provinces. “Be proud of being from Pwani!” I told them repeatedly over the school year. “Even if we’re a new school, lacking a lot of materials, have some problems, always be proud of being students here.” I think they finally realized what I meant by saying this – other secondary schools had storied leaders come out of their schools, some embarking to such heights that their leadership was impossible to ignore when you look at the history of the Kenyan Deaf community. I watched the Kenyan delegates, some recently out of secondary school, all of them coming out from the Western and Nyanza provinces, they taught, they laughed, they worked, and interacted with the American delegates and students. “Kisumu is where the next KYLC should be at!” One of the Kenyans said during lunch to cheers from some of the other delegates and to a bit of confusion from the American delegates. “No way! The West has enough leaders! It’s time to focus on the Coast! Coast, all the way!” I said with a laugh, standing up for my province and home for the past year and a half. Amidst laughter all around from delegates, we had a friendly banter on who lived in the better province. Throughout the week, we worked hard, eighteen hour days, suffering from sleep deprivation (and in my case yet another bout of Mister G), hashing out workshops, planning the next day’s schedule, identifying problems and addressing them, and laughing hysterically at Benard’s imitation of all GRO staff and support staff. The students learned loads about being future leaders, met many prominent people in the Kenya Deaf community, and shared their ideas and thoughts in discussions held by GRO staff. The kids loved every minute of it – again, the same complaint came up this year – that KYLC simply wasn’t long enough even if they lengthened it by a few more days. After a week’s worth of education, blue and orange tee-shirts, a safe and orderly election in which the Kenyan constitution was passed, I got my kids ready to head back to the Coast, and took them into Nairobi and put them on the bus. Watching my students leave, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, a huge responsibility off my back – I thought about how well the program went, and as a mini-reward, I decided to treat myself to a cup of cappuccino before I headed back. As I rode back, I thought, that was quite inspiring, regardless of all the problems. Even now, a month after the program, I realized that I don’t really remember the problems, only how positive the entire experience was for myself, as well as my students, and I can imagine for the rest of people involved. Like GRO’s motto stated, “Inspiration is Contagious”, I was inspired, and I couldn’t think of a better way of wiping out a tough term and getting ready for an exciting trip.

I have (hopefully had) a serious case of writer’s block.  A major one.  My notebook has scribbles of paragraphs and blog ideas I have tried to construct into coherent entries, and I have been completely unsuccessful.  This also is true for drafts of emails I have tried to write but left unsent, incomplete journal entries, and pages of jumbled words, unable to string out enough words to make an entry of enough quality for me to post or send.  I have been able to string together several sentences, but never more than a paragraph.  I have even tried writing about this very topic, and this is the first time I have been able to get past the hurdle of the first paragraph, and it’s finally starting to look like a blog entry.  It looks like a combination of factors have contributed to this, being extremely busy with everything that’s happening (and of which I will write about in a later entry, well, several entries), lack of inspiration to pick up the pen, or hit the keyboard, and combating thoughts and feeling taking over my brain and emotional core. The biggest thing, I think, is the fact that I will be ending my service in December, more or less.  That’s only four months from now.   I go back to the entries where I wrote about having twenty-two months left, eighteen, and so on.  Not long after that, early next year I will be returning to a life (my life?) in the States.  I’m excited, sure to say, but also somewhat petrified.  I’m starting to mentally prepare myself for the whole readjustment process and that’s taking a lot of mental energy away from this blog, from some of the other things I would much rather be thinking about.  Yes, I’m thrilled to be able to drive again, to watch television that always has captions, to watch movies in the big screen, eat sushi whenever I want to (not only when I’m in Nairobi), and especially not to be stared at and whispered about all day.  All that would be awesome, but readjustment won’t be that easy.  The two years of my life here in Kenya has a tremendous impact on who I am, the way I think, my feelings about Africa and foreign aid, and it also has great influence on the way I think about life in general, and it will be reduced to just a five minute conversation, if that, with most people.  That’s going to be rough.  It won’t be easy. I’ve been getting more and more emails from friends bringing me closer and closer to reality, emails about break-ups and new relationships, job hunting tips, pictures of craft projects … all the emails I have been getting up to now, in fact.  Only the difference is that now I will be more involved in these lives than I was over the two years that I am 10,000 kilometers away, so I’m taking note of these emails in a different way.  It’s not that I don’t want to be involved in people’s lives; it’s just that it’s a completely different reality from the one I am in right now. The reality also will be that I will lose touch with many of my friends here in Kenya, just due to technological issues and some of the cultural aspects – the Kenyan way of live and let live also means I’ll see you when I see you.  Maybe in a couple of years, maybe never.  I’ll keep in touch with a few close friends, but yeah, it’d be as if my two years would almost vanish in thin air.  That’s not a reality that’s easy to wrap my mind around.  Even seeing photos of my beloved niece makes me fact facts that time has flown – seeing this gorgeous baby grow into a beautiful toddler, seeing her teeth come out, turning a year of age, and will probably be almost two the next time I see her.  Our lives, my brother’s and mine, have changed in huge ways over the past two years, far for the better, I believe, and it’s just taking me some time to come to grips to that.  I have a new favorite photo of her that I’m using as a jumping point for inspiration – someday I want to tell her about this experience of mine, and writing blog entries is a good way to go about it. Now that I’m starting to wrap my mind around these facts, now that after a fantastic birthday, an inspiring week with an awesome bunch of Americans and Kenyans at Global Reach Out, a wonderful break and traveling to South Africa (photos soon, hopefully!) with some of the best people I know, a week of training at a swanky hotel on the coast, and a fantastic Mombasa dance party with many volunteers and our friends … I’m starting to deal.  My brain is starting to accept the fact, starting to get down to business thinking about all the things I need to wrap up here before I head out, a few plans I need to make with friends, Kenyan and American, and figuring out the next thing.  

Last term, I started teaching life skills class for my Form One and Two students - it is not a priority for the Kenya educational system as it is not a testable subject, but I thought that it was a important class, and that it might be fun.  We started talking about the basic aspects of life skills, job skills, self-awareness, stress and anger release, relationship and dating skills, just to name a few topics that we have covered.  We shared numerous laughs discussing some of the rules for dating and relationships, and during a class with my Form Two students, we then shifted into the discussion of the American dating culture in comparison to Kenyan dating culture, and it led some interesting thoughts and ideas from both the kids and me.  I started, “So, do you know what drawing a map means in Kenya?” I saw a few kids start to giggle, and then I asked, “Oh, so you do know!  Anyone brave enough to show us?”  Nervous laughter emerged as the kids looked at each other, nobody really thinking that I was serious.  Finally I started demonstrating the typical Kenyan female response of a typical Kenyan male advance – the man is supposed to be stubborn, and then the woman would keep saying no, at the same time, one of her feet would be “drawing a map,” giving a subtle response for the guy to keep asking until he gets the answer he wanted. The class erupted in laughter after my demonstration.  I asked them if they knew what I was doing, and they all started talking about what they know and filling out some missing information.  They had gotten information from their friends and in some lucky cases, from their families.  “So you don’t do it like that in the United States?” the brazen Josephine asked, with a twinkle in her eye.  Half of the class gasped, looking at Josephine with unbelieving eyes for being so brazen.  The other half of the class rolled their eyes and looked at me, expecting an answer from me; they had expected that I would answer all of their questions, as I usually do.  I laughed, and said, “No.”  “How do you guys do it, then?  Is it like in the movies?” Monica followed up Josephine’s question – because of Monica and Josephine, the rest of the class would be content to just sit back and watch how brazen Monica and Josephine would be.  “In no way is it like the movies – it’s a lot more messy and not as pretty.  The big deal is communication – people don’t talk in the movies, they just kiss.”  I said, to laughter from the class.  We talked about communication and how that impacted relationships and referenced to a previous class in which we played the telephone game and discussed how rumors could run rampant.  Josephine persisted, “But you Americans and Europeans kiss a lot.”  This statement did not just shock half of the class; it shocked the entire class, and sent everyone in gales of laughter. “You’re right, we do.” I responded.  I did not think that was the response they were expecting, as it left a usually talkative class totally mute and staring at me.  “As an American, it was always part of the husband and wife relationship to kiss your husband or wife when he or she returns from work, or from a vacation, so we’re used to that.  When we see the interactions between an Kenyan husband and wife, which is basically just a handshake after a long day at work, it just does not make sense to us, just like the way kissing in public during a relationship does not make sense to you.” “Why is it different? How did that happen?” Gona jumped into the conversation, another student, who is a close second to the team of Monica and Josephine in fearless questioning.  “I don’t know.  Cultures develop differently in different places.  Things change, and because everyone is so far from each other, some culture norms (at this time, I took the time to teach some cultural vocabulary … literacy in every possible way, dude!) just develop differently.” “Wait, like how there’s different rules in different Deaf schools, and maybe different signs because they just don’t grow up together?” Mercy asked.  “Exactly!”  I said with a smile, mentally cheering to myself that some of the kids are actually thinking for themselves or remembering the stuff that I had taught them.  We talked about some sign variations, different rules and expectations at schools, and this led into a discussion about the dress code.  Shukurani asks, “Why do the Americans not feel shame about wearing shorts and maybe a low cut shirt while out in public?” “That’s the culture out there.  Not everyone does it, but people do not take a second glance if girls or boys wear that or some other weird stuff.  There’s no shame – that’s the culture.  It’s the same way – I respect the Kenyan culture because I know the students and teachers wouldn’t probably work with me well if I wore shorts all the time, and when you guys fly out and visit the US, you’ll need to respect what people are wearing there instead of making fools out of yourselves ogling at everyone.” I explained. “But they don’t feel ashamed?”  Shukurani persisted with a disbelieving expression. I thought quickly and got a start of an idea, something, but I wasn’t sure where it would go. “Okay – here’s another way to look at it.  Who’s Muslim here?” I asked and a few hands went up in the air.  “Okay – if you’re a woman, when you’re married, what do you need to do?” “Wear a bui-bui (this is name of the scarf that goes around the head, hiding the hair of the woman).” Abdullahi said. “What happens if a woman does not do that?” I continued. Abdullahi looked at me in shock, “She would be ashamed!” “Okay, now a question for the Christians in this class - would you be ashamed if you did not wear a bui-bui?” Silence in the class as the students pondered this.  After a couple of minutes, Shukurani nodded, “Okay.  There’s no shame.  The cultures are just different.” I smiled and thought to myself, I just love days like these. 

Walking home, I see the housemother, Nyevu unknowingly standing in the middle of my attempt at a little garden (or shamba, in Kiswahish), right on the baby lettuce I had just planted a couple of weeks ago.  She was looking around, laughing, and talking with the headmaster’s twin daughters, who were also laughing. Sighing, knowing what was going to happen, I went up to the group and asked Nyevu to step out of my lettuce patch politely.  Nyveu held out a bottle of maize seeds and told me to plant maize.  I explained that I did not intend to plant maize.  “There’s no maize there,” I said, “I planted lettuce and a few herbs.” “What’s that?” Nyevu asked. “A sort of green leafy vegetable,” I searched for something that they knew that is comparable, “Something like sukuma (Kiswahili for kale – you never call it kale even when you’re using English, much like how shamba has found itself in the English vocabulary here instead of garden / farm).” I finished lamely. I then pointed out the little leafy lettuce sprouting out.  One of the twins promptly started pulling out a couple of these sprouts saying, “You don’t eat these!”  After seeing the look of despair on my face, she stopped pulling them out.  “You eat these?” “Yes.” I knew that they were never exposed to lettuce, and that they basically just meant well, but I was starting to become tired of the whole oh-look-at-the-mzungu-working-on-her-shamba-oh-so-cute scene.  After a few more moments of conversation, they shook their head with the indulgent look that parents gave their children as they left.  A few hours later, a group of my students stopped by my house to ask a few questions about the mid-terms that was happening this week, as I was lounging around enjoying my iced coffee.  “How is the shamba going?” Josephine asked. “Pretty well – I can see it growing up a bit, I hope it works out well.” I answered. “Maize?” Dennis inquired. “No, no maize.  I’m growing lettuce.” I wearily responded as I wondered if growing lettuce, which I missed over the last year and half, was really worth the attempt at a garden.  “What’s that?” Gona asked. “An leafy vegetable – used mainly in salads, a popular dish in the United States.” I said.  “Something like sukuma, and you don’t cook it.” “Whaddya mean?!  You don’t cook it?!” Osman, Dennis, and Josephine all exclaimed at the same time.  “How do you eat it?” Josephine asked. “You eat it with onions, carrots, cheese, nuts, whatever you like, then add dressing, which is mostly oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, and maybe some mustard – depends on one’s taste.” I explained. Monica mused, “There’s no way I can eat uncooked food.  I’ve never eaten uncooked food.” Gona added, “How can you eat it uncooked?” “Do you have the seeds? Can we see it?” Josephine asked.  I went into my kitchen and showed them the seeds, and saw their expressions change with wonder and surprise – they never saw such small seeds.  “Can we buy it here?” Osman asked.  “I don’t know.  I’ve not seen seeds for lettuce for sale here – I got this from my brother and his wife.” I replied.  “Why does everyone grow maize, and only maize?” With shrugs, everyone said that it was always that way.  Everyone grew maize, period.  If you have a shamba, you grow maize.  Maybe some like Katumo out at his house would grow eggplant, tomato, and a couple of other things, but that’s not usual.  After the conversation made its way through all the uncooked food that I liked, and that they would refuse to even try, namely sushi, and then some of the cooked food I liked, including octopus, in which a couple of the kids also liked, we ended the conversation with a promise extracted from me to bring a bowl of uncooked, much to the dismay of a few kids, salad when the lettuce is ready for harvest.  

Yesterday morning I taught the Form One students how to use reflective pronouns properly, you know what I'm talking about - myself, yourself, themselves, and all the others.  After explaining the purpose of the reflective pronoun--definitely not as easy as it looks--we went through some practice exercises where the students would need to identify which pronoun to use in the blank in the sentence.  The class participation began slowly yesterday - everyone was still groggy as it was the first class of the day and because it was raining cats and dogs, everyone was either soaked or cold.  After a couple of sentences, energy started to build.  After a few more sentences, it was almost a mad house.  For number six, I called on Samini, who always raised his arm with a huge grin.  As he walked up to the blackboard in that gawky teenager way that only a teenager boy could pull off, took the piece of chalk and wrote in the right answer.  When I gave him a cheer, as well as a few of his friends, he went back to his seat with a shit-eating grin.  Samini wasn’t a jock.  He never played football like some of the other boys.  He wasn’t a nerd, either.  He was a middling and average student, not the worst, and not the best.  He always had a smile and nice word for everyone.  He was always friendly and happy-go-lucky.  He did not give off the bad boy vibe like Ndaa and Amir did, nor a leader vibe like Emmanuel, Teresia, Joyce, and Karembo did.  Like I said, he was happy to cheer on Jumaa, Khamisi, and Baraka when they played football.  He was also born with some heart issues, and that probably was the reason why he did not play sports. Yesterday morning, when I picked Samini to answer that question, I took an involuntary mental snapshot.  You know when some moments are just clicked and stored away in your mind, not by your choice, and yesterday morning Samini was one of them.  I remember vividly him raising his hand, answering correctly, and the shit-eating grin.  After I taught both Form One and Two their English lessons, corrected some of the Form Two homework from the night before, I was ready to head to the primary school for tea, and for that, a ten minute walk is required.  As it was pouring, many students would attempt to run down the path some rolling up their pants and skirts to the knees, taking off their shoes and holding them as they run through the rain.  I saw the back of Samini as he ran to the dining hall.  I joked and laughed with some of the other students who decided that the tea wasn't worth the run in the rain and stayed in the classrooms before I headed to the staff room.  That was the last time I saw Samini alive. Five minutes after I reached the staff room for tea, in midst of a conversation with Mary, my counterpart, about Gone With The Wind in which I lent her, our headmaster came in with the announcement that Samini collapsed and passed on.  With my mind racing, along with some teachers we went to the dining hall to run inference, herding the kids out of the way, getting the lorry and putting Samini into the lorry to head to the hospital.  His heart had just gave out.  This teenager, with his entire life in the front of him, will forever stay etched in my memory as a kid with a shit-eating grin.  I write this full of anger and sadness.  I am angry for the lack of preventive care and precautions that Samini would have received if health care was more geared toward preventive rather than reactive here.  I am angry about the lack of training of First Aid and CPR.  I am angry that deaths of children is almost expected; I have heard people here saying that having only two children is like playing Russian roulette – the more children, the better chance you have of someone taking care of you in your old age.  I am angry with myself for feeling such anger, and I am almost angry at my American upbringing which is the cause for my experience / knowledge that this could have been avoided.  That anger is now starting to become sadness; for the Gohu family, for the Kibarani and Pwani Secondary students, teachers, and staff, and for everyone else that he has touched.  Like Samini did for almost every day I have seen and taught him, in his memory, let’s try to go through life with a shit-eating grin. 

One cool thing about being Deaf is that many, if not all interactions with the outside community, by that, I mean people who don’t use sign languages, and those who do not regularly interact with the Deaf community is almost always done by paper and pen.  Because of that, I have filled out approximately five or six notebooks with notes, conversation, shopping lists, bargaining, and various other interactions with people from all over the country.  I thought it would be fun to put down some samples of the variety of the conversations I have had. I have had some crazy and fantastic conversations with fellow PCVs and ex-pats, ranging from discussions of poker rules, introductions of ourselves, arguing American versus European sports, to random thoughts and questions, to raunchy descriptions of the Hoover maneuver. A volunteer in Uganda showing up in Nairobi for medical reasons, meeting up with a few other Kenyans PCVs in Nairobi for the same reason, and a couple of us who were there for some meeting or another writes, “I’m in econ development.  I’ve been changed around a lot!  I ended up doing HIV/AIDS work, tho.  She continues, “It’s in Eastern Uganda – Actually I’m close to another volunteer that does work in deaf ed, and we met a few PCVs from Kenya who came out to Uganda a few months ago – and it’s hot and flat, and there’s lots of ugali.  But … it’s close to my heart.”  In the middle of a conversation with a couple of PCVs, one randomly writes, “Have you heard of the man who is able to hear, but didn’t talk for like fifteen years?” I still can’t remember why he brought it up … Sitting in a restaurant / hotel in Mnarani, just south of Kilifi, I had a friendly discussion with an Irish lad (pitting three Americans, including another PCV and The American Ex-pat against this poor Irish).  The American Ex-pat writes, “The Irish Lad says that America only likes sports where they can be called World Champions; baseball, basketball, American football, lacrosse, hockey, so on.” TIL then grabbed the pen and notebook and writes, “TAE says – look at how many STUPID sports we’re good at!”  At the same time TAE tries to strike out the STUPID with her pen. I then wrote, “Variety is the spice of life – how many sports do you have?!” TIL writes, “Hurling!  We’re world champs!  No pads or helmets!” I replied, “Not only are you folks one track minded, you’re not safety conscious!” Another PCV writes, “Seinfeld talks about how the invention of helmets is a sign of how stupid we are.  We are talking part in activities that require protective gear.  When you jump out of a plane, that helmet is now wearing you for protection.” I wasn’t sure which side this PCV was on … I also had numerous conversations with Kenyans – both at my home stay family (we filled a couple of notebooks with our conversations over the two months), and the local people out here in Kilifi.  My conversation with my home stay brother, who was seven at that time and wrote with a cute and unsteady hand but using very proper English went as follows: I started, “How was your trip?” “Fine.  We have gone to Nairobi.” I added, “I will be going to Nairobi in January.  What did you do there?” He replied, “We have gone to my grandmother.” “Did you have fun?” “Yes, I did.” I met the local chairman of the disability organization in Kilifi, an interesting man who grew up with my headmaster playing football until he developed muscular dystrophy, and now is wheelchair-bound but very active in the local Kilifi and Muslim community.  He tells me a story of an incredibly unfortunate Christmas he had in 2004 – “My house caught fire on Christmas night on 25/12/2004, at midnight.  I was lucky to have survived the huge inferno.  My friends saved me, took me off the bed and put me on my wheelchair.  Not even a scratch on my body.  My wife was away in Dar-es-Salaam.  I lost everything I owned that night, even my childhood memoirs.  To date I am still rebuilding.” This man, successfully rebuilt his business, and on the Saturday I spent with him visiting, the place looked great, with a couple of storefronts, house rentals in the back, and a few projects in development. These are only samples of interactions I’ve had over the past 19 months living out here, some are incredibly boring such as discussions of PC-K administration that wouldn’t make sense to the non-volunteer, discussions with the shop owner in Mombasa about buying outfits for Olivia, Cora, and Spencer, and on the other side, some conversations were a little too raunchy to write about on this family friendly blog.  I could see the evolution of my awareness and feelings during my service learning more and more about Kenya, my reactions become less and less afraid of the cultural interactions, and I could see how I finally began to balance my American need to stand up for myself and my kids and respect for the school administration and hierarchy.  If these conversations were not written in those five plus notebooks, I would probably have forgotten most of these conversations and it’s always really cool to revisit yourself in the past every now and then and become amazed of the person you were, are now, and will become.

We continued our trip to Lamu, and stayed at an amazingly gorgeous hotel - the food was nice, we had a good time relaxing and checking out Lamu - my third time, and of course I had to take my parents there.  My teachers at my school said that no trip to Kenya was complete without Lamu, and that I had to take my parents there.  I happily agreed and took them there. 

It rained for part of the time, but this impressive rainbow made it all worth it.

I introduced my parents to some of the kids that were there the first week (surprisingly everyone showed up during the second week - not too shabby), and this was the result.

Apparently I didn't take any photos of the South Coast - whoops!  I thought I had some, but I realized that my parents were the ones taking the South Coast photos, and because we split up after that, them flying out of Mombasa back to the States, and me back to my house, their photos never got downloaded onto my computer.  We had a great time there regardless of the beach boys.  We stayed at a cottage and had fresh food for our meals, fresh fish and prawns - divine!  Overall, it was a great trip - if anyone else want to come visit, please feel free to do so! 

My second trip of April began in Maasai Mara - Mom and Dad came along for the ride, and it was awesome to be able to show 'em the country I've been living in.

Maasai Mara was gorgeous - exactly like all the movies and stories of Africa.  All the wildlife, the savannah, and all that jazz.  

These buffaloes numbers in the thousands - they were all over a specific area in Maasai Mara.

A couple of hyenas waiting for a meal - hyenas do not make the kill themselves, but wait for the lions and cheetahs and then get second dibs.

Speaking of cheetahs - we saw this one along with another one right after they made the kill - our driver started driving like crazy after he got a phone call, and we got there and saw like ten or fifteen matatus / vans with people looking at this sight.  The cats were utterly gorgeous, and apparently my mom's favorite animal (that was news to me and dad).

Mama lioness with eleven cubs - the lions travel in packs, so there were actually three lionesses and they all shared the responsibility of raising these eleven little cubs.

I love this picture - the lioness in the foreground, with the elephant in the background, just hanging around - it's the way life is out there. 

I have so many more photos of various wildlife, and it was hard to pick just a few photos, especially because of the fact that the photos does not do it any justice.  It was more beautiful than I expected, and it was just a nice start to our trip.

Rwanda was beautiful and it was hard to believe that the genocide occurred there fifteen years ago - I was fourteen and did not really pay much attention to the world history as I was just navigating my first year at high school, especially it being 300 miles away from where my family lived.  Regardless, this trip to Kigali was very educational and inspiring.  I was inspired by the people who continues to work at these memorials and told us to keep talking about this, the more pictures we took, the better.  It was hard for us to take pictures in the church, specifically of the human remains, but the staff there told us to please go ahead and take pictures - that way more people talk about it, and hopefully it won't be forgotten.  Out of respect, these pictures won't be posted, and I'll show the photos I took to those who ask. 

Outside of the genocide museum - along the concrete blocks that are used as memorials for the people who died during the genocide of 1994.

One of the crypts outside of the church with the remains of some of the 10,800 people who was killed in the church.

The window of the church - it was hard to believe that such an innocent looking window of a church would harbour such stories of death.

Kigali skyline - finally, a city with a beautiful lighted up skyline.  This is the view from the courtyard of the hotel we stayed at.

Kakamega Forest

This is the edge of the field at Rondo Retreat, just before we started walking into the forest.

Playing around with the depth of field on the XT.  

Serious photographing happening here ...

Rain in a rainforest, who knew?!  We were soaked when we got back to our rooms but had a roaring fire to warm us up - so that worked out nicely!

Taxicabs are a necessity of the Peace Corps lifestyle, for safety, to get to a specific place quickly and easily, for late night restaurant and club visits, rides to a country’s border … basically everything that local public transportation can’t accomplish.  Here in Kenya, well, East Africa, really, navigating the minefield of usage of cabs can be amusing, annoying and downright frustrating.  Many times – most of the time – cab rides would go off without a hitch, but these rides aren’t stories or any fun to write about.  On our trip to Uganda and Rwanda, I, along with Paul, Matt, and Lee, happened to be involved in three memorable taxicab rides. NAIROBIAs Paul and I tried to figure out the next step and how to buy tickets for Kakamega in a couple of days, we saw a few white cars, the telltale sign of a taxicab in Nairobi and decided to head their way.  Immediately one of the drivers waved us and took us to his car.  We were walking toward two cars and one of them was a total POS, while the other one was in pretty decent condition.  Paul and I looked at each other and knew that our car would be the POS and tried to do telepathy and will ourselves into the second car to no avail.  After a series of ‘what, what?’ and some more accent issues, we finally resorted to paper and pen to bargain the rate and explain our destination.  We wanted to head to a bus service office and then to Upperhill Campsite. “Upperhill Campsite.” I wrote. “Right, right, Upperhill, I know.  Yeah, I know.” the taxicab driver said as he gestured us into his car.  “Upperhill Campsite, on Othaya Road – Lavington.”  I persisted on my piece of scrap paper.  “Sawa!”  After some quibbling on the price, we finally agreed and got in the cab.  Of course, this being East Africa, the taxicab did not have any gas and asked us for some money.  We handed it over, and then asked him to stop by the bus office so we could purchase tickets to Kakamega.  “Wait?  You don’t want to go to Upperhill?” “Yes, we do!  We just need to buy tickets.” “No. You don’t want to go to Upperhill.  You want to stay in Parkside Hotel.”  Paul and I looked at each other with a resigned look.  “No.  We agreed to go to Upperhill, that’s where we are going after the bus office.” “Okay!”  I raised eyebrows – the battle was won too easily. We stopped at Crown and I dashed out to buy the tickets only to come back to Paul rolling his eyes saying that the driver tried to move to a different parking spot on the other side of the plaza and Paul insisted that he stay and wait for me.  After I got back in, the driver said, “Upperhill, right?” “Upperhill Campsite, on Othaya Road – Lavington, yes.” “No!  I agreed to take you to Upperhill not Upperhill Campsite!” “Yeah, you agreed to Upperhill Campsite.”  “Not at that price we agreed upon!” “Yes at that price – we agreed.” “No!  It should be double that!”  I rooted around in my bag and got that scrap of paper with the bargaining and clearly printed location and showed it to the driver. “Pole.  Pole.  My bad.  I’ll take you there.”  I leaned back on the badly torn upholstery and thought that any trip to Nairobi probably isn’t complete without A Taxicab Experience.  We finally reached Upperhill Campsite and then he asked us for twice the fare.  “No.  We’ve given you the fare we agreed on.” “You don’t want to give me money?” “We gave you what we agreed upon.” “Okay.” The driver then turned to me and pointed at me, saying to Paul, “Does she want to give me money?”  Paul looked at me and sighed.  I gestured that we agreed upon the rate and that was it.  Paul said, “No, she doesn’t.” “Okay!” said the driver, and then he was gone.  Paul and I looked at each other and shook our heads.  That was a crazy cab, but by far, not the craziest in our year and half of service. “Lets get a beer before dinner.” “That’d hit the spot!” KAKAMEGA “Where’s the sign?” “Do you know where the KEEP bandas are?” We asked the cab driver, an hour into our drive in Kakamega Forest.  “Sure!  Sure!” He said as he inched through the forest.   “I’m just going to stop and ask these guys.” He continues as we approached the gate of a really nice that we ended up staying at the next night. I looked at Paul, Lee, and Matt and I couldn’t do anything else than just laugh.  After some conversation with the security guards, we turned back and continued our search.  Mind you, this was after dinner, and the forest was pitch black dark.  We couldn’t really see anything unless the headlights were directly on them.  Finally after some time, we turned at the right turn off, asked several more people, and ended up at the right place.  “We’re finally here!” “Woo hoo!” “Ah! My legs were cramped there!” We went to someone that looked like hew as in charge and asked about the booking. “Pole sana.  We’re full.” He said, pointing to a large bus at the campsite.  Disbelief crept upon our faces and we looked at each other. “Full?” “Yeah.  We were expecting a few mzungus to come, but yeah we’re full.”  After some discussion it was concluded that we probably didn’t have any booking.  We got in touch with the person responsible for our booking and discovered that our booking was at another banda, using a complete different entrance to the forest.  We finally just decided to get our asses back in town, find a place to sleep, and start over the next day.We just shook our heads and headed to our rooms and crashed - four hours after we got in the taxicab.  KAMPALA “Here you go.” Paul said as we gave the cab driver the agreed upon sum.  We had gone to Lake Victoria and bought some food, some beer and a bottle of wine and sat on the shores and had a nice evening, and was just returning to our hostel that we were staying at.  “That is not enough!  I need more money!” “We gave you some money earlier, and that added with what we gave you just now totals what we agreed upon.” “No!  That money you gave me doesn’t count to what you’re supposed to give me.” “We’ve already given you what we agreed upon.  We’re not going to give you more money.”  We went in circles repeating the same thing over and over for the next thirty minutes.  The cab driver was visibly becoming more and more dramatic.  Suddenly, with a dramatic flourish, the cab driver tossed his money on the floor in front of us and a confused Paul and Matt looked at an equally confused me.  We looked at the money, nobody wanting to be the first one to make an attempt to pick up the cash, and I think that nobody really knew what to do.  He got in the car and sped off, burning rubber (if that was at any way possible on a dirt road), and then abruptly stopped at the security guard’s tower.  After an exchange of words, the security guard came and asked us what the deal was. We explained that we agreed upon a sum and now he wanted a lot more than what we agreed.  After some discussion with some of the employees at the hostel and another taxicab driver, we discovered that in fact, we had overpaid, and everyone tried to calm down the taxicab driver.  One of the hostel employees finally told us, “You better go in the hostel – he’ll never leave if he thinks he can get money out of you.”  We left and then realized that it was an hour and a half since we got into the hostel.  I wondered as I got in bed, was the third time the charm for the trip? Or maybe this specific one was just so crazy that any other cab rides after that guy would be an anticlimax?

Really.  Where to begin?  Where did the time go? When I think about my April holiday, I can recall various humorous anecdotes and a couple frustrating situations, so there are moments that really stand out – and these I will write about over the next few entries, hopefully.  Because I’ll write more over the next couple of weeks, I don’t want to repeat myself and bore all of you to death, so I’m trying to condense my month into a few [edit: okay maybe not few] bullet points and here they are. traveled to Nairobi with Paul had the first crazy cab ride of the month (there were quite a few) met Ginnie’s parents (awesomeness!) saw my kids and a few other PCVs in Thika for the Nationals had a lady puke on me in the bus to Kakamega (not so cool…) met up with Matt who I have not seen in months had another crazy cab ride into Kakamega forest – and due to miscommunication and a lot of other reasons, we had to come back in town to spend the night stayed at a fantastic cottage type of place in the forest with a fireplace (dude – it was cold enough to actually have a fire!) hiked through the forest and walked through a downpour got my ass whupped for the first time at rummy by Lee (little did we know what we were in for the next week and a half) met up with other PCVs in Jinja raring to go for our two-day rafting trip after the three matatu day – Lee was our guide and hero for safely getting us across the border our raft was christened “Fuck, Yeah!” (yes, Allen was in our rafting group …) went over some crazy ass and awesome rapids went to Kampala dead tired and basically just crashed checked out Kampala and had wine at the shore of Lake Victoria had another interesting cab encounter that took over a hour and half to “resolve” got on another bus to Lake Bunyonyi where we rode a boat with a roof in the driving rain  to the island we were staying at – unfortunately the roof didn’t do much to keep the water out ate fantastic food and relaxed on an island for a couple of days of course we all got whupped again in rummy by Lee (no way he is not cheating … ) crossed the Uganda-Rwanda border was impressed with Kigali – everything looked really developed and they even have a Nakumatt! ate frog legs, fondue, excellent desserts, great wine and drove on the right side of the road – dang, there’s actually good food in East Africa – who knew?! was humbled at the Genocide museum and church memorial – what a terrible, terrible thing for a country to go through – it was just very thought provoking and sad became a little sick and spent the last day and a half in Kigali basically out of commission flew to Nairobi for the VAC meeting and part of the IST for the newbies, as well as the BCC workshop (is that enough alphabet soup for you? no worries – we have more out here in Peace Corps – Kenya!) had a blast with all the PCVs met up with my parents who flew out here (yeah I know! the month’s not over!) had a fantastic dinner with a good number of volunteers with the parents had a wonderful safari in Maasai Mara where we saw a couple of cheetahs chomping a gazelle relaxed in Lamu and ate way too much food showed the parents around in Kilifi, introduced them to some of my kids, teachers, and basically showed them my neck of woods spent the last few days of our trip together relaxing in nice cottage in South Coast went out to a fantastic restaurant in a cave – it was truly cool had a monkey sneak in our cottage via a small hole in the roof who stole my sandwich and now, back to the grind I had a couple of great trips, and it was also great to spend time with the volunteers during their IST – it was just a great all around month.  I am now catching up on work, finishing up my schemes of work, planning out this term, which will be my second last term.  Whoa.  My second last term!  Really, where did the time go? 

I'm trying to write this post about how fast one year has passed, and everything I write sounds trite, and nothing I can write really shows what happened, but here's my shot at it.  

Olivia, last year, I waited for you, and was overjoyed when I received word that you were finally born, healthy and while the birth was tough, that your mom pulled though too.   I remember sitting on my bed in the hotel room I shared with another PCV and basically jumping up and down in joy when I finally got the email.  I think she was secretly relieved that you finally came - she was probably tired of me talking about you and checking email on my phone five or six times a day. 

I watched you grow over the course of the year with photos posted in Facebook by your dad, photos sent to me by your grandma and great-godfather, and I was excited to finally meet you over the holidays.  

This year, I'll be thinking of you as we relax after our white-water rafting trip down the Nile, enjoying my second last term break before my service ends.  Regardless of the fantastic year we both have had - you traveling to SF, meeting all the relatives and enjoying life with N & M, moving into a gorgeous new farm house just before your birthday, and everything that has been happening out here in my life in Kenya, I have only one small regret - I wish I was in a position to see you more often!  Well, hopefully that'll be the case after I COS. 

So, baby Olivia, I just wanted to wish you a fantastic birthday, and make sure your mom and dad give you some delicious chocolate to celebrate!  

Miss you!

Every town in Kenya has its own resident harmless crazy person.  I remember in Loitokitok when the Deaf Eds would meet up to head somewhere to practice our KSL, sometimes we would meet up near the bank, and the local harmless crazy man would come up to us and try to talk with us.  He would wave pieces of papers acting like they were important documents and “talk with us about” these documents.  The first time we met him, I have to admit, he scared the shit out of me (regardless of six years working with the mental health population).  After seeing the man, wearing a headband as a pair of sunglasses, do the same to all the other trainees and the local Kenyans (who humored him and then told him gently to scoot), we all relaxed.  Kenyans tell stories about the crazy person in their villages, and the crazy things that they do.  I ask about why they’re so matter-of-fact about these people, and they say, well it’s a part of life here.  There’s no good mental institution, no real form of mental service out here, so the people who need treatment are not getting treatment unless they are really violent or harmful to the community, and for those … they just trail off before they finish the thought.  I then ask if it’s like a part of the social fabric of towns across Kenya, and they say, oh hell yeah.  Just like the crippled man sewing the clothes, the Deaf woman who marries into a rich family, the students who have to work early in the morning to herd cows before school, they’re just like a character in their town.  I ask about the families who hide kids with issues such as this, and unfortunately, this does happen, but in many communities, they try to take care of their own.  I realize that this is true at my school.  We have several mentally handicapped students, who may or may not be Deaf – but are put in our school because our headmaster has a bit of a soft spot regardless of his tough exterior and mannerism.  The teachers love these students like if they are our own; some of these students actually become a favorite of not only the teachers, but also the other students.  We have a new boy who came a couple of months ago and the teachers have named him after a character on a television show because he acted so much like him.  We learn how to manage these students so that their lives are less stressful, and a sort of peaceful co-existing community occurs.  As for Kilifi, we most definitely have our own crazy man.  For lack of imagination or other descriptive words, I have dubbed him The Plastic Bag Man.  Anyone who has seen him would most definitely agree.  The first time I encountered this man, he was laying in the divider between the tarmac and a parking lot, and I actually thought he was just a pile of rubbish.  If you have ever visited Kenya, a random pile of garbage is not all that unusual.  Then it moved.  I must have jumped three feet and then realize that it was a man, dressed in plastic bags.  I started seeing that every now and then, almost every inch of his body, except for his face covered by plastic bags.  When my friends visit and we walk down that street, they reacted much the same way I did, and after getting over the fear, we wondered about him.  At the time of this writing I’m sitting on my couch, sweating like there’s no tomorrow, with the fan facing directly at me, and I’m still hot.  How is he able to stand the heat at high noon in the middle of Kilifi?  Who was he? What was the situation that made him who he is? I asked around among the teachers about him, and one of the teachers said that he is the brother of the owner of a gas station in town.  I then asked whether there was a falling out or if the family was supportive, and he said that nobody in the family knew why he was like that.  Something just snapped one day and he was like that – the family continues to do what they can to help him, with food, with other necessities.  He asked me why I was asking about him – and we started talking about how people become such a part of the town, like in Colorado, when I lived there, this man in a knight costume always walked around at one specific intersection, and how that kind of thing occurs in various communities all over the world.  He said, “Well, you know, it’s life.  He’s not doing any harm, and he seems to be happy doing what he is, so we just let him be.” Sometimes when there’s not that many options available, maybe it’s just best to let it be.  

The Provincial Games were held at Sahajanand Special School at Mtwapa, the school where another volunteer, Mary works at.  This year was like night and day in comparison to last year's experience in the Games.  I was relaxed, I knew what to do, I knew my kids, and I knew what to expect.  We had a lot of water (so nothing like The Water Problem at Ziwani last year), insane amounts of cake (seriously, people, two huge chunks of cake at every meal), and everyone had a good time (regardless of the major epidemic of pink eye).

Kilifi District rocked, and sent many kids to the Nationals which will occur this week in Thika, not far from Nairobi.  This year is also the first year that Pwani Secondary has participated in the games, and because there are no other secondary schools in the Coast, most of the kids who are competing will go to Thika to compete with other secondary and tech schools in Kenya (of which there are only four others, if my numbers are correct).  I'm proud of my kids.  

Kids waiting for balloons and face painting.

They were a total hit with everyone - from the 8 years old to the 20 years old.

Kilifi District's tent - watching the track and field activities.

Kilifi boys playing football against the Malindi district.

Mary talking with a few students from Pwani Secondary.

Joyce and Shukurani braiding my hair while we watch the Pwani Secondary boys play football against the vocational program at Ziwani.

A few weeks ago - maybe more - a few of us got together to check out a park just south of Gede, and this was a great opportunity to really break out the XT as there's not that many people around gawking at me carrying that camera around.  Regardless - I had a lot of fun experimenting and here are a few photos that I'm willing to post.  The park is gorgeous - it is sort of a marsh and part beach, and home to many different birds and other animals (of which we did not see much ...).  

We had to walk across several very rickey rope bridges over the marshy area in order to preserve the area and to reach the beach - we visited when it was at low tide, and it truly was low tide.  The bridge is approximately 15 feet above the sand. 

These snails / shells were all over the marsh and the beach. 

Are we still on planet Earth? I was just thinking how amazing that there are such a variety of ecosystems within miles of each other.  This is a photo of the beach when we walked ten minutes into the ocean.

Said Alii as he pointed at Apolinary.  With raised eyebrows, I looked at Apolinary and said, “C’mon, give Alii back his pen.”  I was preparing to begin my English lesson and proceed to write some words on the blackboard.  Corrugated.  Expedition.  Triumph.  Unparalleled.  Exhilaration.  Alii waved his hand and caught my eye. “No, no,” Alii signed excitedly, “He stole my INK, not my PEN.” Alii held up his pen and I looked at Apolinary to see him smiling a wicked grin. “Huh? What?  How?” I asked to laughter from the class, especially from Monica and Josephine, joined at the hip like always. “C’mon, can’t you take a joke?” Apolinary said as he shrugged.  Francis came to Alii’s defense as he said, “Oh please!  Apolinary was too lazy to walk to the store and buy a pen so he just sucked the ink out of Alii’s pen.” “What? Sucked the ink out of the pen?!” I said with a shocked expression on my face. Immediately after I said that, I realized that I might have opened a can of worms as the class began to clamor and provide instruction on how to steal ink.  “You know, you need to first find the right kind of pen…” Francis began in his prefect mode, only to be interrupted by Mercy. “No, if you’re good you can suck out ink of any pen.” Mercy retorts. I realize I now have to throw out the lesson plan I had designed for that class, a vocabulary list to supplement the reading I was prepared to give them for their homework assignment that night – and secretly I was hooked.  I wanted to know how these kids steal ink. Mercy continues, “If you’re really good you can get it out of the fancy pens, but the Speedo pens are easy.” holding up an example. Samuel adds, “Oh, make sure that you pick a pen that has enough ink to makes it worthwhile.”  The class all started talking at the same time about how important that was.  Josephine picked up the process and explained the process of pulling out the ink tube from the pen without damaging or raising suspiciousness of the pens’ owner while Monica nodded.  “You have really thought this out, haven’t you?” I said.  “Maybe you have too much time on your hands!” Another round of laughter from the class and five people started to sign at the same time, making the finish of the ink transfer process something that, to me, apparently only rocket scientists or Pwani Secondary students are able to do.  “You then hold the other pen like this …” Said Salome, holding a pen under another pen, after hypothetically sucking the ink out of the other plastic tube almost to the point where it’s ready to come out. “No!  Like this!” Osman cries, showing a different position. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, like that, or maybe like this …” Stephen sagely added as Stephen’s neighbor, Chengo demonstrated.  Mwavu also provided his hypothetical version of ink theft accompanied by commentary from Thomas.  Tall and skinny, Abdullahi captured our attention with his long arms picking up the same thread that Salome started. I mused, have accidents ever happened? Students with ink-stained faces getting in trouble with the house parents? Poisoning by swallowing ink? I shared those thoughts with the students. “Oh, that doesn’t happen much,” Shukurani responds with a carefree shrug as is her nature, “We practice.  We’re good.” Indeed.  They’re good.  

Its time again ... for baby Olivia!  next month (woah!) she'll turn 1, so just wanted to post a few photos that was uploaded to Facebook or sent by my godfather, Ron.  

Olivia and Melissa.  The sushi bib is da bomb, yo!

Olivia with Nate.  Not only the sushi bib da bomb, it also is delicious!

Oivia with great-goddaddy Ron.  

Dude - while you have very cool parents, I'm not quite sure if you should trust them that much! Love you!

Happy Peace Corps Week!  I know I am a little late with this sentiment as the week is more than half way over, but over this week I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the Peace Corps Experience, in my case, as it compares to the experience of the volunteers ten, twenty, thirty, even forty years ago.  In 1961, almost half a century ago, Peace Corps was established, with the idea of providing service to other countries adding a positive aspect of the American doing good for others.  It became a romantic sort of image, the young American, just out of college trudging along in the random village across the world, helping build water systems, schools, teaching people how to better themselves.  This image also has the poor young American walking five kilometers to the local phone booth for a five minute conversation with dear ole mom and dad on a line filled with static, sitting on a hard wooden chair, writing letters and hoping for letters from home.  This was indeed the case for many years in the history of Peace Corps, and frankly what I expected out of my service.  Needless to say, my service is not as romantic or isolated.  I’m writing this blog on a computer that I have seen numerous movies over the past year (granted, half of ‘em was really bad), with internet access via Bluetooth on my cell phone.  I have been in a volunteer’s house that has high-speed internet access.  I speak with my mom at least twice every month for quite some time via IM, as well as a few of my close friends.  I’m sitting in a decent house, with cement floors, electricity that works three quarters of the time, on a sofa with foam cushions, I have a gas stove (much like the Coleman camping stove), and I am able to cook decent and enjoyable meals. I have been to dance parties in Mombasa and Nairobi, visited animal parks, and hung out with numerous volunteers and their friends. For a long time, I wondered if I was denying myself the romantic image of being a Peace Corps Volunteer.  I wondered if I was not suffering enough to get the authentic Peace Corps Experience.  I felt slightly guilty every time I signed into gchat or AIM, wondering if I was not getting everything I should get out of my life in Kenya.  Even if half of my group has a blog, almost all of them check e-mail and facebook on a weekly basis, if not daily basis, I still wondered if some things should not change (at least twittering hasn’t reached too many of us … yet). Should the Peace Corps that was established in the 60’s not change into something different almost fifty years later? I have come to realize that I AM having the Peace Corps Experience - that it has just changed over the fifty years that it has been in existence.  The world is becoming smaller due to the internet access, globalization and numerous other factors.  In order to help our communities we have to expose them to these kinds of things.  We have to access the internet, show our teachers, our students how to tap that wonderful resource.  There are several volunteers who work specifically in IT, setting up various systems and other things related to computer usage.  The romantic image of the ‘lone ranger’ of a PCV does not accurately represent the Peace Corps Experience today.  Is our experience any less authentic because of what we have available at our fingertips? Issues that PCVs face in the local communities are much the same issues we are facing in our communities – local leadership, cultural differences, various other things that has not changed in over forty years, as evident in the cartoons drawn by a PCV in 1965, which can be found here.  I can relate completely to the cartoons drawn by that PCV, as well as almost every PCV I have met who have seen these, and I can imagine, probably almost every PCV that has served.   In the Fall 2009 issue of the Worldview, a magazine published by the National Peace Corps Association, Kevin Quigley, the president of the National Peace Corps Association wrote an open letter to Aaron S. William, the new Peace Corps Director.  Quigley wrote, “When it started, the Peace Corps was perhaps one of the most innovative government programs in the 20th century, and the agency and its world was widely known and admired around the world.  Unfortunately, that is no longer the case.  While recognizing that the world in 2009 is vastly different from the world in 1961, a major challenge would to be revitalize the culture at the Peace Corps so that it once again has a willingness to innovate and develop new approaches and programs that truly advance its timeless mission of making a more peaceful and prosperous world.”  While we celebrate the Peace Corps Week this week, we are also thinking about ways to revamp and, in Quigley’s words, revitalize the Peace Corps culture – work has been done in the country to discuss IT solutions to various aspects of information sharing, access to IT, and various other things.  It’s true that it’s not the Peace Corps of the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s or even the 90’s, but it’s still Peace Corps, and every time I think, hmm, is this truly the Peace Corps Experience, the three toads, a couple of baby mice, a bat, and numerous spiders remind me that they’re living with me.  Sure, I have internet and gchat access more often than not, I still have to deal with the faucet that gives off electric shocks, the bats flying around the house, the ducks and chickens decorating my front porch with their droppings, and nosy kids standing at my window trying to peek into my living room. In midst of all that chaos, think of your local Peace Corps Volunteer and send some good vibes to celebrate the Peace Corps Week!  

Three weeks have passed since my last blog entry.  When that RPCV told me that my last eighteen months will feel like six months (after my first six feeling like eighteen), I was not sure if I believed her, but now I harbor no doubts.  I literally felt as if I blinked and then we were whisked into mid-terms, then another blink and I’m in Nairobi for the meeting about the BCC create-a-thon, a third blink, and I’m in Embu (or to some people, Fun-bu), and then a final one and I’m back home typing this entry on the last day of February.  February, historically, has not been one of my favorite months for numerous reasons, regardless of being short and being the month that hosts my brother and sister-in-law’s birthdays.  This year, February surprised me this year by being a fairly good month.  Last February we were dealing with the effects of the teacher’s strike, I was having some doubts about my service, and the Februarys beforehand for some reason had always an aura that I would much rather avoid.  While the low point was saying good-bye to one of the Deaf Eds – a very good friend of mine and a part of my support system – there were several high points.  Firstly, I spent some time with the new volunteers, introducing them to the Mombasa scene (and quite a few other volunteers who just happened to be in town).  Nairobi then beckoned me yet again with a meeting in Peace Corps-Kenya’s offices regarding the BCC (Behavior Change Communication) create-a-thon. A couple of the Deaf Ed volunteers had developed the idea of the BCC create-a-thon in where we would invite various organizations of and working with the Deaf together for a two day workshop with all the current Deaf Ed volunteers and work together on creating new Deaf-friendly HIV/AIDS materials.  The meeting in Nairobi was with three other volunteers (who were specifically tapped because of their film/graphic design/technological backgrounds to work with BCC materials), and we worked hard all day to hash out ideas – bringing our ideas and working with what PC-K wanted or expected.  In the end of the day, I felt good about the meeting – I think it was the first time in a long time that PC-K and the volunteers really came together and worked something out that would work on both sides.  I also think that PC-K understood some of the concerns that we had about the BCC program, and steps have been made to address these concerns.  While not everything went perfectly, it was a good first step. The next day, after finishing up a few things at the office, Ginnie and I headed to her school in Mbeere, about 15 minutes outside of Embu.  I had a blast there staying for a few days, talking with her students and teachers about my life experiences.  I especially loved the students – who obviously loved and trusted Ginnie. I also had a wonderful time talking all evening with Ginnie, who I don’t get to spend much time with because of the geographical distance.  It was with well wishes from the teachers, and promises extracted from me to the students to greet my students for them, when I finally pried myself from the vise of St. Luke’s and headed back to my own neck of woods.  All that was on top of everything that is happening in Kibarani and Pwani Secondary.  I started teaching the Form One students, which this year has come from not only the Coast province, but the Eastern as well, and I realized that one year really does make a huge difference in my confidence in teaching these kids.  The kids also have started practicing for the Deaf Games, which will be happening in Kibarani this year, and the midterms have come and gone, with several weeks left in the term.  Being back home, like always is a relief, but I found myself - less than 24 hours back home - eager and ready to research for a couple of trips for the break this April after the end of the term.  Recently I have been thinking of a line from Shawshank Redemption that I thought fit pretty well with everything that have been happening around here - “Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’.”  

A few nights ago, I was on night duty, and after I made my rounds, I ended up in the dining hall with the KG-1, KG-2, KG-3, and Class 1-3 students.  I played with the little ones, taught the trick of separating the index finger by using the thumb on the other hand - terrifying half of the kids before I told them the secret, and spent some time chatting with the older ones who were excited about the Provincial Deaf Games happening here in the end of March.   All was going smoothly and well, then all of sudden the mood in the dining hall was transformed.  Completely transformed.  The blaring television has captured the attention of all one hundred odd kids.  Bewildered, I turned to the television and became even more confused.  I saw an advertisement for a candy, a mint, or something of the like, and then I looked around to the students with raised eyebrows, looking for an explanation.  An explanation was not forthcoming as the eyes of every kid were riveted on the television, waiting for something to happen.  The little ones were standing on the dining tables, poised, the older ones were standing on the benches or the concrete floor waiting.... for something.  I could feel the anticipation in the air.  Suddenly the main character, who was somebody like a traffic policeman, in the ad popped a candy, mint, whatever it was, and became all energetic and started doing his job with crazy enthusiasm, which basically consists of directing traffic doing a Luhya sort of dance where stands on one leg, and the other leg is up and waving around, and using a windmill motion with one arm, supposedly to keep the traffic moving.   As I watch the guy do this for five or ten seconds, I became aware of moving legs and arms, and then realized that every kid in the dining hall was copying his movements.  I started watching in amazement at the perfectly choreographed ten seconds of kids on tables, benches and stage moving almost in unison.   As fast as it started, it was soon over and forgotten.  In one corner of the dining hall, six years old Emmanuel went back to his favorite pastime, chasing six years old girls, more specifically Fatuma and Elina; on a table in the middle of the hall, Christine, Riziki, and their friends went back to braiding their hair, and Jumaa, Stephen, Liwali and Kazungu went back to their eternal argument about whether Manchester United or Arsenal is the better football team as they stood lazily by the windows.  The only sign left of this ten seconds window of amazement is my gaping mouth and my mind racing with wonderment.   The crazy ass random things that kids do!

Apparently I went through a sort of motivation crisis four or five months early as I wrote in the entry Legacy of the Peace Corps.  Several of my fellow volunteers from my group are having brainstorming sessions and discussions on how to keep going.  We suddenly found ourselves in the peculiar position of being the longest serving volunteers (aside from the two who have extended for a third year), and how to motivate ourselves was a frequent topic of conversation.  After two months of training and a year of service, we have reached a lull.  The first two months in the country is spent in training, learning the language, the culture, getting over part of the culture shock, and just basically figuring out if this is truly what we wanted.  The first three months in site is spent moving in, developing friendships and relationships with counterparts / other staff people, and basically what Peace Corps calls community integration and continuing trying to figure out if this is what we want to do. During the months afterwards, teaching techniques were tried and perfected, niches in business and public health organization were found, or other major assignments were found, new ideas and thoughts for our assignments were implemented. After a year, now that we know how to live here, that we have called this country our home, these communities our community, we also learn much of what goes on in a community that is not obvious to the casual observer. Our mental energy is spent looking at various things of Kenya that originally did not bother us, but now that the “honeymoon” period is over, drives us absolutely bonkers.  We learned about corruption in almost every organization, from small scale “borrowing pencils and never returning” to taking school food and selling for an individual’s profit, and to fudging of documents for travel reimbursement.  This can and does cause some disillusionment in quite a few volunteers, and they asked the same questions that I asked back in September – what am I doing here in Kenya?  Is it helping any? One volunteer is of the opinion that all foreign aid should be removed, that the only way to resolve the dependence that Kenya has on foreign aid was to completely cut everything off, and have them figure out how to manage their country.  I believe that the solution lies somewhere in the middle.  Foreign aid should come with accountability and strict guidelines, and some aid should be cut off, most definitely, but I found myself becoming less of a cynic here than I was in the United States, which surprised myself, and I believe that some foreign aid does good here.  It is not my intention to got off on a tangent, and more on foreign aid might be written at another time.  This played a huge part in how she felt about her job, and what happens with and in her school administration.  Another volunteer found out that there were major problems with the accounting at her project, and this forced her to question whether providing the services she provides as a volunteer to that organization is truly in the best interest of her organization.  A few other volunteers started to see the fellow teachers at their school with new eyes – possibly really seeing who would benefit what they are trying to teach.  Many volunteers have started to really miss the comforts of their homes and lives in the United States, and in order to keep going and ignore what is pulling us back to the States we have to find something.  We have to find inspiration.  One way or another, we have to find something that would inspire us to remain here and manage our cynicism, to continue working with the students, to continue working with our community, it all boils down to finding things that inspires us, and enough inspiration that it makes all the headaches and frustrations worth it.  So, yeah, inspiration.  I found inspiration at almost every major Deaf community event or organization when I talk with Deaf individuals sharing stories about their PCV teachers who taught them fifteen, twelve, seven years ago.  I find myself being inspired by Deaf Kenyans wanting to aim higher, becoming teachers because of teachers who inspired them. I was inspired at Global Reach Out when I saw participants interested in paying for the program (albeit still at a discounted rate), rather than asking for handouts and passing on the torch to the secondary school students. I am continuously inspired by my students; the laughter when they understand a play on words, the shining eyes when they finally understand the difference in meaning when you use different prepositions with the same nouns, the sheepish grins when I told them I was once a high school student, and that I was not born just yesterday when I see that they have copied homework from another student, and excitement in sharing and trading stories.  I am inspired by the one who wants to become a nurse, the one with aspirations for electric work, the one who wants to work with interpreters, and several who want to be teachers. I am inspired by three or four teachers that I work with that works tirelessly, eager to learn as much as they can about KSL and Deaf culture, asking me about ways and ideas in order to communicate best with their students.  I am inspired by their stories, by their lives, and their families.  I am also inspired by the new group of Math/Science and Deaf Education volunteers. That people continues to want to go abroad to help a group of people that they do not even begin to know or understand, to experience new things, to broaden their horizons, and just basically spend two years of their lives doing something that most of the people in the United States would never even think of doing.  I am inspired by their new energy and motivation.  Lastly, but not least, I am definitely inspired by the other members of my group, those who seek out and work on secondary projects that provides them with great motivation, those who continues to work with administration that puts obstacles and problems everywhere, the ones that continues to want to teach, and the ones who became such members of their community that it is virtually impossible to walk through town in ten minutes. Here’s to another crazy year of service!    

It’s time for another installment of You Know You’ve Been In Kenya When … I realized that the last time (and only time) I did this was last July! That had to be remedied, so here goes another installment!

-you stop half expecting ceiling fans to spin out of control

-you’re amazed to see a house without termites

-you feel weird if you don’t shake hands with at least five people by tea

-you enjoy ugali

-warm sodas and beer doesn’t bother you

-you think that Hawaiian shirts are fashionable

-families of five or six on a motorcycle finally stop scaring you

-toads and frogs are welcome roommates

-you are able to calculate the actual time of meetings

-you’re almost as excited as Kenyans are about the 2010 World Cup

-you finally stop multi-tasking and enjoy the peace and quiet

Upon return to my house from the travels and holidays, I was accosted by a couple of my neighbors who told me of a snake trying to enter my house.  We walked around in the house and found no snake, then they started to tell me the epic tale of the valiant battle between the neighborhood of Kibarani and the snake.  

A house girl working for my headmaster began the story, as she walked around my house, she saw a snake trying to get into my house via the kitchen door.  Terrified, she ran to find the other neighbors and after much discussion, it was decided that some paraffin would be poured down my door to prevent the snake entering and wrecking havoc.  Apparently it proved very effective as my neighbors proudly said that the snake left and my house is declared snakeless.

Now my kitchen door smells faintly of paraffin.  At least the neighbors did not set fire to my house in the process of trying to get the snake out.  If they did that, in fact, I would not be too surprised - Kenyans hate snakes with a passion that may only rival their passion for football (soccer to y'all Americans). 

The snake holds a place of importance to Kenyan - all their fables and myths set up the snake as the villian, even today in medical and education settings.  For example, we were boggled when one of the KISE (Kenya Institute for Special Education) teachers was giving a presentation of causes of Deafness in Kenya to the new volunteers in Machakos, he said that looking at a black snake made you go Deaf, and that they should be careful of black snakes.  

Talking with the educated Kenyan teachers and other professionals working for various organizations, almost all of them expressed a distaste for snakes.  Some of them knew that the fear and distaste was slightly irrational but all of them have stories of various relatives and friends dying from snakebite.  When I told them that the same widespread fear of snakes does not exist in the U. S., and in fact, my brother and dad at one time had something like six pet snakes, I could see the disbelief creeping into the faces.  

Even the nursery children I taught last year were well versed in the folklore and mythology of the snake before they even got language.  When I taught the sign for snake in KSL, along with a drawing on the blackboard of the snake, everyone from the 4 years old to the 16 years old cringed and signed bad! bad! hate! hate!  They told stories of their parents, older siblings and family friends killing snakes and telling the kids no, no, bad, bad!  

So, careful of that black snake, y'hear!  

Standing on the sidewalk of a street in city center in Nairobi with the counterparts and new volunteers and our bags, we waited for the conductor donning uniforms with a crude drawing of an elephant on their backs with the motto “We lead the leaders” below.  The conductor and porters put our bags in a compartment and checked our tickets, and allowed us to board.  Those who sat in seats in which the adjustment of incline worked proceed to adjust to their preferred incline.  Hoping out against hope some of us tried to adjust the fan above us only to find that like always, it never worked.  Sitting in my seat, I hoped that I remembered to sit on the right side of the bus in order to avoid the sun.  After everyone boarded, we were off to our homes on the Coast.  The driver wove through the streets filled with pedestrians, motorcycles carrying ten crates of bread stacked up on one another, touts trying to convince people that their lives depended on going to Nakuru rather than Meru, taxis honking and playing with the realm of mass and space, and buses competing for a quick departure of the clogged city center to their destination.  As we left city center, we joined the snarl of traffic on the Mombasa Road, passing large warehouses, corporations, and of course, a Nakumatt, and as we go along the road, the buildings gradually became smaller and smaller, less and less westernized.  After a while, instead of backlight signs of a corporate logo, signs are adorned by the Coca-Cola or Tusker logos with simple black lettering on white boasting the establishment’s name.  Safaricom green, Zain pink, and the red, white, and blue of Omo becomes the de facto colors of buildings we pass.  Roofs now alternate between the brightly colored tin roofs and thatch roofs instead of ceramic, tile, or regular roofing materials. Machakos junction loomed as the bus chugged on, most likely than not spewing out fumes, going over man-eating holes and speed bumps that would better be described as hills.  More and more Acadia trees and vegetation started to pop up in the landscape, often fronting a series of hills jutting out in a backdrop of crystal clear blue skies.  Passing Machakos junction, we went through several hundred kiosks selling sodas and peanuts, and the landscape starts to flatten more, houses are farther apart, and made of mud, wild life such as zebras, baboons, and African buffalo are spotted, as well as mounds of termites as tall as I am, as well as numerous herds of cattle and goats with the lone chicken scratching the dust they stomped up. The road, thankfully, started to smooth out as we approach Emali, going through hundreds of hawkers selling thousands and thousands of red onions – I will remember Emali always as the land of onions.  The temperature starts to rise, and with dismay, I realized that I was stuck with the glare of the sun on my side, so I adjusted the flimsy curtain to block what it could of the sun and settled in for the rest of the trip. Several large mosques and other houses of worship sped by as we went through Makindu and Kibwezi.  We reached the halfway point where we gladly got off for a choo break and some snacks.  The temperature continues to rise and the humidity starts to stifle the air, and I knew that we were going home, near the Indian Ocean.  Getting off the main road, we went through the safari town of Voi, which always felt to me like a neon colored beacon in the middle of nowhere.  Glimmers of colors from the Art Deco era of Miami combined with the craziness of Las Vegas can be seen and felt in Voi.  Our bus became besieged by the hawkers selling everything imaginable, from food to hankies to watches to pets, and then of course, finally, mobile scratch cards. Another hour or two pass and we approach Mariakani, and the first strand of palm trees were sighted.  The sight of the palm trees always made me hold my breath for a second or two, with the thought, we’re almost at the Coast!  Traffic started to increase, more and more pedestrians, especially Mamas with colorful lesos walking around, building are closer together, and boasting colors with a distinct Coast flavor.  I see a series of tin roofs clustered together and I know I have reached the outskirts of Mombasa.  We crossed over the bridge, entering the heart of Mombasa, passing buildings with business names painted on them, men pushing wheelbarrows of water, mangoes, and pineapples.  The roads expel steam and humidity around the hustle and bustle of Mombasa.  Even the hustle in Mombasa has a Coast flavor – slightly slower and lethargic.  Hotelis boasts of Swahili dishes, especially pilau and biriyani.  Passing Bishara Street, with almost every level surface covered by lesos and fabric, we started north toward Mtwapa, Kilifi, and finally Malindi.  Crossing the Nyali bridge off the Mombasa Island, we pass a junction, called the lights, where several hundred meters of homemade wooden and burlap stalls laden with used clothing many with hilarious statements and unintentional irony make their homes. Continuing our way, we pass several extremely fancy resorts with manicured lawns and nary a flower out of place contrasted with shops and homesteads with playing and chicken scratching the bare dirt ground.   Crossing the gorgeous teal water of the Mtwapa creek, we enter Mtwapa, a juxtaposition of riches of traveling mzungus and Kenyans, youngsters about to go clubbing, and a very traditional Muslim community.  After Mtwapa, it becomes less densely populated and fields after fields of sisal that is used for weaving mats and baskets followed clusters of palm and coconut trees can be seen.  Hulking baobab trees becomes more and more common.  High above the water, we went over the Kilifi creek sparkling with the mesmerizing color of sea green, we entered the northeast edge of Kilifi.  Disembarking in the Kibaoni neighborhood of Kilifi, looking at the familiar sight of several bars and kuku choma joints, I was ready to tackle the bumpy road that I knew would lead me to my school, and then my home, ready to tackle the year of 2010. 

Said the United States Ambassador to Kenya at the swearing-in ceremony today at his house, in combination with the celebration of 45 years of Peace Corps service in Kenya, and I have to agree with him.  Twenty-five Math/Science and Deaf Education trainees became Peace Corps Volunteers, ready to embark on their two years service.  I watched these great people talk about their uncertain future, what will happen when they get to their sites, and just basically wondering what the hell they got themselves into.   I remember the days I wondered what the hell I got myself into, one of which definitely was the swearing-in day, a year ago, and watching the ceremony sent me spinning a year ago into my memories.  Today made me miss my training group, their individuality, their quirks, and most of all, the fact that we spent eight insane weeks together at the end of 2008. I have to say, 2009 was a year of ups and down, although it was more ups than downs, and for that, I am grateful.  Regardless of the fact that our training group lost way too many qualified and intelligent people that I was proud to call friends, I found a home, a school that I loved working at, students who inspired me to continue working on the days I thought that nothing was going my way, neighbors who would invite me into their homes for beans and chapati, of course, the fantastic volunteers that makes up the support system I would depend on, who will be lifelong friends, and I would be remiss if I did not mention the fact that my gorgeous niece who would always put a smile on my face was born.  2009 also ended with a fantastic trip back to the States, seeing my family and friends (and celebrating the births of Olivia and Spencer!), ushering in the year with one of my best friends and a group of cool RPCVs who told me stories of their experience in Kenya.   Overall, 2009 felt good.  Starting 2010 with the final few days of PST with the new volunteers, with their swearing-in ceremony, I rode the positive vibes, which I hope would continue to be the case for most of the year.  Tonight we are going out for Mexican and some serious dancing, so as I write this blog entry and get ready to head out, donning the cool t-shirt I got from Kris (thanks, Kris!), I thought, the only way this would be better was if my training class was here, but it’s all good. Happy New Year, everyone!

Family!

Too-adorable-for-words Olivia.

Yeah, yeah, we like our Christmas stockings along with our Hanukkah candles!

Hope the holidays was wonderful for you and yours!  Hope everyone has good health and good fortune in 2010!

The flamingos - I had a hard time accepting that they are actual birds, rather than fake plastic lawn ornaments.

Me, Erin, and Matt at the shore of Lake Nakuru.

Sitting on the top of Menengai Crater, eating weird tasting sweets / snacks from the local bakery and enjoying the views.

[Full Disclosure: This was blogged with the specific purpose of putting off the packing of my bags for the trip.] Secured in the pocket, I waited for my chance.  I have been secured, safe, and cared for over the past year, and my digits and everything about my sleek plastic body screams freedom!  When the folded pants where the aforementioned pocket is attached to was shifted from the top of the toilet tank, I saw a chance and grabbed it.  The pocket released its grip slightly and I readied myself for the chance of a lifetime.  My dreams of doing a perfect dive were finally here.  All those times I was safely secured in bags and pockets, I have always dreamed of the day I would be able to take a three and half rotation somersault with the air rushing through my screen.  I could only hope that I would have an audience at this time that is not solely consisted of spiders.  Suddenly I was free, my black case slipping through the grasps of demin, and I started my dive.  After the third rotation, I saw the bowl, and realized that I would not make it, so I decided to land on the floor and then jump up again to make the bowl. It was a gorgeous thing, I tell you, I swooped right into that bowl with the grace of a swan.  After being fished out of the bowl to what I hear as thunderous applause (but most likely was a string of obscenities from my owner and laughter from her friends), I promptly went wonky and shut down.  Even if my digits couldn’t work for a few days, the chance of a lifetime was well worth it.  I have left my mark in that baby swallower in Nakuru, and the spiders who were awed by my performance will never forget it for as long as they live.  

Like Jon, or to Deaf Eds, Die Hard, said in one of his blog entries, mango season is upon us.  I walked through the streets of Mombasa yesterday, and saw the carts full of huge mangoes, hawkers trying to out-sell each other, and the sweet scent of mango juice running everywhere.  I immediately started drooling and knew that apple mangoes (which are smaller but insanely delicious - Kilifi is known for their apple mangoes, and this may have also ruined mangoes for me for the rest of my life) was just about to follow.  

For the next few months I'll be paying 15 cents instead of 30 for apple mangoes and 7 cents instead of 20 for normal mangoes, which fits nicely into my Peace Corps budget.  However, there is a huge trade-off.  While the mango season is upon us, it is now again the "summer," or what they call the dry season out here, which means the days of 95-105 degrees are upon us again.  Last night, after spending time in Nairobi, Nakuru, and cold Loitokitok, I had to finally turn on the fan to sleep.  

So, yeah, it's the dry season.  But at least we have fantastic and juicy mangoes.  

Speaking of Nairobi, Nakuru, and Loitokitok, here's the gist of what happened the last couple of weeks.  

I was declared healthy and fit for the second year of my service in Nairobi, and of course, hung out with the fellow PCVs who were poked and prodded at the same time.  Erin, Matt and I then decided to head to Nakuru for a a couple of days, checking out Lake Nakuru National Park and looking at the wildlife, and the actual real life flamingos (not the ones on your lawns!).  My phone then did a graceful swope into the toilet (how's that for a topic seque?!), but luckily the mobile shop in Loitokitok did some magic and it's back up and running.  

Matt headed back to site, Erin and I hiked the Menengai Crater cursing the fact that the Coast was at sea level and there were no hills for us to practice hiking on, so we were wiped when we got to the top.  The gorgeous views were worth it, regardless.

Erin and I then headed to Loitokitok again to see the new trainees who have now been in Kenya for more than a month, and we found them in good shape, and raring to go.  Over the week, there were discussions, support, sessions, KSL classes, some videotaping, and then finally ending the week with the movie, "Through Deaf Eyes," which I absolutely recommend to everyone.  

And ... I've been prepping for my trip back to the States!  I'm flying to Amsterdam on Thursday night, arriving on Friday morning to see one of my old college roommates for the weekend, as well as Sarah.  After the weekend, I'll fly to Seattle to meet my family, and I can't wait to see them, especially finally meeting Olivia.   

Throughout the last couple of months, I have been nervous about the trip back to the States, not because of the fear that I might never go back to Kenya (my service here is in no way over, and I don't like leaving things unfinished), but mostly because I haven't really thought about the US much over the last year as my life is here in Kenya.  The US is so far away and I can understand more and more why the US is so distant but at the same time so connected to the Kenyans, and the closer the trip back is, the more I think about the States, and I've finally made my peace.  The United States is my country and my home, in spite of all the commercialization, in spite of all that twilight and new moon thingy that I hear is going on out there (apparently vampires are huge right now, according to the new trainees, hmm interesting), in spite of all the political problems (c'mon pass that health care bill), it's still home for me, and it's where my family live, and many of my friends live, so now I'm finally excited about returning for a couple of weeks. 

Lastly but not least, Happy Hanukkah!  Tonight is the fourth night, and I miss my childhood days of visiting Grandma and Grandpa and getting cool gifts from the family, so light those candles for me, I'll be thinking of y'all!

Hope everyone's ready to make the final push for the holidays!  With that in mind (as I have a zillion of things I need to do over the next few weeks) I thought it was perfect timing for more stress relief, aka, Olivia!

What? What turkey? I didn't eat no turkey! Heh!

On that note, Olivia and I wish all of you celebrating turkey day a very Happy Thanksgiving!

Entering Machakos, a town that I knew that had the presence of Miss PCP Machakos, I was hit by a twinge of sadness that she would not be in the area to show off the Machakos that she knew so well due to factors beyond anyone’s control, even if she is enjoying Dancing With The Stars. On that note, I was determined to enjoy Machakos to it’s fullest, and indeed, I did enjoy the town.  PCP, I hope we did you and Machakos proud!

We checked into a very nice hotel, waited around for a fun reunion with Paul, Matt, and Lapu, and got ready to start the KSL immersion week. The trainees were introduced to a normal school schedule (even if they were doing exams), language classes continued to be held (I was amazed how far they had gotten in a week and half of language classes – this PST was definitely going much better), guest speakers from various departments and organizations headquartered in Nairobi came by and shared information.

The four of us PCVs, realized that our lousy PST really colored our view of what information should be shared with the new trainees, and we may have gone overboard in the doom and gloom and cultural miscommunication stories – at one point, one of the trainees basically asked us, “Did anything good happen?!” Whoops. After owning up to our mistake, we talked about our good days, about the times that we could see light bulbs going off with our kids, making friends with the community, the day that we realized that time was going faster more than it was going slow, so I think we more or less balanced out our doom and gloom stories.

In midst of all this, I finally became a member of The “G” Club. Joining The “G” Club is a rite of passage for all Peace Corps Volunteers, and a few were surprised that it took me this long to join. The G stands for Giardia, which is an ailment that can wreck havoc on the digestive system. While details can be (and were) discussed with fellow PCVs, I think I will refrain from horrifying and losing the five readers of this blog, so I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. I was glad to get the dose of medication even if the side effect was an aftertaste of aluminum for a week.

I am eagerly looking forward to going back to my site, seeing and talking with the Machakos students made me miss my students, and that made me all the more ready to head off. While it was fantastic working with the current volunteers, meeting the awesome trainees, I was, and will be ready to head home in a couple of days (sorry, I’ve ran into a creative block on how to end the blog entries a different way, so you’ll just need to roll your eyes and say oh yay, she’s yet again excited about going home …).

Throughout my teaching the Form One students English, a new goal was formed without my realizing it – to encourage the students develop an appreciation of the English language, and to find ways of enjoying, playing around with the language.  I knew I was way over my head, as I know many of my Deaf friends back in the States hated and now continue to use English with distaste, and that is in a country that uses English as a major language.  What was I thinking when this goal popped into my mind?!  Was I actually that bored and wanted to think up of ways to make my job satisfaction all that harder?! Over the past year, I introduced them to various word games, Hangman, plural relays, several other ways of trying to get them to associate the English language with fun rather than fear.  When I was trying to think up of a game that could include the subject that we were studying (this was a couple of weeks ago), the usage of adverbs and adjectives.  All of sudden, out of nowhere, a flashback to my childhood popped up and I remembered Mad Libs.  My parents had introduced my brother and me to Mad Libs probably to try and maintain their sanity while traveling with two kids who would alternate between fighting by marking our space in the back seat, tapping each other and poking each other in the cheek, and playing happily with each other through all the different games we had made up.  Regardless of the attempts my parents made in explaining the concept of Mad Libs, I always had to take it in the literal sense writing the actual names, nouns, and adjectives in the story at the same time reading the story (I remember mom and dad patiently trying to explain that the fun part was to write down the descriptive words without reading the story and that made it all the more funnier when I fill out the blanks), and it took me a long time to realize that I should just make up the words before reading the story because that made it all the more fun.  A couple of weeks ago, I decided to introduce the concept of Mad Libs, I made up various sentences, and had the students give me examples of adverbs and adjectives, and then we all filled the blanks in the sentences I had made up.  Some of the results were really funny.  It was a total hit with the students.  I then had one group make up a sentence, and another group come up with a noun, adjective, adverb, or verb, and then combine them together.  On that same day, I explained that languages were made to be played with.  We discussed the various ways we could creatively use KSL in stories, using various classifiers and other body movements, facial expressions, and then talked about a few different ways we could play with the English language.  The choices of words, the usage of words, expressions, and the flow of the language can make the language a lively thing and something to truly enjoy.  I can only hope that a few students are starting to become more comfortable with creatively using English.  

On Wednesday, I got into the Peace Corps Land Cruiser, with a major flashback to doing that exact same thing returning from Mombasa.  As we drove down the road, I exclaimed on how nice part of the road has become, only to start going off-road on some of the nastiest roads, with me laughing, and telling the PC driver that this was more what I remembered.  We slipped and swerved through the rain soaked and mud covered road and then finally reached Loitokitok.  Today is the one-year anniversary of my group’s arrival in Nairobi.  It is amazing to actually say that I have been in Kenya for one whole year already.  Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of our arrival, dazed and confused, in Mombasa.  The reason why I am talking about this is because meeting the new trainees has sent me numerous flashbacks to my PST, here in Loitokitok.  The new trainees had the same questions I had, the same feelings, and the same complaints.  Regardless of all that, I am very excited about the future of PC-Kenya, as I met eleven intelligent, energetic, motivated, and excited individuals planning on working at Deaf schools across Kenya.  I am also especially excited about this year’s PST, and from the observation of two days thus far, it looks like it’s going pretty well, most definitely having a much more positive vibe than the one we had during our PST.  So, to the PCTs set for 2010-2012, best of luck, and here’s to you and the future of PC-Kenya! And, of course, I can’t and won’t end this entry without a shout out to my group, the 2009-2011 peeps, here’s to another fantastic year of teaching, gorgeous travels, and unforgettable friendships!

In mid-October, I traveled to Nairobi for the Training Design and Evaluation sessions for the Educational volunteers.  I was excited about having some sort of input in the whole PST experience, but also curious about how much impact that the volunteers would actually have.  Throughout the week, I was pleasantly surprised how involved we were in the nitty gritty details of the PST.  This time around, it will be just the Math/Science and Deaf Education trainees, and the three Math/Science and two Deaf Ed volunteers who were there for the TDE spent nearly the entire day discussing learning objectives, how to set up sessions, how to schedule the sessions, what should happen first, and what went wrong with our PST.  After the end of the four-day session, we tentatively came up with a PST that hopefully would be so much better than the PST in 2008 was.   Even if only half of the things we have scheduled actually went through it would still be five times better than my PST. An added bonus of going to Nairobi (a city that I continue to not like very much), I got to stay at the Kenya Continental Hotel (the hotel that Peace Corps uses for PC-K related business and the hotel where they keep all the sick people [Nairobi is one of the hubs for Peace Corps Volunteers across Africa to fly to for medical related reasons]), and I got to see several volunteers that I have not seen in a while, and because the hotel is in Westlands, a neighborhood of Nairobi that has a lot of restaurants and options, I blew quite a bit of my moolah (Nairobi is really, really, really expensive on a Peace Corps budget) for some fantastic sushi, pizza, Indian, and of course, a good ole bacon cheeseburger (although, Nate and Mel, the bacon in no shape or form as good as yours, so you better save up some for me!). At the conclusion of the TDE, I was ready to head out of Nairobi, and because I was due back in Limuru, a short distance from Nairobi the following week, I decided to add onto my trip by visiting Alyssa and Matt in Meru and Maua.  I got in the matatu from Westlands and weaved the traffic, hoping that I would make it to city center in time to catch the matatu so it would arrive in Meru before dark.  Lady Luck was on my side, as the matatu left just before the deadline I set for myself.  I found myself speeding off up north.  I have heard crazy stories of matatu drivers driving very fast, swerving all over the place, on a variety of drugs, most likely mirra, a plant that releases a some sort of stimulant if you chew it – Meru and Maua has mirra trees galore, so it’s a big thing up north.  Anyway, the matatu I got on wasn’t as bad as I expected, and without incident, I got into Meru.  Meru is a nice sized town, and after eating out with Alyssa, we went to her school and the next day, she showed me around a bit.  The layout of Alyssa’s house is a carbon copy of my house, so it was really weird to see how she has it all set up compared to the way I set up mine.  Her school is gorgeous, has a gorgeous library, and I enjoyed myself spending time with her and some of her students.  Alyssa and I decided to look through the Karibu Jikoni cookbook (the book that saved lives of numerous PCVs and RPCVs – I have talked with several RPCVs that continues to use this book, and I know for a fact that I would probably use that cookbook for the rest of my life), and look up for some recipes we wanted to try, and we ended up making amazing chili and chocolate chip cheesecake along with some wine.  Needless to say, I enjoyed Meru.  After two relaxing days with Alyssa, I went up to Maua, and met Matt on the side of the road and then went into his school.  Matt’s school is on a crest of a hill, on a nice day, giving you gorgeous views of the hillsides of Kenya.  Matt and I walked around the school, meeting some of his students, and talked about his library project (which by the way if you want to donate to, go here to check out the Harambee Project, and donate!).  I met his adorable students, talked with every class about life beyond class 8, and then Matt and I walked around the school through the village, and it was a gorgeous walk, with a couple of rainbows, and beautiful vistas.  We also went to Maua for dinner and a couple of other errands.  Regardless of the rain and cold, I loved every minute I was at Maua as well.  On Kenyatta Day, another PCV from the Maua area and I went back to Nairobi to catch a matatu to Limuru for the VAC meeting with the new Country Director.  While Meru was pretty cold, Maua even colder, Limuru was insanely cold.  Okay it’s probably not as cold as the northern part of the States during winter, but it was insanely cold to my body, used to the hot and humid Coast.  Limuru, where they provide hot water bottles for bedtime, where I sat in my room, taking complete advantage of the wifi provided at the hotel wrapped in several blankets, reminding myself of my first winter break during college back at home, parking my butt in the front of the computer and chatting away with friends on IM wrapped in blankets until the wee hours of the night. The new Country Director was different from the old one, and I look forward to working with him – he (along with the old CD) clearly loved Peace Corps, what it represents and seems to be a good person to help rebuild PC-Kenya as it continues to need some rebuilding after the evacuation.  After Limuru, I headed back to Nairobi for one night because of the night travel restrictions of Peace Corps, and by that point, I was exhausted and completely ready to be home.  I traveled on the night train, which was really charming, sweet, and 21 hours instead of 12.  Words of advice, if you all want to travel to Mombasa from Nairobi on a vacation, fly. It’s grand to travel, but it’s also good to be home.  

This was taken on a walk from one of the trainee's homestay family's house - the maize fields were everywhere (as it was the rainy season there - it has just started up again a couple of weeks ago), and in some parts of Loitokitok you had gorgeous views of Mt. Kilimanjaro. 

I posted this photo because in only a few weeks, the Peace Corps group of 2009-2011 would have been here for a year, and before our anniversary, on 4 November, Loitokitok will welcome yet another group of volunteers (the Public Health folks were there in June).  

As I mentioned in a blog entry, I went to Nairobi for the TDE (Training Design and Evaluation), and we created a PST that seems to reflect the needs of the education volunteers in so many more ways, and as a result, making the PST have the potential of being many times better than the 2008 PST.  Excitement and shining eyes were the response of the volunteers when they looked over the tentative schedule for the PST - and everyone hoped that it would be as good as we think it can be. 

Loitokitok - I'll see you soon. 

Just a few photos of a beautiful hike Allen and I did in May.