It is pitch black outside. From the far western side of the sky, brilliant flashes of light intermittently sever the darkness. The flashes of lightning are deep in the distance, so deep that the expected thunder gets muffled and lost against the hills and the trees in its futile attempts to reach me. Yet, despite their distance, the flashes are so distinct they illuminate the entirety of the heavens.

The sight is breathtaking. I run outside with my camera, hoping to capture the clear bolts of lightning on film. With the dim light of my cell phone I take careful steps outside of my compound, where I could stand and see the beautiful spectacle unobstructed. But as I reach the front of my compound I am blinded by the security light hanging from the underside of the roof. The single light bulb sheds so much light it dampens the brilliance of the distant lightning and mutes the twinkling stars above. Frustrated, I search the walls around the light for a switch to put it off. Defeated, I move further in toward the darkness and toward the road so as to get the best view I can.

I smile with awe as I see the lightning bolts arch and twist, some stretching their unrestrained energy all the way to the ground below. The bolts seem to linger for more than just moments, or perhaps it is their remnants that linger as negatives in my corneas. With each bolt, I can see the sharp outline of a dark, ominous cloud presumably where the bolts are borne. I thought to myself that nothing can be more sublime, nothing more natural and paradoxically peaceful, aside from the single glowing light bulb some distance behind me.

He comes up to me stumbling. It is only 9:30pm, but he has had enough to drink and is on his way home as he sees me standing there. “Ahhh Mwadime,” he greets me with slurred words in my local name.

“Look!” I exclaim in Swahili and point earnestly toward the horizon, shedding my excitement on him. He turns slowly and asks me, “What?” He is not in the least amused by the lightning in the distance; to him its natural display of power is nothing of consequence.

“The lightning. It is very good, isn't it?" I replied.

“What? That?” He looks and points at the horizon. “Pffffff. That?” he repeats, his words reeking of alcohol as they reach me. Finally he says, “That's not lightning. That is.”

He points behind me, to the single light bulb hanging from the outside of my house.

“That.” He repeats, his arm locked straight with a single pointed finger fixed at the end.

His drunken insight offends me at first. It seems shameful to claim something like a light bulb more substantial than an awesome display of lightning on the horizon. And furthermore, that same light bulb that I found bothersome and tried so desperately to extinguish he finds more worthy of attention. But as I continue reflecting on his words, I consider how commonplace light bulbs are to me, just as lightning is to him. I consider that this village may have only had electricity wired in a decade ago, and still only the ones in proximity, or the ones wealthy enough are able to enjoy what electricity brings. Never had I smelled the burning of kerosene as I study by its light, or had to leave my cell phone at a shop all day to have it charged for me. I think back and realize that I have never known a life without electricity. Save for a few camping trips, I had never been without electricity for more than the rare two hour black-out would allow.

He stumbles off in the darkness, leaving me alone to watch the bolts traverse the pitch black sky. As he leaves he does not take a single look on the horizon; the magnificent thunderstorm remains entirely ignored as he hurries home to undoubtedly turn on his television. Perhaps WWE wrestling is on.

All Americans, although reluctantly, agree that the British accent is better in nearly every way. A British person who comes to the States is generally lauded for his cutting wit and inexhaustible charm, and a Brit will always have the upper hand on an American in wooing the ladies, despite how crooked his teeth may be. We may joke at how they call a “flashlight” a “torch” and the funny way they say “herb” by distinctly pronouncing the “h”, but there is no doubt the American accent is inferior.

Kenya was a British colony for a long time, and has therefore been subjected to the British way of speaking. But because English tends to be taught as a third language to many Kenyans, it becomes incorrigibly altered and twisted in the most interesting ways.

A few examples of this interesting fusion: In Mombasa there is a place called “Marikiti” pronounced “Mar-ee-key-tee.” It is a place where many people come to sell their produce and their goods. Only later did I find out that the name is actually supposed to be “Market” but it was just spoken in a Swahili accent, and the name stuck. As another example, I was looking over the attendance list of a woman's group, where each woman was required to write their name and sign. Some of these women have not had much schooling, and one particular lady named “Caroline” wrote her name as “Rarolini” or “Ra-row-lee-nee.” Because people pronounce her name “Rarolini,” she wrote her name as she thought it to be spelled. It sounded more like a type of pasta than a name, and I couldn't help but think it was the cutest thing ever.

Certain tribal languages in Kenya often mix and match the “L” and the “R” sounds. Kikuyu people especially have a difficult time saying words like “Large Ladders” or “Parallelogram”. But my favorite is how people call semi-trucks “Rollies.” The British term for semi's is “lorries,” but because of this L-R confusion, it comes out perhaps more appropriately as "rollies" - Those semi's do have lots of wheels.

But sometimes this dependence on phonetics becomes a barrier to communication.

I walked up to the taxi driver and I asked him in Swahili to take me to the “Leopard Lodge,” which I said in English. He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was saying. I was amazed to think he did not know of the place. Taxi drivers usually have an incredible working knowledge of their area, and I had just seen a massive sign with the “Leopard Lodge” written on it, so the place was definitely not obscure. I repeated myself, speaking very slowly this time. Still, he looked at me puzzlingly, trying to mimic the name I was saying. At last I just said the Swahili word for “Leopard” and he then looks at me with an eased expression, “Ohhhh,” he breathed. “You want the Lay-oh-pard Lodge.” I chuckled as I heard him pronounce it. I had forgotten that the Kenyan way of saying English words is to pronounce every single letter, so he could not at all make out the way I was saying it: “lep-rrd.”

The other day I asked my counterpart if she was going to watch the meteor shower at night these coming nights. It was supposed to be one of the biggest showers of the year, and it was to be visible in the southern hemisphere. My counterpart is very fluent in English, yet she still looked at me completely confused. “What am I going to look out for tonight?” she asked worriedly.

“The meteor shower!” I said again.

“What?”

“Meteor. Shower.”

“The meat, what?” She repeated, exasperated.

“Do you know what meteor is? Here let me write it down.”

I wrote it down. M-E-T-E-O-R. S-H-O...

“Ooohh. May-tay-or!” She exclaimed, as she saw the first word completely written.

“Ah, yes. May-tay-or. Sorry!” I laughed again to myself. The way we Americans pronounce meteor is more like, “meet-ear” so it is no wonder others cannot understand us.

Some other words that are unintelligible if pronounced in an American accent are: tortoise (tore-toy-see, buffalo (boo-fallow), ballet (bah-let), and any word that ends with a hard “R”: gutter, robber, roar (gut-ah, row-bah, row-ah).

We may all agree that the Spanish accent is passionate and fierce, the French accent is sexy and lyrical, and the Italian accent fantastic. But there is no other accent in the world as phonetically dependent as the Kenyan English accent. And it still beats the American accent hands down.

She is 14 years old. A school girl. Her 20-liter jerry-can hangs awkwardly from her back. It is too late to fetch water; the road is hard to see and the wind howls furiously. She walks briskly, staggering under the weight of the water she carries back to her house. The sun has set, the last traces of light momentarily linger on the hills and the horizon. Dusk yields itself to darkness as she trudges home. This night in particular is especially dark, as if evil itself were casting its shadow over the village and infecting the hearts of the villagers with its sinister intentions. Perhaps it was.

He creeps up silently, and without warning grabs her. His large hand holds fast to her thin arms, his rough skin feels violent against hers. His other hand forcefully muffles her surprised and horrified screams. Abrasive. Suffocating. He carries her to a nearby shack, pins her to the ground and lifts her skirt. She struggles in vain, feeling suddenly vulnerable and completely exposed. One minute passes. Two minutes. Each minute longer than the last. The darkness conceals his face, saving her from witnessing his lips quiver with contorted pleasure from each forceful, unsolicited thrust, In just minutes he finishes, fixes his trousers and disappears into the darkness. She lays there shaking, gasping for breath.

Her feelings twist and wrench inside her. Dutifully, she returns home with her jerry-can full of water, unsure of how to feel; unsure if she should scream, or shout, or swear-- unsure if she should cry. As she looks into her mother's weary eyes, her lips tremble as if longing to say, “Mother, I was raped.” but the mere thought of those words felt suddenly so shameful, so absurd. She doesn't sleep at all this night, she just lies awake shaking, recounting again and again how it happened. Thinking how she ought to have covered her legs more, worn more conservative clothing. Thinking how she should not have been walking so slowly, how her laziness was to blame. Perhaps it was her fault.

Her eyes are empty now. It is innocence that causes the spark and vibrancy in young souls; it is innocence that burgeons the wonder and excitement just to be alive. But hers are empty. Inside them only silence. He took it all from her. He stole from her the very things she had not yet known were sacred – her innocence, her dignity, her confidence, her future.

But this girl is not the only victim. Another girl, the youngest of four daughters. Her body has just begun to show the signs of woman-hood. Her three older sisters have already been victim to their very own father's lust. Now, he is after her. Her mother knows, and sternly instructs the sisters to keep family matters private. Should word get out to others in the area about the father's behavior, it will be hell to pay for them all. “Don't be with Father alone,” one of her older sisters advise. She knows her inevitable fate, that soon she will be raped by her father. But she's not sure she wants to be. Frightened, suffocating – in her own home she moves about like a thief in the night. Her father, the very person who represents protection and security for young daughters, represents for her the most frightening figure in her life.

Still another. She was three years old. Grandfather would place her on his lap, and while doing so, he would lift up his shuka and insert himself subtly into her. Her shrill screams were dismissed as the usual whine of a child. Nobody knew. Nobody understood why she would cry when they told her to go to Grampa. She was a three-year old without her virginity. Those memories seared into her mind, traumatizing her from childhood through adolescence. She bore her burden in silence.

The stories are innumerable.

With all these girls and women, the echoes of their pain linger in contrived laughter, and memories from the past stalk them like their own shadows. The fear of being shamed, the judgment from their families and peers, the view that they are no longer pure – too many reasons to keep from speaking out and opening up to others. They suffer alone with a burden that is too heavy for one person to bear.

Their silence is suffocating.

90 of 100 cases of rape are not reported. 90% of the time rapists in Kenya go free from their crime. In the goodness of all our consciences, we scream for justice. It is difficult to think of a single act more evil than rape and incest, how in just minutes rapists can take away the entire future of their victims.

My heart cries for all the girls, and it burns angrily for those who make these girls subject to their sick lust. One does not understand the sheer gravity of rape until one becomes its victim. And in these victims' eyes is a longing for help, a cry to just be understood. In their eyes they are searching furiously for normalcy, for refuge.

In their eyes, the silence screams.

During some swimming competitions, swimmers may be asked for a “bio” or “history of accomplishments” so they can be read as the swimmer's name is announced. Perhaps if someone was National Champion in a certain swimming race, it would be a perfect title to jot down on the bio. Being a swimmer, I also turned in my fair share of bios, and one of my favorite things to do was to write interesting (yet true) facts about myself which have nothing really related to swimming. For example: Ranked 1st on the Cal Men's Swim team in table tennis, or 2nd place in the county spelling bee competitions in the Second Grade.

Now that I have been in Kenya for over a year, I have broadened my repertoire of skills. Here is a list of titles I can now claim upon myself, surely many of them will be very handy on a resume.

The Dung Decipherer. Whether it be a cow, goat, chicken, elephant, camel, buffalo, monkey, dog, or human, either by size or by shape and texture I have the ability to tell which animal has taken a poo. I can even give a list of uses for many of the dungs I come across.

The Green Thumb: Even without much water, my small backyard garden is showing healthy, consistent growth of tomato and kale plants. Just being among the growing vegetables gives me a sense of accomplishment, and the first time I picked and prepared vegetables for a meal entirely from my garden, I felt more proud of myself than anyone rightfully should.

The Drip Irrigator. The benefits a farmer has by implementing a drip irrigation system are substantial: less water use, better crops, preservation of the soil. The biggest negative aspect, especially for poorer farmers, is the high costs involved. One way to get around these high costs is to assemble one yourself. And I have done that. Just a bucket, a ½ inch rubber hose, a needle, a lighter, and a few plastic plugs will water 80 crops with less than $20. Now if only there was some water to put in to the bucket...

The Charcoal Maker. A very handy trick for all the times the charcoal runs out at a barbecue. With just a 200 liter metal drum, any solid biomass, and 3 hours, some fresh charcoal will be ready for use.

The Iron Stomach. When we first arrived in Kenya, the medical team warned us never to go without treating the water and always encouraged us to soak vegetables for at least 20 minutes in chlorinated water if they are to be eaten raw. After one year and some months here, I eat raw fruits and vegetables sometimes without even rinsing them, even straight from the garden. Many people I know observe the “5-second rule” where any piece of food, if dropped on the floor, is still edible if recovered within five seconds. But I dare to extend my rule...to a few days. I feel like I could drink from a dirty puddle and come away unaffected.

The Masaai Bead Weaver. Recently, a fellow volunteer taught me how to weave bead bracelets like a Maasai, and now I am teaching anyone in my village who wants to know how to do it. I was teaching one specific group of former sex workers how to make these beads, and among their group was a Maasai woman. I grinned at the irony of teaching a Maasai the very skill they are famous for – especially because I represent the demographic that purchases these beads at extraordinary prices.

The Water Harvester: Perhaps this is more of an unhealthy complex now, but any drop of rainfall from my roof puts me all hands on deck trying to save that water as if it were my very child falling to her death. Once, it started raining when I was at work. I looked outside and saw the dark clouds extending as far as I could see, so I assumed it was raining ten kilometers down the road where I lived. I instantly dropped everything I was doing, saddled up on my bicycle and furiously pedaled home so I could put my buckets, basins, and pots out under my roof. I don't think I ever cycled home so quickly, and though both my backpack and I were thoroughly soaked, it was worth it.

The Sound Sleeper: One year has thankfully granted me immunity to the morning rooster crow. I know other volunteers live near more difficult animals (donkeys in the morning could substitute large church bells), but I soundly catch my Z's until my body naturally wakes me up – at 7:30am.

It's too bad I don't have another opportunity at those swimming bios. I would have quite a few more titles to put down.

During the rainy season, sometimes the roads get a bit muddy for the public transportation system. As we climbed up a hill, twice we all had to get out and help push the matatu forward. Although not depicted in this picture, it was interesting watching big, well dressed mamas pushing the vehicle through the mud.

It is a bicycle pump.

A very old grandmother without teeth building a grass-thatched roof for a small hut. Her small cell-phone pouch she wears around her neck has the words "Jesus Loves You" written on it. I love this lady.

During a trash clean up project, I had the kids make art shapes out of bottle caps. Displayed here are two students proudly showing their bottle-cap elephant.

In the background of this photo are rare African Violets. Our tour guide informed us that this rare spot up in the Taita Hills is the only place in the world these precious flowers grow, so obviously I had to put my face next to them for a picture.

A Kenyan eating contest - 300ml of coke and 200 grams of bread. The winner of this contest was a woman.

Two women gathering grasses for their livestock. The women here can carry unimaginable quantities on their heads.

This "poster" hangs in a nursery school as a reference for the children to learn the English names of different items. Interestingly enough, the English word: "cooking pot" or "pot" was substituted for the Swahili word "Sufuria". I would think "pot" would be a little easier to learn.

This is a natural rock water catchment that stores the rain water. The small wall was built in 1961 by the inhabitants, and has served the community without fail until 2010, when a small leak was found and repaired. Now there is talk of building the wall higher and increasing its storage.

Here a teacher stands with some students during a sanitary pad making project. The teachers are always exquisitely dressed in the local patterns and fashions, and the students are always in uniform. Beautiful.

Maasai. Beautiful. The most traditional and most displayed culture in Kenya, showcased on all travel brochures. Here they are performing a traditional maasai dance during Madaraka Day.

My evening bike ride home with the sun setting on my right shoulder. When I am late heading home, my silhouette keeps me company.

During the track/field village competitions, a student from our local school is performing the shot put.

The water problem in my area. Women with their jerry cans line up behind a water truck, patiently awaiting their turn for water. These water trucks are a rare blessing, usually the people must walk miles and miles with only as much as they can carry. This truck has saved many of these women about 6 hours of walking.

A home made drip irrigation kit. It was quite a celebration when we poured water in it and realized the water was actually coming out of the tubes.

Some nearly naked children playfully jump into the channel where the ferry crosses. Hopefully they don't venture too far out; sharks and other dangerous aquatic life are said to roam these waters.

(Left) The "Anti-Corruption Box" displayed on many government buildings around Kenya. Kenyans understand the biggest problem in their country is the corruption of government employees, so these "suggestion/question" boxes are an effort to keep them walking the straight line.

(Right) This is a traditional Duruma house, made with grass roofing and wooden beams and clay. A family of 9 live inside this home.

(Left) An overturned truck seen along the Nairobi-Mombasa highway. Unfortunately this is a fairly frequent sight.

(Right) A marshmallow roasting session with all my neighbors.

It was midday Friday in East Africa, the hot equatorial sun oppressively cast its heat on the small truck-stop town. A group of teenagers sat idly near their motorcycles at the public transport stage, chewing khat and waiting for customers. As I walked by they hailed me down, wondering if I needed a ride. I stopped and sat next to one of the youth, greeting him in the local slang. A conversation ensued.

“So why do you use this stuff?” I asked, motioning to his handful of khat, a natural stimulant which causes insomnia and mouth cancer after extended use.

“Do you know the way it makes your penis stand?” He said vulgarly. “I can pop six times in one night. I keep going and going...you know...even until the girl cries for mercy.”

He looked at me with an ugly smile; the khat stuffed into his mouth protruded unattractively beneath his lower jaw. “You know pop, right? You get it?”

He said the word 'pop' in English, but the rest in Swahili. Though I am still learning the language, there isn't a good translation for the word, “ejaculate.”

“It causes impotence you know, if you use it too much.” I said plainly. “It will make it so your penis cannot stand anymore unless you use more and more of the drug.”

The kid stared at me shocked. He was obviously a bit concerned about the welfare of his future penis. His friend who had been listening in on the conversation had a worried expression as well, but he spoke up, “It is only if you use the poor quality khat, if you are using the higher quality stuff nothing like that (impotence) will happen to you.” He spoke as if trying to convince himself of the safety of the drug, trying to justify his constant use of it.

I sighed at the futility. Their use of khat was symbolic of the general mentality among the youth: live for the day, don't worry about the future. Yet this mentality is detrimental to one of the fundamental concepts of business: saving money. In a culture where most property is communal, inflation is drastic, and death rates are high, there are plenty of economic and social incentives for not saving. A famous Swahili Proverb: “Haba na haba hujaza kibaba” or “Little by little fills the kibaba measure” reflects the importance of saving, but those sweet words of wisdom are too easily forgotten.

Our conversation continued. “Khat is pretty expensive, right? It seems like the youth here spend quite a bit of money on it, as well as alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes...”

He laughed at the truth in my words. “Ya, it's not so good.” He replied.

By now a small group had gathered around. All the idle youth came to listen to what we were discussing. I looked at the group that was forming, and thought it might be a good chance to pitch an idea to them.

“Guys,” I said, “If you all work together, I think there is tremendous potential to save money and start projects. Perhaps we can reduce the use of drugs, and put the rest toward saving. What do you guys say to joining together and starting a youth group?”

In all honesty, this group of idle youth represented the very blight of this truck-stop town. Their constant drug use causes their poverty and unruly behavior, and their promiscuity facilitates the spread of HIV and other STIs. They embody the very social maladies that most abhor. And because of their behavior, they are often marginalized by community leaders and many others in the community. These youth did not have just monetary poverty, I saw in them a poverty in a sense of purpose and direction. I thought I might try to reach out to them as no one else cared to do. I thought I might be a catalyst for their change.

So we formed a group of motorcycle-taxi drivers. We met weekly, writing minutes for each meeting, drafting a constitution, and electing leaders. They were enthusiastic, contributing to the constitution and the group's rules and regulations. But while we elected leaders, I realized a crucial fact about these youth: they did not trust each other. When they unanimously elected me as treasurer, I understood that they did not trust each other enough to put their own money into any one of their peer's hands. Trust among co-workers and group members is a key element to any success, and their ubiquitous mistrust of each other worried me.

But here was the reality: for nearly a year now I have been watching these young motorcycle-taxi drivers throw away their money on drugs and prostitutes. At the end of the week they are left with naught but a an empty pocket and a mouthful of complaints about their own state of poverty. They talk about how life would be so much better if they had some money. They each dream of owning their own motorcycles one day. I approached them with the answer to one part of small business: a business plan. Here was the plan.

“You all rent your motorcycles, right? Wouldn't it be better to own your own instead?”

They all nodded in excited agreement. I continued.

“There are 15 of us. If we save 50 shillings per day, it will take about 100 days to buy our first motorcycle. That first motorcycle will be given to one of our group members. They will then pay rent toward our group savings so we can purchase another. With that savings, we will be able to get another in 76 days. Then, with both of those motorcycles paying group rent, we can purchase the third motorcycle in 58 days. And the next in 46 days. And so on. If we follow this model, we can all be owners of our own motorcycle. What do you all think?”

They nodded vigorously.

I smiled at how receptive this group was at saving money together. This was the most challenging part of the business plan, yet it seemed to be unanimously agreed upon.

But my positive sentiments lasted for just moments. One of the members voiced his opinion, “Why can't we just write a proposal and ask for money from your country so we can just get motorcycles for free?”

Everyone thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be much easier,” said another member. “Let's do that.”

I sighed deeply. The availability of donor funding in developing nations breaks a fundamental concept of how business is done in the United States: saving and building capital, borrowing against an interest rate, and then running a business with a debt to pay. Despite the donor funding I still advocate savings. Saved money is different than regular money. Saved money has the value of one's own time and hard work attached to it, so therefore one's own care. Projects which have one's own money invested are much more likely to succeed. His suggestion was like poison to the progress of our group, but revealed the lack of trust and lack of discipline amongst them.

The group was stuck. They were all loath to save money together, so our meetings began to lack substance. Each consecutive meeting brought fewer members - only the ones who still had some hope that free motorcycles would be on the way showed up - until the group faded away completely. The opportunity for these youth to change was just a sweet fragrance on a passing wind. I was left with just the bitter thoughts of what could have been.

As I was making my usual stroll around my truck stop town, one of the members from our dissolved group came up to me and said, “Ever since we started that group, I have been saving on my own. Already I have quite a bit saved to buy my own motorcycle. I am trying to start my own group to continue this project, so if I get some others, please join us. If I don't get others, I will save my own money and eventually purchase my own.” His words were like sweet music. All of the time I thought I had wasted, all of the words I thought had fallen on deaf ears- this young man redeemed it all. I just stood there smiling genuinely at him. It was worth the effort.

In college I had a friend from Israel. His name was Guy. He taught me how to say things in Hebrew like, “You have beautiful eyes,” and “I put you in the little pocket.” The former phrase comes in handy anytime I am wooing a nice Israeli girl, and the latter is apparently a taunt you can say if you are defeating someone soundly at some game or sport. Nevertheless, because he was the first Israeli I have ever known, I naturally had tons of questions to help me get to know his country. I would ask, “Guy, have you ever seen a computer before you came to America?” to which he would respond, “Yes, but I have never used one. There is only one in Israel, and it is broken now.” Or similarly, “Hey Guy, do they have cars in Israel?” And he would cleverly respond, “No. Only camels.” Some of the questions I asked were silly, meant to imply a sense of economic superiority between our two countries, but I still enjoyed his answers.

Now that I am in Kenya, I get to feel what it is like to have everyone around me curious about my culture and country. And attached to this curiosity comes a plethora of questions. I generally find these questions awfully amusing, especially because I understand to some extent the reason for them. Below are my top six favorite questions I have been asked so far.

6. Is wrestling real?

Why it makes sense: Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Ray Mysterio. The first time I watched these guys in action I was near 10 years old. And I was enthralled. 'How could they endure so much pain?' I thought to myself. And it very much appeared real to me. When they hit each other with chairs, those chairs get noticeably dented, and when they pummel each other to the ground by a pile-driver the ring makes a booming sound. But if one would think it through, getting thrown down head first by a man as big as The Undertaker is instant death, no matter how strong your neck is.

5. All Europeans know English, right?

Why it makes sense: Even though most everyone is aware that Europeans speak a plethora of languages (like French, German or Italian), it is assumed that all Europeans speak English. Just like in Kenya, everyone has a mother-tongue they learn growing up, and then they learn Kiswahili and English in schools. “French” or “German” are seen as “mother-tongue,” while English is seen as the “Swahili” equivalent. Most Kenyans' exposure to Europeans are that of tourists, and for tourists it would be imperative to speak at least a bit of English to get around. There are plenty of European countries that do not speak much English (Spain, France), but those who do not speak the language would generally not find themselves on a safari in Kenya.

4. How is you?

Why it makes sense: For many Kenyans, English is their 3rd language. But it is the language taught in schools. Still, people tend to speak Swahili or mother-tongue to each other, so English is not frequently heard. The question “How is you?” usually comes from those who have had some schooling, enough to understand that for the verb “to be”, “is” is the singular and “are” is the plural. By following this rule, it makes sense if you are asking a single person “How IS you?” instead of “How ARE you?” and be deceived into thinking that you are using proper grammar. It is only later in those school years that one will learn that English is the language of many many exceptions.

3. Do all Asians know Kung Fu?

Why it makes sense: Jet Li, Jackie Chan. The Oriental countries have an oligopoly on Kung-fu films, and since people here are exposed to these films they see hoards and hoards of Asian-looking people fighting martial-arts style. Quite a fair assumption I would say. Based on the news in America, I assumed all Africans were starving and there were stampeding wildebeest every morning and evening.

2. If you have big hair, does it take more of your body's nutrients?

Why it makes sense: Kenyans generally have very short hair. Not only is it culturally appropriate to be clean-looking and shaved, it is ingrained in Kenyan's very DNA for short, curly hair. Along with this, many people in the rural areas are farmers, so they are very familiar with the way crops grow. It is a fundamental concept that as plants grow bigger, their roots get bigger and they demand more water and more of the soil's nutrients to continue healthy growing. The way plants grow in the earth is strikingly similar to the way hair grows on someone's head, so it is a very reasonable assumption that hair would take more nutrients as it got bigger.

1. Why do the Europeans like pies so much? And why do they think it is funny when they throw pies into other people's faces?

Why it makes sense: Pies are rare here. If you can find one, they are very expensive, perhaps the equivalent to 7 or 8 full meals. It is unlikely that many Kenyans have tried pies, but if they had tried a pie, it would instantly clarify the question “why do Europeans like pies so much?” The answer: Pies are delicious. As for the second question: “why is it funny to be pied in the face?” It is almost difficult not to appreciate the comical nature of having a creamy pie thrown into an unsuspecting face. Even the phrase “a pie to the face” sets me giggling. But it is an absolute sin to waste food here, especially something as valuable as a pie.

I'm sure if my old friend Guy read this post, he would enjoy the way the tables have turned on me in the "question-answer" game we played back in college. If only they get that one computer fixed in Israel..

My collection of short stories on racism.

Marriage

“So, will you marry here?” He asked me out of nowhere. I wondered why he cared, because he definitely wasn't asking for his own benefit.

“I don't think so,” I responded.

“You wouldn't marry one of us, would you? You wouldn't marry a baboon.” He said quickly, partially in jest. It was difficult to pick up on his meaning because his words took me by surprise.

“Baboon?” I repeated, my head turning slightly and my eyes narrowing to show my confusion.

“Yes, we are baboons. Look at our skin. We look like baboons.” He replied, still smiling. Though I picked up on his playful tone, I still burned with anger. This mentality that Africans are less than their lighter-skinned brethren makes me sick, and any hinting toward it, whether serious or in jest, makes me respond in kind.

“Baboons are hairy, aren't they?” I stated as I rolled up my right pants leg. Despite my anger, I continued with his jocular disposition.

He nodded in agreement.

“Look.” I said, motioning to my leg. “I have quite a bit more hair on my body than you. It seems I resemble a baboon much more than you do.”

He laughed as if in agreement, but there was no knowing if any of my words got through to him. It was the best I could do with my limited Swahili. Times like this make me ache to have more command of the language so I can delve into this deep-rooted stereotype and fight to dispel it.

Childhood Myths

“Do you know why African's palms and soles of their feet are white, but the rest of their body is not?” my 9-year old neighbor girl asked me.

“No, I don't know. Tell me.” I said.

“Long ago when the world was made, humans came from the mud. They came across some very hot water. Some put their whole bodies in the water, and so they came out white. But the Africans tested the water first with the bottom of his feet and thought it too hot, and again with the palms of their hands, but quickly pulled them out again. That's why our feet and hands are white and our bodies are not.”

It was a cute story, especially coming from my neighbor. But the story implies that dark skin is the same as dirt, or that white skin is cleaner or somehow pure. Where had she heard it? School? Who perpetuates stories with underlying messages of degradation towards one's own race?

Perhaps I am reading too much into a simple childhood story, but the stereotypes are deeply rooted in the minds of both young and old. While talking with one of the primary school teachers who lives next door to me, he told me plainly, “We Africans, we think you Wazungu are so much civilized and so very knowledgeable.” Yet this primary school teacher speaks three languages, and has welcomed more guests over for tea or dinner in a month than many of us Wazungu invite over a lifetime. It seems he is far more civilized and knowledgeable than most Westerners I know.

A Bicycle Ride

There is a certain word in Swahili which refers to all foreigners, or rather all white people. This word is “Mzungu.” To the locals, it is not at all meant to be derogatory; it is in fact meant to be exalting. Some of the connotations associated with this word are: money, sophistication, technology, education, opportunity. But depending on how it is used, this word to me is flagrantly offensive.

As I was riding my bicycle home I heard some familiar shouts. “Mzungu! Mzungu!” she yelled, nearly in my ear as I road slowly by. “Carry me on your bicycle, so that I can say that I have been carried by a Mzungu.” She requested. It is not uncommon that I carry people on my bicycle from time to time, so I told her that I would carry her on a short stretch of road because I was near my home. She enthusiastically climbed on the back, and began to shout, “Look, I'm being carried by a Mzungu!!” I replied emphatically, “Listen, I am not a Mzungu, I am a human just like you. My blood and yours are the same color.”

“I'm being carried by a Mzungu!” She screamed again. It was obviously her first time getting a ride by a foreigner. I sighed deeply as I arrived home, hoping my words had some impact on her deeply imbedded prejudice.

A core goal for the Peace Corps is cultural exchange between Americans and the host country nationals. One of the purposes of this cultural exchange is to provide a living example of someone from a western country, so they may see first hand how our lives are not so much different than theirs. We eat the same food, poop in the same hole in the ground, and pray for the rains together. These efforts are put forth in order to dispel the stereotypes associated with westerners, or at least show that not all westerners fit in to the stereotype of wealth and superiority.

Church

I am a regular at the local church in my village. The messages are all in Swahili, so for me it is more of a language workout instead of a spiritual experience.

About a month ago, the pastor kicked off the service by inviting the announcement lady to the front to give announcements. She was going on about how the church's new goal was to purchase some chairs made for children, because these large wooden pews make it difficult for the children to sit comfortably. While the announcement lady continued jabbering on about different requests and events, I looked around the church and saw it filled with empty pews. I thought to myself how this church already had quite the number of seats and space, especially compared to other churches in the area where the members bring their own stools to sit on (or find a place on the floor) during service. After the lady finished, the pastor looked up at the few of us in the pews and specifically called me out, saying, “Did Mwadime understand all of that?” (Mwadime being my local name). The pastor's words took me by surprise, and I responded to him in Swahili, my voice a little bit shaky. Already it was awkward that the pastor and I were having a conversation in the middle of service, like a teacher quizzing his student on a language exam in the middle of class. I replied, “Yes I have understood. You are wanting chairs for children.” He seemed to be satisfied with my response and he continued on with the service.

I took a few moments to reflect on the events that transpired. Never before had he asked or seemed to care if I understood anything that was going on in the church, though this time he was very concerned. But why the announcements? Isn't it more important that I understand the spiritual message he is giving instead of the weekly calendar of events? Then I realized, he saw me as a donor that would provide the finances for those chairs that he was asking for. And nothing else.

Again, I felt sick inside. It has been close to a year living here. I have been a regular at his church. Yet still I am just a source of funds in his eyes. Will I ever blend in and be treated like everyone else? Does it take two years? Ten? A lifetime? Maybe never. And to be perfectly honest, if it weren't for this special treatment I get from many of the people around, I could see myself living in this village for the rest of my life.

An African

I was sitting on the steps in my nearest town just reading as two small girls passed me by. One of the girls exclaimed, “Mzungu!” both in surprise as well as to beckon my attention. I looked up at her, then I looked around and asked her puzzlingly, “Mzungu yuko wapi?” or “Where is the Mzungu?” She looked at me confused, and the finally the other girl grabbed her and said, “This person isn't a Mzungu, he is an African.” Upon hearing those words, I felt my very soul smiling. I never knew such a simple comment could be so refreshing.

As those girls passed by later, I overheard her saying to her friend, “That African is still here.”

There are few things in this world better than a free shirt. The shirt could be unfashionable, ill-fitting, and itchy, but because it is free, it warrants no social repercussions. Out of all the shirts I own, the free ones are usually the ones I tend to like and wear the most. I have all kinds of free shirts from different events I've been to: Cal football games, triathlons, and swim meets. Or the shirts I get as gifts on birthdays or Christmas, with some ridiculous saying written on them. Yet to my surprise, these kinds of free shirts often find themselves quickest to be donated. Walk-a-thons for leukemia awareness (a deep purple always), blood drives, international woman’s day: these are all highly popular candidates for the donation box.

And they all come to Kenya.

I approached a teenager and read his shirt out loud, “Donde Esta Mi Cerveza?” with small English letters in the corner reading, “Where is my beer?”

“I think it is German.” He said, as I finished reading the small English writing.

I smiled amiably and felt it necessary to correct him. “Nope! It's Spanish. It's the same language the team from Barcelona speaks.”

“Ohh!” He exclaimed, as if very excited to learn the true language of the shirt he probably had for years. I mistook his enthusiasm to mean he wanted to know more about Spanish, so I continued breaking down the sentence to him, telling him exactly which word meant what. I was excited to read Spanish, the language I spent so many school years studying, but the teenager did not even feign interest and immediately changed the subject of conversation.

In general, Kenyans who wear these donated shirts have no idea what they are supporting. I remember one shirt worn by an older lady, clearly written, “BEER DELIVERY GUY” in all capital letters across the front. And I promise she was not going for the comedic effect. On another occasion I noticed a grandma wearing a shirt with huge bold letters, “Eat. Sleep. Play.” with a picture of an American football on the front. She obviously has no idea what sport she was endorsing (especially since it was “American” football) but her lack of knowledge didn't dampen her precious, nearly toothless smile. Another mama wore a shirt stylishly written, “Geek Squad,” and I bet none of those Best Buy employees on the “Geek Squad” knew that a 45 year old Mama who has never seen a computer in her life was a big supporter of theirs.

But my favorite so far is a very fast walking old man who I pass by every morning. He looks very grisly and determined whenever I see him, as if he had just lost his cow and was now desperately searching for it. Once he was wearing a very faded pink shirt that read, “Official Heartthrob” in playful, girly letters. The “o” in “throb” was in the shape of a heart, and the middle of each letter looked to have one of those reflective glittery gemstones. This shirt did not at all dampen his grim morning look.

What these shirts do for me is remind me of the people from back home. I saw a mama cooking who was wearing an “Auburn” shirt, and it reminded me both of my old swim coach and a girl I used to like. Whenever I see people wearing Pittsburgh Steeler gear, I instantly think of my father and how excited he would be to see a Kenyan “Steeler” fan. When I first arrived to Kenya, I saw a motorcycle driver wearing a hat that read “Cal,” and I reflexively blurted “Go Bears!” at the sight of paraphernalia from my Alma Mater.

I cannot help but think of home when I see references to California or Los Angeles. These shirts pop up at me like scribbled memoirs written of my childhood and stuffed in the pockets of different pairs of my pants – Mickey Mouse, Anaheim stadium, San Diego – all these places resonating with colorful memories. And I'm certain that many of the Kenyans wearing these shirts wonder why I feature a huge smile as they pass me by.

But the most nostalgic moment I have had over a piece of clothing happened in Mombasa. I saw a skinny teenager wearing an NJB (National Junior Basketball) jersey that was from Diamond Bar, California. Diamond bar is literally 12 miles north of where I grew up. And I played in NJB growing up! I could have very well played against that very jersey as 10-year-old. Perhaps I guarded the same boy who wore that jersey – and now I meet up with this garment of clothing 15 years later on the other side of the world.

I have come to find that clothes hold a certain sentimental value. I would consider myself a minimalist, and every so often I sort through my things for donation or recycling. But I must admit, when it comes to some items of clothing, as worthless as they are, I manage to return them to my wardrobe. I still have swimming shirts from 1994, and because I thought it was cool to wear baggy, extra-extra-large shirts back then, some of them still fit. If I weren't so sentimental about my clothing, I might have had a chance to come across one of my very own shirts here in Kenya.

May 26th, 2010. I was on a plane headed for Kenya, with a lay-over in Switzerland. It has been exactly a year since I have left America. In honor of this one year anniversary, I would like to share some numbers and statistics of my experience so far. Here they are:

6 – The number of living chickens hanging upside down on bicycle handles (3 on each side), no doubt headed towards the market for selling.

7 – The record number of full grown people I have seen riding a motorcycle.

35 (2) – The record number of full grown people being carried by a 14-seater matatu (2 babies). The matatu broke down, and as we all got out of the vehicle (I was one of the 5 people standing on the outside door), I realized there were also 8 chickens inside.

Over a dozen – single exposed breasts I have seen from breast-feeding mothers.

6 – the total number of times I have swam in a year.

3 – the number of times I would sometimes swim in a single day.

47 – dead cockroaches I found in my room after two weeks absence.

Infinity – living cockroaches in and around my pit latrine.

60 – the most kilometers I have ever run in one week's time.

60 – the average kilometers I would swim each week for many consecutive weeks of my life.

3 – The number of items I can cross off my bucket list (1. swim in the indian ocean, 2. dream in another language, 3. be on both northern and southern hemispheres of the world at the same time)

1 – The number of strawberries I have eaten.

36 – letters and packages I have mailed, also the number of our starting group.

5 – The number of languages I am greeted in on a daily basis (Kiswahili, English, Taita, Duruma, Kamba)

1500 – liters of water I have used total in 10 months of being at my site. This doesn't include my water use when I travel to Nairobi or other cities, but it comes out to about 5.5 liters per day.

365 – The number of days I have been outside America.

426 – approximate number of days I have left until my service is through.

1 – times I have sincerely longed to be home.

0 – times I have regretted my decision to join the Peace Corps.

Since I've lived in Kenya, I have only been cooking for myself. Nearly everything I cook is from my local open-air market with fresh fruits, vegetables, and legumes. Corn and wheat flour, spaghetti noodles, and other things I find in the larger supermarkets or small storefronts. I cook a small array of dishes, from spaghetti with home-made tomato sauce, tortillas with guacamole, coconut rice and beans, or the local dish of fried kale and “ugali.” I cannot say I am much of a cook though, since I prefer quantity over quality and healthy over delicious if I had to choose. Luckily I have access a variety of spices, so if I somehow go wrong in the cooking process, I douse my meal with my local favorites.

Cooking here is quite a process. It takes me nearly half an hour just cutting the onions, tomatoes, and other vegetables, or peeling carrots and potatoes with my knife. If I am pressed for time, I usually opt to cook the “ugali” and fried kale, because once the vegetables are cut it is just 15 minutes until the food is ready to eat.

This past Sunday for lunch I had run out fresh food to prepare myself, so I shuffled through my storage box for something to eat. With luck I found a packet of “Betty Crocker” instant mashed potatoes, and another packet of instant gravy. I flipped the packet and read the directions which instructed me to boil water and add the contents, then stir for one minute. The gravy sauce packet actually took less time than that. After 2 minutes had passed, I had a steaming, creaming plate of mashed potatoes and gravy.

I chuckled to myself at how quickly it all happened. Being used to at least a half-hour's preparation before any meal, I felt like I somehow cheated. I even looked around my empty room, as if searching for confirmation that the food was ready. I decided I should share some with my neighbors as a cultural experience, showing them the empty packets and telling them that this is how American food is.

I was astounded at the taste. Despite the assurance from Betty Crocker herself that the mashed potatoes were “REAL” as written on the package, the taste was so foreign to me still. Just as one can taste the difference in aspartame or some other synthesized, non-calorie sweetener compared to the real granules of sugar, the packaged food instantly betrayed itself to my senses. I had become so used to real unadulterated foods, I found myself loath to finishing the instant potatoes and gravy. But I did finish them; there are starving children in Africa.

What I realized out of this was not the taste of Betty Crocker's mashed potatoes, but the lifestyle Americans lead that should require instant packaged foods, microwaves, and infomercials that can sell you a “Slap-chop.” Everything Americans do has to be expedited if possible, so that we can do more activities and be more productive throughout our day. Yet here in Kenya, I find myself living completely perpendicular to the fast-paced American life, and I am often frustrated at how I wait long hours for transportation, or how cooking takes a huge chunk of my evening. But the reminder of my American lifestyle made me a little bit sick inside. It seems we want so much out of every minute of our day that we miss many of the subtle flavors in life. We want our crops to grow bigger and tastier, our lines at the grocery store to be shorter, and our fast-food to be faster. I am beginning to think that maybe it's okay to live a little bit slower. Maybe it is okay to take the time to metaphorically cut your vegetables and prepare your food in such a way to make Betty Crocker turn her nose up: both in defiance of your boycott on her instant-mashed potatoes and at the enchanting aroma of your original, heavily spiced creations.

People are bad for the environment. Centuries of economic development have pioneered the raping of the Earth's natural resources, from clearing away dense forest for agriculture and infrastructure to digging in every place imaginable for oil and combustible fuels. But these days, environmental protection has been a popular discussion topic. Words like “Ecological Footprint”, “Climate Change”, and “Greenhouse Gases” have infiltrated our vocabulary like Chinese-made goods and services. Nowadays both individuals and corporations alike are urged to reduce their negative impact on the environment by “going green” and negating their carbon footprint upon the world. Websites offer carbon-footprint calculations, which estimates the level of “tonnage of carbon dioxide” you emit per year.

I am quite aware that developed nations pollute a great deal more than developing ones, and so I decided to compare my lifestyle from America to how I live now by using one of these online carbon footprint tests. It asked questions concerning the car I drive, the flights I've taken, my household electricity & gas usage, my culinary habits, my purchasing & recycling habits, and a list of other miscellaneous subjects. Here's how it turns out:

Car

In the year before I came to Kenya, I would drive 60 to 80 miles a day going to and from work, running various errands, or visiting certain people, and I would often make those trips all alone. Now I walk and bike everywhere, or take public transportation if the place is too far. Even public transportation vehicles are packed to the maximum carrying capacity. In Southern California, you qualify for the “carpool lane” by having just 2 or more people in the car. Kenya redefines “carpooling” by carrying 30 passengers (and often chickens and goats) in a 14-seat van.

Water

I remember back in college our swim team would have 20 showers running full blast for a good 15 to 20 minutes as we relaxed under the massaging pressure of the hot water. And this would happen twice or even three times per day because of multiple swim practices. Gallons and gallons of water were used from our swim team alone. Now I use 1.5 liters of water to bathe. Perhaps I shouldn't admit to this so openly, but often I will bathe every other day. On a given day, I can use a total of 6 to 10 liters of water for cooking, cleaning, bathing and drinking. That is about 2 flushes of a toilet.

Food

In America, I would eat meat for at least two meals a day. Processed foods, candies, and anything that traveled for 100 miles or further to my supermarket, I was very likely to purchase. But in Kenya, I have given vegetarianism a try (it is really hard to preserve meats and cheeses with ridiculous-hot temperatures and no refrigeration) and all my food comes less than 10 kilometers away.

Recycling

I've always hated plastic bottles and things, and believed firmly in recycling back in the States, but here in Kenya, I take recycling to a whole new level. I reuse everything until it disintegrates here. If I buy a loaf of bread, I reuse the flimsy plastic bag it comes in when I go to the market so the mamas do not have to use one of their own bags for the vegetables I purchase (not only do these mamas save a quarter of a shilling, it gets me talking with them about how plastic materials are bad for the environment). Hefty grocery bags from the bigger supermarkets are like valued gems to me, and they get well used before they are discarded (burned).

Energy

I have two lights in my home. Both have energy-saving light-bulbs in them, and I use one for maybe 3 hours every night. I do have a socket for powering/charging things, and I usually use my computer for a couple hours daily. I have a reading light that is charged with a solar cell. My current net energy use is marginal at most, and it's actually not too different from how I lived back in the states.

Travel

The trip to and from Kenya from Los Angeles was an ecological killer. Just in a round trip ticket I accounted for more than half of my total emissions for two years (2.66 tons of carbon dioxide).

Over its lifetime an average tree can sequester or absorb about 1 ton of carbon dioxide. Americans emit an average of 20 tons of carbon dioxide per year. Because trees don't begin to be much use in negating carbon dioxide until they reach adolescence, 6 trees need to be planted for every ton of carbon dioxide emitted (and each tree must survive for its lifespan). Therefore, Americans should plant 120 trees per year on average to wipe their carbon footprint clean.

The going rate of a ton of carbon on the open market is about $5.50. Instead of emitting the 40 tons of carbon dioxide I should have by living in the states, I am at a grand total of 5.7 for the two years I'll be living here. It doesn't sound like all that much, but the U.S. Government gets an average environmentally-based financial benefit of $188.65 for just me, and I can imagine similar figures for every other Peace Corps volunteer.

But the average Kenyan has a footprint of 0.31 tons per year. Even excluding my flight here and back, I emit three times more than the average for this country.

When I lived in America, there is such a disconnect between being responsible with the use of resources and the effect it has on others. But here I see a little bit more clearly how I am impacting the lives of others. As an example, water is a major problem where I live. The roads are constantly filled with people carrying their water for long distances. Groups of mamas walk together with their 20 liter jerry can on their head, talking to each other to keep them cheerful. Grimacing young boys wheel bicycles with 60 liters strapped to the back (20 gallons) uphill through sandy patches of road. In light of this, I find it difficult to waste even a drop of water. If the rains come, it is all hands on deck for me, as I put out every basin and pot that I own to catch the drops of rain from my corrugated iron roof. Though I am able to get water at the nearby school, I conserve as much as possible because I know that the more I draw water from the school, the less others will have. And generally speaking, the more resources I use, the more of a strain I place on resources as a whole. The longer I live here, the more convicted I feel of the decadence I used to live. It makes me reevaluate how I want to continue living should I get back to the states.

Mombasa. East Africa's biggest port bustles with life. Shirtless young men pull heavy carts of fruit down the streets, while others are spotted resting on a pile of dirt they recently shoveled in the midday sun. Small 3-wheeled taxis zip in and out of stalled traffic and abruptly stop in front of any person standing idly by the road, hoping for a customer. The wide sidewalks are lined with mamas sitting on the floor selling coconuts, mangoes, or papaya, as well as street cooks who turn your head at the sweet smell of their freshly cooked food. Whole fish, seemingly still quivering in remembrance of a recent swim, are sold fresh near the water. The vast Indian Ocean shimmers translucent green until the limits of the horizon. This city is enchanted.

Mombasa is home to Kenya's Swahili tribe (actually from the Arabic word sawahil, which means “people of the coast”), yet among them live large cohorts of Middle Easterners and Indians. Muslim women walk around like shadows in their full black buibui. Swahili women wear fashionable “lassos” with colored patterns and a “Kiswahili Saying” written upon them, and Indian girls blithely stroll together along the streets, each dressed in a different, brightly colored sari. Although I love the people in my community, I welcome the cultural diversity Mombasa has to offer like a breath of fresh air.

The humidity attaches itself to my body like another layer of sweat. As I roam the streets I search for the shaded sidewalks so that I may hide from the sun. The chilled avocado juice sold at the corner of the street looks like a tempting option, no doubt a cup of instant diarrhea for tourists unaccustomed to the germs of Africa. As for me, I quickly down a glass without worry. The seducing aroma of roasted meat wafts from the racks of outdoor cooks, so tempting it can make even a devote vegetarian commit heresy. I have yet to try it.

Tourists who spend a day or two in Mombasa usually opt for walking tours to Fort Jesus and trips to the beach. Tourists may just see a glimpse of Mombasa town before they leave, and they will remember large buildings, nice restaurants, and wide roads. But with just a little bit of adventuring down back alleys, I discover an entirely new picture of Mombasa. Despite the touristy 3 to 8 dollar restaurants, I find the local restaurants with the traditional Kenyan food for just under 50 cents. As I continue down these alleys I see mamas hanging their laundry on lines that cut across the walkways. I greet them as I duck under their dripping clothes, and they return a friendly smile and continue with their chores. A few blocks down I come across a few teenagers playing checkers. After a few words, I find myself playing the next game with a small crowd of youth watching. I won the first game and my opponent won the next two.

When I have spare time in Mombasa, I often find myself in a towering 7-story shopping center—but on the 3rd floor in the fabric section. I much enjoy looking at all the different, beautiful fabrics this store has to offer without the constant heckling the street peddlers give me. As I move through the different isles, I conspicuously reach out and feel the texture of the different materials. All the employees know me now. We often have casual conversations in Swahili, and one of them always tells me that I look exactly like the Arsenal football player Tomas Rosicky, and he writes his name on a small piece of paper along with “Jazz 7” meaning “jersey 7” so I can look him up on the internet. Sadly each time I return home, I forget to complete my end of the deal.

I stroll through the open-air markets filled with spices and produce, and often when sellers yell for my attention with, “How are you? Welcome!” I often return a puzzled look at them and pretend I don't speak English. In Swahili I tell them I am from Spain, and I ask them if they know Spanish. Nobody ever knows Spanish, so this gamble always works to my favor. And my Swahili is good enough now that I can complete transactions and have conversations with people, so I take the opportunities in the market to practice speaking and listening.

Mombasa. After I finish my errands I board a matatu to take me back to my village. As we cross the bridge leading away from town I see sailboats making their way out into the open sea, and palm trees along the shores swaying in the breeze, as if waving me goodbye. The emerald ocean twinkles through the dirty windows of the matatu, beckoning me to come back again. This city is enchanted.

In 2009, a 22-year old American girl named Natalie Dylan put her virginity up for auction online. Her top bid came from a 39-year old Australian at the price of $3.8 million.

$3.8 million.

I couldn't believe that price when I first read it. The article came with a picture, and sure, she was an attractive girl. But $3.8 million? In a single transaction, Natalie undoubtedly became one of the highest paid prostitutes of all time.

I began researching the idea of virginity's monetary value after a recent interview I had with a former prostitute near my town. Her story goes like this:

Her parents died when she was very young, so her aunt and uncle were her caretakers. For reasons unknown to this young girl, her guardians began mistreating her at a young age. Often, she would be beaten by her male cousins without consequence, and she would even go days without being given food to eat. When she would find work washing clothes or carrying water, her aunt would take what little money she earned and say it was payment for all they were providing for her. It came to a point where her aunt stole all her clothing, so she had nothing but the clothes on her back to wear.

The nearby town to where this girl lived is wrought with drugs and prostitution. The town sits on the roadside to and from Nairobi, and many truckers stop for the night to rest from their long day's journey. The daytime bustles with commotion, and the nights with licentious behavior. This young girl sought refuge from her caretakers in this town.

Though she searched desperately for work, there was none to be found for a young, desperate girl. With no money, no food, and with just the clothes on her back, she was running out of time. In her desperate search for work, she came across a woman who told her that if a man wanted to have sex with her, she should charge him 150 ksh, or $1.80. And it was not long before she had an offer.

Soon after she became engulfed in the prostitution business. The quick money and high demand were reason enough to continue with her work, and money provided for the basic needs she so sorely needed. In my discussion with her, she disclosed the whole gamut of the dirty business. Thirty minutes of service would cost $1.80, and for double that time it would be around $4.00. A whole night would cost $15. On a usual night, she would go with 7 to 10 men, and she would still charge full price for the men who didn't come after their allotted time. She was especially afraid of those who wanted the whole night, because then they could do “whatever they want” with the girls. That's why the price is so “high”.

During the interview, the girl cradled her 2-month old baby in her arms. The baby was conceived by a boyfriend who left her. She said that her boyfriend was the only one she had ever slept with without a condom. Still, when she spoke of him, her voice livened and hints of a smile showed upon her face. She partitioned herself emotionally, separating her “work” from her emotional attachment with her boyfriend. The girl was desperate for love and protection, and she gave herself to her boyfriend both physically and emotionally to seek a filler for the thing she had been missing her entire life.

Just love. She was too young to remember the sweet embrace of her parents before they passed away. Never in her life did she have a place to go where she could find people who truly loved her and cared for her. Never had she felt the comforting presence of someone who would sacrifice their life for her. She clung tightly to the fantasy that the boy who got her pregnant would fill that void. The baby she held in her arms was a representation of the trust and openness she extended to only her boyfriend. By having unprotected sex with him, she gave him all of her “virginity,” and with it, all of her trust and love. She just expected the same in return.

In my mind, there is a fine line between love and prostitution. Boyfriends may take their girlfriends out for a fancy dinner and movie, but with sexual expectations in return. Even wives have been known to refuse sex to their husbands if their husbands wont comply to their certain demands. This is prostitution. Prostitution is the bastardization of giving. It turns the selfless, beautiful act of giving into a tool used for manipulation. Even this young girl's aunt and uncle expected payment in return for raising her. It's no wonder she was inclined to this lifestyle.

It broke my heart to hear this girl's story, and I so much wanted to hold her and tell her how much she was still worth.

When my counterpart asked her how she felt during her first time she went with a man, she turned her head down and uttered the word, “bitter.” She was 15 years old. Her virginity was worth $1.80.

April 1st. My favorite holiday. A day for crafty lies and premeditated deceit, with each prank cordially intended for those you love and think about. In my mind, it is like Valentines Day, except not teeming with cliché. Sadly for me, this holiday is not widely celebrated in Kenya. Should I even dare to put cooked rice at the bottom of all my neighbor's shoes, or walk into my office with an eye-patch, it would compromise my community integration and my general camaraderie with the people here. So instead, I have decided to let my alter ego, “Mr. Rathr” infiltrate my blog-space. Enjoy!

Wood U. Rathr be the fastest onion chopper in the world OR an above-average ventriloquist?

Wood U. Rathr never have a flat tire in anything you drive OR have 16 more minutes per day than everyone else (note: everyone is frozen in time).

Wood U. Rathr have to change your name to “Fanny Mcgee” and always wear a large name-tag OR name (or rename) both your first and last born “Thing One” and “Thing Two”?

Wood U. Rathr have to drink two red-bulls before you sleep Sunday night and take a double dose of melatonin when you wake Monday morning OR involuntarily recite the entirety of Hamlet's famous “to be our not to be” any time anyone says “shake” or “spear”?

Wood U. Rathr wrap your feet in duct tape every Wednesday and go without shoes OR have an irrational reaction to stapled paper if the staple is not perfectly horizontal?

Wood U. Rathr laugh differently every time OR sometimes wake up with Jack Nicholson's voice (and spend the day with it)?

Wood U. Rathr never know the date OR instantly forget what you just ate?

Wood U. Rathr see the world literally black and white OR morally black and white?

Wood U. Rathr be considered one of the greatest Haiku writers of all time OR be an extra of your choice in 4 Johnny Depp movies?

Wood U. Rathr have the hand strength to juice a carrot with slight effort OR own a respectably sized avocado grove in San Diego, California?

Wood U. Rathr be given the market price, in cash, of a bar of gold bouillon but have to carry an actual bar of gold always OR drink only a luke-warm, vitamin fortified tofu broth every March, April, and May, but get free restaurant meals every other month?

Wood U. Rathr have an obnoxiously large signature OR be unable to text or dial cell phones with your thumbs?

Wood U. Rathr have the power to taste a restaurant item just by running your finger over the words on the menu OR have the ability to just once see your future if you had chosen to marry a certain person?

Happy April Fools!

The office was quiet save for the clicking of fingers upon a keyboard. The secretary was busy at work, transposing minutes from a recent meeting onto the computer. Just days before, the secretary discovered that her husband was cheating on her, so the busy work she had in front of her was a welcomed relief from her thoughts. I was in her company, and I sat quietly studying my Swahili book. Our chairman was seated in his usual chair in the next room, shuffling through files or reading the daily paper. Things proceeded peacefully along.

Suddenly the manager storms in, breaking the office's peace like a rock thrown into a still pond. He comes in with the usual smile and first greets me, asking how the morning was and discussing his concern for the late rains. When finishing with me, he briefly greets the secretary, and then moves into the next room where he showers the chairman with the whole arsenal of salutations, as if they had not seen each other for months. After the long greeting session, the manager returns to the office with a small stack of papers and he tosses them over the secretary's busy fingers. “Type this,” He commanded flatly. The secretary returned his gesture with a deep glower, obviously bothered by the lack of respect in his demeanor. She quietly removed her new stack of work from the keyboard where they blocked her from continuing her current assignment, and as she set it aside her computer, the manager turned to her and said, “And have it done by today.”

Enough. I felt her anger swell, involuntarily moving her to speak. She began like this, “Why do you treat me like this? What have I done to you?” Her voice rose with emotion as she continued, switching languages to her more comfortable Swahili. She stormed into the chairman's office, her recent workload gripped firmly in her hands, and she began to plead her case in front of him. The manager joined them in the next room, and a full argument erupted.

I saw it coming. Tensions had been high for over four months between the two members of this organization, and it was only a matter of time before this verbal confrontation. It started when the manager made sexual advances upon the secretary, but was refused outright. In turn, a passive-aggressive battle to exert his dominance over her ensued.

I could not understand the conversation in the least. As the voices rose in volume, they increased in tempo, spewing long chains of Swahili sentences even a trained ear could have difficulty with. Then, from nowhere I heard the manager break into English, stating, “But chairman, She's a woman. She's a lesser sex. I cannot take her seriously.”

Wow. Up to this time I had never heard a single racist, tribalist, or sexist comment from the manager. I always saw him with an amicable smile and a willingness to please. It was shocking to hear those words spoken from his lips, and the words reverberated in my head.

To say such a thing in a workplace in America is an instant firing, and perhaps a lawsuit.

The reaction from the chairman was almost condoning. It was as if “She's a lesser sex” is a perfectly valid reason to treat someone the way he did. The secretary's frustration manifested into tears, and she stormed out of the office despite the chairman's attempts to console her. The manager emerged from the chairman's office with a grin and an air of victory about him. The muscles in my arms tightened and my fists clenched tight, aching to release themselves upon the manager's contrived smile.

I'm sure if the secretary had one wish, it would be to have her husband stop cheating on her, or at least to not have caught her husband cheating on her. The burden of her personal life was made known only to me and her select friends, none of whom work in the office. And knowing her entire story, I empathized deeply.

For the first time, I felt the tragedy of being a woman in this society. In the secretary's tears I felt a small piece of the heavy weight of subjugation a working woman has to bear in the presence of men; men who were raised with a sense of entitlement over their female counterparts. To be shattered emotionally, to be oppressed openly, and to be culturally obligated to endure, this secretary demonstrated clearly that women here are a far cry from the lesser sex.

It is midday in a large, Kenyan town. Matatus, buses and three-wheeled taxi cabs litter the small stage. Above the puttering, idle engines touts scream, “Nairobi? Nairobi!” to anyone who passes by. The peripheries are lined with small, makeshift stands from which mamas sell mangoes, bananas, and fresh-made honey in glass liquor flasks. Suddenly, piercing shouts fill the air – the Swahili word for “Thief!! Thief!!” rings out clearly over the general commotion. The shouts seize my attention and I turn my head to see a fleeing young man and a stampede of pursuers. People pour in from all sides and cut off potential exits for the young juvenile. He flees into a small shop made of corrugated metal, and apparently the shop owner is a friend or acquaintance, because the shop owner prevents anyone else from entering. The shop owner undoubtedly knows the havoc that could ensue inside his shop should he leave the juvenile to the crowd. Slowly the people disperse, and the young man is left with the guilt and shame of all his peers. The swift action of mob justice is incomparable.

The world is a dangerous place. Before coming to Africa, I was certain the entire continent was riddled with civil unrest, unstable political systems, riots, uprisings, and all the other things that are showcased on CNN. Rebellions in Libya are in the Kenyan news these days, and recent conflicts between Egypt, Israel, and oil have flared up. Even Kenya's neighboring country Somalia suffers a constant state of turmoil. Just the other day, a Kenyan school and health facility on Somalia's border had to shut down because bullets were found in and around the area, bullets that were fired in Somalia which flew across country lines.

But Kenya is peaceful. Anyone I speak with about the Kenyan culture always lists their peaceful nature as one of their most valued traits. Though Kenya is very political, the new constitution last August found no serious violence, especially in the rural areas. And as the story above displays, any foul play among this country's citizens is not tolerated.

But apart from nature, peace and safety in my village is unparalleled. I feel safer in my village than I felt in the suburbs of Southern California where I grew up. My neighbors are the most friendly, most caring people I could have hoped for and if it weren't for the small children entering my room and touching all my stuff, I would feel completely comfortable leaving my door wide open while I'm gone. The people take care of each other here, and when they ask “Where are you going?” all the time, I realize it is not because they are nosy or rude but more because they know where to find you should you be needed or should a problem arise. In the village I could send books or packages with matatu drivers, and I have 100% confidence they will reach their destination.

Once I left my guitar with a new friend who was to bring it to me after a short while. After arriving very late, he noticed my anxiety and asked me if I was worried he wouldn't bring it to me. He then assured me that he would not steal, that in fact he could not. And the longer I stay here, the more I realize the truth of his words – the people in my village are unable to steal. The level of safety and peace is inundated so deeply into their culture.

And not just political and social peace. There's a kind of overwhelming serenity that seizes me in the rugged, natural beauty where I live. To the west, massive hills stagger into the distance, gently fading from sight like a visible echo. Vast plains stretch themselves until the horizon and continue beyond, lit brightly by the sun – save for dappled shadows from the puffy low-hanging clouds. In the mornings, the sunlight can pour over the hills, as if to make the trees sing with life and youth. The evenings bring the most inspiring sunsets, as the incandescent sun shares its vibrant colors to the entire horizon. On moonless nights, the Milky Way divides the center of the sky and even the shyest of stars dimly twinkle, as if for the first time. The full moon can come over the hills like a sunrise, soaking in all the starlight and illuminating the entire landscape with its sublime glow. Birds chirp and flit about in the trees, merrily going about building their nests or wooing their playmates. The air is clean and fresh, and with just one full breath I feel like I am satisfied for the day. Often I am stopped on the road by the overwhelming beauty of this place, and in those moments I want to live here forever.

Maybe I will live here forever.

It has been 10 months since I cut my hair. Although it is culturally taboo for men to have long hair, I explain to people that I want to grow it for donation. My father is Italian and has a uni-brow, and my cute Asian mother has the thickest, blackest hair one could ever hope for, so I was doomed from conception with a luscious head of hair. I think the little girl or boy who receives it will be much appreciative.

But this post has nothing to do with my hair. This post is about Jesus Christ. And money.

The Kenyans are highly religious. When coming to Kenya, I did absolutely no background research, so I assumed the religions were tribal and pagan. I expected people to worship the sun god, and during religious gatherings cut themselves to spill their blood on the soil. Instead, I came to find the normal religions: Christianity and Islam. And Christian missionaries hit Kenya especially hard. I can only guess at how it happened: the shiny beacons of hope and light (white people) came with their money and built fancy churches and gave people money and food if they converted to Christianity. So undoubtedly all the starving people were on their knees in front of murals of Jesus Christ.

So as a result, there is no escape from religion in Kenya. On the coast, Muslim dress-code can be seen on every other woman: the flowing black burka concealing any beauty or sensual body curve which God endowed a young woman (in all honesty, I think those mysterious Muslim women are intriguingly beautiful..though I have no way of knowing). On public buses, often a christian pastor will stand in the front aisle and preach for a full-length, hour sermon and then proceed to gather 'offering' from the bus' customers. Angry-sounding pastors gather up their most grizzly voices and shout from the televisions on Sunday mornings, and everyone's customizable ring tones play the latest popular worship song. So there is no question this culture is inundated with religious symbols and rituals, no debate that people could see a poster of someone in a white robe holding a lamb and not instantly think of Jesus.

But back to my hair. The front of it reaches past my eyes, and the back nearly covers my neck entirely. In addition to my unkempt, borderline culturally inappropriate head of hair, my laziness usually allows my goatee to grow for a month or longer. All of that in combination with my caramel, middle-eastern skin makes me closely resemble a certain messiah-- namely Jesus Christ. To confirm this, when visiting the Christian groups at the secondary school, whispers spread like wildfire among the girls as I walked in, saying, “Anafanana na Yesu!” or “He looks like Jesus!”

And in my village, this is how I am treated. People think I am their Savior, that I have come to alleviate them from their poverty and physical suffering. Just like the Jews expected Jesus to be a great political leader who would save them from the Romans, the people in my village expect something so different from me. But Jesus had so much more in mind. He came to save humanity from themselves, to free people from the burdens of their own corruption.

I realize that it is highly arrogant and borderline blasphemous to compare myself to Jesus Christ. Whether you believe He was truly God Himself, an inspirational hippie philosopher, or a fictional character in a giant storybook, I pale in comparison. But upon reflection, my life here in Kenya draws some parallels to Jesus' life on this Earth. To name a few:

Wherever Jesus walked, multitudes would gather around. His mere words stirred inspiration and excitement among his listeners, his knowledge as a child surpassed that of the church leaders, and miracles sparked from his fingertips. Similarly, wherever I walk, people stop what they are doing and shout greetings and welcomes. With my guitar in hand, children flock and gather, eagerly listening to anything I would play. My computer with its internet capabilities gives me an “infinite knowledge,” and with my fancy camera, it is like I miraculously capture life itself.

So in my village there is no doubt I am special. Just my skin color gives me away as something “different,” “exciting” and “worth looking at.” And people's expectations of me are unbounded. In their minds, I am capable of doing everything. One of those main expectations is that of sourcing money from either myself or my wealthy friends, and putting that money into their pockets.

I came, not to give money, but as a medium for people to better their lives. I came to teach whatever I know and to share my life and my experiences to anyone interested. I came to bring a sense of work ethic and empowerment, that through hard work and struggle their lives may be changed. But people want money. They ask me for jobs even after I tell them I am a volunteer, and they ask me to write proposals for them even after I explain why I cannot. The people here see me with the same misunderstanding the Jews had when they saw Jesus. And because I do not offer money, food, or will not take their baby to America with me when I return, I am just as easily dismissed.

But back to religion. When I first arrived in Kenya, I sat through a three-hour church session where people sat in rapt attention, and danced without reservation during the entire period. I was astounded at their stamina and thought to myself how they must really love God and serve Jesus. But the longer I stay, the more I realize people here who call themselves “Christian” or “Muslim” are not really worshiping God. They worship money. They worship all the things that come with money—comfort, status, popularity, sex. They are just like most Americans.

Televangelists preach here in Kenya about wealth in Jesus' name, and America is revered for their prosperity, often to be claimed as a nation “Blessed by God.” A fine, upstanding “Christian” will just as likely double the price in the market to naïve tourists as would their non-religious countrymen, and public giving ceremonies are held in churches to make sure that the church members are “accountable” for their tithes and offerings.

It's not to say that Kenya is devoid of people who truly love and serve God. In both America and Kenya-and probably every other place-there will be those few who are truly devoted to their beliefs, and truly serve God with their lives. It is always refreshing to find someone like this, who knows what she believes and actually has it change her life.

But the love for money is such a tricky thing. Money simultaneously is the cause of most of the world's problems, yet the solution to many. Money provides opportunity and comfort, security and guaranteed medical attention. Yet money fosters worry and headache, greed and entitlement.

Many people dismiss religion as a social construction aimed as a money-making machine. In many cases I would have to agree with them. But I would find it difficult to judge those members in the churches who humbly give their tithes as foolish. Perhaps they give to a corrupt religious organization, but for those individuals, their giving shows that money is not their object of worship. Such behavior is commendable.

But money and poverty are knotty subjects. I came to the Peace Corps so that I might understand what poverty was really like. Instead, I am discovering that I will never know the true sting of poverty. I will never know what it is like to choose between purchasing water or food for that day or pray fervently each night that the rains should come. How can I judge anyone for loving money, when it has the power to alleviate basic suffering? How can I convict those who struggle every day with the most basic necessities, when money promises a deep breath from poverty's suffocation?

Just as I will never know what it is really like to be poor, Jesus will never know what it is really like to be human. Jesus knew what hunger was, and he very much tested a human's endurance for physical pain. But Jesus never knew sin. Jesus walked in perfection in God's eyes, and through his deliberate decisions he faced temptations and always came out clean. Never did he feel the blight of evil weighing upon his heart, or feel the hot sensation in his cheeks when a particular moral decision contradicted his conscience. And unlike all of humanity, Jesus never needed a Savior.

So as I continue my work in my village, my growing hair continues to be a reminder of my infantile attempt at self-sacrifice, and the understanding of but a few people of my purpose here.

Before coming to Peace Corps I worked part time at a liquor store. Once, while filling shelves of expensive boxes of liquor, the bottom of a box fell out as I was lifting it, causing many of the glass bottles filled with Hennessey to shatter at my feet. The pungent odor of cognac hit my senses immediately. I looked down to see my sandals completely soaked, and the shiny glass bits besieging my vulnerable feet. As I carefully maneuvered my way out of the danger, I chuckled at the irony of how many would dream of bathing their feet in expensive liquor. It was probably the most expensive bath my feet will ever experience.

But luxury, and extravagance are not new to the American culture. As an example, the supermarkets carry an assortment of inventive options for proper foot and body care, from “french roasted” coffee-scented soaps to pumice stones with real diamond dust mixed in (if not, then it's coming soon). I would not be surprised if I went back to America to see an AXE commercial advertising “Lust” – its new foot fragrance – which will undoubtedly have women reflexively humping your feet at the slightest whiff.

But in my village, the fragrance is that of the soil. Potent animal dung and fresh green leaves mix together with the smell of charcoal or wood-smoke, and people of all ages perfume their feet with this natural scent. When in bloom, flower pedals fall from the trees and bless their fragrant odor upon the earth. Small children come home after a hard day's play up to their knees in dried dirt, and grandmas walk for miles upon the dry, dusty road unshod. When the rains come, children playfully dip their muddy feet in puddles and continue on their way.

I also remember my shoe collection in America. I had a specific pair for everything: basketball, tennis , road-cycling, short-distance triathlon, long-distance triathlon, workout, hiking, swimming (sandals). Then there was the fuzzy-and-comfortable for indoor use only, “stylish-but-casual” for social outings, and unforgettably a couple pairs of converse.

Each shoe had a specific purpose. I could stand 3 inches taller and jump 4 inches higher in basketball with the proper shoe. My short-distance triathlon shoe saved me ¾ of a second every mile, and with swimming fins and paddles I could beat my Polish swim coach Bart Kizerioski in the 50m freestyle. They have shoes with tall heels for girls with height insecurities, shoes with wheels for skater kids, and squeaking, comic-book-themed kids shoes, so when they walk you always know where they are.

Many people here stand on naught but their soles. Their feet develop hard callouses that could bear even the hottest of coals, perhaps better than the rubber on the bottom of the shoes we buy. Many Kenyans can run barefoot for miles over gravel, hot sand, and uneven terrain, and still dance to their favorite worship songs when they reached home. They do not have the luxury of support a pair of running shoes have to offer, they are not afforded that extra advantage.

But it is not really about the lack of a pair of shoes. It is the inequality of resources available to people across the world. Contrary to me, my neighbors never took Kumon (advanced Asian math), Karate, or Science Camp growing up. Inside their humble homes isn't a piano, a video-game learning device, or calcium-rich, fortified cereals. Just by virtue of being born, I have had the luxury of all those learning aids. Where would I have been without them? What is it like to have never worn shoes in your entire life?

It tears deeply at my inner being to reconcile the idea of “fairness” across all people on this Earth. It is my moral obligation to aid those who started with less than I, that they may have a “fair” chance at wealth and prosperity? Should I pity those who were born with less, and should I envy those who were born with more? The most common answer I receive to these questions when I have the audacity to ask them aloud is, “Life is unfair.” I guess that is one way to stop thinking about things that bother me.

While I was walking by the school compound, I looked down and noticed the red clay covered in different sized footprints. I stopped and marveled at the imprint of each clearly defined foot: the five toes proportionally cascading in size and the arch leaving the normal foot distribution. I smiled as I imagined how each print was formed, how the children may have danced and played, laughing together in the afternoon sun, each of their bare feet like a rubber stamp, imprinted lightly on the earth. Perhaps it beats growing up with a Playstation 4 and spending your childhood days on a couch in front of a brightly-lit television screen. Sitting on the couch, wealthy kids' feet wont even touch the floor; their soles hanging worthlessly in midair without imprinting upon anything their existence.

Two dice tumble across a sturdy board. Upon landing these dice cause a golden hat to move forward some spaces and then abruptly stop. Baltic Avenue has not been purchased yet, and the owner of this golden hat loves the color purple. $60 is exchanged for a deed card, and the dice are rolled again and again. The golden hat then finds itself on a large square space written, “GO” with an “→” symbol pointing it again in the correct direction. The owner of the golden hat collects $200.

I own that golden hat. And my financial matters are simply a game. In many ways, I am living the game of Monopoly.

First, because I make $200 a month. Each month is like a full trip around the Monopoly board, and each month I have enough to sustain myself. But $200 a month? That would be a day's salary for many people in America, or much less. And if I calculate how much I am working (“working”) or doing work related activities, it sums to 6 or 7 days out of the week. Essentially, I get paid $1 per hour. It's no wonder they call us Peace Corps Volunteers. But $200 a month? How can anyone live on that?

So here's how the prices break down.

Food – especially in the rural areas, food is astoundingly cheap. Outdoor markets offer the cheapest prices for produce, and these markets are made up of groups of mamas either sitting on the floor with their produce laid out for sale, or standing with their wares piled on a rickety stand. For 12 pennies, you can buy 3 small mangoes, 4 small bananas, or a large avocado. And this is relatively expensive to what people's budgets allow. For 35 to 45 pennies, you can buy a kilogram (2.2 lbs) of kale, spinach, or a kilogram of corn flour. That quantity of vegetables and flour will be enough for three hearty meals. But if you want fancier foods like wine, cheese, chocolate, or peanut butter, larger supermarkets sell them at American prices.

Clothes – these can be purchased or hand-made for cheap prices as well. A pair of used but quality slacks can be anywhere from $2 to $7, and hand-made, African-style shirts are between $4 to $6. A while back, I purchased a very nice, collared, tuxedo dress shirt for 25 cents at a Kenyan auction (Kenyan auctions start high and proceed to lower prices until someone says they will buy). The shirt, in my opinion (and hopefully my future wife's opinion as well), is nice enough to be married in.

Transport – This by far is the most expensive thing relative to other living costs. To go just 10 kilometers down the road (6 miles) the fare is 60 cents. Though it sounds like a small sum of money, one trip could comparatively purchase enough food for 3 meals, and you still have to pay for the fare to return home. A 100 kilometer trip on paved roads will be about $3.25 one way.

Electronics – These are available in Nairobi, but only for American prices. Cheap, China-made rip offs are often a choice buy for those on a tight budget, but unfortunately they break relentlessly.

When I learned about how people in impoverished countries lived on “less than a dollar per day”, I was shocked and appalled that such a thing could exist in our world. Admittedly, less than a dollar per day would be suffocating even in my village, but it would not be entirely unmanageable. And I am making 7 dollars a day. The $200 per month is more than enough.

Second, living in the village is amazingly similar to being “In Jail” in Monopoly. It seems everyone is moving and progressing around you, building houses or going bankrupt, but you are stuck in a place where you receive no income, have very few costs, and cannot ever leave. Land is plentiful in the village, and mud houses can be constructed at a low price. Mortgage payments, insurance, taxes, electricity, monthly fuel payments...these are all non-existent. People make their way by living off the land. Transportation costs are so restrictive, the poorest can literally never leave. The impoverished have essentially been born inside Monopoly's “Jail” and will serve a life's sentence there. But as for me and my golden hat, I spend all my time on the “Just Visiting” sliver of the “Jail” square in Monopoly. I quickly make my rounds to pass “Go” with some necessary travel, and make my way back again. Unfortunately I will never truly know the stuffy smell of the Monopoly jail cell like many of the villagers whom I have grown to care for.

Finally, even the denominations of money are surprisingly similar to Monopoly money. Monopoly has 1's, 5's 10's 20's 50's 100s and 500s. Kenyan money has all the same denominations, except with “1000s” as well. With a “1000” shilling note, you will feel beyond wealthy in the rural village. Even in Monopoly, if you had a 1000 shilling note, you could purchase both Park Place and Boardwalk, and still have enough for “Income Tax” should you be so unfortunate to land on that space. I remember as a child my sister and I would play “house” or play “supermarket”, and we would use Monopoly money as our currency. If we used American prices with Monopoly denominations, it would be an awful chore to get change for a $2 gallon of milk when you pay with a $500 Monopoly note. But to some degree, this is how I feel when I use Kenyan money.

I don't mean to sound condescending, but the stakes are simply lower here. If you wanted to invest in a plot of land or build a school, the costs are not going to break the American bank account. Still, there are plenty of Kenyans who are much wealthier than many Americans, and it is not impossible to “live a good life” when it comes to physical comfort and matters of money.

I have always thought the freeways in America, especially at night, are like the veins and arteries of the country's economy. The stream of red or white tail lights carry supplies from place to place, carry workers to their jobs, and carry travelers to different markets. In some places the lanes are 10 wide; our economy pulses vigorously with life and strength. But here in Kenya, there is but one main paved road that cuts across the country, and this road is two-lanes. Transportation infrastructure is a firm indicator of economic status, and this feeble road displays the long process of development that Kenya will eventually undergo. And the numbers support this claim: Kenya's GDP accounts for 0.160% of America's GDP. Yet this crowded two-lane highway hosts many trucks and buses which must pass each other by using the other side of the road. Because of this dangerous restriction, vehicles using this road come remarkably close to head on collisions, and often one can see an overturned semi-truck on the side with streams of people like ants gathering the spilled materials. These overturned trucks remind me of burst blood cells, and the double-lane road is such a constricted passageway for these carriers to pass through. These ruined trucks remind me just how fragile the economy is here in Kenya, like a growing child who suffers from anemia. But development is on the way, and perhaps somewhere down the line every family in Kenya will have enough to afford the game of Monopoly, so each child can play it on a board instead of live it with their lives.

In my rural village, people know that I am engaged to a beautiful red-headed lady. If any of you who are reading this have followed along, you would know that this is not true. I have made up this marital status to reduce harassment, and to cut off any hope (of a trip to America and emancipation from the suffocating poverty around) from all the willing, eligible women in my village. Before I came, I had it in my mind that no woman here in my village could engage me intellectually, challenge me spiritually, be attractive to me physically, and still be unmarried. Once again I find myself proven wrong.

I have two criteria which must be passed before I even consider dating a Kenyan. They are:

1) Fluent in English

2) The same beliefs

In America, I only have one criteria.

Still, this is Peace Corps, right? I am supposed to be living off the radar, where education, food, and gender equality are all in short supply. Nobody, especially women, should be fluent in English. Therefore, that first criteria should be (and has been) enough until now to disqualify every beautiful face so far. This language barrier has barred every potential suit-tress who has prince charming (me) reflected off her dark corneas and the promise of paradise (America) in the front of her mind.

Until now.

Her first words to me were, “Nice laptop.” And I hardly turned from my small, dimly lit screen. But I did turn; the shock of English words in my ears registered, and what filled my eyes was a small Kenyan woman leaning against a desk, her attention devoted in a book. It was nothing impressive, her face was ordinary, her breasts were slightly too large, a small gap nuzzled itself between her two front teeth, and her hair was brilliantly woven. First appearance? No hint of attraction.

But she spoke English. My first criteria was met. We began talking of all sorts of things, and I would visit often because I gained much insight into the Kenyan culture by our conversations. It was not long until I realized that she fulfilled my second criteria as well.

Just by living in Kenya, I have developed a growing respect for the women. The culture and gender roles force them into all of the household chores, and yet they still have enough cheer to sit around the night-times laughing over stories and roasting maize. Whether it is this strong sense of respect, the astonishment of finding a potential attraction, or the rosy-colored Peace Corps goggles I wear, an infatuation was borne.

I tickled myself with the idea of bringing her to America. I could see us together on a plane back home, the cold cabin has her drape a “Swiss-air” blanket over her, as she affectionately leans against my welcoming shoulder. I imagine taking her to all the places I used to live, where I went to school, and the pools where I spent my afternoons swimming. I would laugh when she struggles with her chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant, and I would hold her close as we watch the dark sky light up with fireworks on the fourth of July. Cotton candy, bumper cars, amusement parks, ice-skating...I would see her experience them all for the first time, and even as I imagine this I smile warmly. I would feel like Aladdin and his magic carpet, showing his princess a whole new world...

But luckily she is in a relationship. Kenyans love their secrets, and it took quite an inquisition to get her to confess. My roommate in college (Justin Pollard the Third) and I would always debate over whether it is appropriate or not to pursue someone who is already in a relationship. I am firmly against it. First, because I wouldn't appreciate another guy making his move on a girl I was dating. And second, I wouldn't even want a girl who would leave a relationship for me. I think it reflects a serious character flaw that she would pick up and leave her relationship for someone else, presumably someone better. What if, again, someone better comes along? Either way, her being in a relationship has quelled my volatile feelings.

There's something I find beautiful about unknown suffering (though if what I feel is considered suffering, it is hardly “unknown” anymore). Never will she know these capricious feelings I have had for her, never will I know how it would have turned out, and never would we have to argue over cultural differences or decided whether it was useful to raise a bilingual child with Swahili in America. Still, I am ashamed that I should have these feelings, or that those fanciful thoughts were not so fleeting that I could seize them from my mind and write them down.

And also I question to myself why I would post something so frivolous and seemingly disassociated with my unique cultural experience in Kenya or the work in my village. Matters of feelings and romance can be the most selfish and self-consuming thing this world has to offer, and once they swell up inside, it's hard to keep from bursting. But besides the pages of my journal, there is no one else to tell. There isn't another American within a 10 kilometer radius from me. As far as my Peace Corps experience goes, I am completely alone. Besides me and the locals in my village, no one else knows how the crops in my village are growing, or hears the singing of children every morning from the school. These feelings I have developed for this local girl made me realize how truly alone I was.

In my rural village, people know that I am engaged to a beautiful red-headed lady. If any of you who are reading this have followed along, you would know that this is not true. I have made up this marital status to reduce harassment, and to cut off any hope (of a trip to America and emancipation from the suffocating poverty around) from all the willing, eligible women in my village. Before I came, I had it in my mind that no woman here in my village could engage me intellectually, challenge me spiritually, be attractive to me physically, and still be unmarried. Once again I find myself proven wrong.

I have two criteria which must be passed before I even consider dating a Kenyan. They are:

1) Fluent in English

2) The same beliefs

In America, I only have one criteria.

Still, this is Peace Corps, right? I am supposed to be living off the radar, where education, food, and gender equality are all in short supply. Nobody, especially women, should be fluent in English. Therefore, that first criteria should be (and has been) enough until now to disqualify every beautiful face so far. This language barrier has barred every potential suit-tress who has prince charming (me) reflected off her dark corneas and the promise of paradise (America) in the front of her mind.

Until now.

Her first words to me were, “Nice laptop.” And I hardly turned from my small, dimly lit screen. But I did turn; the shock of English words in my ears registered, and what filled my eyes was a small Kenyan woman leaning against a desk, her attention devoted in a book. It was nothing impressive, her face was ordinary, her breasts were slightly too large, a small gap nuzzled itself between her two front teeth, and her hair was brilliantly woven. First appearance? No hint of attraction.

But she spoke English. My first criteria was met. We began talking of all sorts of things, and I would visit often because I gained much insight into the Kenyan culture by our conversations. It was not long until I realized that she fulfilled my second criteria as well.

Just by living in Kenya, I have developed a growing respect for the women. The culture and gender roles force them into all of the household chores, and yet they still have enough cheer to sit around the night-times laughing over stories and roasting maize. Whether it is this strong sense of respect, the astonishment of finding a potential attraction, or the rosy-colored Peace Corps goggles I wear, an infatuation was borne.

I tickled myself with the idea of bringing her to America. I could see us together on a plane back home, the cold cabin has her drape a “Swiss-air” blanket over her, as she affectionately leans against my welcoming shoulder. I imagine taking her to all the places I used to live, where I went to school, and the pools where I spent my afternoons swimming. I would laugh when she struggles with her chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant, and I would hold her close as we watch the dark sky light up with fireworks on the fourth of July. Cotton candy, bumper cars, amusement parks, ice-skating...I would see her experience them all for the first time, and even as I imagine this I smile warmly. I would feel like Aladdin and his magic carpet, showing his princess a whole new world...

But luckily she is in a relationship. Kenyans love their secrets, and it took quite an inquisition to get her to confess. My roommate in college (Justin Pollard the Third) and I would always debate over whether it is appropriate or not to pursue someone who is already in a relationship. I am firmly against it. First, because I wouldn't appreciate another guy making his move on a girl I was dating. And second, I wouldn't even want a girl who would leave a relationship for me. I think it reflects a serious character flaw that she would pick up and leave her relationship for someone else, presumably someone better. What if, again, someone better comes along? Either way, her being in a relationship has quelled my volatile feelings.

There's something I find beautiful about unknown suffering (though if what I feel is considered suffering, it is hardly “unknown” anymore). Never will she know these capricious feelings I have had for her, never will I know how it would have turned out, and never would we have to argue over cultural differences or decided whether it was useful to raise a bilingual child with Swahili in America. Still, I am ashamed that I should have these feelings, or that those fanciful thoughts were not so fleeting that I could seize them from my mind and write them down.

And also I question to myself why I would post something so frivolous and seemingly disassociated with my unique cultural experience in Kenya or the work in my village. Matters of feelings and romance can be the most selfish and self-consuming thing this world has to offer, and once they swell up inside, it's hard to keep from bursting. But besides the pages of my journal, there is no one else to tell. There isn't another American within a 10 kilometer radius from me. As far as my Peace Corps experience goes, I am completely alone. Besides me and the locals in my village, no one else knows how the crops in my village are growing, or hears the singing of children every morning from the school. These feelings I have developed for this local girl made me realize how truly alone I was.

American children are pampered, protected, and sheltered from all things dangerous and intrusive. American toys have become soft plastic instead of durable metal, you can probably purchase rubber bumpers to put on sharp corners of your home to protect your baby from painful collisions, and choke-warning labels are soon to be slapped on every small piece of produce in the supermarket. Children are given no responsibility, and are baby-sat by the television when mommy poops out.

Children are quite different in Kenya. If you are a baby in Kenya, you are coddled by mommy and given breast milk at the slightest whine or whimper. But as soon as you can walk, you can be beaten with a stick. Babies at the age of 2 can play with sharp objects without their mothers' objection. Children at age 4 are annoying; I hate children at age 4. Children at the age of 6 are expected to help sweep and clean. Children age 8 must help draw water from the wells and carry it home by bicycle or on their head. Children age 10 can take care of three cows or a small herd of goats. Age 12-- they drive motorcycles.

A little while ago, I walked outside my living compound and saw my favorite little child playing with something shiny. As I approached, I realized he was holding the blade of a knife that had lost its handle and he was swinging it around every so often. The mother was busy sewing not 3 feet away from her dangerously armed child, and as she looked up to greet me she must have read the look of astonishment on my face—my exaggerated large eyes and frozen demeanor. She looked down at her playing child, then looked up again at me. Then quickly she appeased my shocked expression by calling her young child and taking the knife from him. The little boy is almost 2 years old.

In all of the big cities, there is a store called “Nakumatt” which is essentially like a large Walmart, except with much higher prices relative to Kenyan money. Inside this large super-mart, you can find just about anything, from comfortable sofa sets and ping pong tables to traditional charcoal stoves and simple wooden spoons. Also, since it is a necessity for people to have machetes and other sharp tools, this store obviously carries them. And all manner of dangerous weaponry is placed on the bottom shelf. If “Nakumatt” were picked up and placed anywhere in America as it is, within the first minutes of its grand opening it would have a host of screaming mothers at the “customer care” counter as well as several lawsuits. But here in Kenya, the bottom shelf doesn't mean “for kids,” and it would be no big deal if a child picks up a machete and swings it around a bit in the store. But if you think about it, it makes sense to place sharp objects lower to the ground...in case of earthquake.

A little while ago I spotted a young boy walking toward a motorcycle. Then, to my vague curiosity, he climbed upon it and with all his weight, repeatedly pushed on the kick-start. After the motor was running, he stretched his lanky arms upward and gripped the handles, set his bare feet down on the foot-rests and motored away, a crescent of his head peeking out above the motorcycle's dashboard. I thought to myself, “Interesting that the parents of this 11-year-old child would trust them with such an expensive asset”.

Here in the rural areas, most financial assets are stored in livestock. If a villager has two cows (and one is good for milking), then that villager is wealthy. Goats and chickens also mark some degree of wealth, and the more you have the better off. There are different types of goats, chickens and cows, but for the most common of all three I would say their value ratio is: 1 cow = 6 goats = 42 chickens. And children around age 10 are tending to these herds of cattle all by themselves, with a large stick held high in the air. These children walk the cattle for miles down the road to reach watering holes and to graze on communal land. To think of the American equivalent to this: imagine allowing your 10 year old child to take care of your 401-K, or your day-to-day stock market transactions. And without your supervision.

Kenyan children..are they overworked? Is it a violation of some international child-labor laws? Or are they simply well-equipped for the difficult life ahead? If they are smart, the children will have children as soon as they can, so they wont have to work anymore.

Since I was 5 years old, I saw the world through brown, Swedish-designed goggles. They protected my eyes from the blinding sun and the stinging chlorine. These goggles also protected my pride, especially when I cried in them during difficult swimming sets as 12-year old girls were lapping me. I wore these goggles throughout my workouts, and even during the times I wasn't swimming-- since a huge white streak-mark permanently tanned my face. They marked my identity as a swimmer if the bleached hair and sterilized smell of chlorine did not give me away first.

After the summer of 2008, I officially hung those goggles up. Though I now wear a different type of goggles. They are called Peace Corps Goggles and they are quite a trip. I imagine them to be like a pair of beer goggles, distorting your vision, skewing your judgment and messing with your senses, but these PC goggles are permanent. They can't be taken off after a long night's sleep and a morning's headache.

The first thing to go were my taste buds. In America, I remember all my meals with meat and cheese, herbs and spices, caramel-coated popcorn and 37 flavors of ice cream. A standard American recipe would have at least 17 ingredients and 5 spices which you could prepare and then stick into an easy-bake oven so you could preemptively work off the calories with a television aerobics class while it cooks. But in Kenya, the ingredient list for the staple food is:

*Water

*Corn Flour

And I cook this meal for myself 5 times a week. I don't know how, but I simply love it. Together with some fried kale and this meal is something to look forward to each night. I have no other explanation than suspecting that my taste buds are peering through some darkly-tinted Peace Corps Goggles.

In America, I was very used to scantily-dressed women on television and road-side advertisements. 13-year old girls could publicly dress in next to nothing and I would think it was perfectly acceptable. But now this is not the case. If I see a Kenyan girl wearing a pair of tight jeans or if I see bare shoulders, I think to myself that the girl is awfully bold to dress so precariously. As an example, my friend sent me a copy of the “Rolling Stone” magazine the other day with a picture of Lady Gaga with a couple machine guns and a few strips of leather that covered just enough. As soon as I looked at this cover I instinctively shut my eyes and turned my head away from the picture. I was not at all used to seeing so much of the skin of a woman.

As an adolescent, I was awfully picky when it came to beauty. I had a list of criteria that would be scrutinized for any lady who happened upon my path, from skin tone, wrist size, eye color, and vocal melody. It may be shameful to admit, but my sister would often ask me my opinion about a girl she pulled up from “hot-or-not.com” (sorry sister for calling you out on that one), and I would systematically place her through my analysis. But with my brand new set of Peace Corps Goggles, I find myself in a different place. Her feet may be calloused and wrinkled, her hands weathered from manual labor, and her voice low and hoarse—she is beautiful. I see a fat mama carrying a child on her back and a 20 liter jerry can of water on her head—a beautiful lady. It's gotten to a point where I just say to myself, “Is that a woman??...Beautiful.”

These goggles also make me frightened of white people. Whenever I see a tourist I try not to stare too long and walk the other way. White people are like the little ghost demons in pac-man, and I am like the little pac-man, avoiding them at all costs. Especially if I see a white person in my village—I think to myself that they do not belong.

Witnessing physical pain is no big deal anymore, and harsh working conditions, unfair wages, mistreatment of animals...these have all become daily occurrences. I visited a “fair trade” shop where people were paid about 2 dollars for 8 hours of manual labor in a dilapidated shop with poor ventilation. If I were fresh from America, I would scream at the injustice and write a moving book on working conditions in Africa. But after just four months in Kenya I saw that shop and said to myself, “These people have tools to work with and stools to sit on. And these people have jobs! Wonderful. I support them.”

Even the capital punishment used in school systems have given way to the rosy-red tint of my shiny goggles. When I first arrived at site, I remembered hearing the shrill screams of children at the nearby school and I remembered hating it. But now when I walk by schools and children run to the gates and scream, “Mzungu! Give me money! Give me sweets!” and the teacher grabs them and starts beating them with a stick, I think to myself, “Good work, teacher.” One time I actually thanked a teacher for punishing a child when he begged me for money.

It has been just 8 months in Kenya. I have 18 more. And these Peace Corps Goggles can only get darker. I am simultaneously frightened and intrigued at what I will be peering through by the end of my journey.

The differences are many, but here are some of the big ones.

Beauty

The Kenyans are beautiful people in my eyes. The lifestyle is physically demanding. Between the farming and carrying water, the men develop super-hero type figures, and the women are slim, conservative, and mysteriously beautiful. Though, beauty for a woman is to be fat. Big hips, wide buttocks, hefty legs and intricately woven hair. Breasts do not matter in this country. Also for men, fatter is better (and so is hairier). A fat man a basically rich because he can afford to eat enough. Being fat denotes status, that a person no longer works in the fields or has to carry water, and probably has a good-paying, seated job.

In America, beauty is thin. A thin person usually has the knowledge of proper nutrition and the self-discipline to maintain a diet or to work out consistently. Broad shoulders, green eyes, Australian accents, and not too hairy are desirable traits in a man. For women, supple breasts, dark tan, and curved yet slim, are desirable enough. And of course, brainless.

Old People

Kenyan culture respects age. The older you are (and the more of a male you are), the less you work, the fatter you get, and the more acceptable it is to show your bear chest in public (men and women). Family bonds are so important here, and people have children in order to ensure that at they are well taken care of in their old age. I guess I cannot blame them, if I had to poop in a hole in the ground (or in a bush), walk for miles each day to fetch water, take physical beatings at school, and have the rains be a firm indicator of how hungry I will be in the coming months, I also would expect some respect growing old in Kenya. It is an accomplishment to see the ages past 50 in this country.

American culture is different. Aging is bad. Women purchase facial creams and try not to smile too much to preserve their beauty, and men wear fake hair and use Viagra. Old people are seen as “worthless,” or even less, because they no longer contribute to the economy and suck the welfare from the tax-payers. In the busy American life, caring for elderly parents or loved ones is a burden, so many opt for the old-age homes. To make up for all of it, old people get discounts at buffets.

Time

Kenyans begin their day earlier than sunrise..about 5am. While the sun is up, the time is all the same. There is no difference between morning and afternoon, there are no scheduled meals (except in the schools), and there is hardly any punctuality or efficiency in time usage. A meeting could last 5 hours and it would be the same as a 1 hour ordeal. People sit patiently all throughout, and often the mothers will whip out their boobs to breast feed their children. The best way to go about things is to plan one thing per day, like a meeting with one person, or a trip to the market.

Americans have seized time and wrestled it to the the ground. Each day we plan 12 meetings, eat meals every 3 hours, exercise twice, and still have 4 hours to sit in front of the television.

Elephants

Americans love elephants. We think of those giant, soft-footed creatures as tremendously thoughtful and predictably friendly. To see an elephant in a zoo is as exciting as Iron Man 2. We are awestruck by their tremendous size, and tickled by their lack of jumping ability.

Kenyans hate elephants, especially the rural farmers. They think of those giant, cumbersome creatures as nuisances that damage and destroy. The elephants come on to the farms and eat the maize crops, and trample on all the rest. The people value these elephants when they are dead: for their meat and expensive tusks.

I'm living in Kenya. Yikes.

The sun rises at 6am. The morning dew sticks to the freshly grown foliage, shivering gently in the wind. Multitudes of dung beetles emerge from their hideaways and the dragonflies dip and weave to each gust and zephyr.

Yesterday evening came with dark clouds and the night brought heavy rainfall. The morning air smells crisp and cool, and the ground reveals a dark, fertile clay. Every bare patch of land displays budding sprouts-- the germination of freshly sown fields. Days of labor, hand plowed fields or cow-drawn plows, begin to bear results.

Mounds of fresh cow dung, renewed once again in pungent odor by the rains, lay on the roads. The dung beetles cluster and climb upon these mounds of treasure, shaping pieces into balls and rolling them with their hind legs off the road. The dragonflies flit capriciously, dancing, weaving and making love mid-air in the cool morning. Their translucent wings glimmer for moments with a spectrum of color, and they once again speed away, in search of a more playful breeze.

As the sun awakens and casts it's piercing heat upon the village, the dirt road bustles with life-- herds of cattle wander aimlessly to graze, motorbike taxis carrying people to and fro, and cohorts of matching school children, walking and giggling and fighting together on their way to school. As many go about their day, none stop to notice the adamant dung beetles, furiously balling and rolling their dung from the roads. No school child stops to point at the frolicsome dragonflies, fluttering about.

In America, December brings with it falling leaves and winter chills. Christmas music blares on every radio station, and shops bustle with business. But it is springtime in Kenya; the time for white perfume flowers to bloom and shed from the trees, the time for weddings and animal slaughterings. Time for people to start falling in love.

The dragonflies are whimsical. They shift and move purposefully, then in moments they stop to hover as if struck by an epiphany. They are much more clever than their dung-beetle counterparts; never have they fallen victim to a child's playful swat or the squash of a windshield. The dragonflies are magical.

The dung beetles are foolish. They are drawn toward the fresh dung like Their blundering strides look like those of a man who happens upon a mountain of gold, who ambles slowly toward it in sheer delight. Many of these dung beetles fall victim to the bottom of road tires, heavy cow hooves, or rubber shoe soles. They will die for their dung.

The springtime renews my sense of hope and vigor. I marvel at the stupidity of the dung beetles, but at the same time I admire them for their determination; they so clearly know their goal and set out to attaining it at all costs. And all the while I grow jealous of the dragonflies, that the mates are so in tune to each other they can make love in mid-air, without missing a beat. I draw in a deep, refreshing breath and think how beautiful it must be to be so in tune with the one you love.

Live a day with me (December 07, 2010)--

It is 6pm, outside I know the sun is setting though today I do not see it. I am busy cutting onions and the potency stings my eyes. Light still creeps in through my open window, where just outside children's laughter can be heard between the pattering, bare-footed stamps against the concrete floor. Among them is Kimonge, the smallest, cutest child God has ever created. I often pick him up and swing him by his arms, and his reflexive smile and giddy laughter tickles me. Whenever he sees me, he comes up and pets my legs curiously (since leg hair is non-existent on Kenyan men or women), or climbs under my arms where I can give him a hug. I never refuse him. I cannot.

**Just this morning I met three new Europeans from Belgium who had come to help build houses at a women's group near me. Their process was slow going, and for the entire morning we sat and spoke of our cultural differences, and the similarities our cultures share from the differences to that of Kenya. I came for a stove-making conference which was to begin at 8:30am. It was now 12pm and the instructors had just arrived. **

**Inside a nearby house, the conference was underway. I heard Swahili being spoken inside through the open windows as I neared, but the moment I entered the speaker switched to English. I took a seat in the back of the room and listened for awhile. The speaker spoke slowly so the masons could understand his English. The facades are out in full force, but by now I expect them.**

The sun casts its final, purple rays and loses its daily battle to the darkness. I draw my curtains and flip on my light. Onions are simmering in vegetable oil, and the deep green kale pops as I add it upon the skillet. The children outside have stopped playing. The older ones are washing dishes, preparing for their late supper.

**The conference lasted just two hours, and after I pedaled the 5 kilometers back home. Along the way, I noticed strong, green shoots of maize growing firm in the ground, so I dismounted and took a few pictures. The soil is red and strong, and provides food and security to these people. This season will show a good harvest, and the people will praise the name of God for the rains.**

**Just 100 meters down the road from my house lives a youth that I have recently befriended. He is the only one in the area with a computer, and we have been sharing media back and forth. His sister is beautiful and well spoken in three languages, and I enjoy spending time with them both. Today I came to say a few greetings to him. His beautiful sister is, in all honesty, a strong motivation for my frequent visits as well. I'm hoping my infatuation with her dies quickly.**

The fried vegetables sizzle even after I extinguish the heat from beneath the pan. Today I am sharing supper and company with my lonely neighbor who is housekeeping for a family that went on vacation. I brought my vegetables; she cooked rice and beans and we spoke together in Swahili. In the silence of our conversation, we could hear the screams of the neighboring children. Their father has come home drunk again, and has begun to beat them. I recognize each child's distinctive scream and my helplessness pulls strongly at my heart. My thoughts settle on Kimonge, the helpless small child who owns a piece of my heart. I hold back tears of anger out of respect for my companion, and excuse myself from her much-enjoyed company.

I cooked maize porridge for the absent neighbor's dogs: a mother and a puppy. I pensively stroke the baby puppy and in the cool darkness offer a prayer to God for the family who must needlessly suffer; the most sincere prayer I have had for quite some time.

My thoughts race as I begin to reflect upon today and transfer my thoughts into my computer. What conclusions can be reached, or what lessons learned? My body longs for sleep yet my mind remains disturbed. My life isn't so bad. I pause and watch a small lizard crawl across my wall. My life will never be so bad. Soft rain falls upon my tin roof, and abruptly stops.

Freshman year of college 2004: My roommate Mark Eckert and I had the same English writing class. Our teacher was a little Asian graduate student named Sophia Wang, and she had us reading novels written specifically by women.

One particular novel (I forget the name) was written by Virginia Wolfe. One night, I remember discussing the novel with my roommate Mark because I had a speech on the novel the following day, and I wanted to make sure I practiced what I wanted to say. Mark had difficulties taking me seriously, and instead was exploring different ways to say Virginia Wolfe's name. He settled on a mix between Virginia and vagina, creating something that sounded like “Vir-gina Wolfe”. He would repeat the name over and over again to subliminally influence me, then he would tell me to be careful not to say “Vir-gina” during my presentation instead of Virginia.

During class the next day, Mark whispered to me things like, “Good luck on your “Vir-gina Wolfe speech” and would just repeat “Vir-gina Wolfe” with a silly grin. With my nerves already taut from the coming presentation and my unreasonable fear that I would actually slip up and say “Vir-gina”, I curtly reprimanded him and stood to give my presentation. Suffice to say, I spoke soundly and pronounced “Virginia” with all the appropriate vowels and consonants.

Yet, here in Kenya I haven't been so lucky.

The other day, a couple of boys walked up to me as I was gathering some milk sap from a tree. They asked me what I was doing and why, so I explained to them that I wanted to test the milky tree sap as a potential glue. The boys looked on with curiosity written on their faces, and after some silence I felt the need to speak again. The conversation, in Swahili, went like this:

Louis: So, what are your names?

Boy 1: Mwarkio

Boy 2: Maganga

Louis: I see. My name is Louis. How old are you?

Boy 1: I am eleven.

Louis: And is this your brother?

Boy 1: Yes.

Louis: How old is he? Wait, let me guess..he is nine or vagina.

The boys' faces immediately flushed with embarrassment. I followed up quickly with “I'm Sorry. I know that word. Sorry!”

I don't buy into Sigmond Freud's philosophies all too much, though my episode might be considered a Freudian slip. I wouldn't say I am particularly sexually frustrated so I think I would have to search for answers in another.

Perhaps language is to blame.

The word for “ten” in Swahili is spelled “kumi”. When learning this word, our language teachers made specific mention to say it correctly, because a very similar word “kuma” means “vagina.” An easy slip up, right?

I remember back to when I was young, hearing words like penis or clitoris made my ears burn and my heartbeat quicken. I could imagine how much more potent words like that are to boys in conservative, rural communities who have not been desensitized by mass media.

The boys were silent after, their hands cupped against their mouths for a time as they sauntered awkwardly away from me. The ordeal made me feel awkward as well, as I would imagine I would feel had I just given the “birds and the bees” talk to my own children.

Well, I have had other Swahili mistakes, but none so blatant as the episode described above. Once, I called my supervisor's daughter a toilet (her name is pronounced“Chow”, and toilet is choo or “cho”), and I told a group of co-workers that my father is pregnant (“dada” is “sister”), and countless others. But the mistakes never hinder me from continuing to speak the language, and for the most part the locals are graciously forgiving.

I never did find out what the kid's age was—I'm guessing he was vagina. And Mark Eckert would have been proud.

I miss my nephew. I haven't seen a Caucasian baby since I last held my sisters' in a small, Pittsburgh theatre. It was the first time he fell asleep on my shoulder. And probably the last.

I miss bike rides up wildcat road, and swims in Spieker pool. I miss strawberries and apples, and fast internet. I miss deep, spiritual conversations and processed junk foods. I miss board games. I miss privacy.

But most of all, I miss my family and my friends. Today is thanksgiving, and it is the first ever that I will not spend with my family. I have been away from my family for longer stretches of time, but knowing they are unreachable sometimes makes me feel like I am suffocating. I remember my father with his mustache and his pure heart, my mother with her cute Asian face and crafty mind. I long for those times again, jamming with my brother-in-law to “Down on the Corner”, or watching my sister regurgitate food to give to her toothless baby--like a bird feeding its young.

So, in my ample spare time, I wrote another poem, and it reflects a longing for all the people I love, and all the people I wish to embrace, yet cannot. It is called “Why I Write”.

Why I Write

To make you understand

only with words?

Words are just secondhand

experience.

Secondhand reality.

But still I write furiously,

the end of the pen swirling

dizzily

in the air.

And for a moment there

I stop and stare

at nothing,

but look deep into my memory

summoning again

the feelings and emotions I had back then

back when I felt them.

Turning the ethereal into the indelible

with this paper and pen

for you, if you care to read.

Because contrary to my wishes, You are not here beside me

To help and to guide me.

Well, this distance has tried me

and still tries me.

But it's the distance that drives the pen so rigorously,

as words leap on the page vigorously

waiting to be seen.

And these words represent

the time that I've spent

thinking of you, and what you meant

to me.

And what you still mean.

How I miss you!

So with these words I kiss you.

Each word carefully placed

to give you a taste

of my affection.

Or it goes to waste-

the love for you that's laced

in my thoughts and self-reflection.

But these are just words to describe feelings

and feelings are but powerful uncertainties,

conjured as if by sorcery,

forcibly

to connect me to you

-and hopefully- you to me.

I write because I love you, and

I want you to know who I am.

And whether or not you love me too

Is whether or not you try to understand.

The two Duruma sisters who live across the way from me are highly unusual, at least to my observations as a foreigner. They exhibit a great deal of physical affection and they exhibit this affection openly, as if they have been in a long-standing, intimate relationship.

In this conservative Kenyan culture it is inappropriate for women to wear shorts, show their knees, or wear a shirt that would even begin to show the swell of their breasts (although women whip out their boobs all the time in public to breast-feed)- let alone show any sort of PDA or public display of affection when they are in a relationship. The most PDA I have seen in Kenya thus far was in an airport: a man hugging a younger girl (presumably a daughter) and the exchange of kisses on the cheeks.

One night I walked out of my place and passed by my Duruma sisters' dwelling. The lights were on and they were watching T.V inside on the couch. I paused to glance into their open window to see what they were watching and maybe say hello, but in that moment one of the sisters looked at the other and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. As the sister turned to look, another kiss on the lips followed. I stood in bewilderment, frozen for a couple seconds but remaining undiscovered, altogether unsure of what to make of the ordeal. I didn't end up saying hello.

On a second occasion, I heard a loud noise outside my place, so I drew the curtain to see what was going on. There the Duruma sisters stood, laughing hysterically about something. As I continued watching, I witnessed a very strange game indeed—one sister was putting the other sister's breasts in different shapes and formations, and after they would laugh uncontrollably at the bulging boob-sculpture they created.

Final story- I have a shared bathing room and toilet. They are clearly labeled “Men” and “Women” although no one in my compound follows those rules except for me. The men's bathing room is farthest left and the men's toilet is just next to it. The women's facilities are connected, and mirror the men's. One day I rushed to the men's stall for an urgent 'long call' and after I entered I heard splashing and talking from the men's bathing room. I recognized the voices to be the two Duruma sisters bathing together. Again, it struck me as odd that sisters in their early twenties could bathe together and be okay with it, but what was more of a challenge was to try to poop silently to hide my presence (and therefore my shame) from my friendly neighbors.

Homosexuality is completely illegal in Kenya. It is a crime punishable by imprisonment, and sometimes mob justice carries out a death sentence. It is almost like it doesn't exist in Kenyan's minds, especially in the rural areas. Men can be seen holding hands in public, or dancing together, and it would never be assumed that they were homosexual. It is actually more culturally appropriate for two men to hold hands than it would be for a man and a women, even if they are married. Anyway, I am not at all saying the sisters are incestuous, on the contrary, their actions are not presumptuous in this culture whatsoever. It is just strange to me that behavior that I think is inappropriate or suggestive in some way can be completely acceptable, and behavior that Kenyans would think as being inappropriate in America (like homosexuality, or wearing a speedo) I can find as normal behavior.

Kenya is mostly professing Christianity, and the cultural and religious opposition to homosexuality is astounding. I don't want to get too deep into my observations on the Kenyan religious atmosphere just yet, but at least from what I understand about Jesus in the Bible, I would say he offered compassion, relentless love, and forgiveness to all people, no matter who.

Perhaps the same type of relentless love the two Duruma sisters show each other.

I was late coming from Mombasa, or later than I would have liked. It was 4:30pm as I approached the stop for my matatu, and the last round of matatus toward my home come at 5. Usually they are all full.

As I alighted, I saw one of my matatu's pull in to the stage. My lucky day this time, because I didn't want to walk the 10km with my heavy backpack full of coconuts, books and other spoils from Mombasa. And it looked like it was going to rain. Already the rain pounded hard on the ride over, forming streaked puddles in the dips and valleys of the road. It must also have been raining for some time, because large pools collected in various places and a few Maasai could be seen bathing in the dirty water- though undoubtedly not as dirty as their nomadic skin.

But luck was not with me this time around; as I approached the matatu I realized it was packed full to the brim, still with 7 people waiting to get on. With a long sigh I mentally steeled myself for a long and cold journey home. After glancing at my watch I quickened my pace, it was 4:40pm and the sun sets at 6, with the last bits of light fading not more than a half-hour later. The ominous rain clouds darkened the sky, and I knew I had less light to work with. I hoped to make it home in two hours.

Not 200 meters down the road, the matatu rolled by- the conductor looked at me as if to ask if I wanted a ride, and I shouted, “nitasimama!” or “I will stand!”, hoping there was enough room to save me from the long journey home. The matatu stopped, and I boarded the side, standing on a platform where a child or elderly lady would use to boost them up to the cabin. I felt around for anything I could possibly grab on to, as my heavy backpack threatened to pry me from my grip. In front of me stood the conductor who usually stands if the matatu gets full, and behind me another passenger. It was the second time I stood on the outside of a matatu.

Each jerk and bump on the muddy road assaulted my fallible grip and stung the muscles in my arms. I pulled in closer at times to the car, trying to keep both me and my backpack safe from the overhanging thorn trees off the side of the road. Passengers whose heads knocked into my elbows didn't seem to mind, and each time I glanced back at my fellow standing passenger, he cracked a wide, gap-toothed smile.

During my ride, I noticed the ash-grey sky looming over the hills to my left, and the clouds pouring over the tops like ocean waves breaking on the rocks. The wind blew my hair back and large drops of rain began to fall, landing hard on my face. Through squinting eyes I saw in the distance long streaks of lightning pierce through the sky, illuminating the dark clouds and sending shivers of awe down my spine. The bolts were perfect, picturesque, as if Zeus himself were hurling them from the clouds above. With such vicious and unavailing bolts, I expected booming thunder, but the thunder was muted by the rushing wind in my ears, and further by the screaming children who came running after the matatu, splashing dirt in the shallow puddles behind.

I smiled to myself. It's moments like this that become instant memories, that startle and awaken any sleeping dreams and aspirations. It's moments like this that you drink in your morning coffee when you are 54, and upon recollection the memories dance in your mind and strengthen your resolve.

As I reflected on the moment, with lightning crashing on the horizon and beyond I looked up into the dark sky and offered a silent prayer. "I could not ask for more."

The first time I proposed to my fiancé, I did not have a ring. I also did not assume the conventional kneeling position during my proposition to her. And I had only known her for two hours (i was just that sure). She did not answer me, but instead asked me where the ring was. Marriage isn't something to be taken lightly, you know. And it would have been bad signs if she had said yes so quickly. Just what I would expect from my fiancé.

The second time I proposed to my fiancé, I did have a ring. It was a toe ring; a crude, brass thing that was unconnected at the back (potentially adjustable), and molded into the crest was the “peace” symbol. I was wearing a lime green suit, sandals, and I played “Amazing Grace” on the harmonica as I kneel-ed in front of her. Who could refuse that?

Therefore, I have a fiancé. Her name is Alison and she lives in Paraguay.

As fate would have it, I have come to Kenya and I have fallen in love with a local. After all, who can control the whimsical feelings of a passionate heart? Her name is Maggie, and she is a beautiful Kenyan. She also hates me. And she is two years old.

When I first got to my small rural village, Maggie's mother (who is 24 years old) and I became instant friends, simply because she could speak English. I spent the first few weeks with her as she showed me around the neighboring villages, introduced me to all the people, and made me feel welcome. As we meandered together through dry fields, she would knowingly reach out and caress a tree leaf or a shrub between her index finger and thumb, explaining what type of fruit or food the plant bears or what other uses it has. It felt like I was in the Disney movie Pocahontas.

As a general rule, women are attracted to money. Me being a white person, I am the walking, talking, singing and dancing embodiment of money. Therefore, women here in Kenya are attracted to me. Dora is no exception.

Because cultural norms make it inappropriate for women to confront men with their emotional feelings, Dora has been all but forthcoming in her “subtle hints”. When we spent time walking through the fields, she would say how the other villagers think we are married. And since Maggie turned out a little bit browner as opposed to a dark black complexion, it is as if the baby was the product of a racial mix (i.e. the baby was MINE).

It had become a vicious circle of love. I love Maggie, who in turn loves her mother, and her mother “likes” me, but to go the other way around, Maggie hates me, I do not have feelings for Dora, and Dora tires of Maggie because she cries all the time. I am not going to lie, for a moment or so I considered marrying Dora just so I could keep Maggie. I am not kidding.

Once, Dora asked me why the only women in the 'pornography films' were white. The question took me aback on two levels. First because such a subject would appear on the mind of the rural, conservative Kenyan mother, and second because this rural, conservative Kenyan mother had been exposed to pornography. Dora continued to press the issue, asking me if Kenyans were not as beautiful or desirable as white women because of our their skin. I told her that I thought Kenyans were astoundingly beautiful, and that I didn't think they were less or more so than other cultures. Then I told her that I have a fiancé, and I cannot take another women, and all during this exchange, I couldn't help but think about the movie “The Graduate,” the part where Dustin Hoffman boldly states, “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me.”

From that point on, I decided to claim Alison as my fiancé, producing pictures of me proposing to her (which actually exist) to prove to the community that I am truly engaged. My fiancé has become my means of crowd-control, my harassment prevention method, my protection from the onslaught of willing Kenyan women, or worse—Kenyan mothers that offer their daughters or cousins to me.

So here in my village I am engaged (well, I really am engaged). Every Mama knows I am engaged, and a surprising amount of people remember her name. Every now and then, a Mama would ask me, “So how's Alison?” and then follow up with, “Ah, two years? That is a long time. If I were you, I would not wait for her. Just take a Kenyan wife.”

Two years is a long time, and romance is a big deal – in both Kenyan and American cultures. Luckily for me, romance has been among the last things on my mind. I have been trying to cultivate a different type of love, one that is pervasive and addicting and enduring. The kind of love that inspires compassion and kindness. On the subject of romantic love, someone could give me a soap-box and a megaphone, and I would stand up and speak into it until the batteries ran low (and my trigger finger was sore) but I will spare my readers for now. There is a place for romance, and despite my spoken resistance to it, I am among the most susceptible to its wily charms.

As for Alison, my “Fiancé” is simply in name only. I cannot claim that any feelings are attached from her end. It would be hard to imagine being romantically involved with someone so out-of-reach, so intangible. Yet many other volunteers maintain long-distance romantic relationships, and to them I offer my sincerest regards.

As for me, my romance is confined to my attempts at poetry in my quiet times. This poem was written for no one in particular, but with someone in mind. It goes out to all the long distance relationships that us volunteers subject ourselves to.

Maybe She Waits

Maybe she waits,

she waits for me only.

Maybe I've gone,

I've gone too far away.

Maybe she waits,

She waits patient and lonely.

Maybe I'm wrong

to have asked her to stay.

Maybe she thinks,

She thinks of me only.

But maybe her thoughts

were mine, just for one day.

Maybe when I,

When I come back I'll be lonely.

But maybe her heart-

Not so easy to sway.

But if she waits,

she waits for me only.

When I return

I will hold her and say,

“I'm sorry that I,

That I left you here lonely.

Never again

Will I leave you that way.”

The vervet monkey is as normal a monkey as they come. Its unassuming grey-brown fur contrasts beautifully with its black face, and its small stature and long tail allow for the stealth and agility that anyone would expect from a monkey. Despite its ordinary characteristics, this monkey has one specific feature that will catch every unsuspecting person by surprise: the males have baby-blue colored testicles.

(before you continue reading, please google “vervet monkey male” and actually see what i'm talking about)

The first time I was introduced to this unorthodox genitalia, I was so tickled by it I began asking all the guys I was with if they would prefer a fantastic pair of baby blues hanging between their legs if they had the choice. And then I started thinking (as I like to do), and I realized that I had a lot in common with these vervet monkeys.

As a white person (well, “white” for me) in rural Kenya, it is impossible not to be noticed. I often times feel like a wild animal-when little kids see me they get as excited as tourists would get if they saw an elephant. Most of the tourists that come to Kenya speak English, so the children assume it is the only language foreigners know. So when they see me, they begin screaming, “How are YOU??” from up to a hundred meters away.

Yet, sometimes when the little kids are standing by the road, I get the jump on them and greet them with a 'slang' Swahili greeting (the English equivalent to “what's up?”). Usually, I get dumbstruck faces in return: slowly turning heads and slightly opened mouths undoubtedly surprised that the foreigner speaks Swahili. I consider moments like this the metaphorical revealing of my baby blue testicles.

On top of this, I generally tend to surprise and confuse most of the locals in my words, actions, and simply my appearance. A while back, a drunk Kenyan man stumbled up to me and started asking me for money. Even after a couple of my curt refusals, his continual begging set me off. I am already heavily on guard for people asking me for things, and so I begin yelling at him in Swahili at regular conversation pace, “Why do you ask me for money? Because I am a white person, right? I don't have money, and I am not giving you anything. Go beg the people sitting there.” The Kenyans that were sitting next to me laughed, not only at the truth of my words but because this drunk man had just metaphorically been slapped in the face with my baby blue testicles.

One of my tasks as a Peace Corps Volunteer is to help my community develop ways to generate income and improve their village, and I have many project ideas that I want to first try on my own time before I share with others. A couple of these projects involve bottle-caps (to make art, checker games, and jewelry) and maize cobs (to make charcoal). I am often seen gathering these materials off the ground in the village, with curious Kenyans simply watching me. As a “rich, white person” it is improper, or at least unconventional, for me to gather such materials-it is a child's place to collect bottle-caps and a laborer's job to gather maize cobs. When people ask me what I am doing I gladly explain, but I truly enjoy the looks of bewilderment on their faces.

As for my appearance-even in America people don't know what ethnicity I am. I get Mexican, Filipino, Hawaiian, and some others. Here, the Kenyans are confused between “Mzungu” “China-man” or “Hindi from the coast.” In Mombasa, there are many Middle Eastern businessmen that live around, and if I am walking with my Kenyan counterpart I easily look like I am a local. If I am walking with a Mzungu Peace Corps friend, I am also a Mzungu, and if I am alone it is a grab-bag. One common misconception among the Kenyan people is that all Chinese people are experts in Kung-Fu (no doubt thanks to Jet Li). In the grocery store once, a Kenyan teenager that worked there asked me if I could teach him Kung-Fu. I chuckled to myself, and told him I would.

In all honesty, I get a secret satisfaction from other people's confusion. I thrive off of it. I am in my element when surprise is on my side. And if I had the choice to permanently alter my colors to match a vervet monkey I would have to answer with a resounding “Yes”-with a sneaky grin on my face.

Or I can paint my genitals and dress as a vervet monkey for the next Halloween.

The Kenyans are wonderful people. They are kind, welcoming, helpful, and eager to learn. Even the drunks and the beggars (oftentimes one and the same) are jocular, willing to listen to me lecture them on why cigarettes are bad for their health and why they should use a condom, then proceed to spew every English word they know at me to form an incoherent sentence, and with a stupid grin on their face expect me to give them money after.

Yet, even with wonderful things, sometimes it can be too much. I find the combination of me and the Kenyan people are no exception. And just as I feel the need to detach from my Kenyan community from time to time, it seems nearly impossible to do so.

A quick digression: On a bus in America, many would opt to sit with at least one space between if the space allowed for it, and even if someone was sitting next to another person, it would be awkward and uncomfortable to touch for any short length of time.

With Kenyan public transportation, it is awkward to not have someone rubbing shoulders with you, and sometimes rubbing more than American culture would generally feel comfortable with. It is also perfectly acceptable for strangers to sit on top of one another, and it is still okay for one of those people to be breastfeeding.

As an example, I was sitting in next to the back window of a 5-seater car with two other Kenyans next to me. At one point, the Kenyan sitting by the other back window arrived at his destination, so he got out and we continued the journey. In America, anyone would be expected to move from the middle seat (a.k.a. “bitch” seat) to a window seat in this circumstance, but this Kenyan did not feel it was necessary. So we continued the 30 minute journey just like that.

Car seats and public transport are no big deal. I can handle the invasion of personal space when I am expecting it. What pulls on my nerves is the invasion of my personal space when I am in my home. I live in the equivalent of a one-story apartment complex with 7 other families in close quarters. It is always busy with Mamas, housemaids and kids running around screaming. Often times when I arrive home, the children feel compelled to follow me into my home, and it becomes a process of picking them up and placing them outside, all the while defending my home's threshold from more unsolicited child entry.

Also, on a daily basis one or more of my adolescent or even grown-up neighbors will plant their face in my window (even though my curtain is closed-they still try to see through the cracks) and call out to me-asking me what I am doing or what I will be cooking for dinner that night. Sometimes one of the girls will put her face up to the window, and if she sees me inside she will yell, “Looo-iis! I am peeping! I see you!” (in English, i'm not sure there is a word for “peeping” in swahili). There really isn't a way for me to communicate how inappropriate peeping is from an American standpoint. What if I were naked? Without a culturally appropriate way for me to scold such behavior (especially when the adults do it), I resign myself to deeply sighing.

My biggest beef with the cultural invasion of space is the protocol when someone is sick. Kenyans, to show they care, will make it a priority to visit a sick friend so they can offer their condolences for the sickness. It sounds nice in theory, maybe, but when I am feverish and trying to sleep it is irritating to have multiple people (and at different times) knock relentlessly on your door to just say “pole” (a.k.a. “sorry”). As this is the case, I now make it a priority to keep my bouts of sickness a secret.

I know I am supposed to “integrate” into my community and into the Kenyan culture, but my longing for personal space will not disintegrate so quickly. I wonder how I will feel after 2 years of my cultural dis-integration of personal space.

Thwack..thwack..thwack..*.silence.*...thwack..thwack..thwack..The strange rhythmic thumping continues for minutes outside my window, like a curious addicting drum beat. The rhythm stops when I go to investigate.

I find two young Kenyan women, sweat trickling from their almost-bald heads down the sides of their faces, gathered over a large wooden cauldron. They each hold a heavy wooden stick in their hands, which-coupled with the cauldron-reminds me of a massive pestle and mortar. The two sisters look up at me and smile; the sweat making their beautiful dark skin glisten in the morning light. With a quick glance at each other, the sisters assume a powerful position and resume pounding the contents of the cauldron with strong, practiced strokes. The cauldron contains large maize kernels, which now are almost mashed to oblivion. This process allows the maize to be later ground into flour at a parcel mill. With each strike, some of the flaky kernels float up in the air and stick to the sisters' sweaty arms and faces, and since much of their body was covered, they had been at work for some time. The sisters alternate their strikes into the center of the cauldron rhythmically, and as I stand and marvel at their fantastic precision my body reflexively sways to the hypnotic beat.

After the thrashing of the maize, the mashed remains are filtered in woven baskets from impurities. Shick, shick shick, ssssss. Shick shick shick, ssssss. The synchronized sisters work along side one another, creating the sound that reminds me of musical shakers. Just like the pounding, the shaking charms me, entering into my blood and possessing my body to move. In my mind I envision an entire band of Kenyan women as they go through the process of pounding and sifting maize-creating a magnificent African musical performance. The thought makes me giddy, which turns into an incoherent attempt at Swahili communication, “You are making music!” I say in Swahili. The sisters look at me confused, and respond with, “No, we are making flour.” At this point I am looking around, my eyes screaming out for someone who I could explain my realization to. Without any alternative, I try again with the sisters, “you hit the maize like on a drum, and when you do this,” (I point at what they are doing, since “to shake” has not entered my swahili vocabulary), “together it makes music.” It was my best attempt, and to my relief it was returned with a mixture of confusion and understanding written on their faces.

Weekly, the Kenyan women are hard at work pounding maize by hand. On top of cooking, doing all the house work and caring for the children, they don't complain but set to their task in seeming contentment. It was wonderful for me to hear a small piece of the beautiful music of their simple Kenyan life.

Bananas and I have become close these last few months, and I feel I am indebted to them greatly. Part of the reason for our inseparable friendship is their sweetness. Bananas in Kenya are sweeter than I have ever tasted. Another reason is their dirt-cheap cost. I can buy 3 smaller-sized bananas (sometimes 4) for 10 shillings, or 13 U.S. pennies. But the real reason behind my affinity to these naturally wrapped, delicious morsels is that on Tuesday, the 7th of September 2010, a banana saved my life.

Before I launch into that story, here's some background. Every Monday & Thursday my town has a “Market Day” where people come to sell their produce and clothing. Every market day I buy 18-24 banans for the U.S. Equivalent of 75 cents. I usually don't share my bananas, so that means I east about 40 bananas per week. Bananas are always at hand, and I always carry one or two with me in case I am stranded and hungry.

On this fateful Tuesday the 7th, I biked into town to have lunch with some fellow volunteers. After a huge lunch and a couple hours of hanging out, I began my 10 kilometer uphill battle back to my village. As it turns out, 1 kilometer into my ride I felt a fierce bowel movement coming on. The huge lunch sat heavy in my stomach, and parts of the dirt road I was biking on had bumps-as if a tank rolled through and left its tire tracks embedded into the ground-so the violent jostling of the bumps did not help my situation at all. And for the record, this area has no restaurants or storefronts to stop in to use the toilet. My options were: 1. Ask a random family if I could use their toilet (in swahili, of course). 2. Try to hold it and make it home. 3. Poop in my pants. I considered a fourth option of finding a hiding place in the bush, but there were too many people out and about and there is not much forest cover in general, and my skin is too light to ever be incognito, so I ruled this option out.

I considered my various options as I slowly walked my bike with my butt cheeks clenched tight, then I luckily saw a familiar face. A Kenyan friend of mine was visiting his grandma so I quickly asked if I could use their toilet as politely as possible, still suffering and keeping the relentless bowel movement at bay. Once I got in it was the greatest moment of the day, but that moment was soiled by the realization of my next problem-no toilet paper. As I searched through my bag trying to find an alternative, I found my one, glorious banana. I carefully peeled the banana to get some larger peels (for surface area's sake), and though I wasn't hungry I couldn't dare see a perfect banana go to waste so I reluctantly ate it. The banana peel did a surprisingly good job, and though the wipe felt slimy and foreign, I wouldn't say it was unpleasant (though not preferable).

Okay, so the banana didn't actually save my life, but it saved me from subjecting myself to poor personal hygiene, a bad smell, and an emergency laundry session when I arrived home. The first thing I did when I got home was have a bath, but I can still safely say that in my potty-trained lifespan, I have never pooped without wiping afterward.

Now bananas and I are closer than ever. My respect for their usefulness has skyrocketed, and I have sworn to defend their honor every time they are the brunt of a crude penis joke. They are worth so much more to me now than that.

I have been to three funerals in my lifetime. The first one was in 2008, and it was my swim coach. The second was earlier this year, my grandmother. The third was two days ago, and it was my supervisor's mother. She was 79 years old.

When first coming to Kenya, I was excited at the prospect of immersing myself in an entirely unknown culture, including the ceremonies and rituals. Funerals and weddings were definitely on the check list. And I have to admit (as selfish as it sounds), I was excited at the prospect of experiencing one so soon.

Her name was Elina, and she passed away on Tuesday of last week. Beginning that day (30th August) until Saturday, 4th September, everything seemed to come to a standstill in the town. Though I could not attend all those days, I definitely got the flavor of a Kenyan funeral. Crowds of people made themselves at home at my supervisors place as the women cooked each meal for the multitudes and the men talked in circles of politics, family life, issues of water, or whatever else they cared to discuss. Each night had some type of swahili worship music piped through a speaker, and some type of segregated dancing. The men danced in their own area while the women occupied an entirely different area.

The guests would stay all day, and many would sleep on the ground at night for every night, continuing the festivities when they woke the following morning. The attendance was exceptional. I believe the combination of school break, no work to do in the farms, and the prestige of my supervisor (he is the area's councilor, which is a government official of some type) made for a great turnout.

The structure of the funeral was as follows: Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all were hangout/gathering days. Friday was the church service, and Saturday was the burial ceremony. The Friday service consisted of worship songs, a “short” sermon, and a walk-around the casket. It all lasted about 3 hours. Interestingly enough, just as the service finished it began raining harder than I have ever seen rain come. We were all trapped in the church for a good 20 minutes as the precious drops of water poured out extravagantly on the parched land.

The burial ceremony did not lack any flare. The women pulled out all the stops: beautiful hair, matching ceremonial dresses and some even had make-up on. The men dressed business casual.

The casket was ornately adorned: a thin wooden box with a red velvet outer layer and white velvet crosses on the top and front. Beautiful flower bouquets sat on top of the casket, as well as a large framed picture of the beloved grandma. Women were sobbing and making a huge fuss- no doubt generally saddened by their loss, but seemingly playing up the act as if to show everyone else how much they cared. One old lady even fell to the ground and lay sobbing for a good two minutes, all the while lying on freshly cut, jagged shrubbery and rocks. The men did not cry, and I learned later that it is only appropriate for women to show affection.

During the ceremony, the large, leafless tree nearby chirped wildly as small, yellow-breasted birds made tiny nests in the branches. The downpour from the day before must have signaled to the birds that it was time to lay their eggs. I counted 17 new nests, and many more birds. I keep forgetting it is winter here, and spring is soon to come.

A quick side note: As women passed the casket and saw the face of their friend or mother, they would cry out to God or to her, tearfully screaming words in Kiswahili. This reminded me clearly of my own Grandmother's funeral, when my mother wept bitterly and spoke desperately in Korean to my grandmother at the ceremony. It was all I could do to hold back my own tears from that memory, so as not to appear like I was crying over the current situation- the grandmother I had hardly known.

After the 4 hours of praying, weeping, and picture taking, the burial began. After they placed the casket in a cement-like box, they covered it in wooden planks and again covered it in wet cement. Flowers were placed on the grave marker (which was essentially a huge, casket-like stone that was built on top) and the festivities again continued deep into the night.

The ordeal left me exhausted, and I must admit I was a little bit disappointed that the dancing was not traditional in any way (it actually reminded me of a junior high dance, with the men and women separated). Still, I experienced a great deal of Kenyan culture in these few days. Later that Saturday, A Kenyan man asked me about my impressions of the whole ceremony. I told him that I thought it was beautiful to see so many people attend, and that these people, though they are financially poor, have wealth where it really counts.

Early one night, before the waning full moon made its grand appearance, the star-filled sky was more brilliant and clear than I can ever recall. It felt like I was standing on the very edge of the atmosphere, where only a thin sheet or a cold breath of air separated me from falling in among the stars. The milky way looked like a murky, grey cloud mixed into the infinite stars, like a black granite table-top with refined sugar spilled on top. And for a short while, the relentless wind died down to a chilly breeze, and carried the sound of rustling leaves and chirping insects through the otherwise perfect silence. There was not a single car engine to be heard, or a single, dull street light to be seen, just serenity and peace. As I stood there admiring the brilliant scene, In that moment there was nowhere else on earth I would rather have been; and though a loved one would have made good company, I stood there alone in complete contentment.

When I wake the next morning, the sun sheds light on the real setting which I live. Though there are many trees, the area looks desolate and dry- it is like a wasteland where the hot sun condemns animals to death, and the ferocious winds blow their remains to sand (exaggeration). Animal waste covers the dirt road, precious trees are chopped down and cut into pieces to be sold, and black spots can be seen on the ground in various places where people burn their trash or where they burn wood to make charcoal.

This place that I live overflows with life and with potential. Insects of all kinds are loudly accompanying my walk around the village, huge camels are snacking on the African milk tree overgrowth that lines the main road while matatu and motorbike drivers honk their horns impatiently to clear the way, and beautiful Kenyan children are running barefoot in the fields with their handmade toys screaming at me as I walk by. The soil in the fields is rich and fertile, making for the sweetest bananas I have ever tasted. The corn kernels grow large and the tomatoes are firm and supple.

But at the very same time, poverty ravages the people here. Families sell their small amount of food so they can purchase water. Everyone grows corn in their farms, and "Ugali" or corn porridge is the meal every single day because families cannot afford to diversify their diet. Fruit is a luxury many cannot afford. Every day, women walk 15-20 kilometers to fetch water, carrying a 20 liter jerry can on their heads for half of that walk. Children have skin diseases because they can only afford to bathe once per week.

The women are beautiful and hardworking and the nuclear family is tied by strong religious and cultural norms. Extended families generally live on close homesteads, caring for each other and remaining close throughout their lives.

Yet problems like prostitution abound in the neighboring village (and bigger cities) while HIV and other STDs are rampant. Condoms are not mainstream and testing for or talking about HIV/AIDS is taboo. It is almost socially acceptable for a man to cheat on his wife, and even spread HIV or other problems throughout the family.

The juxtaposition of the priceless beauty in the nighttime skies that shine for all the suffering people is surreal. It reminds me that there is so much here that needs to be done, but at the same time so much that I don't ever want to change.

My first day as a Peace Corps Volunteer started with two cups of delicious tea, two home-grown eggs, and then two meetings. The first meeting introduced me to my organization (Marungu Hill Conservancy Association)- lasting 20 minutes. The second was a village-wide meeting about the severe problem of water- lasting 4 and a half hours.

As a side note, Kenyans will not eat, take a sip of water, or use the restroom for a meeting's entire duration. It doesn't matter how long.

Before coming to Kenya, I knew the gender roles and equality were vastly different than in America. Women here are much inferior to men socially. A woman will generally not look a man in the eye (children wont either, both genders) when they are having a conversation, and it isn't unusual to see a married woman walk a few meters back from her husband if they were walking together. Women mop the floors, prepare all food and tea, wash the dishes and clothes, harvest in the garden (men usually do the planting, and can sometimes help harvest), clean and straighten and tidy everything, and not ever complain about any of it. And at the dinner table, women serve the men first, and usually eat last.

It is also taboo for a woman to ask a man out on a date. But more on that in another post.

Anyway, back to my 4 and a half hour meeting. The meeting was entirely in Kiswahili, which I liked because I can then practice listening to it (even though I did not understand anything). It started and ended with a prayer, and literally the first hour of it was individual introductions of everyone at attendance (around 80. It reminded me very specifically of the "Ents" in the Lord of the Rings movie). Women generally sat in one segregated area, a little bit farther from the head officials leading the meeting (I am included as a head official), but what became a most pleasant surprise was that women of all ages spoke and participated equally with the men. They spoke passionately about their lack of water access, and they captivated the audience with their forceful tone and animated gestures. The women show by their daily, hard labor that they are beyond strong. It was refreshing to see a voice representing those actions.

Compared with other parts of Kenya, I think my particular area is a little bit more progressive and relaxed. Despite the clearly defined gender roles, both women and men attend primary and secondary schools (though men attend at a much higher rate), and from what I have observed so far, the culture is making a shift toward gender equality. Still, I was pleasantly surprised to find so much voice on the female side of the human spectrum here in this small rural village on the south-eastern coast of Kenya.

The women here, after all, are the backbone of the Kenyan society. Besides being friendly, I'm not really sure what the Kenyan men do with their time.

For 24 years and 4 months of my life, I have never given the Swahili language a moment of consideration. Now, it is essentially the most important tool in my daily life.

From May 26th until July 20th, I was put through Peace Corps' rigorous language program. It was like Rosetta Stone on steroids, human growth hormone, and whatever Lance Armstrong was taking, all at the same time. The student-teacher ratio was 3 to 1 for me, for at least 4 hours a day. Granted, Kiswahili is not the most tricky language, but after just 2 months of training I have: 1. bargained for items in the market, 2. Introduced myself in front of countless different churches, meetings, and officials 3. Performed a swahili worship song in front of a small church congregation. I studied Spanish on and off for 6 years or so growing up, yet I can safely say that my swahili has officially overtaken my Spanish as my second best language.

All that being said, I am realizing that language is the most important tool in establishing a meaningful connection with another person. I take it for granted, but when I find someone who knows just a little bit of English, it is like eating dessert for breakfast. When I get the chance to speak with some fellow Peace Corps Volunteers and I can speed up my speech to normal and say words like “Amazing” and “Splendid” and “Circumvent” and they would all be understood, it is amazing. It truly baffles me how “Prince Erik” fell in love with Aerial, since I think it would be impossible for me to fall in love with someone I could not adequately express myself to.

I have basically mastered the Kiswahili greetings, and many of the locals (especially the older grandmothers and grandpas) are amazed that the white guy knows Kiswahili. Also, though everyone knows and speaks Kiswahili, there are two main tribes in my area: Taita and Duruma. I am also getting those specific greetings down for each of the languages. If I manage to greet a Duruma grandmother in her tribal tongue, she becomes so excited it seems like she wets her pants.

Though English is wide-spoken throughout the world, there is something I can sincerely relate with to the Duruma grandmothers. It is rare to see another white person around, and usually they all come from the UK, but occasionally I find an American. That familiar American accent, whether it be the harsh New Yorker, the southern drawl, or my very own west coast accent, makes me happier than anyone could possibly imagine.

So far my language barriers have been (are probably going to be) the hardest challenge for me. Already there are people here that are willing to learn about business organization matters, yet I would need a translator to properly get my point across. Sometimes I feel like I am making leaps and bounds improvement in the language when I can joke with children or say a semi-witty response in return to the common “Mzungu! How are you??” that I hear on a daily basis, and sometimes I feel like I am a completely dysfunctional person. But I have two years to work the kinks out, and then when I get back to America, I have the rest of my life to continue using kiswahili on a daily basis...

Some fun facts:

1. Ku-jenga means “To Build”, and “Jenga” is probably the origin of the name for the board game.

2. In Swahili, there are “Noun Classes.” All people and animals belong to a certain (and respected) noun class called the M-WA class. But words like “Youth” and “Disabled”, though referring to people are not in the M-WA class to demonstrate inferior status.

3. If you repeat a verb, it means that specific action continues. Example: Ku-kata means “To cut”. Ku-kata-kata means “To cut repeatedly”.

Matatus are 11-passenger vans with precious little room and almost no cargo space. They are definitely not meant to be driven off-road, and they usually do not have working seat belts. They are the staple means for public transportation in Kenya.

Matatus are driven off-road. The rides are usually comparable to the kind of amusement park attraction at Universal Studios where the entire auditorium shakes vigorously as you watch something exhilarating on a movie screen (except in a matatu, the 18-wheeler that you are playing “chicken” with as you are passing another 18-wheeler on the other side of the road is very much real, and not as much “exhilarating” but more “frightening”). Matatus are not, and never ever will be, kind to people who are suffering from diarrhea. Luckily, I have a strong stomach and I have not yet had diarrhea in my three months so far in Africa (I actually struggle with the opposite: mild cases of constipation). Still, I have a pretty strong stomach in general, and I think these very normal brushes with danger by way of matatu are pretty fun.

Including the driver, matatus legally seat 12 people. It is actually one of the most frequently broken Kenyan laws of all time. Once, I've seen 7 people (2 small children among the 7) smashed into 3 seats, and two of those people were hanging on to the side of the van, essentially standing on the outside. So far, the record number of people in a matatu that I have been in was 25 (3 were babies, 4 were small children).

Matatus have absolutely no personal space. On my first matatu ride, the old man sitting next to me kept reaching into his suit coat pocket, his groping fingers tickling my ribs. On the other side of me, a sleeping passenger laid his head on my peace corps friend and let out a nice big drool on his arm.

After 6 weeks and countless matatu rides, today was the first time I was pushed past my comfort level. I had just finished a day of work at my site, had a bag full of produce from the market, and 11 kilometers of walking in my legs. Yet I was crammed into the very back of a 22-person-filled matatu. My legs were smashed together and I was cradling my precious produce on my lap, highly uncomfortable in the hot, smelly matatu. Halfway to my 10 km destination, the matatu driver pulled over, looking to add to his already-full cargo and maximize his profits. A lady wanted the driver to transport her three goats, and since it was getting dark she was willing to pay more. The matatu driver proceeded to grab the goats like they were luggage (they essentially were luggage) and throw them into the very back of the matatu, directly behind me & under my seat. The goats struggled for awhile, and so the matatu driver flipped them on their backs and began tying their legs together, all the while the goats bleating loudly as if screaming for help and for mercy.

Whether it was the sweaty stench of the collective passengers, the fact that my legs were squeezed so tight together my two testicles felt like they disappeared, or the fear that a frightened goat underneath my chair would suddenly buck its head and spear my leg with its horn, I couldn't stand to be in that matatu any longer. Before throwing the last goat into the van, I grabbed the back seat and hoisted myself out of the matatu. I paid the full fare and said I'd prefer to walk the 5 km to my house.

There's something that made me ache when hearing the bleating goat and watching it get thrown into the back of a van recklessly. I know these things happen, and worse treatment of animals (and humans) happens everywhere, but witnessing such a thing firsthand definitely made it more real. It reminded me of the first time I watched a chicken get its head cut off, and the desperate cry it made before the knife made it all the way through its neck.

I must be getting softer with age. If things like this make me weak at the knees, I'm definitely in trouble for some of the things I have yet to see.

I do not remember Dante's "Inferno" as well as I would like, but I do remember each circle of Hell corresponded to a specific, ironic punishment for actions done in the previous lifetime. Now, in the small town of Marungu, I feel like I have entered into Dante's realm.

It's not to say Kenya is "Hell" by any means, though the barren, hot, dry setting plays right into the stereotype. I mean to say that my life has become delightfully ironic.

I have never thought of water is a precious resource. Since the age of 5, I would spend many days actually loathing the existence of water, since I would have to do grueling swim workouts in it for many hours per day. In Southern California, people would hose down their driveways instead of sweeping, or wash their car after it rained. I remember waiting a few minutes for my high-pressured shower to get hot, letting gallons upon gallons drain away unused before I took my 15 minute shower.

Here in Africa, I face Divine Retribution. Water scarcity is the biggest problem facing my community. Yesterday, I used 2.5 liters of cold water to bathe, which is about half the amount a water-saving toilet would use per flush, and sometimes I save my urine to water some plants I want to grow. The amount of water I would waste in America waiting for my shower to get hot is about the same amount I would use in a day to drink, cook 2 meals and use for bathing.

I guess it is time to pay my penance. It'll just be a little under two years until I can peg someone with a water-balloon again.

I am now officially a Peace Corps Volunteer. I spent a couple hours on Wednesday in America (at the ambassador's residence), and after I have arrived in Marungu, a small town South-East of Voi. It has been 2 days in my brand new town. I have been so warmly received I feel like a celebrity. Well, I am a celebrity.

My supervisor accompanies me everywhere I go and quickly jabbers off in kiswahili or kitaita (the local language) to everyone around about who I am and what I am doing here. After a minute or two, people's faces light up and then they vigorously shake my hand, as if I had just saved their baby from a mountain lion. Though my kiswahili is improving, it is far from good or even conversational. I feel like my counterpart is telling everyone that I am the second coming of the messiah, or that if they stand shake my hand vigorously enough, money will come out.

Here's the scoop: from the looks of things, my organization is on its own two feet. They have a well-written description of what their purpose is, and they have assessed the needs of the community (which is namely water accessibility), and they are fervently pursuing the relief of that major issue. When I quickly reflect upon my skill-set, I come up with this short list:

1. Swimming

2. Guitar Competency

3. Wooing Women

4. Basic Computer Skills

5. Able to speak and read English

Aside from computer skills and knowledge, I feel like I have precious little to offer my organization, and I'm not sure exactly what they expect. I know it has been just a few days, but I feel like I am fairly worthless thus-far. Nevertheless, here's what is happening in my small town (pop 10,000).

Water is a big issue. The Kenyan government established a baseline water price at 3 shillings for 20 liters, but the price of water in my area is 7 to 8 times that much because demand is high and accessibility is difficult. The town of Marungu is only 7 to 10 kilometers away from the “Mombasa Highway” where huge pipes of water are located, so one project is to divert some of that water to the smaller remote towns such as mine.

Marungu offers beautiful hills, though currently dry, can be lush green during the rainy season. Also, brown elephants are often spotted in the hills, searching for watering holes. One major problem is poachers killing these elephants for their ivory tusks. This is done with bow and poison tipped arrow, and as many as 20 dead elephants were found already this year, up from the 7 elephants from last year. Prices for ivory have increased, giving incentives to slaughter these beautiful creatures.

On a more positive note, I did see a group of 10 wild elephants off the side of the road near the city of Voi. Many camels can be seen in my area as well, and I also saw a buffalo and two eagles. It's ridiculous and wonderful, and I am truly loving every minute of my experience, including the hardships and inconveniences.

Wild Animal Sitings Update: black & white colobus monkey, chimpanzee, black buffalo, brown elephant, camel, giraffe, eagle, superb starling, antelope, ostrich.

(A poem, titled "Addressed to My Fellow PCTs", as a summary for our training experience)

What do I remember most about Loitokitok?

The dust.

The dust from the ground rose like pillars of smoke

from a bonfire

When the motorbikes came flying by,

Kicking dust from their tires and into my eyes

I'm not much of a crier, but I'm not gonna lie,

All that dust made me pretty sad.

And you know what I don't understand?

When the Kenyan teens greet me with a wave of their hand

they say, “Safi Kabisa” which means completely clean.

How do the Kenyan teens stay completely clean?

But nevertheless

In the beginning those overdressed, fat-cheeked kids were cute,

and with each “how are you?” those kids got cuter..

I don't remember who I told

but I said to them,

“I don't think those 'how are you?'s' will ever get old."

..how naïve I was...

but everything was so new to me

there were so many things to learn, and so many things to see.

And I saw things I've never seen before

Like a goat in a crate, or a family of four

riding on a motorbike. So that's what it's like

on this African tour.

Still, It's amazing all the things we've experienced,

From Kilimanjaro's beautiful, twin peaks in the distance,

To our Kenyan Mamas' constant and fervent insistence

to eat more, despite our resistance.

And those Kenyan Mamas, they are simply unreal

So hardworking, yet gentle, and with hands made of steel

That pot has got to be hot mama, can you not feel?

And the Kenyan men, so strong and so proud through & through

Still they are always ready with a smile and a greeting or two

To make us feel welcome.

But despite their warm welcome..

Adjusting to Kenyan life has not been easy.

Some days just had too much Blue Band, and Kenyan T.V.

But those few hot days in my business clothes, that was the worst situation

When the sweat from my head dripped off my nose, I think I'd smell ugali in my perspiration

We faced so many troubles, but all of you know

We battled spiders, bats, bugs and bad smells in the choo

We sat through hours & hours of church, still with hours & hours to go.

And we'd wait, patient, for Kenyan partner groups to show for a meeting though,

they were late, or they forgot, even though you watched them

scribble down the date

But hey, that's just the Kenyan way,

An unwritten cultural rulebook we need to learn and obey.

Here's what I've learned so far:

Pedestrians yield themselves to cars

Women are seen as whores in bars

When we share, what's ours

becomes theirs

And the locals charge expensive fares,

But only if your skin is fair.

Because here in Kenya, fair skin means money

It's just like saying that the sun is sunny

well that's funny because

that's a stereotype we are here to correct, (I think) we'll consider it a “win”

If we can gain our respect independent of the color of our skin...

I've also learned that Kenya is the land of many hidden children

We can't always see them, but we always hear them

So we walk home to the sound of “Mzungu!, Mzungu!” their tiny voices screaming

And after thirty-six “How are you?s” in a row, it's lost its meaning.

And I've been meaning to tell you, I don't know if I did

But when Michael Smith flips out on that one, unlucky kid, Hell..

Michael Smith, sometimes i'm right there with you.

But seriously, together we can laugh and support each other

Each of you have become like a sister or a brother

And soon we leave Loitokitok, though the cows are still mooing

The roosters still crowing, and the Tusker still brewing

But will all that distraction, I forget what i'm doing here.

Can any of you relate? Do any of you agree?

Then I remember, I'm here to throw starfish back into the sea

One by one, and that's okay with me

because when it's done, if it's one life we saved

One life we changed for two years we gave

..it'd be worth it

Because after two years, we'll be rearranged,

Though I think all along we will have known

That life that has changed will be our own.

And for two years we'll face all manner of trouble

From Malaria to funeral orgies, and with mephaquin: seeing double

But let me tell you the real dangers

When returning to America, we'll be the strangers

And we'll think it's strange: the roads are paved

the toilets flush, the furniture's plush

they use microwaves

But we have two years to go 'till then

So let's let the adventure begin.

In all my grade school textbooks, I remember learning about how the Native Americans lived: nomadic, spiritual, and incredibly resourceful. I remember reading things like, if they hunted a buffalo for eating, they would use every part of the animal for some useful or aesthetic purpose.

In Kenya, I believe I am coming very close to living like those fabled Native Americans lived, except in a modernized world. My host family seems to generate absolutely no trash. In my host family's garden (garden meaning 7 acres of farmland), they grow corn, bananas, carrots, and kale, and they also raise a small number of cows, goats and chickens. My family eats mainly corn-based meals (ugali-the tasteless hardened tofu equivalent), and then they burn the corn cobs to use as fuel for cooking. Any fruits peels or leftover vegetables go straight to feeding the cows or goats. As for other trash/waste: hard plastic jars or metal containers (the kind that would have peanut butter or jam) become a storage container or other things, or a flower pot. Any soft plastic bags (the kind you would find in America to put vegetables in at the supermarket) simply get burned.

Even after 6 weeks of Kenyan living, I have created less than one cubic foot of trash. Also, most of it is paper which is environmentally safe to burn compared to the plastic counterpart. This is the equivalent to the amount of trash I would accumulate in a single trip to the supermarket in America.

There are absolutely no recycling centers near Loitokitok, and I'm not certain but I think you would have to travel as far as Nairobi or Mombasa for recycling facilities. The little trash that is produced from the plastic bags often can be found littering the dusty roads of Loitokitok. Also, since there is no waste disposal service, the way biodegradable waste such as banana peels or vegetables gets cleaned up in the market area is: they send a herd of goats to eat it. No joke. Coal is a big source of fuel for the kitchens (or wood from their beautiful forests), so despite the resourcefulness, major problems lurk in the shadows as progress and development take their foothold on African soil.

The inequality that can be found in my immediate neighborhood is astounding to me as well. My family has all the luxuries: hot showers, electricity, satellite T.V..yet the housing situation would be worse than below the poverty level in America. The house only takes up maybe 100 square feet (though the garden is enormous). Still, the immediate neighbor is an old man who lives in a single room, not much bigger than a tent. The room is not big enough to fit a twin sized bed. When I went to visit him with my Mama, he was listening to the radio for entertainment by the light of a small kerosene lamp. Ironically enough, he had a cell phone (he charges it at my family's house for a small fee)

As a side note, I am beginning to like ugali. At first I loathed it, then it became tolerable. Now I sometimes crave it. I promise, it has no flavor, but sometimes when it comes off the stove piping hot I convince myself it will be delicious (as if "hot"-referring to temperature was a flavor). My steady inclination toward ugali kind of feels like I am falling in love with the ugly girl in math class that doesn't even have much of a personality.

The choo is a pit latrine, or a hole in the ground for pooping and peeing. My family's personal choo is located outside, and is made of entirely wood, except the flooring is a type of cement surface. It also has no lock, and most of the walls are covered in spider webs.

The choo smells bad. Once, I made the mistake of bringing a nearly-finished orange in with me to pee, and the whiff of decaying fecal matter produced a gag reflex.

The first time I ever pooped in a choo, I was simultaneously frightened of pooping on my pants, missing the hole, and falling over. I luckily have the fantastic, God-given skill of being able to plug my nose without using my hands, so my hands were free to securely anchor myself to the bug-infested, wooden door during that first poop. As a fun fact: back in the states, I used to really enjoy reading something while sitting on the john, but now that's no longer a luxury I can afford.

The second time I ever used the choo, it was very early in the morning so the sun had not yet risen. With me was a flashlight, a roll of toilet paper, and a travel bottle of hand sanitizer. As I opened the wooden door and shined my light inside the darkness, a small bat (or extremely large butterfly) flew out at me, circled a couple of times, and disappeared into the darkness. This incident almost literally scared the crap out of me. I instinctively moved in spastic fashion, simultaneously shining my headlamp in all directions and furiously wiping my body with my hands as if I were covered in ants.

Since these incidents, I have become more or less an expert at using the choo. I can squat without holding on to anything now (how thankful I am to Sean Hutchinson's swimming warm-ups), and I haven't yet been attacked by large insects. One time, I did make the mistake of shining my flashlight down the choo, and I was able to see the textured landscape of my home-stay family and my collective waste. I have not yet made that mistake twice.

Wild animal siting update: Just outside Loitokitok, I saw antelope in the distance (June 28, 2010).

On one of my usual runs, my friend and I were attacked by a pack of 6 dogs. Luckily we both came away unscathed, but I felt the dogs hitting the backs of my shoes as I fled. I have never run so quickly away in my life. These dogs were undoubtedly trained to keep unwanted trespassers away, so my friend and I no longer run that route anymore. The dogs here are beautiful though, and so are the donkeys.

Before coming to peace corps, I had a wild fantasy that my experience would include: me sitting in front of a campfire playing my guitar, with potbellied, almost naked children dancing a traditional tribal dance in circles around me. Their long silhouettes cast by the soft orange firelight would move in perfect sync to the rhythm, and bright smiles would be permanently embedded on their faces.

Now here's the reality. While sitting in my tiny, milk-carton-cardboard-walled room on a Sunday afternoon, I decided to break out my guitar. A small boy must have heard the music, and he proceeded to enter the house, enter my room, and then sat politely on my bed to have a listen. After I had finished the song I was playing, he quickly left and returned with another boy. Since my tiny room can hardly fit me, my guitar, and my ego at all once (let alone two small children), I moved out to the living room and continued the performance. After 10 minutes, I had a host of children crowded into a small living room, listening to me play American songs they had never heard before. Even with ample mistakes and my sub-par singing voice, they sat attentive and wide-eyed. I even was asked to repeat the song "Down on the corner" by CCR when I finished it. This was by far the closest I have (and probably ever will) feel to being a rock-star.

Okay, the initial dream and the reality are slightly off, but I am checking that one off the list. Also, in the title I mention two life long dreams being fulfilled, and the other one is simply watching the world cup opening game with a large cohort of Kenyans (and the house-boy Abdala who is from Tanzania, and was the only one that cheered for America with me) huddled around a small television outside my host family's house, with the stars shining brilliantly above. It was simply surreal.

As a very honest side note, one thing I was expecting to have by now was diarrhea. Luckily, I have not yet experienced this. I promise to let everyone know when it happens though. =)

What do I miss the most from America? Real Tomato Sauce. Piano. Swimming.

Exactly one month and 9 shots ago (Typhoid, hep-A, hep-B x2, Rabies x3, flu, meningitis) I was sitting in an airport in Zurich, anxiously awaiting my first time arrival to Africa. It is difficult to remember all that has happened between now and then, all I remember really is a lot of personal growth. Even as I flip back through my handwritten journal, I can still recall many of the emotions I felt when writing them: excitement, inspiration, wide-eyed wonder. Even now I am still filled with those emotions, but I am beginning to realize some of the struggles I will face as a “Mzungu” in Kenya-land.

Before coming to Peace Corps Kenya, I was prepared for the living conditions. I steeled myself for the discomforts of cold, dirty-watered bucket bathing, no electricity, poor dietary/nutrition access, insect infestation and inability to exercise. In all of these areas I was pleasantly surprised to find the conditions not quite so rugged.

Yet I did not prepare myself for the stereotypes; the bitter taste of being a stranger in a strange land and having everyone else know it has begun to fill my mouth. Anyone with light colored skin (referred to as Mzungu, especially by shouting children as you pass by) is seen as 'Money'. In the markets, we are charged inflated prices, at the restaurants we are served according to their desires, and even small children who hardly know English ask for handouts, mixing in “Give me money” after their plethora of “How are you?'s”. The worst part about this stereotype is: it is deep-seeded and well deserved. On a superficial level, light skin usually refers to tourist, and tourists are happy to pay inflated prices because the relative price is still drastically low. On a deeper level, most support from other countries come in the form of money or food hand-outs, and though such hand-outs might be necessary in extreme instances, as a whole they merely foster an atmosphere of dependence instead of supporting sustainability within the African communities. Fortunately, these issues are exactly what Peace Corps Kenya is here to address. If I can have my community see me for more (or less?) than my white (caramel?) skin, while empowering those around me with knowledge and sustainability, I would consider my peace corps mission successfully accomplished.

Today also marks my first African full moon. Simply glorious.

Back in America, I have a sister and her name is Annette. Growing up with Annette, I always remembered her having a canopy bed, where she could hang beautiful, transparent drapes and sleep safely under that thin layer of glamor. Her canopy bed would always remind me of something from the movie "Princess Bride", or the kind of thing princesses would demand to sleep under during the middle ages. I never understood the appeal to sleeping under a canopy, but after 24 years of living on this planet and a trip to the southern hemisphere, I finally understand.

In Kenya, everyone is REQUIRED to sleep in a canopy bed. Well, instead of a castle, I am in a tiny, stone/cardboard room, and instead of ornate silk drapery I am under a mosquito net, but I believe the effect is exactly the same. Within my thin, deet-covered layer of protection I sleep safer and sound-er than ever before. And also with the Mefloquine malaria drugs giving me vivid, colorful dreams (and mild hallucinations?), my night-times have been something to look forward to. Also, as an interesting inside joke between myself and nobody else..my sister is named "Annette" as I have already mentioned, and growing up we would joke that we would need "Annette" to play volleyball, or we would need "annette" to catch butterflies. So, even though my dear sister is many miles away, I still need "a net" to sleep safe from the malaria bearing mosquitos. So my sister is with me, wherever I go!

Changing topics: Food. Though the food varies widely depending on the region, the staples in my area in Loitokitok (on the Tanzanian border..literally a 15 minute walk across the boundary lines) are: Maize, beans, oranges (the oranges here are green), bananas of all sizes, and kale. Some other common foods are: rice, spaghetti noodles, peanuts, mangoes, pineapple, guava, cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, and avocado.

Some famous food combinations, listed in order by my own preference: Pumpkin Stew (cut pumpkin, potatoes, raw banana, vegetables all cooked together) Githeri (beans and maize boiled together), Muthukui (same as githeri, except the maize is de-kerneled), Chapati (essentially fried wheat tortillas) Sukuma Wiki (kale with a lot of lard), and Ugali. Ugali is essentially corn flour cooked in boiling water until a semi-hard, tasteless, white substance emerges. Ugali is a staple food in the Kenyan diet, and it reminds me of plain tofu, except with less flavor.

Everything beside the fruit is cooked with large amounts of lard or butter (except the ugali), so sincerely miss raw vegetables. Unfortunately, the danger with eating raw is the health risk involved: parasites, feces, and other little dangers cover the produce.

Last night I probably had the best meal so far in my short, African experience. It was a mix of githeri, muthukui, pumpkin, and potatoes boiled together, and then mashed to perfection. The results somehow amounted to a delicious, thick, flavorful curry. I'm sure it has a name, but I have taken to calling this dish: Kila tamu. "Kila" in swahili means "every" and "tamu" means "delicious".

A week ago, I spotted my first African moon in the nighttime sky. The thin sliver which I think is scientifically called "God's Thumbnail" was like a small piece of perfection hanging in the sky, and ever since I have spent at least a few minutes each night watching the moon slowly fill itself in the crystal clear blackness. I anxiously await a couple nights from now, when I will experience the African moon in its full glory for the first time.