Does It Feel Good to Talk Again!

I am feeling much better—made it to Customs and back this morning! Joy was up at 6 because she had agreed to go to church with a boy she met (Augustine?). I saw them on a piki on my way to Customs and Billy with Chacha on the way back. It turned out that they went to the same service and were asked to speak to the congregation.

It was a relaxing day. I read the news (which was actually rather disturbing—droughts in Somalia, shooting and bomb in Norway, derailed bullet train in China, and death of Amy Winehouse), refrained from Sporcling, drew Katy, and tried an ink drawing (fail) in the afternoon. I need much much more practice on that if I want to become even slightly unembarrassing.

Joy and I took a long walk before dinner. We talked about relationships, alcohol, yuanfen, kindred spirits and spontaneity/stability; she and I share many of the same sentiments regarding these topics. We differ though, on our opinions about relationships with the local people. I shy away, afraid of becoming too attached to someone who may see me only as a source of easy income, whereas she is willing to take the risk. I wish I could have her attitude and courage. Usually, though, I just feel too tired. Maybe I’m just too lazy to make an effort to know these people better.

--

I started reading One Day (stolen from Caitlyn), by accident today. I was returning something to her bed and the book just happened to be lying there. So of course I pick it up just to thumb through, and an hour later Caitlyn comes in and finds me standing next to her bed, reading her book. I’m not weird, not at all.

---

Caitlyn, Elizabeth, Sadhna and Leonard went for dinner at Mama Terrence’s. I went with them down to Tagache and to see the tailor, Zainabu, and then we parted ways. I saw Basil again, and he walked me back to WISER. He invited me to his house on Friday. I had met him once on my only run in the opposite direction to Customs, back towards Migori, when he had been cycling to school in Nyatike, and again in Tagache a few days ago on a trip with Joy. I will unashamedly admit that I was proud of myself (and glad!) for remembering his name. He seems genuine enough—I will try and not be so guarded. I must stop this paranoia that I have developed!

St. Joseph's Hospital

I took my second trip in a week to Migori. The purpose of this trip was quite different from the last, though; this time we headed straight for the hospital. Amy and Marta came with us in the car, and we dropped them off at Barclays. The ride was as bumpy as always but riding shotgun made it that much better.

The hospital, Saint Joseph’s, is Catholic-affiliated. It comprises of several one-story buildings, with separate quarters for the reception, pharmacies, patients’ wards and laboratories. The area in between the buildings is spacious and open, and full of greenery. Thankfully, too; it would have been very claustrophobic otherwise, and I was glad that I could get some fresh air.

By the standards of a US hospital, Saint Joseph’s is poorly equipped. Given that I had just come out of Muhuru Bay, however, it was something of a shock to see the mercury sphygmomanometer and digital thermometers that the nurses were handling. After waiting in one of the open ‘rooms’ with a couple of other patients who were coughing rather disturbingly hard (TB?), we were admitted into the office, and the clinician had a proper computer with a database system. Albeit one that didn’t have the test he wanted me to take at the lab. We took the handwritten sheet down to the lab, where we were again told to wait.

This wait lasted a good hour and more. It turned out that they'd run out of some of the equipment they needed for my throat swab, so they had to go out to buy it. After the third time Abigail asked them about it, they finally let us into the tiny lab room—thank goodness both of us are small. Then the assistant disappeared without an explanation, so—of course—we had to wait, yet again. It turned out that they'd realised that they didn’t have the wooden stick either, so he had to go and get some from goodness knows where—after it was already our turn to take the test. Why they couldn't have prepared beforehand, I don’t know.

The lab assistant was not great with the swab, when it came. He kept telling me to “relax your tongue” whilst sticking a sharp rod with one end wrapped in a bit of suspiciously brown cotton wool down my throat. I wanted to yell at him, but of course I couldn't. Eventually I somehow managed to stop myself from gagging for long enough for him to put the swab in deep down, and then we were out of there as fast as I could persuade Abigail to go. She really is such a sport.

We came back forty-five minutes later (with me in a much better mood, having bought four very choice mangos) and were pleasantly surprised to learn that the test results were already out. It was strep-positive. I guess at that point it wasn’t really surprising anymore, because I knew it wasn’t just a normal sore throat, and to be honest I was glad to see that I hadn’t been making a fuss about nothing. We went back to the clinician (another brief wait), got the prescription, went to pay for the medication (another long wait), and then finally, finally went to the pharmacy section for the drugs (yet another wait). I’d been prescribed two antibiotics because the original one the clinician had wanted to use was out of stock, as well as an antihistamine. The worst of the strep was  already over and I probably would have gotten better on my own without taking the meds, but I wasn’t about to waste all that waiting!

---

I hadn’t been planning on running today, but after we got back I felt so stiff and antsy that I decided to go for a short one, not pushing myself, after all. Thank goodness I did. It was probably the best run I’d had in a long, long time, despite the strep throat. The weather was cloudy and it was getting late, so it was relatively cool, and it wasn’t painful apart from a tingling in my throat. I felt so much better afterwards as well. That was when I knew that I would be recovered soon; I could run again, so everything was fine.

What a Really, Really Sore Throat Feels Like

I had a really, really terrible night last night. My throat got worse, and even though I went to bed at 9 out of exhaustion I couldn't sleep because I woke up every time I swallowed from the pain. They were also really loud in the dining room, so I had to get up several times and ask them to keep the noise down. Eventually, though, the pain got so unbearable that I had to ask Caitlin for a couple of ibuprofen, so I guess it was a good thing that they were still up. I think I slept for a total of three and a half hours, maximum. Needless to say I didn’t get up for my run this morning.

Actually, I didn’t run at all today, which should explain just how serious my throat is. It is really that bad. I don’t give up my run easily. But I did take a nap in the afternoon, a blessed four-hour nap. Thank goodness for that.

I can’t speak. It is uncomfortable and extremely annoying. Reese and Adria made dinner today, and Madam Dorcas was the guest. I couldn't do my brief introduction to her because of course I couldn't make a sound. The food was great—a tomato, avocado and corn salad with dressing, guacamole, chapatti and pineapples. Madam Dorcas was also a fantastic speaker, and her story was very interesting. She told us briefly about her education, her family, her journey to WISER, and she made us guess her age (54—I guess she must be around that age, but she is really very stately and energetic). She has two children, one in university and one who has just finished his Masters degree. Her husband owns a hotel, the Hillview, in Migori. She knows the headmaster of Starehe Boys’ Secondary School, where Leonard went. She is just an all-round amazing person.

Hopefully tonight will be better. I'm going to Migori tomorrow to visit the hospital. THANK GOODNESS I'm not teaching!

Migori, Take Two

Four of the WISERBridge people (Adria, Elizabeth, Frank and I) took George’s car to Migori today. Since we didn’t have as many people squashed in the back seat this time, the trip was much more pleasant!

We had lunch at a restaurant labelled ‘MILANO HOTEL – A TASTE ABOVE THE REST’, right between Bansi and Shivling.

The walls were decorated with pictures of delectable-looking Western food—pears and grapes and glasses of champagne—none of which, of course, were actually on offer. Still, it was an improvement, and it was cheap. It is also right next door to the two supermarkets and the photo-printing store, so after I finished eating I went to print the pictures for Eunice Akoth. The lady looked surprised that I only wanted three photographs. On my way back I walked straight past the restaurant and had to retrace my steps, much to the amusement of a troupe of primary school students walking nearby.

Migori is actually a considerably large town (city? Maybe not quite). We saw more of it today, walking to the KCB after lunch. It was also busier and more crowded than it had been the last time we were here, since that had been on a Sunday. We passed the single-story concrete buildings where the supermarkets were, on to a bridge that looked out over a somewhat dirty and sluggish river.

There is no pavement, just a dip in the sand and dirt between the road and the grassier area where the shops and stalls are. George pointed to us the direction of the hospital where Reese and Tara had been taken. We also passed a sizeable mosque—or mazdiq as it is called in Arabic—pristine in green and white. It is probably the most beautiful building we have seen in Migori; religion is a serious matter here.

The KCB building is more Western, and looks newer than the other buildings we had passed. I suppose it would have looked out-of-place, had Migori not already been such a mishmash of eras and cultures. As we were waiting at the ATM, two wasungu—a man and a woman—walked out. Frank greeted them as though we’d met before: “Oh hey!” The woman looked startled, as though she wasn’t quite sure how to respond—which was completely understandable, really—and then, smilingly, replied, “Nice to meet you.” It was a short and slightly strange exchange, but not awkward the way it would have been if we had been in the States. Here, our similarity—that we were different—was enough to put us on acquaintance terms.

In the rare occasions when we’d met other foreigners, we’d always exchanged greetings or conversed, but it is not like the conversations we have with the local people. If I am honest, it is because no matter how friendly and interesting and capable our community partners in Muhuru Bay are, there is still too much of a gap between us. We strive for reciprocity, but there are areas in our relationship which are very, very unequal. Like their poverty and our relative wealth, their confinement and our awareness of the world. Because in the end we are wasungu, and we do not really belong here. Even Margaret, who is so dedicated to her work, longs for the chance to leave Muhuru Bay; and why else do we take every opportunity to visit towns and cities, if not to regain a little of what Muhuru cannot satisfy us with? We may say we love this place and mean what we say, but none of us will ever, ever choose to stay, and we only really enjoy being here because we know that it will come to an end. We can choose to go back if we want to. And that is why our relationship will never be equal, because this is something the residents here do not have—the choice of leaving.

---

When we were buying fruit at one of the street-side stalls, a little boy with a Duke jacket walked by! I had my hands full of mango so I yelled at Frank to take my camera and take his photo. It was great!

His grandfather (?) wanted money for it so George gave him a ten-shilling coin.

--

There are electricity poles along the road back from Migori. They jut out of the landscape, towering far above everything else in sight. The poles look as though they are formed from polished whole tree trunks—the texture of the wood is still clearly visible. I wonder where such tall trees had come from. I haven’t seen a large tree since the day we left Nairobi; most of the vegetation here are shrubs and cacti, certainly none of the imposing trees that populate Duke’s campus. George had told me on one of our drives to Lisori that the people in that area sold firewood for a living, and I had had to ask him where the trees for the firewood were because I definitely did not see very many around us. Gone, he’d said, because people cut them down without replanting. When he was young the grasslands we were passing through had been bushy. Now they had to go as far as Tanzania in order to find enough wood to sell. When these were gone, then who knows how they’d live?

The coarseness of the woodwork is something I’d noticed before, in fence poles on the way to Bomet and in the roof timbers of the Senye building. The shafts are all uniquely crooked, not perfectly straight and identical like the ones I am used to seeing. They were probably made by hand, the way most things are done here. The unrefined handiwork is charming in its own way but at the same time it is slightly alarming—I couldn't help but doubt the sturdiness of the poles when I first saw them. I suppose that is the culturally insensitive First Worlder in me speaking though; the craftsmen and construction workers clearly knew what they were doing, because the poles are holding up!

---

The trip to Migori is very, very dusty. The road is all dirt, which billows around whenever another vehicle drives past, and it’s too hot and stuffy to keep the windows closed. I made the mistake of wearing a white shirt, and by the time I was back at WISER, it had turned various shades of brown. Our hair, faces, and necks all turned a different colour as well, as though we’d had a bad tanning experience. Oops.

---

I’ve had a sore throat since Monday, but tonight it got really quite bad. I had been able to talk in Migori, but it is difficult to do so now, and swallowing is also very painful. I hope it gets better. THANK GOODNESS I’m not teaching these few days!

A Brief Hiatus

The primary schools are all taking district exams today and tomorrow, so the WISERBridge people have a short holiday. It is a welcome and—I daresay—well-deserved break! I drew some portraits and took a much-needed three-hour nap, which partly made up for the three hours of sleep I’d had the night before (long story; to cut it short, Sadhna, Caitlin and Billy were in the dining room and became somewhat alarmed by a mysterious figure walking around the campus allegedly carrying a bow and arrow. When I walked in to ask them to turn the noise down, Sadhna almost screamed because she thought I was the strange man). I hadn’t thought it would be such a long nap, but I tottered into the dining room after waking up to discover that it was already 4:22p.m. Oops.

---

Lunch today was also a good affair. Eggs, kale and spaghetti. I was a happy girl.

---

Frank, Joy and I (a trio I dubbed the MBCSA—Muhuru Bay Chinese Student Association) went down to Tagache in the evening to buy some food. Frank wanted to make Asian-style peanut butter noodles; he is becoming quite ambitious with his cooking! I was also on the lookout for sweet potatoes. When I found out that Joy didn’t know the difference between these and regular potatoes, I almost threw a fit. Had I not had a sore throat…

We didn’t find the sweet potatoes—apparently they are only available on market day, which is Friday—but we did meet two drunkards. I don’t think I’d ever seen a drunkard at Tagache before this, but I’d heard the stories. One of the drunkards called Frank Bruce Lee, and ‘Jack’ Chan, and Jet Li, and tried to demonstrate what I think were his martial arts skills. Frank dealt with it well and managed to laugh it off, and the other onlookers laughed with him as well. I can’t imagine that they have much regard for the drunken man. Drinking probably isn’t the greatest of Muhuru Bay’s problems—although it is much more prolific than it should be, given the dominant religions here.

The man’s drunken words bring up an interesting issue, however. I’d faced similar assumptions myself when teaching at the primary schools. I’d been asked whether I knew Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan, whether Jet Li was still alive, and Kennedy had translated for me that the younger kids at Senye thought I looked like the football player Jee-Sun Park. These four faces seem to be the most exposure many of the residents here have had to Asia. Several times I’d had to explain that China and Japan and Korea (I didn’t even try to differentiate North and South—sorry!) were very different countries, like Kenya and Tanzania and Uganda, and although the people looked alike we really were not the same thing at all. And we couldn't travel freely to the other countries, either.

It doesn’t upset me that I have to explain such things, because to be honest I am not surprised that the people here lack knowledge about the rest of the world. Much as I wish it weren’t this way, most have never been out of Muhuru Bay, whilst for many others the furthest they have ever travelled is to Migori. The rest of the world simply is not pertinent to their lives here—and really, they have no way of learning about it. The radio, the limited access to the Internet, the occasional broadcasted football game and Hollywood movie—this really is about all the connection they have to anywhere that is not within walking distance. Our first sit-in Social Studies class at Senye was a lecture about Nairobi; it made me sad to realise that we, complete foreigners with our brief two-day stay in the city, had seen more of the capital and were more credible authorities on the subject than the teacher ever did or was.

---

It was Elizabeth’s birthday today. After dinner we surprised her with a cake that Tara had bought all the way back in Kisumu, and somehow managed to bring back intact and without arousing suspicion (she’d told Elizabeth that the box held iced cookies that Abigail had asked for). Billy had managed not to spill the secret this time! The cake was slightly frozen when we took it out of the fridge, but Elizabeth was still delighted. We are starting quite a tradition for birthdays around here!

A Quiet Weekend

Free weekend! I didn’t do anything in particular—I think I needed the time for a little R&R. This mainly involved drawing, listening to music, and eating. Still doing the early-morning runs though; I like the quietness, the (relative) solidarity, the feeling of getting up early. And of course the gorgeous sunrise. The way it gradually lights up the fields, so that the willow and the corn plants glow and the dirt road shines brilliantly pale, and the sky turns from dusty blue to vivid pink to coral orange. On my way back from Customs the sun is just over the horizon, and everything casts such long, dark, beautiful shadows. It is probably the only time I am glad for the rockiness of the road; the stones and the gravel sprinkle dark smudges on the otherwise pastel path in front of me, and the ground is so alive with colour and texture and light that even in my breathlessness I marvel. I really should wake up early more often outside of Muhuru Bay; it is such a pity I am just not a morning person!

Caning

A boy was caned in front of me today. I don’t know his name; I don’t think I can recognise him even from the 53 (it turns out there are 53 of them after all) faces in the class, much less remember what he looked like. Because when I watched him, it was not fear that I saw; it was nothing. Actually, it probably was not nothing—he must’ve had some sort of expression—but I was looking for fear, and I did not find it. Nothing like what I’d been expecting to see from a boy being caned.

It threw me off guard. When I realised that the teacher had sent the boy to fetch a cane, I was very, very nervous. I panicked. I didn’t know what I would do—should do—could do—if the caning did happen. I knew that I would stop him if he hurt the boy. I worked up the guts and prepared to step forward. That was a very tense five minutes for me.

But what I saw was very different from what I’d expected.

The teacher told the student to lie down on the ground. The boy did as he was told, and the teacher struck him three times. He made no sound. It was over before I’d gotten over myself. But what astonished me the most was that the other kids were laughing and jeering the whole time, as though it was some kind of joke.

Several times I've noticed the people here laughing about really rather morbid things. The teachers at Lisori, laughing about how “God knows where the next meal will come from; the people don’t;” Kennedy, about the police officer who arrested Baracka and stops our vehicle every time just to make us feel uncomfortable; the kids, about the caning and the fear-based system the teachers use to keep control. I don’t know if it’s a coping mechanism that they have learnt to use in order to deal with the tension and anxiety or if I am misinterpreting the situation, but it is strange to me. And kind of awkward as well. I’m not quite sure how to react: if I laugh with them, I feel out-of-place; but if I don’t laugh, it also seems inappropriate.

I still don’t know how I feel about this caning experience. In some ways it was not as bad as I’d imagined, because the boy made no commotion. I couldn't even tell if he was in pain. But it was also worse, because their reaction seems so wrong to me. I spoke to some of the others back at WISER, and we could only reason that caning is just so normalised here that the students find it entertaining when one of them is caned. I didn’t do anything then, partly because I was surprised, partly because I didn’t want to make a scene, mostly because I was too scared. But I do want to speak to the students before I speak with the teachers, because I want to know why they behave the way they do.