Days left in Kenya: <2.

Dear Lord.

So I haven’t blogged much lately, because the past couple weeks were ISP time-a-mondo. Whenever I was on a computer, I was typing away at my ISP, which I finished and turned in on time, thank you very much. The final page count was 85, and if you don’t count the cover page, bibliography and appendices, the actual text is a solid 61. I still didn’t say everything that I needed or wanted to say, and it still very much needs another once-over besides proof reading, but I’m insanely proud of what I’ve done. It’s a start, and it’s exciting.

I’m excited about the future.

However, by the time all 85 pages were typed, formatted, and proof-read, I didn’t want to even see a computer at all, so I’ve kept my thoughts to myself.

After we finished our ISP, we went out to Mombasa for our presentations and for our re-orientation. We took the train out, which was delightful – everyone was happy and loose and exhausted, so we slept and snuggled in our train compartments steadily over the night. Another train had derailed, however, so what should have been a 12-hour train ride getting into Mombasa at 7 AM ended up being a 24-hour train ride getting in at 7 PM. But it was a reunion for all the group, which had been scattered during ISP, so it was lovely to hear familiar voices and see beautiful, smiling faces.

Mombasa was brilliant. They got us an amazing hotel right on the beach, and for a few days we did nothing but present our ISPs in an air-conditioned (!) conference room and swim in the warm waters of the green Indian ocean. Gorgeous. Some presentations were pulling teeth, but most of them were pretty good, if not very interesting. My stage presence came in handy, and I held everyone’s attention during my presentation, which was afterwards lauded to me as one of the best ones. Yay! We also went out one night in Mombasa to an AMAZING club called Tembo (Swahili for elephant), and it was the second-best night out I’ve had in Kenya, the first being Cherrie’s birthday at the rasta club. They served me G&Ts with ICE!! Amazing. Sean and I got sufficiently inebriated, which was wonderful, as it hadn’t occurred for more than a month and a half. And they had a stage, which I made full use of.

I also did a lot of swimming, of course. Katie and I rode a camel, which was terrifying and awesome. We did a little drinking the other nights, including one night where Sean and I got a little tips (are you seeing a pattern?) at the bar, and when we were walking back along the beach to our hotel, we decided we had to swim, so stripped down to our skivvies and did so. So many stars were out that night; it was gorgeous. Nightswimming in the Indian ocean with too much wine in my head – perfect. Just perfect.

After some drama about leaving and transport, we headed back to Nairobi on the night bus. Matt and I were the generous ones, as there were two people too many for each of us to have two seats, so we agreed to bunk, but it was actually for the best because the bus was freezing and Matt was a mini-radiator next to me.

Let me say this now: I am in no way ready to leave Kenya. Not mentally, not physically, not emotionally – it still hasn’t sunk it that I board a plane the day after tomorrow. And I have made amazing friends during this trip, too – I know that not all of them will last, but I think that some of them really will. The 25 of us are the only people in the entire world who know what the hell we all got up to these past 3.5 months, and there’s something absolutely irreplaceable in that. Of course I am ridiculously eager to see all of you again, for I have missed you fiercely, but when I’m back in America, I’m going to miss this group a whole lot, too. We were all so lucky that everyone was awesome – I remember sitting in that conference room during ISP presentations, and feeling nothing but admiration for everyone sitting around me. Everyone is so different – different backgrounds, different cities and schools, different majors and different passions, but those passions are there for every single one of us. All of us want to effect good change in the world through any means that we can; none of us were there for four months of partying and hooking up with Kenyans. (Although that was there too, of course).

So this is my warning: it’s going to take me some time to get my head back on straight in America, mmkay? I don’t think I’ve radically changed over these 3 months, but I have changed. And I know all of you will have, too. So we might need a week or so to get re-familiar with each other, to remember how to laugh at each other’s jokes, how our bodies fit together when we hug, and just how much we simply can’t contain our love for each other. That last part will be the easiest for sure, and maybe we won’t need any time at all for this to happen, but we might. Four months isn’t a long time in the long run, but when it’s spent in a developing nation, it really is. But we’ll be fine; we adapt and we get better. Just forgive me if my head is nowhere near America when I’m back in America.

Anyway, we’re in Nairobi, and we’ve got nothing to do these past few days but pack, tie up loose ends, and party. That began last night, when a bunch of us went bar hopping in Westlands and in downtown Nairobi. It was a grand time, actually. We started off with some hookah, during which, Skyler asked me, “Kate, how many people have you made out with, and what percentage of them are gay?” I took a second to recount my experiences, and then said, “Three, and all of them?” which may have caused minor uproar among the group, most especially Nick. It was then Decided that this had to be remedied immediately and the goal of the night was to get me a random hookup. This resulted in much hilarity throughout the night, including at one point Nick asking permission from Julie, his girlfriend more or less, and then kissing me, which I hadn’t been expecting AT ALL. I felt a little awkward, but not too bad – it was actually very sweet and cute. And I did end up getting hit on a LOT that night, but none of the boys were cute enough or young enough for me to want to accomplish said Mission. I don’t particularly want to make out with any old sketchy dudes, regardless of whether or not they are Kenyan. But it was still a grand time – Nick was wasted, and Sean was tweaked out, which was excellent, since they both get very loving and protective and I’m The Guy-ish in such scenarios. I lost count of the number of times that Nick looked over at me during the night, when I would be dancing or drinking or whatnot, and go, “For the love of GOD, Kate, find a man! Just – go! For God’s sake! Twende!” or, in general, just cursing loudly. I think he felt responsibility on behalf of the Brotherhood of Men everyone for what he viewed as their grievous oversight. Others were echoing similar sentiments, the most hilarious of which being drunken!Cherrie’s, “I don’t even understand it! It’s not like you aren’t an attractive person! You’re, like, hot!” Hilarious.  Nick was really being a sweetheart, though. As was Sean, but I realized just how fucked up he was when we were dancing and then he and I were Dancing. Hee. It’s almost noon and the both of them are still passed out, which is kind of perfect in every way.

We’re going out tonight and then Friday as well, but tonight should be notable because Matt and I have promised each other that we’re gonna try Mirra – it’s a local plant that people chew recreationally and apparently has a similar effect to caffeine. It’s very mild, totally legal, available everywhere, widely used, and very safe, so don’t worry about me, but it’s one of the things everyone says you need to try in Kenya. I won’t be trying changaa, the cheap liquor that often turns into methanol instead of ethanol and can kill or blind you, but mirra is safe.  I chewed a little last night, but not enough to feel anything. So tonight is time to do it big or go home!  

Now, however, errands, and saying goodbye to my homestay family, which I am no way in hell ready to do. I’ve bought a khanga for my mama, I’ve got a STL tshirt for my baba, and I’m bringing a bottle of Amarula along with me, the African Bailey’s, but again – in no way ready.

Everything will change.

I woke up this morning to a strange sight. I was back in my bed in Nairobi, in my nyumbani salama with my homestay family. Blinking the sleep and sunlight out of my eyes, I looked at my room and was greeted by an unfamiliar sight: my bags, haphazardly packed with khangas hanging out the side, Nakumatt bags peeking out of corners, and my life for these past three months or so being slowly rounded up and prepared to be brought home. I only have two more days left in Nairobi before we head to Mombasa again to do our ISP preparations for about four or five days, then back to Nairobi for our last couple in Africa, and then onto a plane headed back to Dubai. Unbelievable. 10 days till the end of my semester abroad. This has easily been the fastest semester of my life.

Karissa and I left Kisumu on Sunday, thankfully getting out of town before Raila came in for a rally – Raila = the opposition for the presidency, and he’s a Luo, and Kisumu is Luoland central. There weren’t any riots, but the town must’ve been absolutely crazy that afternoon, so I’m glad we took the early bus.

Saturday was World AIDS Day, as it is every December 1^st. I spent the day volunteering with Tuungane, as they helped out with the official celebrations, which were held slightly out of town in a big field of a high school. Let me put it this way: the event was very, very African. Heh. I got to Tuungane at 7:30, per Topistar’s request, and didn’t move until 9:45. Events were slated to start at 10, and they started at 12:30. I pretty much sat around and didn’t do anything until around 2, when I helped Topistar and a handful of other Tuungane volunteers hand out soda and bread to the mass populous attending the events. People were perplexed by a mzungu offering them a soda and serving it to them at first, but they gladly accepted it. The proceedings for the day were being done in Swahili and Luo, so the day was pretty ineffective to me, but it was nice to be able to help out. And I got a sweet tshirt with the national AIDS campaign logo on it: “Pamoja Tuangemize Ukimwi” – “Together, we can end AIDS.” I got a hat, too! But it was so damn hot outside. When I got back to the hostel, I was heat-exhausted and sore from hauling soda. But we got delicious Indian food for dinner, so that was swell. Indian food in Kenya is so. freakin’. good.

Sunday and Monday were spent in transit and writing my ISP, respectively. As of right now, I am just beginning to start my discussion and analysis of my field work, which should be the bulk of the paper, and I’m on page 39. hahaha. I start off my paper with two quotes that I have unashamedly ganked from my hero, Paul Farmer:

“Of all the forms of inequality, injustice in health is the most shocking and the most inhumane.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

“The microbe is nothing; the terrain, everything.” – Louis Pasteur

I’d also like to throw in another one of my favorites, but it’s more development than health, per se: “Rats and roaches live by competition under the laws of supply and demand; it is the privilege of human beings to live under the laws of justice and mercy.” – Wendell Berry

The three weeks I spent in Kisumu were amazing. Even in that short time, I saw things that were inspiring and devastating. I saw dozens of HIV+ mothers who had been given a lifetime of new hope when they were told that, yes, their child is HIV-. And I saw women’s whose lives came crashing down around them in a single sentence as the PMTCT nurse and I told them that their rapid HIV test had come back positive – “Una virusi kwa ukimwi,” “You have the virus that causes AIDS.” Some of them bent their heads and said they had known, that they had gotten a test a few months ago but hadn’t wanted to believe the results. Some started to cry in dismay, stating that they had only been married a few years and had been faithful to their husbands the entire time. One girl I saw rejected the results and left, saying that the test was lying and couldn’t be true. Almost all of them, though, almost all of them, asked if the baby in their womb would be OK. My week that I worked in PTMCT at the Provincial Hospital was heartbreaking and harrowing, and I didn’t even understand half of the language being used. But there are some things you don’t need language for; there are some things that are written across our faces as plain as day, and you need no translation to understand the overwhelming grief in their eyes.

When you put a face to HIV, when you see someone’s life change in the instant that they are told they are positive, it changes you. I wanted so very much to give them hope, to tell them that they can have negative children and live a full, exceedingly normal life. But I lack the language, I lack the training, I lack the wisdom. But I wonder how much of that is wishful thinking on my part. Of how much use are all the miraculous medical interventions we now can do when a woman is going to be thrown out of her house and stigmatized by her entire community, being blamed for her sickness that is rarely her fault? What use is neviraprine and AZT when a mother will be forced to breastfeed her child past 6 months (with skyrocketing chances of transmission) because there is no food for the child? Where is the telos of medicine? What are our ends?

It’s like something one of the jaded peace corps volunteers said to me about Africa: first it breaks your heart, then it breaks your soul.

But not yet as for me. Yes, even that one measly week I worked in the hospital was gutting and exasperating, and I have no idea how the PMTCT counselors do it day in and day out. But these are miracles: it is nothing short of a miracle that a man who was once doomed to a death bed in a few short years can live healthily to see his grandchildren. It is nothing short of a miracle that a HIV+ woman can give birth to a HIV- child. They are miracles, they are feats of the human mind and spirit and they are incredible. Medicine can be so much more than sustaining a chronic cancer patient past the points of logic and hope, it can be so much more than prozacking our nation into dumb complacency. Medicine can bring health, health is the first part of life, and life is a miracle.

Of science and the human heart there is no limit.

God, how I pray that is true.

Back to work, my friends. These thoughts that I’ve been thinking over the past three years or so are finding their way into paragraphs and sneaking their way into footnotes, and I think at the end of day I’m going to have a pretty baller ISP. Miss y’all like mad, and I’ll truly be home before you know it.

Happy 21st birthday, Sean Cass! Welcome to the awesome world of being over 21 for the rest of your life. Do it big, keep it classy, and have no regrets. I owe you a night on the town when I get back, and I plan on getting you exceedingly intoxicated. Sawa?

Thanksgiving actually went off pretty well! Karissa and I ended up cooking the turkey that we got at TAJ SUPERFOODS (!) sort of like a pot roast. We got it butchered into four pieces at TAJ SUPERFOODS, then browned it in the sufuria (these aluminum pots that are everywhere in Kenya), removed it, cooked some veg and spice in the pan, re-added the turkey, covered it with more spice and chicken stock, then let it simmer for about an hour. It was actually quite tasty! We realized that neither of us had had turkey at all while in Kenya, and considering that Turkey is my Default Sandwich Meat, it was wonderful to taste the big bird again. I attempted my mashed potatoes but failed: what is termed “sour cream” in Kenya is actually crème fresche, so they turned out rather dairy-tasting, but not bad once covered in gravy! We also sautéed some green beans, carrots and peas and opened that delicious bottle of South Africa wine, so all in all, a successful attempt for an African Thanksgiving. But it also intensely heightened my desires to cook, and I can’t wait to get back into my spring green Williams-Sonoma apron in Awesometown and do another Makeup Thanksgiving with PIES and SWEET POTATOES and CRANBERRY SAUCE. Ooooh American Food, I am ready for you.

Last night Karissa and I ended up going out with a dozen or so Peace Corps volunteers who were staying in our hostel, as they had come into town for the holiday. We went to an Indian buffet for dinner and then for some dancing and drinks afterwards, but honestly, I was amazingly unimpressed with the lot of them. Though of course, it was nice of them to invite us out along, that’s kind of the Wazungu code of conduct around here: you see another whitie, you speak in familiar, flat American English and see what they’re up to in Kenya. Also, they have entirely turned me off of Peace Corps completely, both by their demeanor and their commentaries about doing Peace Corps. They were Public Health Educators, but very few of them were actually doing anything related to public health. They also all seemed to be in it for all the wrong reasons – like they graduated school and all they knew was they wanted to travel, so they signed up for the PC. None of them seemed to have any solid direction in their field work, either. One girl said of Peace Corps, “It’s the one job you’re too embarrassed to want to quit.” So yeah. They’ve been in the field for about six months now, and not a one was like “Peace Corps is great!” so I’m pretty much scratching that off the list of post-graduation possibilities. Which is a shame, as I’ve always toyed with the idea. But at the same time, I’m thankful that my path gets to be that much clearer. Ask and you shall receive, yeah?

Today I began to write the actual body of my ISP. Here’s the thing: our guidelines say that our ISP is not to exceed 40 pages. I wrote the first half of my introduction/context today and I’m already on page 15. So yeah, that page limit isn’t happening. Listen, I’m going to be hardcore, and they can stop reading at page 40 if they want to. The arguments that I will seek to make in my discussion/analysis of field work section require connections to several large themes, so those themes must been at least cursorily addressed in the introduction. I can’t talk about why seropositive women can’t afford to buy formula for their children without a discussion of poverty in Kenya, nor can I make an argument for the scale-up of PMTCT without a discussion of why 60% of HIV infections in sub-Saharan Africa are in women! Dudes. You’ve gotta be thorough. But I’m loving writing this. I’m pretty much getting to write out everything that I’ve been thinking about over the past couple years and frame my arguments with copious footnotes. I may have a thing for footnotes. What? Academia is sexy. Mmmmmmmmmmfootnotes.

I rode boda-bodas the other day! There are two kind of boda-bodas: bikes and motorbikes. In both situation, you sit on the back of the bike and pay the guy between 10-30 bub for a ride to where you want to go. We are outlawed from riding them by our program officially, but fuck that! I’ve heard they’re dangerous, and they obviously are because Kenyans don’t observe any kind of traffic laws and you’re just sitting on a bicycle with matatus whizzing past you and tuk-tuks cutting you off, so I didn’t ride them in town, just back and forth between Lumumba hospital and town. I rode a bike there and a motorbike back. I must say, both experiences were absolutely terrifying and AWESOME. My main thought while riding both of them was, “Well, this is sure a stupid way to die,” but I arrived safely at the end of the ride, if not a little shaky. Riding side-saddle on the bike in my skirt was perhaps one of the most Kenyan things I’ve done. Now that I’ve had the experience, I must say the motorbike was rather fun. It was the first time I’ve ever ridden one, and I’m a total hypocrite for riding it without a helmet, but helmets are a foreign concept here, kind of like personal space. For me, though, I’ll stick to tuk-tuks: my life is worth the 20 shilling (33 cent) difference between the two.

Oh, I’ve never explained what a tuk-tuk is here, have I? They’re one of my favorite things ever now, and in another life I want to be a tuk-tuk driver (although I’ve never met a female one). They’re kind of hard to explain, so I’ll have to video a ride for you. They’re called auto-rickshaws elsewhere in the world, and they are tiny, three-wheeled cars with a driver who uses a handle bar (not a steering wheel) to steer, and a seat in the back that holds up to three people. They are often brightly painted and named, like that matatus here, and they are noisy and vibrate-y and bumpy and SO MUCH FUN. It’s kind of like being in your own little bumper car/go-kart. I really wanna GET one in America, but I doubt they’re street legal. I can just see myself tuk-tuking up to Weaver St to buy bread and milk, oh the joy.

New obsession: British Premier League Football. I’ve actually missed it over these past couple weeks, because my baba in Nairobi and I generally watch a match every other day or so after dinner. The boys are all so athletic and just damn talented! Games are interesting, as I’m beginning to realize how much of the play is actually away from the ball, and it’s a beautifully simple game. I haven’t picked my team yet, but I’m leaning towards my baba’s team, Man U, which I know is SO cliché because they’re awesome. My mama is a Chelsea fan, and Drogba is fantastic as well, so we’ll see where I end up.

New love of Africa: MINI-BANANAS. As many of you know, I am not a fan of bananas. But in Uganda, when I was absolutely famished on safari, I tried one of these mini-bananas that are everywhere in East Africa. They’re about the length of your palm, and they are the BEST THING EVER. They taste sort of like a banana, but sweeter and smoother and far less yucky. So yes, Mini-bananas. My potassium intake is rockin’ at the moment because I’ve gone through like two bunches this week.

Also: FutureSex/LoveSounds is an effing brilliant album. I had it on all day as I was annotating, footnoting and editing my paper, and good Lord does it rock. Favorite line of the day? From “LoveStoned: “She look like a model, ‘cept she got a little more ass.” Thank God, JT. Thank God. Also: “Let me make an indecent proposal, let me take you to the back and do what we suppos’ta.” BRILL. 

Things I am looking forward to upon my return to America, besides of course seeing everyone that I adore again:
-Burritos. Good Lord, there is no Mexican food here to speak of.

-Sweet tea. mmmmSouth.

-Just American foods in general. Spaghetti and pasta sauce. Dessert. Starbucks. Sandwiches. Fresh vegetables. Salads. Flavor in my meals. ;D

-Cold liquor. And ICE. Both concepts are largely foreign here.

-Being able to walk down a street without being cat-called.

-Being able to show my knees in public.

-Being able to wear my hair down in public.

-Being able to wear tank-tops in public.

-Being able to walk alone at night.

-Being able to go out for the night in a miniskirt, dance scandalously with a random pretty boy at a club and not be violated. Oh, how I want to go dancing as I go dancing. You just can’t do it here – if you are on the dance floor without a guy, about five or six come immediately around you and try to pick you up. A woman dancing without a man here means “Hey! I’m easy! Come and get it!” And the way I would dance just makes it worse. Earwax.

-DRIVING. Oh, how I miss it.

-Cold weather! It better snow in St. Louis while I’m home. One nice, big storm that makes you stay in all day and drink hot chocolate by the fire in pajamas because everything is shut up. I would love for Katie and Jess and Jason and Tyler to experience that, as you just don’t get storms like that in the South. Omg prospective snowball fight and sledding! Do they even own winter clothes? Anyway, moving on:

-High-speed internet.

-Easy access to international news.

-Paved roads.

-Universal toilets that flush and have SEATS!

-Universal use of deodorant and toothpaste by the general populous.

-There always being water and electricity around. Seriously, not having water for days at a time = suckstown. 

This all makes it sound like I’m dying to be home, but that’s not the case at all. Kenya is brilliant, but at times, very trying. I’m much better at America than I am at Kenya, even though I’m exponentially better at Kenya now than I was upon arriving here on Day 1. And all of these things aren’t really big deals and are just minor fancies I’ve been having, although the excessive chauvinism is getting a little tiring. Part of it is just Kisumu: there are so few wazungu here that we stick out like sore thumbs, and when there are fifteen boda-bodas on the street corner trying to get business, it’s bound to happen. But the constant reduction of women here to combination baby factories, cooks and maids (and I say this with little if no hyperbole) grates often on my American, liberal-arts college-educated sensibilities.

I also know that re-entry is going to be shocking, perhaps even more shocking than my initial cultural adjustment to Kenya. Unbelievably, there is only one month until Christmas, which means in less than a month I will be, God-willing, back on American soil. Absolute madness! But I am every day looking more forward to seeing familiar faces. I have a lot of work and a lot of distance to cover between then and now: three more countries, many more bus rides and plane flights, and perhaps a few final lessons from my time here in Kenya. I’m not worried, though. Africa and I have unfinished business, and I’m nearly certain that these last three weeks won’t be the last time I’m ever in Africa.

November 22, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Karissa, my roomie, and I are attempting to make some turkey and mashed potatoes tonight, which is going to be interesting considering that we don’t have an oven in this hostel – just two burners – but we’re gonna be BALLER and do it anyway! There’s also no gravy mix or stuffing available in all Kenya, so we’ve gotta kind of do it by the seat of our pants, but perhaps that is for the best. We’ve also got a bottle of South African wine for the evening, so I’m taking the day mostly off and looking forward to a little R and R.

These past couple weeks have been wonderful, but very different from the rest of the term. There isn’t much here to do in Kisumu, besides walk along the Lake, so my typical day has been waking up, making some tea, heading off to a hospital or an NGO to do interviews and field work, coming home, watching an episode of bootlegged Lost, dinner, work and sleep. But it’s nice to have somewhat of a reprieve, since we had no vacation in the first two and a half months of the term to speak of, so getting to lie in bed in PJs and watch something American-pop-culture-y is grand. Varun has also joined us here in Kisumu, but he has his own room. I’m making good progress – by the end of the week, I should have 20 of my 30 seropostive mothers/pregnant women interviews done, and I already have more than enough interviews with health workers. I need to start writing this actual bitch soon, however.

Since we’ve had a little free time and not much to do, I have indeed watched season 2 (and am currently watching 3) of Lost over these past couple weeks, throwing in an odd episode here and there. The quality is crap-tacular, as the only kind of DVDs available here are bootlegs, but I’ll buy the real ones once I’m back in the states to assuage my guilt. It’s sparkly; my love for Dominic Monaghan knows no bounds. My roomie got Veronica Mars, so I’ll move onto that if I run out of Lost.

I’ve also had a little time to disconnect, reconnect and think a lot. One of the other things I’ve been doing to kill time in these quiet, lake-humid evenings is going back and reading my archived livejournal, all the way from January 2003 when I was 16 years old and a junior in high school, all the way back to that first post where Lissie and Joyous spammed my journal and I had no idea who the hell these crazy people were, but I liked them. It’s amazing just how much small decisions and actions can change the course of one’s life forever. Had I not decided to drop five dollars on that initial invite code, had I not posted shyly to u2slash, I never would have met all those wonderful U2slashers, I never would’ve road-tripped to Cleveland at Christmas ’03, I never would have sat outside in a queue in Chicago impersonating “babies everywhere!” or in the hot Philly sun with a certain Kiwi reciting West Wing dialogues, I never would’ve cried my eyes out at Croke Park during Running to Stand Still surrounded by people whom I loved beyond comprehension. Small choices. Small actions. Great, truly great results.

The same is true for Chapel Hill. After reading over my journal from all those years, if I am truly honest with myself I will admit that my first three semesters of Carolina were not the greatest barrel of laughs. It’s a large part of the reason that I didn’t become great friends with Katie and Jess (or really, anyone at Carolina if we’re being honest) until Spring 06. The first three semesters were marked by the initial craziness of college and dorm life and new classes and shows and too much work, of course, but they were also marked by my distinct hatred of not being able to be in St. Louis as my father fought for his last months and days on this good earth. I hated it, I really did. I hated that during the week at Carolina I could happy and care-fee, I could go to parties and line my eyes and hike up my skirts, and yet when I would call home on weekends, I would be wracked with guilt for allowing myself to be footloose and fancy-free while my father slowly lost his battle with cancer. It was an absolutely impossible situation that had no good answer – as most of you know, my father would have slit his wrists before he would have allowed me to take a semester off school to care for him. We Finnerans can be awfully stubborn, no?

That was now two years ago. I remember coming home to Chapel Hill after sophomore fall break, the entirety of which I had spent bed-side at St. Luke’s with my father. When I left his hospital room that Saturday night, it was the last time I ever saw him coherent. I hugged him when I left, and he drew me in close and kissed my temple. It was a gesture from a man who was never physically affectionate with us, and somewhere in the bottom of my heart I knew that meant it would be the last time I would ever really see him alive. I hadn’t cried in front of everyone that whole weekend, seeing him emaciated and IV’ed and graying, but when I got back to the dorms, Katie and Jess got back from their camping trip in Asheville. They asked me how it had gone, and I got through about six words of the story before I absolutely lost control of myself – and I remember hearing their luggage fall to the floor and they just surrounded me with love and sympathy and support as I cried and cried and cried. That is one of those moments in my life I can never forget, and I am forever thankful to them for that.

I’ve also come to realize, over these past few days, that I have pretty much responded to my father’s death in the same way I responded to my mother’s – by throwing myself head-long into school and into work, namely. You kind of hit the ground running and don’t even think to stop to look back. And honestly, I’ve barely had any time to do that – both 2006 and 2007 were (and still are, natch) years that I filled with work and school and friends, with trips and journeys and nights out till 4 AM. Wonderful, crazy, whirlwind dizzying years – which is how, I guess, I’ve always chosen to live my life. I like it. But a large part of the reason I’ve chosen to live my life thus far like that is exactly because of those events – I’m looking for to fill that God-shaped hole. And in the process, I’ve know I’ve left some things behind that I shouldn’t have. Mostly this applies to my U2slashers, people like Claire, Izzy, Sunny, Shannon, Lissa, Joyous, Lis, Ally, NotDrey, Courtney, Charlie, Cheryl, Frog and Occ, to name a few. These were people who, like Katie and Jess, like Tania and Mama K, like Mandy and Brian, were absolutely there for me during some of the most difficult times of my life, unflinching in their support in spite of the distances and the oceans and the time zones. It also applies to some of my St. Louis friends, for it also with them that I have let distances and time zones come to matter too much. But it’s slightly different for them, as everyone makes their own lives but always comes Home for Christmas.

At the same time, I have been inordinately blessed with a community of friends at Chapel Hill that could, truly, not be more perfect. And since I became able to stop angsting about not being in St. Louis, I found such happiness at Chapel Hill that I find it still hard to put it into words. We’ve had make-up Thanksgivings and nights in HPT till 3 in the morning, we’ve had birthdays and cocktails and far too much fun, we’ve had drunken waltzing out in the rain and all-nighters in the UL, we’ve had heartache and true love, we’ve had fucking Urinetown, locopops and high tea. And I know I’m getting Very Rambly, and perhaps even A Bit Too Personal, but this is what I mean to say, for I truly believe it:

There are some things, some events, some times and some places and some small choices that put people into your life in a way that is permanent. They etch out a place in your heart that cannot be erased or diminished; it will be there forever. You may try to run away or to escape it, you may bury your heart under work and responsibilities, you may board a plane for Nairobi to see what it’s like to be on your own for four months, but at the end of the day, they will always, always be there. This goes for my St. Louis friends, who cried with me at my father’s funeral and bore my mother’s palls. This goes for my Irish family, with whom I have scattered my father’s ashes in the shadow of an ancient mountain. It’s true for my Chapel Hill friends, with whom I have shared stage makeup, backstage warmups, the infinity of performance and the terrifying truth of Growing Up. And it’s still true for my slasher friends, with whom I have screamed out my lungs at Chicago and Croke, with whom I have stayed up all night with pots of tea and Chats of Doom, laughing at terrible jokes and awfully-written gay porn.

There’s no way around it; it’s True.

There was, in truth, a good deal of Running Away in my decision to come abroad, as there is for most students who choose to, I imagine. It wasn’t the only reason, and it wasn’t the most influential reason by a long shot, but it was still there. And, in truth, I have learned so much this semester, so much beyond development and Kiswahili and the role of breastfeeding in mother-to-child transmission of HIV. Part of it comes from being literally unable to communicate as you would want. It makes you realize the importance of communication when you can, of keeping those people who are etched upon your heart close to you, for they know your secrets and your lies and your sorrow and your joy. They know you. They know you, and that in itself is such a blessing it’s nearly incomprehensible. Nearly.

This is all to say that I have learned this lesson, perhaps the hard way, but perhaps not. Friendships happen by accident, but they don’t stay that way on accident. And when I return to the states, I will try again to do my utmost to keep you all near to me. This is also true for my Chapel Hill friends, for my darlings, many of us only have a few short months until that dreaded G word, and who knows where we shall end up after then. But I do not fear. I know you all will always be in my life somehow. I don’t simply believe this, don’t simply trust this, I know it. We will dance at each other’s weddings and cry over the cradles of our newborns. And I know that despite whatever the future may bring, be it distance or oceans or time zones, all of you will always be in my life.

What a blessing.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. We all have a great deal to be thankful for.

November 9^th, 2006

November passes quickly, but there is no change of seasons here. The days are not growing shorter and the nights not colder, despite what Modest Mouse is singing on my iPod. It’s going to be shocking going back into higher latitudes and frostbite, but I think I’ll be ready for it – a cold weather girl am I. (Which is why it makes so much sense I feel my calling is in Africa?)

This past week has been running around getting ready for my ISP, which began yesterday. I am currently sitting on my bed in what will be my home for the next three weeks in a hostel in Kisumu. Tomorrow I’m meeting the woman who is supposed to hook me up with hospital staff and NGOs, and if she has nothing for me, I’m effed in the a. I’m also effed in the a if my ethics approval doesn’t come down early next week, because I only have three weeks in the field as it is. Fingers crossed, ya? I’m not worried – yet.

There hasn’t been much time to catch my breath since Uganda/Rwanda, so I’m pretty tired at the moment. The one thing I’m jealous of from the kids who went to Tanzania is that they got branded by the Maasai. That’s just fucking baller, and I so would’ve done it if I were there with them. But I don’t regret my choice at all: Kigali alone made all the hours of travel crammed into that matatu worth it.

It’s also crunch time for everyone back home. Break legs, people.

I’m pretty sure I have Dump Wars: Return of the Giardia (or Giardia strikes back? A new giardia?) because I’ve been mildly ill all week and I feel almost exactly the same as I did when I had giardia, although not quite as bad – I think I’ve built up a smidgen of resistance! Go bowels! But tomorrow, I’m to the hospital to get tested and maybe get some new, better dugs, because I’m pretty sure the first round didn’t work the first time. I was planning on waiting till I got back to the states to do all this, but I can’t let illness get in the way of my study, even if it is only mildly annoying. Or maybe I have something new and exciting, like worms! Strange Tropical Disease Count: 3? By the way, I so win the award for studying abroad in the least developed country EVAR of all my friends.

November is an important month for me. Mama Rose and I had a long talk the other day, serendipitously, about my parents. And in eight days I will have lived two years upon this earth without my father. Let me put it this way: the older I get, the more I realize how truly young I was when all of those things happened. You never feel young in those occasions, but in retrospect, I was.

Anyway, ISP begins! I won’t be around as much (was I around a lot in the first place?) because my days will be spent in field work and my nights in reading and writing, but I love you all muchly, and the days of us being apart are getting fewer and fewer.

November 1st, 2007

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.

Over the past two days I have visited the graves of 255,000 people.

Rwanda. Land of a thousand hills – and it’s true. The landscape here is lush and green, with tea farms carved into the hillsides and Dr. Suess – puff top trees dotting the countryside. The roads wind and weave through the hills and valleys, and I’m reminded of the winding back roads of Missouri, Shepherd and Strecker, and of learning to drive on them while dodging deer in my headlights. This country is nothing short of absolutely beautiful: tea farms carved into hillsides, gentle pastoralists herding their cattle across a valley, and green green green everywhere. Kigali, too, is a wonderful city, with clean, paved roads and drainage systems for the rain. The boda-boda motorbikes even have helmets for both themselves and their passengers!

Yet underneath the veneer of a modern, shining city on a Hill, with French and English and native languages being thrown around casually, there lies a very dark and truly hideous past just under the red clay soil.

We visited the Genocide Museum on our first day there, and then on the second, we visited two of the churches that served as sites of massacres of Tutsis by Hutus in those one hundred unfathomable days of 1994.

Things I can not forget: a picture of a baby on a blanket, with a caption saying he was bludgeoned to death. Walking into a mass grave and seeing no fewer than five hundred skulls surrounding me. Blood stains on the walls of the churches.

We learned while we were at the first church, the one where 5,000 people were slaughtered (men, women, children, infants) that it was only this past March when Rwanda actually cleaned up the site of the massacre – before then, they had let the dead lie in the church exactly as they were found at the end of the genocide, exactly how their slaughterers had left them.

It is horrific.

The churches are turned into tombs, and Rwanda does not bury her dead. She leaves their flesh to carrion because there can be no reconciliation on this earth for this. There can be no going back. Rwanda leaves her dead unburied so that the world can see her bowels ripped out, may see the fields of white skeletons, their arms still reaching out, yearning, for the help that would not come. A sacrilegious snapshot of the unthinkable.

The dead cannot be buried for there will never be peace for them. The years will pass, the people will mourn, the courts will convict and sentence and the world will apologize, but for these souls there can never be peace. There will never be rest. They were victims of one of the most heinous acts of all of human history. They were cut down in sanctuary; their infants were smashed against the Stations of the Cross. Pregnant mothers were raped in front of their children; fathers forced to slay their daughters and sons. There can be no going back. There are some horrors that can never be undone, and some evil that, once loosed upon the world , can never be put back. We may challenge it, we may fight it back, but unholy War yet sits on her ferocious weapons, bound behind her back with a hundred knots of brass; she groans horribly with bloody lips.

There are no words in any language or in any age to begin to describe the atrocities of any genocide, including the one here in Rwanda. It is the ultimate sin, for its perpetrators deemed to believe that their fellow human beings were less than human, were not their brothers and sisters and flesh and blood. It is unspeakable; it is horrific; it is apocalypse and Hell.

O, on what a thin string our humanity hangs. How tenuous is our civilization, how fragile are our city walls. In Rwanda, humanity failed. Chaos reigned for one hundred hot days under the African sun, and the world watched with detached curiosity as a country devoured itself with cormorant ferocity.

Evil, too, is when good men do nothing. The world failed Rwanda. Atrocities such as these – genocides, ethnic cleansings, massive refugee creations – simply cannot occur without either the explicit or implicit consent of the community as a whole. In this age, that community now means the world at large. It means the implicit consent of Europe, of the UN, of America. Whether we like it or not, our parents’ generation and their leaders have blood on their hands as well. One of the things that I learned in the museum was that the military forced used to evacuate the American and Europeans embassies would have been more than enough to put down the genocide.

The sins of the fathers will always be visited upon the sons. You break one of man’s laws, you go to jail. But you cannot break God’s laws. All one need to do is look at race relations in America a hundred and fifty years after the end of slavery and see how we’ll we’re doing to figure that one out. You can not, as a civilization, enslave, subjugate, colonize and exploit another civilization without there being horrific consequences down the line for both parties. The categories of Hutu and Tutsi barely existed on the ground in Rwanda until the race-crazy 19^th-century Belgians came and put everyone into groups. And now, there are entire families and villages simply wiped off the face of the map in Rwanda. They remain nameless because no one was left alive to identify their remains.

What peace on earth can we possibly bring for this?

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Happy Halloween, everyone!

This has to be one of the most amazing days of the trip so far.

Today, we went on safari. The entire day was spent driving in Queen Elizabeth game park and taking a boat tour on Lake Edward, and the whole experience was spectacular. We didn’t have much luck in the morning, only some water buffalo, antelope and bush buck, but being out in the Rift Valley at sunrise was reward enough. There are few words to describe how beautiful the landscapes are here. There is something primal in the connection you feel with them – your bones pull. People often conjecture that the Rift Valley is where homo sapiens first stood on his legs and began to walk north, and I can entirely believe that’s true.

The highlights of the trip came in the afternoon. Before we got on the boat for the lake tour, we had the great luck of seeing a mother lioness and her two adolescent cubs lounging in and under a tree, no more than 20 feet from us. It was absolutely incredible – there was no reason for them to hang out there as long as they did, but we were able to get some great pictures. So that was sweet. The boat tour also had more water buffalo, plenty of birds including some huge strokes, but my favorite of the water creatures, HIPPOS! There were so many of them! And when they walk on land they’re so cute! They’re so fat and waddley! I wanted to take a baby one home.

The best part of the whole day, however, came as we were leaving the park. Serendipitously, when we had given up on seeing any, we came across the tembo – the African elephant. And not just a couple elephants. We saw a herd. Of at least 30 of them. Again, about 20-30 feet away.  They were chowing down right next to the road, and I climbed on the roof of the matatu and took pictures of the elephant herd with the mountains in the background and the African sunset. There were also an incredible five baby elephants in the herd – most only have one or two at the most – and we saw them play-fighting each other, which may be one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. We decided that we were going to steal a baby elephant and name is Odoch. It’s happening.

It’s better for me to provide pictures of today than to write about it, because words can’t compare what it’s like to see such wild game so close to you. So pictures will be forthcoming, I hope.

Tomorrow is Halloween! And tomorrow, we head to Rwanda. I am beyond excited about this fact. Rwanda has fascinated me for a long time, and I’m eager to see how the country is fairing in the wake of the genocide, which is not even yet 15 years gone. The Road goes ever on, my friends. Much love.

I am tired like ice is cold, but I’ve got to write some things down before I forget them.

First and foremost: happy birthday, Tania! I am unable to get to internet, nor does my phone currently work, since I am currently in Middle of Nowhere, Uganda, but I’ll call and sing to you when I can.

As I said, I’m currently in Uganda. These past five days have been all blurred together by too many bus rides and hotels and early, early mornings, so I’ll do my best to recount these past amazing days.

After an all-day bus ride from Nairobi to Busia, which is on the Uganda border, we piled into a rented matatu and headed to our hostel in Mbale, two hours north of Lake Victoria. Mbale was nothing but eating dinner and going to bed, as we had been traveling since 5:30 in the morning, but we had hot showers and clean sheets, so I was happy.

ALSO: almost as soon as we crossed the Ugandan border, we pulled over to a spot in the road and fed baboons bananas. I DID THAT. I stuck my hand out window with a banana in it, and the baboon took it right from my hand. Who DOES that? I did. Holla.

The next morning, we visited TASO, which stands for The AIDS Support Organization. They do community-based AIDS care, and are huge in Uganda, being one of the organizations responsible for the comparatively low prevalence of HIV in Uganda. A quick side note: Uganda is always hailed as the “AIDS Success Story” in Africa. Back in 1989, President Museveni (who is, undeniably, a dictator, so therefore not a saint) proclaimed that HIV/AIDS was here in Uganda, and was a problem, and began to use his government to fight the epidemic. As a result, HIV/AIDS is more under control here than almost anywhere else in sub-Saharan Africa, although the situation is far from perfect. If you look at a graph of the average life expectancies in Africa from the 1960s to now, all countries begin to climb from the mid-40s to the mid-60s, and right around 1990 absolutely plummet back down, often lower than 40. Uganda does the same thing, but right around 1996, their numbers slowly begin to climb back up.

After we visited TASO, we left for Sipi Falls. This has to be one of the most beautiful places I’ve been in my entire life, period. Uganda in general is beautiful: lush, green, hilly, fertile and cool. Sipi Falls are a series of waterfalls, as the name suggests, and our hostel looked out over the hill to the view of the waterfall. I must upload some pictures soon, because the ones I have from this entire trip are stunning.

We then went on a four-hour hike (hike! I don’t hike!) down into the valley to the base of the big waterfall, then back up the mountain, then back to the base of another waterfall even higher up. Let me say this again: I am not a hiker. I was slower than everyone else in the group and probably sweated more than I have ever done before in my entire life, but I honestly think it was the elevation getting to me. I wasn’t tired, I just couldn’t catch my breath in a timely manner. That’s what I get for never living at altitude and trying to climb a mountain with a bunch of Denver-ites. But the views and the experience were utterly spectacular. When we got to the second waterfall, we all took off our shoes and rolled up our jeans and descended into the slippery basin and bathed under the waterfall. It was incredibly cold, it was amazingly strong, and it was absolutely perfect. Standing under a waterfall and looking out over the mountains that you just hiked in Africa = perfect. Just perfect. When we got back to the hotel, I was beyond exhausted and soaking wet, but entirely happy. We wrapped ourselves in khangas and made one last hike up the hill and sat on the rocks with an absolutely gorgeous panorama of the sunset in the West. Those are the kinds of moments that you simply can not forget.

In the morning, back into the matatu. We stopped at the equator and took touristy pictures at the monument marking the different hemispheres, and stood with one foot in each at the same time. More driving, then we got to Jinja, where the source of Nile is. We took a quick boat tour and saw that point, which was pretty cool – it’s a combination of an underground spring and Lake Victoria. We also have pictures of the giant stone that marks the point. It takes 90 days for the water to go from the source to the Mediterranean sea, which kind of blows my mind. Several more hours of driving later (are you getting the theme?) and we arrived in Kampala, the capital city of Uganda.

Kampala is actually very nice. It’s much cleaner and much more developed than Nairobi, which is odd because you always hear about how advanced Kenya is. I think the problem with Kenya is that it developed in the 70s and hasn’t been touched since – it’s grown without developing. As soon as we crossed the border into Uganda, we all were shocked at how nice all the roads were. The difference is noticeable. Soon after arriving at the hotel, a bunch of kids from the SIT Uganda program came over to take us out for the evening, which was very nice of them. There were five girls and a guy at first, although I daresay that their group isn’t as cool as our group.

Except – and this is a big except – they have a Tarheel! He joined up with us later in the evening, and we had a great time extolling the virtues of Carolina when he showed up. His name is Sevalt, and we had both seen each other around campus but couldn’t place a connection. He showed up with a Kenyan-American who is also in SIT who goes to school in Durham named Moses. Moses was beyond attractive, good Lord, but the boy also knew it. I said to him, “Now, wait a minute, Moses. You live in Durham – but you’re not a Duke fan, right?”

He smiled apologectically and said that he was. Cue Sevalt going crazy – “What?! I’ve been your friend for two months and you never told me you root for DOOK?!” They had an epic series of pool games, the last being for Dook v. UNC, and Sevalt came from behind to win the fifth game, and thus all the glory, for Carolina. There may have been some singing of the fight song and a great deal of gloating. I loved being back with someone who understood how amazing Carolina is and how much we Tarheels adore our school. Adore.

After dinner and pool, we went out dancing. This was pretty fun, except that we were all dead tired from having been traveling all day. And I got groped SO MUCH. It got rather annoying, as I stopped counting once I had been molested seven times within 20 minutes of arrival. Apparently, it’s not yet culturally acceptable for women to dance in Uganda, and I found that to be very true – the vast majority of the club was single men, and the few women who were there all seemed to be there with someone. Only one guy made to grab my boob, however, and I was able to grab his wrist and literally throw it off me, somewhat forcefully, because I was rather fed up by that point. But no harm, no foul, right? It was still great to dance, especially with Moses (who was so, so hot).

The next day, bus tour around Kampala and visiting the Kasubi tombs, which is where a few of Bagandan kings are buried. Three of the girls had to put on khangas to enter the grass house, because they were in pants, and even the boys had to sit a certain way (with their legs folded under them, like for prayer). It was nice to see the boys be culturally impinged upon, finally, and to get a small taste of what the girls here go through every day. I must admit I enjoyed seeing them struggle to stay sitting the right way. We also saw an original version of mancala and the king’s old pet leopard, which is now stuffed and in a glass case. Oh Africa.

That evening, we went to go see the Ndere dance troupe, which was both awkward and awesome. It was awkward because it was totally a muzungu heaven – you buy a ticket and dinner, and then sit there eating your roasted pork while the Africans perform traditional dances for you. So that felt a bit weird, but at the same time, that money is keeping those dances and those songs alive when they otherwise would have died out by now. And the dancers and the performers were all insanely talented. One song involved the balancing of clay jars on the head, and some of the women were able to stack SEVEN of them on the heads, one on top of the other. I have it on video, so don’t worry.

Back in the matatu the next day and headed to Bushenyi. That day was mostly travel, although we did visit an herbal medicine complex in the afternoon. So tired, so more later.

Jesus Christ, where is this semester going? Last night was our last Saturday night all together in Nairobi until the very end of this program. Madness.

One thing I know I’m missing: autumn. Autumn, I do believe, is my favorite season, although Carolina in Spring might rival it. I went abroad in the fall because I do very much want to be back on the Hill for that last semester, and as my father once told me oh so correctly, there is nothing more beautiful than Carolina in the Spring. He was right. But fall! Fall is actually better in Missouri, where we have a brilliant changing of the leaves, crisp apples, chilly high school football games on Saturday nights, cozy sweaters and hot chocolates. And Halloween! Thanksgiving! I’ll be in Uganda on Halloween, and Thanksgiving is during ISP time, so I won’t have really anyone to celebrate it with. Right now it’s looking like only Karissa and I, maybe Varun, are going back to Kisumu for our ISPs, which is perfectly OK, but it means a small cartel of people in the city. It will be a big change from here in Nairobi, where it’s almost impossible to do anything alone. However, it will probably more be conducive to writing my ISP itself. Anyway.

Last night we went out for some delicious Indian food to a very classy restaurant in Westlands that was absolutely brilliant. A little pricey (by Kenyan standards) but absolutely worth it. It took forever to get there because of several detours made in the cab, but it was still a fun time. Afterwards, we went to K1, which was a great bar, but I was just so tired and very far behind in the drinking since we had gone to dinner so late, so I only had a few drinks, shook my hips a little, and peaced. We also managed to see the end of the Rugby World Cup, which South Africa won. There were a surprising number of Kenyans in the bar cheering for England, saying that they hated SA because they thought they were better than the rest of Africa.  K1 was also a little sketchier, because there was a lot more dancing. When we went out for Cherries, we were pretty much the only ones dancing, but here, there was a very active dance floor. We would form a circle of girls dancing and would inevitably be surrounded by a concentric circle of Kenyan men who would each try to pick one of us off. That got a little annoying, because I want to spend my time dancing, not trying to avoid the attentions of sketchy dudes. But hey, I guess it comes with the territory.

Fangirl moment! We went to visit UNITID, which is the University of Nairobi Institute of Tropical and Infectious Disease, which is pretty much awesome and I would love to work there someday, but the doctor who lectured us, whose name currently escapes me, is buddies with Paul Farmer. FANGRIL MOMENT OMGZ!!@22111!!~!. I was talking to him after the lecture, trying to get some contacts in Kisumu, and he mentioned a name of someone who was now working for PIH, and I said “omg love paul farmer lolz” and he smiled and told me that they were buddies back at Brigham Women’s. *DEATH*. I’m heading back to the hospital tomorrow with Sam to get some info and some contacts, and if he can put me somewhere, I might even considering bailing on Kisumu. A contact within PIH = gold to me. Look at me, I’m the girl who fangirls hobbits, Dutch-American poets and infectious disease specialists. Who am I?

Oh I forgot! I made dinner for my family on Friday night, and it was a big hit. I made spaghetti and meatballs, sauce with lots of veggies and sautéed green beans. The only thing I did wrong was I made WAY too much food, but that’s OK. My house help, Mary, was frightened of the meatballs, but ate the pasta, but the kids and my mama and baba all thought they were very good and helped themselves to seconds. Yay! They were nothing like I make them in the states, so I was pretty much flying by the seat of my pants, but they were still very good, if I do say so myself. Afterwards, baba brought out a brilliant bottle of wine – a 2005 South African Shiraz – and an excellent bottle of spiced Indian whiskey, which was also delicious, and we all watched old Bond movies. It was pretty freakin’ sweet way to end the night. I had no idea how much I had longed for real pasta until I made it, either.

I actually need to get going, because we’ve got a boatload of work due this week, and we leave for Uganda on Thursday. I also want to have most of my med school stuff squared away before I head to Uganda, which just means hours on the internet to download all the necessary forms and send in monies and tell professors where to send their letters. So that’s going to be today. Still don’t know when I’m going to be seeing downtown Nairobi, but at this rate, not till the end of ISP. It’s OK, I’m realizing there isn’t a massive amount of things to do in this city.

And expect calls home soon. I do now indeed miss you all something fierce.  

I’m also going to write about Mathare yesterday, which is one of Nairobi’s biggest slums, and we walked through it yesterday, but I need time and thought first before I begin to try to explain what that experience was. When you see the pictures you’ll understand why.

Mathare.

Forgive my excessive dork-i-tude, but it reminded me of West Wing (of course). Basically, it’s a very bad day in the office, and people are realizing that in the past four years of presidency, many mistakes have been made and many things they set out to do have not been accomplished. Wracked with guilt, Leo sends Josh on a goose-chase. It’s December 23rd and the roof of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem has collapsed, and Israel and Palestine are up in arms about fixing it. Josh is essentially with creating peace in the West Bank in the next twenty-four hours, so the pilgrims can go to the church on Christmas Eve. Later on, with O Holy Night being sung quietly in the background, Leo calls Josh off the chase, dark circles under his eyes. He shakes his head. “It’s four years later,” he says, “and some things are worse, and some things are exactly the same. Where do you even start?”

“By fixing a roof,” Josh responds. “I’m staying on the phones – you want to stay with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

By fixing a roof, my friends. By fixing a roof. The challenges of our generation are epic. The sins of the father have been visited upon the son, as they always are in this world. We did not seek to create the situations we have to face, yet we must face them nonetheless. And what the greatest minds and hearts of my generation aim to change is perhaps impossible. Perhaps. But perhaps it is also possible.  It will certainly not be easy; it will take sacrifice, it will take hard labor, it will take time and blood and sweat and tears. We can not extend privilege to those who have none until we give up some of our own. But Father Phillip was right when he gave his Good Friday homily my freshman year of college, using Speak Truth to Power and talking of the human rights activists who have been tortured, maimed and murdered for daring to imply that everyone on his planet is born with a soul and we are all the same children of God, endowed with rights that can not be denied.

There is something salvivic about pain. It makes no sense to us, it is horrendous, it is terrible, but it is true. Salvation gets mixed up with crucifixion; grace comes from betrayal and despair. You want to see God in our world? You want to see grace in action? Go to the slums. Go to where the poor are shitting in the same river they bathe in, go to where mothers and fathers weep in the dark corners of their shacks for the stillbirth of their child, go to where you dry heave from the smell of rotting garbage in the unforgiving sun, and then tell me we are treating Lazarus any differently than two thousand years ago. Woe to you complacent in Zion.

Neither you nor I can begin to understand the appalling strangeness of God’s mercy. Graham Greene.

It is hard, in times such as these and in environments like this, to remember that the current state of the world is not the only way it has to be. It is hard to remember that there is a way out from the wretched existence that the majority of the world leads. But there must be. There is no problem that can not be fixed by the power of the human mind and the determination of the human spirit. We’ve put a man on the moon, for heaven’s sake; surely we can figure out how to restructure power and privilege to give everyone in our world a fighting chance to live.

We will do what is hard. We will not shrink from the problems of this world; we will not go quiet into that good night. We will not stand for the inequalities and the injustices at our doorstep; we will not give Lazarus the scraps the dogs eat.  We will do the impossible. We will change worlds. We will move mountains. We will never look back.

We will be human together.

*** 
Isaiah 58.

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wandered with shelter – when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear, then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.

Amy Clark’s birthday is tomorrow. Isn’t that funny how some dates simply stay with you, no matter the years and the distance? October 19th is Amy Clark’s birthday, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that fact. The fact that Amy’s birthday is close means that Tania and Mama K both have birthdays very soon. And the fact that we are beginning the second half of October absolutely blows my mind. Time changes here; it shifts and moves and tricks the senses. Anyway, I need to find some birthday cards!

I am back in Nairobi after spending the past four days attempting to do ISP prep in Kisumu. Kisumu is the largest city in Western Kenya, located right on Lake Victoria. It is absolutely gorgeous, and Western Kenya is beautiful. We took a bus there, which should take four hours, but takes eight because of how bad the roads are (and oh my GOD are they bad, worse than Mombasa) and the countryside actually reminded me a lot of Ireland, especially when we were in the fertile Rift Valley and the White Highlands. Green, green, everything green. We also drove through the massive tea plantations in the west, which was about a solid half-hour of driving through nothing but tea, tea, tea. It was both astonishing and beautiful at the same time, but I had the bitter knowledge on my tongue that those who work those farms do not make a fair wage and that the remnants of the colonial system means that Kenyan tea growers don’t get the best price they could for their crop.

Western Kenya is, however, where I want to be. Kisumu is a small, bright city on the Lake, and our hotel had a balcony with a gorgeous view of the lake, no more than a few blocks away. I’ll have to put up some pictures of this, for this is hard to explain, but even though we saw several miles of the lake from our hotel, we actually only saw a little bit of the water. Currently, there is a massive problem with non-native water hyacinth that is growing out of control in the water. No one knows how to get rid of it, as they’ve tried before and failed. It makes it look like the lake has several miles of marshy meadow leading up to it, but that’s just the water hyacinth, which also moves around with the currents and tomorrow might be nowhere near where it was the day before. Bizarre.

Anyway, our first night in town we all went out to dinner with Donna, the American anthropologist. We ate a great place called the Green Garden, but I was barely able to pick at my food. The bus ride up had been a little rough for me, for I was ill for about the past two hours of the trip and there wasn’t a way to request a bathroom stop. Those two hours have to have been among the most uncomfortable of my life, and I was still rather nauseas and woozy during dinner. We also met four hot, HOT HOT French journalists around our age on the bus up from Nairobi. They’re traveling the world and paying for it by writing articles for French magazines and newspapers, and did I mention that they are smoking hot? Cherrie and I were in a tuk-tuk (more on tuk-tuks later) with one, who was impressed with my French. I for one was astounded that I still remember any French, even though it is currently rather muddled with Swahili. I kept on wanting to say “lakini” instead of “mais” and “ndiyo” instead of “oui.” But the Frenchies, as we began to call them, were fluent in English pretty much, so we had a lovely little chat in the tuktuk, and did I mention they were beyond hot? Good Lord.

Our first day in the city we pretty much were just lead around and taken shopping, which was neat but kind of lame. Here’s the thing: fifteen of us came to Kisumu. These past four days in our calendar is “ISP prep” time, where ideally you go to where you want to do your ISP, make contacts, set up housing, and set things up. This straight-up did not happen. Only about six of us were actually doing our ISP in Kisumu, and the rest were there just to do touristy things, being unable to go to their ISP site in advance for whatever reason. We were told before we left that we had several health contacts in Kisumu, and that we were have a veritable parade of NGOs come talk to us so we could set things up for the actual ISP time. This simply did not happen. Everyone who was supposed to come talk to us could not for various reasons, and the Kisumu coordinator as well was AWOL. This was rather frustrating, as I got no work done even though that had both been my intention and my attempt. Sam and I went out on our own on the second day (of two days) and just went to a private hospital, where it took us an hour and a half to talk to the head nurse for ten minutes, which really got us nowhere.

This was doubly frustrating as we had planned on doing some touristy-things that I didn’t get to do. A group went to Kakamhega forest, but didn’t get in because they wouldn’t honor our pupil passes and the cost was too much, and then a few others went to visit Barack Obama’s grandmother, who lives an hour out of Kisumu. Donna told us on Day 1 that we ought to avoid touristy things if we were here for prep, as we could do them when we had time when we were back here during ISP time. This sounded reasonable, so I didn’t opt to go on either adventure, and wound up doing absolutely nothing instead of going out and having fun. All of this mismanagement and disorganization has lead us to term the trip Kisumu: Clusterfuck ’07. It’s OK, as there is still plenty of time to get things set up, but the past couple days felt like a large waste of time and money.

We did have a good time the first night, however, as we all cooked dinner for each other that was very good, and had a little drinking and a lot of dancing on the balcony. I sat on the ledge overlooking the moon on Lake Victoria’s waters with a dawa in my hand and Bob Marley in the background, and everything was peaceful. I am falling dangerously fast for Kisumu for how little I have seen her.

There were a couple of bad things that did happen, though, and as not to freak you out, I have buried them in the middle of my post. First is no big deal – I lost my cell phone, because I’m an idiot and left it on the ledge and it was gone in the morning, but I have the same number and bought another cheap ($30) phone, so all is well. The second is a much larger deal, but still nothing that should worry you. Sam and Jackie went to the ATMs in the morning on Wednesday to get out cash to pay for the hotel, which wound up being twice as expensive as planned. On their way back, they got mugged. There were three men, and they weren’t armed and didn’t hurt them, but they grabbed Sam and lifted her off the ground (she’s tiny) and grabbed her purse and started to go through her pockets. At this point, Jackie, not knowing what to do, began to scream. People came out from the shops that were around and the men took off – they took after them, but didn’t catch them. All they took was money and Sam’s phone, but the girls were understandably hysterical. We had been told that Kisumu was safer than Nairobi, which is a sentiment echoed by everyone else we had talked to, but that happened. Also, apparently, three female students were mugged at machete-point three semesters ago, and the whole matter has made me slightly more wary of Kisumu. I think part of it is that there are simply very few wazungu around, so we stick out more than we do either in Nairobi or in Mombasa. I’m certainly going to be more careful when I’m back for ISP. The good news is that these kinds of muggings are only for money, and they don’t seek to hurt you. But still, it’s absolutely awful.

Oh, and don’t tell Nora. No reason to freak her out when there’s no need. I mean, chances are that I will get either mugged or have something stolen or pick-pocketed from me while I’m here. It just happens. We stick out like sore thumbs, and everyone here thinks that wazungu have money flowing out their asses. (And in a way, comparatively, we do). And when someone is hungry or desperate, they do desperate things. But please don’t worry about me. I mean, I know you all will, but don’t. Sam and Jackie did exactly the right thing by not fighting back and screaming for help, and I like to think I would have the wherewithal to know to do the same.

I still think I’ll be in Kisumu. KEMRI has an office there, so I want to call Dr. Jama and get a contact, and there’s a lot of HIV there. A full 8% of pregnant women are HIV+ in Kisumu, and they are the ones I want to study. It’s prettier than Nairobi, and in general friendlier. Honestly, I have yet to be impressed with Nairobi, which is all corruption and multi-nationals. Nairobi seems to have all of the problems of being a big city with none of the benefits, such as good public transport, museums and libraries, etc. Maybe I’ll like it more once I walk around downtown, but we’ve driven around downtown often and it doesn’t look like anything special to me. Yet.

Anyway, there is work to do! We leave for Uganda in a week, and I want to have most of my med school things done by then, as well as have formulated a question to research and made solid contacts in Kisumu.

Oh, and I might have scabies. Three girls got it in Bodo, and I definitely have something strange growing on my left arm that looks like rather scabies-like. I’ve circled every little red dot I have (12 thus far), and if I have more tomorrow morning after I sleep, I’ll be headed back to the Dr. Saio. Next time, I’m brining a dream sack with me, that silk travel sheet that bugs can’t bite you through and you can’t get scabies from. Scabies is very treatable, but it means dousing myself from head to toe in foul-smelling lotion for 8 hours, washing it off, taking oral medication, and washing everything I’ve touched since Tuesday in disinfectant. I’d rather this just be a weird rash. You know, a rash. That kind of pusses. And spreads. A little. Strange Tropical Disease Count: 2?