Your Twinkles are Twinkling

Assorted dates in the past week. Compiled on Monday, June 7, 2010.

Several people have commented to me that my blog posts have become to blog-y. I apologize that my writing has slumped and it might sometimes seem like I am rattling off a laundry list of things I have done lately. It is hard to keep up, and often there are little nuanced occurences that really make everything that I am doing in Kenya amazing. This is my attempt to capture a few of those moments.

You might want to start with a chicken…

I have been making a list in my head of things I want to do in Kenya, and decided that I want to cook a chicken that I have killed myself (thanks, Daphie). The others in the house think this is hilarious, because it is something that is entirely not novel (un-novel?) here. The other day as we were sitting upstairs, Nick comes up and tells me that we are having chicken for dinner, and that now’s my chance. I run (full sprint) downstairs about out the back door to find a chicken. I realize that I am alone and that everyone else is in the kitchen. I come back inside to realize to find Vicky (the only innocent party) seasoning some chicken parts and preparing to cook them. Yes, we were having chicken for dinner. Alas, I was not to pick the chicken.

We all often hang out in the kitchen and talk while Agatha is cooking. We play with Gloria, dance to no music or the music from a cell phone, and generally tell stories and laugh. On this particular occasion, I was sitting on the floor next to Vicky, and Edward and Nick were standing. I reiterated my list for the group, “While I am here, I want to kill a chicken and milk a cow.” Vicky responds, “You want to kill a cow???” Edward says flatly, “You might want to start with a chicken…” We all burst out laughing. Edward has a way with sarcasm that I simply cannot deliver in Kenya. My sarcasm is almost always met with stern responses. I think I am improving, but I can’t be sure.

Walking with Edward

I finally got around to getting a new camera! I will include a link to the facebook album at the end of this post, and will upload new pictures as best I can. On Saturday, I had planned to leave for town with Edward (my Kenyan cousin) at 9:30am to look for a new camera. At 8:30, Edward starts hollering at me that I am late and he is mad. I think I must have read my clock wrong, or something, and start running after him in my pajamas apologizing and trying to get my brain together as fast as possible. When he turns to me I immediately recognize his cunning smile and know I have been tricked.

We go into town with Mama Vicky, who has to work because things are so busy. She accompanies us to the first shop, where the store owners know her, and they all call each other “my darling”. On the way, Mama Vicky has to stop to greet at least 10 different people. Edward and I don’t wait, as it could take all day to walk the few blocks if we do. This is a good explanation of “Kenyan time”, which is always late… nothing ever happens at the time you plan it.

Edward and I go to several different shops, and I am under strict orders not to talk. I don’t say a word, and we end up leaving the Sony store with a great camera, and Edward negotiated a very good deal. We walk back to Mama Vicky’s office, and are sent on an errand to find a duplicate key to the car. We walk over to the mechanic’s district, called shabab. Edward tells me that shabab used to be an affluent white area during colonial times, and used to be called “suburbs”. The Kenyans had trouble pronouncing “suburbs”, and so the name changed to shabab. We go into a few places, which decline to make us the key, so we just keep wandering. We are a bit outside Nakuru proper, and everything is interesting. This is not the side of Nakuru you see on purpose, but it was the real Nakuru in many ways. We talked about the election violence, language, growing up, and everything else. We were passed several times by a massive motorcycle caravan, all carrying some kind of tree or large shrub branch to signify that it was a funeral procession, but it was obvious to any onlooker that it had gotten a bit out of hand. Eventually we saw the police catch up with them, and while it didn’t appear to have any significant impact, we didn’t see them again.

We walked out of shabab and past Mama Ruth’s neighborhood. We went over to the neighborhood where Paul and Mama Vicky used to live before they moved to our house now. We passed an old tailor, sitting outside sewing on a sewing machine, and Edward told me that he was the one who used to make the kids’ school uniforms for Mama Vicky. I airily commented that the only pair of pants I brought to Kenya are much too big, and wondered aloud if he might be able to take them in for me. I felt Edward’s bemused look on my skin before I even saw it. He looked confused rather disgusted and like he might burst out laughing all at the same time. I paused, and then remembered that “pants”in Kenya refers to your underwear, not your trousers. I started laughing first, and Edward joined in immediately. I tried to correct myself, but Edward already understood. We just walked on giggling.

When we arrived at Mama Vicky’s old house, we went to visit an old neighbor, Mama Angela. We sat down, and Edward introduced me as his fiancée. Mama Angela raised an eyebrow, but played along for a bit. At first feigning an appropriate amount of surprise, “Do you mean it? How did you meet? Wow, how exciting!” I moved closer to Edward and he put his arm over my shoulders and we somehow dodged the questions and just kept pushing the envelope, “Yes, we are moving to the United States soon! Didn’t you receive the invitation? The wedding is next week!” Mama Angela is still playing along, but pushing harder with the true qualifications for marrying a Kenyan man, asks Edward, “I see, but can she cook ugali for 10 people?” I don’t appear in any way that I would be able to do so, as cooking ugali is a highly physically demanding process. Finally, Mama Angela bursts out, “Oh stop it! I know exactly who Alex is, Mama Vicky has been telling me about her for weeks!” She proceeds to tell us that I am Grace’s sister from America. Not exactly… but I guess she was onto us the whole time. Edward has a running list of all the reasons I am not a suitable mate for a Kenyan man. My inability to cook ugali at all is number one.

Walking home in the rain

Edward soon has to head home to finish marking term papers for Paul (Edward is also a Statistics and Economics lecturer in Nairobi). I meet up with Cameron, Amos and Ruth at Tusky’s, the supermarket in town. They are picking out plastic chairs, which is a highly involved process. Cameron and I decide that office chairs are far more comfortable, and go sit to wait for them to finish their shopping as if we are restless children accompanying their parents on a shopping trip.

We finish, and Amos, Cam and I load everything into a tuk-tuk and brace ourselves for a bumpy ride back to Amos’ home in Naka. A tuk tuk is sor of like a 3-wheeled morotcycle that is enclosed in a metal frame. If there are shock absorbers, you can’t tell. They aren’t supposed to go on the highway, so we take the dirt road home. We get there and prepare some lunch, and Cam and I introduce Amos to Arrested Development. Live is good.

I decide to walk back to town, and although it is getting dark, I assume it’s fairly safe. I walk briskly, saying hi to everyone I pass along the way. Just as I approach the edge of town, the clouds begin to spit. As I enter town, they open completely and being dumping water. I am wearing a t-shirt and thin wrap skirt, and am instantly soaked. For some reason, all the Kenyans look totally normal, and I stand out even more than usual. I try to blink the water from my eyes, but misjudge a turn and end up in the market – the absolute worst place in Nakuru for a muzungu in a hurry. Despite my obvious discomfort, everyone wants to sell me something. I walk as fast as I can, through the crowd, and finally reach the lot where I can get into my matatu home to Kiamunyi. I have been trying to shelter myself as best I can under the eaves of the market stalls, but now I have to cross the parking lot. I sprint, splashing through filthy puddles. I make it to the matatu and climb aboard. People are staring at me. I am soaking wet, I have no way to dry the water streaming down my face from my hair. The whole scene is so ridiculous that it is comical. I text Sydney to tell her about a man I saw walking 5 goats on leashes like a Rittenhouse dog walker on my way to town. The rain is streaming down my forehead and dripping off my nose, shoulders, arms, and chest so fast I am nervous to touch my phone because the water is so unavoidable.

As soon as the matatu fills, we start off towards home. The matatu steams up with condensation and I can’t see outside, so I accidentally get off about 3 stops too early. I had kind of thrown a fuss about it, so I was too embarrassed to admit my error, and decide just to walk the rest of the way home. The rain has almost stopped, and it wasn’t very far. I start up the hill toward Olive Inn, the corner with a few shops that is near my house. Suddenly, I hear shrieks and see two boys donning full winter parkas running towards me. They are both about 6 years old. They each grasp a hand, without saying a word to me, and hop and yell excitedly along with me as we ascend the hill. I felt like I had fallen into a movie scene: soaking wet white girl is escorted by two giddy little Kenyan boys to town. It was the perfect end to my journey. I couldn’t help but smile the rest of the way home.

You are my daughter!

On Monday I took my still unfinished woven basket to the Nina Initiative meeting. For some reason it had gotten all crooked and misshapen while I was working on it this past week. I took it out and showed the women what I had done, half proud of myself for having done so much, but half nervous that it looked so demented. Milka held it up and says, “You made a nice flower, but it isn’t a basket!!” Everyone in the room starts laughing hysterically and coming up with new ideas of what my creation could be. Cam and I decide that it is a nice bonnet (see facebook album for photos of me wearing my bonnet).

Later, I undo all my weeks work to correct the error in my stitching. I start again, but get mixed up about the direction of my basket’s growth. I sit down on the ground next to Rebecca and ask her to help set me straight. The skirt I am wearing has a little eyelet that sometimes pops open because it ties around my waist (Carley, your brown skirt) and if it gets mis-adjusted, you can see my hip and underwear in the side. This must have happened when I sat down, and Rebecca aggressively rearranges my skirt, pulls my shirt down over it, and whispers to me “you are my daughter!” and then goes on to repair my basket. I have about 10 moms in Kenya, and counting.

“if you’d ever had a grown-up daughter you’d know that by comparison a bucking steer is easy to manage” – W.S. Maugham