Coming Home

Well, it’s been a whirlwind for the past couple of months. From my last blog post, three very important visitors came to Kenya, I traveled back to the United States for some R&R, I climbed Mount Kenya, made some awesome friends from the PeaceCorps, and said goodbye to my Kenyan “family” by taking them out to their first sit down restaurant. The end of July and the whole of August have been the highlight of my time here, but I am certainly ready to head homeward. And now, it is my time to leave my Kenyan adventure behind. As my father told me once this year in a particularly rough patch this year: it will all be only memories soon.

As I sit in a Nairobi coffee shop, only hours after sending off my friends to the airport, I have a small chance to reflect on the experience as a whole. Appropriately, I am by my lonesome… and more than likely, I’ll be very bored today after writing this. I’ll be missing the Michigan football game and I’ll be pretty bummed about that. But, that is life… and especially life here.

I came up with a list of 20 maxims that I’ve learned in Kenya. Of course, if you peruse my other blog posts, you will see that the learning curve is quite steep and I’ve learned more than I could ever imagine. But, I think that these twenty are the foundation to every aspect of life—and things that I face almost every day here.  Some are depressing, some are funny, most can only appreciate abroad, or more specifically, here.  All are the truth, as I know it:

1.)  Never take the offer price for anything… and always barter in Swahili

2.)  Always greet everyone in a room—leaving someone out is extremely rude.

3.)  Riding a motorcycle (although to my mother’s chagrin) is actually a lot of fun

4.)  Maybe is usually no

5.)  Expect any function to begin at least 1 hour late and to run all day

6.)  In response to number 5, always have a book on you

7.)  Pick a Barclays League team to follow—it is an excellent conversation starter

8.)  In relation to food and culture, try everything once but assume nothing all the time

9.)  It is impossible to forget that you’re a “mzungu”

10.)                 Only eat ugali if you absolutely have to

11.)                 Poverty worldwide is absolutely nothing like poverty in the United States

12.)                 Spend money on experiences, not things

13.)                 Teenagers are teenagers everywhere

14.)                 Always have matches, candles and two pots of water hand in case of an electricity outage or no running water

15.)                 When the dealer is showing a five, you have the best odds of winning

16.)                 Guests and the elderly are the most important people in the room

17.)                 In unknown places, it is okay to ask for directions—even if you’re a man

18.)                 There is always space for one more person in a matatu

19.)                 As much as people bitch, moan and complain about how bad things are in the United States, they need to live elsewhere before they bitch, moan and complain further

20.)                 Time is best spent with others

I think that it will take some time to truly appreciate my time in Kenya. It was far from easy to say the least. At this moment, I long for New York style pizza, warm showers, ubiquitous deodorant, a bed without a net and a kitchen without cockroaches. In my heart of hearts, though, when it’s all said and done, I hope that I can look back at Kenya with awe, wonder, and curiosity. No matter where you are, education truly has no end—even when the adventure concludes.

Signing off (for the last time,)

Adam

A Kindle Convert

Before you judge this post by its title, you should know not to judge a book by its cover. Or, apropos to this prose, electronic text by its Etch-a-Sketch-esqe (say that five times fast) screen.

For a long time I remained adamantly against electronic readers. I loved my paperbacks: browsing the back cover to gauge interest, feeling the rough, thin paper between my forefinger and thumb, using a crisp two dollar bill as a bookmark, predicting the time it would take for me to finish by judging the thickness of ‘read’ and ‘to read’ pages, and above all, the musty odor of glue and paper, long sitting on a library’s bookshelf. Along with vanilla extract and freshly cut grass, the smell of an old paperback is among my favorite scents.

On subways in New York and DC, I judged those taking out their tidy Kindles with beautiful shiny leather covers. If I were on the subway today, I would guess (and subsequently judge) that the reader would be intertwined in 50 Shades of Gray or Twilight, or some other tasteless best seller (that I would probably enjoy if my pride didn’t get in the way, but it always does).  I would search through my backpack, past my brown bagged lunch and miscellaneous schoolwork to find a sad-looking paperback, its cover crumpled and pages bent from its long journey from 1^st to Lexington in the bottom of my disheveled pack.

In Kenya, where ALL paperbacks are crumpled and weather-beaten or, more commonly, nonexistent, one of the best pieces of advice I have ever received was to buy a Kindle. It has saved me from countless occasions of boredom: long bus rides, quiet schools, conversations in mother tongues, etc.

It fits nicely into a cargo pocket. It stores hundreds of books. Unlike a computer, the screen doesn’t strain your eyes. You need no two dollar bill; the Kindle automatically saves the page you’re on. My favorite feature: I can check out library books by downloading them from my library in PITTSBURGH, 8,000 miles away. Plus, I’ve discovered a loophole that allows me to keep all of the books on my Kindle, even after returning them.  Sharing books with others is incredibly easy.

So, yes I’m a convert (for the time being).  When I return back to the States, I haven’t decided if I want to be a subway-riding Kindle-toting elitist just yet. But, in Kenya, where my skin color already classifies me as something similar, I’ll keep on flipping the electronic pages.

Signing off,

Adam

PS- To all you bibliophiles, (or Kindliophiles), here are my top five books read in Kenya. Check ‘em out out on Amazon:

5.) Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight by Alexandra Fuller

4.) The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach

3.) Still Life With Woodpecker by Tim Robbins

2.) A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving

1.) East of Eden by John Steinbeck

Church

In my early teens, a visiting priest graced us at St. Edward’s parish in Blawnox, PA. Unlike other priests who were from Indianola, Milvale, the Southside or the like, Father Ambrose was special. Father Ambrose was from Africa.

Father Ambrose had many unique characteristics, especially to my 13 year old, white middle-class psyche. His skin tone was a rich ebony for starters. This certainly went against the norm of the Italian and Irish priests that frequented St. Edward’s. He had a very round face, black steel wool hair that receded on his balding pate, and most notably, a trait that wasn’t phenotypic in nature: large, thick, dark, aviator frames so common in the early 1990s.

Upon speaking, however, his appearance ceased to be particularly unique. His accent was thick—so thick to my untrained ears—that I had difficulty understanding parts of mass in which I believed I had memorized. Perhaps the words of Father Ambrose that most resonate in my mind are simply: “The waaahd of the Laaaaurd,” stated matter-of-factly in a West African drawl. These are the most memorable, I theorize, because they are the last words that I can remember before being thrown into the banal trance of one of his homilies.

In one word, Father Ambrose’s sermons were epic. He was like a heaven-sent hippopotamus; he could easily go for 20 minutes without coming up for air, addressing each nicely packaged Catholic message: all of the readings (of course), the guilt each Catholic should burden, the constant reminder that Jesus died for our sins, holding Christ in our hearts even after church has concluded for the week, etc, etc, etc.  Due to his accent, my already short teenage attention span dwindled significantly and by five minutes in, my eyes were scanning the church for cute (and seemingly pious) girls. My mind meandering through soccer, summer vacation, or doughnuts—hopefully being served after church.

Before you consider me a heathen, allow me to clarify (and or, bring the whole crew down with me). The whole Janosko clan shared my sentiment about Father Ambrose’s long-winded homilies. I wasn’t the only one whose mind wandered to far-off places, patiently waiting for those three precious words that would awaken us from that dormant, stagnant state. When the words “Let us pray” were uttered, we quickly and robotically stood so that the priest couldn’t change his mind about ending the sermon. Relieved, we participated in the rote memorization that is the latter part of a Catholic mass, still needing to flare our nostrils and squint our eyes to conceal the umpteenth inappropriate yawn, but we were certainly through the worst of it.

By that point in our lives, my family members began choosing to go to separate masses.  Usually, I wanted to hang out with friends (and subsequently girls), on Saturday nights and sleepin on Sunday mornings. Therefore, 11:30 mass always seemed to be my only option. It also allowed me to obtain reconnaissance on whether Father Ambrose had already held mass—he held service once a week while our priest conducted the other two.  My father always seemed to have the worst luck; he usually alternated between Saturday night mass and early Sunday morning mass. I think once he got Father Ambrose three weeks in a row. We all laughed at his misfortune.

When I decided to go to mass for the first time this past week, I visualized a Father Ambrose in front of the altar, ‘engaging’ us in a thirty-minute homily. I know, I know, Africa is a CONTINENT and I believe that Father Ambrose was from Nigeria. I know that I shouldn’t lump all of the African countries together. But hear me out first.

Due to the religious zeal that begins on Saturday nights from the tone-deaf Christian denizens of Malindi (singing well into Sunday) and based on my experiences in Kisumu, I could only imagine sitting in the church for 5 hours on end, bored out of my skull. In other words, the decision to go was akin to shooting oneself in the foot or any other self-inflicting cliché that one can ponder.

But, I did my research first.  I walked into the gated St. Anthony’s on Thursday afternoon, surprised to see a Coke stand outside the enormous—and beautiful—edifice.  Through the large wooden doors, I spotted an out-of-place golden tabernacle to the right of the altar. There were rows and rows of pews and extremely high tin ceilings.  The building was open-air, as so many others are in Malindi, and there were Stations of the Cross painted upon the walls, labeled underneath in Kiswahili.

There was an older woman mopping the floors, so I asked about times of masses. I made sure to mention “fupi sana” (very short), and she was specific: go to the children’s mass, 4:30 on Saturday afternoon.

That Saturday, about 30 shoeless children filled the left side of the church.  A few adults sat silently in their pews—I made sure that their shoes were on before I entered with mine. At 4:30, the mass started. Let me repeat this: At 4:30, the mass started. I was beyond shocked.  Punctuality just doesn’t happen in Kenya. 

The priest was younger and most of the mass was directed towards the children. They did the readings and sang the hymns a capella (no organ here). Within 15 minutes, we were already into the homily. I braced myself.

The priest asked the children: “What did Jesus do to show that He was the Son of God?” The children answered eagerly. The gospel spoke of people doubting Jesus’ authority to spread the word of God, so he wanted to confirm to the children that Jesus’ had the authority through his miraculous works.  The priest spoke for about three minutes clarifying this and to my surprise, rose and said: “Let us pray.”

I was simple dumbfounded. This sermon was short, even in Western standards. The mass continued as any other Catholic mass would have (except, interestingly, there was no collection).  By the time communion rolled around, it had been about thirty minutes.

Following the final hymn after communion, when my family gathered jackets and purses, the priest began to say more prayers. Okay—this had to be it… this is where we stay for four more hours, reciting Hail Mary’s and Glory Be’s and every other prayer imaginable.  After about three short prayers, though, the adults began making their way to the exit. This is magnificent! A true miracle!

I move towards the exit and as I was able to step out of the church, an enormous din clattered against the tin roof. A freshet of rain fell off of it, blocking my exit. The rain came down so violently that I began to ponder the apocalypse. Incredible. A sign from above. God certainly has a sense of humor and He wanted me to suffer inside that church like any good Catholic should.

Following the pattern of the day, though, the rain lasted only a few minutes and I was home not even one hour after I left. Let us pray!

A Typical Thursday Morning

In my last post, I said that everything has been becoming routine to me.  As I woke up this morning, I realized that what is routine to me, may be wild to you guys.  Here is my Thursday morning:

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I wake up, sweating.  There can only be one logical reason for this: no electricity. Blackouts usually happen about every week, usually on Wednesdays and Thursdays nights. It’s Thursday morning.

I make certain that my legs or arms are grazing the side of the mosquito net that is cocooned around me.  When the electricity is off, the ceiling fan ceases, not only causing my homeostasis to falter and my sweating to commence, but also allowing nothing to hinder the bloodthirsty flight patterns of mosquitoes. Two weeks ago, mosquitoes adorned my left foot with a dozen little red specks when the electricity died in the middle of the night.

I have already woken up a few times in the night.  Domestic animals seem to die frequently in my neighborhood, or at least they give off the impression that they are dying. A shrill cry of a cat or the whining of a dog being attacked by god-knows-what jolts me awake suddenly. In the morning, the roosters crow loudly to my irritation.

I glance at my cell phone’s clock—7:25. Time to get up anyway. I want to go for a run this morning. Thursday mornings are the best—I don’t have to teach until noon today.  I have big plans for this Thursday morning: after a run on the beach (the only time you can run here is in the early morning and at dusk, due to the heat), I plan to wash my clothes.

I think that most Americans would dislike this task, but like other jobs that require a physical element, I truly take pleasure in it. Two bins (one for wash, one for rinse), a brush for scrubbing, a clothesline for drying. I am lucky; I don’t need to purchase water from the big yellow jugs that I see precariously balanced on the back of motorcycles. It is important to do your laundry in the early morning. The clothes need ample time to dry. It is not smart to leave your clothes out on the line overnight, as they may be stolen.

I fall out of bed, my feet searching for my flip-flops. I go to the bathroom and after I flush, I hear a hollow hiss as the cistern attempts to refill itself with water. No water, too. So much for that run and laundry. 

What should I eat for breakfast? The issue: I don’t want to open the mini fridge for fear of letting out the precious cold.  Bananas it is. I begin reading a book when I hear the trickle of water in the toilet. It’s too late for laundry or the run, but at least I can take a shower.

Yesterday, I discovered from my students that there actually ARE two different nozzles in their homes, distinguishing between hot and cold water.  They laughed at my ignorance as I envied their comforting streams of warm water. Although there is a switch for “Water Heater” on the main switchboard in my apartment and it is certainly switched to “on,” there ceases to be anything as advertised.  I thought about asking my landlord, but landlords here are nothing like landlords in the States.  If there is something wrong with your apartment, you need to fix it or have someone fix it. We needed to fix the main lights in our sitting room once, so we found an electrician who helped. The same was true when the key copy broke off in the lock.  Our landlord didn’t even have an extra key.  The good news: both services only cost four dollars.

Although I am sweating, it is still a shock to submerge yourself in a gelid shower. I start with just my head, lathering shampoo in my hair and applying soap to my face. With my cranium sudsy, I turn off the water and step into the middle of the shower. I brace myself and turn the knob to the right. I seize up. I will not miss this part when I return.

I get out of the shower and realize that without electricity, I cannot iron my clothes. If there were electricity, I would hope that the ants did not quench their thirst on the iron’s steam water reservoir. It is always a surprise when I am ironing and suddenly, I feel little tickles on my hands as the insects attempt to flee from being burned to death. Luckily, the ants haven’t been so thirsty in the rainy season for the iron water.

All of a sudden, it begins to rain. Hard. A deluge of water falls from the sky.  I sit in my home and wait for a respite so that I can make it to work. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Nanyuki and Activism

After my hike in Longonot, I had the privilege of not only meeting Leah and Ashley, but two more expats—Sona and Anna. Over dinner, we decided that we would do go on a boat ride on Lake Naivaisha the next day and then, I would tag along to the Aberdare National Forest for a game drive with Sona and Anna.

Both adventures proved to be par for the course in Naivasha. On the boat trip, all of us marveled at the flamingos, zebra, and most of all, hippos. They are such enormous creatures!! On the ride there we saw giraffes, warthogs, and impalas. So cool.

After saying ‘see you later’ to Leah and Ashley (I’ll get to it), Sona, Anna and I went to Aberdare National Forest. We woke up very early in the morning and met our driver, Douglas, an incredible naturalist and even nicer man. He drove us the 2.5 hours to Aberdare National Forest. Upon entering the mountains, we saw evidence of elephants (they seem to trample through everything). As we ascended to the park gate, something black and quick ran across the road.  “What was that!?” I asked Douglas. He responded that it was the rare black leopard. It was cool to cross another one of the Big Five (elephant, rhino, lion, leopard, buffalo) off of my list, even though it crossed the corner of my eye.

All in all, the Aberdare National Forest was a great place to see wildlife—but it didn’t get the savanna feel. It was a beautiful, mountainous forest. It was really secluded—which was nice, had breathtaking waterfalls, but it lacked the carnivores that make a safari. It took a long time for us to come across the elephants—but when we saw them… it’s incredible. We were within 10 yards of these giants.

I said my goodbyes to Sona and Anna and early Thursday morning, I packed up my tent (for the first time since Friday!) and jumped a matatu back to Naivaisha.  I waited a long time to get another matatu to Nyahururu and then on to Nanyuki. One of the best feelings in the world is to drive off exploring small towns. Each has their own charm. Nyahururu has an expansive clothes market and because it is so cold there (being in the mountains), I was able to find a pair of wool socks that would be good for hiking.  I stopped for lunch there at a place recommended by Ashley and Leah.

The majority of the journey to Nanyuki occurred through an extremely flat valley with no visible road. We were in between two mountains and far from any visible village. It seemed odd to me that there were young boys collecting stacks of firewood branches out in the middle of this plain—where do they find it? How do they get back home? It will remain one of the many mysteries of Kenya.

I arrived to Nanyuki around 3 o’clock and met Ashley there. Nanyuki is one of my favorite towns in Kenya. Again, it has the charm of most small towns in Kenya but an added bonus of quaint Western restaurants due to the British army base located there. We went to one of them, where I met Matt, also from the Bay Area. He has started his own project here in Kenya that assists street children with their education. There is a surplus of street kids in Nanyuki and Matt is attempting to fund students who truly want to go back to school. Read more about his project here.

Here, I had an incredible milkshake—the best one I have had since I left the states. After a quick tutor session that Ashley was administering, we went back to Daraja Academy, where Ashley, Leah, and Matt live.  To my pleasant surprise, it was on the campus of the once Baraka School, featured in the documentary Boys of Baraka (add it to your Netflix if you haven’t seen it already. It is a film that I used as part of my curriculum in teaching my social justice seminar.) Finding this school has been on my Kenyan bucket list and to see what has become of it since the documentary was made. I can only say that meeting Leah and Ashley in the middle (literally, right in the middle) of Kenya was serendipitous.

Daraja Academy is an interesting and equally wonderful place for students to learn. According to the website, “Daraja Academy is a boarding secondary school for Kenyan girls with top academic scores and exceptional leadership skills but no means to continue their education.  The academy provides shelter, food, healthcare and counseling services which allows students to focus on their academic and personal potential, without being hindered by the everyday barriers of poverty.” Although most students were on their term holidays, I had the chance to meet some Form 4 students (seniors). I was surprised that when I met them I was greeted with a hug! Even the Muslim students felt comfortable doing this. The contrast from my school in Malindi was stark.  At first, I felt so wonderful about this and then, I began to realize that although this was a safe place for girls in the present, how would their lives be after Daraja if they returned to their families with austere social codes?

We really don’t know, as this is the first graduating class from Daraja. However, I began to ponder about the roles of expats in Kenya, recalling an article entitled “The White Savior Industrial Complex” in response to the Kony 2012 video. In my two years for TFA, I felt similar feelings as I do in Kenya: as a white, privileged American, is it my place to inspire change amongst those who lack the privilege that I have been granted through my destined birth? In many ways, in both Africa and TFA, I felt as though I was/am a cultural imperialist, much like, say, the way certain Iraqi citizens view American soldiers. My question always remained as a teacher in DC: is promoting college the best advice I can give in this situation? If a student is happy, why would I promote something that may change this? In southeast DC, where a college education is certainly not the culture, is it my place to attempt to change the way of life? Although my dogmas are not religiously based, I cannot hide that the bare bones of my work are somewhat akin to a spiritual missionary.

These feelings, like the White Savior Industrial Complex, are, for lack of a better term, complex. My intentions are good-- I know that—as does Teju Cole. But, does my activism (as a teacher) fit the bill? In a recent conversation here, my conversation partner and I discussed the roles of women in this culture. He spoke adamantly that a man should never make less income than a woman, that a woman’s place is in the home. There would be an upset in the balance of the relationship if the woman made more money than the man. This “balance,” in the back of my head, was synonymous with power. I obeyed a rule that I have learned in my years—God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason—to listen twice as much as to speak.  All that he was uttering was utterly backwards to my education and upbringing. But again, was it my place to say that his education and upbringing was wrong?  By the end of the conversation, we agreed to disagree, of course. In the end, we both learned about each other's cultures and probably became more visceral about our own ways as being the correct path. This ‘activism,’ therefore, probably wouldn’t gain much momentum, especially if the population is not willing to accept the ideas brought forth by the activist. I believe that this too is true, the ‘outsider’ cannot initiate change; those in the inside must be the ones who initiate it.

In the classroom here, I’m confronted by this notion everyday. When I sing happy birthday to the girls I must say that I feel a little guilty—almost as though Big Brother (aka the administration?) may be watching. The girls love the attention, but does it help that a role model has broken a rule of their prophet? (I can blame some of this on ignorance, some on my Western teaching philosophies.) Daraja may prepare girls for the “Western world,” but will they ever reach there? Will my students in DC reach college (because lofty ambitions and false promises were forced down their throats by all teachers alike) and not because of their own accords?  Will they even have better jobs after college as they were told?

I can’t say that my answer to these questions is polished, but I do have a few resounding thoughts that justify activism—perhaps for me as well as my views on organizations like Daraja. First and foremost, as I began as an educator four years ago, my goal was to promote further education after high school. Now, it is to provide the opportunity for further education after high school. If a student wants to make an ethical, honest living as a  mechanic, I am all for it… if that makes her happy. But I will do my best to give the opportunity to prepare her for life, and if she chooses, further education. As for activism overseas, I can only come to a few conclusions at this time. Primarily, if one person feels that her life has been improved because of any help whatsoever, I can’t help but think that is a step towards the positive. As a white, American male, I understand that I have been dealt good cards.  But does that mean that I can only help other white, American males? What sort of world would that be? (Oh, the Skull and Bones Society? Yes!) I think this is what Teju Cole is lacking in his article, as well. If we only helped those in our same class, race, gender, and country, the world would be seemingly segregated. To give an ethical, educational opportunity to someone through the work that I choose is my goal. No matter who that person is—white, black, male, female, American, Kenyan—the opportunity will be there for the taking.

The rest of my time at Daraja was fantastic. They had a really nice guitar on the compound, so I had a chance to play some tunes with Ashley, who has a wonderful singing voice. We played board games (well, attempted to anyway), ate great food, and even went to some local waterholes at night. Coincidentally, I participated in an activist parade for the street children as well. All in all, it was a wonderful end to a great adventure. Can’t wait until my new friends come and visit me in Malindi!

Signing off,

Adam

A funny blog

Hi all-- I needed to share this... its an incredible blog to sum up my experience...

Crater Lake and Mount Longonot

After my day at Hell’s Gate, I decided to spend the next day exploring around Lake Naivasha, specifically, Green Crater Lake. The bike ride was a hefty 19 km one way and my butt was sore from the gravel roads of Hell’s Gate. Compiled with the lack of pressure in the bicycle’s tires made the 19 kms a bit more difficult.  When the hills became too much of a challenge, I simply walked the bike—I was on vacation!

I love getting up early in the morning when the world is just waking up. I pedaled up and down hills, through small Kenyan villages that all looked the same. Perhaps the highlight of the Crater Lake trip was when I reached a small valley with lots of private game ranches. There, again, as I pedaled along the road were the usual warthogs, impalas, and three friendly giraffes accustomed to humans and vehicles. They didn’t even flinch as I rode by, minding their own leaf-eating business.

I stopped at a small village in the valley to buy a cold soda. I asked for one at a small stand and to my surprise, the dreaded woman at the counter replied, “50 bob.”

“Not thirty?” I asked. (This is the standard price for soda all over the country.)

I knew that she was swindling me. I had on my huge red Osprey backpack on and, well, I was white. I had tourist written all over me.

“Naijua thelathini bob,” (I know it is 30 bob), I said to her, but paid anyway. I gave her a cold stare… I was hoping ot make her feel guilty. I decided to leave a quarter of the soda as an off-handed insult. I guess my reasoning was: 1.) I can afford the extra 20 cents 2.) It is an insult to leave something given to you and 3.) either she had to pour out the soda or drink it to return the glass bottle. I don’t know if any of this worked, but from her confused look on her face after I left, at least I made her think.

Right after the soda break, the beautifully paved roads made way to bumpy dirt roads. To my right the lake stood, and as I looked down to it, I saw that the shore was inhabited by many bright pink boats. I looked again—flamingoes. Hundreds upon hundreds of them.

As I continued on my journey to Crater Lake, (after briefly stopping to admire the flamingoes), and found my way to the gate of the park. I used some finagling to prove that I was a resident of Malindi (my camera with pictures of me teaching) and it actually worked this time!

The lake itself wasn’t too remarkable. With all the rain that we had the past few days the lake was a muddy brown and not green as advertised. I decided to hike around it, as there was a trail around the rim of the crater. The woman at the reception desk stated to simply follow the white trail markers.

I really, really tried to follow instructions. The markers were few and far between. There were so many different trails (made my cattle, buffalo, or zebras?) that one minute I was walking along the ridge and the next I was in the valley beside the lake, looking up at the ridges where I was supposed to be. For some reason, I thought that walking on ridge would keep me safer from wild animals. What if I ran into some aquatic poisonous snake or worse—lions?! As this thought entered my brain, I see through the bush—an animal, brownish and strong. I thought I saw a feline-like tail. (Of course, there are no lions in these parts, but imagination is a dangerous thing.) The animal scurried into the bush before I could a better look.

I bushwhacked on those weird trails as far as I could. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the main compound which contained the restaurant, reception, and bandas. I climped up a hill through unknown (perhaps rash-inducing) fauna to the rim’s edge. After some rock scrambling, I found my way to reception, thankfully getting on my bike and driving back to camp.

That night, as I was watching a soccer match over dinner, the owner of the place explained excitedly that there were five hippos grazing on the water’s edge. Excitedly, I grabbed my camera and made my way down to the electric fence that separated us from the enormous beasts. Slowly, the great grey bodies meandered languidly along the edge, chowing on blades of grass. It was incredible to be so close to such colossal creatures. Although I tried snapping a few shots, the flash was unable to reach them… but it will be a memory that I will always remember.

The next morning I woke up exceptionally early to climb Mount Longonot, a dormant volcano about 30 km away. I returned my bicycle and boarded a matatu for a small village just south of Naivasha. There, I negotiated with a motorbike driver to ride me to the park’s entrance.

The ride out there was spectacular. Approaching the mountain through savanna plain as the day was just beginning was incredible. The air was cold—the driver had a wool hat underneath his helmet and I was really thankful that I had brought my jacket along. Villagers waved as we passed, the sun peaked through the clouds, and dew glistened off the small acacia bushes. We continued on back roads until we reached a metal gate with a guard. It was hardly the National Park that I was hoping for. We soon found out that we had reached private ranch land and that we couldn’t pass—without a price.

Luckily, the driver knew that he was in the wrong (not asking me to pay) and he negotiated with the gateman.  Within minutes, I was at the gate to Mt. Longonot National Park.

Keeping all of my cultural experiences in mind and all of the adventures that I have had in Kenya thus far, I would have to say that climbing this mountain was the best day that I have had in Kenya.  The hike up was something gorgeous—about 8 sandy km up to a tree-laden crater, and then another 11 undulating kms around the rim of the crater. Finally on my own, I felt a sense of independence that I haven’t felt working or being in Kenya. Constrained by a strict school and always waiting for others, I was finally comfortable enough to truly be on my own and navigate this country (and probably other foreign countries, for that matter). As I reached the top of the highest peak of the rim and marveled at the 360 degrees around to the lake, surrounding foothills and villages, I was ecstatic that I had planned this trip in my April vacation. The altitude (over 8,000 feet) was tough on me and I was out of breath more than I expected, but I love the feeling I get at the top of a mountain, perspiring but at peace, cars as ants and world affairs busily happening below.

I descended quickly. The whole trip took only about 4 hours and I humped back to the main road, after a quick stop at a cold drinks spot. Within no time, I had boarded a matatu and was back to Naivaisha to catch another bus down to camp. As soon as we reached town, the rain came quickly and intensely.  Underneath the veranda of a shoe store is where I got into an argument with a local.

To any tourist traveling in Kenya, you understand the annoyance of anyone who has anything for you.  If I am walking in town, without a doubt I will be interrogated by someone trying to sell something— always just a friendly conversation at first and then the incessant pedaling of a trinket or service. I have been offered everything from a ride in a tuk-tuk, a Massai’s wooden club to a ‘good time’ with a prostitute (all in broad daylight, mind you).

As soon as I de-matatued, there were a half dozen people trying to get me to board a motorbike, another matatu, and so forth. I needed to put some calories back in my system, and was looking for a place recommended by The Rough Guide as a good spot for some nyama choma (beef fry), a Kenyan specialty. One service that always seems to happen is that you ask where to go, someone offers to take you to your destination, and then they just want some money for a coke.

As the rain began pouring, I sought refuge in a shoe store and after I finished browsing, made my way out to the veranda to wait for the rain to slow. Here, I was approached by a dozen Kenyans asking where I was going. I kindly explained that I didn’t need any help, just a point in the right direction. A man, with terribly brown teeth (this is very common here), and a baseball cap kept trying to get me on the back of his motorcycle. Hungry and exhausted, I kept saying no. He insisted over and over and over again. He was an annoying old man not making any case for himself.

“I SAID NO, BWANA. THE CONVERSATION IS OVER. STOP TALKING TO ME. I AM FROM HERE. IF I WANTED YOUR HELP, I WOULD HAVE ASKED YOU.”

I try to be a good ambassador to the United States, but its a two way street. It's difficult when people see white and consequentially,  green. People looked at me and at him. Some people started laughing. He kept rambling. In any other circumstance, I would have just walked away, but it was raining so I simply ignored him. After the incident, I found my restaurant, ate, and back down to camp I went.

After I showered, I went to the restaurant to spend the rest of my day reading a book. As I was reading, I heard a familiar accent—Americans! I made small talk with two women my age—Leah and Ashley—both from the Bay area. They were working at a school outside of Nanyuki as a program manager and public relations interns, respectively.  They were on a mini-vacation around the area. It was such a relief to meet some expats… finally!  We talked and grabbed dinner together, and it was decided that I would spend the weekend with them in Nanyuki.  As I said to them, I’m just a leaf in the stream… and how good it felt!

Until next time,

Adam