I'll be traveling to Kisumu and Lake Victoria this weekend, so I won't really have a chance to write. I have been meaning to write this blog for a long time, but have been so busy with school, soccer and life that I haven't gotten around to it. As my Swahili gets better, my English is getting worse, so spare me from grammar corrections. So here it goes...
Things that are less expensive in Kenya:
On a whole, everything is much less expensive here. The quality of most goods, though, are pretty poor and almost everything is "Made in China." But here's a nice little list for all who are curious.
1.) Rent: If I were living in the bush or the slums, there would be no rent whatsoever, but living in an apartment, I pay very little- about 150 a month. Thinking back, though, I remember in Pittsburgh, Corey and Larry paid some ridiculously low fee (was it 250 a month?) I guess it is all relative. After living in NYC and DC, this rent is a miracle.
2.) Swahili Restaurants: Eating out is cheap at Swahili restaurants. I bought chicken, rice, and a soda for about 2 dollars tonight. Somosas (see Chakula post) are about 30 cents each. You could easily eat a satisfying meal for about 3 bucks. If you aren't accustomed to the food, though, you pay for it that night in the form of a gastrointestinal loan to the porcelain.
3.) Local produce: Oranges are about 3 for ten cents, mangoes are twenty cents a piece. Peppers, onions, and carrots are a little over a buck for a kilo. A kilo is a massive amount of vegetables. I usually by all my produce for about a buck or 1.50 a week.
4.) Taxi service/buses: To take a tuk-tuk to anywhere around town in the daytime is about 60 cents a ride. To the next town is about 2 bucks. If you ride a matatu down to mombassa, its about 4 bucks-- the equivalent to traveling 1.5 hours in a car. Can't beat it.
5.) Mobile phone service: I guess this depends on how much you call people. The start-up fees are close to nil-- about 3 bucks, and there are no contracts or obligations. Then, you just buy what you use (aka, in Wire speak, 'burners.') I get 3 'bob' (equivalent to cents) a minute. A 20 minute phone call to anywhere costs about 70 cents, depending on the currency exchange rate. To 'top off,' you simply buy scratch off tickets (think instant lottery cards) of a predetermined amount and plug the digits into your phone. The only tricky part-- if you scratch to hard, you won't see the numbers and the cards are worthless. I learned the hard way.
6.) Sodas: One of my favorite things here in Kenya-- the reusable glass bottles. It makes sodas cheap-- about 30 bob for 300 mL. So delicious-- with real cane sugar!
7.) Last but not least, my favorite steal of Kenya-- movies. Bootleg movies are incredible... somehow they manage to get 20 movies on one DVD. My favorite purchase thus far: Matt Damon vs. Leonardo DiCaprio-- 2 dozen movies starring those two actors for a buck and change. The quality is suprisingly good, but don't put on the closed captions-- the Chinese translate them terribly.
Items that cost roughly the same in the states
1.) Bottled water: Supply meets demand on this one for us of the western world. Kenyans are used to drinking the bacteria in their local water sources; we aren't. You can get a bottle of water at around 40 bob, which is comparable to a grocery store in USA.
2.) Internet access: Unlimited internet access at 3,000 shillings a month (about 35 bucks).
3.) Bread: A half loaf of white bread costs about 50 bob.
4.) Tourist food: Any place that serves pizza will cost you roughly what it would cost in the United States. A personal margherita pizza costs about 8 bucks, fish and seafood dishes can go up to 15.
5.) International mail: About a dollar for a letter.
6.) Clothing: Really, I just didn't know where to place this. All clothing here is second-hand. It is cheaper, but not new. I bought a pair of pants for about 3 or 4 bucks, which is equivalent to a Goodwill.
What's more expensive
1. Foods at a grocery store: In the US, it makes fiscal cents to cook at home. Not in Kenya. Grocery store food is more expensive than going out to a restaurant. I'm sure that if I made Swahili dishes, I would save a buck or two, but things like pasta and tomato sauce are much more expensive here. Cheese is ridiculous and sliced deli meat is out of this world. Pasta can cost anywhere from 2 dollars to 5 dollars a pound. I think the turkey was about 8 bucks for a half pound.
2.) Gasoline: Gas or 'petrol' is a little over a dollar a liter, which translates to over 4 dollars a gallon. Americans need to stop using so much gasoline. It is time to downsize the cars.
3.) Certain Furniture: In one of my posts, I described a carpenter ant infested chest of drawers that went for 200 bones. However, my roommate got his bed frame for about 70 bucks. Which leads me to my next item...
4.) Being white: If you are white, you are going to be charged extra. You just have to be smart, travel with a Kenyan friend, and know the prices!
Signing off,
J
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Lamu is Tamu
The Rough Guide for Kenya states that Lamu is “the best worst-kept secret on the coast. All the senses get a full workout here, so that actually doing anything is sometimes a problem. You can spend hours on a roof or veranda just watching the town go by... If this doesn’t hit the right note for you, you might actually rather hate Lamu; hot, dirty, and boring are adjectives that have been applied by sane and pleasant people.”
My sentiments would fall under the first camp, albeit, with a caveat.
Lamu is a gorgeous, historical town. Plus, the whole weekend was another adventure.
On Thursdays, I teach in the boys in Ganda (pics posted on my Facebook page). This is my favorite time of the week when I can ride out past the hustle (literally) and bustle of the city and find myself amongst the dirt roads, traditional houses, gigantic anthill… to a school and a farm. It reminds me, in a peculiar way, of Maine.
On this particular Thursday, I had finished teaching and I was getting ready to depart when the Director of School came to greet me. This man wheels and deals all around Malindi when it comes to educational initiatives. He has opened the schools where I teach and he is a lecturer of education at Pwani Univeristy. He is a kind, jovial, well-traveled and bright man.
“Do you want to come to Lamu? We’re leaving this afternoon. All expenses paid. You would be an asset to the students there.”
I hesitated for a minute—I was just about to leave. No real plans for the night, anyway.
“When would we be back?”
“Sunday.”
I thought that he would say late on Thursday night (I had no idea it was a 3.5 hour drive). I hesitated again, but finally agreed. I’ve heard only good things of Lamu, and at the time, the Mawlid festival for the birth of the prophet was occurring. I had recently seen a video about donkey races, swimming events for this holiday—sort of like an Arab-Kenyan lumberjack competition.
That afternoon, like many afternoons, we played the waiting game. The driver was terribly late and I still needed to stop home (like the professor said that I would). When we got my place, he said, “Make it quick will you?”
Now, I waited for close to an hour and a half in the school’s office, so this hypocritical imperative did not sit well in my own head. So, I gathered everything that I thought that I needed—laptop, Kindle, clothes… when the professor popped his head in the door:
“We need to get going.”
Yeah, I was a bit steamed… it certainly wasn’t my fault we were late. All in all, I forgot my malaria meds (thank god there were no mosquitoes there), toothbrush, and sandals.
We made it to Lamu after driving on a ridiculously bumpy road. In certain places on this barra barra, there were huge piles of stones that the driver needed to weave his way through. Since Lamu is an island, we reached the dock, watched the sun set (it does so incredibly quickly, I may add), and shot across the bay to the jetty.
Lamu is a beautiful town right on the water. There were many wooden boats (see pics) and surprisingly, there is no beach, but just a concrete “boardwalk” that lines along the water as if it were a dike. (This is the best way I can explain it in a sentence-- check out the photos). There is one jetty that all passenger boats must unload. After unloading, we walked to our hotel. It was a typical Kenyan set-up: small, modest restaurant on the first floor and rooms above…
We walked in the hotel and after briefly talking with the owner, we made way to the rooms. He opened the room up to a small room, one queen-sized bed, a seemingly mis-placed flat screen TV on the wall, and a bathroom that had no separation from the toilet and the shower (similar to my bathroom at my house, but of nicer quality).
“I hope you don’t mind sharing the bed,” the professor stated while entering.
Now, I admit that I’ve shared beds with men before. Usually, though, I know these men for quite some time. They are good friends—like, for example, in New York on Noura/Ryan’s air mattress, with Alfredo or Greg… or on New Years this year when beds were limited. I have never shared a bed (save with father) who was over 50 years of age and one who I didn’t really know that well. But what else could I have done?
“Of course not.”
He then gave me some time to shower as he caught up with colleagues. There was no shampoo (What Kenyan needs shampoo? [According to a five year old here, my hair felt like it should belong to a horse]) and I didn’t know for the first water-only shower, but “Imperial Leather” is a soap. I opened this small package out of curiosity the next day.
That night, I put on my first kanzu, a long robe worn by Muslims (to look more Turkish Muslim the Somalia border), and we zigzagged through the narrow streets to find a huge mosque on the top of a hill. Prayers were said to welcome the prophet and I was, again, bored. My cohort was not praying, but just sitting. This is something that will take me awhile to get used to. Sitting in silence is something that Kenyans do often. No conversation, just sitting.
We then, got lost on the way home. I don’t know how this happened. Again, I just followed until my feet hurt from those terrible shoes that were stolen days later. I asked where we were going, and they said back to the hotel. They were clearly lost. I have no idea how this happened.
Now, Lamu’s streets are incredibly narrow. There are 20,000 people in the city and their houses and shops are very close together. The ‘streets’ are more like sidewalks. The main source of transportation is not motorcycle or tuk-tuk… but the small eeeeh-awwwing equine itself, the donkey. In fact, there are 60,000 donkeys in Lamu and only two working cars (they are all but useless really). With this many mammals, there is surely going to be lots of shit.
So, wearing the shoes on was a double-edged sword, really. My toes were bleeding, yes, but they were protected from mini-horse dookie. I couldn’t really see anything, winding through these narrow streets, past houses made of corral stone, slim walkways with seemingly no sewage system (or sometimes an exposed irrigation-like poop shoot). We walked on concrete, dust, sand and dirt. We meandered up and down small hills. We asked for directions. We finally found our hotel room. I was hot again but passed out alongside the professor. I woke up in the middle of the night, freezing from the AC unit (another double-edged sword) and finding that the professor slept soundly wrapped in the gentle white sheet cocoon.
The next two days were truly remarkable. The professor set me up with a friend, Mundir, who would be my tour guide for the days to come. We went first to a shop to find sandals (they were stolen too, see last post), and then around the city. We walked into shops, the fort, the markets. We walked to Sheila, a neighborhood there, and I met an interesting character—Tutti Frutti—a beach boy with a boat. He was so happy… I expect that he had probably just smoked some pot—he was just so pleasant. He admitted that he was partying all last night and then he introduced me to his boss—Vardan-- a friendly man from Armenia who had been working in Lamu for television. He also was starting his own parasailing business in Lamu. (Hence Tutti’s boat). Later in the weekend, Vardan and I got dinner and showed me some of his work about Lamu’s donkeys.
That evening, we saw some of the Mawlid festivities. There are parades in which groups sing and perform throughout the streets—something really great. We missed the donkey races (this is why we were in such a rush on Thursday), but we managed to catch the procession.
On Sunday, I was ready to go back, but we needed to do a presentation at some of the schools on another island. What I didn’t know, was that these presentations were simply the professor and his colleagues lecturing about the advantages and benefits of education for FOUR HOURS. Plus, although subjects are being taught in English, the children on these remote island villages are so behind, that many teens are still in primary school. Therefore, their English is mediocre at best, so I sat for FOUR HOURS, listening to SWAHILI. The professor saw that I was restless and asked if I was bored. There was no use lying.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Stories from My Porch
First of all, I am sorry that I don’t have a picture of my haircut. When I get another cut (if that happens), I’ll be sure to post. My camera’s battery is on the fritz; I think because of the electrical conversion.
-----------------------------------
The porch- a place of merriment, respite, and relaxation. Haven of beer, cigars, and mid-day thunderstorm watching. Many a night in the states, my friends would gather on my family’s porch in Pittsburgh, drinking a few brews, chatting about trivial affairs. A porch is a staple of the American summer—citronella candles, seasonal furniture, musical instruments. What is not to love about a porch?
Two things (that coincidentally slant rhyme): bees and thieves.
Part 1
Early last week, as I groggily meandered into the sitting room to iron some clothes at about 6 in the morning, I heard a din of the buzz. Right away, I knew that this wasn’t a handful of insects—this reverberation screamed of plague-ish proportions. The deafening echo was coming from my porch, so I drew back the curtains… only to find that hundreds of bees infiltrated it, allowing no living thing to pass into or out of our house. They lined the walls and the ceiling, fifty or so were dead on the floor, and they were all attracted to one spherical object: our small (but bright) halogen light bulb that was emitting rays of artificial light.
“Oh my god,” I uttered. Only to hear a:
“Mr. J, don’t come outside!” (This was my roommate. Sometimes he calls me Mr. J).
My roommate had gone early to the mosque to pray on this Thursday, something that he normally does not do. He left early—probably around 5 am—and turned on the light to guide his path. He left it on, not thinking that there would be any repercussions. Boy was he wrong.
The massive beehive on our building had been growing for some time (see the picture in previous posts). The bees, mistaking our porch light for sun in the darkness before dawn, were using it as an compass—guiding them to pollen. The bees were thrown off course, of course. Some unfortunate Icaruses (Icarusi?)flew too close to the pseudo-sun and perished in this search, only to be swept away by my broom later in the day.
My roommate asked for a cloth sheet so that he could cover himself to get back into the house. I quickly opened the door, threw him it, and he waddled his way back into the house. Fortunately, the bees stung neither of us… and when the real sun came back, they left our home. Dads around the world are probably rejoicing—another solid reason that you should shut off the lights when you aren’t using them.
Part 2
We live on the ground level. Pros: No stairs to walk up, easy access in and out of the apartment. Cons: thievery.
We take enormous precautions when it comes to safety here. We live in a gated community; we have a separate lock for our porch, and then we a lock on the door. Our neighborhood is quiet and safe.
It is custom to take shoes off before entering homes here in Kenya. The reasons for this is simple—as stated in last posts, this place is dusty. Dragging dirt into homes, as humble as some of them are, just make them a mess. Plus, if you live in Lamu, you are certain to drag donkey shit into your house. But I digress.
Due to my roommate’s vigilant effort to remove his shoes before entering, I too have been obeying this custom. We simply leave our shoes on our porch, (again, which is locked). The next day, we put them on and shine them (daily) and go to work.
On Monday morning, I get a knock at my bedroom door around 8am. My roommate is there, saying something to the effect of “our stuff is gone.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I expected the worse… someway, somehow, someone had gotten INTO the house and stole our tv, dvd player (that has only played downloaded pop music videos to this day), the fridge (my favorite apparatus from the western world), etc. He showed me to the porch, where our line-up of shoes had disappeared—save two pair, Abubakar’s four shoes that were closest to the door.
I actually wasn’t really all that disappointed. The pair of leather shoes that I brought over was on the porch, but I couldn’t wear them anyway. Walking on the uneven roads with them had given me a main toe infection. No loss there. Another pair of run-down flip-flops were stolen of mine, which were not great for walking on the roads anyway.
The biggest loss was a brand new pair of Tevas that I bought in Lamu this past weekend. But, really, I am fortunate that nothing of much value was on the porch. Abubakar lost four pairs of shoes, but his nice leather shoes were spared.
The thieves came in the middle of the night, climbing over the part of the gate that does not have barbed wire on it. It is a very small section because there is an adjacent roof that blocks any intruders from getting in. This person had to be really skinny or a child—because they squeezed their way through. We saw his footprints (literally, of a foot with no shoes on) on the white concrete wall of the gate. Using a stick with a wire attached to the end of it, the thief fished for our shoes and sandals from our gated porch, all at around 3 in the morning.
My roommate knew not to leave things on the porch and was kicking himself for it—this was common sense. I guess that I am too trusting, I suppose. I will not leave anything on the porch that can be passed through those metal bars again. It shows, too, the level of need that these communities have—to steal second-hand shoes and sell them at next to nothing to have some pocket money. It saddens me a great deal.
If only the bees could have come the same day of the thieves… THAT would have made a great story.
Signing off,
Adam
Friday, February 10, 2012
My New African Haircut
In the past 5 years, I have received haircuts in just about every venue imaginable in the United States. In Pennsylvania, I’ve gotten my ‘ears lowered’ at the lowliest of hair management joints (Supercuts) as well as my nostalgic childhood hair salon, Lu Chic in Aspinwall. (‘Chich’ is still cutting hair there and is still one of the nicest people ever. She cuts a mean hairdo, too.) I’ve been to the coast of Maine, where a cute 21 year-old had dropped out of school to cut hair (she was also exceedingly kind, come to think of it) and to countless places in Ann Arbor, searching for the cheapest ‘buzzer cut.’ Most recently, I’ve been to New York City, where I received the best (and surprisingly least expensive) haircut to date from a Russian Jew named Bruno or Brutus (his accent was so thick) who had huge hands… but his digits worked so delicately with a hair dryer. I’ve even cut my own hair—using clippers, scissors, and once a beard trimmer (this was a bad idea) and made countless messes in countless bathroom, causing countless sinks and tubs to be clogged. In Washington DC, I accidently got a ‘fade’ from a Korean barber, which I hated with a passion but all my students loved—“Nice fade, Mr. J!”
All of these haircutting experiences are dwarfed by the one that I had on Monday night.
My roommate had been mentioning about us getting a haircut and a shave together for about two weeks. As I get to know my roommate better, I have noticed his perfection when it comes to cleanliness and neatness—which is shared by many well-to-do Kenyans. I think that it is a sign of class distinction. He irons his clothes for a long time (wrinkles=crime!) and he showers twice to three times a day. He gets a cut and shave about 3 times a month. I think that he was starting to get a little anxious about my appearance.
Okay, so,I like to go a little wolfman every once and awhile… see how burly I can get my beard to be. As the Chewonkites know, my beard has ‘speed patches,’ (coined by none other than the furriest Sorting Hat himself—Jason Chandler) that give me incredible agility on the Frisbee pitch. Aka, my beard does not get too burly.
Regardless, it seemed like this year the good old face-warmer was really having a great year. The speed patches had grown in a bit—Celeste thinks it has to do with the heat here in Malindi—and I wanted to get a decently bushy one going. But Abu Bakar kept insisting.
I needed a haircut, anyway—I wasn’t on the Long Trail anymore. So I succumbed to the pressure and went along. Don’t worry—I first asked about the sanitation. Razors in Africa? A little scary. Abubakar assured me that we got our own blade and that they sanitized everything before it met the scalp. Phew.
We walked into a neighborhood that looked like all the rest—little shops that sold Coke in glass bottles, candy, shoe polish, other sundry items. The roads dusty, the shops dustier. We came to a little store with bright lights and there she was—our barbershop.
I don’t remember the name of it—I was decently overwhelmed—but there was a bench outside where ‘the crew’ hung out. There was a huge window in the front, so I saw into a well-lit, dirty white room with four seats all facing one long mirror. Of course, I was the only white man there, just about anywhere in these little neighborhoods, but it didn’t really matter. My barber looked Arab-Kenyan, like many do in Malindi—but he was more on the Arab side. He had well-manicured hair (come to think of it, everyone does in hair places), but his haircut resembled somewhat of the New York Italian persuasion. Chiseled out sideburns, nice fade (Mr. J!), and the curly top.
I took a seat on what resembled an old computer chair. The counter was a dirty off-white, there was a basket with combs and other assorted tools. I asked him if he used scissors. No, he said. (Of course not, what African would need scissors for his hair?) He then put a holey rag over my shoulders and asked me how I wanted it.
“Not too short.”
(Probably the most common answer in the history of barbershops.)
He began with the sides with the buzzer. I took a look at them—Wahl brand, not bad. Of course they were dirty—everything is in Africa—but they worked well. Plus, he did use that alcohol sanitation. There were posters of just about every decent English football club there was adorned on the walls and ceiling. Above the mirror near me was an 8x11 sheet of paper that had the different haircuts that they offered. I only recognized one—‘the blowout’ (figures) and was very curious about what a ‘scrub’ was. I then noticed that the basket was on top of something—an old microwave from the 1990s.
“Why do you have a microwave in here?”
“You get a free hot dog after your haircut!” I thought this could be serious, but everyone laughed.
Okay, so his haircut was subpar. What do you expect? How many mzungus come into that place? He used the buzzers unevenly on the top of my head. But, it is pretty short (it always is, except with Bruno), so I probably won’t go back for a few months.
But, I do admit, his beard work was exquisite. He took his time, used the razor to make my ‘edge.’ He evened out my cheek follicles. He got the moustache under control. It is the best my beard has ever looked.
As I was leaving, I asked Abu Bakar how much it cost (he still pays for things even though I insist). 150 shillings (about 2 dollars, depending on the exchange rate)! What a deal!
Later, he admitted that I was starting to look like Jesus.
“But he was a prophet, too!!”
This is a huge bees' nest that has a funny story to go along with it. Stay posted.
The street to my house!
Because everyone asks for them....
Monday, February 6, 2012
Kenyan Time
For all of you who have traveled to different countries or if you are Eric Burnett, you understand that American time is a vast exception to the world. For the first 26 years of my life, I have been decently punctual. I blame this on my family. Every Christmas, we need to get a seat, so we depart our home at least thirty minutes before mass begins. “Better early than late” is our motto in this household. In college, I was that annoying kid who would be sitting outside the lecture hall before an exam, feverishly going over flashcards. Nowadays, I always travel with a book or magazine in case I will be waiting for someone or some function to start.
I’ve finished my fair share of novels in Kenya. (Really, for all of you who haven’t read Tom Robbins, I would advise visiting your local library.)
My trip to Mombassa this past weekend propelled me to a new level of understanding Kenyan Time. My roommate mentioned that we would be leaving on Saturday morning to go to Mombassa to visit his uncle. I was ecstatic; I have been desperately missing my banjo and interestingly, with all the rich musical culture Africa has, there aren’t any acoustic instruments to play around here (or so I thought… keep reading). He said that he knew of a music shop and my chances of finding one there were far better than up the coast in Malindi. If nothing else, he knew that they sold guitars and I could pick one up there.
In the morning, I went to the school (our usual meeting place), only to discover that he needed to do some business in our brother school. He said that he would be back around noon or one.
Three Scrabble games and a ‘are you okay?’ text message later…. it was 3 o’clock and he was finally back. I was pumped and ready to go. But nope, we had to wait for his aunt, and my “boss,” aka the Principal of the school. (By the way, this city is like camp, everyone is related somehow).
At 5PM, with 7 human beings packed in the car—my roommate, the principal, and her four watoto, we were barreling down the coast to Mombassa. By the time we got there, I was hungry and tired. We stopped at two more relatives’ houses where I sat idly in the car playing Snake on my old-school Nokia phone.
We stayed at Abu Bakar’s uncle’s home. I have one picture of the living room here—but it was an extremely humble place in Old Port. The next morning, I was so excited to find my musical instrument. We got in the car and made our way to the music shop… nope, we had to eat first. Chai, goat meat, rice (what else?), and then we were on our way. Nope, we went to another relatives house. I understood little of what they were saying. We did this much of the morning—from relative’s house to relative’s house, watching crappily-dubbed Mexican soap operas and reruns of The Big Bang Theory (how the hell show did that win any Emmys?) I just went along, having no idea what was going on. More Snake, more waiting.
Finally, we pull up to the music shop. Closed on Sundays.
When we finally reached home Sunday night around 11 PM, I resolved to get the guitar/banjo by myself in Mombassa the next weekend. But last week, luck was on my side! I found a little music shop in Malindi selling electric guitars and I asked if they could place an order for a banjo. They said that someone had come in trying to sell one recently, but no one had interest in it. I said that I did… so they said they would find the guy… and to come back today—Monday, Februay 6th, 2012.
I walked up to the store today…
Closed. I guess everyone operates on his/her own watch. Let’s pray they could find a banjo in the interim. (Probably not likely).
Signing off,
Adam
PS- My high score in Snake is 3056, I bet none of you can beat it.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Football and Independence
Happy Groundhog Day! I’ve been teaching this holiday all week—the students are very confused, but they love it. I have been showing them pictures of what a groundhog looks like as well as using the tongue twister—how much wood could a woodchuck chuck? I simply explain the meaning of the tongue twister and then transition to the kooky holiday. When I come back to the United States, I am going to take this day off at my next job and travel upstate to Punxsutawney to see what that overfed rodent has to say about February in Pittsburgh. But I digress.
This week marks a transition. I am definitely feeling more comfortable here and liking each passing day. I feel confident around the town and my roommate is letting me go to work alone. (After three unsuccessful attempts of getting keys copied, we finally have two separate sets). I understand the price of taxis and cost of three oranges(ten cents, give or take). It is a really great feeling. My favorite days are Thursday when I can go to Ganda, our boy’s school. It is out in the bush and is beautiful, has a soccer pitch and a farm. It reminds me of some of my personal goals when I come back to the states.
Also, I am exercising more—and if you know me well—is essential. Okay, I understand these past three paragraphs were more or less a “I had a dream last night, let me tell you about it “ ego-centric rambling, so let me tell you about soccer here. I am training with a team called Malindi United. Every Tuesday, I coach volleyball to our girls, but the owner saw me juggling a soccer ball and asked if I wanted to stick around to train. I said sure… changed my clothes and met the program manager—and ex-professional Italian player. We talked for a bit and he has created more or less a scouting program in Kenya. He sets up training, games, and travel (for free, mind you) and in return, these very talented teenagers are allowed to play each other’s towns. A pair of the players them have been going to play in Italy as part of their training to become professional. The players are very, very good. They don’t mind who comes to play, though, and accepted the mzungu with open arms. I thought that I could help out with coaching, but once I saw them playing, I couldn’t resist. I had a decent session (with my limited skill set) and I think that I will be back to a decent touch in about two weeks. You should read more about it here… a cool program: http://www.malindiunited.net/ and some more news about the players: http://www.futaa.com/football/article/Malindi-United-Italy-pair-to-return-for-paper-processing-in-late-September.
Perhaps the coolest part of soccer though, is the ‘lawnmowers’—a flock (or herd?) of goats that simply chew the grass down so that we can play.
I must teach soon, so I will write about Mombassa (including some pictures) next post. Hope you all are doing well. Saw the Pens lost... and GO GIANTS!
-Adam
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