Nairobi Commode-tion

In high school, one of my most memorable “achievements’” had been my role in the musical version of the Wizard of Oz: Uncle Henry, a minor principal character and a stoic Kansas farmer. In my own mind, my acting coach—Ms. Milner—possessed glaring similarities with my character. Brusque, curt, and straightforward, Ms. Milner explained to me the ways in which I needed to compose my body to pull off a hardened cultivator. Her one and only piece of advice that I actually recall was to “pretend that a quarter dollar is placed in between your butt cheeks” to represent the posture of a rigid sexagenarian. For weeks leading up to the performance, my glutes were clenched tightly, seemingly suffocating our first president in a mephitic abyss. Never did I think that this skill would could in handy again, but it did, almost a decade later in Nairobi.

Earlier this month I was asked to come to Nairobi to help orient the new Fulbright ETA. The orientation went without a hitch and Naeemah and I get along great. The ‘hitch’ though, occurred within the accommodations where I stayed for two nights: our sister school in Nairobi, on a foam mattress on the floor.

It all started on the first of this month, April Fool’s Day and Abubakar’s birthday. I told him that I would take him out anywhere that he wished for his birthday and to my glorious surprise, he chose Pizza Inn, an Americanesqe fast food pizza joint. I gorged myself on a delicious pie. My first taste of American food sent me on a voracious downward spiral of gluttony. I paid for it tenfold.

At around 5AM, I was sprinting to the bathroom with those omnipresent Kenyan stomach rumblings that have defined my experience in Africa. The only difference this time, though, was that I was not in the comfort of my own seatless toilet, but in a Muslim school.

Coastal Kenyan Muslims withhold traditions of their prophet with zeal. Men dye their beards a bright red, dogs cannot be pets, women dancing with men is forbidden, etc. These traditions are difficult to comprehend in a western, Christian mind. The most aghast I have been about tradition involves bathroom etiquette.  One night in Mombassa, Abubakar explained this to me as the end-all be-all, no other way. Below is a paraphrased conversation:

“So, you don’t use toilet paper at all?”

“No—see, it’s unpure. Water is pure.”

“How do you get water in there? How do you clean it?”

“We use our left hand.”

“Without toilet paper first?”

“Toilet paper is unpure. Water is the universal cleanser. You can tell by the color and smell of your hand if everything is clean.”

“But you don’t use toilet paper FIRST?!””

Abubakar also explained that using toilet paper doesn’t always clean everything—that it does an unfit job in disinfecting. The only issue, is, that soap (antibacterial or otherwise) is often nonexistent in Kenyan bathrooms… so water has to do—even after the initial cleansing. After hearing this, I made certain to never let anyone come close to me with their left hand. Ever.

All of this knowledge did not aid me in my current situation.  It did not help either that Kenya toilets are more or less the in-ground pools of toilets. They flush, but there are no seats and one must squat the entire time.

I won’t actually go into much further detail about the actual ‘number two’ process’ but the events that surrounded it seem to be a microcosm of my experience here in Kenya so far: uncomfortable with a side of education.

There was no light—let alone light bulb—in the bathroom. One of my most appreciated features of my Nokia brick phone is that it is a “mulika mwizi,” literally translating to “illuminate the thief.” It has a small flashlight on it that has come in handy numerous occasions. This was one of those times.

In the dim light of my phone’s flashlight, shadows of mosquitoes danced intermittently on the concrete floor and I feared the epicenter of oncoming malaria would occur on terribly vulnerable body parts. I needed to make certain that this was a ‘one and done’ sort of affair, as the impending event would surely be very unpleasant: the southpaw sanitization.

Next to the toilet laid a spigot and a pitcher, both used to assist you in this task. I filled the pitcher with my right hand and tried to pour a little down my backside. After a few futile attempts, I decided to employ Ms. Milner’s advice, clenching to the shower for a thorough, full body wash. One main obstacle stood in my way—deciphering how to flush the commode. At first, it seemed simple and straightforward.  Above the toilet was a large steel tank with a chain lever. I pulled on the chain. Nothing happened. Okay, just fill up the tank with water, I told myself. The tank, though, stood about six and a half feet off the ground and I was still pinching that quarter dollar. The mental image that you have now is probably too much, so I’ll spare you details about my precarious position.

I filled up the tank cautiously, one hand lifting the very heavy steel lid, the other pouring a pitcher of water into the tank. My first attempted proved fruitless—not enough aqua. I tried again, filling the tank with more water. As the last drops drained from the pitcher, my grip on the heavy, awkward lid slipped. There was a large crash (enough to wake up everyone in the school) and then, a Christmas miracle in April: water began spewing into the toilet.

Whispering but audible I exclaimed, “I did it! I made it flush!” I may have broken the lever with my slip of hand, but it didn’t matter… I was home free to the shower. Or so I thought.

I turned on the shower and to my pleasant surprise, the water was warm, something I hadn’t experienced in months. Within 30 seconds, though, the water could make any lobster turn red. There was no fine control of the temperature here—the heater is either on or off. Scalding, I turned the water off. In some backwards logic, I discovered that if the water came out in a steady piss-like stream (akin to the shower in 1225 White Street, Ann Arbor), it would be cold.  It didn’t make any sense to me—like so many things in Kenya—but at least I could bath myself.  I cleaned all that was necessary and was thankful that this experience was over.

On the Long Trail, I didn’t mind using outhouses. Other than the spider webs, it was a nice way to start the morning. This experience, though, is one that I could have done without. As all of you sit on your plush porcelain seats, having the ability to flush on command, be thankful you’re not in Kenya.

Signing off,

Adam