Day 2: I awoke with an employee of the airport hovering over me and as soon as I had opened my eyes he asked me "Are you going to move?" I responded curtly that I would as soon as I was rested and, after watching him walk away and feeling as though I had won the bizarrely rude confrontation, wrapped my sleeping bag up, put on my belt and shoes, and walked off to find a different bench. Walking across an airport that you have never been to and do not care to stay at at dawn is a task not done without some internal complaining; however, I arrived in the food court and found a semi-circular bench that looked like it would do well enough, and I passed out again for another hour or two. I awoke this time with many people staring at me, but not for the same reason as the airport employee; I knew parts of my hair were standing on end, and that I had worn my contacts the previous day when I knew I shouldn't have. I looked like death warmed over. So, again, I collected my things and this time headed to the nearest bathroom to take a dry shower, so to speak, and to try to pull myself together a bit. The remainder of the day was unventful, aside from spotting and being received by a Samuel Adams Bar after passing through the security gate. It was like seeing water in the desert and I helped myself to some Summer Ale and Cherry Wheat before I stepped off to my gate, already being half-asleep and feeling half-drunk afterward. I plopped down in a chair at my gate with some makimono, a smoothie with a shit-ton of Vitamin C (yes, mom, I am watching out for my health everyday; still haven't smoked a cigarette!), and my head feeling warm and heavy. After eating, I read another chapter of The Motorcycle Diaries and literally passed out during the last paragraph of the chapter. I awoke with a slight amount of drool on my face and, feeling a bit embarrassed and disoriented, decided to make one last trip to the bathroom before my flight departed. Good thing; I suppose the depth of my sleep dictated how horrid I was to look after awaking, because this time I could barely pick out a patch of blue in my pupils amidst the red haze of the remainder of my eyes. I walked back to the gate and read until we were ready to depart. The flight was, thankfully, nothing to speak of. I met a pleasant, plump man with a fantastic sense of humor named Matthew that was on his way to London, then France, for business. We talked for a bit and I slept the rest of the way.
Day 3: I awoke to a child having a less than pleasant experience being stuck on a plane for approximately 8 hours and looked over to find my new friend awake. He stated that he never did sleep well on international flights, adding to the effects of jet lag. I felt rested, but still a little fried from the happenings of the past few days, as well as having my legs cramped from all of the sitting on planes and half-crunches I was doing in sleeping on a bench at JFK. Regardless of how my body felt, it was now hovering over England and preparing to touch down at Heathrow Airport; finally something to take some stock in. I left the gate in a hurry, remembering how close I had come to catching my initial flight in NYC to London and making an internal promise that I would not let the same happen again. I took care of a couple of tasks that could not be done without; obtaining some coffee, taking my second dry shower, and attempting to make a call home and to the volunteer agency in Kenya to arrange for a new pick-up time from Jomo-Kenyatta airport. The latter of these three tasks took the longest time and proved to be the biggest waste of time, simultaneously. Even with an internation calling card and the slight assistance of an operator I found myself incapable of contacting those who needed to be contacted. Somehow the 110 minute layover had expired in almost no time at all, and I boarded a coach that would take me to the gate for my final departure: London to Nairobi. I saw a girl who I would later come to know as Clair standing across from me on the coach that I knew, with 99% certainty, was a fellow volunteer. She was wearing an expression of steady eagerness and looked externally the way that I felt internally. I didn't buy into my intuition, as I thought it was probably compromised from the lack of sleep, and the remaining 1% uncertainty made it such that it would be wholly uncomfortable if I were wrong. However, I found out later I was dead on the mark, as we both ended up meeting the first day of orientation and recognized each other from that day on the coach. But, back to the present... We arrived at the gate and I stumbled across the rows to my seat near the middle of the plane. I found myself sitting next to a girl who had been offered work in Kenya traveling to Kerichio to establish intellectual property rights for a tribe that was developing a specific brand of tea; a sort of economical Gregor Mendel. On the other side sat Clifford, a native of Kenya that was on his way home to visit his family after working on developmental projects in D.C. for a little over 9 months; needless to say, his eagerness outweighed my own, bordering anxiety if he weren't so happy to be on his way home. Cliff was gracious enough to teach me some useful phrases in Swahili and give me a rough guide to Kenya's culture. The girl, Charlotte, was very pleasant and had a fantastic sense of humor, but her extroversion was stunted by the fact that I was far too exhausted to be flirtatious. Either way, it was a good flight to end my journey on. Cliff and I exchanged emails and Charlotte and I agreed that we would purchase our visas and collect our luggage together: friends made. While the visas were fairly straight forward, the luggage was not. As of now, I am still waiting on a bag that contains my first aid kit, CLIF and granola bars, and some very useful shit when it comes time to go on safari. As for that night, I was missing all three bags. I filed a report with the baggage department at Jomo-Kenyatta airport and decided that I would not allow my lack-thereof to keep me from enjoying the country that I had dreamed of being in for the past two years. I walked out front and was pleasantly surprised to find a driver from my volunteer agency, accompanied by four or five other volunteers. I greeted them all, exasperated but trying to hide it, and the driver escorted us to a conversion van that would take us to our respective accommodations for the night. We all made fairly generic conversation about where we were from, what our projects were, and what made us want to volunteer; what's important is that I arrived at my accommodation, with another volunteer named Erik, and was greeted with smiles food. I had made the mistake of not requesting ahead vegan meals on the plane and, as such, I had eaten two CLIF bars and two rolls with Italian dressing the entire day. As soon as I sat down I felt I had something in common with the hyenas I knew to inhabit my new home country. I managed to put away four slices of bread and three apples before feeling as though I would burst at the seems with fiber and carbohydrates. I spoke to my host family long enough to not appear rude and asked to be directed to my room. I. PASSED. OUT.
Day 4: The next morning I awoke with sleep almost sealing my eyes shut and a familiar, wet feeling against the side of my cheek; I woke up smiling. Not only had I finally gotten the sleep I needed for the past 72 hours, but also managed to completely eliminate any chance of jet-lag setting in whatsoever. Coming in at a close second was a hot shower, and I felt right as rain. Breakfast was fantastic, and very vegan-friendly on account of the frugality that must be practiced by most Kenyans. Animal products are used sparingly and foods are not prepared or processed with eggs, milk, or butter to nearly the same ridiculous extent as what is found in the U.S. I helped myself to bread with vegetable margarine, mixed fruit (pineapple, mango, passion fruit, and watermelon), fruit juice, water, and tea. Erik, as well as another volunteer I had the pleasure of meeting the night before, Danny, and I thanked our host mom for her hospitality and prepared to leave for our first day of orientation. We were greeted by the same driver that had dropped us off the previous night, James, who constantly looks some strange combination of hungover and strung out, but is by all indications mentally stable. The drive through our neighborhood was endlessly interesting and a 15 minute drive to some other volunteers' home-stay felt like 2 minutes to my brain. Elly and Trish hopped in the van and greeted us smiling; Elly, being from Australia, had an accent that was interesting to listen to, which helped to supplement what she was actually saying. Trish presented herself within 2 minutes as motherly, stubborn, and smart; qualities I typically appreciate, if not for her presenting overwhelming tones of obsession and compulsion. Regardless of my opinion, I knew she would be, holistically, a fantastic nurse at the volunteer she would be volunteering at. After about a 20 minute drive we arrived at the Harlequin Suites Hotel in Jamhuri Estate, a hotel that I would find out later was no longer than a minute walk to my permanent home-stay. The orientation was informative and strict, being instructed on the rules of our volunteering and being coerced to sign a Masonic code of conduct during our stay here. I have every intention of holding myself to more stringent rules than what V.I.C.D.A. could put into effect for me, but the notion of "agreeing to behave myself" by signing a piece of paper is a ludicrous notion for someone over the age of 16. After arriving back at my temporary home-stay my host brother, Derick, invited Erik and me to a game of basketball about 5 blocks from our neighborhood of Langata. We gladly accepted, changed shoes, and headed out to meet his friends with him. I was happy to have to race some Kenyans across a basketball court that evening, as I had been without any exercise for 3 days and felt like I was forming some half-assed clots in my legs. My enthusiasm, as well as my teammates', paid off and two white boys and three Kenyans managed to beat a team composed of nothing but natives, including a guy my own age that had a good 6-8 inch height advantage (not jumping; probably a good foot if we were both in the air) that Derick saw fit to assign me when we played man-to-man defense. It was a good night, and we were invited to come back anytime we wanted to repeat it. Once we arrived back home my host mom, who behaves much like my grandmother, verbally forced me to take a shower before I was allowed to eat. I agreed, and found myself at the dinner table shortly there after. The remainder of the evening was used to organize a couple of things for day two of orientation and to learn more of the Mau Mau Rebellion, an 11 year war that spurred Kenya's liberation from Britain and current democratic disposition, from the mouth of a native Kenyan, being my host mom. I fell into bed, again, happily having my brain overloaded with information and knowing sleep would help to absolve most of it into long-term memory.
Day 5: I awoke the next morning slightly less drunk from sleep and hopped into the shower before the other two volunteers even had a chance to roll over out of bed. There are few things that I enjoy more than taking my time in the morning before what I know will be a long day and was pleased that I had haphazardly awoken with enough time to do so. The breakfast was similar to the previous morning's. James, however, arrived 30 minutes later, and when he began to show signs of being late I used the extra time to make a small entry into my video journal of my current surroundings and host family. The time was well spent and every member of the family was pleased to know that my family would inadvertently meet my host family. The second day of orientation was spent performing some obligatory tasks, such as purchasing a cell phone, taking note of important facilities, and acclimating ourselves with African cuisine. The highlight of the day, however, was a visit to an animal orphanage in which I was able to see lions, leopards, lemurs, monkeys, and buffalo, even managing to pet a cheetah under some careful supervision from some of the orphanage employees. By mistake, I introduced myself for a second time to a volunteer that I had met the night I arrived in Kenya, only to be met by an uncomfortable stare and an awkward voice saying "We already met. I'm Karen." Woops. While she may be a bit of a wallflower I still knew it was my mistake, nonetheless. That evening we were taken to our permanent accommodations and Danny and I learned that we would be staying together for our 3 month placement in Jamhuri Estate with a nice woman named Monicah Getonye (gay-TONE-yay). Fine by me; he's a southerner, living a lifestyle I have always been partial to, and we've been getting along swimmingly ever since. We both seem to find a lot of humor in how incredibly insane nearly every non-native woman we've met is, to one extent or another; Danny is 50, and I am 23, making our collective perspectives more factual than not. He speaks broken Swahili that always makes Monicah and me laugh; we're half-sure he does it on purpose, but he never lets on if we're right or not. Imagine hearing an African language with a southern accent, rarely placing consonant and vowel combinations in correct sequence, and tell me if you don't start laughing out loud.
Days 6-8: My days begin around 7:00 at which point I perform the necessaries and go for a 2 or 3 mile run along the foothills of Ngong Road, a busy spans of highway that is bordered by equally long dirt paths perfect for running and noticing the sights from a safe distance. Some of the morning showers make it more difficult, as I'll have to dodge puddles composed of what could either be mud or crap (public defalcation and urination are both legal here), but nothing difficult enough to keep me from runnign altogether. After arriving at home I'll take breakfast and a shower and collect my things to go to work for the day. The project site is called Mama Tunza Children's Center, an orphanage and school collectively located in the same "compound" on the outskirts of Kibera. Some fun facts about Kibera: it is the largest slum in East Africa and also takes home the medal for largest urban slum on the African continent. It is approximately 75% of the size of Times Square and is home to about 1.2 million people. Of all of the people infected with HIV in Kenya, it is estimated that 20% of those infected live in Kibera. It is small, and huge, and dense, and sparse all at once. The children at Mama T's, an affectionate nickname developed by Danny, typically come from one of three backgrounds: either they cannot be financially supported by their parents or guardians, they have lost their family to HIV/AIDS, or they are abused and, as opposed to taking to the streets, they are taken in by the staff at the home. There are currently four volunteers there. Nathan and Hannah, volunteers from the U.K., Danny, and I come in around 9:30 and stay until about 2 or 3, performing tasks such as playing with and mentoring the kids at the center and, in my case, teaching. Today I cleaned up three classrooms, preparing them for the students after they return from holiday next week, and then taught a math and a science lesson. Following work I walk 30 minutes back to my homestay and drop any number of items off and take to tasks such as returning emails, doing laundry, and reading: relatively normal for being in another country.
So, that's life for the past week or so. I'll have to wait until next time for the lesson in Swahili, as Danny's computer is about out of battery power. Until then, thank you all for keeping in touch, and I will continue to do the same. Take care.
Zachary
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