Alright, let's try it again. This time I'm at the PC office in Kisumu, so I think whatever I write will be ok (and not get erased), but you just never know. :)
Everything is going well--really well, actually. I'm settling in more and more, learning a lot of Dholuo and even a little Kiluhya, since I live right in between Luoland and Luhyaland (and there's a lot of intermarrying); I'm getting to know my community(ies) and just.... keepin' on keepin' on. Living. I feel really comfortable and happy, though, and it's a great feeling, because I at the same time feel really far away from what and where my life was a few months ago. It's cool to feel yourself becoming at home in a place that is NOTHING like any place you've ever been.
The family on my compound is (I know I say this every time) wonderful and really like my real real (albeit surrogate) family. I feel so cared for and cared about and part of them-- unconditionally; I also feel really lucky to have been plopped down in the middle of their life and immediately accepted. They are (or at least seem) so interested in who I am, what I'm doing, what I think about... everything. They really value my opinions and ideas, they want to know what I would do if X, and what I think about Q and how Z is done in the United States. I chat without thinking and share my thoughts casually, and next thing I know people are saying that I have such good ideas and I will help so much (and I'm thinking "Shit, what did I just say, I was just blabbing outloud").
Two days ago 12 of the members of my women's group came to my compound at 6:30 in the morning (I'm not kidding) to help me dig and plant my shamba (Baba has given me a pretty nice sized chunk of land for planting anything I want). The 13 of us dug, hoed (is that a word?) and 4 hours later had planted seed beds: cabbage, green peppers ("pili-pili ho-ho", my favorite Kiswahili word. Another volunteer once introduced herself to a Kenyan police officer as PiliPili Ho ho. He was not amused), carrots, cilantro, ginger and garlic. I wish I could articulate what it was like to see these people--mostly women-- digging and hoing so so hard in MY shamba at 7am. There are no machines to aerate the soil, no animals to plough, no irrigation systems, nothing. Everything is done by hand and it is not light work. At all. I was so in awe of these womens' strength and their willingness to come, without a question, to help me plant. They worked and worked and worked, and THEN went back to their homes to start their days. And that's how it works every day. Spending a few hours in your shamba is how you wake up; it's what you do before taking chai or porridge (and damn, that porridge has never tasted better than it did when we got back that morning). And helping one of your own--a neighbor, a friend, a relative-- is just what you do. You know they'd do it for you, but that's not at all why you do it.
While we were in the shamba, Zacharia (my supervisor) told me that he had studied the map of the US that I let him borrow and that he now is sure that he can find where I live when he goes to America. I had circled places of interest on the map before giving it to him, so he knew where I'm from. "St. Pauls, is it?" he asked. I smiled. "Yeah, St. Paul." He continued, "So, when I get to St. Pauls, which way do I go?" I laughed. "Left. Take a left." He laughed. "No, I mean, in St. Pauls, what is the name of your village?" And from there followed a classic and wonderful PC moment; an "opportunity for cultural exchange" as we say. I told him that we don't really have villages like there are here, that all the streets have names and if you want to find someone's house, you ask where their street is. And that in my town all the roads are tarmac (not just one), and my neighbors live about 5 meters from me and we don't have a shamba (GASP!). And that's just the beginning. Where do you go from there? Every day, every second there are comparisons to make like that, but it's only relevant to say those things outloud when someone brings it up. I could have a running monologue, "I'm going to the choo. In America, we don't use choos. Even if we go camping, there are latrines with toilet seats that we can sit on... we don't squat over a hole. In America, having 5 large cups of tea in one sitting is...rare. In America, tea with whole milk is not the same thing as water. If you are full, drinking whole milk does not make you less full." Etc. etc. [Note, I do not mean to write in a hostile tone; on the contrary, these are aspects of life here that I now find endearing and will miss dearly]. Anyway, last week my dad asked me if I ever wish that I could just drop someone from my community here down in to my life in the US. That innocent dialogue with Zacharia only confirmed for me that, yes, I wish all the time that I could do that. But what on earth would they think?
More to come.
Love,
Hannah
Thursday, October 11, 2007
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