The death of a woman in a nearby village was cause for me to attend a funeral a few weeks ago. A christian Kipsigis funeral is quite different from those with which I was familiar, although iit bares a few similarities. When there are school-aged children who were closely related to the individual (second-cousin or great-nephew count), then at least one teacher from the school must attend the funeral representing the school and showing support for the child. Thus, I attended along with one other teacher, since there were about 5 students related to the deceased. Also, a funeral cannot be held without at least one political figure—who then uses the opportunity to give a political speech to the family and friends gathered, in hopes of future reelection.
We arrived at mid-morning. People were sitting under makeshift tents, while hymns were playing and some young men were digging a hole for the casket. The funeral service began around noon and takes place throughout the afternoon, since in generations past, the Kipsigis believed that their god was behind the sun. The body must rest at least one night in the home and then be buried in the yard (also six feet down). I’ve been told twice since coming, once by a child and once by a teacher, that to bury a person in a cemetery and not in their yard, is disrespectful and like throwing them away. Then their spirit will haunt you.
Like a familiar service, it included hymns and a sermon.
Unlike familiar services, all of the family members were introduced and there were many speeches---lasting about 3 hours. At about four, it was time to remove the casket from the table that it had been placed on, and lower it into the ground. Each family member threw on some dirt and then the younger men shoveled on the rest. At this time we were all served tea and then the guests who had come continuously throughout the service, numbering a few hundred standing around the tents and some down the road and against fences, began to disperse. It began to rain as they were covering the casket and I was reminded of the familiar words to a song, There’s holes in the floor of heaven and her tears are comin’ down. They were coming down. While some cultural practices differ, some things will always be the same all over the world. Saying good-bye is always hard.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
1st Month in a few Snapshots
Some of the kids from the village
Cows are important
Some of my Kenyan sisters
Working on the shamba
Some younger students
Some of the clothes hanging outside the classrooms
More of my Kenyan sisters
The dishes lined up and ready to wash ... & of course the chickens are always disturbing them
Some of the beans from the shamba
School
Most of the classrooms have twelve wooden desks, simple frames with a bench connected to what appears to be an elevated bench, a single board upon which the students place their books.
Each desk is shared by three or four children who come to know one another well—sharing a book, a writing utensil, sharpening one another’s pencils with a razor blade, leaning against one another occasionally or taking turns wearing a sweater when the cold rains come.
When the rain begins to beat down on the roof’s tin sheets, students politely request to leave the classroom and upon receiving permission dart out the doorway, racing across the school compound to the fence where they’ve hung their clean clothes to dry or to the place where they laid their mattresses and sheets to air out. These rainy moments full of energy remind me of the quote, “Don’t wait for the storm to pass. Learn to dance in the rain.” These children do that everyday.
The classroom desks and walls bear marks and scratches of letters and numbers as students work out their thoughts on them, to avoid wasting their precious paper. A large rectangular patch on one or two walls in each classroom is painted black, serving as a blackboard, illuminated by the natural light flowing through the open windows. Looking out them one can see the vivid greens of banana trees, avocado trees, pumpkins and grass, as well as some huts, blue polo shirts, red sweaters, green shorts, grey socks and green plaid dresses draped over the fences. And back into the room drift the sounds of chittering birds, the voices of other teachers and students and the cool, gentle breeze.
Classes begin at 8:15 am and go until 5 pm Monday-Friday. On Saturdays, lessons end at lunchtime. Each day there is a break for tea or porriage in the morning, a lunch break, and a tea break in the afternoon. In the evenings, boarding students attend lessons for a couple more hours.
The ages of students and amounts of time in school in Kenya is very similar to those things in the United States. Below is listed the Kenyan classess corresponding to their American equivelants.
*Baby class (preschool)
*Nursery class (Kindergarten)
*Standards 1-8 (Grades 1-8) (primary school = elementary/grade school)
*Forms 1-4 (high school years)
*University (typically 4 years)
Both primary school and secondary school are divided into three terms each, with the academic year beginning in January. Students have a few weeks of break during the months of April, August, and December. At the end of Standard 8 and of Form 4, students tak a national exam, competing against other students for positions in secondary schools, colleges, and universities. Standard 8 students are tested in five areas each worth 100 points. If a student attains a composite schore of 380 or above (which is difficult to do) in those areas (English, math, Kiswahili, science, and social studies/religion), he or she may be able to attend a national highschool.
In order to become a primary school teacher, a person must obtain a P1 education degree from a 2-year college. Secondary school teachers attend a university for four years, studying education and emphasizing two content areas. Unlike the United States in which graduation usually follows within about a week of final exams, the graduation dates are not set and it may be more than six months after a person has completed his or her collegiate studies before their exams are graded and the graduation ceremony takes place. It may be yet another six months or more before their certificates of completion are issued. Thus, teachers may teach for some time before officially graduating from a university. I’m thankful I was able to go to a four-year institution, graduate and get my diploma shortly after finishing.
This week we did the second of three examination periods for this term. Students were divided up and seated at desks with students from other classes (ie. a standard 8 student, with one from standard 4 and another from standard 6 at a desk together) so as to reduce the temptation to share answers. The three days consisted only of exams and reminded me of finals, but these are for young children—something I’m glad I never had to do. Students may be tested over material they’ve recently covered or that they learned a few years back.
The exams at the end of each term are the same taken by all students in a district and the schools compete against one another. Kimori Academy has a strong academic record, having sent 11 students to national schools last year. I enjoy most of my colleages and the majority of them are serious about teaching, unlike many teachers at the public schools who fail to show up for lessons that they are supposed to teach.
Like the unfamiliar examination process, I’ve needed to adjust to several things. For one, the grading/scoring works differently here, with 70% being a good grade and 50% being average. I still need to work on how I give out the scores, as mine are still inflated compared to those of the other teachers. Also, I had not fully recognized how much I used technology and electricity back at home or school. Teaching here has forced me to realize that they should not be taken for granted. I do not have the internet to use as a resource to look something up, nor can I use it to show an image or video. I do not have access to a library or even an overhead projector. During my planning time, I create an answer key for the exercises in the books. Correcting this weeks exams was a long and tedious process, because we had to create a grading scale to give the proper points to each portion of the exam (doing a lot of math with pen and paper), marked them all, then recorded the scores on paper, totaled them, and rewrote the list in order from highest to lowest scored with the students’ information. We place a piece of carbon paper between this one and the one below to create a duplicate for the school records. Computers and copy-machines save fare more time and energy than I’d ever given any thought to. Interestingly the students here take computer class, although they never see or use a computer, but rather learn the uses for them and terminology associated with them. Also students are caned with a stick for poor behavior or academic performance—a practice that makes me very uncomfortable, but is seen as apporpriate and acceptable by seemingly everyone in this culture. It occurs less at this school than at many, especially public institution throughout the country, I am told.
We began the normal lessons again and I went over the reasons why answers were/were not correct on the exam. And the school year goes on...
Each desk is shared by three or four children who come to know one another well—sharing a book, a writing utensil, sharpening one another’s pencils with a razor blade, leaning against one another occasionally or taking turns wearing a sweater when the cold rains come.
When the rain begins to beat down on the roof’s tin sheets, students politely request to leave the classroom and upon receiving permission dart out the doorway, racing across the school compound to the fence where they’ve hung their clean clothes to dry or to the place where they laid their mattresses and sheets to air out. These rainy moments full of energy remind me of the quote, “Don’t wait for the storm to pass. Learn to dance in the rain.” These children do that everyday.
The classroom desks and walls bear marks and scratches of letters and numbers as students work out their thoughts on them, to avoid wasting their precious paper. A large rectangular patch on one or two walls in each classroom is painted black, serving as a blackboard, illuminated by the natural light flowing through the open windows. Looking out them one can see the vivid greens of banana trees, avocado trees, pumpkins and grass, as well as some huts, blue polo shirts, red sweaters, green shorts, grey socks and green plaid dresses draped over the fences. And back into the room drift the sounds of chittering birds, the voices of other teachers and students and the cool, gentle breeze.
Classes begin at 8:15 am and go until 5 pm Monday-Friday. On Saturdays, lessons end at lunchtime. Each day there is a break for tea or porriage in the morning, a lunch break, and a tea break in the afternoon. In the evenings, boarding students attend lessons for a couple more hours.
The ages of students and amounts of time in school in Kenya is very similar to those things in the United States. Below is listed the Kenyan classess corresponding to their American equivelants.
*Baby class (preschool)
*Nursery class (Kindergarten)
*Standards 1-8 (Grades 1-8) (primary school = elementary/grade school)
*Forms 1-4 (high school years)
*University (typically 4 years)
Both primary school and secondary school are divided into three terms each, with the academic year beginning in January. Students have a few weeks of break during the months of April, August, and December. At the end of Standard 8 and of Form 4, students tak a national exam, competing against other students for positions in secondary schools, colleges, and universities. Standard 8 students are tested in five areas each worth 100 points. If a student attains a composite schore of 380 or above (which is difficult to do) in those areas (English, math, Kiswahili, science, and social studies/religion), he or she may be able to attend a national highschool.
In order to become a primary school teacher, a person must obtain a P1 education degree from a 2-year college. Secondary school teachers attend a university for four years, studying education and emphasizing two content areas. Unlike the United States in which graduation usually follows within about a week of final exams, the graduation dates are not set and it may be more than six months after a person has completed his or her collegiate studies before their exams are graded and the graduation ceremony takes place. It may be yet another six months or more before their certificates of completion are issued. Thus, teachers may teach for some time before officially graduating from a university. I’m thankful I was able to go to a four-year institution, graduate and get my diploma shortly after finishing.
This week we did the second of three examination periods for this term. Students were divided up and seated at desks with students from other classes (ie. a standard 8 student, with one from standard 4 and another from standard 6 at a desk together) so as to reduce the temptation to share answers. The three days consisted only of exams and reminded me of finals, but these are for young children—something I’m glad I never had to do. Students may be tested over material they’ve recently covered or that they learned a few years back.
The exams at the end of each term are the same taken by all students in a district and the schools compete against one another. Kimori Academy has a strong academic record, having sent 11 students to national schools last year. I enjoy most of my colleages and the majority of them are serious about teaching, unlike many teachers at the public schools who fail to show up for lessons that they are supposed to teach.
Like the unfamiliar examination process, I’ve needed to adjust to several things. For one, the grading/scoring works differently here, with 70% being a good grade and 50% being average. I still need to work on how I give out the scores, as mine are still inflated compared to those of the other teachers. Also, I had not fully recognized how much I used technology and electricity back at home or school. Teaching here has forced me to realize that they should not be taken for granted. I do not have the internet to use as a resource to look something up, nor can I use it to show an image or video. I do not have access to a library or even an overhead projector. During my planning time, I create an answer key for the exercises in the books. Correcting this weeks exams was a long and tedious process, because we had to create a grading scale to give the proper points to each portion of the exam (doing a lot of math with pen and paper), marked them all, then recorded the scores on paper, totaled them, and rewrote the list in order from highest to lowest scored with the students’ information. We place a piece of carbon paper between this one and the one below to create a duplicate for the school records. Computers and copy-machines save fare more time and energy than I’d ever given any thought to. Interestingly the students here take computer class, although they never see or use a computer, but rather learn the uses for them and terminology associated with them. Also students are caned with a stick for poor behavior or academic performance—a practice that makes me very uncomfortable, but is seen as apporpriate and acceptable by seemingly everyone in this culture. It occurs less at this school than at many, especially public institution throughout the country, I am told.
We began the normal lessons again and I went over the reasons why answers were/were not correct on the exam. And the school year goes on...
A few attention nabbers:
Just a few things that surprised me, that I found funny, or that are just really different from home:
*Vehicles drive on the left side of the road...I have problems crossing streets, because I’m always looking the wrong way.
*Children have no qualms about showing their curiousity with the muzungu. They are either extremely fascinated or terrified.
*The ants are viscious. They can really dig in and when you try to pull them off your skin, they bodies come away, but their jaws are still locked to your skin.
*A hotel is a place where you eat, not a place where you sleep.
*Eating my meals with my hands seemed a little uncomfortable at first, because I was used to my hands being clean while I eat and wiping them on a napkin if they get dirty, but it’s much easier than trying to eat ugali with a utensil and now it doesn’t bother me at all.
*Doctors at hospitals prescribe drugs for things that are far from the problem, even if they’ve already verified that you have nothing that it is intended to treat.
*Just about everyone has the following weapons in their homes for protection: machetes, bow with intense metal arrows, and axes.
*The Kalenjins have a problem distinguishing between the ‘p’ and ‘b’ because they are the same in their language, thus I had a student write a sentence, “The poy’s hoppy is jumbing” and saw a sign showing a raised part of the road saying “pump here”.
*It takes a fraction of a second to really burn yourself on a jiko if you aren’t paying attention.
*Restaurants have long lists of things on their menus that often sound good...but that doesn’t mean they really serve them. In fact after ordering about 5 different things in an attempt to get something that I don’t often eat and being told each time, “I’m sorry. We don’t have that,” I ordered ugali and the waiter excitedly rushed away to get me some, saying how glad he was that I wanted ugali. Looking around, that’s what everyone was eating.
*I expected to drink tea, but didn’t expect to take it 5 times a day.
*Obama is a well-known figure here, though his actual job isn’t always well understood. Shirts sometimes have typos...such as “OBMA” and “OPAMA”.
*How many people can be fit into a 4 passenger car? So far, the record for this size of vehicle while I’ve been in it is 15!
*Vehicles drive on the left side of the road...I have problems crossing streets, because I’m always looking the wrong way.
*Children have no qualms about showing their curiousity with the muzungu. They are either extremely fascinated or terrified.
*The ants are viscious. They can really dig in and when you try to pull them off your skin, they bodies come away, but their jaws are still locked to your skin.
*A hotel is a place where you eat, not a place where you sleep.
*Eating my meals with my hands seemed a little uncomfortable at first, because I was used to my hands being clean while I eat and wiping them on a napkin if they get dirty, but it’s much easier than trying to eat ugali with a utensil and now it doesn’t bother me at all.
*Doctors at hospitals prescribe drugs for things that are far from the problem, even if they’ve already verified that you have nothing that it is intended to treat.
*Just about everyone has the following weapons in their homes for protection: machetes, bow with intense metal arrows, and axes.
*The Kalenjins have a problem distinguishing between the ‘p’ and ‘b’ because they are the same in their language, thus I had a student write a sentence, “The poy’s hoppy is jumbing” and saw a sign showing a raised part of the road saying “pump here”.
*It takes a fraction of a second to really burn yourself on a jiko if you aren’t paying attention.
*Restaurants have long lists of things on their menus that often sound good...but that doesn’t mean they really serve them. In fact after ordering about 5 different things in an attempt to get something that I don’t often eat and being told each time, “I’m sorry. We don’t have that,” I ordered ugali and the waiter excitedly rushed away to get me some, saying how glad he was that I wanted ugali. Looking around, that’s what everyone was eating.
*I expected to drink tea, but didn’t expect to take it 5 times a day.
*Obama is a well-known figure here, though his actual job isn’t always well understood. Shirts sometimes have typos...such as “OBMA” and “OPAMA”.
*How many people can be fit into a 4 passenger car? So far, the record for this size of vehicle while I’ve been in it is 15!
Learning Moments
Not The Only Ones
Tall and strong
beautiful and young
her smile hides the pain she knows
the wrath of a drunken husband
the death of her small daughter
Now she trades backbreaking labor for a roof and some ugali.
She’s not the only one.
Ten years old
one of thirteen children
his intense eyes reveal his curiosity
he wants to learn
he wants to know
he wants to grow
He wants a future.
He’s not the only one.
Tears on his sleeves
soil as his shoes
calloused hands
are part of his work
driving donkeys
is a tiresome task
between dawn and dusk
He’s seen so much.
He’s not the only one.
Large brown baskets
adorn their backs.
breeze and birds
the brushing and snapping of leaves
their music for today
this week this month
on and on they pluck tea
this tedious task they know so well
They have other dreams for their children.
They’re not the only ones.
The Seconds In Between
I leaned against a banana tree collecting my thoughts.
I saw several pairs of eyes watching me.
I looked at them, their lips spread wide, their hands raised in greeting.
“Chumindet!”
A yellow sack falls to the ground.
“Muzungu!”
A little green skirt swishes against the tea plants.
“Karibu!” they call.
I wave. They giggle.
Six little bare feet stamp their signatures in the soil.
Their laughter fades away on the breeze.
I’m left knowing I’m never alone.
I’m always being watched.
I must be an example.
I have no other choice.
Collecting
Collecting is something most people do.
Some collect coins.
Others collect pencils.
Some collect books.
Others collect stamps.
As for me, I’m collecting words and memories.
Tall and strong
beautiful and young
her smile hides the pain she knows
the wrath of a drunken husband
the death of her small daughter
Now she trades backbreaking labor for a roof and some ugali.
She’s not the only one.
Ten years old
one of thirteen children
his intense eyes reveal his curiosity
he wants to learn
he wants to know
he wants to grow
He wants a future.
He’s not the only one.
Tears on his sleeves
soil as his shoes
calloused hands
are part of his work
driving donkeys
is a tiresome task
between dawn and dusk
He’s seen so much.
He’s not the only one.
Large brown baskets
adorn their backs.
breeze and birds
the brushing and snapping of leaves
their music for today
this week this month
on and on they pluck tea
this tedious task they know so well
They have other dreams for their children.
They’re not the only ones.
The Seconds In Between
I leaned against a banana tree collecting my thoughts.
I saw several pairs of eyes watching me.
I looked at them, their lips spread wide, their hands raised in greeting.
“Chumindet!”
A yellow sack falls to the ground.
“Muzungu!”
A little green skirt swishes against the tea plants.
“Karibu!” they call.
I wave. They giggle.
Six little bare feet stamp their signatures in the soil.
Their laughter fades away on the breeze.
I’m left knowing I’m never alone.
I’m always being watched.
I must be an example.
I have no other choice.
Collecting
Collecting is something most people do.
Some collect coins.
Others collect pencils.
Some collect books.
Others collect stamps.
As for me, I’m collecting words and memories.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Surrounded By Beauty
Each morning, I walk down a rough dirt road, scattered with protruding stones, on my way to Kimori Academy. Along the way I am met with stares and shouts of children calling “muzungu” (Swahili) and “chumindet” in the local language meaning “European” or “white person.” I am also greeted by neighbors, some speaking to me with a few words of English, as my appearance demonstrates that I’m not from around here. With others, especially older people who speak only the local language, our exchanges go either “Iamune?”—“Achomege” or “Chamege?”—“Mising” and that is where they usually fall into laughter with both of us smiling and nodding while continuing to shake hands.
The friendliness and welcoming hospitality I’ve been shown by nearly everyone I’ve met is amazing. The line “Karibu. Welcome. Feel free,” has an amusing ring to it, as a native English speaker... well yes, I feel free...but it is a line that I have heard many times and truly appreciate and love about being here. I live at the school director’s home with his family. Two of his daughters, one niece and I share a bedroom. All members of the family (that means extended family) make me feel just like a part of their own. Those who live here include me in their daily activites—washing dishes outside together, doing laundry, cooking over the fire, working on the shamba (farm/garden) and going to church and town. Others, some of his children or cousins whom I’ve met for less than a few hours, call me on the phone to greet me.
This rural community in western Kenya has a quaint atmostphere about it. I feel a peace that I have not consistently felt in any of my other travels. As different as this is from home (having to wear skirts...at least when out in public, bucket baths, and chalk dust), I feel very much at home.
The school system is quite different from anything I’m familiar with and has been an adjustment. I’m still not sure I fully understand the concepts of exercise books and exam books and I discovered that an encyclopedia is not a reference book, but rather contains exams. This is a good learning experience for both me and the people here. Even as this third week is nearing a close, I still continue to have students and colleagues at school and neighbors along the road come up to me to feel my hair or my skin and sometimes even pinch to see if I can feel pain like they can. I was a bit surprised at first, but for children to react this way is completely understandable. I must admit though that I was taken aback, definitely startled, when adults behaved were curious enough to pinch me and stroke my skin. I recently even had a colleague say to me, “You people all look the same. How can you tell who your mother and father are?” I really didn’t know how to respond to that, but tried to explain, that regardless of which phantom race someone comes from, individuals are distinguishable from one another.
Students here are usually extremely polite and respectful. The first day I was greeted by them all with a song welcoming me as a visitor to their class and everyday since then, they stand as I enter the room, ask me how I am and welcome me in unison to their classroom in a sort of formal recitation before sitting. Being called “Madame” was a bit uncomfortable at first, but I’m getting used to it, although I would honestly prefer just “Aprill”. I dropped a piece of chalk once on the cement floor and all the students exclaimed “Pole” or “Sorry” then most leaped from their desks to pick up the broken fragments for me. In other situations, when they have seen me someplace without a chair, even though I didn’t feel like I needed one, they go and find one for me and any other teacher who is around. I’m teaching Standard 5 and 6 (5th and 6th grades) math, PE, and English. I’ll begin algebra next week. Somedays things go great, other days, they do not go as well and I feel as though their is a breakdown in communication, but it is difficult to figure out where. I’m still learning and will continue to for the rest of my stay.
The landscape here is gorgeous, the steep hills draped in a vibrant green. The tea plantations are dotted with the bright colors of African dresses as women wearing large baskets on their backs go along plucking tea and tossing it over their shoulders. Banana, mango, pineapple, avocado, and orange trees are scattered across the land in between many other taller varieties including blue gum trees, acacia, eucalyptus and cypress trees. Among the greenery are some houses made out of stone and other huts made of mud. The shambas appear chaotic to me, with things the fruits and vegetables planted in no particular order, with no rows or patches. Instead, beans grow among corn, which may also grow with spinach, pumpkins, peas and potatoes. Fortunately everyone knows what they’re looking for, so they have no problem going out and picking whatever they’re after for supper.
Ugali, a water and maize flour mixture, is the staple food here along with milk. We also have tea and porriage each day. I was told once by a child that he didn’t eat at all the day before and I was a little concerned, but was immediately reassured by another teacher that the child had not had ugali the previous day, so to him it was as if he had not eaten. My Kenyan cooking skills are definitely not up to par. Whenever we make chapati (similar to naan bread), they say I am making “maps”, because they never turn out in the perfect circles like everyone elses. Between every second or third one I roll, someone offers to “assist” me. My ugali making skills are even poorer. Perhaps by the end of these 6 months, I’ll get those two things down.
Several times the conversation of sports has come up and the general idea is that the main sports in the USA are table tennis and billiards...of which I must always inform them that I don’t really play either of those and then I usually ask them what sports they play or enjoy. Inevitably in nearly every one of these conversations, someone says, “I like ...., but I’m not that good,” then proudly exclaims, “But I can run! I can run,” with a smile on their face and a flicker in their eyes. And it is at these moments that I smile back and think to myself, “I believe you can. I believe you can.”
Most people here have very little when compared with people back home, but their joyfulness and resilience is impressive and inspiring. I’ve visited a few people in mud huts with no electricity and others in slightly nicer homes with newspapers plastered to the walls, yet no way to keep the flies away and nothing but the earth for a floor, yet they continually have smiles on their faces, are singing and laughing. They always make the effort of preparing tea for their guests, just one gesture of their overwhelming hospitality. It is in all these people that I find beauty and it is they who make this place alive, a place of beauty surrounding me.
The friendliness and welcoming hospitality I’ve been shown by nearly everyone I’ve met is amazing. The line “Karibu. Welcome. Feel free,” has an amusing ring to it, as a native English speaker... well yes, I feel free...but it is a line that I have heard many times and truly appreciate and love about being here. I live at the school director’s home with his family. Two of his daughters, one niece and I share a bedroom. All members of the family (that means extended family) make me feel just like a part of their own. Those who live here include me in their daily activites—washing dishes outside together, doing laundry, cooking over the fire, working on the shamba (farm/garden) and going to church and town. Others, some of his children or cousins whom I’ve met for less than a few hours, call me on the phone to greet me.
This rural community in western Kenya has a quaint atmostphere about it. I feel a peace that I have not consistently felt in any of my other travels. As different as this is from home (having to wear skirts...at least when out in public, bucket baths, and chalk dust), I feel very much at home.
The school system is quite different from anything I’m familiar with and has been an adjustment. I’m still not sure I fully understand the concepts of exercise books and exam books and I discovered that an encyclopedia is not a reference book, but rather contains exams. This is a good learning experience for both me and the people here. Even as this third week is nearing a close, I still continue to have students and colleagues at school and neighbors along the road come up to me to feel my hair or my skin and sometimes even pinch to see if I can feel pain like they can. I was a bit surprised at first, but for children to react this way is completely understandable. I must admit though that I was taken aback, definitely startled, when adults behaved were curious enough to pinch me and stroke my skin. I recently even had a colleague say to me, “You people all look the same. How can you tell who your mother and father are?” I really didn’t know how to respond to that, but tried to explain, that regardless of which phantom race someone comes from, individuals are distinguishable from one another.
Students here are usually extremely polite and respectful. The first day I was greeted by them all with a song welcoming me as a visitor to their class and everyday since then, they stand as I enter the room, ask me how I am and welcome me in unison to their classroom in a sort of formal recitation before sitting. Being called “Madame” was a bit uncomfortable at first, but I’m getting used to it, although I would honestly prefer just “Aprill”. I dropped a piece of chalk once on the cement floor and all the students exclaimed “Pole” or “Sorry” then most leaped from their desks to pick up the broken fragments for me. In other situations, when they have seen me someplace without a chair, even though I didn’t feel like I needed one, they go and find one for me and any other teacher who is around. I’m teaching Standard 5 and 6 (5th and 6th grades) math, PE, and English. I’ll begin algebra next week. Somedays things go great, other days, they do not go as well and I feel as though their is a breakdown in communication, but it is difficult to figure out where. I’m still learning and will continue to for the rest of my stay.
The landscape here is gorgeous, the steep hills draped in a vibrant green. The tea plantations are dotted with the bright colors of African dresses as women wearing large baskets on their backs go along plucking tea and tossing it over their shoulders. Banana, mango, pineapple, avocado, and orange trees are scattered across the land in between many other taller varieties including blue gum trees, acacia, eucalyptus and cypress trees. Among the greenery are some houses made out of stone and other huts made of mud. The shambas appear chaotic to me, with things the fruits and vegetables planted in no particular order, with no rows or patches. Instead, beans grow among corn, which may also grow with spinach, pumpkins, peas and potatoes. Fortunately everyone knows what they’re looking for, so they have no problem going out and picking whatever they’re after for supper.
Ugali, a water and maize flour mixture, is the staple food here along with milk. We also have tea and porriage each day. I was told once by a child that he didn’t eat at all the day before and I was a little concerned, but was immediately reassured by another teacher that the child had not had ugali the previous day, so to him it was as if he had not eaten. My Kenyan cooking skills are definitely not up to par. Whenever we make chapati (similar to naan bread), they say I am making “maps”, because they never turn out in the perfect circles like everyone elses. Between every second or third one I roll, someone offers to “assist” me. My ugali making skills are even poorer. Perhaps by the end of these 6 months, I’ll get those two things down.
Several times the conversation of sports has come up and the general idea is that the main sports in the USA are table tennis and billiards...of which I must always inform them that I don’t really play either of those and then I usually ask them what sports they play or enjoy. Inevitably in nearly every one of these conversations, someone says, “I like ...., but I’m not that good,” then proudly exclaims, “But I can run! I can run,” with a smile on their face and a flicker in their eyes. And it is at these moments that I smile back and think to myself, “I believe you can. I believe you can.”
Most people here have very little when compared with people back home, but their joyfulness and resilience is impressive and inspiring. I’ve visited a few people in mud huts with no electricity and others in slightly nicer homes with newspapers plastered to the walls, yet no way to keep the flies away and nothing but the earth for a floor, yet they continually have smiles on their faces, are singing and laughing. They always make the effort of preparing tea for their guests, just one gesture of their overwhelming hospitality. It is in all these people that I find beauty and it is they who make this place alive, a place of beauty surrounding me.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Cairo, Egypt
I said I wouldn’t leave the airport in Cairo on my way to Kenya and I meant what I said. Having a layover for approximately ten hours, is far longer than I would have liked, but thinking back on my fiasco in Bogota, Columbia during a long layover almost two years ago, I thought better of venturing the streets of an unknown city, especially given the little I knew about the country, culture or language. Yet despite my good intentions, I did leave and got a peek at the city.
The situation was strange, and I’m still not sure how it all came about, but things fortunately did work out. After hearing remarks from a few other passengers, it seems as though this situation is normal in Cairo, but it was a bit disconcerting to me and a few other passengers, particularly to me and three other young Americans who I met, all going on separate volunteer service trips for the summer in Uganda.
Just after arriving in Cairo, we exited the plane and followed signs directing us towards international connecting flights. Because our flights were not for some time, we were refused admittance to that section of the airport and were directed to a booth near a waiting lounge of about 30 seats and one small kiosk with expensive snacks and drinks. Other than that, we had access to nothing in the airport. At the booth, we thought we were going to be given a boarding ticket or some such thing allowing us to head towards the gates from which our connecting flights would depart. They asked to see our passports, which would seem normal, but then they took them and kept them, not allowing us to have them back, began bombarding us with tourist package deals to see the pyramids, and told us that we must leave the airport, our passports would be withheld as they processed mandatory transit visas for us and we could collect them upon our return to the airport in the evening. This was upsetting. To make an understatement, a passport is a fairly important document to keep track of if you want to board an international flight.
Anyhow, after questions, complaints and demands had been made, be felt helpless and allowed ourselves to be transported away from the airport. Two of the other recent college grads from the USA and I decided to watch out for one another and decided there was nothing we could do about our situation, so complied. The three of us along with seven other passengers refused to pay to go see the pyramids or pay for any of the other deals with “special prices” that we were offered... especially since we were being told different things from people on all sides of us and the price was consistently dropping. We were taken to a very nice hotel, where we were fed a meal. It was good, but we were concerned about the catch. I sat with a Ghanaian woman during the meal. I chuckled aloud at one point at the absurdity of it all. We were served good food, but their was no salad dressing on the salad, and this lovely, sophisticated looking woman whom I faced, grumbled about how this same thing happened to her last time, then called the timid, young waiter over and chewed him out asking how he expected her to eat a salad without sauce. At the end of our meal, there was no dessert, so she once again scolded the waiter and asked how he could dare serve a meal without something sweet to finish it off. He hurried away and of all the guests in the dining room, only the two of us were brought fresh fruit for dessert.
We were then given rooms to stay in and it took three times of explaining to the receptionists that neither I nor the other girl from the US were married to the young man from the US and that we desired separate beds. We finally succeeded in our explanations, then went off to our rooms to rest for a bit. We woke one another and went for a walk around the area, returned to the hotel and waited in the lobby together for our transport back to the airport.
Back at the airport, we went to the customer care counter to retreive our passports. We simply told them the destination of our next flight and they handed us a stack of passports from which we could select ours. I’m sure glad no one else wanted to be me! From there, things went smoothly and relatively normally and I had a pleasant flight to Nairobi.
In the few hours that I was in Cairo, I can see how it may be a city to be loved, with its quaint shops, chaotic traffic and the music filling the streets, yet I know that deserts are not for me. I suppose I’ll never know what that was all about, but it was an experience that I won’t soon forget. I’ll post more about my time here in Kenya as soon as I get a chance.
The situation was strange, and I’m still not sure how it all came about, but things fortunately did work out. After hearing remarks from a few other passengers, it seems as though this situation is normal in Cairo, but it was a bit disconcerting to me and a few other passengers, particularly to me and three other young Americans who I met, all going on separate volunteer service trips for the summer in Uganda.
Just after arriving in Cairo, we exited the plane and followed signs directing us towards international connecting flights. Because our flights were not for some time, we were refused admittance to that section of the airport and were directed to a booth near a waiting lounge of about 30 seats and one small kiosk with expensive snacks and drinks. Other than that, we had access to nothing in the airport. At the booth, we thought we were going to be given a boarding ticket or some such thing allowing us to head towards the gates from which our connecting flights would depart. They asked to see our passports, which would seem normal, but then they took them and kept them, not allowing us to have them back, began bombarding us with tourist package deals to see the pyramids, and told us that we must leave the airport, our passports would be withheld as they processed mandatory transit visas for us and we could collect them upon our return to the airport in the evening. This was upsetting. To make an understatement, a passport is a fairly important document to keep track of if you want to board an international flight.
Anyhow, after questions, complaints and demands had been made, be felt helpless and allowed ourselves to be transported away from the airport. Two of the other recent college grads from the USA and I decided to watch out for one another and decided there was nothing we could do about our situation, so complied. The three of us along with seven other passengers refused to pay to go see the pyramids or pay for any of the other deals with “special prices” that we were offered... especially since we were being told different things from people on all sides of us and the price was consistently dropping. We were taken to a very nice hotel, where we were fed a meal. It was good, but we were concerned about the catch. I sat with a Ghanaian woman during the meal. I chuckled aloud at one point at the absurdity of it all. We were served good food, but their was no salad dressing on the salad, and this lovely, sophisticated looking woman whom I faced, grumbled about how this same thing happened to her last time, then called the timid, young waiter over and chewed him out asking how he expected her to eat a salad without sauce. At the end of our meal, there was no dessert, so she once again scolded the waiter and asked how he could dare serve a meal without something sweet to finish it off. He hurried away and of all the guests in the dining room, only the two of us were brought fresh fruit for dessert.
We were then given rooms to stay in and it took three times of explaining to the receptionists that neither I nor the other girl from the US were married to the young man from the US and that we desired separate beds. We finally succeeded in our explanations, then went off to our rooms to rest for a bit. We woke one another and went for a walk around the area, returned to the hotel and waited in the lobby together for our transport back to the airport.
Back at the airport, we went to the customer care counter to retreive our passports. We simply told them the destination of our next flight and they handed us a stack of passports from which we could select ours. I’m sure glad no one else wanted to be me! From there, things went smoothly and relatively normally and I had a pleasant flight to Nairobi.
In the few hours that I was in Cairo, I can see how it may be a city to be loved, with its quaint shops, chaotic traffic and the music filling the streets, yet I know that deserts are not for me. I suppose I’ll never know what that was all about, but it was an experience that I won’t soon forget. I’ll post more about my time here in Kenya as soon as I get a chance.
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