I'd Buy That For A Shilling

'Tis the season for shopping as they say, and what better way to celebrate the season than with a holiday special blog post related to the subject. I know what you're thinking. Lorenzo? Shopping? No way! But as frugal and minimalistic of a lifestyle as I try to lead every so often the time comes when even I find myself requiring some purchasable item. Shopping in Kenya is truly an experience unlike that found in the retail empire from which I came. There are no large product displays, no holiday decorations, and the notion of a “Black Friday” sounds just plain racist. So seeing as I've been making more lists than old white beard lately I thought I would give my faithful following around the world a brief run down of a few of places here in Kenya to get your shop on.

Dukas – The Kenyan equivalent of the 7/11, these old west style boutiques serve as the primary outlets for life's everyday sundries. All merchandise is stored securely behind the counter and is shielded from wandering, sticky-fingered appendages by a 2 meter long barrier of security wire that can only be circumvented by taking a moderately-sized step to the side and and then reaching around. Should the item you seek be out of stock, be it flour, shark fin, or time-travel grade plutonium, the maverick behind the counter will adamantly reassure you that they just ran out and will be fully stocked with sought after prize tomorrow, whether or not they have ever heard or seen the requested article.

Market – Picture in your mind walking through a crowded outdoor swap meet, the sun bearing down on you as you navigate through alternating stretches of powdery moon dust and mud-laden quagmires. Tight clusters of vendors' stalls, appearing to have been hastily constructed the night before leaning unstably against one another, line the river of foot traffic before you. Some arranged into well-planned rows, others placed haphazardly with no apparent regard given to the surrounding architectural layout, these lumber kiosks peddle buckets, wooden spoons, designer second hand clothes, and other practical effects. Manners only get you so far as schools of people force their way against one another through passages that were never intended to allow space for more than a single person at a time. Impromptu entrepreneurs litter the walkway, thoughtfully stacking their random merchandise on makeshift tarps hemmed together from patches of food aid sacks clearly reading “Corn Meal – Not For Sale”, funneling the already overcrowded stream of prospective customers tighter into a web littered with opportunistic, undercover, self-deputized pocket inspectors. Majestic mountain ranges of cabbage cast shadow over seasonal heaps of mangoes, oranges, and avocados as rows of Kenyan women compete against one another to move identical inventories of uniformly priced produce. DVD copies of yet to be released theatrical blockbusters. “Genuine” Blackberry phones, brand new and complete with box. There are deals to be had and gems to be unearthed in the nooks and crannies of this commercial wilderness, and if you're lucky, the person parting with your treasure may actually let you walk away with it for a fair price.

Hawkers – You don't find them, they find you. Sunglasses, socks, charcoalized bones (a.k.a. Snake rocks), flowers, glue, woman's shoes, apples and plums (the “exotic” fruits), puppies, toys, handmade crafts, a framed holographic drawing of a migrating giraffe, whatever you need they assume they've got it (for healthily marked up prices), and it's their job to stand in front of you until you realize it. Employing a wide variety of hard sell marketing pitches such as displaying their entire inventory to the customer at point blank range, pointing emphatically at their selection while touting it less than a foot away from the prospective buyer, and (for those tough sells) pointing and saying the name of said commodities while holding them at a distance close enough to the shopper's face that they could subtly take a bite, these stone faced trinket brokers can be found patrolling Kenya's bus stations, medians, and pretty much any place there is even a remote possibility of crossing paths with a tourist.

Fundis – One part Bob Vila, one part Han Solo, these freelance artisans are the only reason anything does (or doesn't) get done in rural Kenya. Armed with a hammer and a certificate of completion qualifying them to perform any variety of specialized craftsmanship from building a wooden chair to wiring electrical circuits for NASA satellites, these rogue handymen are ready and willing to take any job, though completing said job is another story.

Hardware stores – Getting started on that do-it-yourself project? You'll find everything you need at one of Kenya's numerous hardware outlets...assuming “everything” is limited to 1/2” piping, 2”X4”'s, and corrugated sheet metal. Variety is as tough to find as toilet paper at a highway truck stop and the only advice you'll get from the knowledgeable experts behind the counter when dealing with anything even slightly out of the ordinary is to throw everything away and start over or to “buy a new one”. Caulk. Rubber washers. Dry wall. You'll have more luck finding a parachute woven from unicorn tails and frog tears than most of these taken-for-granted fix-er-up ingredients. The lack of variety can be a blessing when shopping on behalf of your fundi as even the most detailed schematic can simply be labeled as “screw”, “hinge”, and “grass”.

The Superstore (a.k.a. America) – Step out of rural Africa and into America's retail heartland as you pass through the sliding glass doors and into what is collectively accepted to be Kenya's premier shopping experience. These X-Mart style emporiums serve as the glorified spending ground for the upper echelons of Kenyan society. Flowered pot holders. Plush comforter sets. Cheese. These monuments of hedonism are capable of satisfying most lavish materials desires, however the absence of mounted swinging fish, chia-coated animal sculptures, and plug-in deodorizers show that this country still has a long way to go in terms of development.

The American Paradox

Americans hold a special place in the hearts and minds of the Kenyan people. Our president (with an approval rating in the high 90's) is infallible, our university education system unparalleled, and simple tasks such as riding a unicycle, reading English out loud, and typing never cease to strike awe into the deepest fibers of those around us. Despite the diamond encrusted pedestal upon which we have been thrust, there remains, here in Kenya, a constant and unwavering belief that Americans, as perfect as they appear, are entirely incapable of performing any sort of practical day to day activity whatsoever. Our image of infinite ability and untapped potential aside, feats such as cooking beans, washing clothes by hand, and walking for prolonged periods of time (eg. longer than 2 minutes) are viewed as entirely out of our spectrum of capability. Sadly, during my time here, I've done surprisingly little to aid the efforts to dispel this misconception.Case in point: We return to a cool, quiet evening in the dust laden mountain sanctuary that is Loitokitok. The sun has long since journeyed West as the Milky Way casts her elegant smile down on the rustic mountain town. The distant cries of 4-legged barnyard laborers are the only audible evidence of civilization. Following a routine conversation with the Peace Corps' top brass, my host mother, a proud and boistrous woman who radiates a gregarious confidence with her every action, has been left with the impression that I'll soon be tested on my ability to adequately brew a cup of tea and, should I fail to meet expectations, will be deemed entirely unfit for Peace Corps service, only to be shuttled out of the country on the next available flight. Following this conversation, it has been decided that on this night in question that I shall hereafter assume the duties of brewing my own cup of evening tea, devoid of any assistance from the rest of the family. Having already proven myself a national disaster in terms of language proficiency, my benevolent host mother is is clearly trying to help me give the Peace Corps as few reasons as possible to declare me an utterly failed attempt at cross-cultural relations, disacknowledging any involvement whatsoever in my training, if not altogether denying my very existence. To be honest, I have no appetite for tea on this particular evening, though undestanding that if I don't prepare tea for myself then, despite any protest on my part, it will undoubtedly be prepared for me at the cost of someone else's efforts, I set to work.My host family inside watching the evening news, I go about filling a small sufuria (a wide-brimmed, handleless pot resembling an upside down top hat which has become the regional gold standard of cookware) with that most essential of ingredients: water. As I breeze through the steps of brewing the perfect cup of tea my next task would seem simple enough, remove the already heating bath water from atop the outdoor charcoal stove so that I can heat the water for tea. The problem? Clearing the stove puts me face to face against a pot designed with all the practicality of a set of rubber crutches. Imagine a miniaturized version of the gemini space explorer, the ceiling cut away so as to allow the cabin to be filled within 1/16th of an inch from the top with scalding hot water. A single, shallow, downward facing pocket formed by a thin sheet of tin riveted into place near the top of this miniature galactic explorer serves as the only grippable area on this lopsided, water-logged space craft. Why a second handle was deemed unnecessary is beyond the understanding of a lowly first year volunteer such as myself, as gripping the nearly overfull vessel by the lip opposite the handle seems the only way to maneuver the torpedo shaped kettle without dousing the stove, ground, and myself with white hot bath water.The path before me is clear, I launch into action gripping the conicular broiler with a set of never once laundered rags clearly set outside for this very purpose. Moist lip in my left hand, awkward tin offshoot in my right, I move with the steady, purposeful motions of a neurosurgeon operating on the pope as I'm careful not to tilt or jerk in any direction that would cause blistering water to slosh over onto any of my appendages. All is progressing well until a sudden, unpredictable shift in the Earth's rotation causes the simmering cauldron to slip from my left hand, sending the smallest wave of steaming fluid splashing over the charcoal and concrete. A long, drawn out hiss and a puff of steam are released as torrent of scarring fluid washes over the once glowing embers, drowning out the quietest of startled breaths as my limbs retreat from the path of the searing waterfall with speeds capable of confounding even the most cunning siafu horde. Free from harm, I set down the recalescent lunar lander and place the aluminum, water-filled show hat over the damp but still active coals, as grateful for not completely extinguishing the family's cooking fire as I am for avoiding third degree burns. As I relax downward onto a small wooden stool and begin tending to my evening beverage the door to the house bursts open like a bag of Doritos freshly discovered by an emaciated group of shipwrecked mariners marooned on a deserted isle. Out of the entryway shoots the house worker, a hard working young woman with a vibrant smile who has passed on to me the majority of the cooking and cleaning know how that I've acquired here in Kenya."What happened?" she says, her eyes drifting down to the still billowing pool of fluid sprawled out around the stove, "Did you get burned?""No," I start in, "I just spilled a little...""What happened?", demands my host mother as she appears in the door frame, "Are you ok?""I'm ok," I answer.Cutting into my attempts to explain further she interjects, "You screamed."I try to explain that I most certainly did not scream, but before the words can escape the threshold of my oral cavity I'm interrupted as the head of my host father rolls around the edge of the door frame and into view. "What happened?", he inquires as he joins the scene.The house worker explains that I spilled the bath water as my host mother turns back to me. "From now on don't try to move that on your own," she orders, pointing at the still mostly full monolith of water, "call one of us to help you."I agree as the wave of spectators recedes back into the house, their impression of my capabilities no stronger than before they came outside. From that night on tea would always prepared for me before I got home.

There and Back Again...and Again...and Again...

Life in the Peace Corps is anything but stationary as high level meetings, rigorous training sessions, and other random errands (e.g. shining my bowling shoes) keep me constantly on the move. The non-stop movement, however, has been somewhat of a blessing as I've always been a stout believer (starting now) that you can never really know the culture of a place until you've ridden in the smelliest, most over-crowded form of transportation said place has to offer. Recognizing that many of my loyal readers will never be privied to the experience, I thought I'd try to relate the adventure of travelling within Kenya by describing some of the most common ways to get from here to there...here.

Matatus - Easily the backbone of public transit here in Kenya, these top heavy, privately owned rolling coffins service most inhabitable areas of the country. With a minimalistic appearance reminiscent of a refrigerator box that has been laid flat on it's side and then cross-bred with a Volkswagon bus, the simple geometric design of the matatu can be easily spotted from the most bustling metropolis to most the desolate and barren of wastelands. Theoretically designed to carry 11-14 passengers, there's always room for one more, and the maximum capacity of a matatu at any given time can be quickly and easily determined by applying the formula: max. capacity = current # of passengers + 1. The words "personal" and "space" mean nothing within the cramped confines of the matatu's jagged steel interior as rubbing knees, elbows, and other unmentionable body parts is an expected element of the experience. A 50 kilogram burlap sack full of maize cobs? A queen sized bed? Live animals? There's always room for cargo under the feet, over the heads, and in the laps of your fellow, however unwilling, passengers.

Pikipiki (A.K.A. Motorcycle...also A.K.A. Boda boda depending on region) - Close your eyes and imagine the wind whipping through your hair, the warm African landscape cascading over your features as the ace at the controls deftly navigates his motorized steed through livestock, quicksand, and an arsenal of other obstacles that make your washed out route generally impassable to other vehicles. Keep those eyes fastly shut lest they be showered by the cloud of dust and debris hovering just above the road as you bear in mind that neither you nor the cowboy at the reins, who likely has no formal training to pilot this dual wheeled stallion, are wearing goggles, visored helmets, nor anything else to shield your corneas should you choose to expose them to the punishing breeze caressing your figure. Second perhaps only to the matatu in importance, pikipikis play a crucial role in the Kenyan transportation network, particularly in remote areas where they may be the only motorized form of transportation available. Boarding of a pikipiki is considered by the Peace Corps to be a criminal offense of the most serious nature, on par with treason, and is punishable by death on the spot. Even if riding a pikipiki were allowed I can't say that I would have any desire to do so.

Buses - These come in two different varieties: "Highway" and "Other".

Highway Buses - Everything you would come to expect from a comparable carrier in the first world. Air conditioning (sometimes). Working seatbelts (sometimes). En route entertainment in the form of a movie or impromptu sermon (sometimes). Current record for number of Jet Li movies shown in a single trip: 4.

Other (Regular) Buses - Imagine going on an off-road adventure through sub-Saharan Africa in a vehicle fully equipped for shuttling children to and from school. Round, round, up, and down go the wheels on this bus as they rattle from side to side, tossing the customers, crew, and cargo about the cabin as the rickety vessel barrels down the path at a scorching 10 miles per hour. Were it not for prolonged and unscheduled stops every 200 meters to allow for the loading and unloading of passengers, charcoal, and mountains of empty plastic vegetable oil containers, this could easily qualify as the most nauseating form of transportation in East Africa.

Tuk Tuk - So named for the choking, sputtering sound produced by the clammering, match box sized motors that propel them forward, these 3-wheeled golf carts can be seen careening down the streets of Kenyas larger cities, taxying people to and from their various destinations. A special under-side mounted magnet pulls fervently against the Earth's core preventing these seemingly unstable passnger go carts from overturning on even the most rugged terrain, though the wild jostling coupled with the exposed metal roll cage make the tuk tuk the form of transportaion on which you are most likely to lose a tooth.

Bicycle Taxi (A.K.A. Boda Boda depending on the region, make sure you know what is being referred to before getting on) - Often spotted in packs of around 7 to 10, shouting offers at anyone who glances in their general hemisphere, these Lance Armstrong impersonators unquestionably spend their every waking hour fantasizing about the elustrious life they could instead be leading were they pikipiki drivers. A heavily padded, industrial strength bike rack capable of supporting Andre the giant will be your perch as the wind drags the sweaty aroma of your workhorse slowly over your olfactory receptors. Armed with a state of the art cloaking device, these silent, man-powered machines are rendered invisible to cars, motorcycles, and most pedestrians as they carve a path through masses of traffic. Wearing a helmet, which is almost certainly never provided, is advisable.

Canoe - Just arrive at a spot clearly shown on several maps from multiple, reputable sources to have a bridge crossing a river only to find that the bridge was never quite started? No worries, chances are that a helpful group of youngsters who should be in school are on hand to help ferry you across safely. Prices vary according to the height of the water and the size and amount of cargo making the journey, though an influx of man-eating (or at least man-chomping) river dwellers during the rainy season makes captaining one of these vessels a seasonal position at best.

Colonization: Part 2

I advise you read Part 1 before continuing.

Day 2

2200 - Unsung Heroes. Bedtime finds me exhausted from the previous night's marathon of events. Having only slept a couple of hours, the lack of rest seems to be affecting my constitution as I've developed a mild sniffle, quite out of the ordinary from my usual state of health. The day has passed uneventfully, a small handful of sleep cycle disrupting siafu still wander about the house in an unorganized pattern, a far cry from the highly coordinated offensive staged the night before. My day has been spent meticulously cleaning in an effort to prevent further such visits from this host of unworldly scavengers. The valiant chungu, heroic champions from the previous night's engagement, have wasted no time resting after being tested by the most formidable of opponents. Numbers clearly depleted, the remaining workers can be seen scurrying here and there, carrying various anatomical components harvested from their sociopathic harassers back to their nest, spoils of the previous night's success.

I can't help but feel proud on behalf of these diligent little workers, their upset victory having sent shock waves through the animal kingdom as the unstoppable siafu juggernaut has been turned away. I'm half tempted to purchase a bag of sugar to present to these blue collared bastions of hope and determination for a job well done, but the other half of me who spent the day cleaning is in no mood to dump an entire bag of sugar out on the floor just to say thank you. These thoughts pass through my head as I drift off to sleep, comforted by the thought that some sort of universal justice has shined a light of good fortune down on my team first, 'can do' attitude carrying housemates.

0100 – Evening Entertainment. I awaken to the sound of Gracie (or Rachel, I haven't decided on a name yet), the rat who lives in my rafters, clambering around my small kitchen. Another one of my roommates, we get along for the most part, though occasionally we disagree on minor issues such as who should get to eat the food I pay for, where in the house it is appropriate to use the potty, and whether or not we should adopt a “no climbing on the mosquito net” policy in the house. Her visits have become a nightly routine (although last night I believe she was away visiting her auntie in the choo) and she is no doubt calling upon me to play our favorite game which involves her knocking something in the house over and then trying to hide from the spot where I shine the flashlight.

I humor Rachel (or Gracie, I haven't decided yet) with a few rounds of play, but the few remaining siafu wandering aimlessly across the floor combined with my lack of sleep the previous night have me unwilling to leave my net to take a more active role in our game. I power down my spotlight, tell Gracie (or Rachel) that she's won tonight's round, and slip back into a deep slumber.

0300 – Emergency Broadcast System. Once again I am awakened by a rustling sound, no doubt Rachel (or Gracie) has gotten a hold of some wrapper, baggie, or twisty tie and is calling me out for round two. Still in no mood for these late night antics I roll over and power on my torch to tell her we'll have to reschedule, but HOLY FREAKING DOG FOOD! Once again I find myself inside a reverse Gateway box as my torch casts light on a collection of enormous living black patches checkering the walls of this room that only seems to be getting smaller. Being well tuned in to the emergency broadcast being transmitted by my early to bed, early to rise chungu roommates I scour the room with my searchlight praying not to see what comes next: the cold blooded, puppy hating siafu have already established a marching corridor around the perimeter of the room and seem to be organizing for yet another military operation. Wasting no time, I quickly and thoroughly ensure that my steel reinforced, mosquito proof netting is well tucked in on all sides of the mattress as it is my first, and only, line of defense against the pack of tenacious predators surrounding me. Ben, the spider who has taken up residence high within the innermost chamber of the 'No Malaria' zone, quivers at the sight of this ungodly horde, but if I've learned anything from the previous night's experience it is that so long as we hold our position within the boundaries of the net kingdom we should be safe from the man- (and probably spider-) hungry jaws of these invaders.

Defensive perimeter secured, I calmly reassure Ben of our safety and lay down to rest as there is nothing more we can do at this point other than patiently wait out the storm brewing on the horizon. I power off my torch once more and lie back in the darkness. Waiting. Listening. Around me I can hear the collision of iron-jawed wills as these two super colonies cross mandibles in part two of this epic struggle. The crackling sound is like being inside a living, breathing bowl of Rice Krispies as the snapping of exoskeletons and the popping of tiny little ant knees and elbows echo in the otherwise dead silence of the night.

As I lay in complete blackness every speck of dust and strand of thread that brushes against my skin prompts me to immediately power on my light to ensure the unpenetrated state of our netted stronghold. Each time for naught as the net continues to hold strong. As the minutes roll by my eyelids drift downward and, hands resting on my torch, I fade back into the world of dreams, waiting for this most unfortuitous night to pass.

0400 – Parting Ways. My eyes open to complete darkness. In this place which is miles from the nearest source of electricity, the absence of a moon makes it impossible to see one's hand in front of one's own face as people are forced to pinch themselves under the blankets just to confirm that they are indeed still alive. I feel a piece of lint brush against my face and gently brush it aside, and then another, and another. I quickly power on my crank driven search beacon, illuminating the interior of my netted fallout shelter only to find that both the in- and outsides of this polyester woven defensive textile have been completely overrun by the ruthless, ozone depleting insects. “Ben you betrayed us”, I silently scream with my eyes as my bunk-mate, too humiliated to think of excuses, hangs silently from a web spun out of disgrace and disappointment, too ashamed to even make eye contact.

Having no time for drawn out accusations I quickly sit up, shake out my bed sheet, and wrap it around my scantily clothed lower half. After last night's ordeal a friend of mine has told me that, left alone, these black sheep of Darwinism are capable of killing and consuming a small child over the course of a single night. Having many infant-like qualities myself I feel incredibly threatened and decide that it is simply too dangerous for me to remain stationary for another minute. My saving grace on this night is that the chungu were able to rouse me from my slumber before I could fall prey to the siafu's baby-craving appetite. Exhibiting a level of preparedness instilled into me by my scouting days, I gather the few emergency items that I had the prudence to bring with me into this dead-end death trap: an ant resistant jacket, 3 socks (non-matching), and a flashlight. I have to move quickly as the first venom filled bites from the acid spitting, maniacal arthropods can be felt moving up my legs.

I quickly don the person protecting jacket and socks (2 for the feet, 1 for my net handling hand) and set to work untucking the net from it's holdings. I'm able to clear enough of this inter-meshing of false hopes and shattered dreams out from under my mattress before the sock on my hand is completely overtaken, forcing my to quickly shed the garment as though losing the first hand of some sick, sadistic game of strip poker to my pursuers. The time has come for me to leave the false security once afforded me by the net.

“Die out there, or die in here” I tell myself myself, I already know what I must do. I look at Ben as if to say “Sorry buddy, you're on your own. I'll buy you a drink if we both survive this”.

Ben understands, and wiggles an arm as if to say “What are you waiting for you fool? Get out of here.” I toss the sheet over my body to act as a protective barrier between me and the completely infested, I can only assume to me more effective against malaria carrying mosquitoes, net. Looking like a tacky, 70's patterned ghost (you buy my sheets if you don't like the design) I slip through the opening I've created for myself and into the Colloseum amongst legions of nefarious, colony wrecking cannibals. The carnivorous invaders have clearly spent the last day studying my movements, tendencies, and evasive tactics as they are just much faster than last time and seem to anticipate my every move. My natural agility combined with the savvy technique cultivated by years of veteran experience still give me the edge in this match up, though I dare not test fate any further by remaining in this vulnerable position. I race through the door and, as I do, I see the droves of refugee chungu carrying their children and wounded as they flee into the rafters.

“Tell the world what's happening here”, they seem to say with their eyes before turning again to flee in search of safety from the genocide loving siafu.

“I will”, I promise as I choke back the tears and turn from the horrible atrocities being committed around me.

The steadily ascending sensation of mastication progressing up my legs prevents me from spending too much time investigating the source of the infiltrating swarm, but it is clear that the siafu have returned with a force several times larger than the night before. Last night's defeat has clearly infuriated the queens of all the major siafu kingdoms and, in return, they've sent their entire attack force to make an example of the PTA meeting attending, read-to-their-children-before-bedtime chungu to any who would dare to challenge the siafu's iron pincered grip on the ant kingdom. Revenge is the only thing that consumes the siafu's collective consciousness on this night. Revenge...and eating babies.

0410 – The Bigger The Front, The Bigger The Back. Ousted from my humble accommodations by the unrelenting host of rabid, expansion-crazed war criminals, I race through the darkness in search of a safe place to wait out the remainder of this hell forsaken night. Teetering on the edge of defeat, thoughts of tendering my unconditional surrender to the siafu's undoubtedly maniacal demands hover around the outskirts of my consciousness as I stagger up the steps of the deserted health center. But thank God for night watchmen! As I plant myself on a chair in front of the main entrance, picking away at those foul creatures of the night that have managed to latch onto my person, a voice comes out of the darkness.

“What is it”, the voice inquires.

“Just a little problem with safari ants”, I respond.

A spotlight fires on, casting a pale blanket of visibility over the calamity of nature that desperately seeks to assimilate my savory being into the inner working of their digestive systems. One look at the dark swarm of vermin attached to my legs and he is off, shredding through the night toward my house like a detective determined to get to the bottom of some case breaking clue.

A cool and collected individual, the soft spoken guardian of the night usually carries a quiet assertiveness about himself that seems to draw conversation out of those around him. In another life I could easily see him standing behind a bar counter, listening empathetically as sullen, boozed-up bar patrons lay their life's most heart wrenching moments upon his fatherly ears, offering timely lines of sage quality advice before wiping away the sweat of spilled drinks from the counter. He seems more likely to verbally persuade the would be perpetrator of any crime against he health center into turning back peacefully than anything else. But on this night he moves with the steadfast resolve of a mother cobra, determined to protect her cobra cubs from some cobra devouring predator.

Minutes pass as I sit alone under the pre-dawn skies of Kenya, dressed only in a pair of festive colored board shorts, a warm-up jacket, and a pair of non-matching socks. I comb over my appendages, sorting out the last of the deforestation-causing stowaways and tossing them aside. Were it not for this coven of black-magic-producing, Christmas-ruining man eaters it would be a perfect scene. Finally the night watchman returns from assessing the situation.

“They're all over the house,” he tells me.

I take the liberty of reading into his words as meaning “It's an absolute mad house in there, and were it not for your cunning and ninja-like prowess you would be in milkshake form for the culinary enjoyment of the terrible siafu queen herself right now.” I inform him that this is the second such night I've matched wits with this catastrophe of Darwinism.

“You just need to put Jik,” he tells me.

“Jik?” I respond inquisitively. Jik being a brand of bleach sold locally.

“Jik, “he repeats, “They hate it, they'll run far away.”

I ask where I can go about acquiring such a miracle tonic and am informed that there is a ready supply available within the health center.

“Wait here,” he tells me, knowing that the zero-eyed, blood-crazed siafu have already acquired a taste for my delicious flesh, and that my presence would undoubtedly cause them to regress into a demonstrative feeding frenzy. I heed his advice, leaning back to appreciate the serene African sky, waiting for the next development in this epic drama as the light of the watchman trails off into the distance.

0430 – Light In Dark Places. “Now we just have to wait”, the watchman says as he returns from his showdown with our unscrupulous opponent. He sets down a large white jerry can of Jik and begins to brush the last,most tenacious of our opponents from his legs.

“Were you bit”, I ask.

“Yes”, he says, “but that's war.”

We share in a moment of heartfelt, camaraderic laughter that can only be shared by a duo of fearless titans who have just gone head to head with Satan's minions and lived to tell the tale. The laughter fades into conversation as we rest in the shadows, discussing ants, agriculture, and anything else that comes to mind as we wait for the magical siafu dispersing elixir to work it's magic.

0500 – Heroes Part. As we venture together back into the epicenter of the squall my brother in arms tells me that the tsunami of insomnia producing invaders has begun to recede, though looking into the recesses of the still crawling room it is difficult to tell. Having made my daring escape under the cover of darkness I was never afforded an opportunity to appreciate the sheer magnitude of the invading force that sought to capture and lay feast to my lean, free range, organically fed frame. The droves of foiled attackers retreating through columns of solid black back into the forest are the only sign that our desperate counter-offensive has indeed been effective

The sun rising, with night watchmen losing the majority of their powers in the light of day, signals my companion that it is indeed time for him to leave, lest the safari ants catch up to him in a weakened state on the road home. We bid one another farewell on the steps of the dispensary and I relax again as I wait for the sunlight to wash away the last stains of the invasion.

Epilogue: After two restless nights and half a gallon of bleach the following evening brings no trace of the freedom hating invaders. Days roll into weeks, weeks into fortnights, and still, no sign of the impending danger. The chungu start to put back together the shattered pieces of their colony, and life returns to normal in this otherwise normal mud-based village here in rural Kenya. I am told that these ominous offspring devouring creatures are seasonal, and that this just happens to be their season of inflicting pain and suffering on all of nature's children. No doubt the queen, infuriated by the route of her forces, is at this moment conspiring with her top generals (those whom she has not had executed for their incompetence), plotting their next offensive against yours truly. I know these blood thirsty, carnage loving savages will return, and I have an entire bucket of bleach waiting for them when they do.

*This blog entry is dedicated to Ben who passed away peacefully in his web at the ripe old age of 3 weeks, nearly one week after the siafu's retreat.

Through The Lens

Nairobi is a city with many blessings: cool weather, paved roads, elephants that drink from a bottle, and, of course, free "high" speed internet. Feeling fortuitous at having the latterest of these blessings I've decided to seize the moment and post a few of the more exciting sights that I've managed to catch on film (but not really since everything is digital these days). When you weed out the 9000 other pictures I've taken I actually look like I half decent photographer...

Dancing Machine. My host brother Memusi (Masai for “surprise”). You may be able to find a dancer with more talent, but not with more enthusiasm.

Hitch Hikers. We almost stopped to pick up these two clean shaven travelers but sped off after spotting their three shady friends hiding in the bushes. Never let your guard down here.

Colobus Monkey. This Loitokitok resident steps out into the cool morning air to collect the morning paper. Seconds later, upon realizing that paper delivery is non-existent in this region, he began to throw projectiles that are better not discussed in such a public domain.

The Beautiful Night Sky. A midnight breeze blows a cool wind across my aching shoulders, carrying the distant, sand person-like cries of a donkey on the air as I snap this photo of the Milky Way while doing my best to hold perfectly still.

If you've ever wondered who can attract more attention, a US Ambassador or a monkey, you need only look at this photo to learn the answer. At least this little guy seems to be listening.

Colonization: Part 1

 The Peace Corps assured me before signing up to be sent halfway around the world that every day of service would bring a new adventure. What they neglected to inform me was that the nights would be just as full of colorful, character enriching experiences. The peaceful nights of Loitokitok have done little to prepare me site. Mysterious noises, midnight visitors, and witchcraft are just a few of the challenges I'm sure to face in trying to secure a restful night of sleep over the next two years. Despite these minor obstacles I manage to keep my spirits pretty high and continue to enjoy adequate amounts of the deep, restful sleep that is key of my adonis-like appearance. In spite of my near perfect nature, every so often an event, or series of events, arises that is capable of pushing even yours truly to the brink of exhaustion.

Day 1

2000 - A Quiet Night. Time to start preparing supper. People in Kenya are notorious for taking their evening meal at hours that the rest of the world would already be fast asleep. In a place where electricity is scarce, daylight hours are typically spent on more productive tasks while nights are typically reserved for eating and sleeping (really, how many other things can you think of to do in the dark). This particular night finds me ready to do both, having already passed the day performing hard, physical labor in my shamba (garden). Energy spent, stomach growling, I am ready to refuel and recharge for the next day. I set to work on preparing dinner, eggplant generously given to me the day before by a kind-hearted fellow volunteer. As I chop ingredients and start to boil water I remain oblivious to the evening that fate has in store for me.

2010 - The Shudder. As happens every night around this time, the entirety of my sheet metal roof begins to shake about wildly, making a sound that most closely mimics that of a completely naked body clumsily jetting down a water slide that is devoid of all moisture. As in nights past I lumber outside, expecting to see nothing less than an entire tribe of baboons gathered around, stomping and howling wildly as their leader tries his luck at using one of those weird, shaky exercise belt things that, according to film strips, were apparently so popular in the 50's. But alas, as with every other evening since arriving in my community, I shine my torch on a completely barren roof, bringing me no closer to discovering the source of this mysterious phenomenon. This part of the story has no bearing whatsoever on any later events, but, being an unsolved natural wonder akin to aurora borealis or the tooth faerie, I thought it would be fun to mention anyway.

2015 - The Plot Thickens. Bumps in the night thoroughly investigated, I return to my kitchen (A.K.A. the side of my small, oval, one room house where I've agreed with myself to keep the food) to refocus my efforts on actively preparing dinner, as I've in my storied life that found food left unattended to cook on it's own rarely turns out particularly savory. I return to my duties of chopping and stirring but what the deuce?! The colony of ants that normally rents out the space beneath my house has completely sprawled itself out onto the wall of my kitchen like the remains of a chili dog carelessly eaten just before boarding the tilt-a-whirl.

Chungu is the local named for these ants. Small in size (as far as ants go), these industrious, community minded workers have inhabited this structure since before my arrival and will undoubtedly continue to do so long after my departure. I feel as though I have an understanding with these soft spoken critters as we have found a way to co-exist peacefully since day one. I don't interfere with their colonial duties, and in return they restrict their in house activity to cleaning up dead insects, droplets of water,and and morsels of food I should happen leave behind (hence my decision to designate a single side of the room as the kitchen). It is a perfect symbiotic relationship. But tonight these normally peaceful colonists have mobilized en masse for some unknown purpose. Columns of workers carrying miniscule white globes march within corridors boundaried by two thick black stripes of sentries guarding against any threat. High in the rafters, packs of these workers amass to form dark, living patches up to a foot in diameter as they await some unknown signal. “What are they waiting for”, I wonder. A signal to attack? A movie premiere? I don't know and, frankly, I don't care. Even though every cell in my body is screaming “Holy Jeepers” I know that these peaceful beings have never once acted aggressively toward me and, lest I should find some way to provoke them, our peaceful co-existence has no reason to end tonight.

2020 – Preemptive measures. The migration continues as I return my attention to not burning dinner. I notice the number of dark, crawly patches steadily increasing in number and area, rolling from the kitchen to the bedroom (A.K.A. the side of my room with the bed) like a blanket of ominous storm clouds menacingly covering the country side. My sleeping place, a mattress resting on the floor alongside a pile of broken promises from the carpenter who assured me that the bed I commissioned him to make would be ready three weeks ago, though currently a safe distance from the rapidly advancing brood, is clearly in the path of a storm that I have no intention of losing sleep over. Exercising an amount of foresight typically experienced only by madam Cleo, Nostradamus, and other such prophets, I decide to take the initiative and tuck the edges of my mosquito net in around the perimeter of my mattress, thus setting up a defensive barrier around the sanctuary that is my resting place. I resist the urge to seal myself inside the sanctity of my net as there is still a pot of cooking food to be attended to. A decision that will play a heavy hand in shaping my experience for the rest of the night.

2025 – Enter the Villain..As I rush to finish preparing dinner in the midst of the ominous creeping shadow that continues to surround me I discover the source of the ants' antics (I couldn't resist) as a second, larger breed of ant has now entered the arena and begun to establish a perimeter around the base of the wall. Siafu, or safari ants, I'll later learn these cold, heartless beings are called. Genetically engineered in a secret laboratory 30 miles beneath the North Pole, these emotionless killing machines have the DNA of Stalin, Hitler, Dracula, the bad guy from Rocky IV, and pretty much every really evil dude in history. Armed with a pair of metal shearing jaws, these steel plated, picnic-hating bandits march by the millions and are capable of taking down a cheetah in full stride. With a bite that feels like one million band-aids simultaneously torn off the hairiest body part you can imagine, these oversized mandibles on legs never even bothered to grow eyes, deciding instead that any organ incapable of inflicting pain would only make them less efficient remorseless murderers.

I’d had another encounter with these flesh-loving crawlers about a week before when they completely and mercilessly eradicated the entire cockroach population of my choo. It was a night that saw me playing a real life, no holds barred, life or death version of “ants in the pants”, as I was forced to strip down to my underwear in an attempt to clear my body of their blood-craving fangs while I spent the duration of the evening relieving myself in the forest whenever nature called. Basically, I knew this was one group of tiny, crawly, black things that I did not want in my pants again (not that I really want any tiny, crawly, black things in my pants).

2030 – Rising Waters. As the siafu begin to pour into the room like Pepsi all over a new leather jacket, conflicts begin to arise as the two opposing colonies flood wave after wave of combat ready soldiers onto the battlefield. Skirmishes erupt everywhere around me like miniature science fair volcancos fueled by the baking soda of malice and the vinegar of desperation as the peace (and sugar) loving chungu struggle to defend their humble nest from the life hating, all matter consuming siafu. The colonies would like nothing to do with each other as violence between the two factions spills out toward the center of the room like some kind of reverse, overflowing toilet. As the shadow of violence creeps ever closer to the place I am sitting I decide that my legs, still on the ground, are just as appetizing to the flesh-craving siafu jaws as anything else resting on the floor and decide to raise them up onto the chair with me, monitoring the situation as I enjoy my long awaited supper.

2100 – Testing the storm. My dinner safely stowed away in the inner workings of my alimentary tract, I resign myself to the fact that the environment is simply not conducive to washing dishes and toss my soiled utensils in a nearby basin. The room now looks like an inside out dalmatian as massive congregations of chungu checker the inside boundaries of my living quarters. Down below, the confrontation between the nomadic siafu and the kind-hearted chungu settlers rages on as far as the light from my tiny lantern allows me to see.

 Realizing that I have a potentially long night ahead of me and deciding that nothing would draw out the experience more than spending the night with a set of fuzzy, unbrushed chompers, I decide the time to test the waters of safety has come. I grab my toothbrush, luckily within reach, take a few deep breaths and then make a dash for the one tool I have in my room that might serve to aid me in this increasingly dire situation: my trusted broom. Careful never to keep my feet on the ground for any extended period of time, I clear the path with my trusted sidearm amidst a series of carefully timed, skips, hops, and jumping heel clicks. My movements resemble those of a former high school river dance championship runner-up who, trapped in the moment when he failed to secure the title of “river dance champion”, continues to live in the past, river dancing to himself as he sweeps the halls of the educational institution where he is employed as the assistant head custodian. My only saving graces are that the shutters on the windows are closed and that, even if they were open, people here have absolutely no idea what river dance is. I manage to clear a path to the floor and make a break for the cover of darkness, my legs moving at speeds that, quite frankly, make lightning seem lazy. But the wind shattering speed of my movements must have created some kind of siafu pulling vacuum as I begin to feel the searing pain of their barbed jaws grinding against bone as they help themselves to mouthful sized portions of my lower appendages. After escaping a safe distance from the house I pick off the few leg-chomping offenders lucky enough to get a taste of my succulent flesh. Broom in one hand, toothbrush in the other, I enjoy a moment of peace and good personal hygiene under the stars.

2115 – Turned Back. Teeth brushed, bladder empty, I decide to play my hand at bed time. Approaching the house, now completely overrun both outside and in, I tighten the laces on my ultra aerodynamic running shoes and am off. Again, my legs are pumping so quickly that they appear to be moving backwards as I enter the house amidst a series of stiff arms, spin moves, and jumping stiff arm/spin move combinations. The broom clears a path to my bed but I am dismayed at what I find as both armies have established a heavily reinforced defensive perimeter around my humble resting place. Though none have penetrated the barrier established by my mosquito net, it is clear that creating an opening for myself is impossible without also opening up a breach in the defense that would allow an entourage of these carnage loving invaders to accompany me inside. Accepting that my current bid at bedtime is premature, and having no intention of laying down to rest surrounded by thousands of jaw snapping demons, I quickly abandon my the operation and retreat to perch high atop my plastic throne. As before, the low pressure system generated by the furious pace of my movements has allowed some of these denizens, who otherwise would have no chance of matching me stride for stride, the opportunity to sink their mandibles into delicious man-flesh once again. High above the blood bath I remove kill-frenzied soldiers from my limbs as I watch intently the epic struggle unfolding beneath me. Momentum swings back and forth like a bird feeder on a windy day as both sides seem locked in a dead heat for superiority. The temptation to enter the fray on the side of the family value-cherishing chungu and start selectively exterminating the siafu enters my head, but my strictly non-violent nature prevents me from doing so, and I continue to watch from above as nature takes it course.

2300 – Back Into The Frass. From the safety of my invincible sky palace I look down on the sea of tiny bodies swirling about below me. Heroes are being made and legends are being written in the history books of both colonies. What the chungu lack in size and ruthless savagery they make up for in numbers and desperation. Every one of them is selflessly defending their hive against this onslaught of demonic invaders, every one of their tiny little ant hearts pumping enough courage to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool into the tiniest nooks and crannies of their valor polished, exoskeleton suits of armor. Why my room was chosen as the deciding ground for this miniature sized battle of the ages I have no idea. I can only assume that the oval shaped, Colosseum style layout of the structure had some influence on the decision making process of these ferocious gladiators.

As the epic showdown rages on the tide of soldiers washes in and out, in and out. Finally I see it. An opening. A break in the storm just wide enough for me to slip through the impenetrable defense of my malaria-proof fortress. I grab my broom as I leap down from the chair and through the window of opportunity like a kangaroo on PCP. My steps are so swift Nike himself could only stand and shake his head in disbelief as I deftly navigate like an arrow from cupid through the cold, black ribcage constructed by a collective of one hundred million tiny exoskeletons and into the heart of relaxation that is my bed. Finally a chance at rest. Finally, an escape from the blood bath that surrounds me.

 But what the heck?! Their numbers haven’t decreased at all. Rather, this demonic horde seems to have reinforced their ranks, holding the enormous wave of reserves back out of the range of my lantern’s weak light, biding their time like a legion of stone faced Texas hold-em champions. The sound of a billion tiny mandibles cackling with sadistic laughter is almost audible as the swarm closes in once again for the kill. I do my best to clear the way with my bristled peace maker, but my footwork gets sloppy. As scores of biting do-badders make their way up my legs I have no choice but to abandon my latest bid at reentry as I dash for the security of my elevated plastic safe haven once more. My speed enhancing running shoes and path carving broom, now completely overrun by foaming at the mouth invaders, were clearly the targets of this clever ruse executed with machine-like precision by my would-be pursuers. Within a fraction of a second I’ve peeled back the armor that once guarded my feet back like the wrapper of a fruit roll-up, hurling them away from me and into the clutches of the scheming siafu. Waves of obsidian continue to wash over the abandoned footwear as, safe atop my lookout once more, I clear the last of these cunning raiders from my body. Walking into a trap, losing my trusted footwear, I must be exceptionally tired or hungry or both, as these beasts of the underworld would never stand a chance against me in my naturally rested state.

2400 – Darkness, the catalyst for adventure. As the night wanes my mind burns with questions. Will these siafu supplant the chungu as the dominant species in my room? Why, oh why hasn't the carpenter finished building the bed I ordered 4 weeks ago? How does one go about acquiring an anteater anyway? Amid all of these questions one thing is clear, I will not be lying down in my bed to sleep anytime soon. A fact that I came to accept long ago. The problem: the light from my small lantern is rapidly fading and my tiny beacon's fuel source rests across an ocean of peril on the other side of the room. While the idea of spending the entire night in a plastic chair is less than ideal, the prospect of doing so in complete darkness flat out sucks.

 My hands tied and the odds stacked against me, my senses sharpen and my resolve hardens as it's time to get serious. I tuck my pants into my socks, slide in my mouth guard, and am ready to go. With the speed of a comet combined with the grace of an autumn breeze I dart through the masses of skirmishing colonists toward my destination. Fortune smiles her sweet smile as my bottle of paraffin rests in an area largely controlled by the chungu and I am able to quickly secure the target, returning the safety afforded to me by Kenya's finest piece of lawn furniture before my shadow has a chance to dissipate on the wall. The siafu never saw me coming. Wholeness uncompromised, lantern burning brightly once more, and isolated from my guitar, I lean back and enjoy all of the entertainment features my cell phone has to offer.

0500 – Conflict Resolution: Darwin Style. As the night drags on a historical event unfolds. Despite having a four to one size advantage, the siafu, having neglected to grow eyes in their haphazard evolutionary quest to become the ultimate murdering machines, begin to fall victim to the teamwork and ingenuity of the chungu's guerrilla tactics. Having the advantage in numbers, the chungu warriors take turns rushing the larger siafu from behind, landing a single bite on the hind legs of their blind aggressors before slipping back out of the range of any counter attack. This brilliant hit-and-run strategy, no doubt thought up on the fly by the chungu top brass, eventually incapacitates the tyrannical brutes thus creating an opportunity the chungu to swarm for the final blow. Hats in Las Vegas are being thrown to the ground for stomping on while Darwin turns somersaults in his grave as the underdog chungu were never supposed to stand a chance in this colossal mismatch. The number of siafu corpses littering the Colosseum grounds begins to rise in proportion to the fallen chungu martyrs. As dawn approaches, my broom once again free from the grimy clutches of the once-thought-to-be-invincible marauders, I decide to make my way once more to my place of rest.

The floor of my room looks like a miniature Gettysburg as the remains of the combatants blanket the field of engagement. I make my way through stacks of corpses several ants high as chaplains and battlefield surgeons tend to the wounded. The lingering siafu presence prevents me from becoming too relaxed as, socked feet constantly churning, I sweep both survivors and casualties of this night of violence away from the entrance to my nylon-fortified sleeping quarters. At long last I am able to enter uneventfully and, thoroughly exhausted, lay my head down for a few hours of rest.

Still in disbelief that such an event could occur I wonder if perhaps the entire episode wasn't just some hallucination induced by the anti-malarial medication so many other volunteers have been having trouble with. No, the wounds left behind from the searing jaws of my would-be pursuers are certainly real enough. Never have I felt like more of a guest in my own home than now. As I drift off into a long-overdue sleep I hope to myself that the evenings events will be a one time only occurrence.

Down To Business

While I normally do my best to reserve these blog posts for clean, wholesome, fanily oriented topics, appropriate brain food for the masses of school-aged fans to whom I serve as a pristine role model, there are certain less than refined topics which must be broached in order to provide an accurate picture of life here in Kenya. Today's topic just happens to be of just such a nature. Everyone in Kenya does it at some point, so we might as well talk about it. Even those with the will power of a saint (New Orleans based sporting teams excluded) and the stubbornness of a pickle jar lid find themselves unable to resist the urge to engage in this practice at some point. Some of my colleagues have been able to hold out for weeks after arriving in country while others have lasted mere minutes before succombing to their primal desires. In the end, everyone falls victim to the sick and inescapable laws laid out by mother nature, everyone has engaged shamelessly in this dirty practice. I'm referring, of course, to using the pit latrine, A.K.A. the choo.

A study in minimalism, the choo's simplistic layout most closely resembles that of a dark, vacant closet, bordered from below by a cement (though sometimes plastic, trampoline fabric, or other material) foundation that that separates the patron from a mine shaft-like earthen chute so deep, sightings of fiery hot magma swirling about the lowest recesses are not unheard of. The floor of the choo, arguably the most intricate part of it's design, is customarily graced by an opening ranging anywhere in size from a few millimeters to that of a large shoe (clown sizes excluded) for one to deliver their least precious of cargo. Immediately surrounding this portal to the underworld on either side are a set of elevated foot rests that leave the user unsure whether they should be focusing on the task at hand or preparing to run the 100 meter dash. These place markers may or may not have been placed with any consideration given to the human anatomy when deciding their position relative to the drop zone as near misses, slightly askew delivery, and flat out poor aim seem to be all too common problems associated with choo use.

Bats, rats, spiders, trolls, and countless other species of wildlife have been known to take up residence in both the upper and lower stories of this unexpectedly enticing plot of real estate, and the legitimate fear of an uninvited visitor rising up out of the foul depths of chooness midway through the main event prevent the user from becoming too relaxed, ensuring that proper position is maintained on the starting blocks at all times. A true test of knee strength, the standard choo comes unequipped with support bars, handgrips, or any other device that might assist one to rise out of the choo position. Rather, patrons are forced to rely on the sheer determination not to be stranded inside this fragrant vertical coffin to provide them with the strength to rise on cold, sensationless, blood deprived legs back to the standing position after completing the homework assigned by mother nature herself.

As unappealing as this joint straining, olfactory testing ordeal may sound to many readers, the most strongly voiced desire I've heard to date in my community has been for the immediate implementation of a widespread development scheme that would bring a choo to every homestead, school, and bowling alley. To imagine that many of the people I live and work with would like nothing more than to have the privilege of doing their business in one of these cold, heartless shanties suspended precariously over chasms that make the grand canyon look like a crack in the pavement. It's not difficult to imagine why someone would want to avoid entering into this forboding monolithic structrue at all costs, but to understand why someone would pine just for the opportunity to do so, perhaps that is the path toward a truly mutual understanding between myself and the people I came to serve.

Let's Eat!

Mealtime. As a person who abstains from eating animal products no part of the day brings more questions and uncertainty while travelling. "What comes in 'such and such'", "What's that brown stuff", "Will I have to eat a baby?", etc. The Peace Corps obviously takes these issues into consideration as diet questionnaires, follow-up questionnaires, and hard hitting interview questions are an integral part of the application process. Having gone through all of the worst case in my head prior to departure you can imagine my delight at landing in a village where eating meat is the exception rather than the norm. Lorenzo 1, Rest of the world 0.

Having been largely influenced by the international community, the cuisine in Kenya is quite diverse with all the variety of an 'All You Can Eat' buffet (without the intense morning after stomach cramping). While I'll undoubtedly forget to mention some key dietary cornerstone, I'll do my best to fill you in on some of the most common food stuffs one might encounter here.

Ugali: While staple foods can vary from region to region (millet, cassava, jujubees, etc.) one food is eaten in every corner (and the corners of those corners) of Kenya and may just be the food most closely tied to the culinary identity of East Africa: Ugali. Picture in your mind a food that has the appearance and texture of cream of wheat prepared with too little water. Made from maize flour, ugali is typically rolled up by hand into a ball just smaller than one Tiger Woods would typically swing a club at, and then used scoop up whatever dish has been lucky enough to be situated next to Kenya's chief staple on the plate of destiny. Greens, beans, fish, ice cream sandwiches, heck, even a second helping of ugali are just some of the companion foods perfect to be scoooped up and enjoyed with those white balls of deliciousness. A sweat inducing strength building workout to make, one need not wait for hunger to set in before cooking ugali as the upperarm workload required in the preparation of this dish is capable of arousing even the most stubborn of appetites (little known fact: 100% of Kenyan women are capable of cracking a coconut in the space between their forearm and bicep). Unfortunately, a moderate percentage of our cohort suffer from a bizarre genetic mutation, lacking the appropriate taste receptors which allow for appreciation of the deliciousness ugali is capable of producing. Yours truly does not fall into that category.

Rice: Of the strictly white variety.

Beans: Affirmative.

Arrowroot: This starchy potato-like has the unique ability to absorb any and all moisture within a 9 km radius the instant it enters one's mouth. Likely developed as a deterrent against herbivorous predators, this moisture sapping effect has been theorized to have been the underlying cause of every drought ever recorded in addition to being responsible for the progressive spread of the Sahara desert. It is this less than humble blogger's warning to you never to allow this substance anywhere near your mouth unless you have a very reliable water source nearby.

Blue Band Sandwich: A savory layer of margarine succulently spread between two hearty layers of white sandwich bread. Most often enjoyed at breakfast, may be double-, triple-, or quadruple-deckered to taste. Best served at room temperature.

Maandazi: Sopapillas.

Matoke: A dish made from cooked bananas that have a flavor and texture more similar to that of a potato than the sweet, monkey sustaining snack fruit Americans are used to. Needless to say, the banana splits here just aren't the same.

Chapati: Take a flour tortilla. Fry it. Chapati.

Kale: Coming from a place where the entirety of my food budget was planned around being able to afford this wonder food you can imagine my suprise to learn that kale is actually one of the lowest priced foods available in Kenya. In fact, the Kiswahili name for this leafy green, "sukuma wiki", which literally translates as "push the week", is an homage to it's affordability as addition of sukuma wiki into a culinary line-up is a tactic commonly used by Kenyan families to stretch the weekly budget while staving off the pangs of hunger. I've yet to meet a single Kenyan person who hasn't laughed at least a little bit when I explain that the budget stretching staple is one that which Americans often pay a hefty premium for.

Coconut: The closer one inches to the coast, the more coconut seems to find it's way into various dishes. Rice, beans, mustard, there's not a single thing edible that can't be improved with the addition of a little coconut. The juice of young coconuts (madafu) may be enjoyed as a drink while the meat of mature coconuts is typically grated and used to flavor various dishes.

Chai: A one-time subject of British colonial rule, many people here in Kenya still honor the twice daily tradition of tea (chai), which typically consists of either water, milk, or some mixture thereof, tea leaves, and enough sugar to send a humming bird into orbit.

Meat, etc.: I am undoubtedly the wrong person to ask about this one. What I can tell you is that, with the exception of communities living in relative proximity to a fishable body of water, frequent meat consumption is often prohibitively expensive for the inhabitants of many smaller villages, my own included. In addition to the standard beef, chicken, and goat, specialties in my area include caterpillars, crocodile, and panya choma (roasted rat).

Mealtime is serious business here in Kenya and one must plan their social schedule accordingly. If you are at someone's house around mealtime you are expected to eat (no matter how many lunches you've had) while if someone is at your house around mealtime they are expecting to be fed. Portion sizes can be a challenge for some of the volunteers as the concept of 'too much food on the plate' simply does not exist here while refusing food can quickly escalate into a diplomatic crisis. Likewise, the amount of food to eat (or not to eat) presents an equally fine line to be walked. Leaving a small amount of food on one's plate is considered a polite sign of fullness while cleaning one's plate...well...let's just say don't do it unless you plan on asking for seconds.

New Mailing Address

The internet giveth, then the internet decide to not worketh. The Kenya based chapter of my fan club has a new mailing address but technical difficulties have prevented me from updating the contact information in the side bar so please note that my most recent mailing address is as follows:

Lorenzo Nava PCV
P.O. Box 5905
80200
Malindi, Kenya

As before please read the mailing instructions posted on this site before licking the envelope, putting a stamp on your well wishes, and throwing your hopes and dreams into the unforgiving, parcel crushing talons of the international postage system. Please also bear in mind that, while I will be incredibly grateful for any hard copy fan mail that manages find its way to me, the post office if a few bumpy hours away from me and, as such, enail remains the fastest andmost reliable means of expressing your undying admiration.

Language Woes

Without a doubt, one of the most rewarding experiences one can have when immersing oneself in another culture is that magical feeling that comes after a successful person-to-person interaction in another language, and Kenya has plenty of them (languages that is). Though English and Kiswahili are the official spoken languages, Kenya is home to over 13 trillion (an unconfirmed estimate) different local and tribal dialects. From Kimasaai and Dholuo to Kigiriama and Kimeru these languages share one common feature...the smaller the number of people alive who speak the language the greater the amount of street cred a foreigner can earn by speaking said language. Hearts can be won and lifelong friendships formed instantly with timely greeting or salutaion if the language is obscure enough.

While effective two way communication may lay the foundation for a rich cross-cultural experience, sometimes it is the breakdown in communication that makes the experience. Though it may come as a surprise many of my most loyal readers, as near perfect as I am, even I make mistakes from time to time. But as I always say (starting now) if you're not making a complete fool of yourself then you're not trying. That said, I thought I would share one of my more foolish moments with you, my loyal, even when walking into the jaws of certain doom, fans.

This particular story takes place in late June as I'm sitting down to evening chai with my host father. A patient school teacher who speaks excellent English, my host father is a softspoken man who, understanding my need to learn Kiswahili, is always willing to provide a calm audience for me as I stumble through sentence after unintelligible sentence in the language. During the course of the evening's conversation my host father asks why I will be spending the upcoming Saturday night away from home. Now, the upcoming Sunday was going to be the 4th of July and our group of trainees, seeking to celebrate our nation's independence free from the tyranical rule of a 6:30 curfew, had rented out a local camping/training facility for just that purpose. In an attempt to explain the rationale for the weekend's festivities using my limited Kiswahili I explained to my host father, "We're going to celebrate because Sunday is uhara day in America" (those of you who know Kiswahili may already be laughing). As the words left my mouth a look of absolute bewilderment crept across the kindly teachers face as he understood exactly what I had just said but couldn't seem to fathom the idea that such a day would exist, much less that it would be a plausible reason for an entire nation to celebrate. Thinking that perhaps more explanation was needed and seeing an opportunity for cultural exchange I interjected, "Like Madaraka (responsibility) day", the day on which Kenya became a self governing nation. As I leaned bcack, casually sipping my tea and giving myself a seemingly well earned pat on the back for another successful language interaction my host father's face lit up like a freshly rear-ended Ford Pinto.."Uhuru day!" he said as he leaned forward, an 'ah ha' timbre resonating through his voice. It was at that moment I realized what I had just said and we both relaxed into elated laughter as I was now in on the joke. Kiswahili, like many languages, is very interesting in that one misplaced letter or mispronounced sound can change the entire meaning of a word, sentence, or national holiday. You see, 'uhuru' is the Kiswahili word for freedom while 'uhara' is Kiswahihi for diarrhea, or rather the abstract concept of diarrheaness. The types of festivities that flashed trough my terribly confused host father's head I have no idea.

A handful of other "almost, but not quite"'s:

-Malaria is a disease spread by dogs (mbu=mosquito, mbwa=dog)

-I would like a diseases Fanta please (machungwa=oranges, magonjwa=diseases)

-The door is locked? Let me call someone with a broom (ufunguo=key, ufagio=broom)

And my favorite runner up which was spoken not by me but rather by my colleague Megan, a veritable language powerhouse in her own right:
-Teacher: What is this book about?
Megan: Mamas.
Teacher: How do you know?
Megan (pointing to an illustration of a very obviously pregnant woman on the cover): Because the woman on the front has a big f@#* (tumbo=stomach...for the sake of Kiswahili speaking children who may be reading this right now I won't finish translating this one).

Reconnected

The long cruel wait is finally over dear readers as the powers that be have seen fit to respark my love-hate relationship with that most wicked of misstresses...the internet. The last two months have been a big budget hollywood style action packed flurry of events that would challenge the very limits of time to reccount in it's entirety but I'll do my best to hit most of the main points as I attempt to fill you in.
May 23 - Staging - The Peace Corps gives me a taste of what is to be expected for the next 2 years as I'm upgraded to "Rock Star" status for my flight to the East coast. The flight crew is visibly taken aback by this upgrade and prolonged double takes are given by all whose hands my ticket must pass through. My shaggy profile is clearly inconsistent with the airline's typical priority class fare. Laboring women, business big-wigs, and heads of state alike are forced to stand aside as my boarding takes priority over all others bound to a physical form. I strut boisterously down the aisle, perching my soiled footwear on every seat I pass as I make my way to the sitting area designated just for me. "So this volunteer business has some perks" I say to myself. I assume my fellow Peace Corps enlistees are receiving comparable treatment as they embark on their respective journeys to the staging event in Philadelphia, but am surprised to learn that the rest of my cohort have been treated as mere mortals up to this point. Unacceptable.
May 26 - Nairobi - After back to back transcontinental flights we arrive in the capital city to be greeted at the airport by a host of in-country Peace Corps staff eager to size up the latest batch of talent. As one of the first off the plane I immediately set to work lowering expectations for the group by mispronouncing my first greeting in Kiswahili to the country language coordinator before immediately reverting to English to state that I've left all of my customs paperwork of the plane. They decide to go ahead and keep the group in Kenya anyway and soon we're whisked away to a guarded compound just outside Nairobi. We awake the following morning to a security briefing on how, other than that big red spot on Jupiter, Nairobi just might be the most dangerous place in the solar system, if not in all of the milky way. According to the Peace Corps this place is bad. Real bad. Like the hubcaps steal from each other kind of bad. Clouds are even afraid of this place and only drop down rain as a distraction in hopes of affording themselves an opportunity to escape on the first jetstream to a safer place. Despite the advertised dangers our group manages to make it on to the next destination more or less unscathed................................................................... May 29 - Loitokitok - Our group arrives on the trianing grounds nestled cozily on the lower slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro. The majesty of the mountain and the beauty of the night sky are matched only by the dustiness of our surroundings. Dust, as it turns out, is Loitokitok's chief export with over 90% of the world's dust originating from this location. The next time you vaccuum your residence, empty the contents of the bag directly into your sinus cavities and then you will start to have a sense of the environment here. The days are short and long at the same time. Language and technical training sessions test our endurance during daylight hours while the "before dark" curfew policy has all of the trainees in their respective homestays tending to various household duties by 6:30. Despite a handful of bumps in the road, our group of 36 makes it through training without losing a single trainee to homesickess, culture shock, or gazelle attacks .To finish training without losing a single trainee is an uncommon feat in the Peace Corps and one that reflects very highly on the training staff here in Kenya.
July 21 - Swearing In - Our group returns to Nairobri, the subject of security scare talks among Kenyans and Americans alike, once again for all official i's to be dotted and t's to be crossed on our paths to bonified volunteer status. It will be the last such gathering of our group before being scattered to various remote villiages around the country. Wheras the first trip to Nairobi had an air of group bonding about it, this latest trip has an entirely diferent feel altogether. Anxieties are palpable as the time to start living like the pictures in the brochures is fast approaching and the support system we've found in one another will be forced to persevere with the variable of distance added into the equation. As for myself, I can't say that I'm nervous so much as eager to settle into the community where I'll be spending the next 2 years. While goodbye's are never easy this one is lightened by the knowledge that each of my fellow volunteers is embarking on the same adventure as myself. I know that each of us is about be plunged into a unique experience to be had nowhere else and I look forward to meeting again to compare notes and share stories about the 36 independent adventures that we're all on together.

Over and Out

Well dear readers, the time has finally come. Here on the eve before my departure into the unknown this looks to be my last entry for at least a couple of months. Before the next time I have a chance to update this blog the Peace Corps will have made a man out of me (or at the very least an awkward adolescent).

The question most asked of me right now is whether or not I am feeling "insert emotion (e.g. excited, nervous, itchy, etc.) here" about the next step. A justified question, indeed quite deserving of a thoughtful answer. To be perfectly honest, up until this point I have been entirely too occupied preparing for the next step to spend any significant amount of time or energy fretting over it. I will say that there is a fair amount of uncertainty about what the next two years hold in store for the protagonist of this story. Here I am, a nurse practitioner, going from a country where my role in the health care field is poorly understood by members of the public and health care professionals alike, to a country where nurse practitioners are essentially non-existent. Additionally, I'm stepping as a person who refrains from eating meat into a culture which has no concept of vegetarianism. On the facade it would appear that part of who I am simply does not exist in the place I am going.

Despite the uncertainties surrounding this latest adventure my confidence remains high. Even if no one else understands my mindset, words, or actions, I continue to have faith in the path before me. Over the next two years there will undoubtedly be highs, lows, lows which at first seem to be highs but are later revealed to actually be lows, and just plain embarrassing moments, know that through it all this is the place that I am choosing to be and have no regrets or second thoughts about this course.

And so, with my bags...um...mostly packed, my eye turns to the east (whilst the other points to the south giving me a Cookie Monster type appearance) and as it does the proverb "Mtu ni watu (a person is people)" enters my mind. Certainly the path up to this point has been filled with wonderful people, without whom I would not be where I am now. So while it is sad to part with many of the people whose giving nature has helped me to this point, I look forward to sharing the love which has been given to me with many new friends whom I have yet to meet that I might be able to be one of the people who makes up another person.

See you from across the pond.

The P word

Packing. Few spoken sounds are capable of invoking the tsunami of negative feelings associated with this 7 letter word. A rich coffee house style blend of dread, panic, loathing, and everything in between has been known pollute one's emotional palette in between the cold sweats and fits of nausea experienced when the sickness inducing P word is smeared painfully across one's ear drums like the most caustic of substances. If there is any issue that humans (along with most species of primate) are able to agree upon unanimously it is that the dreadful P word epitomizes the least enjoyable aspects of the human experience and should be avoided at all costs. Every member of every hunter gatherer tribe throughout history has silently sworn under their breath at least once upon the first hinting that their food source was preparing to migrate. Even the most avid travellers have considered just staying home to brush up on their algebra, get started on that novel, or finally solve that Rubik's cube without taking off the stickers rather than embarking on some life altering experience with that nasty P word as a prerequisite. Some societies have even proposed the P word as a means of punishment reserved the worst of crimes against society, but none to date has been so cruel as to enforce such a vile disciplinary action.

Less than a week to go and I find myself unavoidably face to face with the "I don't wanna" inducing P word. While my frequent travels have helped me cultivate some degree of tolerance to the sometimes necessary but always unappealing P word, this time is a little different. 27 months. What to bring and what to leave behind? The question weighs on my mind like a sack of festering peanuts along with the knowledge that, unlike my previous experiences, if I forget something this time I may not be able to acquire the item in country and having the item shipped from elsewhere may be impractical, if not impossible. I must balance carefully my natural tendency to travel as light as possible against the desire to bring every little item that I think I might possibly need at some point over the next 2 years. Every item deposited or withheld from my pack is a wager and, with worst case scenarios and most probable outcomes swaying the odds, I place my bets and hope for the best.

Though this latest parlay with the P word has a uniqueness not encountered during previous experiences, history tells me that some similarities are bound to arise. In every backpack, duffel bag, knapsack, or lunch box I've ever had a hand in packing, a few categorical items have unfaltering made appearances that the entire city of Greenwich can set it's clocks to. While the exact items themselves are ever changing and unpredictable, the nature of these items remains laughably constant. In an effort to make this blog more interactive, I've posted 3 of these item categories below along with my best guess as to which item will most closely match the category criteria during the next 2 years. I encourage you to make your own lists and, if any lucky fan is able to correctly guess all 3 items, I will personally come to the winner's hometown for a chance to have your photograph taken with me, sharing a glorious high five.

1. The item which, despite being incredibly difficult to pack, was not used once. Not only was the item not used, but at no time during the trip did a single instance where use of the item would have been even mildly appropriate arise.

My pick: Swiss fondue set.

2. The item which was packed in mass quantities in anticipation of not being able to acquire in country when, in fact, the item is available pretty much everywhere in country at rock bottom prices that would make Wal-Mart's head spin.

My pick: Pokemon card collection.

3. The incredibly useful item which was most certainly packed, however, rummaging through every backpack compartment, no matter how likely or unlikely it is to contain the much sought after item, reveals that the item cannot be found and was probably never packed in the first place. Only upon repacking in preparation for the return home at the end of the long and arduous journey is the "would have been great to have" item found in the most conspicuous of locations.

My pick: Shoes.

If you decide to share your pick on this blog, please remember to keep it family friendly as the world's children look to this blog as a beacon of inspiration for their future endeavors and, you know, we should be setting a good example and all.

Kenya

The wheel of fortune has finally stopped and Kenya has been named as my next destination. For those of you who are unaware, in just under 2 weeks from today I will be departing for Kenya to serve as a Peace Corps Public Health volunteer for 27 months. I know that many of you are already serving up a buffet of questions such as "where in Kenya will you be", "what will your living conditions be like", and "will you get to ride a pony?" The answer to all of these questions is...I don't know. Not the "I don't know" answer that you give your parents when they ask how the kitchen window got broken and you really do know but you don't want to give the answer because then you would have to go on to explain the hole behind the refrigerator that you're hoping they won't notice until after you move out of the house. No, this is the kind of "I don't know" answer that can be interpreted as "I don't have that information at this time and will probably not have it until the times comes when it is necessary to have". Like catching a wet bar of soap that has rocketed out of ones hand mid-shower sailing through the air on the most warbly of trajectories, it is often impossible to describe initially the exact technique one is going to utilize in order to catch the devilishly elusive missile. Rather, one must wait patiently for more information before answering such an inquiry. Believe me when I tell you that I am just as eager to learn the answers to these questions as you are. While some of the answers to your questions may never be revealed for security reasons (e.g. 'Where do you live and what time do you leave the house every morning') rest assured that I will do my best to share appropriate information with you when it becomes available to me.

What I can tell you is this:
-Kenya is located on the Eastern coast of Africa and is about twice the size of Nevada.
-Official languages are English and Swahili though numerous indigenous languages abound.
-According to the World Health Organization, the top 5 causes of death in 2002 were HIV/AIDS (38%), Lower respiratory infections (10%), Diarrhea related diseases (7%), Tuberculosis (5%), and Malaria (5%).
-Stroke and Heart Disease, the number 3 and 1 killers in the US respectively, ranked 6th and 7th in Kenya, with each accounting for 4% of total deaths.
-HIV and Malaria control are currently considered major priorities under the Peace Corps' Public Health program.
-Ponies are currently not a major source of transportation in Kenya.

I hope this has helped to whet your appetite for more information. Check back later for more updates and let's look forward to finding out the answers to your questions together.

A Begrudgingly Taken First Step

Blogging. From the Greek word "blogos" meaning: writing which few people read and still fewer are interested in. While the concept of blogging is not completely foreign to me, I must confess that the thought of entranced readers spending any significant amount of time in front of a computer reading about my own mishaps and misadventures seems a bit fantastic and mysterious to me. Blogging has always been something that other people do in an ever modernizing world while I try unsuccessfully to spend less and less time in front of a computer...until now. It would seem that life circumstances have brought me to a point where maintaining individual correspondences with people I care about will be, for a temporary stretch of time, logistically unfeasible, leaving me with little recourse other than to take my place in front of the mighty keyboard of fortune and cast my lot into the blogosphere of destiny in an effort to keep those interested parties abreast in the unfolding of my life's own moderately interesting events.

Given this is my first ever attempt at blogging, journaling, or any other "ing's" which provide some sort of insight into my innermost monologue, I will take the pre-emptive step of asking for your patience and understanding as I subject you to various run-on sentences, typyo's, and general incoherence as I struggle to express my thoughts in a reader-friendly format. In return, I will do my best to provide you, my legions (very generous use of the term) of loyal readers with colorful descriptions of my most interesting (or least uninteresting) encounters and discoveries. I cannot promise timely uploading of new posts or tales worthy of passing on to one's grandchildren, but I can promise that while I am providing you my irregularly irregular updates I will be thinking of you, an uncountable body of enchanted and enthralled readers composed of friends and loved ones, and looking forward to the day we meet again and I can hear your misadventures as well.