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This article ran in a local newspaper a few weeks back:

Americans Run Slow, Shame Nation
By Mwadime Mukweha - Associated Press|AP - Mon, Oct 24, 2011

VOI, Kenya (AP) – Four American foreigners brought shame upon their nation by attempting to compete against Kenyan athletes in the Madoka Half Marathon held in Ngerenyi last weekend. Officials are still unclear about what exactly drew the Americans to the annual event which pulls top runners from all over Kenya and what exactly they were hoping to accomplish.

A debased American runner crosses the finish line.

Starting at an abashingly slow “pace” the four “competitors” started and finished well out of first place. Although the Americans were not the last to finish the race, it was assumed by all present that the Kenyan competitors who followed the Americans across the finish line were deliberately running slowly so as they might be able to render first aid or help to carry the foreigners should they have collapsed during the race. Had a press conference been scheduled a spokesperson from the American embassy would have probably expressed humiliation over the loss of face performance turned in by the four shamefaced American runners.

For many of the spectators present this was a first and incredibly disappointing opportunity to witness American “athletes” in action. “We knew they were slow, but we did not know they were this slow,” said one observer who spoke on the condition of anonymity given the embarrassment he felt on behalf of the naturally ungifted runners.

At the moment it is unclear why the foreigners performed so poorly, though there is speculation that they were likely slowed to some degree by the exorbitantly large sums of money they were assumed to have been carrying on their person during the race.

While the Americans did their best to conceal their dishonor by trying to appear as though they were “having a good time” and were content merely to participate their sub-par performance will be remembered among all those present for years to come.

The 4 disgraced American runners do their best to mask their discomposure with smiles.

Here and After

“Give me 20 shillings for a drink,” the gray bearded old fossil demands of my friend, his slurred speech laced with spittle as it passes through the decaying calcium fence posts that haphazardly poke out of his gums. After being denied his request the bald, shirtless dinosaur staggers a few feet away before slapping at his protruding belly and throwing himself to the ground, howling as though he had been struck down. The crowd erupts in laughter as the inebriated senior rolls about the ground of the homestead, dressed only in a dusty kikoi, crying out about imaginary abuses. He rises and continues his antics, mingling among the men gathered at the homestead, feigning beatings, playing dead, and occasionally gulping down small, hotel shampoo sized bottles of palm wine. To the amusement of all a second character enters the scene: a young shirtless gentleman dressed in a pair of half fastened overalls. He antagonizes the elder of the pair by bellowing comments in his general direction which are immediately met by the drunkenly comical wit of the veteran performer. The two continue to circulate amongst the guests, sparring with one another verbally much to the delight of the attendees. It’s a hilarious scene that couldn’t possibly draw more laughs even if it had been scripted, rehearsed, or planned in any way. This is certainly not the atmosphere one would expect at the funeral of a 7 year old child.

Fifteen feet away the father, a young motorcycle taxi driver, has the appearance of a man who has been hollowed out, stuffed with rusty bicycle spokes, and run through a washing machine before being discarded on the side of the road. His eyes, weary and irritated from hours of shedding countless tears, stare blankly into the distance, oblivious to the comedy unfolding just steps away. He stirs occasionally from his spot on the ground, staggering about when he walks like one who has been injured, though he bears no physical wound. Lower lip a quiver, he holds tight onto a small tattered blanket as the fierce equatorial sun beats down around him, forcing those who have come to grieve into whatever shade they can find.

The arrival of a man at the household is marked with a round of handshakes and high fives with the other males while the arrival of a female is announced by a high pitched, attention exacting sob as she joins the other women in the compound. The weeping is so embellished I ask a friend if it is indeed genuine. He assures me that it is and informs me that the only reason the men aren’t bawling the same way is that they are better at controlling themselves. A gaggle of school children putter in, peers of the deceased, and immediately begin emulating the mourning behavior of the grown-ups, the girls huddling together as they cry loudly.

Two hours after the burial was “scheduled” we continue to sit and wait, men on one side of the compound, women on the other. The delay and apparent “lack of order” would not be present “if these people were Christians” another person from outside the community feels it necessary to tell me. Behind the scenes a local carpenter works diligently, putting the finishing touches on a plain child-sized coffin.

At last a party of men emerges from the main house carrying the tiny casket as an entourage of lamenting women follows closely behind. Leading the procession is the comedian in overalls, though his demeanor now much more somber than before. The once vivacious child is lowered into her resting place between the home and the maize field as a short prayer is spoken. In unison the women erupt into a volley of weeps and sobs powerful enough to turn even the fiercest looking gargoyle into a blubbering mess as the young males take turns shoveling earth into the gaping hole that has scarred the heart of the homestead. Those close to the family remain behind while the others begin the long walk back to their home in the sun’s dying light. That’s death here, and that’s life.

Survival Tactics

Africa. The dark continent. The birthplace of man. From pyramids to apartheid, glacial peaks to vast desert, the continent boasts a vast diversity of history, landscape, language, and culture. If there can be found one place that embodies the full human experience surely it must be here, having been the stage for some of mankind’s brightest moments, as well as some it’s darkest. To call it by one name only is to almost ignore the multitude of distinctly different cultures and the ample range of varying people and traditions existing within her bosom. To say the word, Africa, conjures up a plethora of unique mental images, each completely different from one other yet all accurate representations of life here. But let’s face it, there’s one thing everyone thinks about when they hear the word Africa…animals.

Large animals. Weird animals. Large and weird animals. The kinds of creatures you wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley, or any alley regardless of lighting. Thus begs the question, what do you do if you do happen to cross paths with one of these walking wonders of the natural world? Simple. Ask the Maasai. The Maasai are widely regarded throughout Kenya as the baddest, most reliable ally to have in your corner when facing off against a man-eating, man-stomping, or otherwise man-harm-inflicting animal of any size. But what if you don’t have a Maasai warrior on hand when you happen upon one of these beasts of the savannah? Rest assured, I’ve taken your lack of preparedness into account and have gone out and done your homework for you, seeking the advice of a seasoned Maasai warrior/Peace Corps language instructor on how to handle encounters with Africa’s baddest of the bad.

Buffalo (Swahili: Nyati) –
Don’t let their docile appearance and cute old west bartender style hair-do fool you, the last thing these guys are going to do when trouble breaks out is go hiding under the counter. While there’s never a truly safe time to be around one of these wooly behemoths they are most dangerous when startled, so fancy card tricks, surprise birthday parties, and just showing up at their apartment without calling first are all strict No No’s. Having spent many years growing up sitting entirely too lose to the television despite the advice of their parents, their eyesight is pitiful, though their sense of smell is rivaled only by blood hounds and breakfast cereal tracking toucans. If chased the best course of action is to somehow strip off your top layer of clothes while running away (easier when wearing traditional Maasai garb or one of those goofy khaki safari shirts with all the pockets than when sporting a skin tight T-shirt and Wranglers), toss them on the ground, and continue running while the buffalo theoretically stays behind and wrestles with your abandoned duds. If that doesn’t work, climb a strong looking tree and wait for your horned friend at the bottom to lose interest in flattening you and wander away.

Elephant (Swahili: Ndovu) – Another short tempered colossus of the savannah with eyesight fouled up by TV and comic books yet still possessing a keen sense of smell. I mean just look at that nose*. The strip and run plan is the same as for the buffalo, but no tree climbing with these guys as elephants are renowned as highly skilled tree climbers (their secret is in the way they knock over the tree before climbing on top of it). As a side note, elephants are said to have a strong aversion for bees, so you may want to take an ounce of prevention and consider carrying a bustling hive around with you on your next safari.

*Fact: an elephant’s nose is actually an in-line series of over 300 separate noses, each more powerful than the last.

Rhinoceros (Swahili: Kifaru) –

Sadly, these creatures are being spotted less and less in the wild due to online poaching and to thousands of hours of their lives wasted away in front of a computer by solitaire and online gaming. If you are lucky enough to spot and be chased by one of these magnificent and rare creatures the best strategy is to run in a zig-zag pattern which I think has something to do with taking advantage of the blind spot created by it’s horn. As a side note, Rhinoceretopses are reputedly terrible at managing personal finances, so your should never loan them money, but if you can somehow turn this to your advantage when trying to escape then go for it.

Crocodiles (Swahili: Mamba) –

Best just to play it safe here and not go near any water that’s not in a sealed bottle.

Hippopotamus (Swahili: Kiboko) –

Insomnia. Binge Eating Disorder. Agoraphobia. These poor creatures are case studies in multiple complex disorders and should be commended for simply having the strength and the courage to get out of bed every evening. No matter how bad last night was for you theirs was almost certainly worse, so you can count on them being in a pretty irritable mood should you cross paths in the wild. Much like this buffalo brethren to whom they have no relation, these water dwelling behemoths are in no mood for surprises. The best course of action should you encounter one of these groggy swamp monsters is to run as fast as you can and never put yourself between a hippo and water.

Leopard (Swahili: Chui) –

(Three leopards stealthily disguised as cheetahs)

Sporting a sleek spotted coat, these cats look good and they know it, spending most of their day trying to avoid unwanted attention from adoring fans by hiding out in trees, hollowed out log, and other incognito places. Being extremely concerned with maintaining their good looks, leopards will shy away from any conflict that threatens to disfigure their chiseled facial features, thus grabbing the jaws of a pouncing leopard is said to render them submissive and let them know you’re no one to be messing with. How exactly to grab a hold of their jaws while avoiding the sharp claws and teeth was not so well explained. Good luck.

Cheetah (Swahili: Duma) –

Usually will not attack humans. If they do become confrontational try challenging them to a race and then take off in a different direction.

Zebras (Punda Milia), Wildebeests (Kongoni), Giraffes (Twiga), Gazelles (Swala), etc. –

Cowards. Will usually run away rather than attack so long as you don’t do something stupid like jump on it’s back try to ride it.

Lions (Swahili: Simba) –

The baddest of the bad. If you bump into one of these guys you messed up somewhere. I mean really messed up, like punched a nun or something like that. But not to worry, handling them is merely a lesson in counter-bullying 101. If you run into one of these snuggly, cuddly faced killers the first thing you need to do is stand your ground, act cool, don’t run away, and don’t pursue. As the Swahili saying goes “Zivuta Kama Uko Nazo” or “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em”.

If the lion approaches continue to stand your ground and it will think twice about whether or not it really wants a piece of you. If he does, hey, don’t blame me for just standing around, like you were really going to outrun a freaking lion anyway, I don’t care how many touchdowns you scored that one time playing touch football. If he walks off then you do the same in a different direction, preferably into a house or car or back over the zoo railing or something. If there’s more than one lion then get the heck out of there, they’ll just surround you eat you regardless of how cool and nonchalant that leather jacket makes you look. Also, finding closure in your life and spiritual oneness would be a good idea right about now.

Moral Dilemmas

There are generally said to be two types of season in Kenya. Rainy seasons, and the seasons spent waiting for the rainy seasons. The rains are the powering force behind life in the region and to denounce them would be like driving a needle made from frozen lemon juice under the eyelids of every man, woman, and child in the country. Rewards of cash and rare jewels have been promised to the mad genius who can produce a device capable of harnessing the power of precipitation, while those who hint at even the slightest dissatisfaction with gloomy weather are advised to pack up and leave or risk being declared enemies of the state.

Requesting the rain to go away and come back another day is considered treason under the Kenyan constitution, so far be it from me to even entertain the thought. But a plague has descended upon my humble residence. A foul, putrefying scourge. The kind of unrelenting assault on the senses that makes rookie cops throw up into handkerchiefs, eventually dashing behind their squad cars to finish the job. It came on slightly at first. A faint, stale odor floating on the night air, creeping into my nostrils during my sleeping hours. I raise my head and try and identify the reeking source, but the delicate olfactory trail is lost as swiftly as it came on. Days pass and the haunting fragrance gathers potency, always strongest when I lay my head down to rest. “This pillow case needs to be washed,” I think, and the next day I seek to assuage the aromatic malady through a combination of bleach, boiled holy water, and elbow grease. The sanitizing miracle tonic works wonders initially, but the reprieve from my pungent invisible foe is short lived. Repeated attempts to cleanse my linens of this malodorous hex are becoming less and less effective, making it clear that a moment of resolution is fast approaching. The breaking point arrives one night as I’m drawn out of a deep, restful slumber by an overpoweringly rotten odor reminiscent of an aged wheel of fetid cheese which has been stored for seventeen sweltering summer months in the pouch of a sweaty kangaroo.

“Enough”, I decry, though it comes out as an inaudible groan in my still half sleeping state, as I cast the putrid blend of cotton and limburger as far from me as I can without leaving the comfort of my mosquito net. Having one of the rankest pillows in the history of stinky sleep paraphernalia is an inconvenient, though manageable, problem. Running into such a problem at the beginning of the rainy season, a time when anything set out to dry only becomes more drenched, is kind of a drag. I would never ask for anything that would make life here more difficult for those here whose livelihood depends on the rain, but one sunny afternoon couldn’t hurt, right?

Tick Tock

The concept of time has systematically blown the minds of individuals who have made any attempt to understand it since before the dawn of civilization. Wormholes and black holes. Relativity theories and flux capacitors. It seems the deeper we delve into the subject the more confusing, depressing, and frankly uninteresting the whole matter becomes. Even the time-space guru Einstein was known to feign exaggerated yawns and bellow out “BO-RING!” when engaged on the subject by students and intellectual colleagues for more than a few minutes. But despite our lack of understanding on the illusory subject, time plays an important role in various parts of the world, and Kenya is no different.

Some might say that time holds a unique place in Kenya in that it seems to have no place at all. 9 AM meetings regularly start at 2, “right now” could refer to anytime today, and the phrase “next week” could be three months from now or beyond. Indeed, the Swahili proverb “Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka” (Hurry Hurry Has No Blessing) is seemingly followed to the letter. But there is a system here. An unspoken set of rules and guidelines driving the day to day agenda of those living far outside the shadows of the city. A protocol that everyone understands and adheres to. An etiquette that is the bane of anyone who foolishly tries to push their own agenda without trying to understand the culture they’re in. Who would be foolish enough to waste the morning in an early meeting when that’s the coolest time to work in the field? Why would anyone risk the social isolation that would result by not stopping to greet everyone they pass on the way to the village or by not attending the 3 day funeral of their friend’s cousin’s grandfather just so they could meet a deadline? Those from clock dominated societies seem to run into an unending sea of frustration when they cross through the wormhole and into this alternate chronometrical society, so it’s important to remember things will happen when they happen. A meeting will start when it starts, the shop will open when it opens, and a 6 month late blog post is considered right on time.

A Heroic Tale

It's Mother's Day in most parts of the world (at least it was when I started scribbling this down on paper), and what better way to celebrate than with a special blog post dedicated to that most esteemed class of individual, the one whose sweat and tears oil the machine that drives this country, the one without whom all life on the African continent would grind to an inoperable stand-still. I am referring, of course, to the Kenyan Mama. Bearing the weight of Kenyan society on her head like a bucket of water 41 million people heavy, the life of this matriarch is a test of character and endurance so brutal it makes the Ironman look like a shuffle board match. With feet strong enough to walk over broken glass, and hands tough enough to hold flaming coals, these under-appreciated females of the pride are capable of enduring just about anything the world can throw their way. What better example than the story of Mekatilili.

Who is Mekatilili you ask? Only one of the baddest mamas ever to walk the sandy loams of Kenya. To follow her story we travel back to the early part of the 20th century. Black and white are dominating fashion, the electric slide is still powered by a hand-crankable device, and territories such as Mexico, India, and Kenya are increasingly resisting their colonial rulers.

As the local story goes, a group of freedom fighters from the Giryama tribe are engaged in a bitter struggle against their British occupiers, among them one traditional healer by the name of Mekatilili (meaning mother of Katilili). During this period of unrest, the son of our heroine, Katilili, is captured by a British officer who answers to the name of Champion and transported to the western Kenyan outpost Kisii where he is to be imprisoned. But Mekatilili won't have it. Powered by the inextinguishable fire of maternal instinct, the herbalist liberator journeys on foot nearly 900 kilometers, crossing hippo infested waters and outrunning cheetahs across lion covered savannahs for about two weeks, arriving finally at theshold of her son's prison.

"Champion, give me back my son", she demands, but the British officer, alarmed to see Mekatilili so far from the battle grounds of the coast, accuses her of witchcraft and refuses her request. Resisting the urge to double over the British gentleman by releasing one of her trademark reverse spin kicks into his midsection our naturalist instead takes her leave.

The following day Mekatilili again appears at the gate, begging a word with her son's jailor. Champion, through a mask of contempt and thinning patience, decides to oblige our journeying hero's request to parley. As the man-at-arms warily approaches the place where Mekatilili is standing, wisely keeping his distance as word of her infamous spin-kicking ability has preceeded her, she presents to him a mother hen with one of her chicks, imploring the foreign agent to seperate the aviary toddler from it's mother. Cautiously, Champion inches forward and begins to pull the young fledgling away from the hen but as he does, the matriach fowl launches forward into a desperate, feather drawn flurry of pecks, scratches, headbutts, and any other offensive maneuver you can imagine a chicken employing to selflessly defend her young.

As the commander of forces reels backward under the weight of the hen's "to the death" offensive Mekatilili says to him, "That is why I have come. You have taken me son from me", again demanding the return of her child.

Champion, through a thick emotional shell hardened by years of fighting for the empire, feels the heat of Mekatilili's words, his insides melting from the emotion that fuels them. At that moment he realizes the fire burning inside of her is unlike any that he has ever encountered on the field of battle, and, in a gesture of respect and understanding displayed all too rarely in our world, returns to Mekatilili her imprisoned son. Reunited, mother and son begin their long journey together back toward their coastal homeland, the chicken went on to invent some kind of synthetic down, while Champion probably quit the army and went to live on top of a mountain to study zen or mushrooms or something.

So children let's pay homage to the women who brought us into this world. Not because they crossed a country to protect us, but because we know they would.

Happy Holidays

I just wanted to wish everyone a merry April first. Drive safe.

What's Your Sign?

Kenya is a nation, and like most nations, republics, and confederacies (fan-based nations excluded) it is chock-full of nationly tidbits and national what-nots. National bird: the lilac breasted roller. National anthem: Ee Mungu Nguvu Yetu (Oh God of All Creation). National flower: Taifa brand sifted maize meal. But no national treasure is more fascinating, more enigmatic, or, frankly, easier to blog about than the national automobile: the Matatu. Poorly understood by those outside of Kenya, the most common misconception surrounding these rolling games of twister is that each one is the same as the next. In fact, each matatu, tuk tuk, pikipiki and bodaboda is a unique entity, with its own personality, quirks, and habits. So how is the common, lay commuter supposed to be able to know the flavor of their chariot before they enter? Well, apart from the wild color schemes and lavish neon lighting, each vehicle, like a Spanish galleon setting out on the high seas, bears a unique epithet distinguishing it from the rest of the fleet. Sometimes written using old English lettering, sometimes written using old English grammar, here are a few monikers you might spot traversing Kenya's motorways:

Game of Chance - Not the words you want to see on a vehicle you are about to entrust your safety to.

Tripple M - Yes, that's 'triple' spelled with two "P"'s. This name is not so much humorous as it is flat out confusing. Try as I might, I can't think of any triumvirate of "M" related anything that would be witty or significant enough to brand in semipermanent decal lettering across anything. My best guess is that the monster mash is somehow involved.

Street Credibility - I'm pretty sure that anywhere street cred is important, referring to it as 'street credibility' is an instant way to lose it.

Jesus Loves (written in blood) - Take that Satan. You're not the only one who can write your name in sanguinous body fluids and look cool.

Peace Corps - Finally, some props.

Dangerous - See "Game of Chance".

Addicted - "Sure I'll get in, but would you mind walking in a straight line first?"

Say No 2 Drugs - Would you please talk to 'Addicted'?

Big Machine. Permitted to Kill - I might be more intimidated by this if I weren't big enough to physically overturn the tuk tuk it was printed on without spilling a glass of water.

Xtreme Grace - Other than conjuring up the mental image of a tutu clad ballerina slamming a Mountain Dew while jumping a pink, flower patterned skateboard over a serene meadow filled with the most adorable man eating puppies you can possibly imagine while a string orchestral arrangement of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida floats in the air, I'm not quite sure how to react to such an overpoweringly gentle name.

Oh Yes 2 - Sounds promising, but what happened to the first "Oh Yes"...?

Da Promise - Not to sure what this one is referring to, but you can be certain there's a Bears fan behind the wheel.

Karl Malone - No joke here, Kenyans just really respect and admire Karl Malone.

Desire - The latest matatu from Calvin Klein.

Grand Hustler - Better make sure you get some sort of written agreement on the fare before hopping into this one.

Pole Pole Kenya Project group (translation: Slow Kenya Project Group) - Got a Deadline? Well...then...you probably shouldn't outsource any of your work to these guys.

And my favorite...

Slow - Ok, granted the rest of the name was scratched off, it doesn't exactly instill a lot of confidence...I think I'll just walk.

Customer Loyalty

Small business is something more of an art than a science here in the forgotten rural villages of Kenya's coastal province. "Competitors" find it commonplace to refer customers to one another, supply and demand has almost no sway over local prices, and the thought of a price war...well...there's just isn't any thought at all. No, nestled here on the outermost fringes of the corporate world's leering, opportunistic gaze, the rules of capitalism just don't seem to have fully taken hold. But in these dusty streets lined with rows of shops, or rather multiple duplicates of the same shop, one has little to go by, save for family and tribal loyalties, when deciding which duka shall be the deserving recipient of their repeat patronage. Enter customer service.

To identify the origin of my own consumer loyalties I need look no further back than that fateful Sunday afternoon during a period that the majority of the world generally recognizes as autumn. Now, this not the kind of Sunday afternoon Lionel Richie would sing about, or the kind that would involve a picnic basket and a golden retriever with biblical first and middle names, a penchant for catching frisbees, and an uncontrollable habit of randomly soiling the carpet despite being the perfect companion in nearly every other way. Nor is this the kind of Sunday afternoon where legions of boozed-up armchair quarterbacks crowd in front of their TV sets to passionately root on their team, which has to close out the season with 9 straight wins in order to have a winning record and chance at the playoffs. No, this is the kind of Sunday afternoon that I imagine you might encounter during the Spanish Inquisition, where the pious are in church and the less pious are staying out of site so as not to broadcast the inadequacy of their piety to those who would have them tied to a ferrel donkey and dragged through a breyer patch. It is on this type of Sunday afternoon, this holiest of afternoons, that I step out from my humble abode in search of some kind of produce to prepare as part of my evening meal.

Appetancy driving my steps, I start rounding the very limited array of options which may be even remotely capable of satisfying my desires for vegetable goodness. The first stop in my procession, the village market; a helter-skelter assemblage of branches, birches, and sticks lashed together into a makeshift, chest high, six foot by two foot table. Selection at this bazaar is anything but predictable, being totally dependent on local harvests, weather patterns, and whoever decides to happen upon to the market that day for the purpose of sprawling their various surpluses out across the surface overtall bench. The rules of exchange here are simple: anything on the table is for sale, anything under the table....well, those are probably somebody's children. Whether the result of my having gotten off to a late start or a flat out absence of variety from the day's outset, by the time I arrive I find the lone eatable on the counter to be a basket full of dried makumba, a small river dwelling fish that, if you didn't know better, you may mistake for a newly born sardine. Not exactly the ideal side dish for an herbivorous individual such as myself. Having already gone the previous day without taking in anything higher than the first layer of the food pyramid, again due to fluctuations in the market, my prospects of consuming anything even remotely resembling a balanced diet on this weekend look grim.

Spirits dashed, palate unsatiated, my mind, rolling through the short list of options still available, steers me toward the local supermarket, a two meter by two meter establishment whose produce section is consistent of a small cardboard box full of onions which, surprisingly, is always well stocked. Fighting off the urge to completely surrender myself to dejection and discouragement, I enter dim, windowless structure and exchange greetings with the shop keeper, a young man no older than myself with a persistent close-lipped smile, a pair of brightly attentive eyes, and a deep yet soft spoken voice that is like a smooth, melodic butter spread in a perfect grade over the eardrums.

Formalities observed, I cut straight to the chase, "Do you have any vegetables besides onions?" I pry inquisitively, like a zealous gumshoe poking around for a hot lead.

Eyes shifting, fingertips rapping tersely against one another in a disjointedly rhythmic manner, he is clearly mulling over the best way to tell me 'No'. His unfocusing gaze continues to dart across walls lined floor to ceiling with merchandise as though scanning for some unseen object when suddenly his eyebrows shoot up like a pair of freshly roasted toaster pastries and he moves to his left with a purpose typically reserved for mothers who are hoisting cars up off of small children. Reaching up on a high shelf he pulls down and, in the same motion, dexterously bags a pair of glowing red tomatoes. Already willing to pay any price demanded of me I start fumbling through my pockets for coins, bills, property deeds, permenant teeth, and anything else mildly of value.

"How much?" I query, doing little to disguise my disadvantage at the bargaining table.

"Just take them," he tells me, the thought to charge me never crossing his mind and he extends to me the bag of what was clearly meant to be a part of his own dinner.

Realizing that declining this gesture of kindness would be about as culturally acceptable as delivering a roundhouse kick to the stomach, not to mention being too starved of variety to try, I accept the satchel of fruit like a Nobel Peace Prize, feeling as though I should make some memorable speech to commemorate the moment. I recognize that no combination of nouns, verbs, or adjectives could adequately express my gratitude for what would be the best tomatoes I've ever consumed, rather, I hope that my undying customer loyalty will help convey that sentiment.