New and Improved

As humans we adjust to the environment around us. For example, take three medium sized bowls and fill them with water. One cold, one hot (but not too hot), and one somewhere in the middle. Place one hand in the cowl of cold water and the other in the bowl of hot water and keep them there for about a minute. Now place both hands in the lukewarm bowl of water together. You should notice that the hot water hand feels cold and the cold water hand feels hot.

About three year ago I traveled outside of the US for the first time in my life (no, the day trip to Juarez at age 6 doesn’t count). I left the laid back atmosphere of Hawai`i and upon arriving in Seoul was immediately taken aback by how aggressive and forceful everyone seemed, how traffic laws were seemingly regarded as suggestions, and the haphazard way people seemed to walk, choosing to adhere to neither the left nor the right of pedestrian throughways. Three years later, returning to South Korea after 2 years in Kenya my immediate impressions were that everyone is incredibly polite, traffic is a perfectly ballet of glass and steel coordinated by law abiding citizens, and that everyone except for me seems to know exactly where to walk while I meander aimlessly throughout the sidewalk. What happened? What changed? When did everything become so harmonious?

This morning, a German traveler, freshly arrived from Japan, commented to me on how taken aback he has been by how pushy and hostile people seem here. What changed? Apparently just me. Al Gore tells us that if you put a frog in boiling water it will jump out, but if you put it in tepid water then raise it to a boil you’ll be the proud owner of a dead, boiled frog. Never mind what kind of sadistic frog boiling sicko the former VP got this info from and don’t please try this at home, we’ll just assume they did their homework thoroughly before making their findings public. The point is that I didn’t realize how difficult life was in Kenya or how I was adapting until I went somewhere else.

I’ve learned that I after two years of not wearing deodorant that the smell of it is too overpowering. I can’t pass an electrical socket without thinking about what I can potentially charge at that given moment and I’m constantly thinking about where I can get clean drinking water. I view internet access as a finite commodity and I can’t look at pictures or videos without thinking about how much data I’m chewing up. I’m more comfortable holding hands with other men than you would expect from someone coming from a country where homosexuality is a crime punishable by up to 14 years in prison and I still prefer to squat when going to the bathroom when the option exists. I think about all purchases in terms of how many village lunches I could buy for the same price and find it hard to believe that restaurants actually have all of the foods listed on their menu available at any given time. I’m unused to the idea of events occurring exactly at a certain time, I find it odd to be outdoors after dark, and I still feel the need to sleep with a mosquito net. I’m sure there are many more quirks and habits I’ve picked up that I’m not even aware of yet, so you’ll have to tell me what they are the next time we’re together.

Hard To Explain

Statistics have shown that 100% of Public Health Peace Corps volunteers working in Kenya will at some point during their service come into possession of a large number of condoms. The acquisition may be purposeful or unexpected, legitimate or in direct violation of multiple international laws (e.g. The Great Condom Train Heist of ‘72), but in the end it is an inevitable part of the Peace Corps experience and is a tradition as old as, if not older than, the Peace Corps itself. Of those condoms, 99.99% are distributed to would be users, destroyed in water balloon tosses, or fed to gazelles. Of the remaining 0.01%, over 99% are carried out of the country knowingly by the volunteer (let’s assume so that they can put them in their scrapbook). So imagine my surprise and excitement at being a statistical anomaly when, while unpacking in front of my friend’s family, a black plastic bag full of unused male prophylactics that I certainly don’t remember packing, should tumble out onto out of my bag. With hands quick enough to catch lightning and a mask of nonchalance that most texas hold 'em players lie awaking at night dreaming about I managed to tie up the bag and put it out of view, managing not to attract any undue attention and avoiding a spill of difficult to explain contents across the floor of a living room full of children.

Now I’m placed in a precarious situation. My frugal side can’t stand to throw anything away that’s still perfectly usable, my efficient (euphemism for lazy) side has no interest in carrying around anything that I have no need for, and my sensible side tells me that approaching random strangers and asking if they want a bag of full of condoms could land me in hotter water than my current level of Korean can get me back out of. In the meantime this bag seems to have a mind of its own, showing up again all the most inopportune times. For now I’m just trying to keep it out of sight, but if anyone has a better idea I’m all ears (electronically speaking that is).

Annyeongha-Say What?

They say (more specifically, the members of Cinderella say) you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. Such is the case with my Swahili. No, I haven’t forget the language that’s been my life line for the last 2 years, but the longer I’m away from Kenya the more I’m realizing that there is a critical worldwide shortage of Kiswahili conversationalists. As fun as it is to see the baffled look on people’s faces when I respond to any non-English question, comment, or tongue twister in my East African dialect of choice, I would prefer for their befuddlement to be a result of the illogicality of my response as opposed to a plain old language barrier. I may be jumping to conclusions, but I have a sinking feeling that I am going to dearly miss conversing in a language where the difference between “I’d like roast chicken” and “I’d like to roast you” is the stressing of a single syllable. I guess for now I’ll just have to put my pride on the shelf and my Swahili on the back burner. First order of business: try to stop agreeing to everything by saying “haya” (Swahili for OK) which sounds far too much like “hai” (Japanese for yes) to be throwing around in a country that’s had it’s share of unpleasant run-ins with the Land of the Rising Sun.

The Doorbell

I’ve always considered myself to be a particularly lucky individual. I rarely break mirrors, spill table salt, or engage in any of those other nasty behaviors that tend to rub lady luck the wrong way. In return, she has cast her graceful smile down on me more than someone born on Friday the 13th is probably entitled to. But after getting bumped up to an exit seat on three out of three flights from Kenya to South Korea (twice because my original seat was taken and once just because) I had a feeling that I had just racked up a karma debt that I didn’t have nearly enough good deeds in my account to pay off. My only hope was that the gods of providence wouldn’t demand swift repayment in the form of a few permanent teeth, or that at the very least, that I could get on some kind of long term settlement scheme with me not having to part with said chompers until late in my 8th or 9th decade. Seems they had something else in mind.
After enjoying the free airport WiFi (short for “wireless Fi”) for several early morning hours I decide there is finally enough light for me to make my way to some place where I can dump my overfull bag and start enjoying some parts of Seoul other than the Incheon International terminal. I make my say through the mostly deserted subways and streets much faster than expected, finally arriving at the guesthouse entryway, nestled cozily at the top of a 4 story flight of stairs. I listen at the closed door. Silence. I know I’m early, but how early? Is anyone awake inside?

I set down my 20.8 kg bag (i know because that’s what it weighed at the Nairobi airport) and I debate with myself whether or not it’s too early to knock. As I look down at the my phone to check the time I catch a bit of movement out of the corner of my eye, turning my head and reacting just time to ALMOST catch my bag before it goes tumbling noisily down the staircase. I’m not sure exactly how many individual steps there were, but I am absolutely certain that my bag hit every single one of them as it clamored loudly away from me like a mischievous toddler in the checkout lane of a grocery store right after tossing their soiled diaper into some other poor shoppers produce basket. Even if I had packed my bag full of pots, bells, and automatic kazoos, I doubt it could have made any more noise than it somehow did lumbering down the stairwell.

As I drag my misbehaving luggage back up the top flight of stairs the staff of the hostel suddenly burst out the door, no doubt expecting to see either a dead body, or those two angry robot customers from a couple nights ago, who were clearly dissatisfied with their stay. Surprisingly, nothing inside my bag was broken, so I’m not sure just how far this will go toward paying off my fortune creditors, but at least it’s a sign of good faith that shows them I’m willing to play ball.
In a completely unrelated incident, while trying to tell someone that I was considering sleeping in a public bath house (totally culturally acceptable here), I may have said that I was going to sleep in a bathroom (much less culturally acceptable). It’s interesting, because other than both having 3 syllables, the Korean words for each really not very similar to one another and there is no good reason to make that mistake. Due to my lack of sleep at the time, I can’t really confirm or deny what I did or didn’t say, but the other guy’s reaction makes a lot more sense if I messed up. Either way, I’m counting it toward my karma debt.

Still Kicking

South Korea is undisputedly the most wired nation on Earth, narrowly beating out the Russian space station late last spring to retain its title for the 83^rd year in a row. With Wi-Fi emitters atttached to 90% of trash cans, grapefruits, and stray dogs you’d be hard pressed to find place where rocket fast internet is not to be had. So as I bask in the pre-dawn radio waves of this broadband empire, I’ve realized that the fastest internet in the world is meaningless if you don’t have someone to share it with…enter my legions of loyal readers. After two years of living in what sometimes seems like a different person’s life, I’ve decided the best way to shift back into the US is by taking the long way home, and even though it’s entirely possible that nothing of interest will happen whatsoever, I’ll try to post from time to time to let you all know that I’m still alive and as full of myself as ever.

Even Monkeys Fall From Trees

With just under a week left of Peace Corps service remaining two facts have made themselves apparent to me: 1) Two years can go by in the blink of an eye, and 2) the speed at which that time passes accelerates exponentially the farther behind in blogging one falls (I came up with a formula and everything). In a move that will doubtlessly disappoint my legions of undying fans, I’m sorry to announce that this is going to be my last blog post from Kenya. Over the years (both of them) there were countless happenings, mis-happenings, and near mis-happenings which ended just being happenings in the end. Through all these happening variations there were volumes of adventures that I wanted to share but just never got around to it, so from here on out we’ll just have to wait until we see one another to play catch up on all those missing blog posts. Some of the stories I started writing up but never finished include:

Practical jokes gone wrong: The clothes thief
The disappearing ATM card and the budget crisis of 2011
Traffic jam in Nairobi
Hey, lighten up man: The bitterness of foreigners
The look
Water free farming
Bargaining tactics: How to get the best price (spoiler alert: breaking merchandise and bartering with surgery are not off limits)
Changing a tire village style
Kilimanjaro: How does a Frisbee (direct Swahili translation: the plate game) fly at 19,341 feet?
Peace Corps survival techniques: Being lost in a foreign city
Treating patients at 30,000 feet
The sound of Cairo praying
Do you know how much: The Egyptian sales pitch
That flight doesn’t exists: Close calls in travel

Of course two years doesn’t pass anyone by idly, so I expect all of you to have your own stories to share when we meet again. Till then...

The Wordiest Blog Post Ever

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. So it is almost certain that they, whoever indeed "they" are, would also agree that a series of tens of thousands of pictures sequentially arranged to produce the illusion of motion must carry a word value somewhere in the bajillions or gazillions. In any case, it should more than compensate for a couple months of missed blog posts. On that note, here's a little something I put together with some people in my area. I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves. 

The Blessing

Dusk. A blanket of dry air and dust hovers stiflingly over the land as the sun hangs low on the western horizon. I walk through the rust colored streets among women carrying water and clusters of smartly dressed men taking advantage of their last opportunity to socialize before returning to their respective homesteads. After two days away from the village I’m eager to return home and shed the inch thick layer dust that is the inevitable result of a several hour long bus ride through Kenyan back country. A minor hardship, like safari ants or amateur karaoke night, that one just seems to get used to after living in a remote area for a prolonged period of time. As I caution up to my front door, my eyes scan the ground for signs of the blood thirsty siafu colony which has been frequenting my residence on a near nightly basis as of late. Over the past many months my siafu evading skills have easily surpassed the black belt level, if indeed belts are given out for such things, though I’d just as soon not be taken surprise by a twenty million strong storm of miniaturized marching hyenas.

Seeing no signs of the tiny vampire horde on the ground I move to slide my key into the lock on my front door only to have my eyes fall upon a most unexpected sight: a small branch , meaningfully fastened above the entryway of my home. In an area where belief in witchcraft is slightly more prevalent than that in gravity the implications of such an omen are dubious at best. “Safari ants and witches?! Great.” I mutter under my breath. Deciding to leave nature (and I this case super-nature) to play out it’s course I leave the twigly ornament in place and proceed about my nightly routine without giving it another thought.

A few days slip by uneventfully until I find myself in front of my house one afternoon. My eye is caught by the bough hanging above the door and I’m once again reminded of the mystery surrounding it’s appearance and intention. I point out the new addition to a nearby co-worker and ask if he knows what it means. He walks up to the door, his inquisitive eyes fixing on the branch’s form as his mouth draws wide across his face and into a smile.

“It’s a blessing”, he tells me,” It’s to keep siafu from entering. How did you know to put this up?” he asks.

I explain the mysterious appearance of the apparently enchanted switch to my associate who, wearing a mask of wonder and amazement, nods agreeably and wanders back to his work. Months later the now withered and leafless charm remains suspended above my door, it’s origin still unknown, although it’s siafu repelling effects still potent as the crazed safari ant horde has yet to return.

The Bats Are My Friends

Peace Corps volunteers hate bats. Not the kind of sallow, superficial animosity indifferently cast at root canals, tummy aches, and bitter green vegetables. No, it is a deep-seeded malicious disdain that emanates from the darkest fibers of one’s being. The kind of venomous loathing that, left unchecked, prompts holocausts, genocides, and other horrific deeds to be committed. It is this kind of scornful, callous abhorrence that volunteers harbor toward the bats. Maybe it's the way they roost in the rafters, plastering the ground floor tenants' possessions with that precious, sought after resource they spew from their back end, or the way they emerge from the business end of the choo when the user is at their most vulnerable, their coarse, whiskered bodies brushing against private parts and special places in a most awkward fashion, turning a routine call of nature into a miserable tangle of fur, underpants, and other substances I'm sure. Whatever the reason, hatred of these sonar guided choo dwellers has become such a standard of the Peace Corps volunteer experience that the top brass in Washington have considered the inclusion of a bat affinity questionnaire to be added into the already lengthy application process, thus ensuring the adequate level of antipathy toward mammalian-bird cross breeds.

Surprising to say, then, that by some strange circumstance, some unnatural aligning of the cosmos, I seem to be lacking in that all important bat loathing quality displayed by so many of my fellow volunteers. Perhaps this is attributable to my previous experience in the deserts of Southern New Mexico standing witness to flapping, chirping cyclones of living black smoke as they ascend out of the bowels of the earth to cover the dimming sky in nightmarish clouds of insect devouring shadow. Or maybe I zoned out during some key, anti-bat seminar during training, my usually attentive mind distracted by fantastic day dreams of winning the Kentucky Derby on the back of an underdog mule by the name of Percival Fuzzlestein. The two of us becoming instant media darlings and embarking on a whirlwind tour of the morning talk show circuit which culminates with Percival, a British citizen, being knighted during a ceremony broadcast live from the steps of Big Ben just like he used to lie awake dreaming about. Regardless, I never really thought much of my relationship to bats, nor did I have any idea that I would grow closer to them as a result of one fateful night here in Kenya.

It is a late evening in the warm, remote village that I am calling home for these two years. Chompers brushed, dishes washed, I am at the end of my nighttime ceremonies preparing for that final daily ritual, slumber. And slumber I must as I’m to travel to Mombasa early the next morning, as though I were given a choice when to travel. In my area there is one bus out per day departing just as soon as there is sufficient light to see the road and if you miss it, well, don’t miss it. Knowing that my immediate future involves my being on this bus I crawl into bed and do my best sleeping beauty impression. I lie awake in the darkness, enjoying the elevation over the hard cement floor my new bed provides me. All the factors for a sound night’s sleep are in place, all but one that is. A faint rustling sound out in the darkness, beyond the protection of my walls draws my attention. Now it is not out of the ordinary for an orchestra of bizarre noises to accompany my twilight hours, and certainly the sound being produced is not so far out of the ordinary as to warrant suspicion in the untrained ear, but a strange premonition compels me to leave the comforts of my bed to investigate.

I venture out into the darkness surrounding my house, torch in one hand, my desire to return to bed in the other. I investigate the area where first I heard the strange occurrence expecting to find some sign of Rachel (or Gracie, I haven’t decided yet), the rat who usually dwells in my rafters trying to enter the house after a long holiday but there is none. I then proceed to investigate the area around the base of my house, a common entry point for other less welcome visitors but I find none. A lazier man would have retired at this point and while I, despite my greatness, am most certainly lazy, I continue to scan the ground moving outward from my house until I see them. The blood craving, baby hating, church burning demons that seek to feast on my organs: siafu. I scan to the left and then to the right, my reflexive legs churning has already kicked in, taking the initiative to keep me off the ground as much as possible. I continue strafing up and down the front lines of the invading swarm to find that this cloud of exoskeletons and hatred has completely encircled my house and is closing. Present distance from my house: approximately 3 meters.

I realize that I have time, but not much, before my house is held captive by the sleep depriving curse of the siafu’s occupation. If I am to have any chance at rest tonight I must move quickly. I hurry inside, quickly donning my army ant battling attire: pants, a pair of long socks (non-matching), my state of the art cross training shoes, and a pair of gardening gloves. I waste no time ensuring the orderliness of my appearance as each second wasted is like a gift to the oncoming horde. Taking only a moment to splash a healthy puddle of bleach in front of my door and around the posts of my bed, I make haste to return to the front lines and meet the blood thirsty enemy who draws ever closer. Two meters. Not much space, but enough to employ that most sacred of elements that I hope will assist in driving back the demonic fury that encircles my home: fire.

Now, siafu don’t fear fire, they love it, seek it, crave it in fact. It is fire in which they bathe, and breath, and worship their diabolic queen. It is this fire which gives the bite of the siafu it’s powerfully burning, flesh searing sting. No, siafu do not fear fire, but it confuses them. Having been borne from the very pits of hell, the seven layered inferno, fire leads these children of despair to believe they have somehow made a wrong turn, and are somehow back in Hades where there are no fresh souls to devour, no babies to feast upon. It is this perceived absence of infant flesh that causes the siafu to double back en masse in search of living victims. The downside of using fire to fight these children of the flame is that I’ll need time to make the necessary preparations, and time is something I have very little of.

I dash through the advancing lines showing off mandible evading moves that I have perfected through multiple run-ins with these relentless antagonists, and break through the other side of the wave untouched. I waste no time to basking in the effectiveness of my evasive maneuvering and instead set immediately to work. Scorpion resistant gloves in place, I rummage madly through the brush, scooping up armfuls of dry grass and relaying them to the front line. With each subsequent trip I eye the soul destroying pack of man-eaters inching ever closer to the boundary I seek to defend. One and a half meters. One and a quarter meters. At one meter I can delay no longer and begin to light the first of the fires that will disorient and dispel the advancing terror, but it is immediately apparent that the small amount of fuel I’ve managed to gathered using my limited time won’t be nearly enough to repel the demonic offensive on all sides, and I rush inside to wield my trusted path opening broom.

As I sprint back outside I notice the brood has already started swarming around the meager fire and up to the outer perimeter of my fortress. Spending not a moment to lament the ineffectiveness of my flaming defense I begin pushing back the invaders wielding my bristled Excalibur with a fevered tenacity honed through numerous conflicts with these adversaries. It is through this frenzied sweeping pace that I almost fail to notice a sudden plop, landing in the darkness about twenty feet away from me. Facing the already overwhelming advance on all sides I can hardly afford the reprieve to investigate the mysterious sound, but curiosity, again, takes the better of me, and I begin clearing a path to the source of the noise.

As I inch closer I catch site of a small, hairless creature circling about miserably on the ground within a pool of siafu, crying out for help from friends who have long since fled. Two round bumps decorate the face where the eyes should be, and a wrinkled yet smooth, shiny gray membrane covers the body of this despondent critter. At first I believe it to be some kind of tree frog or tree toad or some kind of tree dwelling amphibian when, in an attempt to push itself away from the swarming siafu it extends a long, clawed, webbed hand. Bless my choo! It’s a baby bat! I stand watching the young dracula in training struggle helplessly against the unholy tenacity of the siafu, his infant flesh no doubt has the sweetness of honey dipped in caramel and covered in sprinkle to their voracious maws. The blind, flightless youth is the perfect victim for the, ironically, also blind pursuers and I realize that it is only a matter time before this wretched creature succumbs to an excruciating end of being devoured one tiny mouthful at a time by his unnatural pursuers.

Now, normally I do my best to stay out of interzoological matters realizing that nature has a course to take and that everything has a beginning and an end, but something, whether it be the desperation in the tortured cries, or the pathetic manner in which he hobbles around blindly in a vain yet determined attempt to escape, snowballing more exoskeletonized executioners with each progressive sightless step, something made me feel that if I didn’t do something I would regret it for the rest of my life. After spending an ashamedly long time to gather my resolve I know what I must do.

Tossing the broom aside I scoop up the young heir of mammalian flight, spiriting him away from the clutches of the advancing siafu colony. I take him to a spot nearer the house not yet over run and start assessing the extent of the injuries as he struggles around in my gloved hand. Quickly realizing that I’ll need more light as well as access to an environment not immediately at risk of being overrun we retreat inside where, surgical forceps in hand, I start to work removing the still latched on marauders, their jaws embedded deep in the tender flesh of the young insectivore. Feeling my dirt encrusted glove to be too coarse for his soft infant coat I transfer the small patient to a more comfortable sock and continue with the procedure, my small companion still struggling under my instruments.

At some point around the extraction of the 50th assailant the restless struggling of the young nestling begins to diminish markedly. It’s possible the release from the siafu’s powerful sting has allowed him to relax, or perhaps he has grow accustomed to my presence and realizes that I mean him no harm, or maybe he has simply become too exhausted from the ordeal to resist my efforts any longer. Whatever the reason, the young arial mammal becomes quite docile, cooperative even, as I continue to remove lingering siafu from crevices I wouldn’t even expect to find sand in after a day at the beach. Only when removing the most tenacious of soldiers from the sensitive webbing of the thin wing membrane does my young patient show any discomfort.

The operation finally finished I venture back outside to assess the still imminent threat of the siafu advance, though am overjoyed to find that the invaders have started to retreat back into the woods. Whether they have been bamboozled into retreat by the wall of flame or have simply decided to haunt elsewhere this evening I have no idea nor do I particularly care. I investigate the tree from which my young friend fell and find the retreating horde still receding from the highest branches.

At this point I am aware of two things. First, that returning juvenile recuperating bat to the still infested tree at this particular juncture will almost certainly result in his demise at the hands of the still very present siafu horde. Second, that I am in NO way qualified to take care of an infant bat, and that attempting do so would certainly result in his demise within twenty four hours when he either starves to death or chokes on the peanut butter I would probably try to feed him. My options are limited and I am left with little recourse but to sit up with my young friend until it is safe to return him to his tree, and then hope that his parents are nearby. As we retire indoors to wait out the storm I settle on a temporary name, Batsy. Maybe not the most original but seeing as I was still unsure of the gender (you try sexing an infant bat) and I didn’t want to overstep his parents bounds I thought it would be a suitable nickname. Sock in my left hand with Batsy nestled up inside we relax in the same plastic chair that once provided me sanctuary from the siafu so long ago.

We sit up together until the early hours of the morning at which point I am satisfied that the siafu have cleared out from the area sufficiently as to ensure a safe return of Batsy to tree from whence he/she fell. Using a stool, the tallest piece of furniture I own, I find a small nook at the highest spot I am able to reach, gingerly placing Batsy and the sock inside. As I retreat down from stool I glimpse Batsy climbing out of the sock, higher ip into the tree as several (or maybe just one, it’s hard to count bats in the dark) adult winged figured circle the upper branches of the tree. Not being much for awkward goodbyes I return back to my bed high above a sea of bleach and hope that Batsy is reunited with her parents, now free from the looming siafu threat.

In the morning I find the empty sock where I left it once full of Batsy. A quick scan of the tree and a thorough scan of the ground reveals no sign of my young friend, as I am left with nothing but speculation as to her fate. To this day, every time a bat flutters away as I open the door to the choo, or whips by my head as I brush my teeth under the starlight sky I wonder if it is Batsy come back to say hello. I hope so.

The P Word Revisited – A Peace Corps Kenya Packing List

It was just a little under two years ago that I received a letter in the mail saying, “Hey, you wanna go to Kenya for 2 years or what?” Excitement ensued followed quickly by the sentiment “Well, what am I supposed to bring?” So I made wagers with fate on what to pack, did my best to predict what I would and wouldn’t need, and have spent a good part of my time here learning from my limitations in foresight. It’s been about two years now and according to my calculations a new group of would be volunteers is about to receive their invitation letter in the next few months, and my hope is that a few of them will stumble across this blog post. Now for those of you future volunteers who are reading this, I’m sure there are all kinds of evidence based guidelines and scientific formulas devised to help a person pack for two years of Peace Corps service, but here’s a couple of pointers from myself and another volunteer living where you’re about to go. For everyone else, I’m not saying you can’t read on, but if you have anything else you’d rather be doing I won’t be offended if you choose to devote your time elsewhere.

Bring It:
Pens – You never truly appreciate what you have until it’s gone and its replacement leaves your hands, clothes, and underwear in a sticky, inky mess. The average life span of a local pen here is approximately 30 days before the self-destruct mechanism is triggered and the writing device shatters mid-stroke, inexplicably releases its entire bolus of ink, or simply stops writing for no reason whatsoever. It seems simple enough, but treat yourself to an enjoyable writing experience for the next 2 years by tossing a few extra pens in your bag and don’t give them away.

Computer – Unless you have a really good reason for being adamantly opposed to bringing anything electronic you should go ahead and just bring a laptop. In addition to giving you the ability to send emails in a timely fashion it will serve as a useful tool giving you more versatility in the work you perform. Netbooks are great for their portability and low power consumption. Most volunteers have reasonable access to electricity and for those who don’t a solar setup capable of charging a computer is more affordable and readily available here than you might think. A good sized external hard drive (think in the terabyte range as these things can fill up quick) for pictures, music, and other files is recommended as you should back up EVERYTHING. While you can a find decent selection of gadgets, devices, and technological what-nots here in Kenya you’re going to pay a premium for such luxuries so you’re best off bringing anything plug-inable from home.

Games – We recommend Bananagrams.

Musical Instruments – Studies have shown that you are used to playing a musical instrument back home you are guaranteed to miss it within a month of arriving without it if you are foolish enough to leave it behind. Additionally, music is a great way to charm your way into the heart of anyone you meet here. There is a limited availability of quality instruments so you are best off bringing something from the US (ideally second hand if losing your instrument would be like losing a body part). Don’t forget strings, reeds, picks, harmonica wax, or any of the other necessary accessories.

Funny Shaped Sports Equipment – Frisbees, footballs, baseballs, gloves, speedos, pucks, hockey sticks, badminton gear, and lawn croquet sets. If you have an interest in any sport other than rugby, volley ball, or soccer (ahem…proper football) and you are interested in sharing that interest with the community you’re living in for the next 2 years then you had better plan ahead unless you’re prepared to do some serious improvising.

Maybe:
Toothpaste – Along with the worldwide distribution of refined sugar came the worldwide dissemination of most dental hygiene products. So unless you have a special loyalty to a brand like Tom’s of Maine don’t waste the space packing a two year supply of anything other than waxed floss.

Deodorant, Shampoo, Petroleum Jelly, Pomade, etc. – You’re not spending the next 2 years in an underwater research facility cut off from any sort of supply line. Follow the toothpaste rule: Unless you have some special brand loyalty save yourself the time and trouble and just go to the store when you get here

Red Cross Wind-Up Flashlight – Guaranteed to be one of the most useful items you own until the wind-up handle snaps off in your hand with no warning (seems to happen for most volunteers around month 6) rendering the thing useless. If you’re going to bring one of these handy devices consider throwing a tiny screwdriver in your bag as well so you can strip it for parts when the time comes.

Batteries/Things That Use Batteries – Aside from being heavy, available in nearly every village in the country (you’ll feel pretty fooling walking through the battery aisle in Kenya after carrying 20 pounds of Duracells through customs), and prone to ooze acid into all the places you really don’t want acid, there are exactly 0 environmentally friendly ways to dispose of old batteries here. If you’re planning on bringing a head lamp or something battery operated the best course of action would probably be to pack some rechargeable batteries (not those cute, underperforming USB chargable batteries) and a wall charger.

Wall Socket Adapters – US price: $20, Kenya Price: $1-2. Plan accordingly.

Quirky Cookware - Most culinary instruments from whisks and mashers to non-stick skillets and stainless steel pressure cookers are available, but for those who need to flip their pancakes “just the right way” might consider bringing your own. If you are in love with your spatula, or have a very specific potato peeler, I might recommend bringing it.

Don’t Bother:
Solio – Light weight and light duty, this is probably a useful device if you’re backpacking through the Amazon, but not so much here. The amount of babysitting and repositioning required to get a decent charge out of this ting during the non-rainy season alone make it somewhat unpractical, while leaving the device unattended during the rainy season is a sure way to drown your investment. Chances are you’ll be somewhere within reasonable proximity to power and in the outside chance that you aren’t, you’d be better off using the money you would have spent on this thing to purchase something cheaper, weather proof, and more versatile here in Kenya.

Water Purification Anything – Let’s face it, aside from the days spent between bathing and the sometime redundant menus this isn’t a camping trip. There are plenty of fast, cheap, and effective water purification methods available here in country that make more sense than bringing something from overseas. As cool and light saberesque as other water purification methods may be, you’ll probably only be wasting money and space by bringing them.

Clothes – Anything white. The purpose of doing laundry here, at least for a busy volunteer isn’t so much to get things clean as to get them “less dirty”. Get a head start on tough stains by not bringing anything lighter than “smokestack gray” or the Crayola color “ashtray”. Also bear in mind that the days of loin clothes and banana leaves are over. Thanks to well off do-gooders elsewhere you’ll be able to get top-quality name brand stuff that you couldn’t afford back home for rock bottom prices in the second hand markets here, so don’t bother packing like you’ll never see clothes again (unless of course you’re a big and tall size and don’t want to tempt fate). Also, for people who go through underpants like a college athlete through a buffet you might bring a little extra of a comfortable style. It’s not that you can’t find bras and knickers here, but 2 years can be a long time to deal with an awkward fit in those sensitive places.

Lesson of the Day:
The big thing to remember is not to bring too much. Aside from a few essentials which may be hard to come by here you can get everything you need and more for a reasonable price while supporting local merchants and all that stuff. So relax and look forward to it, the P word is nothing to be afraid of.

Music of the Elite

African Tick Fever, A.K.A. Rickettsia. That was the initial diagnosis, and why not? Swollen tick bite. Raging fever. Africa. It’s classic case. Even one of those snooty, high brow “Oh, I’m not a doctor, I just play one on TV. Now please stop harassing my children” quacks would have had to do something on this one, and so my adventure starts.

Now, when Peace Corps thinks you’re sick they don’t fool around. Following a quick telephone triage I’m off to Mombasa where after a salvo of diagnostics I’m checked into a top notch (or at least upper middle notch) hotel. Hot showers. Electricity. An all you can eat breakfast buffet. I’m beginning to see that falling ill in the Peace Corps has its perks. But a man, no matter how starved and smelly from months of living with a limited food and water supply, can only shower and eat breakfast so many times a day, and when you’re not in possession of anything electricity operated (and you don’t care to watch the one channel that comes through on the hotel TV) you can find yourself with a an abundance of quiet personal time.

Alone in my room, lab results from South Africa pending*, I sit silently, my ears honing in to soft, haughty laughter (undoubtedly from some TV “doctor”) and the light drum of cutlery against tableware bleeding through the walls. As I take in the ambiance of one of the finest establishments in Mombasa a muted, though familiar, melody resonates from the overhead sound system. A refrain that takes me to a home far away. A sagely voice that sings on the importance of knowing when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. It is none other than the siren call of that roast chicken maharishi himself, Kenny Rogers.

Another memorable tune plays itself out, and then another, and yet another. A seemingly infinite stream of John Denver, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Dolly Pardon floods out through the dining room speakers and into my room. I lay gripped with the same emotion that must be wrought in those trapped eternally in purgatory, eternally captive to overhear some kind of non-stop line-dancing afterlife next door, reserved for only those line-dancing aficionados whose life deeds proved particularly worthy of this everlasting reward, and for TV doctors and others whose days were filled with especially poor behavior. If you’ve ever wondered silently to yourself what the prestigious upper class of Kenya listens to while dining, you need only listen to your achy breaky heart for the answer.

*I did not, in fact, have Rickettsia. Please refrain from frantic emotional phone calls and emails to the Peace Corps office in Washington.