June 6th
By far, the hardest part about going to a new place to stay for an extended period of time is the fact that at some point, you have to realize that you are calling this place home for a spell.
The tricky part is feeling comfortable at home. At some point in time, between the kids chirping ‘How are you?’ repeatedly, the fruit stand owners beckoning for the white person to come check their delicious fruits—just so they can rip you off, and the generally weird stares a non-African (note: I just didn’t feel like re-using the term ‘white person’ there) receives for being in any particular place at any particular time, it can be immediately difficult and daunting to feel quote-unquote natural.
Most recently, I went on a hiking trip with a random smattering of people. The trip was organized by a fantastic man that organizes Safari trips; however, this particular trip was sponsored for the purpose of getting his men, The Green Warriors, an environmental group aimed at bringing African youth back to the environment, out into the hills. In addition to the Green Warriors were folks from a local YMCA program, and then some other peoples that they all new. A big group of goofy 20-somethings all fired up for a fun weekend of camping, drinking, and dirty talk.
Immediately, I felt at home seeing these people. Aaah, the refreshing look of youth ready to have some fun, I thought. I’d been getting eye-balled so often by the creepy dude in a papier-mache looking suit, it was nice to see people that would look at me as a peer. However, I soon found myself extremely annoyed by the obnoxious and childish yelling of these young adults. I was disgusted by the overtly sexual tones that were immediately assumed. I was insulted by the amount of pelvic thrusts I saw conjoined with holding something, anything phallic as a proxy johnson. The future of Kenya, folks.
But just waaaaaaait a minute here. Didn’t I used to be one of the most vulgar and obnoxious people around? Well, yes, in fact... but that was back when I had a sense of humor. Hmmm. And wait, pelvic thrusting to make people smile and laugh??? that’s one of my oldest and best tricks. So how can I be so critical of these people, if I’m guilty of all these things? What metamorphesis did I go through that changed me from a jerk-off young adult to the somewhat serious and goal oriented person I claim to be now?
Well, I made a lot of misakes along the way. I went to jail once; I woke up next to several sea creatures; I did things that could’ve made me lose friends (thanks to those who still care forme). So, I guess that’s part of growing up? Is that part of having enough opportunities to screw up? The first thing I noticed when I saw this motley crew, was that they all came from money. Clothes, get ups, even that general sense of ignorant happiness that can only be afforded by youth with opportunity (I am generalizing at this point: a couple of the people clearly had fantastic insight, and they are excluded from this critique).
I thought I was so close to home—so close to comfort—only to find that I was incredibly ill at ease with my present state of being. I could see the red tape surrounding this conundrum, and decided to head straight to the director of my mind via some classic introspection. I ended up journaling under a shade tree in a village, where a village’s worth of little boys watched me as I did so. When I got up to think somewhere else, I told them I was going to climb a tree so I could write and read. When they asked ‘which tree’, I pointed to the top of the nearby mountain. I knew their moms wouldn’t let them go that far from home.
I slowly began to realize that this was just a classic example of me not being comfortable with myself.
In the end, the reason I couldn’t feel at home with these people was due to a beef I keep with myself. I wasn’t comfortable becuase of my own mentality. I wasn’t comfortable because I was making myself uncomfortable with my surroundings.
This is the exact same case in any senario. I don’t have to be upset with the children yelling at me. After all, I’m getting attention from children: they are only providing me an opportunity to make white men look good (for the first fucking time in history, I might add; I hope I’m not doing some terrible evil without realizing it, like white men before me). Every person that beckons me to them is only giving me a chance to learn from them and with them... maybe even teach them something about me. And shit, they’re so incredibly nice about ripping me off. And the awkward stares I get from people—I might as well just smile for them. They can think whatever they like about me, but I know that I want to try and show them that happiness and love can always unite us (that, by the way, is what a smile means to me).
This isn’t meant to be a thought exercise for me. This is meant to be a clear example of how we can always feel comfortable and free wherever we go. Humans of different races share so many more similarities than differences. It’s amazing and slightly disturbing how all walks of life can have the same tendencies. So in the end, the most important part is feeling good about sitting down and making yourself at home. If a person can be confident and positive with themselves, they need never worry about how they blend with their surroundings.
Note: I bet when my Dad reads this entry, he starts to worry more about how I’m going to REALLY stick out in Africa, and get myself kidnapped by some radical Moslem Jihadist. By the way Dad, the Muslims here are really great people, polygamists though they may be.
University of Washington Flow Cytometry Laboratory
I've been promising pictures, and this is the one I have with me at work right now. I promise I'll put up cool pictures... this century.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Kitui: The Midwest of Kenya
30/05/07
It’s taken me a while just to get this first one up and running, just because of the insane amounts of everything. I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to just walk into a totally new place, culture, state of mind, and think I would have the time to sit down and write it down as I watched it.
My first entry will have to be about the people of Kitui. Kitui is a region in Kenya located mostly in the center of the country. It is found on a huge plateau—the biggest plateau in Africa, which stretches from central Kenya to the coast. The central Kitui region is a region of poverty (more poverty than most regions, that is); their poverty stems from the incredible dryness of the region. During the dry seasons, the bush dies off, the trees die off, and the people have to work very hard to survive.
However, the people of Kitui have found means to survive. They have united as a community to form a group called ‘Mital’ (which, of course, means hard work in Kikamba, their native tongue). This group has worked with artisans from larger cities to devise ways to preserve and increase the water in the region. Tree nurseries, ingenious sand dams, and other laborious projects have all been developed and worked on by the people of the community. (Over 200 sand dams, I am told; trust me, it’s a shiest load of work.)
But I didn’t have any idea of these things until after my three day stay was over. My linear mental and physical trip began much differently. For starters, I had to eat supper when I arrived at 9pm at night, although I was already full and ready for bed. I slept hard until 7am, at which point I got up and washed my face, walked around the yard (an acre of land that held a small house for the women, a small house for the men, a kitchen house, a toilet and washroom, a store for the extra food, and of course a stable for the animals) and met the chairmen of the community. (Note: I am partially deaf, and, at times, have a terrible time with accents. Because of this, I could hardly understand anything anyone said, and also, because I wasn’t accustomed to their vernacular, I couldn’t use the right words and therefore, although my hosts spoke English fairly well, they COULD NOT UNDERSTAND ME. What a very interesting and slightly debilitating situation.) After the chairmen and I didn’t talk for a while, he, Nicole and I hit the dusty trail—a dried stream: a road system that connects the homesteads and farms of the Kamba people.
We walked from house to house, meeting different people, all of whom were happy to see their first Mzungu (white person) in Kitui in the last 20 years. I met old, young, and children; and it would be impossible to pick which group were the most receptive, because it was so individually based. But I should note that every place I went, I had a seat in the shade, tea, paw-paw to eat, and sometimes even a full meal (depending on when I last ate, and whether I should be ready for more food, as determined by my guide—none of which I could understand, because this discussion always took place in Kikamba. I ate full meals, on average, five times a day. I’m fat now.).
As I began to have my first inkling of what these people were about—the hard living situations, the hard work of the people, this group called Mital—we reached a destination where I was to meet a man who was learned in the ways of treating illness with trees and herbs. (The people arranged this, because I had inadvertantly let them know that I was interested in herbal medicines. I had no say in the matter—they knew my interest and arranged the meeting.) The man with herbal experience happened to be the brother of the chairmen. His name is Motinda. In another life, he was an American physician, certainly.
The meeting place where we found Motinda happened to be a celebration of a wedding. The chairmen, on any other day, would’ve been presiding over the meeting: but today, he had charged himself with the duty of taking the Mzungus through his land. As a tour guide, escort, welcoming crew. We greeted the wedding party, and sat for a bit. Soon, I saw the chairmen gesture to Motinda, at which point they grabbed their chairs and headed to another shade tree in a field. I followed their lead (I didn’t know yet that I was at a wedding celebration) and took tea and lunch with the chairmen, Motinda, Nicole, and a teacher named Peter. (Note: if you notice a change in my own vernacular, it is because of my acclimation to the African-English here.)
We spoke of many things: my past and education, Nicole (Mwutani being her Kamba-given name, meaning one who is happy) and her previous stay in Kitui, the hard work of the people and Mital, the health practices of the people, global warming, and the fun little differences found between people, which were so clearly seen between Africans and Americans, and also the elements of human nature that unite all people, regardless of their upbringing, culture or socialization. All this was happening in a field in Africa, under a shade tree, taking tea: we spoke of these things: three men I had only just met—I spoke to them like peers, friends, and fellow students. In fact, it was a very academic setting. Afterwards they called me their brother. This was my third day in Africa.
I could write a book about these first couple days in Kitui. But the real beauty of it: I was able to see where people came from. I saw the countryside lifestyle first—the hometown, hillbilly attitudes. Just going to Nairobi, the capitol and hub of East Africa with 5 million people, is very daunting. Seeing the simple life of the people, and how it could grow into a life in Nairobi—it made everything make so much more sense.
I don’t want to stop writing, but I must now. Because I must shit. And then I must go to work. That is why I’m here: to work my ass of for these people and this country. Anything I can give this summer.
It’s taken me a while just to get this first one up and running, just because of the insane amounts of everything. I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to just walk into a totally new place, culture, state of mind, and think I would have the time to sit down and write it down as I watched it.
My first entry will have to be about the people of Kitui. Kitui is a region in Kenya located mostly in the center of the country. It is found on a huge plateau—the biggest plateau in Africa, which stretches from central Kenya to the coast. The central Kitui region is a region of poverty (more poverty than most regions, that is); their poverty stems from the incredible dryness of the region. During the dry seasons, the bush dies off, the trees die off, and the people have to work very hard to survive.
However, the people of Kitui have found means to survive. They have united as a community to form a group called ‘Mital’ (which, of course, means hard work in Kikamba, their native tongue). This group has worked with artisans from larger cities to devise ways to preserve and increase the water in the region. Tree nurseries, ingenious sand dams, and other laborious projects have all been developed and worked on by the people of the community. (Over 200 sand dams, I am told; trust me, it’s a shiest load of work.)
But I didn’t have any idea of these things until after my three day stay was over. My linear mental and physical trip began much differently. For starters, I had to eat supper when I arrived at 9pm at night, although I was already full and ready for bed. I slept hard until 7am, at which point I got up and washed my face, walked around the yard (an acre of land that held a small house for the women, a small house for the men, a kitchen house, a toilet and washroom, a store for the extra food, and of course a stable for the animals) and met the chairmen of the community. (Note: I am partially deaf, and, at times, have a terrible time with accents. Because of this, I could hardly understand anything anyone said, and also, because I wasn’t accustomed to their vernacular, I couldn’t use the right words and therefore, although my hosts spoke English fairly well, they COULD NOT UNDERSTAND ME. What a very interesting and slightly debilitating situation.) After the chairmen and I didn’t talk for a while, he, Nicole and I hit the dusty trail—a dried stream: a road system that connects the homesteads and farms of the Kamba people.
We walked from house to house, meeting different people, all of whom were happy to see their first Mzungu (white person) in Kitui in the last 20 years. I met old, young, and children; and it would be impossible to pick which group were the most receptive, because it was so individually based. But I should note that every place I went, I had a seat in the shade, tea, paw-paw to eat, and sometimes even a full meal (depending on when I last ate, and whether I should be ready for more food, as determined by my guide—none of which I could understand, because this discussion always took place in Kikamba. I ate full meals, on average, five times a day. I’m fat now.).
As I began to have my first inkling of what these people were about—the hard living situations, the hard work of the people, this group called Mital—we reached a destination where I was to meet a man who was learned in the ways of treating illness with trees and herbs. (The people arranged this, because I had inadvertantly let them know that I was interested in herbal medicines. I had no say in the matter—they knew my interest and arranged the meeting.) The man with herbal experience happened to be the brother of the chairmen. His name is Motinda. In another life, he was an American physician, certainly.
The meeting place where we found Motinda happened to be a celebration of a wedding. The chairmen, on any other day, would’ve been presiding over the meeting: but today, he had charged himself with the duty of taking the Mzungus through his land. As a tour guide, escort, welcoming crew. We greeted the wedding party, and sat for a bit. Soon, I saw the chairmen gesture to Motinda, at which point they grabbed their chairs and headed to another shade tree in a field. I followed their lead (I didn’t know yet that I was at a wedding celebration) and took tea and lunch with the chairmen, Motinda, Nicole, and a teacher named Peter. (Note: if you notice a change in my own vernacular, it is because of my acclimation to the African-English here.)
We spoke of many things: my past and education, Nicole (Mwutani being her Kamba-given name, meaning one who is happy) and her previous stay in Kitui, the hard work of the people and Mital, the health practices of the people, global warming, and the fun little differences found between people, which were so clearly seen between Africans and Americans, and also the elements of human nature that unite all people, regardless of their upbringing, culture or socialization. All this was happening in a field in Africa, under a shade tree, taking tea: we spoke of these things: three men I had only just met—I spoke to them like peers, friends, and fellow students. In fact, it was a very academic setting. Afterwards they called me their brother. This was my third day in Africa.
I could write a book about these first couple days in Kitui. But the real beauty of it: I was able to see where people came from. I saw the countryside lifestyle first—the hometown, hillbilly attitudes. Just going to Nairobi, the capitol and hub of East Africa with 5 million people, is very daunting. Seeing the simple life of the people, and how it could grow into a life in Nairobi—it made everything make so much more sense.
I don’t want to stop writing, but I must now. Because I must shit. And then I must go to work. That is why I’m here: to work my ass of for these people and this country. Anything I can give this summer.
Waxing omnipotent
Hello all. Thank you for visiting my blog.
I've created this blog to help me collect and chronicle my thoughts during my 3 month stay in Nairobi. I would like to think that this blog will give an interesting perspective on health care in Africa. Unfortunately, I'm not working as intimately with health care as I thought I would: I'm working at a research compound where lab tests are done for incredible research projects. However, I'm understanding now that systems are always just a manifestation of a local culture, and that the systems of the local culture are characteristically congruent (accounting for the varying locations within a location, say Nairobi, that is). If you're still with me, then you understand that despite my smattering of various posts, I have faith that they will offer a substantial yet irresolute perspective for you all to take gain from.
The title of my blog came, of course, on an afternoon whim. During my attempted meditation at lunch, I decided to direct my wandering mind away from dichotomy, and towards a space with more... well... space. I tried to envision not just right vs. wrong, but the two always in context with an ambivalent observer. It was very refreshing, and surprisingly fun and easy to stick to; and it helped relax me before my afternoon mental workout. The title of this blog is supposed to embody my 'outside' perspective, which focuses on a society and people that thrive, interact and function with the same constructs that Americans have created: family, religion, government, love.
But I must deter you from being excited due to false pretenses, because this blog has no answers. (Actually, it probably has as many lies as truths.) There is no 'outside' perspective that can be uninvolved, only another perspective that is fully dependent on the others. Three may be the magic number, but only because I can blog about it. Additionally, I'm sure that this blog will be more self-indulgent than objective, at times.
In closing, thank you for reading. I love you all. And I can't wait to hear from you.
Love,
Brian
I've created this blog to help me collect and chronicle my thoughts during my 3 month stay in Nairobi. I would like to think that this blog will give an interesting perspective on health care in Africa. Unfortunately, I'm not working as intimately with health care as I thought I would: I'm working at a research compound where lab tests are done for incredible research projects. However, I'm understanding now that systems are always just a manifestation of a local culture, and that the systems of the local culture are characteristically congruent (accounting for the varying locations within a location, say Nairobi, that is). If you're still with me, then you understand that despite my smattering of various posts, I have faith that they will offer a substantial yet irresolute perspective for you all to take gain from.
The title of my blog came, of course, on an afternoon whim. During my attempted meditation at lunch, I decided to direct my wandering mind away from dichotomy, and towards a space with more... well... space. I tried to envision not just right vs. wrong, but the two always in context with an ambivalent observer. It was very refreshing, and surprisingly fun and easy to stick to; and it helped relax me before my afternoon mental workout. The title of this blog is supposed to embody my 'outside' perspective, which focuses on a society and people that thrive, interact and function with the same constructs that Americans have created: family, religion, government, love.
But I must deter you from being excited due to false pretenses, because this blog has no answers. (Actually, it probably has as many lies as truths.) There is no 'outside' perspective that can be uninvolved, only another perspective that is fully dependent on the others. Three may be the magic number, but only because I can blog about it. Additionally, I'm sure that this blog will be more self-indulgent than objective, at times.
In closing, thank you for reading. I love you all. And I can't wait to hear from you.
Love,
Brian
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