Very large first blog, but covers everything until last week.

August 17th, 2009
Habari! Well, I know I am very late posting my first blog, but better late than never; but not by much. However, I have been keeping a diary since I have touched down, so I will transform it into something that is rated PG-13. My recap of the first day is quite long because there was much to write about, I promise the others will not be as intense.
I will begin on the Kenya Airways flight 101. After being on only Air Canada flights, I immediately noticed I was going to a strange (and hopefully wonderful place). The plane was the same model as the large Air Canada Boeings, but one thing that struck me as strange was that the capacity was only about 30% filled. I wondered how the airline could be making money with an almost empty flight. I later realized that an Air Canada Jazz-type aircraft would take a full day of travels because it only reached half the speed of the larger models.
It was Monday, and I had not really slept since Thursday night (farewell parties and packing), so I seized the opportunity to stretch out on 3 empty seats around me. After several lucid dreams, I woke up to the captain announcing that we were passing Mount Kenya to our left. I have never seen a mountain, so I enjoyed looking at it poking well above the clouds. Then I realized I was technically, somewhat, officially in my host country.
When I got off, my heart began to race a little, but only because I was warned that the airport was notorious for thieves. I realized I needed to get out and meet my people ASAP, so I wandered around, looking for the way out.
I was misled by people in the customs lines, and that delayed me about 45 minutes. By the time I got my luggage and went to the exit, my person was not around and I assumed I missed her. I decided to get some money changed and look a second time. I did not see a sign with my name, but I saw a sign saying “Gladys”—my host supervisor. The person immediately took my bags and said we had to hurry if we were to make the Easy Coach. Well, looks like my person found me.
I never want to drive in Nairobi, or even walk there. I was terrified of the driving; people cutting each other off, people yelling and running across the highway, etc. I decided to just let it be and accept the chaos because it was out of my control.
Being on long flights can make a smoker go crazy, so I casually asked the driver about the “no smoking” sign on his dash. He told me I can smoke if I want to and I felt all my stress leave. However, when I lit up, the matatu (taxi van) driver to the left in the jam started yelling at me in anger. I rolled down the window and asked me to repeat himself (in hindsight a bad move) and he yelled, “Smoking is illegal in Kenya!” I did not believe him so I looked to the taxi driver, who was already yelling back and driving recklessly through the traffic jam to get away “illegal smoking guy”. The driver then explained that smoking in PUBLIC was illegal in Kenya, so you cannot smoke if somebody is able to see you.
After talking, I realized that the driver was not the person I was supposed to meet, and the person with the “Gladys” sign was not either. So I was alone in Kenya with no cell phone and nothing but an idea of going to the Easy Coach bus station (which had already left Bungoma for the day). The driver was great and reassured me that he would not leave me until I was safely in the hands of the person I was meeting. He called my person and we finally met with each other.
Still being very naïve about Kenya, I figured the bus ride that was 400km would take about 6 hours at the most. Instead, the trip took about 10-11 hours and it was past nightfall before I got to Bungoma. During the drive, I accepted the tourist in me and leaned from left to ride to see the mountains, valleys, and zebras. I felt very comfortable with Don; he was my age and, importantly, he was a local that would stop from doing something if necessary.
At every stop in a big town, The Fear started to take me over. Dozens of people would approach me and say, “Muzungu! You support me.” Meaning they wanted me to buy their goods, but I was much too intimidated to break out my wallet containing 15 000 Ksh; and I doubt they could make change for 1000s anyway.
Many events struck me very hard, but the most shocking one was when 2 small children, street-kids, casually picked up a discarded lime quarter and casually ate the leftovers. No matter how much I told myself I would see many similar things, thinking it and seeing it are two different things.
We finally arrived after dark in Bungoma at my host director’s house, and they went completely out of their way to make me feel as comfortable as I could. They even allowed me to take a bath, and I was ecstatic! The first time I will be clean in 3 days (little did I know this would become a regular thing for a while after that). However, I did not know what I was supposed to do with the wash basin in front of me, so I struggled awkwardly to wash my hair, failing terribly. Then I didn’t know where to put the waste water, so Don laughed and took care of it for me.
I finally travelled across the road to my compound, and settled down to bed, too tired to unpack or put up the mosquito net. One day down, four months to go.
August 18th, 2009
I woke up very confused and disoriented. It took me about an hour to be mentally able to brush my teeth and unpack slightly. There was still a kit explosion in my apartment when Don arrived to orient me to the area. My biggest unknown was how to use the ‘washroom’. By washroom I mean the whole in the floor with some kind of tap on the wall. I hoped to invent a sitting toilet sometime, but then realized I should just stop complaining and accept the fact that my apartment was stellar compared to 90% of the homes I saw on the way—hell, I had a shower, somewhat.
We travelled to town in a boda-boda (a bicycle taxi), to which I was not accustomed and almost made the driver tip several times. We walked from the start of the town to the end, and I got the most important advice from Don: where the safe restaurants were—apparently only the Coffee Garden in the town centre. They will make lots of money off of this bad-cook. We then went into the supermarket and for some unexplained reason, I felt very at home. Maybe it was the materialism of it all, maybe the fact that the shoppers did not stare at me, or maybe because I saw peanut butter; it’s a mystery. There I purchased a phone and immediately started to text my parents and girlfriend at home. They were more relieved than me, for obvious reasons.
The hoped to do the majority of my shopping at the street markets, both to save money and support the poor, but have realized that the comfort of the supermarket is unresistable after the 2km of stares as I travel into town. I was at first worried about the shop-keepers hiking up the prices, but then realized paying 5 cents for a lime instead of 2 cents is still a bargain.
In the early afternoon we travelled to the office to meet the staff. I was very nervous, would they view me as a waste of their time and money, will the lack of professional skills be a problem? To my relief, everybody was in the field so I had to go through the same stress the next day.
By this time, I spoke to enough people to realize my biggest barrier was going to be language (more specifically accents). Even when people spoke English, I could not understand them half the time. I continued to eat and take tea at my host director’s house until I settled in. This was when I realized another difference in myself and the majority of Bungomians? Bungomers? I usually consider myself a generous person, but when I take from other people, I can’t help but to feel bad. I told the director I felt bad about taking her food and inconveniencing her family, but they just laughed it off. It wasn’t until the next week that my good friend Jerry explained it to me. When a person has something, all their family and friends also have it. To conteract my negative feelings, I decided to imitate this action. When I have visitors, I try to give them food and other resources, because those resources will come back to me. People in Kenya still have many problems between tribes, but this community cohesion is something that we all can learn a lot from.
As an objection to my own theory, I also realized that if I give somebody something, many of them want more. For example, if I pay the boda-boda double once, he will expect double or triple next time. As they say in nutrition class, everything in moderation; I cannot through money at people to make myself feel better, but I can share to certain people.
August 19th to 25th, 2009
When I finally met the employees of CREADIS, I realized my worrying was not needed, because all people were very welcoming. I had the feeling everybody loved me and the place was still new and exciting…for now. I went to attend a workshop in Mabanga for school children for the rest of the week. The driving conditions are (to a lesser extent than large cities) very foreign to me, and I feared for my safety often as Jerry (the driver) did his thing. Eventually, as with most scary things, I became desensitized to the fear and accepted that if I die a horrible death in the vehicle, it is just a risk of living in Kenya.
This worked well for me because luckily Jerry is a great driver. However, I realized I was merely ignoring the risks, as opposed to minimizing the risks. I began asking Jerry about the driving rules in Kenya, and I realized that most of the ‘suicidal’ movements he made have security measures that we simply do not use in Canada. The driving is still more offensive than defensive, but learning about the safety guidelines helped ease my mind very much.
I am starting to realize that fear of the unknown is much greater than any other fear in my life. The foreignness of certain things causes me to perceive them as a danger to my safety. If I took more time to learned the deep-rooted reasons for certain actions, I would realize my own naivety—why would people do something to hurt themselves, when a safer option seems obvious to me.
I believe further illustration of this point will allow to understand many of the obscure issues with HIV/AIDS. For example, many people believe the AIDS epidemic is self-induced because people keep having unsafe sex. However, discussion with locals has made me realize that people feel most safe and happy with a large family (I understand there is much more contributing factors, but I will omit listing them because this blog seems very long). On that note, I will post this and start reflection on my second week of my internship.
I summary, a sub-conscious desire for things I am used to could severely limit my effectiveness here, so I must constantly be aware of my own values, combined with a through examination of the actions (and deeper values) that will determine how this internship will inevitably play out.
Week of August 26th – September 1st
The time of (somewhat) easy access to internet has come. I have recently bought a flash broadband modem and it could rival the most worth-while purchase to date. The blogs for this week and the following two weeks have been written during (or close to) the week it mentions, but have been burning a whole in my hard-drive ever since.
During the first week of my placement, I seemed somewhat blinded by all the differences around me. I noticed that some things have changed, but was still too new to fully understand them—and thus act accordingly. I merely went along my merry way as a stranger in a strange land, and did not adapt to fit in a great deal because I did not fully realize that I was indeed a stranger.
I will first tell you of the hard times, and how I dealt with them, and then tell some success stories. I live in my own apartment in an empty compound close to my organization. I hindsight, I am unsure if this has helped or hindered me. On one hand, I have noticed the adapting process to be mentally tiring. If the adapting process continued after work, trying to fit into a new living situation with locals may cause more anxiety as feeling there was no break. On the other hand, living on your own means that if something goes wrong, you are alone in solving the problem. I realized this fact in a number of ways.
First, water rationing has confused the hell out of me. Is there a time when the pipes run? Are other people getting to the water before I am? Why are the pipes dry every damn time I try to boil some drinking water or clean myself? After 3 days of living off of expensive bottled water, I was beginning to get a little kooky and angry at the Republic of Kenya. I caught myself cursing the country, and realized that this was not the way I wanted to spend 4 months. I decided to ask my coworkers for help (a fairly hard thing for me to do) and they were more than willing. Jerry offered to join me to carry some water back to the apartment, teach me how to wash my clothes, use the burner, etc. I felt somewhat like a burden to him, but he assured me it was no problem to him, because he likes company and helping others.
Secondly, going outside seemed to be a hassle because I had massive language and accent barriers with the majority of people I met during my daily activities. For example, I took a boda-boda back from town one day and told him to go to “Marill”—the village I reside in. He replied in Swahili that he understood me, so we set off. Upon reaching Marill, I told him that he can stop now and started to get off as he pulled to the shoulder. However, he did not stop as expected and continued off-road. I fell off the seat and hung on for dear life as the other bodas driving by started laughing. I finally got back on the seat safe and told him to stop again. He continued but said, “OK”. I said, “This is OK here, I have arrived”. He replied, “OK, thank you.”
I started laughing out loud as we went deeper into foreign territory. After a few seconds, I composed myself, bent my legs, and jumped off the back of the bicycle. He finally stopped and looked at me, half confused and half laughing. I approached him, gave him the extra money for traveling farther, and said thank you in Swahili. I then turned around and walked back a few hundred meters where he just drove.
When I got home, I realized that I needed learn the common phrases I will likely use often. Thank you, sorry, stop here (si mama hapa), yes, no, I am not American, etc. This has since helped me in field, town, and at work, and people are often taken back when they hear my butchered Swahili telling them ‘good morning’. This course and my CIL training has taught me about the many cultural barriers that are relevant to my situation; however, the most obvious one is the most important one to fix—language.
On a somewhat related note, I have started going to the field. I love the field. I get to travel, see more of the world, and meet interesting and great people in any and all situation. I believe I will be spending the majority of my time working on computers or otherwise in the office because I have more computer skills than many of the staff. However, I know this will rot my soul. I have never worked sitting down and dislike it strongly; however, my comfort is secondary to my effectiveness (and no workplace psychologists, they are not inseparable). The field is a selfish way to broaden my world view, to enhance my effectiveness once I leave CREADIS; but the most effective thing for me to do is work to fill in gaps in the organization, most often computer-related activities such as database management, report writing, website development, etc.
In order to keep myself being utterly bored by looking at a screen, I have approached some coworkers and explained to them that it is hard for me to write an accurate report or notice relevant trends in statistics. They are very aware of the fact that people came to Kenya from Canada not only to help, but to broaden their horizons. Also, Gladys (the director) has alluded to the fact that I remember CREADIS in the years to come—inviting me back once I am done school, and telling my friends and family about Bungoma, CREADIS, and others so that the message of their work can be spread. I realize most people say, “Oh I’ll be back, you wait and see!” but never come back. Therefore, I am not saying I am coming back to Bungoma, I am simply stating that I hope to return in the situation presents an opportunity.
The last point for today is from my weekend out on the town with Jerry. I enjoyed the disco: the women were beautiful (and ‘loved’ me), the company was good, and the beer was usually cold. I was surprised that I could just look at a girl and dance with them, but I soon started to wonder why this was the case. Jerry reassured me they just ‘wanted to see what a mzungu was like’, but I had my doubts. However, don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth (how does that saying make sense), and I accepted my new popularity in stride. As the night went on and I become more ‘vulnerable’, it started to down on me that something was off—these girls were very forward. Jerry then informed me that the majority of the females—sometimes looking as young as 15—were prostitutes. God giveth, and God taketh away. I was only popular for my perceived riches, so I did not want to be popular anymore. As I was somewhat drunk by this point, I started being forward with them. If asked for my name, I would reply, “Dan, and no because I don’t have any more money.” Maybe this was harsh, but I did not want people to like me because I had beer money.
It was only after researching the idea for sex for food in my directed study on HIV and food security in Africa that I realized these women were not gold-diggers, they were simply using sex as a means to an end. Sex leads to money, money leads to food, and food leads to survival. Sounds pretty rational to me, but my family and friends did not think so. I can understand their fear; to them, everybody in Kenya could have AIDS, and the worries of those close to me at home are taken out on the women struggling for survival.
Week for September 2nd - 8th
I just read my last blog and realized parts of it are very hard to read—and some makes little to no sense. I apologize for that. Which brings me to my next point—sickness! Yes, I officially have my first African sickness. As with most sicknesses, I believe it could have been prevented if I had taken the right precautions—but I didn’t. Smoking is very affordable in Kenya and that has definitely worsened my condition. The few days I went without proper eating or water would have suppressed my immune system. Also, the lack of immunity to local ailments made me a perfect candidate. Last week, I attributed my condition to being hungover and dehydrated (oops), but the lethargic feeling had not improved for days.
On Wednesday, I went with Valarie and Geoffrey (coworkers) to Mt. Elgon to speak to the district officers about a new project on gender and good governance. FYI, Mt. Elgon is the area where a rebel army became the more powerful than the local government and caused all sorts of chaos. There has been a relative peace in the area ever since Martial Law was initiated 1-2 years ago. The government offices were heavily guarded by the army and we needed to be cleared by them before we could enter the premises. A man that I assumed to be the Platoon Sergeant met us at the gate and was very friendly. However, even with the sun shining in a beautiful plot looking down the slopes of a great mountain, shaking hands with a man holding a rifle still made me feel uneasy.
Most of the district officers were very supportive of the project and seemed very educated themselves on the topic of gender rights. One man even offered us his Land Rover and driver so that we would not have to slide down the mountain on a dirt bike if it started to rain. Then we came to our last meeting of the day with the District Education Officer…
He would not cooperate with us at all, and advised us to travel to Nairobi (10 hour drive) to get formal permission to work with kids. He then turned his attention to me, asking how well I speak Swahili. He told me outright that I would be of no use to the people because many of these vulnerable groups do not speak English. I told him I would not be giving the workshops, just monitoring and helping Valarie’s efforts. All three of us (the staff) realized it would be bad to start an argument with the man and simply left the baseline survey with him and cursed him as we left.
Geoffrey and Valarie attributed his arrogance to him being of the Luo tribe. They said that the Luo tribe was historically very proud and did not trust many other tribes. My first minor tribal conflict and I do not like it. As you can tell, the wounds of the post-election violence of last year were still raw. I believe it is great that Kenya celebrates their individual tribes, but when government officials use their power to help out their tribe, it can and will lead to violence and further muting of minority tribes. Another thing was troubled me was how they attributed his arrogance to his tribe. My coworkers have degrees in equality, but they stereotyped a whole tribe in one sentence by calling them arrogant. These people should be leading the march against stereotypes, not simplifying their problems with them. Once again, I keep my voice fairly quiet because if I try to change everything, I will change nothing. Instead, I just stated, “Maybe he was just an asshole, lets get lunch.”
It started to rain and the downhill mountain road will soon be impassable, so we were forced to take pika-pikas. The driver spoke fairly good English and was a very nice man. I was nervous to ask the question, but I decided to ask anyways: what’s the real story of the Mt. Elgon violence. He told me a number of short stories he witnessed. First, if the King (of the rebellion) liked your wife, he would have sex with her. If you refused, you were killed, if she refused, she was raped and killed. Secondly, as a sort of twisted eye-for-an-eye theory, if you did not listen and follow instructions, your ear was cut off. If you were too outspoken, they cut your lips off. The wounds were covered in salt and you were not allowed to go to the hospital, or you would be killed. Third, if you were still too outspoken, 2 holes were drilled—one in your jaw and one in your hard palate. A padlock was used to lock your jaw shut, and the man would walk away with the key. Shamefully, I thought of the many horror movies I have seen; then I realized these Hollywood movies only desensitize us into apathy. Then when we hear about all these horrific stories on the news, people are not really mortified, and there is little public outcry. I daydreamed about this for a while until I saw some cows out of the corner of my eye. I yelled ‘ng’ombe!’ to the driver and he jammed on the breaks and narrowly missed him. Once again, instead of being scared, I began to laugh—not a madman laugh—but a laugh of maybe irony. When you speak of the dangers in Eastern Africa, you may think of Al Shabaab, tribal conflicts, food poisoning, malaria, AIDS, etc. Nope, that was the second time I was almost tackled by a runaway cow. Advice to Al Shabaab: stop the suicide bombings—invest in rabid moose, it will scare the crap out of the CF.
Friday was very uneventful. Valarie and I went to the Uganda border (Teso) to do the same thing as Wednesday in a different district. Only one thing struck me as strange, and it infuriated me to my core. We were walking to the District Commissioners office (the head of the district), half-assedly noting the poverty levels of the citizens of Teso. It seemed that Teso was doing slightly worse than many other districts, but why? Teso is a border district that flourishes in trade with its Uganda neighbors. I think I found the answer in the DCs office. He had a very large antique wooden desk; gold on his neck and hands; a large TV; and the office was about 10-12 times larger than my residence in Lane Hall. Nice new floors, furnished with coaches you see on films about royalty. The man’s words spoke of empowerment, but his tone spoke of indifference. I believe he was even intimidated by me there, because every time I wrote something down, he would lose his train of thought. Valarie later told me he was scared that I would go back to America and tell my government about him. But I won’t tell Big Brother Mr. DC, this time…
Corruption is rampant in Kenya. The poverty gap is extreme, but the most shocking thing is that the richest people are in the government. Even the president of the anti-corruption committee in Kenya is corrupt! The people are trying to throw him out but he will not leave, and the president has backed him up for another term even though he was ineffective in the first time (according to the people). I believe a trimming of the fat is necessary if Kenya ever wants to bring itself out of poverty. I do not know how this will be done peacefully because most politicians are there because of their use of force. I am very worried about the future of Kenya. It has historically been a very stable African country, but every camel has its own carrying capacity. If peaceful, Kenyans will continue to suffer in hunger. If they revolt, Kenyans will likely suffer from the hand of the government. I hope I am wrong in this theory, maybe a strong leader will appear that has the courage to take from the rich and give to the poor—but not even Robin Hood could do this peacefully at all times.
Saturday, I did my usual cleaning and housework (I am getting a maid soon, a very good investment for both of us). Then I made my way into town to meet a student at Mabanga who said she had a problem that she needed to tell me in person. I was dreading this moment because, on one hand she could be lying and just be a temptress, but on the other she could have a real problem. I assumed she just was ‘in love’ with me and tried asking her this in not so many words. She became offended when I hinted at the fact and I was taken by surprise.
She decided to tell me her issue. She was considering not mentioning it and just enjoying our sodas, but she felt she needed to explain it to me to put my mind at ease. Her parents have died of AIDS and she—along with her sister and two brothers—were living with her aunt. She was one year away from graduation and her aunt recently told her she does not have money for her to continue school. After the aunt paid for her own children, and her male adoptees, there was no money left. Wow, I really missed the ball on that one, eh? I wanted to break down crying and hug her, but I was too shocked to do anything but stare at her.
My activities at the bar with the prostitutes have made me assume that she wanted money or something else. I admit, I have created a stereotype and I am very ashamed of it. However, I needed an event like this in order to become aware of my own ignorance—I just hope I did not hurt that girl. I have always been very adaptable (in my opinion) and can think quickly if I need to. From now on, instead of assuming things so I can better prepare for them, I will start playing things by ear more. I can always prepare for the worst, as long as I don’t let my negative feelings sway my opinions unless they are proven first. For example, if I am put into a similar situation again, I will simply meet the person and ask them what is wrong. Their response—rather than my opinion—will guide my actions.
The night came and Jerry asked me to a rumba night at the bar. I was very excited because I love live music, and I love new music. I have never witnessed rumba music, but I loved it as soon as I walked in. I took a seat close to the band and started dancing in my seat. It reminded me of the fast-paced music you would hear on a regular Nintendo game such as Double Dragon or Contra—feel free to laugh at me. One of Jerry’s friends was clearly trying to get with me, so I decided to dance with her—harmlessly. I am getting used to being a very hot item in the bars, but I fear I will become too cocky, especially when I come back to Canada. On the other hand, I grew up deathly shy and Kenya seems to be making that a thing of the past, so I will keep my ego in check and continue opening up. I could never dance to the club music back in Canada, the simplistic rhythm of most songs limit me to left and right movements of my hips, but I think rumba dancing will help me out.
Sunday. Nothing too exciting happened except that the sickness was still around and was getting worse. I was now contemplating going to the hospital, but decided against it because my stash of medicine was probably just as good if not better than the hospital’s, not to mention the dreaded lineup. I finished my housework for the week and started playing games on my computer. Some of the young kids came to visit me so I put on a game on my laptop so they could play. Within a few minutes I had all the neighborhood kids in my living room trying to play. It made my soul feel good that they were laughing, dancing and joking with each other. After half an hour or so, I wanted to get back to work and told them they could play more tomorrow. Sounds easy enough, right? But the children were too young for school and therefore did not know English. I used every word for ‘go’ in the thesaurus, but they just spoke something I couldn’t understand and went back to the game. I tried using body language to motion them out of the house, but either they didn’t want to leave or they didn’t understand. Eventually I just picked up a kid and dropped her outside my door, then picked up another kid and did the same. As I was carrying kids out, more kids were running back in. I kept pissing into the wind this way for about ten minutes until I gave up, smiling through my frustration at them. Eventually their parents came looking for them and I told them about my dilemma. They laughed and told them it was time for bed. The strange thing was that the mothers said this in English and everybody immediately left. Maybe I’m just a pushover.
Later in the night a friend visited the house with 2 women. According to him, he could have one and I could have the other (awkward). I ended up text messaging my way out of it, so I would not hurt the girl’s feelings, but I think she was still disappointed.
On Monday of the new work week, not much happened once again. There was so much ‘nothing’ that it started to worry me. The work plan was due this week and I did nothing in the organization yet. I confronted the director and assistant director a few times, but nothing ever came of it. The good thing is that I have had ample time to research my directed study on the link between HIV/AIDS and food security in Kenya. Gladys, the director, has told me there would not be much time for me to research it, but she allowed the opposite. As a result, my food security lens came back with a vengeance. Everything I saw seemed to relate somehow with the cyclic effects HIV and food security had on each other. Without a doubt, this has been the area where I have gained the most knowledge. The link is sometimes direct, but often times it takes many years (as we are just discovering the long wave effect of HIV on subsequent generations). For example, if the girl mentioned earlier were to drop out of school, it is likely that she would not gain employment and may marry early—leading to food insecurity. But this is not the place to speak of this, so that’s a story for another group. Unless you want to hear more, then email me.
Tuesday was another fieldtrip. We were handing out money to community mentors in 4 rural areas: Sirisia, Kamlega, and 2 other long names I cannot remember. The money would be put into a pool, and OVC caregivers could withdrawal some to invest in more expensive agricultural inputs such as fertilizer and seeds. Microloans are gaining popularity and I believe the idea of the community controlling it’s own loans is a great idea, as opposed to outsiders being the gatekeepers. The mentors were very positive and intelligent beyond most of their education levels, but the Kamlega mentors really stood out in my mind. Iddi is a very stocky Muslim who is also a caregiver of 4 OVCs. When he saw me, he brought out his best seat and forced me to sit with them as they exchanged the funds. He introduced me and made sure I remembered everybody’s name, as they were instructed to remember both my names. The forceful kindness was unexpected at first, but his energy transferred to me and for the first time in the field, I felt comfortable enough to laugh and joke around with the others openly. Iddi explained to me that he was Muslim and then said, “You don’t like people like us do you? You think we enjoy death. But I love life.” His stereotype of me caught me off guard and I felt the need to tell him he was wrong. However, then I realized in a way he was partly right, not for me, but for other mzungus.
I knew from the people that the Kenyan people respected Northerners, but I was slowly beginning to realize how they thought we viewed them. Many Kenyans tend to think Americans and Europeans do not respect Africans. This may explain why Kenyans are so kind to mzungus—because they want to be respected. Many of my friends back home are very disrespectful of Africans. Coming from Cape Breton, many of them don’t know where Kenya is, but assume the worst about them. Infact, I was the butt of most racist jokes by a select group of my friends—a group that openly lives on social assistance with no intention of working. To quote Stan from South Park, “Oh, life is hard is it? Try living in a developing country, pussy.” I assume we’re all adults here and can take a low-grade of profanity, but if I offend anybody, I apologize. Just tell me and I will stop immediately.