Primary School Kids

The kids from the nearby primary school are the best. At lunch, they’re out on break when I walk past on my way home to eat, and they’ve always got creative new things to shout out at my as I pass. “Muzungu!” or, “how are youuuuu” then the next week, “goooood morning!” (where good rhymes with food), and eventually they’ve moved on to things like, “you are beautiful!”. “you are smart!”(where smart rhymes with cat) and even, my personal favourite, “we love you so much!” It makes a girl’s day to have 100 small Kenyans shout amorous proclamations at the top of their lungs.

I guess I should mention that there seems to be a local grammatical deficiency in the area of superlatives, like when Winnie asked me if there was a difference between dislike and hate. I told her yeah, it’s like the difference between like and love. When she asked me to clarify the difference between like and love, I thought for a moment that maybe the kids didn’t feel as ardently as their vocab choices might imply… but no, certainly they mean love. Don’t you think?

Last week another primary school was visiting. They ate lunch on the church yard, and my regular primary kids at lunch on their school yard. The fences of the yards line the walk way to my house, so as I walked home, there were kids crowding the fences on both sides. My kids were particularly possessive, and when the visiting kids in unison yelled, “what is your name!” my kids shouted back, also in unison, “her name is Mrs. Farlow and she is from Canada!” (I can’t get them to stop with the Mrs, but at least they no longer tell me that I’m from Japan)

When I go running in the morning before school, I always end up with a herd of kids running beside me. With backpacks and bare feet, they just run beside me. They never say anything. I bet that on the mornings I go running, the number of late students is at least halved. I feel a little bit like the pied piper.

Today I headed over to the shops to pick up some chipati for dinner, just as the choir kids finished their practice. They won some local tournament, so they’re heading to the big city (by big, I mean Machakos) in August for the finals. They practice every day, and they’re actually really good. I would totally go cheer for them, except for that I’LL BE HOME BY THEN! (less than 2 weeks now!) The walk to the shops is about ten minutes, and the entire time the choir gaggle giggled non-stop. Then the boldest girl, a tiny one who I often see challenging boys to foot races, would ask a question like, “where are you going?” and when I answered, “the shops!” they would all repeat my answer as if it were the most absurd thing ever. “THE SHOPS!!! THE SHOPS!” And once they had caught their breath, the girl would ask another question.

“What is your English name?”

“Lisa!”

“LISA!!! HER NAME IS LISA!!! LISA!”

And then I would ask a question, like how far their walk home is. They’d all waffle until the little brave one would shout an absurd answer, like “A THOUSAND MINUTES!” and they would all laugh in the same way they laughed at my absurd answers. Then the little ring leader would sprint off, apparently embarrassed by her own wit, until the laughing had calmed. I noticed that two girls looked alike, so I asked if they were sister. The ring leader shouted, “NO, THEY ARE BROTHERS!” and dashed off again. Almost everybody has as shaved head, so I looked again, but no, they were wearing the girl uniform (that is, a skirt).

I like the primary school kids a lot. It’s too bad there are so many of them (8 classes of about 30) because I’d have liked to have spent time with them, or give them candy on my last day or something. Either way. Hilarious kids.

Out of water

My house has running water. I recognize that even though we're only talking cold running water here, that it's a luxury to be able to turn on the tap and get water. The house has a small reserve tank from which the taps draw, that gets filled twice a week by a water pump that also supplies the hospital and some other nearby buildings. James, the head doctor at the hospital, told me that over the past few weeks, the pumps have been stopping before the reserve tank at the hospital was full, and they've been having water shortages. I felt glad that our tank seemingly stayed full, but I've been using water even more sparingly lately just to make sure.

Also starting a few weeks ago, the principal has been filling her big water jugs at our house. In the best of times, our water pressure is low, so filling them for her takes about half and hour. Each jug is 20L and she brings two. Prior to a few weeks ago, she got her water delivered by somebody who brought it from the river, and I'd like to know what happened to that plan, because not only is it time consuming (and you can't just leave it in the sink to fill by itself, because it sink is too small to align the tap nozzle with the jug's mouth), but also worrisome. My deepest fear is not that I am inadequate, it is that I might run out of water. Before she leaves me to fill them, we always take a few minutes for her to assure me that I won't run out of water.

Well. On Monday she got 40L and then yesterday she took 60L. This morning Winnie tried to take a shower and...nothing. From the two sinks we got enough water that was still in the pipes to boil some water to heat up our breakfast (pumpkin!) but then that was it. I have a small supply of bottled water for drinking, and I used a bit to wash my face. Then the ol' Purell for the hands- my mom made fun of me for packing it, but I am not lying when I say that stuff has saved my life many times over.

After breakfast I headed to school ready to inform the principal that she owed us some water back, but she was traveling all day. Ugh. So matron arranged that some water would be brought over to our house...some sweetheart students carried it all the way from the river during lunch. What good girls, but also, I feel kind of bad about that. James said the pump should be on again by tomorrow to fill our reserve tank, but until then, living with all water from jugs is hard. Washing hands with soap- you want to use both hands to rinse, but one hand is for pouring. Washing dishes. We're holding off laundry until it comes back. There was one flush left it the toilet that we saved until, ahem, we really needed it. It's so annoying. When I first came, I was in a BRING IT, KENYA mood, and so adjusting to no electricity or got water was a cinch. But now that my days are very numbered and I've started dreaming about marble cheese, fast internet, and long hot showers, then to back even further away is painful. I've learned my lesson. Blah Blah, we should appreciate having running water, and not take it for granted yadda yadda. Fine, good, now give me running water back!

Full days

Man, I now have a computer! That is charged! And ready for 10 finger typing! But, the farm has been getting terrible internet reception, so I've only been able to access when I'm elsewhere, like on the road, with my cell phone. Fine, thumb typing it still is.

Back up! You say. On the road? Yes. My students wrote their June exams on Tuesday then left for a midterm break. Classes don't resume until next Tuesday! So I have a week off, a week that luckily coincides with the time that Eric is here. With him I've been visiting lots of homes and getting so see a lot more of this country than I would have otherwise. There have been some really sad and desperate sights that I'll go into more detail about in future posts.

Having a week off means some touristy activities. Today we went to this little workshop place full of wood whittlers. Aunts Anne, Sandy, and Darcy, I got something for you and your families! Uh, yes, it's all three the same thing, but it's hard to pick items that won't break on the way home, you know?

Yesterday and today were really full days. I'm pretty exhausted actually. Right now we are headed to Machakos to a restaurant that Eric has promised sells burgers that won't upset my stomache. Sign me up!

Winnie's house part 2

(continued from previous post)

Then they plucked all the feathers out. Some left little feather stubble that the boy helper began to pick out with the aid of his teeth. I almost fainted. Then the mom came over with a knife and sliced the bird open. Crack went the rib cage and 'oh no' went my gag reflex. Here's the lungs. Here's the heart. Here's the liver. Here are the intestines, but they aren't for humans, so we give them to the dog. After this, I asked, "oh, is that for the dog, or for humans?" at the appearance of every new organ with what I hope was not a too hopeful tone. The crop. Dogs. The feet. Dogs. The gullet. Humans.

Okay, right now, go look at pictures of a chicken gullet. Find one whole, then one split open with food in it, then one split open and cleaned. Now imagine how you would feel if the mother announced that the guest gets the gullet. It's considered the best part, and it would be really rude not to give it to the guest. I immediately tried the humility (oh, there's no need for that. I really couldn't) card, but she insisted that she wanted me to have it. With a tad more vehemence, I changed my game plan to the old, "if I may be so bold, do you mind if I request the breast meat? It's actually my favourite, and I miss it" approach, which went over well, and Winnie ended up with the gullet, which she loves. I mean, I'm not not a picky eater to start with, so there was no way on earth I could have eaten the gullet. I knew I was being rude, but you guys honestly, I just could. not.

The chipati was great though, and after lunch we went out to a beautiful rock looking over the hilly farm. Oh, excuse me, shamba. For some reason, nobody uses the English word, and often they'll even correct me if I say farm. I picked an orange right off the tree and we ate that and some sugar cane. I tried to slice the skin off but I was so afraid of the giant knife and cutting my fingers off that I mostly just whacked the air near the cane that I was holding, giving the skin more of a chance of being removed by wind erosion than anything else. So good ol Winnie took over. Oh also, the boy followed me around most places all day. I guess I was shocked my lots of many things that he considers pedestrian, so he would catch my eye and do every thing with a flourish. So then I felt like I should exaggerate my alarm to reward him for his efforts. When he reached into the chicken cage, head first, to fill their food bucket, for example, I did a giant OH MY! face that he loved. But then he would also do this like peel a banana, or water a plant, and I'd still have to keep up the act of being intrigued and amazed at everything he did. I didn't want to let him down, you know? So now he'll go to school and be like, "okay, so not but muzungos eat rice every day, but some of them have never seen water come out of a tap and they don't know what cows are." Speaking of cows, they had 4 but only one had a name, so chose the most bovine names I could think of: two girls and one boy, so Justin, Mya, and Chantal. Oh and speaking of things that are actually alarming, the boy's mom came to get him, and her hands were full, so she carried machete with her ear and shoulder, tucked into her neck, and if she were using it to make a phone call. It was terrifying to me.

We were sent home with left over chipati and lots of vegetables. We've had arrow root for breakfast every day this week! The best!

Winnie's house

On the weekend, I went to Winnie's house. It's about a 40 minute walk from the school with terrain so treacherous that I literally had to use my hands to help of scale some inclines. Before moving in with me, she used to make this trek twice a day!

On the way we passed a giant transformer that Winnie said had been out of working order since about March, and the power people keep saying they'll do it any day, but they obviously haven't yet. Can you imagine? We got to her home and it was very nice. She was obviously very proud of it. Her mom and dad weren't home yet, but two young boys who I guess just help out on their farm were. We walked around the hilly farm, and then Winnie shouted at the boys to bring us some sugar cane. Man, that stuff is delicious, even though I haven't figured out a way to avoid tongue splinters. Also, you use a giant knife to peel it. I was certain that the a finger was going to be lost by somebody, and the one boy seemed to enjoy making me cringe.

Then her parents came home and they were super nice and welcoming. Dinner was this casserole type dish called Kenyiji made of beans, arrow root, bananas, and corn. I loved it so much, but apparently it takes a lot of time/effort/cooking tools that Winnie and I don't have at home. They said such a dish would fetch an unreasonably high price at a tourist place, because foreigners pay big bucks to have the traditional dishes. It's funny that they recognised this, but even funnier that it's probably true.

They really were just embarrassinly welcoming though. Mom and dad, you both are warmly invited over any time. We hit the hay around 9, and I got Winnie's bed. When I woke up at 7, they made me in back to bed because guests are supposed to relax. Kind of awkward but also so nice.

Before bed on Saturday, we looked through photo albums. They own a camera, so lots of stuff was documented. Various graduations, first day of schools, etc, but also pictures of other visitors they've had. One was a clearly caucasian guy named Ian that they said was from China. I asked if they were sure we wasn't American or European or something, but no no, they insisted China, or maybe Japan. Then there was later a bunch of photos of a girl who lived nearby for two years, named Chiko. This time she was legit from Japan. I guess because she was here for so long, she implanted the connotation that muzungo=from Japan. I guess that makes a lot of sense, since many many many people have told of things like the staple food in my country is rice, that English isn't my mother tongue, and that I know karate. Not that I'm saying all Japanese people eat rice and know karate, but just that in my experience, as a stereotype, it's more common to assume those things about an east Asian than a North American. But really, I've had some conversations where people are like, at home, you eat rice every day. Then I'm like, no, we really don't. They insist. I concede that perhaps some people do, but it's certainly not the norm. They say that every body eats it every day. This goes on for a long time. Darn you, Chiko.

In the morning her dad had left, and I wasn't allowed to help make breakfast, so I sat in the sitting room reading a week's worth of newspapers. The opinion section made of wild. There was one really well written article on why foreign aid is bad, and one woman who wrote progressively on reform of domestic abuse laws, but other than that there was a lot of misogynistic vitrol, not unlike what you might read in the comments section of many a blog in any geography, but those are usually anonymous. To see a national newspaper publish it, and to have people write with their name as if their opinion doesn't warrant shame... just, I don't know. Okay an example actually, in the cool young person section: one article on Britney dating her manager, them something about this Nigerian pop duo P Square getting in a fight with their landlord, then a post wondering if old white men coming and marrying young Kenyans constitutes prostitution and sex trafficking, or should we just consider it a boost in the economy, since she'll probably send money home. No lie, this question was posed without satire or sarcasm. Right? I don't know why I didn't stop reading.

Breakfast was arrow root and sweet potatoes, then Winnie had told her mom that I love chipati, so that was on the lunch menu. Also on the menu? Chicken. Where would it come from? Right outside. Yes, they were going to slaughter a chicken. Oh man. The same boy from the previous day, who was fascinated by how fascinated I was, was the one doing the neck cutting. I watched from a distance, trying to hold in my anguish and alarm, but emitting the odd oh! Ah! Ooh! And at one point I may or may not have said eek! I do know that I was burping for a good ten minutes afterwards on account of all my gasping. However, it was much less bloody that I had imagined.

Out of space; to be continued tomorrow.

Winnie and the market

Yesterday I went to the market with Winnie. I usually pick up the things I need when I go to the farm on weekends, but this weekend I'm at school to help the girls review for their upcoming midterms. I'm going to Winnie's house for dinner on Saturday, too!

Anyway so we made a shopping list and hopped onto a matatu heading into town. Winnie brought a shawl to wrap around her head during the ride. She was appalled that I hadn't brought one. "But you hair will get so dusty!" Though hair is an evening discussing topic about once a week, she still can't get over that I shampoo a few times a week, and I can't get over that her head only gets wet every other month, when she takes her weave out. I must say, my knowledge of weaves, previously only sourced from America's Next Top Model, has grown quite a lot while here.

Oh, okay, so I was going to bring my back pack to carry stuff in, primarily because blah blah, let's reduce the number of plastic bags we use to save the rain forest or whatever, but also because plastic bags cost 20 cents. That's a hefty fee by any standard, but particularly when you consider that a giant cabbage is only 50 cents. But Winnie really didn't want me too, because she though people would stare. I told her they are going to stare at of regardless, but she really really didn't want me to bring a back pack. She did impressions of how people would look at me. It was pretty hilarious. Fine, but we're bringing plastic bags with us then. Oh yeah, people here call them paper bags. It kills me. This is very clearly not paper. I never say anything to anybody but Winnie though, because she's used to my lip. "What's that? You want me to pass you a paper bag? Hm, I don't see any of those around, but might this plastic bag render itself serviceable?" She just polls her eyes and remains firm on her nomenclature choice. I like her.

Usually while at the grocery store in town, I'm in a bit of a rush it seems, or at least not at leisure to browse around. Winnie and I were in no rush though, so yesterday I discovered a cookie aisle! Pardon me, a biscuit aisle. I picked up a small, 25 cent pack of these coconut numbers. When we had paid and were back outside, I reached into my bag to crack open the cookies. YOU'RE GOING TO EAT THEM NOW? Yeah. HERE? Um, yes. IN FRONT OF PEOPLE? Yes? WHILE WALKING!!? That was the plan...? Apparently, eating while walking is the most hilarious and most most embarrassing thing Winnie could think of. She tried to talk me out of it, again doing impressions of what people would say if they saw me. She already convinced me to leave my back pack at home, so no, I was going to win this battle. And they were delicious. I tried to get her to eat one, but she wouldn't hear of it. I do not understand at all.

Anyway, after all our travelling we treated ourselves to chipati to in with the beans we were going to cook for dinner. We don't have the cookware required for making chipati at home, and I think the fact that I recently discovered that a store nearby sells them fresh for only 20 cents is going to mean a pretty sharp increase in the number of chipatis I eat. They are so good.

Chiggo

Winnie lives in fear that our gas cooker might one day run out in the middle of cooking dinner, and THEN WHAT? Like, she is literally (fine, not literally) petrified at the thought. She mentions often that she has a chiggo at her house, and eventually I asked how much such an item costs. The answer was the equivalent of 3 canadian dollars, so we sent matron with money on Monday, market day, to buy us one.

I guess the first thing you need to know about chiggos is that they mightn't be called chiggos at all. Maybe jiggos or jickos or any other combinations of similar phonetics. The other important details are that it's just a little charcoal stand, and that you can't use it in an enclosed room because of the carbon monoxide. Oh, okay. Wait, what? You mean dioxide, right? No? Mon? Like the kind that kills you or causes brain damage? Apparently yes. It's certainly a bit smokey, and what with breathing this in and all the high notes hiding in every song I can think to teach in music class, I've kind of got a bit of a perma-sore throat.

The other change brought about by our new kitchen appliance is that two things can be cooked at once. While this may sound like a blessing, let me assure you that it's turning out to be a bit of a curse.

My schedule is pretty regular, and not at all constricted by time. As I've mentioned, I do a tremendous amount of reading, and listening to music, and reading of the blogs. I already sleep for at least 9 hours a night. Having a second cooking method means freeing up half an hour, and I just don't know what to do with it.

Wait, I should first explain what I actually mean in the previous sentence, when I sort of imply that I do the cooking. You know when you're little and you mom lets you help bake? And mostly you job is to watch then lick the spoon, but when small tasks arise that you are capable of completing then it's like, I CAN CRACK THE EGGS! Or, HEY, I'M PRETTY GREAT AT POURING CHOCOLATE CHIPS INTO A BOWL! The same is cooking dinner with Winnie. Despite the fact that I do almost nothing, I feel like it would be rude to go read while she cooks, so I hang out in the kitchen with her, occasionally being like, OH, LET ME WASH THE TOMATOES! Also, I make pasta on nights that feature a kale/plain spaghetti menu. Only I break the long noodles because that's how Winnie likes it.
(sorry, dad). Sometimes she lets me mash the beans up until she gets so frustrated with my method that she has to take over. I swear to you that out methods are identical, and that maybe she is only a little faster, however I let it go because my arm is usually getting tired.

Anyway, like I was saying. In addition to the carbon monoxide threat, having half an hour extra in my day is most taxing. Maybe I'll start showering with hot water. I'm continually talking about starting to in running again; maybe that should finally happen. Ugh, chiggo.

Garbage

A few weeks ago, Winnie took all the garbage out, and that's all I know about that. Then, today, the garbage was full again, so Winnie showed me where it goes.

A pit, out back. You bring some matches and find a good poking stick and then you burn it. First of all... it's kind of awk to burn your garbage with somebody. There is no need for the details to get detailed, here, but let's just say that feminine hygiene products do not burn very quickly. Also, all my wrappers from Clif bars and Crystal Light didn't burn at all, so they're just hanging out with the banana peals and tin cans that have accumulated over the years.

My hair and clothes smell like melted plastic and my eyes still sting a little. However, if I am to bring only a singular lesson home with me, it will be related to reducing the amount of things I throw out. I'd like to think I'm pretty good about garbage. I even sometimes take care to recycle post-it notes, with an emphasis on sometimes. Once you put garbage in the dumpster, or on the curb for the truck, you don't really think about it again, you know? You know about landfills and how plastic bottles don't disintegrate for a whatever-illion years, but actually dealing with it makes you realise how dumb garbage is. Like all that extra packaging that comes on everything- if you had to melt that in you back yard, you'd start thinking more about how wasteful it is. I mean, what else are you going to think about as you poke it with a burning stick? Anyway, what I'm saying is that I may or may not, upon my return to Canada, become somebody who has a composter in her kitchen, and writes angry letters to companies who use excessive packaging. For now, I'm just going to make sure that next time I put some flammable tinder in with the rest of my garbage.