Disease

I have spent the last month or so in Kisumu – taking a holiday and allowing myself the space and time to reflect and write on these past 5 months of my life.

I am fascinated by disease - probably because I’ve lived with one for the past 18 years of my life. I grew up not thinking about living with diabetes, because it was normal, and I couldn’t remember living without it. As I passed through high school, and moved towards college – things became shockingly more difficult. The highs and lows seemed to stay around for longer, impacting my body in ways that I had not experienced before, drenching my days with haze and lethargy. Last February I transitioned from the insulin pump I had worn for the last 10 years of my life back to insulin shots, after days of no change from high bloodsugars. I wrote about living with diabetes for the first time in my life for college classes – and found that I had a lot to say, that it wasn’t something that as I claimed so proudly ‘didn’t affect me.’

I assumed that the experience I was having was what every other person with diabetes – or any other chronic illness for that matter – was having. Instead of working through how this disease is actually affecting me, I went searching for others’ stories – thinking that by telling theirs, mine would also be told. The problem with this search is the assumption that any other person living with a disease is feeling the same as me. I applied every bad doctor’s visit and horrible day I’ve had to everyone else, thinking they, like me, were screaming to be heard.

I interviewed 20 people with HIV, asking them how they felt about living with it and how it was affecting their lives. Most of them shrugged their shoulders, letting them fall as they told me it wasn’t a big deal. They complained of not enough food and putting their children through secondary school – which are problems of almost everyone living in Kochia.

This past month I’ve thought a lot about disease, about grouping people into that category of ‘living with a chronic illness.’ I thought that they would have an experience similar to mine – that I could generalize and come up with a single, coherent conclusion. Turns out generalizing people like this defeats my whole original dream – about wanting to hear about what individuals’ lives were like outside of their disease, because I have put them in a category, and re-grouped them. That I’ll never be able to understand or write about other peoples’ experiences by asking them surface questions and meeting with them once, or even multiple times. That some people may not even have the luxury of thinking about how their disease affects them because they are so worried about providing the next meal for their family. That maybe living with disease doesn’t affect other people like it affects me – and that I should stop searching so desperately for that same answer.

Diabetes has greatly impacted my life, both positively and negatively. My bloodsugars have been mostly high here – from regular soda and tea filled with too much sugar. My thighs are bruised from injecting myself, and I am not as precise about counting carbohydrates. It is a part of my story – because it’s a part of me. Is this applicable to anyone else? Who knows.

I’m spending Christmas in Kisumu, thinking about where I want to spend the next part of this grant, and writing my own story. I hope you all have a fantastic holiday season, and would love to hear from all of you via email if you get the chance!

Evaluation

The beautiful thing about Fairhaven courses are the written evaluations that come at the end of the quarter.  While all my fellow Westerners are taking finals, I wrote my eval for the first quarter of this Adventure Learning Grant, and pasted it below, because I feel like it sums up my 5 months here incredibly well. Enjoy!

I have spent the first quarter of my senior year of college in Kenya, learning more in these five months than any other time in my life. I left with the intention of gathering stories of people living with HIV, but found that the basket I brought for collection is heavy and overflowing with so much more.

The majority of my time has been spent in a small village of West Kochia, Kenya. People ask me where I am from, and my mouth is full with my tongue under my top teeth pronouncing the th and rolling the r in Tethra.  It is named for the smallest market I am near, where mamas sit on spread out blankets behind the piles of oranges, guavas, tomatoes they sell.

I have been living with two of the most incredible people I have ever met. They started a small Self Help group to uplift people in their community with a primary school, small clinic, and support program for orphans and the elderly. They have adopted me and tell people I am their first born child. We discuss Kenya, people, life across a low table heavy with tea and mandasi.

I have spent these past five months witnessing life and the sameness of people living across the World. I have conducted interviews of people living with HIV, rode in every type of transportation available, harvested maize, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Time has slowed as much as a graph illustrating exponential decay, with days feeling as wide and spread out as the Horizon. The distractions or commitments that usually clutter my life are no longer present, allowing me to see an entirely new landscape, which I cling to and memorize like the lyrics to favorite songs. I memorize the faces, voices, and posture of people when we meet – really listening to people for the first time in my life. I memorize the laughter of children when they wave hello to me, and where the homemade speed bumps are on my ride home so I can grip the back of the motorcycle tightly to keep me from falling off. I memorize greetings in Luo, to make old ladies’ faces crease with smiles as I touch my cheek to both of theirs. I memorize the feeling of home I have when rounding the last corner and smelling lemongrass after being away.

The most important thing I have learned in these five months is that people are the same everywhere you go. That as Elie Wiesel says, there are treasures in all of us, we just need to take the time and space to look. I find myself becoming the richest person in the world, heavy with the most fantastic gems and nuggets of gold anyone has ever possessed. I am weighed down with stories, quotes, faces, details of people I meet every day, and get to re-visit and examine them again and again through writing - magnifying rarities with words.

I cannot even begin to express the depth of my gratitude for this phenomenal grant, opportunity. I have been given the chance to witness and explore the World fully – using all five senses in their completeness to celebrate and understand how incredible we as people are. I cannot even begin to express how much I want to spread this awe and appreciation to other people. I cannot even begin to express how much this has changed my life.

5 Months

It has been raining so much here I can’t remember if I’m in Washington or Kenya. I have been sporting gum boots to trek between the house and Abba for the past couple of days.  There is so much water you can’t tell where the ditches are in the sides of the road – everything is murky water. My steps make sucking sounds as I pull my feet from the mud. People warn me about worms and billhazia.

I have been making frequent trips between Kochia and Kisumu in the past couple of weeks. The surroundings are lush and green from all the rain. Some unlucky houses are surrounded by puddles, and rivers rush loudly underneath bridges. The crook of my arm hangs out of the window and grows moist from approaching rain. It smells the same as Washington.

Before taking these five months to explore, I never allowed myself any time. Every moment in Bellingham was planned meticulously – between school, volunteering, exercising, and homework, I had no single moment to sit. The days were so well planned that I could not even take in my surroundings, just kept moving to the next thing, with my life as blurred and hazy as looking through train windows. If I somehow found an unplanned chunk of time – I would inevitably fill it. Here, time is as vast as Lake Victoria. By having no plans, I can absorb every detail that passes. By having no plans I can recreate these details through writing – which is as fulfilling to me as sitting down to play my favorite piece on the piano.

I am fascinated by strangers. I find myself studying people more intently, paying more attention to every aspect of their face and posture than ever before – so that I can come home and write. It makes every encounter deeper, and more interesting. It’s as if I have been blessed with a child’s pair of eyes – impressed and engrossed by everything they take in.

This Wednesday marks five months – the halfway point for this grant. I can hardly believe I have been away for so long. I can hardly believe it’s December and Christmas is right around the corner. I am further from my original proposal than I ever imagined possible.  I have laughed and smiled more than ever in my life. I can hardly imagine coming back to the United States.

Thanksgiving

My family and I woke up this morning, ate breakfast at the hotel, and read until their taxi came.  I waved goodbye to the darkly tinted car as they drove away, unable to see anyone waving back. I turned on my heel, climbed the stairs to my room, and lay on my bed – completely and utterly alone for the first time in about five months. I soaked in the silence for five minutes, thinking about what I would be doing if we were back in my Olympia home right about now.

I spent most of the afternoon being consumed by William Faulkner’s Light in August and Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. I fell face first into both of these stories, sitting in the mill listening to Brown talk, and eating dinner with Woolf. No Macy’s Day Parade noise filled the background, and I wasn’t in the kitchen constructing my latest apple pie creation.

I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation to a Thanksgiving dinner with other Americans that were living in Kisumu. I accepted whole heartedly, and carried a bottle of white wine from Chile in my purse as I caught a piki piki with other people heading to the destination.  The house was enormous and full of people of all ages. I knew one person well enough to greet her, but that was about it. 

I filled my plate with all the usual Thanksgiving helpings, and sat down at a table covered in plastic, steering away from the plush white armchairs, thinking the table was better prepared for my glass of red wine and full paper plate. There was a Yale student also between her Junior and Senior year sitting with me, people working for CDC, someone working for the Embassy, and a lady working for an NGO with roots in Seattle. Dinner conversation was academic, interesting, and delightful. I learned about becoming an Ambassador, life in Barbados, and just how many security checks there are for people working for the US Embassy.

I returned home around 8 in a coughing piki piki, thinking about just how thankful I was for where I currently am.  I am thankful for the incredible family that has come to visit me, and for the family that has accepted me so warmly in Kochia. I’m thankful for intellectual conversation, for being listened to, and for finding a place that I truly love. I’m thankful for how connected I feel to people who live on the other side of the World from me.

At the end of it all, I was able to have turkey, with mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, and apple pie.  I had some fabulous conversations with people I had never met, and thoroughly enjoyed my evening. Will it ever beat having my mama’s cranberry sauce, aunt’s rolls, or having my grandpa tell me stories about stabbing people if they reached across the table? Absolutely not – but it will certainly do for spending Thanksgiving in a foreign country. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Rocks

We drove from Nakuru to Kisumu on a large bus.  The seat covers were variegated with white plastic coverings over the top.  I talked to my brother as I peered out the dingy windows at the passing small markets and green trees.  People washed bright orange carrots in dirty water, and lounged in the shade behind their pile of potatoes.  I wondered how long they had been there, and who had stopped to buy what they were selling.

We passed the tea plantations of Kericho, and they reminded me of well-groomed English gardens. They are planted in rows upon endless rows of bushy, circular hedges. It is the deepest and freshest green I have ever seen.  Ladies picked the tea leaves and placed them in wicker baskets that hung around their necks and rested on their backs.  We spoke of change, materialism, life, as we bounced in our seats from the pot hole filled road.

I thought about where I had been for the past four months, as sun streamed through the upper window and I crunched on macademia nuts. I chased the reason I came here like you chase the tail end of dreams when you wake from a mid-afternoon nap, never fully able to remember the dialogue you had spoken, but remembering the feelings that linger like the after taste of chocolate on your tongue.

I feel like I am in the process of shedding multiple layers of clothing; disguises.  When I first arrived here, I allowed myself to fill other peoples’ expectations – that I had come to volunteer, start projects, help. I have recently realized and more fully understood and articulated that those are actually the last reasons I have come. I leave these articles of clothing in the dust that is stirred up behind a piki piki, for some other lost and naked girl to pick up and wear. 

It has taken me four months and a sprinkling of days to understand I have come here for people. I used to collect rocks when I was little from any place that I could.  My parents would take me to beaches, playgrounds, lakes, and I would leave with rocks and shells falling from every pocket I had, overflowing into the larger pockets of my parents.  I would come home, place them in various containers around my room and wait for the next collection point.  I have come here to collect peoples’ experiences like I used to collect rocks. I jam them in my pocket after every conversation, arriving home heavy with details and phrases falling from my clothing. I was never sure what I would do with all those rocks, or why it was so important for me to take them from their homes, but I find myself having replaced my obsession of rocks with peoples’ stories, although they sit and collect in me as opposed to the various containers around my room.

Light

George is living in a small, one room house directly across from the clinic.  I met him Tuesday, and helped him see the sun for the first time in about two weeks. My entire hand fit around his bicep, as Silivia and I massaged his unused muscles.  We walked with him for about 15 feet, with each of us supporting one of his arms.  He has HIV and has refused to take ARVs. He looks frighteningly similar to pictures we’ve been shown of holocaust victims. I kneeled on the ground as he looked down towards me.  He kept telling me he was a victim – and I kept replying that he was only a victim if he allowed himself to be.  That he could fight, and live. He complained about the medications he had to swallow, and I challenged him that I had to inject myself every time I ate. The sky turned purple as we ate guavas and drank coke with him. He kept repeating thank you very much from his blistered and cracked lips. We left his house promising to come back the next day.  He was smiling and seemed lifted, and I walked home feeling hopeful and at peace.

Wednesday, we went back to see him before lunch time.  Silivia carried green oranges in a plastic, yellow tub.  He would not even turn over to see us when we entered.  Flies surrounded his face, as Silivia peeled an orange and handed it to him.  He told us that he was tired today, and wanted to go to Homa Bay District Hospital.  His oldest son came home from primary school and greeted him. George barely lifted his hand to meet his sons. I asked him if he wanted to sit outside for a while, to feel the sun and breeze on his face. He told me he was too tired as SIlivia hoisted his legs up onto a suitcase. I shook the remaining coke from the day before in a plastic cup, trying to get him to drink some.  The bubbles fizzed up and tickled my hand, while George just stared straight ahead.  He took the casing of the orange out of his mouth and placed it on the table – looking so similar to his own shriveled skin.  We walked out shortly after we had come.  A white curtain that was serving as the door billowed in the wind, and kept all problems and life trapped inside the house.

We returned to the school, and I sat on a blue, dilapidated bench on the stoop of the clinic while people tried to tell me that life is hard.  Apparently the anger that was burning holes into my stomach was presenting as sadness – but really I guess those two feelings are as connected and overlapping as the barbed wire that serves as fencing here.  You cannot make someone who wants to die live, no matter how full of food and drugs you pump them.  I’m angry that he feels like he has nothing to live for, that there’s nothing he wants to recover to see. His entire family has already decided he will die, and are now just waiting for the life to drain from this man, the way that water does from a plastic bag. 

I shared with SIlivia that I wanted to start visiting other people like George Wednesday night, and do home based care. Someone made a card before I left that says, ‘travel light, live light, spread the light, be the light,’ which I have laying on my desk here.  I get the most joy from spreading light to other people – from making someone an excessively decadent birthday cake, from taping 78 pennies to a card for my grandfather’s birthday, from helping a man that the community here is afraid to touch walk 100 steps. I like witnessing the light in places that society has deemed dark. For me those places are when I find the brightest lights of all. Maybe that’s what I came to Kenya to really find and tell people about – light.

I sat on a desk in one of the classrooms on Sunday as the sun went down.  The boarders were busy doing their homework and asking me if I knew how to draw graphs.  I lifted Chagos onto my shoulders as another kid told me that the man I had helped carry had died yesterday afternoon. He told me like he was telling me what color the sky was. I walked over to the edge of Abba and looked at the wooden door to his house that was closed. Chagos was laughing and kicking his small legs against my chest as he put his hands on my forehead. I was angry and sorry that the light from the rest of the World couldn’t keep this man’s illuminated – burning, and how normal and expected it was for someone’s light to be extinguished here.

Details and Rain

Friday

The old man that had his hand stitched up on Thursday stumbled back into Silivia’s clinic to have it re-bandaged.  He sang to us as Silivia ripped white tape with her teeth.  He wore the same clothes as the day before, and was as chipper as ever. I walked him to the door of the clinic and he told me he was ‘majestically walking to his home’ as he strutted away. His wheezing laughter trailed behind him.  I cackled as he left.

I stepped outside as Silivia told me it was about to rain very hard.  I looked up at the sky to find a central patch of very dark, grey clouds directly above the grandies house. I have always loved big storms, and it is no different for me here, although life tends to slow down to a halt when the rain stumbles in.  I decided not to grab my jacket and walked over to Abba.  The rain started to fall as soon as we reached the clinic, and it came down in sheets.  I stood in the doorway of the clinic, bracing myself with both of my hands and looked out into walls of water.  The rain made bullet holes in the ground where it fell from the roof.

Saturday

I stood on the veranda of the guest house and watched a storm blow in.  The rain started as a slight drizzle, but quickly moved to a full on downpour.  The chickens hid under the stoop of the house.  A purple Nissan van went sloshing quickly down the road, looking like the back would flip over the front because it was moving so quickly over slick mud. Flashbacks of Jurassic Park rides at Disneyland where you’re driven into a dark tunnel and sprayed with water and sound filled my head as the rain droned on the iron sheet roof.

Sunday

We (Paul, Berend, Ursula and I) walked to the Lake from Abba for a boat ride.  The rain from the night before had left more water than land.  At first, we tried to pick our way from dry spot to dry spot, but quickly gave this up.  The water was warm from the sun, and my shoes made sucking sounds in the mud. We made it to the edge of the lake, to find many people seated on the grass.  The ground was sparkly from fish scales that women were removing, as whole fish lay out drying from the sun before being fried.  Lake Victoria is a murky brown color, and you cannot see anything below the surface, except for the green water hyacinth that crowds around the edges.

Monday

I took a seat in an unbalanced metal chair that was situated beneath the trees, and waited for other parents to join me. The chairs in front of me had OMSS painted in blue paint that had dripped before it was dry. It was prayer day for Form 4 pupils (high school seniors) that were taking the Kenya Secondary School Exams. The students that were seated behind me started singing gospel music that made the hairs on my arms stand up.  Two children ran up the hill chasing tires as big as they were and calling, ‘Rachel, how are you.’ The students and their parents crowded in circles around the pastor as he prayed for them to perform well on the exam.  Sun patches crept through the trees and warmed my feet.

Silivia took me to visit a man with diabetes tonight.  We entered into his house, and he was laying on the couch, and could barely sit up to greet us.  A white bandage wrapped from the back of his neck to his front, and his wife handed me cloudy insulin that was wet from the water it was being kept in.  I walked quickly home to get a spare meter, and returned to find him sitting up.  His whole body slumped downwards and the meter read 543 after he tested.  My mouth fell open.  His brother told me he had been on insulin since 1995, and I bit my lip as they explained that he was now on kidney dialysis. Location, privilege, and a bit of luck plagued my brain as I stumbled home in darkness.  An ocean and many miles of land separated me from being in this man’s shoes.

Tuesday

I sat on the stoop of the clinic in a green, plastic chair and let my feelings envelope my entire being. Nightmares from the previous night clutched my brain and wouldn’t let go.  I felt like I had swallowed glass and that it was cutting patterns into my stomach lining.  A lady passed and I smiled at her, feeling momentary relief.  I moved to sit on the bench in the warm sun with Che.  Her breathing became routine and her neck bounced as she fell asleep in my lap. I closed my eyes momentarily as Matron was counting how many tins of beans there were in a sack from another school.  She was bent parallel to the ground, and the sound of beans hitting plastic made the same sound as those rain makers we used to make in elementary school. 

Silivia and I visited an old man tonight.  We crept up behind him while he was closing the door to his house.  He nearly dropped his cane when he turned around and saw us, throwing his hands forward onto his knees as he laughed with a deep cackle.  He was missing most of his top teeth, and was wearing a baseball hat cocked to one side and resting high on his head.  He reminded me so much of my grandfather I had to restrain myself from consuming him in a giant bear hug.  The sky turned from yellow to purple to black with every color in between as the sun went down.  We promised to visit him again soon, and we walked to the edge of his compound with laughter that consumed all of us.

Wednesday

I visited Kisumu to extend my visa for three months.  The return trip home was in a large magenta matatu, with the man in charge wearing matching shades of maroon.  There is a ladder that goes to the roof, where they strap everything imaginable to the top.  The man in maroon swung from the ladder to the open door of the vehicle, with his shirt billowing in the wind and his flat top hair style unmoving. We zoomed past three ladies walking together, wearing differing shades of pink, and matching the red earth. I wondered if they had planned that.  We quickly caught up to the rain clouds gathering over the hills.  Ladies covered their hair with plastic bags as the conductor shoved them down the steps into the rain.  An entire wooden living room set was unloaded from the roof and placed on the wet tarmac, waiting patiently for visitors to sit and take tea.

It rained the hardest and longest it has since I’ve been here while we ate dinner. We couldn’t hear each other unless we yelled.  Silivia told me people would probably migrate from their houses towards dry land.  I pulled on gum boots (rain boots) that were two sizes too small for me and stepped into water that nearly reached my knee.  Silivia and I laughed the entire trip to Abba, as we stepped in holes and slipped over rocks that were covered with water. I could not tell where the road started or ended. The whole Abba compound was a swamp.  We tried saving squawking chickens, as I cried with laughter.  Silivia shined her flashlight into the water and asked me if I saw things moving. Snakes. We had a slumber party in the house with a couple whose home was filled with rain water.  I felt like a kid at summer camp as I crawled into the top bunk and tried not to move too much as I fell asleep to the sound of rain.

3 months

Yesterday marked three months that I have been in Kochia, and I have no idea where the time has flown to. The maize that was planted about the time that I came stands above my head, and makes rustling sounds when the wind blows through it from the Lake. In my original proposal, I had pitched that I would stay in three different places for about three months each, but I can tell you now that I have no solid plans of leaving Kochia any time soon.  The longer I stay here, the more I learn about people, myself, and life, and packing and leaving could not be further from my mind at this point.

I have always found long car rides the best for reflection and insight, and my last trip to Kisumu on Saturday was no different. I’m not sure what is so soothing to me about journeys, but here, it’s one of the only places that I am that I can escape for hours into my own thoughts without being disturbed by other people. The scenery for this drive is my favorite in all of Kenya – the trees are massive and the Lake is close.  As I sat with my legs jammed against the heater with an elderly man who couldn’t see resting on one of my thighs, I couldn’t help smiling and having one of those – I cannot believe that I’m actually here, now, in Kenya epiphanies. Gratitude rushed through my entire body, making the hairs on my arm stand on end as I thought about the Grant, and the journey I had taken that landed me in that whizzing Matatu. I had an intense comfort that everything would work out, and that despite my endless and constant questioning about what I’m doing here – I was exactly where I needed to be.

There was a big irrigation meeting here on Monday and Tuesday.  Silivia brought me some actors she knew that were helping do awareness campaigns at the meeting, and we told them that we would come.  She led me about five minutes from the house, to the shade of a large tree, where close to fifty people were seated in blue and white plastic chairs.  The wind blew gently, dropping small yellow seeds on everyone’s head. Silivia translated the meeting for me, while I people watched in the lapses.  Little kids entertained themselves on or near their mother’s laps, with one girl drawing on her mother’s face in blue ballpoint pen, and another girl shaking her sandals in a plastic bag she had found.  They spoke about irrigation as if the heavens were opening up.  It would be an end to poverty, and lift everyone who participated to richness and wealth.  We drank warm soda and ate white bread for lunch. I caught many people dozing after. The meeting lasted until almost five, when we returned back to Abba to see what the kids were up to.

It was interesting discussing the meeting afterwards with Silivia and Emmanuel.  They told me about another irrigation project that had killed many of the people living in the community.  It brought in extra money - and with that came HIV, water borne illnesses, and many accidents.  THe community still curses the people that brought it.  We all wondered and dreamt what this project would bring to Kochia.

I watched the Matron butcher a chicken with a blunt knife for dinner.  She placed the entire bird in boiling hot water as I sat on the stoop of the kitchen watching.  We removed the feathers from the whole chicken, which came out surprisingly easy, and she began to cut it into pieces.  She instructed me to hold one side, as she sawed through bone and fat with her knife.  The intestines and other organs were removed and placed in water. I said a silent prayer that I wouldn’t have to eat any of the intestines later as she squeezed their contents out onto the ground for the dogs to eat.  Silivia then fried each piece in grease and made kuku choma (fried chicken).  We ate it with salted tomatoes and ugali – one of the most delicious meals I have had here, and happily no intestines!

Today, an old man carrying a paddle hobbled through the side gate calling, ‘Omerra’ (equivalent of dude or brother)  to Silivia while she was washing clothes.  He came closer to us and held out his hand, which had a huge gash between his finger and thumb.  His pants were rolled up almost to his knees, and his feet looked swollen from work.  The beard on his chin was white and scraggily, and he wore a dirty brown cab driving hat.  He smiled a toothless grin at me, explaining he had cut his hand while grabbing on to an iron sheet after stumbling.  I watched Silivia weave nine blue stiches into his worked and calloused hand.  Silivia placed a bandaid with cartoon characters over it, and sent him on his way.  He left explaining to me that he had a canoe at the lake, and that he would bring me Okoko (fish) soon. 

My days here are punctuated by  incredible conversations and moments.  I'm not sure if it's that I am in no hurry to get to places, or that I don't have anything that I actually need to get done that is allowing me to fully witness these moments - but I'm quite happy with whatever it is. I find myself wishing that I had taken more time in my past 21 years of life to enjoy who and what was happening around me - but I guess it's good that it's happening now instead of never.  What moments do you enjoy the most during your day?

Moving

Yesterday, we (meaning about 30 or 40 people) helped a neighbor migrate her entire house to a different plot.  I woke up around 7:30 (it was so nice sleeping in!), and they had already begun placing posts in the ground at the site of her new house.  Wood and other materials were being carried on heads from one place to another.  Silivia and I went to see what was happening around 9:30, and posts were up with a string level tied to the top.  The women were seated on the ground preparing uji (porridge from maize, millet, and sorghum) and tea for the men.  They gave me a seat on a couch and I watched a women cut mudfish the size of my arm.  She hacked the vertebrate with a large knife as it twitched in her hands. 

I helped carry some furniture and other belongings with the other ladies.  They place everything they carry on the top of their heads.  I tried doing this with a small suitcase, failed miserably, and carried the rest on my shoulder or with my hands.  There was a lot of laughter from everyone during this process. The men took the iron sheets that made up the roof off of the old house, and carried them over to the new house. 

When most of the belongings had been transferred, I watched the building process on a couch in the shade.  The wind blew and children ran up to me to greet me, and then ran away giggling.  I watched as small branches were tied laterally around the house with twine.  Silivia explained that the men had to build the frame, and the ladies would then smear it with mud and cow dung when they were finished.  They were busy cooking and washing while they waited for their turn. 

I helped (or attempted to help) smear.  They use cows to plow up dirt, and then pour water over it so it makes mud.  They then use wheelbarrows to dump it at various points around the house.  You take the mud in both hands, and roll it into a long barrel, then push the sides in to form a brick.  They make this process look so easy, but my bricks were round in shape and crumbling in comparison.  You then take the brick you’ve just made, and jam it between the frame of the house.  All this is happening while the roof is being nailed on.  I said silent prayers that it wouldn’t come crashing down on my head – obviously it did not! After they finish packing the house with mud, they then smear it twice with other layers.  The final layer is cow dung, and it is smoothed out and then dries hard. I left before they got to this part, because there was no water to continue the smearing, and people were breaking for lunch.

Silivia and I left around 3 to wash up and come back to the house.  There was a football match that we were going to around 4, and we were both very tired.  I walked to the match, and watched in amazement as boys that just built this house played an entire 90 minute game.  My arms felt as heavy as lead as I watched them run up and down the field.  I returned home when it became dark.

Fear

I lay awake at 11:20 writing this, which for here is far past my bed time, and long after everyone else has gone to sleep.  The past few days have been absolutely packed with events, all of which have left my brain full and flying late into the night.

I have become comfortable and relaxed with my surroundings.  The bed I’m sleeping in has become my own, and when I’m away from Kochia for long, I ache to come home. Silivia and Emmanuel are my parents (and great friends) here, and I think I now know all 20 kids boarding at Abba by name.

Failing is my biggest fear in life.  The only time I can honestly tell you that I’ve tasted failure is when I got waitlisted at Duke. I cried big, bitter tears, and packed my bags for Trinity months later.  I get up every morning, and put one foot in front of the other, until I’ve completed everything that I needed to that day. I never (okay never is a strong word…) failed to do what I have set out to do. So maybe it’s not just failure that terrifies me, it’s also the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever experienced it for long, and don’t know it well. Fear of failing has pushed me to remain in my comfortable surroundings.

I have interviewed almost 20 people here with HIV. They were surface interviews that I promised myself I would follow up on and expand. I have found many distractions to keep me from doing this.  The people I’m interviewing have asked me how I will help them. How I will get them funding so that they can afford food and to send their children to good schools. My stomach turns when I tell them I will try. I go back to the house full of terror that I won’t come up with anything. That I will disappoint their expectations and fail.

I told Silivia I wanted to go around to the Grandies they support in the community and meet them. I have been saying this for a while now, but we actually did this yesterday and today. We walked to the first lady’s house, which is in the middle of a beautiful clearing, surrounded by trees. Her cheeks droop towards the earth.  She has sad, big eyes, and wrinkles cover her entire body.  A racking cough fills her lungs, and she pauses multiple times during her story to clear them. Her hair is turning white on top of her head, and the veins on her hands stand up and twist around each other like the stems on ivy plants.  She points to the one picture on the wall, and explains that that is the son who has fallen sick.  She is hungry, and has no food, or cow to sell to support her sick son.  In one of the stories she is relating, she mocks his wife, and shapes her mouth like she has just eaten a sour lemon and breathes out.  Her hands seem to be too big for her body, and are swollen from years of hard work.  The fingers don’t move, and they look very heavy as she moves them when she speaks.

My neck and back were sticky with sweat.  The inside of the house was acrid, and very hot.  I cross and uncross my legs, wishing severely that I understood Luo.  I wonder what this old woman’s life has been like.  It sounds filled with pain and loss, but she is still a lively and smiling lady.  I wonder if she has eaten today, or if people visit her often.  I bend down and take her hand as I say goodbye.   She touches her worn cheeks to both of mine, thanks me for coming, and tells me she is praying for me.

We walk to the next old lady’s house. I tell Silivia that I can’t believe how many people have died in this area.  She points to houses as we pass them, explaining that all the owners are dead, and that death surrounds this place.  It’s hard to comprehend.

It is a miracle that the next lady’s house is still standing.  There are holes in the iron sheets that serve as a roof, and the mud/wood structure looks like it will fall with a small amount of wind.  The front door has holes so large you could almost step through them. The old lady was seated outside her house when we walked up.  A large pipe dangled from her mouth, and a cane lay next to her on the ground. She turns over to her knees, and pushes on the ground with her hands to stand. Her head reaches my chest, as she leads us into her house. She explains she had twelve children, but only two of them remain.  She is too weak to work in the garden, and the food she eats is from neighbors and friends in the community.  An iron sheet above her bed has been donated by others, so that she can at least remain dry when she sleeps.

Silivia, Emmanuel, and I return to the house.  I tell them I want to see more ladies tomorrow.  They warn me of expectations and the hunger these Grandies have.  I tell them of my fear.  Before I left, people told me they worried about how my heart would remain whole in Africa.  They warned me of the pain and suffering I would experience.  Silivia explains to me I cannot save the world, or carry all of its burdens. So what do I do? I find myself straddling a gap that is so wide my toes are about to slip off the ledge.  I have only scratched the surface of all of these problems, because fear has kept me from digging further.  What happens when I see all of them, and can do nothing? I think I still hold lofty dreams that I can make change somewhere, and a big part of me really doesn’t want this dream to fall. 

Tuesday I travelled back from Kisumu after meeting with KIRDI (Kenya Industrial Research Development Institution).  The facility tests different products and works on making them, then turns them over to NGOs and CBOs in Kenya.  They are taking the fish skins from fish processing plants and making leather out of it, which is then turned into shoes, belts, bags, and wallets.  The process is pretty simple (but a bit smelly), and the plan is to give the leather to entrepeneurs at different stages that they would then develop into products. I bought a very nice bag made from cow and fish leather and told them they would certainly have a huge market back home for them.

The ride home from Kisumu was long.  We (Paul, Berend, and I) tried to leave by four, but were not on the road until close to six.  The President has ordered police road blocks to check for the insurance on vehicles.  People explained that the government needs money (for teachers after they were striking), and this is how they get it.  Our Matatu waited in a gas station for about an hour for the police to leave.  We listened to a Nigerian hip hop song on repeat and bought peanuts from the ladies who sell them out of buckets through the windows of the bus.  We finally were on our way, only to have a puncture ten minutes later.  We filed off the bus as the sun was setting.  They changed the tire and we got back on the bus.  I found a chicken in a black plastic bag (alive) in the seat that I was in.  It squawked as I pushed it over and took my seat.  Silivia called me every five minutes demanding 'Where are you?!' and that we shouldn't be travelling at night.  We arrived home safely and Emmanuel collected me on the piki piki.  I was very happy to be home in Kochia.

Abba is going under a bit of restructuring.  We have formed a management team with someone from the outside who has managed schools in the past.  He is extremely organized, and I have been busy typing lists of kids into excel spreadsheets. This has been extremely satisfying for my type A brain, and is moving the school forward.

I was worried in Kisumu about what I would do upon returning to Kochia.  There are many different projects that can be done, but I am racked with indecision about what I want to actually be doing. I find myself asking similar questions about what I want to do that I did back in Bellingham.  I have asked many people here and back home, and their answers are mostly the same.  Find something that you love, and do that.  People then follow up this answer with 'and don't worry, it'll take your entire life to find it.' Comforting.

I have met so many different people from all over the World here. They are all doing different things and are at different stages and ages in their life.  Silivia explained that at the end of the day, it doesn't matter as long as you're laughing and smiling. I fully agree. Maybe it doesn't really matter what you end up doing, as long as you can laugh during the process.

Silivia and I headed to a big market that is close to the house on Thursday. When we were on the way there, she received a call that the police had stopped the school vehicle.  We were dropped off some distance from where they were, and she instructed me to walk in front of her and towards the market.  She headed in the opposite direction to talk to the police.  People stopped and greeted me the whole way there, and I waited on a rock for Silivia to come meet me.  If the police see me with her, the price goes WAY up. 

She met up with me as dark rain clouds rolled in to cover the market.  We hurried to buy cabbage, and onions.  The rain started to come down, and everyone scattered and ran for cover. We struggled to carry the ten cabbages we had just bought to somewhere dry.  I laughed the entire time, as Silivia told me to hurry - she hates the rain! We crowded under an awning with about twenty other people, and waited for the downpour to stop. We continued shopping after, with mud collecting on our shoes and legs.  Emmanuel picked us up on the piki piki, and we sped home under a dark sky.

I find myself missing the baby grand piano at my parents' house more than ever.  My fingers itch to press the semi-resistant keys and to be seated on the hard bench.  I am kicking myself for not buying a roll out keyboard before coming here.  I love playing the piano, and miss being consumed by the music. What do you love to do?

Confusion

I write this entry from the top of the hotel I am staying at in Kisumu.  There is a rooftop bar, with free wi fi internet and hip hop/music from home.  It is overlooking a park with trees and walkways similar to Central Park in New York, and Lake Victoria is not far off in the background. My heart and brain are overflowing with feelings, and I find myself longing for that bowl in Harry Potter that Dumbledoor puts his memories into - thinking that if there were less going on in there, I would be able to form some sort of clear understanding or picture of how I feel.  Since this is not the case, hold on to your seats as I take you on a few tangents that I have experienced in the past week.

I met with the director of the Doctors Without Borders office last week on Thursday.  After conducting almost 20 brief interviews with people living with HIV in Kochia, I decided a trip to Homa Bay where they are actually getting their ARVs from was necessary. I entered the meeting with many questions formed with the knowledge from past papers written, research before this trip, and the recent interviews I had had. 

All the research and knowledge I walked in with was quickly replaced. The patents on ARVs are starting to run out, which has allowed for the development of cheaper generic drugs in the past five years.  THey have been able to combine pills that were originally made by different pharmaceutical companies, bringing the 6 or 7 pill count downt to 2 that you take 12 hours apart. The huge figure of 10,000 dollars to treat a patient for one year has dropped downt to a more reasonable figure of 100.  The Kenyan government (with assistance from USAID and PEPFAR) provides ARVs for free to every person living with HIV.  I explained that many of the people I interviewed were having trouble getting the proper amount of food that is required when you take ARVs, and that sexual education in schools was non-existent.  The director responded that that was outside of what they deal with, because MSF works exclusively with hospitals and providing medical services as opposed to social. I am now on a hunt to find the social services (NGOs, CBOs, etc) that are trying to address these problems. 

The bigger issue and disease now is TB.  The director explained to me that there is much more stigma surrounding this disease, and people here think that it is only a 'poor persons's disease.'  People are not being tested for it frequently when they go to health centers, because most of the focus is on the voluntary counseling and testing of HIV. Many people who are living with HIV also have TB, but few know or are being treated for it, so this is where Doctors Without Borders have been focusing. The visit was very interesting, and opened my eyes to the difference between what is being presented in literature and what is actually happening on the ground.

I spent this past weekend in Kisumu (3rd largest city in Kenya). It has been like a mini vacation from Kochia, and I feel quite spoiled.  The gaps in income back home in the U.S. are known by everyone (or almost everyone), but I have never had the opportunity to experience how the different groups are living, being very fortunate with the upper middle class upbringing my parents have given me (thank you).  I have now experienced it in Kenya.  I spent yesterday laying by a pool in a resort that reminds me of places I've stayed with my family in Hawaii.  The drive to get here was on a bumpy dirt road, through mud houses that looked similar to where I live in Kochia.  I was unable to swallow the guilt that was lodged in my throat as I snacked on fries while looking out onto Lake Victoria.

I have met many volunteers during my stay here, and find myself wrestling with the concept of 'helping.' I have had conversations with many of you via email or phone about this, and find myself still confused.  Personally, I'm not sure how much I can do to change the disparities that exist here.  My heart is urging me to come back home, spread what I have seen to as many people as possible and work to change our country's foreign economic policies and mentalities - but this by itself is a daunting task. The pull to do something to change the inequalities here is felt by everyone that has spent longer than 2 weeks here, but the answer to how still evades me.

Surprise!

I have had many surprises in the past couple of weeks. All of them have been quite exciting and brought new epxeriences, people, and places into my life - which I am extremely grateful for!

Seth, a Western student who was with the group when I arrived here, popped into SIlivia and Emmanuel's house when we were eating lunch last week. I'm not sure who was more surprised to see him - me or Silivia and Emmanuel. He listened to some incredible interviews I had with HIV positive people, and we went on a fantastic hike with Paul, Berend, and Kevin, our piki piki driver, the next day. We hiked to the top of Homa Hill, and although my out-of-shape-quads screamed at me all the way up (and down), the view from the top was absolutely stunning. We were escorted up by barefoot, laughing boys - who ran past me and laughed at the sweaty Mzungu lady trailing behind. There were cows, baboons, and goats on our way up and down. All in all it was great to see Seth, and the hike was one of the best I have ever done.

We received an urgent call to come to Nairobi on Wednesday. It came around noon, and we were leaving that night. I found myself digging my feet into the ground and trying to stay - I have only heard negative things about Nairobi, and wasn't too excited to be travelling there at night. One piki piki ride and many hours later, we were on our way in a Matatu to Kisii, because apparently the bus we were supposed to catch had bypassed Homa Bay (woops). We were able to meet up with it around 10 o'clock at night, and luckily crawled to an empty seat over bags and people in the aisleway. The ride was desperately cold, and very bumpy. Don't sit in the back of an Akamba bus on the way to Nairobi. THere are more speed bumps on that road than any other place in the world, and if are able to sleep in the cold, you'll be woken up as you fly from your seat and bump into your neighbor!

I had the pleasure of staying with a woman that came to visit Abba, while I was there. She has a TV in her house, warm water, and wi-fi internet. I felt like I was on vacation, and enjoyed many movies and music videos with her kids. Nairobi is a bit like any other big city in the states, with less traffic laws and more gated communities/houses. There are stop lights here, but I'm not entirely sure why - because literally no one even looks at them, and you better watch out for matatus (small Nissan vans) because they will run you over if you don't move. For all the horrible things people have said about Nairobi, I found it quite thrilling. I think I'm still in love with New York after spending time there before I left, and people move as fast in Nairobi as they do in New York (unless you're in a vehicle at 8 am or 5 pm).

The ride home from Nairobi was a bit better. We left the station at 930 at night, and
arrived in Rongo at 6 in the morning. I was met there by some friends of Emmanuel and Silivia, and we caught a Matatu to Homa Bay. I was lucky enough to be put in the front seat. They pack these vehicles as full and tight as they possibly can, but the front was nice and roomy. The windshield was cracked and had orange tape over it, looking like someone had let their four year old child run wild with the crayons. The inside of the van was decorated with silver christmas tinsel, and the rearview mirror in the front hung by a thread. I watched (and heard) the driver push the van up to 80 mph, and said a silent prayer that we would make it to Homa Bay in one piece.

Today there was a mobile clinic with some of the dentists Silivia used to work with. I showed up expecting to not be able to help with a whole lot. Silivia pulled me over to an older lady, and explained that she 'was like me' - meaning she had type 2 diabetes. Emmanuel translated as I asked her if she was on medication, and how she was feeling. She has no meter, and goes to the doctor every 2 months, but has periods where she feels like she is going to faint. I scratched my head, trying to remember which foods have complex carbohydrates and telling her to avoid soda. I then instructed her to get her eyes checked by the opthamologist that had come - and steered her to that line, feeling good that I had at least sent her in the direction of a trained specialist.

I'm feeling a bit homesick, knowing that at this time the great migration back to Bellingham for college is beginning. Drop me an email if any of you get the chance - I would love, love, love to hear from all of you!

Sharing never leaves a person the same...

Five weeks have passed in Kochia, and I think my type A personality has become comfortable with my surroundings and is on the move.  Silivia, Emmanuel, and I sat down yesterday and made a long list of all the goals and projects that need to happen at Abba.  We constructed a timeline for the next two weeks, and have agreed to discuss every Sunday night what our plans are for the week.  I am going to make larger lists with big boxes next to each task - nothing as satisfying as crossing things off the list! We were all very excited about our meeting, and Emmanuel stated 'sharing never leaves a person the same' which seems to have been a theme throughought this past week for me.

Emmanuel and I toured some of the health facilities in the area.  I requested that we map out all the health services in the area, so I have a better idea of where people have to travel to get what, and at how much.  All the of places we went to are staffed and supplied by the Kenyan government.  The largest facility was a level 4 hospital, but to my surprise there was no doctor to be found.  There were nurses and a clinical officer (I think equivalent to a physician's assistant back home).  Silivia later explained that there are rarely doctors in these facilities, and that you must travel to Homa Bay, Kisumu, or Nairobi to see one, and many of these places are lacking specialists.  Nurses at these centers asked us how they would benefit from showing us around, and Emmanuel replied by sharing knowledge with each other.

This past weekend was filled with football.  Friday and Saturday there was a tournament for under 14 year olds. I arrived a bit later than the stated time, and waited another 2 hours or so for the tournament to kick off.  THere were many other organizations involved in this tournament, and I talked to a girl from Indiana who had been in Kenya for 8 weeks teaching.  We all had to make speeches before the games started (something that I'm still not getting used to). There was another organization there that is building a clinic for their orphans, and I hope to see their facilities and plans later this week.  The football was great to watch - although boys here don't always know their age and there were some of the largest 14 year olds boys playing I have ever seen!

I am here wishing that I had taken many other classes or having knowledge about certain areas that I don't have.  One of these is grant writing.  I am very interested in writing a grant for a small clinic that would specialize in dentistry and possibly maternity (Silivia is trained in both and has many contacts that would help her). I have asked my parents and other contacts what they know about global health grants.  My dad suggested I put it on the blog as well - and it seems ridiculous not to with this theme! Please send me your thoughts and suggestions at rachelmclark2@gmail.com - and hopefully we can get moving!

I am starting to understand what people mean when they say Kenyan time. After taking two extremely rushed (and quite chilly) showers and hurrying people to get to a place by a certain time, I am slowly learning this is not necessary.  I showed up for breakfast and the people I was supposed to eat with happened to still be sleeping. Rushing into a meeting place telling Silvia we were going to be late (the meeting was supposed to start at 9 and we arrived at 10) only to find it was just us and the people setting up chairs for the meeting that were present.  It's hard to break the never-be-late mentality that has been instilled by my parents from an early age, and reinforced by sports teams and other engagements.  The '15 minutes early is on time' phrase that was repeated endlessly during high school basketball practices is how I treat most situations - just ask my best friend or my roommates. I have since learned that there's always more than enough time to take tea here, and you should never be rushing to go anywhere.

I had survived almost three weeks here without any major health snafoos, and was starting to think all the excessive worrying by me and other people was a huge overreaction.  The health gods must have heard me and decided to prove me wrong.  I took some medication after my stomach had strong disagreements with some of the food I ate, and crawled into bed feeling slightly better than I had all day.  My head was a bit itchy, but I assumed this was from not washing it as often as I do back home. One hour later, I sat up in bed and realized that my ears and head were extremely swollen and hot.  I woke up Silvia and Emmanuel, only to have them stare at me sleepy eyed asking if I had not applied oil to my skin after my shower.  I told them to go back to bed, determined not to ruin everyone's night. One more hour passed, and by now I was covered in hives from head to toe.  Web MD didn't do much to ease my worry - cautioning anyone with hives starting at the head/neck that swelling of the throat could be next. Luckily, I live with a nurse who keeps her clinic well stocked, and after calls to Mom and about 12 hours, my face was looking a bit less swollen and the itchiness had subsided.

The big meeting that I thought we would be late to didn't actually start until around 12 - only 4 hours later than planned. It was a meeting for all of Kochia, wihich is the town I'm living in.  It is normally split into three regions - East, West, and Central, but the new constitution has made it into 1 place.  People who were originally from Kochia but living in Nairobi, Mombasa, or Kisumu were present.  There were about 9 different groups, with 10 people in each that were coming together to discuss how the whole of Kochia could be improved.  Sone of the groups were Health, Education, Energy, Food Security, Etc. It lasted the entire day and was really incredible. Everyone here wants to improve their community so much, and are taking many steps to make this into a reality.

I have had the good luck to be able to spend a bit of time with Paul and Berend (boys from Holland) this weekend.  I went to their guest house on Friday and they made me spaghetti and shared insights about living in Kenya.  They are hilarious, and both working very hard with Abba and other CBOs in the area. We watched a movie on their lap top and I got to eat a Dutch version of Nutella in the morning. They are encouraging me to start a project here and making sure that I'm having a bit of fun in addition to that. They told me I have to learn some Dutch, and they are keeping my sarcasm sharpened!

I can't believe I have been here for almost a month. It has been raining quite a bit, and the roads and grounds at Abba are full of water and mud. I have been learning to make Kenyan dishes, and slowly by slowly learning some Luo. I now have two football (soccer) teams at Abba that have yet to start practicing, but hopefully will soon.  I played with some of the older boys some days ago, and many were surprised to have a Mzungu (especially female) elbowing them and pushing them around. A microscope has been re-discovered at Abba, and I'm hoping to get malaria and typhoid testing back up - because they use to do these tests but have since ran out of supplies. My arms are becoming strong from swinging kids in circles and carrying Che around, and I'm almost used to ice cold showers in the morning!

A few things...

I arrived in Kenya only two weeks ago, but it feels like it has been much longer than that.  I have seen and learned many, many things along the way and want to highlight them here.

One. Princene (who everyone calls Che) and I are now great friends.  I have introduced her to sticking out tongues, making faces, and tickling.  She laughs at most of these, and will run from me during others.  I brought a WWU tshirt for Sylvia, and Princene quickly decided this was hers and didn't want to take it off.  It is a floor length gown on her, but of course looks wonderful.  She is the chattiest 2 and a half year old I have ever met, and sings and dances ALL the time.

Two. If unmarried in Kenya (or really just a person under the age of probably 30) you will be asked if you are married, and then why you are not married.  Practically every conversation I have with people, my age comes up, and then if I'm married follows.  I have memorized a - I will finish medical school (age 26 or 27) story before I'm married and repeat it often.  If you are single, you may experience the meeting of similarly aged people of the opposite sex for tea, or for computer trainings.  It is highly entertaining! Someone asked me the other day if at home womens' parents receive cows when they are married like they do here, and I said no, but that my parents would actually probably appreciate some cows for the farm.  THey laughed and so did I.

Three.  I have never in my life seen sunsets of this color.  The sky turns pink, and purple and the sun is a huge orb.  It takes significantly longer for the sun to go down here - more time for enjoying it, although people think I'm a little strange for standing outside looking at the sky with my camera for so long (these pictures are for you parents!). Once the sun goes down, it is completely dark outside, with no streetlights or carlights to light up the night.  I couldn't figure out why sleeping here felt so different - but it's because the darkness literally envelopes and tucks you in before you fall asleep. 

Four. Storms here are frighteningly wonderful.  I experienced my first rain storm last Friday.  The roofs here are made of tin and sitting inside sounds like metal tools are being thrown violently at your roof.  The sky flashes with lightening and washes the surroundings with brightness, and the thunder is equally as violent.  You can barely hold conversations at dinner without shouting at your neighbor.  Mud will cake your feet and your shoes the next day, and picking paths to walk places feels like you are a mouse in a maze hunting for cheese. We don't know what rain storms are in Washington...

Five. Piki pikis (motorbikes) are possibly the best way in the World to travel.  We drove to Homa Bay yesterday to send some mail and pick up other items.  I had no need to go, but asked if I could because I wanted to ride on a piki piki so badly.  Sylvia thinks I'm crazy - she's terrified of them because people go zooming by at high speeds without helmets.  The drive to Homa Bay goes along Lake Victoria with green hills on the other side.  People wave at you along the way and the breeze dries the constant sweat from my shirt.  The ride home we were chased by rain and the sun was setting over Lake Victoria.  The sky was an angry dark blue/purple and I had to wipe dirt from my mouth upon arrival because I was smiling the whole ride.

Six. You should all come here and just listen. Listen to the stories of people - I spend most of my time following Sylvia or Emmanuel around listening to their stories of people in Kochia or about their life. I have never met people who have so many joyful, sad, incredible stories - or who tell them so well. I hunt for aimless questions just so they will continue talking to me.  Listen to the laughter of children - I try to bring my camera everywhere, just so that I can show the LCD screen with a kid's picture on it to hear them laugh.  They also laugh at my trying to learn Luo, or participating in chores and cooking with them. Listen to the sounds at night.  Dogs, crickets, people - it's sometimes hard to sleep because of the outside noise here, but it reminds you of how connected you are to other people and the World around you.

Seven. Slow down. If you know me well, you know that I move through life in fast forward - rarely slowing for anyone or anything.  The time in this place seems to be in another dimension from the time back home.  Travelling places takes about four times as long as people tell you it will, and meetings never stick to a schedule.  If arriving at someone's house to discuss something, you will be showed the entire compound, school, church - everything, and then sat down in the living room and force fed tea, ground nuts (peanuts), and white bread. I was very anxious the first couple of days here, because I spend a lot of my time sitting and not doing a lot, but I am coming to love it.  Days are wonderfully long and full of great moments - many more than I ever realized could be packed into one day. Am I doing anything I thought I would be doing? Nope! Am I concerned? Not in the slightest (okay well maaaaybe a little when those medical school apps float in my head, but not really).

THe list could continue forever, but Che is asking where the Mzungu is, and there's too many other people to go spend time with.

Hands

I have become amazed and fascinated by hands.  They are vital to the culture and life in this community – more so than back at home. An average day at home involved driving, typing on a keyboard, using utensils to cut and prepare food, and greeting people without touching.

Eating here is done with your right hand.  You form balls of Ugali and scoop up meat and vegetables, trying to land everything in your mouth without dumping it on your shirt. Sylvia and Emmanuel make this look easy - I end up with a hand and face covered in food as if I've just participated in a giant food fight.  The meal always starts and ends with water being poured over both your hands as you wash them. 

You greet and say goodbye to people by shaking hands. There is also a form of high-five that turns into a handshake that people use if you’ve made a joke, or are great friends. It’s rude to leave without shaking someone’s hand and saying goodbye.  Princene, Sylvia and Emmanuel’s 2 and a half year old daughter, is still very afraid of me, but will place her hand in mine and quickly remove it.

People can tell I don’t work in the field by grasping my hand in theirs.  They show me their callouses and laugh at my soft pads.  Today I helped clean and rearrange Sylvia’s clinic, and someone walking by said they were surprised a Mzungu knew how to sweep.

Yesterday I shucked many ears of corn so Sylvia could cut the stalks down. They were placed in a big bucket and carried on top of the head of a small child back to the dining hall.  We removed the kernals with our thumbs, and I was given the softest ears – because my unseasoned hands could not remove the tough kernals from their homes.  I watched as all the small kids finished two ears to my one.  Sylvia told me to stop, worried that my thumbs would become blistered and sore, but I continued popping the pale yellow corn into the bucket.

When preparing food here, you place whatever you are cutting in the palm of your hand and cut away from it.  I attempted to make cole slaw last night, and cut cabbage as Sylvia instructed me.  The cutting and cole slaw (made with lime juice instead of vinegar) was a bit of a disaster, and Sylvia just laughed as she removed the cabbage from my hand and continued cutting.  I explained to her people used cutting boards and placed the item on the counter back home, she said they were trained to not cut themselves here (as slicing a tomato effortlessly).

The grandmother’s in this community have hands that are similar to my grandfathers’. They are gnarled and wrinkled, with years of work molding them into a bent position. I clasp their frail hands in both of mine when I say hello, and they smile toothless grins at me.

The students at ABBA study my hands, tracing the light blue veins that are visible through my skin and compare it with theirs.  They outline my nails, my ring, and point to the mole on my middle finger.  Some even touch my hand to their face, curious if it feels different than theirs.

Emmanuel took my hand after dinner one night and asked me to look at the difference my olive color and his deep coffee one, questioning if it was science or something God had done.  My scientific brain told him I was sure there was some scientific answer, but it also seemed like something unexplainable that had been done by God. He nodded in agreement.

Why has our generation divorced our life from our hands? What do your hands tell you about your life, your culture, you?

A rat scuttled across the floor today as I showed Eileen, Emmanuel and Sylvia's oldest 10 year old daughter, my facebook account.  We both looked at it in horror as it ran into my room.  We laughed and tried to find it under my bed with a flashlight, but could not see where it was hiding. The internet is very slow to load, and showing her pictures on my facebook turned out to be a patience test of the century for me. 

As I write this, the wind outside is blowing quite hard and you can hear claps of thunder in the distance.  I have just finished my lunch - one that consisted of an entire fish - yes head, skin, and fins placed on my plate.  Unsure of how to proceed and afraid to offend, I dug right in, and found juicy, tasty white meat under the skin.  I am certain that I have gained at least 10 pounds here.  I keep explaining that we don't eat this much in the United States, but Sylvia just keeps piling the potatoes, ugali (paste of maize and water), and other meat onto my plate. 

All the schools in the area have a two week break now.  Eileen is home from boarding school, but ABBA is quieter because the 350 students are at home with their parents.  Twenty-seven orphans who are housed here full time remain, and I played with bubbles and my camera with them yesterday, as I held a very small baby in my arms. Some of the kids are still afraid of me, but most will come right up and ask for all the jewelry on my arms and to take pictures with my camera.  They are fascinated with my hair, and dig through it to see if they can spot my scalp.

There are Dutch people here working at the organic farm, and Berend's parents are here visiting for three weeks, so they came to ABBA yesterday to meet Sylvia and Emmanuel.  The language barrier is vast and hilarious - Berend's parents speak English but not quite fluently, and you can see how badly everyone wants to be able to converse on their faces, if only our brains and mouths would catch up! We toured fish ponds by Lake Victoria that Sylvia and Emmanuel have as income generating activities - catfish and tilapia that will be harvested in November and sold at the market.  There are hot springs that are about a 30 minute drive away and we went and felt the boiling, hot, slimy water as we were followed by many curious children.

Sylvia is a nurse and worked at a hospital before moving back to Emmanuel's home village of Kochia. I asked her why she left, and she explained how horrible it was when AIDS came.  She said people would literally die standing up. It is very common for people here to have HIV, and ARVs are available, but she said people have a hard time remembering to take the pills.  They will take them for a while, but then forget for a bit and get sick. She specializes in tooth extractions, and usually has at least 4 people a day that come to have their teeth pulled without anesthia. THere are no toothbrushes here, and many people have rotting teeth with holes in them because of it. It is one of the most painful things I have ever seen done, and the only person to cry was a tiny baby.

We take strolls every evening as the sun goes down. 'Mzungu how are you' rings from every direction as the sky turns a deep pink. Sylvia reminds me to put on long sleeves and pants because the mosqitoes are quite bad at night.  They introduce me to everyone, and tell them I am staying with them but am a visitor to the whole community.  Everyone here can ask me how I am and reply they're fine in English.  I'm afraid to report I can barely say that much in Luo. We return to the house once the sun has completely gone down and everything is dark.  Sometimes we sit on the curb part of the outside of the house. Last night Sylvia asked me if it sounded the same at night in the U.S. and I told her no - everyone is in their houses with tv's and radios turned on, so the crying of neighbors and barking/crowing of animals is rarely heard.

We have dinner around 8 or 9 in the evening and then talk until around ten at night.  They ask me about the United States and tell me about their lives, how they met and were married. It's interesting hearing what they think home is like - glittering and shiny with money around for everyone.  I tried to explain that it is certainly not this way for everyone, but articulating that to people who are raising 27 kids who are orphaned from HIV is strange and challenging.

I am not used to not having things to do.  I have no medical skills to offer, and it's hard to go and sit in a clinic because they let you watch everything - even things that I don't believe I should have the right to see.  People ask me why I'm here and I explain that I'm interested in community health, and they cock their heads, so I continue and say I want to learn about the people and the culture.  I keep telling myself to relax and try to be patient - that things will develop as time moves forward, but it's already been a week here and I have no plan or schedule for what I will do here.  The type A personality Rachel desperately wants to go for a long run and cross things off a long check list, but attempting either of these things makes Sylvia and Emmanuel go out of their way and disrupts them from their extremely busy daily tasks. We shall see how this next week unfolds!