Mzungu How Are You?

If I ever decide to have kids, I’m going to have to get over my aversion to anything standing on two legs, with a voice box, under the age of 9. With maybe two exceptions. Mzungu. I hate that word. Literally translated, it means “traveler.” For all other purposes, it means “White Person.” As in, “White person, with lots of money, from far away, who’s super important and lives in a space-age futuristic world.” Coupled with “How are you,” the three words every Kenyan knows, and coming from every kid who sees me on the street and openly stares, it’s enough to drive me insane.

My host mom is a walking paradox. Keep in mind that she’s got both a degree in community health and in nursing, and works in the provincial hospital. The day I arrived, I ate a hard-boiled egg. Plain, just like always. Jacinta asked what I was doing. I returned a clueless look. Because according to local belief, eating eggs without salt will leave you with a distended stomach later in life. Then again, local tradition dictates treating burns with raw egg. So, there you go.

We got into a philosophical debate the other day about food, mainly because she insists I to eat somewhere in the neighborhood of three plus kilos a day… to grow. When I told her I stopped growing somewhere right around 15, she was appalled. So was her husband. “You stopped yourself growing?” “No, I just haven’t gotten taller since then. And I certainly don’t need to grow any wider.” Yep, I left them speechless. Don’t really understand why, since I bet they haven’t grown since they were in their teens either. I finally turned around and flat out told her that the amount of food she was forcing on me was making me physically sick. Which, by the way, it was. On the bright side, I now eat three normal-sized meals a day and do not find roasted maize, eggs, sugarcane, crackers, porridge and chapati shoved in my face on the hour, every hour.

My house help has officially pegged me as a dimwitted idiot. Probably something to do with teaching me how to do my laundry by hand and the utter nonexistence of my Kiswahili. Jacinta, on the other hand, is sure I live in some sort of world where machines do everything for us. “Come. I teach you how to wash dishes.” “I know how to watch dishes.” “Oh. You wash dishes in your place?” “Uh huh.” She holds up an avocado. “You know what this is?” “Yep.” “How about this?” She has a potato in her hand. And then arrowroot, and cucumber, and papaya, and a passion fruit, and… you get the picture. I mean, really, does Hollywood give us that bad an image? She’s also scandalized that I appreciate carrots and green beans raw. So now my house help thinks I’m an idiot and my host mom thinks I’m insane.

In some ways, the house is definitely different than in Nairobi. There’s no stove; cooking is done over the fire or a pot filled with coals. There are showerheads, but no hot water even though the house is apparently wired for it. So, showers are taken by mixing scalding and freezing water in a bucket, then splashing it over yourself. The power goes off when it feels like it. Half the toilets in the house consist of a hole in the floor. Oh, side note: I forgot to mention that the place also has papaya and avocado trees, green beans, peppers, and tomato plants scattered around and about.

Anyway. I’m stationed in Consolata Mission Hospital. And to whoever told me malaria doesn’t exist in the mountains: That’s a lie. It’s everywhere. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 60% of the people who come through the OPD (Outpatient Department, the kenyan version of the ER) are sent off with anti-malarials. They don’t even bother with blood tests– for most, the 30/= (35¢) is too expensive. I asked one of the nurses, Simon, how many times he’s had malaria. He looked at me and laughed. “I don’t know, once a month?”

The hospital, in a way is really interesting. The system here reminds me of photos of WWII or something. With a shit ton of beds lined up in one room that serves as the medical ward, and rooms where sterile procedures are performed ventilated by means of open windows that allow in outside air… and the flies and mosquitoes that come with it. And the lack of HIPPA, and the BP cuffs that actually measure systolic/diastolic in mercury that flows up a little tube. I had always wondered if using mmHg as a unit of measurement was a joke. And the clash between cultural beliefs and western medicine, like the woman who was convinced her son had malaria due to the manner in which she had given birth. And the fact that the institution, being catholic, is forbidden ton mention or distribute artificial contraceptives, despite being the largest hospital in the region. But I’ll come back to that another time.

When it’s not busy, it’s boring. Even when it is busy, sometimes it’s boring. Because even though I’ve got the training to do a shit ton of stuff that goes on here– honestly, a large majority of it is basic first aid– I’m not licensed in Kenya, so by order of program staff and my supervisor, I’m “strictly observation only.” The nurses and students don’t care. “Come on, help us out! Why aren’t you doing anything?” And I would, except that my little jaunt up Mt. Kenya resulted in a minor (and entirely unfairly imposed) situation we like to refer to as probation. AKA: If I screw up (i.e., touch a patient) and a certain someone’s head pops in the door at an inopportune moment, or someone else finds out, I will find my but back in my dear sweet Ptown without further ado. And, thanks all the same, but I’d rather not grace the boonies of WI with my cheery presence for an extra 3.5 months of hell. So, I tell the nurses “No” and sit back and watch as vitals are taken (in public), clinicians converse with patients (in Kiswahili), injections are given (the same ones, over and over and over…), and people stare at a white-skinned girl in a lab coat standing in the background and talk about her like she doesn’t understand the word Mzungu and wonder why she’s not doing anything. Such is the life.

I'm Married.

These two words are my savior and the bane of every Kenyan man’s existence. Also, I got my residency card. I am officially an alien within Kenya. Go me.

So, remember Big Brother, that reality show I mentioned a few weeks ago? The one where a bunch of people from various countries get stuck in a house for three months and the last one standing wins $200,000? Well, this guy from Rwanda won. The runner-up, Uti, returned home to Zimbabwe and promptly received a $300,000 consolation gift from his dear president Robert Mugabe, to stave off emotional trauma. Yes, I wrote that right, and yes, it’s half again as much as the prize money itself. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you corruption at its finest.

I moved out of Nairobi and to my internship site yesterday. As we drove northward we passed through an area that reminded me of cornfields in Wisconsin that stretch as far as I can see, except here it’s brilliant green rice paddies. Farther north, in the hilly country, slopes are covered by tea and banana plantations. Everything here is harvested by hand: I’ve seen a total of two tractors, both trundling down the road. Workers, no doubt many of them children, dot the fields with sacks slung over their backs. People drag entire banana trees over their shoulders. Next to the road men unload truckloads of heaps of bananas, all still clinging in clusters to a central stock.

I’m stationed in a small town called Nkubu on the NE side of Mt. Kenya, right smack on the equator. The area is stunning. I live quite literally in the shadow of the mountain, surrounded by banana and tea plantations. (Side note: I’ve eaten at least four kinds of bananas here. I didn’t even know four species of bananas existed.) The commercial center, if it can be called that, is a strip of stores along the main (two-lane) road. Not, mind you, that the road gets any bigger for three hours in any direction. There’s an outside market, a supermarket, a chemist (pharmacy), a couple banks, and a few miscellaneous shops. And the Nkubu Consolata Mission Hospital, which is where I’m stationed for my internship.

I live in a beautiful compound five minutes’ walk from the hospital. There’s a large garden with flowering shrubs and trees surrounded by a hedge. We have goats, a couple dogs, and a few acres where my host mom, Jacinta, grows bananas, maize, beans, arrowroot, sweet potato, sugarcane, some stuff I don’t recognize, and a certain hallucinogenic leaf that, although illegal in surrounding countries, is extremely popular in Kenya. Potted plants surrounding our entryway include daylilies and jade plants. There are flashy birds and lizards everywhere. I have a private room that consists of a sitting room, a bedroom and a bathroom. I feel sane again: maybe something to do with being back in the hills and mountains and breathing clean air, and the rain: yep, the rainy season hath come, and we’re on the ocean side of the mountain… however, it’s still warm. Take that, Portland.

In addition to keeping up the crops, my mom is also a nurse in the provincial hospital in the nearby town of Meru. My host dad, Sebastian, is a businessman. He claims he’s retired, but he still runs a hotel/bar/restaurant in town (aka. a five minute walk from the house). The bar is more often than not filled with guys who have come to watch soccer and drink. He’s a busy man: he rarely comes home at night, sleeping instead in the hotel. In addition, I have a younger sister living at home, as well as live-in house help.

Meals are special. Jaunia allows me to serve myself food, but then heaps more on my plate. “We live to eat,” she tells me. I reply that there is no way I can possibly consume that much food without being sick. She, however, has made it her mission to see me gain at least five kilos before I leave the place. I’m doomed.

The Borderline

My favorite taxi driver, Joseph, tells me driving in Nairobi is crazy. But that’s ok, because it’s the same everywhere in Africa. He mentions this as the car in front of us puts itself in reverse and almost backs into us, a bus trundles down the wrong side of the road (and yep, there’s a median), another car sits jammed perpendicular to the flow of traffic, motorcycles weave everywhere, vehicles idle inches apart in a near standstill, matatus cut each other off, and you can barely hear yourself over the din of horns. Speaking of matatus. They’re these 15-person vans where people cram into an absolute lack of legroom as they blare music and screech to a stop to load more people in from the side of the road. They’re all personalized with slogans, stencils, etc. My favorite is one adorned with the slogan proclaiming “SPREAD THE GOSPEL” and covered in playboy bunnies. Not that I’ve seen it more than once.

They say a Ugandan who drives in a straight line is drunk. Lanes, and sides of the road, mean nothing. Transportation within the city comes in two forms: matatus and these things called bodabodas. They’re how you get around, if you feel like reaching your destination before evolution brings about the return of the dinosaurs. So, I had my 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th motorcycle rides ever. In Kampala, at night, behind a stranger, speeding, helmetless, without traffic laws. Sorry, mom.

Kenyans are rude. They’re aggressive and don’t acknowledge the word “no.” The adults shout: “Taxi for you madam, Taxi!” They stare. They hit on you. They call out to you on the street because you’re white, and having a white friend is a sign of status. Or something. The kids spot white skin. They follow you in a swarm, holding out hands then bringing them to their mouths in the universal language. “Please, sister, five shillings for a banana, sister.” “Sina pesa.” I don’t have money. “Please sister, give me something, sister.” “Hapana.” No. “Please sister, I am starving sister.” “HAPANA.” Because you know that the kid harassing you, dressed in an oversized t-shirt, going through motions imparted onto him before he could walk, is simply acting. His father, or uncle, is without doubt watching from the shadows as his charge works the streets, all day, every day, instead of attending school. It’s exploitation of children, pure and simple, and it’s the culture here.

The moment I stepped through the shoddy gate into Uganda, it all stopped. Literally, like the gate was a giant brick wall reaching to the sky that wiped the cultural slate clean. I did not receive a single appeal for money. No one yelled at me. If a boda driver pulled up and I shook my head, he went on his way. Although the country is less developed than Kenya, people take care of themselves. They work, and– I don’t know why– they do not beg or harass. Children are not exploited. Teens don’t pester you when you refuse to pay for… oh yeah, nothing. People are polite. Even in the city: although it’s busy, Kampala was relaxed. I didn’t worry about who was behind me on the street, ever.

Kampala was also blessedly clean. There was no trash cluttering gutters, piled behind buildings, strewn along streets, heaped in the markets, sending up clouds of smoke into the night. I spotted public trash bins for the first time since I arrived in Africa. Roads were in good condition, throughout the city. All the way to the border, for that matter. Street signs were well-made and readable. No, Kampala doesn’t have the highrises and I’ve got no clue about other aspects of life, but in terms of sanitation and infrastructure, they seem to be kicking Kenya’s ass. Especially since, you know, 90% of Nairobi’s highrises are privately owned: the blatant result of a nice long tradition of rampant corruption.

But I digress. Saturday we headed from Kampala to the nearby town of Jinja, donned helmets and PFDs, proceeded down to the banks of the Nile and hopped into a raft to embark on a 35-km float. Although there were clouds overhead, the water was a blissful 80º. Monkeys clambered through the shrubbery covering the banks. Lizards lazed, perfectly camouflaged, in overhanging leafy branches. A reptile that may have been a 2 m. monitor lizard sunned itself on a rock in the middle of the river. We scared up a mammoth colony of supersized bats which proceeded to swarm around their island in a great dark, dense cloud, crawling up and over every trunk, branch, vine, and leaf in sight.

And between munching pineapple and cookies on the glassy water we navigated a bit of whitewater, including somewhere around seven class 5 rapids. Imagine the Willamette. Now imagine the Willamette, but whitewater all the way across. Now imagine hanging onto the raft for your life as you plunge spinning into the rapids, screaming bloody murder as waves crash over you and you pray you hit the upcoming wall of water in a manner that allows you to go over, rather than flip over. It was absofreakinglutely awesome.

That is all I have to say.

Operation Hug A Hippo: Successful... Almost.

General Notification to the Kenyan Public: Just because I’m white doesn’t mean I want a taxi. Get over yourselves.

Last Wednesday, we had a fieldtrip. We visited the industrial section of the city, lined with assembly plants where people come looking for work each day, leaving (if they’re lucky) with perhaps 100 shillings (around $1.00) to return home and buy a meal for their families (and where security come make your life a misery if they even glimpse a camera). We also visited the informal sector, where a community of people who hadn’t been able to find employment has basically taken over a section of the city. They manufacture, by hand and out of recycled materials, pretty much anything useful that anyone would ever need. They’re creative, too. They have tools, but a lot of what they use for shaping is actually railroad ties. Apparently they’re making some decent money, compared to those who live in the slums. This is a community where people don’t try to steal others’ business and anyone caught pick pocketing is likely to find themselves beaten to a pulp and left for dead, if they’re lucky. Really good setup and concept, except that when you walk in it’s actually kind of appalling: It’s dark. The guys sit absolutely everywhere, on the ground. They’re covered in grime; They pound away as they make goods, without stop, seven days a week, to be carted off in bulk. There’s so much noise you can’t hear yourself shout at the person next to you. And you really don’t know what to say, because their lives are so far disconnected from yours there is absolutely no way to connect. At all. There’s a giant chasm between you, and you’re standing just a couple feet away. Kind of like watching a movie.

I came home last Thursday afternoon to fine no less than four power poles laying across my street, lines strewn over absolutely everything. Including gates. And the street. And cars. People simply stepped over them and continues on their way.

On Friday, I hopped into a van heading to Masai Mara for the weekend. My company included:

• A girl born and raised in India before she moved to the US for college. She now works for Kaplan University, and sincerely believes that giraffes live naturally in Yellowstone.
• A Swedish girl who took out somewhere in the neighborhood of $500 from the ATM, then proceeded to count it out loud in front of the entire queue.
• Four Japanese and Korean tourists who shouted at the top of their lungs every time they saw something exciting and ran after the animals. And found the best use of their time to be exploiting the street kids by upending buckets of chips into their hands, laughing as they snapped photos in their faces.
• Oh yeah. And me.

Anyway. The Mara was stunning. Rolling hills gave way to flat grassland as far as we could see, overshadowed in the afternoon by deep, dark rain clouds that blotted out the scorching morning sun, which then dropped, crimson, beneath the clouds to hang over a silhouetted hill before disappearing. Yep, I know where The Lion King was based on. Speaking of which. There were lions everywhere. There was a pride of a young male, two females, and six cubs. Another couple large males roamed, squatting as they marked their territory. And a an enormous male lazed sleepily in the shade of a lone tree, African wind blowing through his colossal mane. Meerkats dug viciously for insects in the ground surrounding the head of a giraffe who had been killed a couple weeks earlier by a snakebite. Topi, hartebeest, and dik dik grazed contentedly. A couple of cheetahs panted in the shade of dense shrubbery. A leopard settled itself in the grass at the base of a ravine. Another sat straight on a log in the brilliant late afternoon light in front of a distant rainstorm before hopping down and disappearing after one of my dear companions decided to announce its presence to the world. A couple of families of elephants got into a noisy, messy fight around a watering hole after the first had covered themselves with dust and mud. There were wildebeest everywhere, gathering as they grazed on the last of the green grass north of the river, procrastinating their deadly crossing, accompanied in their grazing by numerous zebras. I sear, these animals are some of the stupidest on earth– scared of their own shadows. Quite literally. Also, aren’t baby wildebeest supposed to be cute? Apparently not so much.. They’re just parental miniatures. Which, for your information, are ugly. Shame. Getting back on topic: hippos sprawled on islands in the river and giant crocodiles waited along the banks. And a giant herd of hundreds of buffalo came streaming down the banks of a hill, turning the golden grass black with their numbers as they surrounded our car.

Saturday night, a lightning storm lit up the sky, noiselessly silhouetting hills in the distance.

Sunday we journeyed out onto a huge lake in the middle of the Rift Valley called Lake Naivasha in a tiny boat. We got crazy close to hippos. And managed to scare one up out of the water that we didn’t know was there, resulting in a rather rapid evasion. By us. From a big, angry hippo. There were fish eagles on an island, and water birds everywhere. Flocks of cormorants sunned themselves, storks picked their way through the much, and huge flocks of pelicans floated near the shoreline. And then we got caught in a downpour. Two of them, to be exact. In the middle of the lake. And, just so you know. Kenyan downpours aren’t like Oregonian downpours. They’re preceded by some wind, and then the big, fat, giant, colossal drops start falling. Everywhere. It’s like getting pooped on by a bird, except it’s water, and it happens a lot more than once.

Anyway, we got to get off on the island and walk around, getting (somewhat) up close and personal with wildebeest, zebras, and baby giraffes.

And then we headed back to reality, A.K.A. Nairobi, passing a pickup which had managed to drive itself over the cliff as the road winds down into the rift valley. Go Kenya.

Getting High Like Planes

On second thought, I think 16,355’ is a little below cruising altitude. But still.

On the way out of Nairobi on Thursday, I passed a truck with crimson swastikas painted on it like logos. WTF.

We spent the night in Nanyuki. It’s a little town smack on the equator at the base of Mt. Kenya. Oh yeah, and it has a giant British army base. Which you would think was kind of bizarre, since Kenya’s been independent for decades and the Brits aren’t supposed to have any influence. As it turns out, the northern region of the country is all desert, which is perfect for military exercises. So the UK pays Kenya to let then build a base, and locals are employed as drivers. Soldiers in town for training buy souvenirs at jacked-up prices and go to supermarkets, pumping money into the local economy. And they marry Kenyan women, and leave behind half-white babies. So the whole arrangement leaves pretty much everyone happy, except perhaps the people living in the northern desert. Other than the army base Nanyuke was rather unremarkable, except for the woman I walked past carrying her baby in an American flag, with Obama’s face painted on it.

Friday, we started up the mountain from the park entrance at 7,930’, my guide and myself carrying packs somewhere around 20 lb each. Our porter carried somewhere around 70 lb. We started up through the cedars and olive trees, pausing to watch a group of black-and-white colobus monkeys. We passed buffalo, elad, dik dik and elephant tracks. Baboon poop was scattered everywhere. Somewhere around 2 miles into our 6-mile climb, a giant truck came lurching up the rutted road. “Hop on!” “Seriously?” “Yeah!” So we climbed up, hung on, and hoped with everything we had that the truck wouldn’t tip over as it climbed through bamboo forests, fields of head-height shrubby wildflowers and into the tropical highlands, navigating ditches, rocks, mud pits, curves and pitches, eventually depositing us at Old Moses Camp.

From Old Moses, at 10,830’, I could look down over the highlands and forest over the middle region of Kenya, to the distant shadowy hills of Samburu National Park, across towns and reflective plastic that gave away the flower-growing greenhouses erected at the base of the mountain. Wildflowers were everywhere among the rocks and grass, and twisting blackened skeletal shrubs leaked evidence of the fire that swept through the highlands several years prior.

Friday morning, we started climbing straight up the mountain in the bright, clear sunshine. Right around 11,000’, I started recognizing plants. Sage grew everywhere. There was a variations of the dandelion and thistles. Clumps of daisies lined the trail. And that little pom-pom-looking purple flower that grows from a bed of round dark-green leaves with a lighter streak through the center. And I swear I found a variation of Indian paintbrush. Anyway, I read this article last semester that claimed altitude and latitude have the same effects on diversity. So if you go up in elevation, you should see similar changes as if you traveled north or south. Which was exactly what was happening: All these plants that grow near sea level at home were growing at the equivalent elevation of Mt. Hood’s snowcap. The only difference was, they all come from different ecosystems at home.

We eventually arrived at a weather station (one of 14 at its elevation in the world) and turned to traverse the mountain’s slopes before turning into another valley. As we climbed, we passed through changing vegetation: most noticeably, giant stalks covered in feathery leaves which remain in place when they die, insulating the plant within from freezing nighttime temperatures so it can retain large amounts of water without vascular damage. Rock hyraxes, giant, shaggy marmots, clambered over rocks and moss. Eagles wheeled above us. The valley climbed gently upward past caves and cliffs to where it deposited us at Shipton Camp, nestled beneath Mt. Kenya’s peaks at 13,800’. Laying down in my sleeping bag, it took me an hour to convince my body that the world still contained oxygen.

We rose at 2:20 in the morning to consume tea and crackers before setting out at 3:00. We got lucky: the scree slopes froze overnight. Stars outlined the black silhouettes of the peaks above. Climbing under the familiar constellations of the Pleiades, Cassiopeia, and Draco was strangely comforting. We climbed straight uphill. I concentrated on the ground in front of me. Looking up was too daunting. In three hours, we covered 2 miles and climbed 2,555 vertical ft, arriving at the summit of Point Lenana just before sunrise. There were three items on top of the peak: a flag, a plaque placed there a few hundred years ago, and a concrete container with a smashed plastic window-top. Cause, you know, Kenya just voted to adopt a new constitution, and someone brought a copy all the way to the top of the mountain to be enshrined. And then another someone stole it. Which is really a bit bizarre, since I can get a copy on newsprint for casi nada down in the city. Bit of pointless effort there, don't you think? Anyway.

Ice crusted the rocks we stood on. Clouds swirled around us, obscuring the mountain and its peaks. Then, the crimson sun broke the horizon below and began to climb (Yeah, I looked down on the sunrise. How weird is that?). The clouds surrounding us evaporated, leaving us to look down the length of the mountain past the lower peaks, valleys, gorges and moraine lakes surrounding us. Behind me rose Mt. Kenya’s summit, alight with alpine glow, above a glacier flowing down the adjacent valley. Looking down to the East, we could see a tiny camp erected for climbers, containing the world’s highest toilet. And several men stripping to take a naked photo in front of the mountain.

And then we began our descent. Back to Shipton for breakfast, then all the way down to Old Moses, passing hyena tracks along the way. Once we passed below the clouds, it felt like all of Kenya was laid out before us.


Monday we walked the rest of the way down to the gate. And we found a chameleon on the road, which pretty much made my day. It was tiny, with a hump on its nose, thus the name Rhinoceros chameleon. Here ends Gavrila’s Epic Journey of Mt. Kenya.

Lessons learned:

• I will love my boots with all of my heart and soul forever and always.
• “Step by step” has never taken a more literal meaning and has probably turned into my watchword for life.
• Oxygen is wonderful.