Wednesday, November 4, 2009

There is grass in Namanga? Since when?

The rains have finally come. Thank you el Nino! On my way to school the other day one of the shops I walk by was playing the 'bless the rains down in Africa' song. I thought it was highly appropriate and started the day off well. When it rains too hard, it is impossible to teach because the classroom's have tin roofs without a ceiling. It is both frustrating and exciting. I love extreme weather. Not that a steady rainfall is extreme in normal circumstances, but in Namanga it is. We have not had a real rain since somewhere around February or April. Of course the skies decide to let loose right as the students in my Form 1 agriculture class are starting to give presentations on their assigned chicken breeds. It is hard to be frustrated when the students are smiling and jumping in their seats yelling over the sound of rain on the roof that now they will have milk! Something that I never would have thought of at home (mostly because Vermont usually has no lack of rain) but here, at the end of a 5 year drought, no rain means no milk. The biologist in me gets super excited to see how fast Namanga responds to rain. It seems like you can almost see the plants growing and the insect diversity has increased exponentially. The animal lover in me struggles every time I see a cow that is so skinny it looks like if I just touched it, it would collapse; and they are everywhere! If you pay attention in the matatu you can see dead ones decomposing on the side of the road. The home-maker in me is annoyed because my laundry will never get dry. The teacher in me is happy because now some of the Maasai students can return to Namanga after herding there cattle elsewhere in search of grass. The Carly in me smiles every time I get stuck outside in a rainstorm, even though the Mamas think I'm crazy.

My third term and first year is coming to an end. Like the two terms before it, this one was not without its challenges. With A LOT of encouragement from my parents I'm doing some serious practice in the art of being a duck. If you don't know what it means to 'be a duck', ask my dad. I think that I might be a duck expert by now. One of the many things I've realized in this whole experience (in case there was any doubt) is how much I love/need running. I can't really run here. I can, but now that my running partner moved away, it is an extra challenge to go. I love the kids, but if I'm running to relieve stress it doesn't help to have them yelling 'Mzungu, mzungu, mzungu' the entire time. In august I bought a jump rope to try to replace running. It will do for another year, but it certainly isn't the same. It turns out thought, that it also helped me make friends in my compound. I didn't even think about it when I bought it, but the kids that live near me LOVE to jump rope. They are getting pretty good. The other good thing is that I can do it before the sun comes up. I used to get lectured about my safety when running in Corvallis at 4:30am; to do that here would just be asking for trouble.

Lately, Ive had these weird realizations that when people look at me they are seeing an adult. When did that happen? Primary students have run to get me to break up a fight. My female students ask me questions about how to deal with boys, what to do if they think they are pregnant, and how to deal with their parents. Part of me feels like I'm entirely unqualified to be dishing out advice, mostly because I don't feel like an adult. The other day the matatu guys were trying to guess my age. They thought 19, still technically an adult, but barely.

I have almost hit the year mark from the day that I arrived in Kenya. It is crazy to think that a year has gone by since I woke up from spending my last night in my parents house and thought 'oh shit'. It is funny to look back on all of the little kenyan subtleties and things that i've learned. This past weekend I had a few moments of confirmation that I've adjusted. I took a student and her mom to the district hospital which is about an hour away. We were supposed to meet at the matatu stage at 8am. At 8:45 we were ready to go. When I first got to kenya I would have been thoroughly annoyed, but now I'm surprised when things are only 45 minutes late. We piled into the back of a matatu, 4 people where there should only be three. They kept piling people in every time we saw someone on the side of the road. Not only was I NOT bothered by the extra people, I found myself wishing for more. My logic may be completely off, but I figure that if we get in an accident, more people means more cushioning for everyone. I also realized that if I ever had to teach kenyan students about the tragedy of the commons, a matatu ride would be a great example. I walked into the hospital, and was pretty clearly the first white person they had seen there in a while. That may be an incorrect assumption, but the stares said "what is a mzungu doing here?' Instead of being bothered by the stares, I smiled and walked past them. On the way out of the hospital to catch a matatu home, the mom asked if we could stop at a town on the way to see her other daughter. When I first got to Kenya I would have hesitated: Would I have to eat meat? What if they ask me to pray? Do I have the energy to be the new 'mzungu' in town? Will I get home in time to get my work done? But this time there was no hesitation, and I was happy that I went. The matatue ride from Bissil to Namanga was even more classic. 5 people sitting where 3 should be, and it may have been possible for someone to get drunk off of the matatu tout's breath (at least it wasn't the driver). When I came home, the two little twin girls that live on my compound followed me into my house. I might want to take them home to Vermont with me (their mom offered, but I think she was kidding). They take their shoes off on my steps, wait for me to open the door, and then make themselves at home on my couch...this makes it all worth it.