Day 2/3: 3 Times a Lady

Jesus. I feel like a zombie. This is going to be one long ass post, so if you’re new to the blog, I apologize, but I don’t have time to explain everyone and everything that I reference. Any questions you have will be answered in the prior years' posts.
The flight from Amsterdam was fine. A bit exhausting because every 20 seconds the captain would come on to make an announcement. And then repeat it in Dutch. And then repeat it in Swahili. It was pretty exhausting. “On your right you’ll notice a cloud” “Ona ja rut est a clood” “Na ne modja cloudi kushoto” I made up the Dutch and ½ the Swahili translation, but you get the idea.

I watched an episode of "The Office" on the plane and it was hysterical. The one where there’s a bat in the office. I had never seen it before. I did have a horrifying epiphany though. Do I treat my boyfriend the way Kelly treats Ryan? I can be pretty smothering. But it’s a fine line to draw. Where’s the difference between doing nice things and being overwhelming? I mean, he seemed to like the imported silk throw I made for him by hand that had our picture on it and said “Nima + Howard til death”, but was it too much?

I arrived in Nairobi at 6:30am. I was in the passport control line when this guy comes up from behind and gently grabs my wrist and turns it so he can look at the page it’s open to. He sees it’s open to my visa and gives me the thumbs up and walks away. He did it so gently and stealthily that I didn’t even freak out when he grabbed my wrist. 30 seconds in Kenya and already all sense of personal space is gone.

At LAX the ticket agent told me that my bag was checked all the way through to Mombasa and showed me the MBA (Mombasa Int’l Airport) tag on my bag. Still, I decided to check if they unloaded my bag in Nairobi and sure enough they did. Thank god for my good sense to check. This is my new travel rule: everyone is an idiot. Don’t trust what anyone says and just check and double-check your stuff yourself. As I was wheeling my suitcase away two officials stopped me and I managed to drop enough Swahili to avoid getting my bag checked. Crisis 1 averted. If I can get through Mombasa without having my bag checked, then I won’t have to pay “import taxes” on the stuff I brought for the kids.

I looked at my ticket and saw I had an aisle seat, 17-C, for my Nairobi to Mombasa leg. My lucky number is 17. This is a sign, I thought. Sign my ass. Turns out lucky numbers are a crock of shit. The airplane's rows were set up as 2 seats, then 3 seats, then 2 seats. I ended up in the exact middle because a family was traveling together and us singles have to give up our seat. Well, I didn't have to, but ya know, I'm not an asshole so I gave it up. You’d think it was bad enough I got switched out to a middle seat, but oh no. Of the 7 seats, there were not 1, not 2, not 3, but 4, yes FOUR children under the age of 2. It was like a round robin of shrill, high pitched screaming. The icing was that we sat on the runway for an hour before taking off. I chalked it up to a test of nerves, but it was literally, LITERALLY 2 non-stop hours of at least 1, often 2 babies shrieking. I was pushed to the brink- I started toying with the idea of trying to get MedEvac’d out of Kenya. Luckily we touched down just as the brilliant idea of baby shaking came to me.

Finally. In Mombasa. Before I get to that though, I have to acknowledge this awesome sort of calm that came over me when I was boarding the plane for Nairobi and that clam managed to stay with me until said multi-baby incident. The calm was that I was leaving western civilization. As I boarded in Amsterdam, this feeling of "This is it, no turning back" came over me and it was really awesome. No matter what I had forgotten to pack, no matter how ill-conceived my personal items were, this was it. What I had is what I am going to have and it was really nice. Freeing almost. I think that's the feeling that people who have very little material possessions have, this sense of detachment from every little gizmo and gadget we have to make our lives the tiniest bit easier. We fill our lives with automatic shower cleaners, garages full of tools for every little task, and a pill for every little ailment we can think of (and even those we can't), and yet our lives just become more and more complicated. I'm just as guilty (my medicine cabinet would put Rite-Aid out of business), but for those brief shining moments, I felt really free. And it was really nice.

So, arrive in Mombasa. My suitcase was one of the very last to arrive. It's bad enough when I'm visiting Minneapolis and my suitcase is at the end. All I can think is that it's been lost. That 12 minutes of anxiety is torturous when there's a Target right around the corner; imagine it when there's merely a fruit hut around the corner. Luckily, praise the Lord, it arrived.

I stepped outside and looked around and there they were. I was expecting a guy with a "Dickson" or "Nima" sign. Instead, it was all the older boys from Dickson. Vincent, Emmanuel, Kiio, Ongeri, Peter...it was really overwhelming to see them. They've all grown (obviously) and seeing them all there, all excited to see me, was amazing. As fucked as it is here, they bring me this happiness that's indescribable. For people who have had the toughest, craziest, most fucked up lives I could imagine, they are still these bright, shining, smiling kids. And it puts my life and my problems into this clarity that I only wish everyone could experience.

We arrived to Dickson to a king's greeting. The kids were screaming, shouting, and chanting my name. It was insane. There were two volunteers leaving today and they said the kids would not stop talking about me since they first learned I was coming back. How can you not return to that much love and gratitude? The fact that they feel like they can rely on me, that I keep my promises to return, is such an awesome feeling. Manuela, this brilliant shining woman I volunteered with my first year, was back here in March and she said even then the kids were talking about my impending visit. I hadn't even booked it yet, but I promised them last year I'd come back and evidently it stuck. To be something stable in a place of wild instability is quite a responsibility, one I do not take lightly. Stability is incredibly important. I can't imagine where I'd be if I didn't have my parents. As a child, your parents are your world. For those who are abandoned on the street by their parents, where does that leave them for trust and reliance and stability? I don't know, but I certainly don't want to add to a life of half-truths and empty promises.

Anyway, the kids. Screaming, running around. Craziness. There are three new children: Joram (5?), Joshua (2?), and Erik (8 months?). I use question marks because it's always a little unclear when you're found on the streets. I got a few hugs and a few handshakes. Always the inverse of what I expect insofar as who gives a hug and who shakes hands (it's always changing), but what I did get was a HUGE hug around my legs from Mwangi (the ADORABLE troublemaker) who promptly asked "We go to restaurant?" Glad that from all my time teaching him, playing with him, and entertaining him what he remembers most is Coca-Cola and french fries. Had I known I would have stopped making lesson plans and just brought in a McDonald's placemat.

Emmanuel-John, my arch nemesis, has done a complete 180. Not only did he NOT pee all over me, but he quietly sat in my lap and watched me play a game with the older boys. They play this game on a tabletop that's like a cross between air hockey and billiards. If it were the 1800s. There's a square board with a hole in each corner. You flick with your finger a poker chip and hit a pile of checkers in the middle. That's the break. Then you proceed to flick the poker chip into individual checkers trying to get them into the holes. Super ghetto, but they love it. I tried and it's really fucking hard. They can flick straight, but my flicks were all over the place. We played 5 games (each game takes about 20-30 minutes) and I managed to get like 4 points. IT WAS HARD! Each time I sunk a checker into a hole there was a literal, audible gasp of shock and awe from the boys. Their gasps were as though I was a cripple who started walking. Assholes.

Emmanuel-Charles used to be the sweetest little boy ever, but now he's been possessed by the same Satanic entity that had a hold of Marion last year. In 30 seconds he managed to hit another child and pinch me twice. Then proceeded to cry when I got up and walked away (so as to ignore his cry for negative attention). Hopefully we won't take to farting on me like Marion did.

I left Dickson early so I could come to town, drop my shit off, convert money, etc. Every bit of service is super slow around here and every business closes at like 4pm so I wanted to make sure I didn't miss the boat. As I was coming into town (Dickson is in the ghetto by the airport) I realized how much I would like to share this place with people I know. The problem is try as I might I can't think of anyone who would enjoy this. It's a fucking nightmare. Not the kids, the kids are amazing, but Mombasa, this third-world metropolitan area, is bumper to bumper chaos. The pollution, the poverty, the anger, the sorrow, just looking out the window is emotionally draining, let alone getting out of the vehicle and walking amongst it. I'm no saint, sometimes I too just wanna punch a homeless beggar in the face. But then I stop myself and try to exercise some love and compassion. If not Kenya, then I urge you to visit China or Iraq or somewhere where you can see this style of living. That way you can come home and kiss every inch of America and thank the universe for placing you there and not New Delhi.

Oh, also, the Kiambis are out of town until Sunday so it's just me and the maid and I'm kind of terrified. Is she gonna rob me? Rape me so she can have a get-out-of-Kenya baby? Make me eat ugali? It's going to be an interesting two days...