In my time here I have seen the best that Africa has to offer and the worst. I was dropped into the thick of things and told to figure it out for myself. It has been one of the most valuable experiences of my life. I have seen the top of Mt. Kenya and the palm fringed beaches of Mombasa. I have seen lions stalking animals in the wild and danced in a Maasai manyatta. I have eaten Nyama Choma from a butchery that would be condemned in the United States and been on adventures that developed countries couldn’t dream up. I have had laughs and made friends that will never fade, regardless of the separation of distance and time. I have had so much fun that it should not be legal and I will never forget these incredible people and places. But as is Africa, there are shadowy experiences that I will never forget as well. I have seen violence so close that the blood ran up to my shoes. I have seen crime so close to home that I stared the perpetrator in the eyes while the victim cried on my shoulder. I have seen death so close that I dug the grave. I wish these were figures of speech, exaggerations or literary tools used to evoke a reaction, but they are not. They are real experiences with real stories, real emotions and real people behind them. I would be lying if I said that this trip was a cakewalk; a vacation from reality where I rode a safari van through Africa, looking out the window and taking pictures at the lifestyle of the indigenous people. I have become invested in relationships, had bad days, had good days, accepted and lived the lifestyle and to be honest, I’m so happy for that. I would also be lying if I said that I was living like an average Kenyan. I have been living well, eating every meal until I am full, sleeping in safe and comfortable beds, affording luxuries that most people here wouldn’t even dare to think about. But at the same time, I have been faced with situations that have forced me so far out of my comfort zone that I forgot where I left it; and good or bad, I don’t think I would change a minute of it.
I have left my blood (mostly from walking barefoot and getting in and out of matatus), sweat (mostly in Mombasa) and tears (mostly from getting emotionally invested in the nightly, filmed in Spanish dubbed in English, soap operas). The thing that I can’t seem to shake, no matter how positive this experience has been is that I am leaving and they are not. I take an airplane home, get in a hot shower and start telling stories but these people continue living these stories. Do I think I “changed” anything? Absolutely not. But that doesn’t mean that for the people that I did work with, live with, teach and play with, I didn’t have a positive impact. Do I think that Faraja is better off now than when I got there? Yes. Do I think that it is well off? No. There is so much that still needs to be done and it is indescribably bittersweet. Selfishly, it feels great and everything to have come work “with the less fortunate”, but they aren’t more fortunate for me having been there. And that isn’t to say that I didn’t work my ass off. There are just so many complications that keep Kenya from achieving its potential. Corrupt government and police forces, an unacceptable lack of importance placed on education paired with a dependency on outside sources for income generation, rooted in the imperialism and colonial degradation of the indigenous population. The people aren’t complacent. Kenya is one of the hardest working nations in the world. And they aren’t dumb; almost everyone speaks at least 3 or 4 languages fluently. Still, a staggering number can’t read or write in ANY of those languages (so you tell me that something isn’t missing there). And listen, I’m not a sociologist, a political scientist or even completely sure of what profession would make these kinds of conclusions, but everyone from the glue junkie who sits on the steps behind my house to the President of the United States knows that SOMETHING is wrong. But I knew I wasn’t going to change the world. I didn’t even think I would do as much as I did. But what do you do when the landlord wants to kick you out of your house so she comes to your door and cuts off your power, even after you FINALLLLLLY paid your bills? Let me rephrase that. What do you do when that happens and you don’t have the 200 shillings ($2.50) to take a matatu to the courthouse and back-- let alone pay any sort of legal fee? That is a true story. And there are more just like it that I won’t share because they are complicated and mindboggling to any western mind. And those are just Faraja stories… that have happened since I’ve been here. There are 2.4 million orphans JUST in KENYA. I’m not a mathematician either, but these numbers adds up to a lot of hardship that needs to be taken care of, and not by individuals, by collective action. The Kenyan history is incredibly complicated (and pretty different depending on what tribe and background the Kenyan you are speaking with belongs to). That is why I am going to stop preaching in this, my final blog, and if you want to debate, I got nothing but time until I get a job (oh yeah, about that…)
I think that in a lot of ways, I came to help people and those people I came to help have changed my life. I’ve learned more from Kepha than I did from some of my college courses. I’ve grown up more in the last 4 months than I probably had in the last 23 years. It is something that I both won’t and can’t forget and I’m grateful for every second it. The times I wanted to laugh, the times I wanted to freak out and the times I needed sleep but didn’t. The times the electricity went out and the water shut off. The times that I had to walk the 40 minutes (I’m a slow walker) to Faraja just after a rain storm and the roads were flooded with God knows what. The times I got ripped off by street vendors, matatu conductors, restaurant owners, beach boys, probably little old ladies… and the times that I was able to fit in (enough) to not get ripped off. Being the only person that I knew that didn’t get robbed. The little things that I will never forget. The songs with Kepha. Walking through the neighborhood and being treated like a celebrity. Seeing someone you knew in a random place. Getting as close with someone in 3 or 4 days as you would after knowing them for years. The little things, the best things.
When I was younger (and still a certain extent today), I was not a fan of saying goodbye. It felt too permanent. I preferred “I’ll see you later” or “talk to you soon” or any other form of goodbye. I grew out of that phase as the years went on and now I don’t really think about that anymore (still don’t like goodbyes in general). But as the wick of the flame that is my East African adventure is quickly burning out, I find myself returning to that adolescent feeling. I wish I could skip out and not have to deal with the impending goodbye, but I know that the last glimpse or hug isn’t what’s important. The emotion that you feel in that moment of sadness is generated from all the positive times that you’ve shared with the person or place. It’s not hard to say goodbye to something you don’t like. So instead of dwelling on the teardrops falling from Kepha’s eyes as I tell him I don’t know when I will see him again, I’ll focus on the mornings that he came sprinting to the gate screaming and laughing to see me. Instead of focusing on the sun setting on my last night in the most amazing place in the world, I’ll remember the dozens of sunrises I watched as a new day began.
I started this blog off by saying that there are moments in life where you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world (seems like yesterday and 10 years ago at the same time). Milliseconds of complete and utter serenity and acceptance of your surroundings. It would be a joke to say that I felt that way for 4 straight months, but as I conclude this trip, I get that same warm feeling taking over(and not because I’m living on the equator or have malaria). I have pushed my limits in every direction and instead of having stretch marks, I have grown into my new form. So as I sign off, I’m not going to say goodbye. I’ll say tutaonana (we’ll be seeing each other). So for now, tutaonana Kenya. I’ll be seeing you again.
