Kwale Leaders Blame Witches For Poor Test Scores

At a mean of 134 out of the total 500 marks, Makamini InLands assistant minister Gonzi Rai’s semi-arid Kinango constituency shared the last position countrywide with Muhaka in Omar Zonga’s fertile sugar belt Msambweni constituency.

Well, it took a lot of doing. A lot of doing, a lot of hustling, a lot of pleading, a lot of arguing with drivers and touts and conductors. A fair bit of swearing under our breath in several East African languages. But we finally – FINALLY – at long last made it to our intended holiday destination: Lake Turkana. By late morning, we’d hired a boat from a local fisherman and set off towards Central Island.

Satellite photograph courtesy of Rutgers

While I have your attention, here are a few fun things to know: Lake Turkana is a UNESCO world heritage site of intense ecological importance. Covering over 6,400 square kilometers, it is the world’s largest desert lake and third-largest salt lake. At its deepest point, it’s over 350 feet to the bottom. Its hot, rocky shores are a haven to a spectacular abundance of carpet vipers and various scorpion species, while the lake itself is thought to house the world’s largest Nile crocodile population. The plains immediately surrounding the lake possess an anthropological value virtually beyond measure: several of the oldest hominid fossils on the planet, including Turkana Boy and ”The Flat-Faced Man of Kenya” were found there.

However, while Lake Turkana was also the site of death for both Justin and Tess Quayle, they were killed on the East side, not the West (where we were), so any laying of wreaths or other means of memorialization would have to wait for another trip.

The ride was supposed to take “40 or 45 minutes,” but in the typical fashion, it was more like an hour and fifteen minutes there, an hour and forty minutes back. The waves were higher than you’d expect on a lake, but we chatted merrily amongst ourselves as we slowly made our way ‘round an enormous sandbank and caught our first view of Central Island.

Not pictured: smoke monsters. (WE HAVE TO GO BACK, KATE.)

Lake Turkana has several islands, with Central Island being perhaps the grandest. It was once a volcano – still is, I suppose, as it “emits vapors” on occasion – and therefor has *three* lakes on it, representing its valleys and flows. One lake has its own island at the center, which, when you think about it (on an island! In a lake! On another island! In another lake!) is so delightfully mind-blowing that you’re less likely to drown or be eaten by a crocodile than to have your head explode like an overripe watermelon at the sheer meta-ness of your situation.

Not pictured: Nautical-themed pashmina afghans.

We didn’t make it to the central island on Central Island, but were more than thrilled with the other two lakes.

Our rugged band of intrepid wayfarers standing next to the stunningly beautiful Tilapia Lake.

The second of the two we visited was formed from the actual cone of the volcano – but what had once been filled with roiling magma was now an idyllic emerald paradise, full of snowy-white flamingos.

Seen here as slender swirls of white on the surface of the water. Those are separate segments of one enormous flock.

I forgot to pack an extra pair of sunglasses (and my original pair got smashed in my bag during the Bus Ride of Doom), but I DID have my WAMC-NPR pledge drive hat. Winning.

Given our transportation difficulties, we had to cut short our “island time” in order to make it to town safely before nightfall. Too soon we were back in the boat, numbed to silence by well-earned exhaustion and the overwhelming beauty of what we’d just seen.

To the countless cartographers, surveyors, travel writers, and bloggers who refer to the road north from Kitale to Lodwar as “paved,” I have only this to say: liar, liar. Pants on fire. It appears that way on virtually all maps and in virtually all guidebooks, but like a self-portrait from an online dating profile, the resemblance to reality is only passing. As well-tarmacked roads are a bit of a rarity for many Peace Corps volunteers, I believe I can speak for our entire wayfaring band when I say that it was something we were anticipating with some enthusiasm.

According to sources I spoke with in town, it was paved in the early 1980s by the Norwegian government, supposedly in an attempt to open the north for … something. Tourism, commerce, economic development – all of which would probably be welcome, as Turkana County is the poorest in Kenya, with nearly 95% of its residents living on less than 100 shillings a day (about $1.20 USD.) But, to quote one of my traveling companions: “Like most things from the eighties, time has done little to improve it.”

Word.

So as we approached our tenth hour of our fillings rattling in our teeth, and tried in vain to stare down Kenyan mamas who view the human lap as community property for the placement of children, maize sacks, or milk crates overstuffed with live chickens, it took time for the intensity of our surroundings to sink in. Oh, you, Kenya whispered as every bone-jiggling mile bought us a little more distance from the verdant Marich Pass, where our journey began. I may not have charmed you yet. But I will. I always do.

Turkana is desert, strictly speaking. Rainfall comes in the form of brief, violent thunderstorms during the rainy seasons, while the rest of the year, temperatures can creep north of 50 degrees Celsius (that’s 122 degrees Fahrenheit, for the Americans in the audience.) But here’s the thing: when people think “desert,” they think “empty” and “desolate.” There are certainly places where this is accurate – but Kenya’s northern deserts, in sun-drenched glory, are not among them. Generally. As overexposed daylight shifted into that magical late afternoon period filmmakers call “the golden hour,” then further on towards a lingering dusk, our grumblings amongst ourselves quieted into silence. Sure, this was partially exhaustion, dehydration, and the restiveness of wondering if you’ll make your destination by full nightfall (we did.) But much moreso, we found ourselves increasingly entranced by the view from the bus windows: flat, dry wadis (or luggas, by the local name) that host violent flash floods in the brief wet season, herds of camels resting beneath thorn-covered acacias, rocks and mountains looking as though they were shaped by someone who hadn’t read the manual all the way through, and tantalizing hints of the region’s volcanic past.

The northern Rift Valley offers a landscape as rich and varied as any jungle, in its own stark, Venusian sort of way. It literally steals your breath – and not just from the heat. It’s completely, utterly stunning.

(And per usual, my pictures could never do it full justice.)

Some people compare this segment of the journey to “a trip through the Sierra-Nevadas,” but personally, I was more reminded of the Blue Ridge Parkway. Beautiful either way.

The closer you get to Lake Turkana, the closer you also get to Central Island, the lake’s active-ish volcano. As a result, the landscape turns to glittering obsidian. Some have described it as looking like “landing on another planet,” but some traveling companions and I prefer to think of it as more like what the land of Mordor must have looked like.

But fear not, loyal readers! (All six of you!) I’ll be blogging about my experiences in the northern Rift Valley soon. In the meantime, however, there are a few things I need to attend to first: making lesson plans for the term, getting back to work prepping supplies for Transition to Womanhood workshops, scrubbing the last of Lodwar’s talcum-powder-like dust out of my hair, and of course, the most important decision of the new year – which wall calendar shall I hang for 2012?

Should I go with the World’s Worst Dictators compilation

or the International Criminal Court Commemorative Edition?

Decisions, decisions. (Click each picture to see them larger, in all their tasteless magnificence. Play your own error-finding games! I’ll start you off: Gaddafi is listed as the dictator of Turkey, which has been hastily covered in white-out fluid.)

“IT’S DECEMBER 21st!” I countered indignantly, wrapping yarn around another bunch and dangling them above my kitchen area like mistletoe.

Of course, once they finished cackling over my quirky enthusiasm, all of my neighbors invited me to join their families for Christmas morning church services, followed by a hearty meal of ugali and freshly-slaughtered chicken. For them, it’s about the message, not the merriment. I was honored by their invitations, but had already made plans: I spent Christmas on a flawless white sand beach (“White Christmas” anybody?) with a crew of marvelous friends. Nothing says holiday cheer like sunburns and sand castles, right?

Anyway.

This year, I started celebrating on schedule: shortly after World AIDS Day, I pulled the box containing my official Charlie Brown Christmas Tree out from beneath the couch. It had been stashed there for some months, disturbed only by scores of roaches, spiders, and centipedes who had made it their cozy home. A few inquisitive neighborhood children hovered by my door, watching, and for once I invited them in to help me. Together, we assembled the tree and put it in a place of honor in my kitchen. Or rather … most of them just stared, while my little nine-year-old friend Talia actually assisted me. One of us carefully unpacked the box’s contents, while the other leapt about shrieking like a little girl at every creepy-crawly that was forced out of hiding. I’ll leave it to you to surmise which participant I was.

Njoo, njoo Emmanuel …

This year for Christmas/New Year’s, I’m taking a grand journey. No, really. Inshallah, it’s going to be epic (hopefully only in good ways.) I’m actually leaving in a few short days, so I not be able to blog again until after New Year’s. I’ll try, but no promises. Hopefully I’ll be too busy, right? You know, adventuring. I will tell you all about it when I return.

In the meantime, I leave you with the classic vocal stylings of John Lennon. Happy holidays, everyone.

“I love babies more than anything,” she said wistfully as she bounced her knees slightly to keep the little boy cooing. “I work with mamas all the time; they think I have all the secrets because I went to university and do health care.” She laughed, lifted the child, burped it expertly, then set it facedown across her thighs. “They sleep best this way. Something to do with their stomachs.” She sipped her tea. “Do they sleep like this in America?”

Sometimes, I explained to her, although most pediatricians in America recommend children sleep on their backs to reduce the likelihood of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. She listened attentively, then bit her lip and shook her head.

“No,” she replied. “Babies, generally healthy ones with all their immunizations, don’t die unless they’re sick. In the absence of some other illness or disorder, the only explanation for – what did you call it? ‘Crib death?’ – is witchcraft.” She gazed out the window, speaking in a low voice. “I knew a lady. A cousin of a friend. Her first baby died that way. So she gathered up her neighbors, found the oldest woman in the village, and told her she was a witch and must go. The old woman refused, so they burned down her house. I do not believe she escaped.” At this, my friend turned back towards me and offered a sheepish smile. “But the woman had five more children, and none of them died. So I think it worked.”

Oh. Well … huh.

I can’t speak for everyone in my district (let alone everyone in Kenya), but from the people I’ve spoken with, the vaaaaast majority of them believe witchcraft is real, and witches are real, and sorcery is practiced right under our noses on a frequent basis. I know university-educated Kenyan doctors who speak out at public meetings against the infinite danger of relying on waganga, or traditional spirit healers, for medical care, then grumble loudly about “witch rain” when their water tanks start to go dry. (“Witch rain” refers to the seemingly common phenomenon of unpredictable precipitation; as an example, if you’ve ever been driving through thunderstorms and found a town or stretch of highway that’s dry, as though the clouds skipped over it entirely, this is “witch rain.” I am told it requires blood sacrifices of some variety.) I’ve heard elaborate tales, with multiple external verifications, about women whose mothers-in-law were witches (spare me the jokes, for the moment) and demanded their daughter-in-laws’ first-born sons as zombie slaves. I’ve been sternly warned NOT to look out my window on nights when the moon is black and all the neighborhood dogs start barking wildly. I’ve been cautioned to be ever chary in the presence of someone who is unrepentantly left-handed. And as bad as the witches are here, at least they don’t control the crocodiles like they do out West.

Coming from a radically different culture, it can be a bit of a shock to the system when it comes to practices like bewitchment. When I think “witches,” my mind conjures things like summerstock theater productions of “Macbeth”, or that hilarible film Sarah Jessica Parker and Bette Midler did in the 1990s. Generally speaking, I’m an empirically-minded kinda gal. If you know me at all, you can probably predict what I think of witchcraft and the likelihood that magic can influence our world. But as someone who has immersed myself wholly in the field of counseling psychology (not to mentioned waded up to the hips in anthropology), I can’t just roll my eyes and say, “Oh, you!” Even if I could drag my entire village into a laboratory and “prove” (things can never be proven, only disproven) that witchcraft is bunk, it wouldn’t matter. Why should it? The phenomenological is incredibly powerful.

Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise has never seen it in action. Our beliefs about our own outcomes, and the rituals we build around them, can have a direct impact on our wellbeing. Look at the placebo effect, for example: in virtually every well-designed study, it must be accounted for, or the resultant data is all but worthless. It’s very, very real. Or, for a less science-y example, take this anecdote: at an Amnesty International conference, I once ended up having a conversation with a social worker who specialized in assisting Native American women access needed social services. She had recently written a manual about gold-standard responses to domestic violence in Native communities, and included a lengthy section about allowing traditional cleansing/purification circles to be performed in group homes for survivors of sexual assault. She said the difference it could make was rather dramatic. Sometimes, the belief is the outcome.

For further examples, you could always examine your own life: have you ever prayed before an exam or job interview? How do you feel on Friday the 13th? Have you ever held your breath driving through a tunnel? Do you have some kind of talisman you take with you when you travel, perhaps a rabbit’s foot or lucky pair of underbritches? Do you wish on shooting stars? How do you feel about these things, and how would you feel if I kicked in your door and told you that you’re being irrational?

If you’re going to do work in a community, you must first understand and have respect for the way that community operates. Not just where the water table is and who’s in charge of whatever department, but also how they view the world, and who or what influences it.

So despite being more colorful than other explanations (“malaria is caused by bad air” vs. “malaria is caused by my evil neighbor John ensorcelling my children”), it really differs very little from the rest of my job. I educate people to the absolute best of my ability, give them as much relevant knowledge as I can about the topics that concern them. What they do with that information is up to them. I can’t control that. As an outsider (which I will probably always be, no matter how long I live here or how well I speak the language), I can take two approaches to resistance: the first is to find receptive Kenyans and have them be the ones to pass the message. It’s more likely to become part of the local informational canon if it comes from someone who has lived within culture long enough to understand it kabisa. This has been particularly helpful in addressing the myth that HIV is caused by witchcraft and can be cured by waganga.

The other is to try to supplement their existing beliefs with additional information – not unlike the “education through listening” technique that’s all the rage in development circles these days. It’s the same basic practice as I saw one local community health worker employ when he spoke to a group of mothers who were dubious of immunizations: by all means, pray for your children to stay healthy. Pray every day. But if God gave us vaccines, why not do that also? Provide double the protection? Or, if we go back to our malaria example – medicine tells us malaria comes from XYZ, so just to be safe, can’t we follow ABC precautions as well? Give your children these drugs when they get sick? If your congregation wants to come over to lay on hands and pray over your house to protect it from witches, that’s wonderful. But if we have other tools that might help, what’s the harm in using them? It’s clear you care about the health of your children and are willing to take action to prevent illness, so that’s an excellent first step. If you’re fastidious in your efforts, you’re going to see a difference with these “modern” methods of malaria prevention, too.

My health class students put this up, along with several others addressing these specific, pervasive beliefs.

As for the most dangerous situations wherein witchcraft accusations are made – where someone is tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion, then burned or murdered in some other grisly fashion – the relief is that these occasions are becoming increasingly unusual. Some people I have spoken to describe “the days before Christ came to Africa” (i.e. before missionaries showed up and did their thing) as being when witchcraft was really the law of the land, and it’s been in steady decline ever since. The most powerful witches are “very old grandmothers” now. Furthermore, unlike our neighbor-nation, Tanzania, where albinos frequently are kidnapped and murdered so their body parts can be used in witchcraft rituals, Kenyans don’t go out of their way to target any particular group. Witches can be men or women, rich or poor, from any region or tribe (although certain tribes seem to have more well-known reputations for skilled sorcery than others.)

This is small consolation for those who are set on fire by a howling mob, of course. I think even the most hand-wringing cultural relativist – and I’m right there among them – would say that’s a horrifically terrible situation. I’ve spoken at some length about this topic to some friends and colleagues, conversations that sometimes included explaining the Salem witch trials – and the political ramifications thereof. Many would argue that scripture is on their side, and I certainly can’t represent any higher authority than that. Like child marriage, witchcraft is a complex and deeply-ingrained aspect of the culture in my little corner of Kenya. For all my honest cultural exchange and education, changing it, quite frankly, isn’t my task here. I don’t know what I’d do if it were.

Hey you. Yeah, you. Did you get tested yesterday? Yes? Come over here so I can give you a hug, you big, brave warrior in the fight against HIV. No? Did you at least make plans for when you will be? Please do. I care about you, and knowing your status is your first step in either living positively, or assessing your risks to continue being HIV negative, depending.

Anyway, here’s a little light reading/viewing to ponder, discuss, and ease you into your post-World AIDS Day weekend.

Op-Ed: As Long as Homophobia Lives, AIDS Won’t Die

While I did not tolerate or approve of homosexual people and homosexual activities, I did not mind their existence in Zambian society as long as they kept their distance from me, my family, and my career. What I did not realize was that my prejudiced line of thinking (as an “educated HIV activist,” no less) was exactly why the gay/MSM community was being left out of the HIV/AIDS discussion. Left alone. Left, in many cases, to become infected, get sick, and die.

Fight AIDS With Family Planning

215 million women worldwide are not using an effective method of contraception despite the fact that they want to avoid pregnancy. The largest segment of these women live in sub-Saharan Africa and many are at risk of HIV. Women account for 60 percent of people living with HIV in sub-Saharan Africa, and young women between the ages of 15-24 are up to eight times more likely to be infected than men of the same age.

Sub-Saharan Africa Leads World in Drop in HIV Rate

Officials with the U.N. AIDS organization said Friday that countries with the largest epidemics in Africa are leading the drop in the number of infections. Those include Ivory Coast, Ethiopia, Nigeria, South Africa, Zimbabwe and Zambia.

Aids-free generation can be achieved, says US secretary of state Hillary Clinton

Science had shown that Aids can be defeated – even if the virus which causes it will be around for the foreseeable future, she said. Three tools, used in combination, could turn the tide: preventing babies from being infected at birth; voluntary male circumcision, which reduces female to male transmission of the virus by 60%; and anti-retroviral drug treatment, which recent studies have shown not only keep those with HIV alive but reduces the risk of transmitting the infection to their partner by 96%.

This week, I’m not only busy, but also inconveniently unwell, so I unfortunately don’t have as much time to devote to a long blog post about World AIDS Day as I would like. However, I would be truly remiss in my duties as a public health volunteer to forego mentioning it entirely. I’ve spoken a lot about HIV issues here in Kenya on this blog, but today, I’m going to reach out to the rest of my blog readers – the majority of whom are American – and proselytize to *you* a little bit.

Here, I deal a constantly with attempting to right the unfounded mythos of HIV: you can cure HIV by having sex with a virgin, or by drinking tree-bark tea, or by having sex with lots and lots of people (as though your body has a finite number of viruses, and you can “give them all away.”) Some believe you cannot get HIV the first time you have sex, or if you have sex with someone who is pregnant. In America, the myths are different, but the presence of misinformation is the same: HIV is for “druggies and drag queens” (yes, that is an actual quote.) The HIV virus doesn’t cause AIDS, meth use and “the gay bathhouse lifestyle” does. AIDS is only spread through anal sex, not any other behavior or activity. Young people don’t get HIV. Only African-Americans can get HIV (while minorities are disproportionately represented in new infections, they are FAR from the only ones contracting the virus.) Even if you get HIV, you can live forever. Alternatively, if you get HIV, you’re going to progress to AIDS and die almost immediately, so why find out early?

In many instances, this misinformation is more dangerous than bare ignorance. So here are a few things you should do:

• Understand your risk: There was a time in American history when people (wrongly) thought HIV was limited to “the four H’s”: “homos” (gay men, though pretty much all modern researchers/activists reject the derogatory term used here), heroin addicts, “Haitians” (for more information on this puzzling category, read The Origin of AIDS by Jaques Pepin), and hemophiliacs (who often received dozens of blood product transfers per year before our national blood banks were considered “safe.”) Everyone else assumed they were ok.

  While unprotected male-to-male sexual contact remains one of the riskiest behaviors in terms of contracting HIV, nearly four times as many Americans contract HIV from heterosexual contact as from injectable drug use. Young women are twice as likely to be infected this way, although the highest overall age group for new infections isn’t “young people,” but those who are 35-45 years old. Doesn’t exactly fit the stereotypical profile of young, gay, drug-addicted men being the “typical” person living with HIV, does it? EVERYONE – every single person – could be at risk.

• Know the modes of transmission: HIV is present in all body fluids of an infected person – saliva, urine, sweat, tears – but not all fluids are created equal: in only three are the viral loads high enough to be a vector for transmission. HIV is spread through blood, sexual fluid, and breastmilk. You can become infected with HIV through sex (unprotected anal sex being the highest risk, vaginal sex in the middle, oral sex being very low but not non-zero risk). You can pass it on to your child during birth or through breastfeeding. You can get HIV if you’re in a car accident and someone bleeds on you, if you share a needle during IV drug use, or if you’re in the healthcare field and you get “pricked” (although if I recall correctly, the risk there is still 0.3%). Contrary to what virtually all of my students here – both children and adults – believe, you cannot get HIV through saliva when kissing. Nor can you get HIV through someone dripping sweat on you on the soccer field. Nor from sharing cups, plates, or public swimming pools. Nor from spending too much time at nightclubs in the company of “loose women” (as long as you refrain from the other, above-mentioned activities.) It’s also worth mentioning that the rate of transmission through sexual or blood contact isn’t 100%: one broken condom or stray needle won’t automatically change your status. But it’s better to minimize your own risks than play the odds, which brings us to …
• Take precautions: Preventing HIV through sexual contact is as easy as ABC:

  A – Abstain. You don’t have to be having sex all the time. But for most people, this isn’t realistic, so …

  B – Be faithful. Only having sex with one person, who is *also* only having sex with you, reduces your chances DRAMATICALLY. Especially if you both get tested before you start.

  C – Condoms! Condoms condoms condoms! This is probably the best option for most of us. They’re cheap, they’re readily available, they really don’t make THAT much of a difference in sensation, they protect from a wide range of STIs, not to mention the pregnancy thing … what’s not to love? Just make sure you’re using them correctly every single time (many people don’t! Check your knowledge against the helpful how-to guide at the link.)

  As for the other modes of transmission, don’t use drugs, don’t share sharp things, get tested for HIV if you become pregnant (your doctor can help you reduce the likelihood of you passing your infection onto your baby), and if you find yourself exposed, seek post-exposure prophylaxis.

  By the way, there IS one documented case of HIV acquisition through kissing: the man had gum disease, so there was blood present, and his female partner drew the short straw by having some cut or lesion in her mouth that allowed transmission. You’re more likely to win the lottery while being struck by lightning than having this happen to you, but it’s food for thought.

• GET TESTED! – Here in Kenya, they’ve got the US beat: you can’t throw a rock without hitting a VCT (Voluntary Testing and Counseling) center. In the US, getting tested can be an ordeal; when I got tested the first time before Peace Corps, I had to wait in line at the county health department instead of going to my normal doctor’s office. Still, don’t let that delay you. Most major cities have STI clinics, everywhere has Planned Parenthood, and if you’re in Washington DC, you can just head down to the Department of Motor Vehicles and get tested while you wait in line.

  You should be getting tested at least once per year (twice is better), plus every time you get a new partner. Even if you’re old. Even if you’re married. Even if you’re a shut-in who spends all your time with your cats. It’s worth it: HIV is not the death sentence it once was, and the sooner you find out your status, the sooner you can start on medication and/or making lifestyle (mostly diet and exercise) changes that will give you a happy, long life. Yes, it can be scary. Take a friend if you want so they can hold your hand in the waiting room, then go to Starbucks to celebrate your newfound peace of mind with a peppermint latte.

  IF you suspect you’ve been exposed, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE do NOT get tested by donating blood. Yes, they screen all blood products, but there is a window of several weeks after exposure wherein you’re SUPER infectious but have not yet developed adequate antibodies to show up on the test. So if you’re worried about infection, get tested once, then again 3-6 months later. That will give you your most accurate results.

As for me? I’ve gotten tested twice in the past year (once last year on World AIDS Day, then again more recently) and will probably do so once more today as a show of solidarity and to lead by example. It’s not terrible. I promise. Sometimes it involves a little-bitty blood prick, sometimes a cheek swab – but honestly, isn’t a minor discomfort worth knowing?

There are around 50,000 new cases of HIV every year in the United States. We are lucky to live in a nation where the majority of people who need anti-retroviral drug treatments can access them, and the overwhelming tide of death that characterized the AIDS crisis that characterized the 1980s and early 90s has been much moderated. We should all work to accept those who are “living positively” as strong and capable people with long lives ahead of them. But if we have a chance to prevent becoming infected with a chronic disease ourselves, shouldn’t we take it? Today is World AIDS Day. I challenge every person reading this blog to do three things:

1. Further educate yourself. This post covers the basics, but isn’t comprehensive. Here is a website designed by students which offers a little more on the history in the US as well as a list of myths and facts. For more detail on the history of the virus and its entrance onto the world stage, I again recommend Origin of AIDS by Jacque Pepin.

2. Get tested. It’s worth it, I promise.

3. Tell your friends. Viruses spread – but so does knowledge! Give your friends information to help them make safer decisions, and if you hear them repeating myths, call them out on it.

I was asked to provide some assistance with the new training class, who will take their oaths of service next month. For this reason, I found myself back in That Dusty Training Town, only to find it not dusty at all – green, flooded, muddy, replete with things growing and an omnipresent scent of rain.

In my long absence, this minute, insignificant village that appeared on few maps has become a thriving border post with an immigration office, cellular tower, and several flawlessly-paved roads. In some ways it is so unfamiliar now that, at one point during our dusk approach, I turned to the driver of the matatu I was in and asked, “We’re going to Loitokitok, right? This is the correct road?”

The views of Mt. Kilimanjaro remain nonetheless stunning, though, despite the obscuring rain.

The word “nostalgia” was first coined in the 18th century by combining the two Greek root words: nostos, meaning “homecoming,” and algos, meaning “pain” or “grief.” So literally, it refers to a palpable distress associated with homesickness, although in the 20th century, it became more associated with the vague longings of classic car commercials and the return of the peasant blouse. An unfulfilled desire, sure, but a source of fondness as often as – or more often than – genuine discomfort. It is this was that I have felt about my first few months in Kenya and the place I lived when I first began my adventure. But as I considered the conflict between aspects of my return that were powerfully memory-evocative and those that inspired an unsettling sense of rank unfamiliarity, I found myself wondering: can a place still be “home,” or still in any way worthy of nostalgia, when so many of the elements that made it what it once was – people, experiences, in many cases the very paths we walked – are conspicuously absent?

But I’m certain that I’m overthinking it. Enough remains the same for me to have no choice but to love this place, in its own way. I was able to visit my host family for the first time since my own training; my arrival was largely a surprise. The slow transformation in my Host Mama’s face when I stepped through the door, from a momentary lack of recognition, to flickering shock, to shrieking glee, was more than enough to overwrite the curious same-strangeness of my day.

My host mama, modeling the kikoi I brought her as a gift from the Coast. I’m on the right, in my Peace Corps t-shirt.

Home is what we decide it will be.

My host sister, Peri, holding my host brother Nelson’s 7-month-old son. So … my host nephew, I guess? “Auntie Meg” has always had a charming ring to it.

]]> http://thisamerikenyanlife.wordpress.com/2011/11/26/return-to-a-dusty-border-town/feed/ 0 takinthelongway http://thisamerikenyanlife.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/happy-world-toilet-day/ http://thisamerikenyanlife.wordpress.com/2011/11/20/happy-world-toilet-day/#comments Sun, 20 Nov 2011 07:47:23 +0000 Megan H http://thisamerikenyanlife.wordpress.com/?p=1020 ]]> Well everybody, it’s the most wonderful time of the year: world toilet day. When we gather together with our families and loved ones to …

Actually. You know what? You can make your own jokes here. Giving lectures about diarrhea to rooms full of giggling elementary school children is one thing. Unleashing toilet humor on unsuspecting blog readers is quite another. Not going to touch it with a ten-foot choo support beam. Instead, I’m going to direct you to my three-part blog series about World Water Day (|Part 1||Part 2||Part 3|), which covers general sanitation issues, plus my games day with my health classes. Knock yourselves out.

I will tell one quick anecdote, though, so bear with me:

During Peace Corps training, we would spend the mornings doing language class and the afternoons doing “technical,” which covered everything from community integration strategies to how printing “be prompt!” at the bottom of a meeting schedule is the most absurd waste of ink since hair dryer manufacturers added “Do Not Use While Sleeping” to their instruction sheets. One particular day, a training manager was lecturing about the importance of the language we use when speaking with members of our community. “Don’t be afraid to use colloquialisms if you want to be understood,” he told us softly. “Use the words the community uses. Otherwise they will think you are some … nini semaje, some pretentious intellectual who doesn’t understand their problems. If you are talking about latrines, don’t tell them about ‘defecation,’ tell them about SHIT. Don’t tell them about ‘urination,’ tell them about PISS.”

If we’d been dozing before, we weren’t anymore. He captured everyone’s attention, and as we shifted uncomfortably on our benches and clutched our metaphorical pearls, he threw out a couple of useful slang Swahili words we could employ for the purpose.

It should be a shock to no one that he wasn’t just pulling our leg. Sanitation is, for many, a life-or-death issue, so why NOT make sure everyone understands? Below is a full page (righthand side, blinding color) in the Saturday edition of the nation’s largest and most respected newspaper, the Daily Nation. Complete with festive rhymes!

Click for a larger view

Now, with that queasy thought rattling around in your head, I leave you to enjoy the rest of your weekend with the following housekeeping note: I’m heading out tomorrow to do a training and won’t be back for almost a week, so I’m afraid there won’t be any new blog content for a little while. If this page goes quiet for the next ten days or so, please don’t assume I’ve been eaten by pirates. (Although I suppose that’s always a possibility.)