So you would have to be living under a rock to not know that Obama won the US Presidential election. In Kenya there’s no way you couldn’t know. This is a recap of my memory of the day the first African American man became president…
About 5:00 am Kenya time I wake up in a pool of my own sweat because the air conditioner had stopped working at some point, and the hot Mombasa air was seeping into the bedroom. I thought, “Great way to start the day”. So unable to fall back asleep, or breath, or move, I got up and had a shower. When I got out I heard Meghan yelling from the other room, “Obama wins!”… something I would hear many times that day, and many days after.
I get into the matatu to work and blarring on the radio is news of Obama’s win and call in talk shows with Kenyans, not Americans, rejoicing in the victory… You did know that Obama is part Kenyan, right?
All the newspapers on the side of the road have Obama’s face on the cover and a catchy headline about the momentous occasion. I over hear conversations on my walk to the office, and amongst Kiswahili words, is Obama this and Obama that…
Before even entering the office, I’m told by the support staff that Obama has won.
The following are reactions heard that day:
Coworker- “Did you hear there was a record turn out for the election?”
Me- “No, I didn’t. That’s great!”
Coworker- “It must be the African touch”. (Note: the smile ear to ear)
Coworker- “You know I was supporting John McCain?”
Me- “Really? Why’s that?”
Coworker- “Because I want Obama to come to Kenya and be our President.”
Coworker- “Obama Day will be like our, (Kenya’s), Christmas because we didn’t get one last year.”
Needless to say very little work got done that day, and the day after, Obama Day.
Since then a day doesn’t go by without some mention of the win… although I think the radio and t.v. did stop the constant airing of his acceptance speech…
I’m not American and I’m not Kenyan, but I feel happy to have shared in some small way in the happiness people felt that day, and continue to feel. At the end of the day, no matter how you feel about Obama, and no matter the work he ends up doing as President, he’ll always represent for people the fact that someone can work hard, stand for what they believe, oppose the candidate that represents the kind of person the country has backed for generations, and win.
So Happy belated Obama Day… and to the Kenyans who have said to me that every day is Obama Day, I think you might be right.
11/13/2008
Political Perspective
On this election day, I sit in an office in Nairobi and get ready to go home for the day, and think of you in Canada as you start your day… and I sit and wonder who will be the next Prime Minister of Canada tomorrow. I’m worried, I’m hopefully, I’m sad, I’m waiting.
When the election was called I almost immediately looked into how I could vote from Kenya. I had to download a form and fill it out, then fax/mail it to Canada, then they would mail me a ballot (because it has to be an original), then I would fill it out, and then mail it back (again because it has to be the original ballot)… Now if you knew what I know about the Kenyan postal service you would laugh because the election would be longer over, the votes would be tallied, and my ballot would still be in transit to Canada… So realizing the futility of my efforts, and the ridiculous process that the government makes Canadians abroad go through in order to vote, (basically making it impossible to do so from remote or developing places), I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be voting in this election.
I was really sad about the whole thing because I think it’s extremely important, and that it’s my duty, to exercise the right to vote… And that unlike in many places as a citizen, a young person, a woman, I can and do vote. So a little frustrated by the bureaucracy that is Canada, I was complaining to a friend of mine who is from Mombasa, that I couldn’t vote. And she looked at me like, what’s the big deal… and she said, without apology or hesitation, “I never vote!”… Of course I asked why, although living in Kenya I had a feeling I knew the answer, she said, “Because it doesn’t matter”… She explained that she had no faith that the person who actually had received the most votes would come into office, and that she doesn’t rely on the government for anything… she takes care of herself, and because she makes a good living she can take care of herself when the government doesn’t. And I thought to myself about how during the last Canadian election, there were so many discussions about voter apathy, and people becoming disillusioned by the parties and the leaders, and then I looked at my Kenyan friend, and saw real disillusionment… What it really means to have absolutely no faith in the government, to resign yourself to the fact that the only person who is looking out for you or is going to take care of you is, you.
And really, I couldn’t blame her, or argue with her.
So when you think about voting today, and say to yourself things like, “What’s the point? It will make no difference”, really think about how true that is, about places where there is no faith in the system, where people are and should be disillusioned… and get up, go out, and vote!
*Note: This entry was written on election day but I was not able to post it at that time. However, although slightly out of date, it might offer those of you who didn’t vote something to think about now…
When the election was called I almost immediately looked into how I could vote from Kenya. I had to download a form and fill it out, then fax/mail it to Canada, then they would mail me a ballot (because it has to be an original), then I would fill it out, and then mail it back (again because it has to be the original ballot)… Now if you knew what I know about the Kenyan postal service you would laugh because the election would be longer over, the votes would be tallied, and my ballot would still be in transit to Canada… So realizing the futility of my efforts, and the ridiculous process that the government makes Canadians abroad go through in order to vote, (basically making it impossible to do so from remote or developing places), I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be voting in this election.
I was really sad about the whole thing because I think it’s extremely important, and that it’s my duty, to exercise the right to vote… And that unlike in many places as a citizen, a young person, a woman, I can and do vote. So a little frustrated by the bureaucracy that is Canada, I was complaining to a friend of mine who is from Mombasa, that I couldn’t vote. And she looked at me like, what’s the big deal… and she said, without apology or hesitation, “I never vote!”… Of course I asked why, although living in Kenya I had a feeling I knew the answer, she said, “Because it doesn’t matter”… She explained that she had no faith that the person who actually had received the most votes would come into office, and that she doesn’t rely on the government for anything… she takes care of herself, and because she makes a good living she can take care of herself when the government doesn’t. And I thought to myself about how during the last Canadian election, there were so many discussions about voter apathy, and people becoming disillusioned by the parties and the leaders, and then I looked at my Kenyan friend, and saw real disillusionment… What it really means to have absolutely no faith in the government, to resign yourself to the fact that the only person who is looking out for you or is going to take care of you is, you.
And really, I couldn’t blame her, or argue with her.
So when you think about voting today, and say to yourself things like, “What’s the point? It will make no difference”, really think about how true that is, about places where there is no faith in the system, where people are and should be disillusioned… and get up, go out, and vote!
*Note: This entry was written on election day but I was not able to post it at that time. However, although slightly out of date, it might offer those of you who didn’t vote something to think about now…
10/09/2008
At Least You Have Your Health
What would it be like if you lived in a place where 30%-50% of the people were sick all the time? It’s hard to really comprehend because when you’re healthy you somehow forget exactly how horrible you felt when you were sick. You forget about the constant headache, the nose that won’t stop running, the agony of swallowing with a sore throat, running to the washroom constantly, being too hot then too cold, then too hot again. But you forget because usually it doesn’t last very long and then things are back to normal, and it will be a while before you get sick again.
So what happens when your symptoms linger, or they never go away? Are you able to be 100% productive at work? Can you even go to work? Are you the best mother, sister, daughter, you can be? And what happens when everyone around you is never 100% healthy, and they are always dealing with one ailment or another?
I think about these things because when I first got Mombasa, I realized that many of my coworkers/any Kenyan I met would never have their drinks cold, and many of them cited having a sore throat as the reason. I thought to myself, “That’s weird”, and then kind of dismissed it until my throat got too sore for me to enjoy cold drinks anymore, [and let me tell you, its hard to resist a cold beverage, even though you know it won’t be enjoyable, when its 38 degrees and you’re in the middle of the desert… but that’s another story].
The point is, I took the medicine I had brought with me from Canada and now I’m better, while some of my coworkers have yet to be able to enjoy a cold drink.
One day a coworker asked me what the major illnesses is that affects Canadian children… was it malaria, diarrhea, TB, HIV, bilharzia? And I thought about it and I came up with lice, chicken pocks, the common cold, and that was about it. And he said Canada must be a great place to live, [and although I think Canada is a good place to live, there’s no doubt about it, I don’t think it’s a perfect place to live, and I do think that it doesn’t always serve as a very good example of good policy decisions]. But in that moment, when he looked at me like, “That’s it, that’s all you have to deal with”, I thought, you’re right for the most part, barring some unique illnesses, Canadian children have their health.
Which brings me to an event I learned of the other day when doing some work at a primary school, which made me really think of all this… I was interviewing some staff and they told me of a student who had collapsed and died outside in the school yard recently. I asked what the cause was and they replied, asthma.
Now of course having had asthma since I was around the same age as that student, I was taken aback by the news. I pictured what happened, knowing that respiratory infections are very common and trips to the doctor are not… its possible the child’s lungs were weakened by an infection, and they didn’t even know they had asthma or what asthma was, and running around and playing with their friends, put too much of a strain on their weak lungs and died on the playground.
I don’t know the solid statistics but I know it’s extremely rare for a child or an adult to die from asthma in Canada, (as long as it hasn’t become too severe), once they are aware that they have the illness. Why? Not because it’s a disease without risk but because people are diagnosed, prescribed medicine, and instructed on how to manage their illness.
And so I think to myself, “that could have been me; I could have been that child,” but because of universal health care, I wasn’t that child… and I had my health growing up…
So what happens when your symptoms linger, or they never go away? Are you able to be 100% productive at work? Can you even go to work? Are you the best mother, sister, daughter, you can be? And what happens when everyone around you is never 100% healthy, and they are always dealing with one ailment or another?
I think about these things because when I first got Mombasa, I realized that many of my coworkers/any Kenyan I met would never have their drinks cold, and many of them cited having a sore throat as the reason. I thought to myself, “That’s weird”, and then kind of dismissed it until my throat got too sore for me to enjoy cold drinks anymore, [and let me tell you, its hard to resist a cold beverage, even though you know it won’t be enjoyable, when its 38 degrees and you’re in the middle of the desert… but that’s another story].
The point is, I took the medicine I had brought with me from Canada and now I’m better, while some of my coworkers have yet to be able to enjoy a cold drink.
One day a coworker asked me what the major illnesses is that affects Canadian children… was it malaria, diarrhea, TB, HIV, bilharzia? And I thought about it and I came up with lice, chicken pocks, the common cold, and that was about it. And he said Canada must be a great place to live, [and although I think Canada is a good place to live, there’s no doubt about it, I don’t think it’s a perfect place to live, and I do think that it doesn’t always serve as a very good example of good policy decisions]. But in that moment, when he looked at me like, “That’s it, that’s all you have to deal with”, I thought, you’re right for the most part, barring some unique illnesses, Canadian children have their health.
Which brings me to an event I learned of the other day when doing some work at a primary school, which made me really think of all this… I was interviewing some staff and they told me of a student who had collapsed and died outside in the school yard recently. I asked what the cause was and they replied, asthma.
Now of course having had asthma since I was around the same age as that student, I was taken aback by the news. I pictured what happened, knowing that respiratory infections are very common and trips to the doctor are not… its possible the child’s lungs were weakened by an infection, and they didn’t even know they had asthma or what asthma was, and running around and playing with their friends, put too much of a strain on their weak lungs and died on the playground.
I don’t know the solid statistics but I know it’s extremely rare for a child or an adult to die from asthma in Canada, (as long as it hasn’t become too severe), once they are aware that they have the illness. Why? Not because it’s a disease without risk but because people are diagnosed, prescribed medicine, and instructed on how to manage their illness.
And so I think to myself, “that could have been me; I could have been that child,” but because of universal health care, I wasn’t that child… and I had my health growing up…
9/12/2008
My Attempts to Look Smart
Working at Muslim organization and not being Muslim myself, I have had to try and find ways of fitting in with my coworkers. Now of course considering that I met one of my female coworkers in Ottawa just before I had left for Kenya and I asked her what I should wear to work, (remembering that she wears a hijab), she said I couldn’t wear what I was wearing because it was too tight… granted I’ll admit lululemon is on the tight side, but I disagree about the shirt… Anyway, so this made me wonder, “What to wear? What to wear?”. So everyday I struggled, wondering if what I was wearing was conservative enough, if my female coworkers, (who by the way make up 90% of the staff), were secretly judging me, as they walked into work with their burkas… So I would wear longer skirts and always a scarf around my shoulders, (which by the way makes me wonder how they wear those burkas in 30 degree temperatures, because I was dying with just a scarf around me). I went a while thinking that I was doing a pretty good job of being respectful, but then the day I wore a dress, (the only dress I brought), all the women were saying, “Oh don’t you look smart today!”, (smart being good in case you didn’t get it)… And then it hit me that although what I was wearing was tolerable it wasn’t “smart”. So I realized if I wore a dress, I didn’t have to wear the shall around my body, and vice versa… I thought to myself, “Nicole, now you’ve got it”… But again I was mistaken.
This month is the Holy month of Ramadan, and Mombasa being a predominately Muslim city, has been transformed by the religious occasion. I was warned about Ramadan when I first arrived, that we would start the day earlier, (7:30 am) and end the day earlier (3:30 pm), and of course there would be no eating or drinking while at work because everyone would be fasting, (considering there are only three non-Muslims in the office including me)… By the way no one said to me that I couldn’t eat or drink at work, but I didn’t want to offend anyone, so I too have been attempting to fast and let me tell you its probably the worst thing I’ve ever had to do… In the morning you feel fine, but by mid day you are starving and by 3:30 pm all you can think about is food and water, your head hurts, you feel weak and tired… The point is that I know I won’t be able to fast everyday while at work, so I tried to think about what else I could do to be respectful during this holy month…. So I decided I would cover my head with a scarf everyday for the entire month, (now I’ve added my own flare to the style of how I wear the scarf, which is much less conservative than how the Muslim women cover their heads)… Let me tell you, the response has been overwhelming, my coworkers love it! And it’s even given me some street credit with the Muslim community. More Muslims strike up random conversations with me on the street, I started getting better service at the canteen owned by a Muslim man, and I’ve even received a few marriage proposals to become a second wife. My only fear is that I don’t know the power of the head scarf. One of my female coworkers, who I socialize with daily, warned me that I needed to be careful now that I am covering my head. She said, “The Muslim men are looking at you thinking that you must be Muslim, and they will want to take you as their wife”. This of course seemed ridiculous to me as I have yet to see one mzungu, (white), Muslim, but I think she might be right. So I warn you, you think that you’re wearing clothes that make you look “smart” and garner approval from your coworkers, but you are also altering the way people see you altogether. As my female coworker says, “Covering your head is the first step to become Muslim”.
This month is the Holy month of Ramadan, and Mombasa being a predominately Muslim city, has been transformed by the religious occasion. I was warned about Ramadan when I first arrived, that we would start the day earlier, (7:30 am) and end the day earlier (3:30 pm), and of course there would be no eating or drinking while at work because everyone would be fasting, (considering there are only three non-Muslims in the office including me)… By the way no one said to me that I couldn’t eat or drink at work, but I didn’t want to offend anyone, so I too have been attempting to fast and let me tell you its probably the worst thing I’ve ever had to do… In the morning you feel fine, but by mid day you are starving and by 3:30 pm all you can think about is food and water, your head hurts, you feel weak and tired… The point is that I know I won’t be able to fast everyday while at work, so I tried to think about what else I could do to be respectful during this holy month…. So I decided I would cover my head with a scarf everyday for the entire month, (now I’ve added my own flare to the style of how I wear the scarf, which is much less conservative than how the Muslim women cover their heads)… Let me tell you, the response has been overwhelming, my coworkers love it! And it’s even given me some street credit with the Muslim community. More Muslims strike up random conversations with me on the street, I started getting better service at the canteen owned by a Muslim man, and I’ve even received a few marriage proposals to become a second wife. My only fear is that I don’t know the power of the head scarf. One of my female coworkers, who I socialize with daily, warned me that I needed to be careful now that I am covering my head. She said, “The Muslim men are looking at you thinking that you must be Muslim, and they will want to take you as their wife”. This of course seemed ridiculous to me as I have yet to see one mzungu, (white), Muslim, but I think she might be right. So I warn you, you think that you’re wearing clothes that make you look “smart” and garner approval from your coworkers, but you are also altering the way people see you altogether. As my female coworker says, “Covering your head is the first step to become Muslim”.
8/26/2008
Community
When working in the field of international development, the word community is thrown around about a thousand times a day. It is emphasized continuously that community involvement, community ownership, and community empowerment are all key elements of the increasingly popular movement towards “community development”. But one thing I have learned very quickly, is that the world of development is filled with words that are used by a variety of actors in a variety of contexts, and more often than not, the words begin to mean something different to every person who uses them, and for many, their over use has left them without any true meaning. Sustainability, local ownership, gender empowerment, community development, efficiency, effectiveness, what do they all really mean? I can tell you what my university education would tell you, I could tell you what some of my Canadian NGO counterparts would tell you, and I could tell you what some of my Kenyan co-workers would tell you… But, I would be up for the Nobel prize if I could give you a definition for any of the aforementioned terms which could be 100% agreed upon by more than 10 people. However, after arriving and living in Mombasa, Kenya, for just over one month I feel closer than ever before to understanding what is meant by “community”.
When you arrive in a new place and you don’t know the language, the culture, the food, or directions you feel as far away from your community as humanly possible. Your school, your neighbourhood, your teammates, your friends. Your communities are nowhere to be found, and you feel lost. But then something happens and you see the power and glory of “community” all around you. Your neighbours, your coworkers, your fellow interns, and even complete strangers, see that you are lost and they embrace you into their “community”, into what will be your new community or communities, until you arrive back home. And through this inclusion you somehow find common ground, compassion, companionship, and commitment in communities where you have never looked before.
And so when I sit around the boardroom table and “community” is thrown around a thousand times, I take comfort in the thought that if only 10% of “community’s” true meaning is realized, we will all be better off for it...
When you arrive in a new place and you don’t know the language, the culture, the food, or directions you feel as far away from your community as humanly possible. Your school, your neighbourhood, your teammates, your friends. Your communities are nowhere to be found, and you feel lost. But then something happens and you see the power and glory of “community” all around you. Your neighbours, your coworkers, your fellow interns, and even complete strangers, see that you are lost and they embrace you into their “community”, into what will be your new community or communities, until you arrive back home. And through this inclusion you somehow find common ground, compassion, companionship, and commitment in communities where you have never looked before.
And so when I sit around the boardroom table and “community” is thrown around a thousand times, I take comfort in the thought that if only 10% of “community’s” true meaning is realized, we will all be better off for it...
8/12/2008
A Mazungu in Mombasa
Every morning when I leave the house for work I tie my shall around my backpack, (so that there’s no temptation for pick pocketers) and I start my journey to work. I walk to the end of our driveway and I wait for any matatu, (a.k.a. crazy van packed with twenty people, which obeys no street rules, as there are none, with gangsta rap, and sometimes at night, fluorescent blue lights). Matatus, tuk tuks (small open air taxis), and cars wiz by me honking their horns, and I quickly flag my ride going towards the docks. Often the other passengers are perplexed by my presence on the matatu as generally foreigners, and anyone with some money, steer clear of them… but now that I’m a resident and I don’t have that much money I join in.
When I get off my matatu and take my five minute walk to the office, it becomes painfully obvious that no matter how long I’ll be here I will never blend in with the crowd. People yell, or say under their breath (which I particularly enjoy), “mazungu” (i.e. white person), some people go as far as to grab my arm, but most just point or stare, or both. Once my 5 minute, which seems like an eternity, walk is over I arrive at the Madrasa Resource Center’s office. When I go inside, unlike all the other women, I take my shall which was covering my bag, and wrap it around my shoulders so that the top half of my body is covered. I respect my Muslim coworkers by covering up. Ironically, many of the women, the ones who wear burkas, have a routine that is the opposite of mine. When they are outside in public, they are covered heard to toe, with only their eyes exposed. But when they are in the office, they take off a few layers, (but still wear their traditional Muslim hijabs).
In the office my mazungu status is played down, but every once in a while I get asked questions that start with “you people” or “your people”, and I am quickly reminded.
When I leave I repeat the whole process. People honk, yell, stare, point, grab, slow down their car, reverse their car, follow me, etc. It’s funny how in Canada everyone wants to stand out, be an individual, and here all I want is to blend in… Oh well, just another day in the life of a mazungu in Mombasa.
When I get off my matatu and take my five minute walk to the office, it becomes painfully obvious that no matter how long I’ll be here I will never blend in with the crowd. People yell, or say under their breath (which I particularly enjoy), “mazungu” (i.e. white person), some people go as far as to grab my arm, but most just point or stare, or both. Once my 5 minute, which seems like an eternity, walk is over I arrive at the Madrasa Resource Center’s office. When I go inside, unlike all the other women, I take my shall which was covering my bag, and wrap it around my shoulders so that the top half of my body is covered. I respect my Muslim coworkers by covering up. Ironically, many of the women, the ones who wear burkas, have a routine that is the opposite of mine. When they are outside in public, they are covered heard to toe, with only their eyes exposed. But when they are in the office, they take off a few layers, (but still wear their traditional Muslim hijabs).
In the office my mazungu status is played down, but every once in a while I get asked questions that start with “you people” or “your people”, and I am quickly reminded.
When I leave I repeat the whole process. People honk, yell, stare, point, grab, slow down their car, reverse their car, follow me, etc. It’s funny how in Canada everyone wants to stand out, be an individual, and here all I want is to blend in… Oh well, just another day in the life of a mazungu in Mombasa.
8/08/2008
Little Flat on the Creek
Since arriving in Kenya the circumstances surrounding mine, Nikhil’s and Meghan’s accommodation can be described as a combination mystery, tragedy, and adventure mixed with comic relief along the way. During our orientation we were informed that we would be staying with a host mother (insert shock here). Taken aback we discussed it and decided that for the first little while it might not be the worst thing to have someone cook for us, and do our laundry, and generally ease us into life in Mombasa… but of course it wouldn’t be permanent, or would it… (insert mystery here)?
Before moving into our new home, we met a girl, from Alabama, who was already living with the host mother. Within five minutes of her detailing, among other things, the 9 other people we would be living with, the set meal schedule (which included all types of meat, not so great for my veggie and hindu roommates), and mandatory Baptist church attendance on Sundays, our warm fuzzy feelings about our living situation quickly faded. (Insert variety of jokes about small living spaces, carnivores, religion, etc.). (Also insert horror at the thought of 8 months of the before mentioned circumstances).
However, to be honest upon arrival, we were pleasantly surprised. Although there were many people livening at the house, it was very big, nice and clean, the family was very welcoming and friendly, and the food was delicious (complete with veggie and beef free selections). Although it took us a few days to admit it, (insert suspense), Meghan, Nikhil, and I had decided that at least for a little while, this would make a pretty good home. So we got use to rides to work in the morning, chatting with the kids and mum in the evening, tea waiting for us when we got home from work, delicious dinners, internet access at home, etc.
And then the bomb dropped, after a casual discussion about payment for our accommodations it became apparent that in fact we could not afford to live in our new home (insert a touch of tragedy). A day later we packed our bags, settled up, and left not totally sure where we would be sleeping that night or where our new home might be (insert adventure). It was at this moment in time when the true kindness of strangers was demonstrated to us. Everyone and their mother at my office offered us a temporary, and in some cases, permanent place to live. We were assured that we would be taken care of and we were. In a new place, with no idea what you are doing, the kindness and generosity of strangers brings you a comfort that can’t really be described.
Two such strangers, who have now become our Uncle and Aunt in Mombasa, brought us to our new home. It’s a modest one bedroom place which over looks the creek, (at least that’s what the local people call it, but to me it’s an extremely large river that is fed by the ocean, but tomato, tomato… I guess that saying doesn’t really work in writing ). Everyday we get fresh produce from a stall down the street and begin making super from scratch, and eventually we settle into bed, where from across the room we say, “Good night Nikhil”, “Good night Meghan”, “Good night Nicole”.
And so the next 8 months of our lives begin, at our little flat on the creek…
Before moving into our new home, we met a girl, from Alabama, who was already living with the host mother. Within five minutes of her detailing, among other things, the 9 other people we would be living with, the set meal schedule (which included all types of meat, not so great for my veggie and hindu roommates), and mandatory Baptist church attendance on Sundays, our warm fuzzy feelings about our living situation quickly faded. (Insert variety of jokes about small living spaces, carnivores, religion, etc.). (Also insert horror at the thought of 8 months of the before mentioned circumstances).
However, to be honest upon arrival, we were pleasantly surprised. Although there were many people livening at the house, it was very big, nice and clean, the family was very welcoming and friendly, and the food was delicious (complete with veggie and beef free selections). Although it took us a few days to admit it, (insert suspense), Meghan, Nikhil, and I had decided that at least for a little while, this would make a pretty good home. So we got use to rides to work in the morning, chatting with the kids and mum in the evening, tea waiting for us when we got home from work, delicious dinners, internet access at home, etc.
And then the bomb dropped, after a casual discussion about payment for our accommodations it became apparent that in fact we could not afford to live in our new home (insert a touch of tragedy). A day later we packed our bags, settled up, and left not totally sure where we would be sleeping that night or where our new home might be (insert adventure). It was at this moment in time when the true kindness of strangers was demonstrated to us. Everyone and their mother at my office offered us a temporary, and in some cases, permanent place to live. We were assured that we would be taken care of and we were. In a new place, with no idea what you are doing, the kindness and generosity of strangers brings you a comfort that can’t really be described.
Two such strangers, who have now become our Uncle and Aunt in Mombasa, brought us to our new home. It’s a modest one bedroom place which over looks the creek, (at least that’s what the local people call it, but to me it’s an extremely large river that is fed by the ocean, but tomato, tomato… I guess that saying doesn’t really work in writing ). Everyday we get fresh produce from a stall down the street and begin making super from scratch, and eventually we settle into bed, where from across the room we say, “Good night Nikhil”, “Good night Meghan”, “Good night Nicole”.
And so the next 8 months of our lives begin, at our little flat on the creek…
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