I found out today that if I sleep with more covers on, I won’t wake up at 4am… I’ll actually sleep till 8am! Sundays are uncomfortable for me, because it’s church day. All the TV programs are outrageous Christian programming. One was about a motorbike race and how each of the protective gears was a Christian shield. Another was talking about how hydraulics was one of God’s laws and god made ants with the ability to carry four times their body weight. Right, because evolution had nothing to do with that one. I gladly welcomed a change in programming when a lame Aussie soap opera came on (Neighbors), because it didn’t talk about religion. I was killing time till 12pm, because Phyllis was going to take me to the nearby crater.
I joined Delfie, Phyllis, and her friend George for breakfast. George was interesting to talk to, and was very aware of what it’s like for Americans to be in Kenya because he’s got two siblings abroad. As usual, I was asked on my thoughts on Obama’s upcoming presidency, but George was realistic and understanding when I told him I didn’t think Obama could help Kenyans as much as the people think. He said of course, why would people want to come to a place of violence over elections, muggings, being called a mzungo CONSTANTLY (it’s really getting under my skin, because I’m not a tourist and I’m not here to stay in lavish hotels and spend lots of money). George asked where I was working, and when I told him about the slums in Lanet and Kptembua he was horrified. He said “Did you go with any security?” – no – “Did you get pick pocketed?!” – no – “How did you not get mugged? I can’t even walk in those parts without getting mugged.” He thinks that they respect mzungos in those parts. I’m not sure if he’s right, in fact I think they despise mzungos at times.
The four of us piled into the car, and once we got to the gate of the Menengali Crater, the gate keeper charged Delfie 10F, Phyllis and George 20F each, and me 50F. They always charge mzungos more, no matter who they’re with. It makes NO sense at all, but Phyllis said corruption is life in Kenya. I can understand if they charge citizens less if their taxes cover park maintenance, but I really doubt that’s where taxes are going. And the roads aren’t really maintained – it’s so rocky and Phyllis’s old Subaru wagon almost bottomed out a few times. It was worth it when we got to the top. Pictures can’t capture the immensity of the crater, which is 90km wide. At night, baboons and leopards come out. There’s also this big sign with the distance from the crater to the big cities of the world, like NY (!!!), Mecca, London, Tokyo. There were more but I forget. My bad.
There was also this rickety old tower that overlooked the crater, and a cattle herder was just chillin’ up there, so I climbed up and joined him. However, when the tower started rocking I quickly climbed down. George gave me a necklace from the top of the crater with my name on it and the day we were at the crater. I thought that was nice of him. I felt like one of the family.
Phyllis had to drop Delfie off somewhere, so George and I sat out by the pool at Graceland and enjoyed tea. He taught me more Kiswahili, more technical things and explained that there is a difference between the language in Nairobi and that on the coast. In Nairobi, people speak shang (mix of Kiswahili and English), but the best Kiswahili is spoken on the coast which is also where most Kenyan Muslims are. I want to go there and learn, because I don’t want to learn bad Kiswahili.
We took a break when Phyllis came back, and I had my first meal of roasted goat, which is really good, with a side of French fries (ughh) and mokimo (mashed potatoes, skumaweekee, maize, cilantro aka dhania). Phyllis and George peer pressured me into having a Tusker (national beer) which is OK but honestly, in hot weather I hate beer bloat and am trying to avoid alcohol. Plus, I need to save money, although beer doesn’t cost more than $1.50. So we continued on with the lesson, and I was doing really well until George was teaching me to verb “to eat” – “kula”. At first, I couldn’t understand him, and said “Kuma?” George paused, and then started laughing uncontrollably. Phyllis asked him what I said and he told her, and then SHE started laughing. I was like geez what did I say?! Phyllis told me I had said “pussy”. And then she told me also never to say “mboro” which means “dick”. In this culture, you don’t just call people “dicks” for “jerks” and if you say those words people will look at you very odd. Soooo yea, lesson learned. It was my favorite and most pleasant day thus far in Kenya.
I joined Delfie, Phyllis, and her friend George for breakfast. George was interesting to talk to, and was very aware of what it’s like for Americans to be in Kenya because he’s got two siblings abroad. As usual, I was asked on my thoughts on Obama’s upcoming presidency, but George was realistic and understanding when I told him I didn’t think Obama could help Kenyans as much as the people think. He said of course, why would people want to come to a place of violence over elections, muggings, being called a mzungo CONSTANTLY (it’s really getting under my skin, because I’m not a tourist and I’m not here to stay in lavish hotels and spend lots of money). George asked where I was working, and when I told him about the slums in Lanet and Kptembua he was horrified. He said “Did you go with any security?” – no – “Did you get pick pocketed?!” – no – “How did you not get mugged? I can’t even walk in those parts without getting mugged.” He thinks that they respect mzungos in those parts. I’m not sure if he’s right, in fact I think they despise mzungos at times.
The four of us piled into the car, and once we got to the gate of the Menengali Crater, the gate keeper charged Delfie 10F, Phyllis and George 20F each, and me 50F. They always charge mzungos more, no matter who they’re with. It makes NO sense at all, but Phyllis said corruption is life in Kenya. I can understand if they charge citizens less if their taxes cover park maintenance, but I really doubt that’s where taxes are going. And the roads aren’t really maintained – it’s so rocky and Phyllis’s old Subaru wagon almost bottomed out a few times. It was worth it when we got to the top. Pictures can’t capture the immensity of the crater, which is 90km wide. At night, baboons and leopards come out. There’s also this big sign with the distance from the crater to the big cities of the world, like NY (!!!), Mecca, London, Tokyo. There were more but I forget. My bad.
There was also this rickety old tower that overlooked the crater, and a cattle herder was just chillin’ up there, so I climbed up and joined him. However, when the tower started rocking I quickly climbed down. George gave me a necklace from the top of the crater with my name on it and the day we were at the crater. I thought that was nice of him. I felt like one of the family.
Phyllis had to drop Delfie off somewhere, so George and I sat out by the pool at Graceland and enjoyed tea. He taught me more Kiswahili, more technical things and explained that there is a difference between the language in Nairobi and that on the coast. In Nairobi, people speak shang (mix of Kiswahili and English), but the best Kiswahili is spoken on the coast which is also where most Kenyan Muslims are. I want to go there and learn, because I don’t want to learn bad Kiswahili.
We took a break when Phyllis came back, and I had my first meal of roasted goat, which is really good, with a side of French fries (ughh) and mokimo (mashed potatoes, skumaweekee, maize, cilantro aka dhania). Phyllis and George peer pressured me into having a Tusker (national beer) which is OK but honestly, in hot weather I hate beer bloat and am trying to avoid alcohol. Plus, I need to save money, although beer doesn’t cost more than $1.50. So we continued on with the lesson, and I was doing really well until George was teaching me to verb “to eat” – “kula”. At first, I couldn’t understand him, and said “Kuma?” George paused, and then started laughing uncontrollably. Phyllis asked him what I said and he told her, and then SHE started laughing. I was like geez what did I say?! Phyllis told me I had said “pussy”. And then she told me also never to say “mboro” which means “dick”. In this culture, you don’t just call people “dicks” for “jerks” and if you say those words people will look at you very odd. Soooo yea, lesson learned. It was my favorite and most pleasant day thus far in Kenya.
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