So... When do we start teaching?

            Well, it took the better part of two weeks, but I finally have a better grasp on what goes on at Shikokho Secondary.  I arrived in the village last Tuesday, and on Wednesday the principal walked me over to the school to meet the staff.  As we approached the school we were met by a group of about 40 students walking in the opposite direction.  Thomas murmured: “They are being sent home because they do not have their school fees.”  In Kenya, even a public school like Shikokho Secondary is not free.  Fees for the year are only 10,000 shillings (roughly $100), but even this small amount can be very difficult to come up with.  Walking past them, knowing that I had spent over twice the cost of their year’s education in town the previous day, was an awful feeling.  I quickly sympathized with the principal’s predicament, however.  Many of the parents have the money, but are reluctant to give it up.  It appears that paying school fees can sometimes turn into a game of who-can-pull-one-over-on-the-principal, which will only come back to bite Thomas when government auditors inspect the books.  So Thomas has to be tough, but he is fair; if a parent can come up with at least 1,000 shillings by the beginning of school the child is allowed to start classes.

            Thomas then introduced me to the Director of Studies, Mr. Mwimani, who is also an English teacher.  After a brief discussion of my college studies (Thomas: “Maybe you can start an environmental club.” Hey, now there’s an idea…), we agreed that I will be teaching English, and Mr. Mwimani showed me into the staff room, where I met a few of the other teachers, including his wife and fellow English teacher.  I didn’t make the connection until later, but Thomas had warned me about the Mwimanis.  They were appointed to Shikokho by the government and therefore are not directly employed by the school.  “They are very lazy,” Thomas had said. “You will see the wife playing games on her phone all day long.”  I was officially introduced to only one or two other teachers, as most of them did not arrive until later in the morning (if at all).  To my slight irritation, it does not seem to be Kenyan culture to tell someone your name when you first meet them.  I shook hands with over a dozen people that day and came out with zero names to show for it (apart from the Mwimanis).  It was a fitting start to a week and a half of confusion and frustration.

House in Shikokho / New Pics

 ***NOTE: I have added pictures to previous entries (elephants, giraffes, etc.), so be sure to check them out!***

Hi everyone,

Just finished my second week in Shikokho--expect posts covering that time later this weekend (I was so irritated that I couldn't get my internet working that I haven't typed anything out yet). It took me a while to figure out what the heck was going on with the school schedule, because the first week is not very well organized. The schools opened last Tuesday, but the majority of the students did not have their school fees until a week later... meaning, the first week the teachers can't really do anything and I was SO BORED. Monday-Thursday of this week was testing, and today I taught my first official class! I taught one last Friday, but only about 1/3 of the students were present. It has been very frustrating at school because practically nothing was explained to me and I spent 8 hours a day sitting in the staff room wondering why in the WORLD aren't I in a classroom right now? I'm feeling much better now, however, because we finally sat down as a department and figured out my schedule (although it may still change slightly).

I promise to update more this weekend, but for now here are a few photos from the house I am staying in.

The house: the left side is ours

Right now I am living in the common room, as this side of the house has 2 bedrooms. Later we will move to the other side, which has 3, and I will have my own room.

Kitchen. It has running water and lights, but nothing else electric. I cook on a gas stove

Tuesday, January 3rd

Hello everyone, I finally have internet on my computer! Here are two updates from last week (note that I have posted two separate posts). Expect more tomorrow, including pictures!

       Tuesday morning I had been told to be ready for the Headmaster to pick me up from Kakamega at 10 am. Per Kenyan Time, he arrived at 11:30, accompanied by the school’s counselor, Everlyne. They took me to one of the three Wal-Mart type stores in the town, and I stocked up on the rest of the things I’ll need in the village. Poor Everlyne had volunteered to take charge of my cart so she had to follow me as I criss-crossed the store a billion times looking for the items on my list. We then crammed my luggage, my groceries (including two large basins for bathing and laundry), the Headmaster, Everlyne, me, and another school employee that needed a ride home into the Headmaster’s tiny car. After running a few errands in town we finally headed in the direction of Shikokho! I can’t remember what the distance is from Kakamega (people keep answering me in kilometers so it goes over my head), but the drive took us around 25 minutes. Thankfully, Everlyne had picked up a nice, cold Coke for me to have on the drive. The group was not as impressed as I thought they would be when I told them that I lived in the city where Coke was invented, but I was impressed when the Headmaster, Thomas, took the cap of the (glass) bottle off for me with his teeth.

       After some driving down bumpy dirt roads, which for the most part are impassable in the rainy season, we arrived in Shikokho! We went straight to the school, where I will be living in a house with two other teachers (both young Kenyan women). The house is a duplex, with a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms on each side. It is roughly the same size and shape as the apartment I lived in at Davidson. The living room is about the size of a dorm room, and then the kitchen is half that size. Right now I am staying in the living room (there is a bed) because this side of the house, where the two other women live, only has two bedrooms. The other side has three bedrooms and the Headmaster lives there alone right now. Sometime next week we will switch sides so all of us girls can have our own bedroom. The other two have been out of town, so I have not met them yet. It is just as well that they are gone, as I don’t have to feel bad about cluttering up the living room with all my stuff.

Monday, January 2nd

       Monday was spent mostly with Peter in Kakamega. Like the first time we met, he called me five minutes before he was to arrive at the hotel and I had to scramble to run out and meet him. I had been under the impression that he lived in Shikokho (pronounced Shi-ko-ho. You do not pronounce the second “k”), but he actually lives right in Kakamega. His wife and four children, however, live in Nairobi—I don’t know but I’m guessing because the schools are better. We swung by his apartment to pick up the keys to the Foundation for Sustainable Development (FSD) office. I got to see more of the town in the process. It is basically three main parallel streets, and I would estimate that the main city center is about 3 or 4 square city blocks. When we got to the office I made a delightful discovery—another white girl! She is interning with Peter from Canada, is also 22, and is also named Emily! We exchanged numbers so we can meet up sometime during these last three months of her six-month stay. She is living with a host family just outside Kakamega. As we sat there in his office Peter shared some gossip with us about a few of the other Westerners that have worked in or around Kakamega—whether with FSD, the Peace Corps, or teaching in the schools. They mostly involved white girls taking Kenyan lovers and causing big drama (typical)—the juiciest story stars a young American woman who had to abruptly return home to give birth to her half-Kenyan love child. The father (or shall I say Father) of the baby? Oh, just the Catholic priest.

Apart from warning me that I’m on my own when it comes to men (“I want to be your guide, but if you choose to have sex with a Kenyan man—that’s on you.”), Peter gave me many helpful tips on living and teaching in Shikokho. He explained how the school is structured and how I should negotiate my schedule with the Headmaster. Primary school in Kenya goes from grade 1-8, which they call "standards" (or sometimes "classes" instead of “grades” (5th grade is Standard 5, 6th grade is Standard 6, etc.). When they reach the secondary school, they are called "forms." So, 9th grade is Form 1, and 12th grade is Form 4. From there, rigorous examinations determine if you will be able to attend a 4-year University (although, just like in the States, some degrees—such as engineering—take longer to complete). 

 There are almost 600 students at Shikokho Secondary, which means around150 per form (grade). Each form is then separated for classes into “streams.” For the subject of English, each stream (meaning a class of around 50 students) has six 40-minute lessons per week (one of those meetings being a double period). So, Peter suggested I tell the Headmaster I want to teach two streams of English, which will mean 12 lessons per week. It baffles me that we are even having this conversation—you mean the school opens tomorrow and it hasn’t been decided yet what I’ll even be doing?? Can you imagine trying to pull that in the US? Maybe it’s because they are not paying me a salary, but I had no idea I would have this type of negotiating power—I assumed they would have made up my schedule for me and let me know the plan when I got there. I’m cool with this version of events, however. We also talked about how I can contribute to the school outside of the classroom. I’ve had it in the back of my head for a while now that I would like to start a chapter of the environmental organization 350.org. Peter liked the idea, but suggested that I put a lot of limits on membership, because if I’m not careful the whole school will show up for the club with the mzungu. I’ll take some time to think on it (“For the first month, focus less on doing and more on observing”), but right now I’m leaning towards an all girls environmental club. According to Peter, the girls in the school need strong mentors, as drop-outs due to pregnancy are on the rise. Lastly, Peter let me borrow two books on Kiswahili and the Rough Guide to Kenya. He advised me to keep myself busy reading to manage the culture shock better. 

 Because I had been running around with Peter all day (we went shopping after leaving the office) I had not eaten at all and was starving. Since it was my last night in the hotel, I decided to be adventurous and order one of the more expensive items on the menu—goat meat. Up until then I had been sticking to the vegetarian Indian dishes, which were 200 shillings on average. The goat—450 Kshs—came with potatoes and was a big disappointment all around. The goat meat had a delicious flavor, but was extremely tough and the majority of my serving was bones and gristle. The potatoes were bland, but I was delighted to find that the mound of shredded carrots that had been adorning all my meals was flavored with pineapple juice and was very good (making me half angry that I hadn’t tried it before). After giving up on the goat I popped in to see the mission group (they are a collaboration of two organizations—IDEA and VOSH—and the name of the trip is New Year’s Mission: Kenya Eye Clinic) again. They had seen Shikokho that day! I chatted with the pastor working with the group and he said he would try to visit me sometime this year (he lives in a village nearby). When I headed back to my room after dinner, one of the staff, Sheila, came to tidy up. Since the rooms are normally cleaned around noon, I think she had purposely waited until I was back so that we could chat. After asking my about the picture of Bryan and me I had propped up on the bedside table, she told me I had better come back to visit because, if not, "I will die!" What a cutie.

Last day in Kakamega

Yesterday I ventured out alone for the first time since coming to Africa. I’m still unclear what exactly my living situation will be, but I know I’ll need kitchen utensils so I started to walk back through town to Tusky’s. Not long into my journey I noticed a small boy (maybe 9 years old) following me closely at my elbow. A minute later, there were two of them. I asked them how they were, and the next thing I know, we’re all walking in a line holding hands. Oh boy, I thought, what did I just get myself into, but it made me smile and it was nice to have company. Their names were Stephen and Juma, and they never left my side the entirety of my shopping trip. I literally couldn’t make any sudden movements, because every time I turned around I was bumping into one of them. They tried to carry stuff for me and would grab things off the shelf before I could reach them, so I think they were aiming to be paid for the help. I felt a little sad at their disappointed faces when I said goodbye without giving them anything, but as Peter said, my white skin may as well be a flashing dollar sign on my forehead, and I need to make it clear that I am not here to hand out money.

While shopping I started to feel foolish again about my expectations for the region. I had lugged overseas several extra tubes of toothpaste, shampoo, soap, etc., thinking I would not be able to find them here. WRONG. Kakamega has pretty much everything I could ever need, including a cheap paperback copy of a book I’ve been wanting to read but didn’t buy back home because it was too expensive (too embarrassed to name the book but, Curtis, if you’re reading this, I think you know which one I’m talking about). I feel the same way about my wardrobe. Even in rural Kakamega, people for the most part do not dress like they are in the third world. This is especially true for the women, who often wear heels and snappy skirts and blouses. They do have a strange tendency to wear heavy coats or pullovers, which frankly baffles me as I sweat through my light T-shirts.

I don’t know if it was because there were fewer people on the streets or because Nancy wasn’t by my side, but I attracted a little more attention as I walked around town. It mostly came from men, who had the awkward tendency of waiting until after I had walked by to say “Hello, how are you?” or “Mzungu, hello!” (Mzungu is an all-inclusive term for “white person”). A few times I had to sidestep men offering rides on their boda bodas or in their matatus and say, “No thanks, I’m walking”. A boda boda is a simply a bike with a seat on the back and is a very popular/cheap mode of transport. Children and a couple women said hi to me as well. The children would giggle when I answered their greetings, and one little girl ran up and touched my arm as I passed by her in the store.

Last night I met my first group of Americans since arriving in Kakamega. They are a Christian group staying in the hotel as they travel around to nearby villages fitting people with glasses. I sat with them as they finished their dinner and went over their day and the upcoming days. Yesterday had been rough for them, as the village was very poor and no one spoke English. When I explained I would be teaching in Shikokho, a pastor they are working with native to the area said it was very close to where they had been that day. It hasn’t been that long, but it was nice to be around a bunch of other mzungus. They were worn out from the hard day but were very friendly and invited me to come along with them today. Unfortunately I had some more stuff to take care of here, so it didn’t work out. It was very neat, however, to hear about where some of our old donated glasses end up—I think I heard them say they gave out a couple hundred pairs in that one day alone!

Sometime today I think either Peter or the Headmaster, Thomas, will be in Kakamega to speak with me, and tomorrow morning Thomas will pick me up at the hotel in his car and bring me to Shikokho. I know the school opens tomorrow, but I do not know if that means classes will start (I hope not). The Kenyan way of life is very slow and relaxed, so it takes a while to figure out details—LUCKILY, though, my way of life is also very slow and relaxed. Hakuna Matata! (And yes, this is an actual Kiswahili phrase meaning “there are no problems,” and it is the unofficial motto of Kenya. Another language note—the term “Swahili” does not actually refer to the language, it refers to the culture that originated with the fusion of Kenyan coastal tribes and Arab traders. The “ki” means “language of.” So, Kiswahili means “language of the Swahili people.” The people of Shikokho are Luhya, so they speak Kiluhya--although I think many of them also know Kiswahili and at least some English).

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get internet next, but I should have good cell service if you feel like calling. You can email my dad at Chuck@thecastlefamily.com and he can get you the info on calling cards (they are cheap, I swear).

I survived 9 hours on Kenya's roadways

       In the morning, Moses came to put me on the bus to Kakamega. Even thought the bus station was maybe 30 yards down the sidewalk, I was glad to have him there. I don’t know if it’s because Moses is good with people or if it was because I am white, but he got my bags put onto the bus first and made sure they were safely stored away before I got on. In the same vein, I knew I was over the luggage weight limit that was printed on my ticket, but nobody said anything. Another rule listed on the ticket that I found odd: “Passengers are allowed only one baby.” Other than that, the bus was more or less exactly like a typical Greyhound (or Young bus for all you DCSD readers), only no TV and no air conditioning. It did, however, have the addition of an attendant that walked the aisle to make sure everything was ok, handed out bottled water, and checked everyone for buckled seatbelts.

       I had been given very strict instructions by both Peter and Moses to follow while on the bus: Do not accept anything from anybody—ESPECIALLY food or drink, as it could be drugged to make you easier to rob. Do not tell anyone what exactly you are doing here and how long you will be staying. Do not buy anything but bottled water or pre-packaged food at the bus stops, and do so at the bus station, not at any of the local shops. Needless to say, I was a bit nervous when I got on the bus, but nobody so much as looked twice at me. The bus was probably a little over halfway full with women and their eerily well-behaved children. The three little boys across the aisle from me sat crammed in the same seat the whole trip and I never heard a peep out of them. The man next to me said hi and we chatted a little bit over the course of the ride, but he didn’t ask me any specifics. Funny cultural thing—at one point I was sitting with my legs crossed Indian-style in my seat, and he asked me if I was Muslim, because “that is how they sit in the Mosques.” I knew I would be too nervous to get off the bus when we stopped so I just didn’t drink much and snacked on some clif bars.

       The ride was long, but not as bad as I expected. In the last couple of years Kenya has improved its roads significantly. I ended up in the back (unlike buses in the US, you are assigned a seat), which I had been told in the guidebooks to avoid because the rough roads make for a very bouncy ride. There were definitely some rough spots, but overall it was fine. Not 20 minutes into the trip, however, we passed a massive wreck involving a matatu (public transport—mostly vans with several rows of seating) and a flatbed truck. Luckily the people involved had already been taken away, but the twisted metal did NOT reassure me much as we began our 9-hour long journey. The ride, however, was pretty uneventful. The scenery was INCREDIBLE—Mountains, valleys, rolling hills, grassland, gazelles (whose meat, according to my neighbor, is very sweet), and ZEBRAS! By the end of it my neck was very sore from staring out the window for 9 hours straight. Just like in Nairobi, the streets near the towns were very busy. This time, however, they were filled with animals as well as people. I can’t count how many herds of goats, cows, and sheep we passed.

I kissed a giraffe and liked it

Happy New Year!

       The rest of my time in the Amsterdam airport was pretty uneventful. Unlike in the US, there is a security checkpoint by every gate instead of a central one at the airport entrance. This led to an awkward moment when I realized what exactly I was standing in line for and had to push my way back through the crowd to go empty my water bottle. As I sat at the gate I was starting to feel foolish in my ankle-length peasant skirt—the people around me were not dressed as I imagined travelers to a third-world country would dress. I’m not really sure what I had in mind, but skinny jeans, ballet flats, and pencil skirts was not it. I could have been getting onto a flight to London, New York, Atlanta… etc. I felt a

little better when a nun came up to me and, after offering to help me carry my stuff onto the plane (I only had a backpack and a pillow, but what a sweetheart, right?), she told me I was “dressed perfectly for Africa. They will be so grateful.” One last note about the Amsterdam airport—East Asians everywhere. I think they were mostly on connecting flights elsewhere, but it was still strange/unexpected. I also saw at least three white couples with an adopted Asian child.

       The flight into Nairobi was exactly the same as the flight intoAmsterdam, except this time the flight attendants were Kenyan, not Dutch, and my vegetarian meal was stewed cabbage and rice instead of tortellini. I saw my first African sunrise on the descent, as well as what I think was Mt. Kenya, the second highest peak in Africa (after Mt. Kilimanjaro in neighboring Tanzania). Funny story about Mt. Kenya—while an early British colonist was exploring the region he asked his Kikuyu (the largest of several different ethnic groups in K

enya) guide the name of it. The Kikuyu, who was drinking water out of a gourd at the time, misunderstood and answered with the Kikuyu word for gourd, kenya. So now the whole country is named for a gourd. Colonists. Ugh.

       After my first experience in a squat toilet (read: hole in the floor) in the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, I met my driver/guide Moses in baggage claim. I then had another interesting experience as I watched Moses argue with, and then drive away with, two baton-waving policemen, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with my bags and a large group of bored-looking Kenyans staring at me (…Welcome to Kenya!!!). Luckily, he came back within a couple minutes and we were able to leave. Turns out he had parked illegally and, as he asked for 1,000 Kenyan Shillings (I gave him $10) before he left, I think he was driving away to bribe the officers in private.