Ugali feels like home.

What I've been told, and what I'm slowly figuring out for myself, is that some weeks in the Peace Corps are harder than others. Most weeks I don't even feel like I'm in the Peace Corps. I just live and work in Africa. Nothing special really. But there are some days that I get so pissed off at people I just want to scream. But I can't, cuz I'm not that kind of person, and that's not what they taught me in training. They taught me to focus on teaching and the things I can change, work on changing them slowly, and most of all to be patient about it. I'm not sure what sort of crucial changes I'll make in two years time, if any at all, but for now I know I just need to remain patient.

Aside from learning more patience, I'm also constantly being reminded what a homebody I am. I've lived in my house on this compound for a little over two months and, surprisingly enough, I miss a lot of things when I spend a night away. I miss my ugly front door and my overstocked bookshelf and my understocked pantry, but most of all I miss my kids. Last night I had the pleasure of being taken out to dinner at the fanciest of fancy resorts in a town called Watamu, close to a bigger one called Malindi. It was more white people than I'd seen in a long time, and definitely a lot more money than I'd seen in a long time too. Dinner was an exquisitely lavish four-course meal, complete with salad that didn't have me worrying about giardia, an extremely decadent brownie thing, and even a gin n' tonic. It was marvelous. But the whole time I felt so out of place, and so much like I didn't belong.

Don't get me wrong, I certainly appreciated every second of it, and savored every bite, but it just didn't feel like home. I know people live like that all the time but I'm not sure I could, even if I did have the money. So coming back home felt good, and it felt right. Back to the house full of mice and frogs and termites and ants and spiders and giant millipedes, back to the chickens and ducks that live next door, and the cows that drink my laundry water, and best of all, back to my kids.

For some reason, today at school was super frustrating, or maybe it just got to me easier than most days. I suppose I'm easy to read, but my kids all notice when I'm not myself, and always ask what's up. I tell them "Eh, don't worry, I'll get over it," which I do, in time. Today one of my boys, Amir, looked at me and slowly finger-spelled "c-h-a-n-g-e h-a-p-p-y p-l-e-a-s-e." So I spent the afternoon reading and chilling out, instead of grading tests, and around 6 went outside to watch the boys play football. And since last night was so unusually extravagant, I decided I needed dinner with my kids again. The dining hall on the compound is huge and old and dirty and at mealtime is filled with hundreds of little deaf kids all scarfing down their ugali as fast as they can. When I first ate dinner there they all were super shocked to see a mzungu eating ugali and eating with her hands and actually enjoying it. But now it's no big deal since they see me all the time. So I got my ugali and watered down stew made of some sort of meat, sat down with my secondary students, dug in with my hands as always, and finally felt like I was home. For some reason, even the tasteless consistency of ugali is something I miss.

So I walked back home with Amir and tried to explain to him why just being around all of them makes me happy. He smiled big so I think he got most of it. I can't even fathom how much I'm going to miss them in two years, so I won't even think about it. I have a long ways to go.

I wish there was a way I could explain each and every one of my kids, but I think that would be super boring to read. I spent a lot of yesterday laughing about how some of them try to say my name. There are kids of all levels of deafness here; some who are deaf kabisa (completely) that you could blow a fog horn into their ear and they wouldn't hear it, some who hear a little bit without hearing aids, some who do have hearing aids, some who speak fluent Kiwashili and pretty good English, and everything in between. They know that I'm hearing so when they want to get my attention they just make whatever noise they can, and just like their signing, each one sounds different. The few kids who can hear pretty well giggle with me when they hear the others try to call my name. It's definitely one of my favorite things.

It's 9:30 and way past my bedtime, so the moral for myself from today's story is to just chillax, enjoy the company I have, and appreciate home.

I hope my other homes in America are doing well. Not a day goes by I don't miss everyone like crazy.

Happy almost March!

~ Love, Shub :)

The recent goings on, and happy 50th!!

As a PCV, every couple of months that I'm at my site I have to fill out a volunteer report form, about what I've been up to, how I've been integrating into my community, and what's been recently challenging at site. What I wrote about this time was how all of the things that in America I was worried about adjusting to have just become a part of life, and I don't even think about them. But SO MANY other things that I never even imagined would be issues have proven extremely hard.

I've been teaching for about 6 weeks now, and every week presents something else I never expected. The more time I spend with the kids the more I get to know them and their individual personalities. At first I was so worried about remembering all their names and sign names and what not, and now I don't think I could ever forget them. Each one has a different ridiculous sense of humor and a different way of signing too. Just like everyone's voices are different but distinguishable, so is how they each sign. It's pretty cool. Some of them sign so beautifully that I get caught up in how pretty it is to watch, and I stop understanding what they're telling me. It's kinda like how you can see some stars better if you don't look directly at them.

I asked them this week too about their homes and families. I was curious if they were the only deaf ones. All but about 2 or 3 said "Yes, me deaf alone." Some have some deaf friends nearby, but not many. Then I asked if their families sign with them; 'not really' was the answer. "So what do you do when you go home and who do you talk to?" Answer: 'I sit and watch and don't talk to anyone.' Poor kids. Granted some have parents and families who have made an attempt at learning their language, but going home must be bittersweet for so many of them. They get to see their families, but who do they talk to? People need food and shelter but they also need companionship and stories. Just another thing to make me want to stuff them all in my suitcase and take them back to the States with me (which many have totally agreed to btw).

So lots of other things have been going at school:

• The new boys dormitories are nearly finished and they have already moved in. The secondary boys love that they have their own spot just for themselves, but hate that they have to walk farther to the dining hall now.
• Next month a bunch of people from the Army (the US Army) stationed in Djbouti are supposed to come build a new latrine block for the school. Hope it happens!
• I made it into a Kenyan newspaper; the Nairobi Star. It's nothing special, just a short snippet of what I'm doing here, why I like it, and even what my favorite car is. I tried to find it online but I don't think it's there. I'll certainly save it though.
• My school, Pwani Secondary School for the Deaf, is brand new. It just opened in 2009, which is why the dorms and latrines and everything else are still being built. Partial funding for all of this apparently came from The Commonwealth Society for the Deaf, an organization based out of London that I think is now called Sound Seekers. There's a brief thing here: http://www.sound-seekers.org.uk/our-work/projects/kenya-2009-2012/ but it's extremely outdated. Anyways, some lady from this society is coming next month to observe for 2 weeks, and see if we possibly can get more funding. Cross your fingers!
• Since Pwani is so new, we don't have any official sign boards or anything to show that we're here. So I've decided to try to have the kids help me build a couple to put out on the roads and let people know that yes, there is a secondary deaf school in Kilifi! School pride here we come!

The Peace Corps was started way back in the dark ages; 1961 that is. Meaning that this year is the 50th Anniversary! Hooray! 50 years of thousands and thousands of volunteers in hundreds of countries doing all kinds of cool work. Check this out: http://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=about.fiftieth and this: http://www.peacecorpsconnect.org/50/ for a glimpse of all the fun things going on throughout the year. So in honor of these 50 wonderful years, each volunteer, at least in Kenya, is being given 50 tree seedlings to plant. I think I might have to go to Nairobi to pick them up, but if I can bring them back to Kilifi and have my kids plant then, it would be awesome. They are called Moringa trees, or miracle trees and are supposed to be super easy to take care of and super good for the environment. Also, in commemoration of 50 years of awesome PCV's, they've issued a "Live like a PCV challenge" to Americans on the homefront. If you want, you can pick a week sometime this year to give up some daily conveniences and try to live like a real Peace Corps Volunteer. This is the website explaining the challenge: http://www.livelikeapcv.org/. This document is specific to Kenyan volunteers and the challenges we face, and this document is about how to actually participate. Have fun!

The Peace Corps' second official goal is to "help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the people served." With this in mind, I cannot tell you how many times a day I have to tell people that just because I am white does not mean I am filthy rich. It actually gets kind of exhausting. On my usual walk into town the other day I stopped to chat with a friend of mine named Felix who has a little juice bar. He is a very nice man, gives me free juice all the time, and is not horribly insistent about me marrying him, which is a relief. So mid-conversation it came up again that no, I am not rolling in millions of shillings and no I am not paid to be here. I told Felix that we have poor people in America too, and this came as a complete shock to him. Kenyans think America is like heaven; no one is every sad or unhealthy or poor or struggling. It took about 15 minutes of me angrily explaining homeless shelters and how people sleep on the street, and the concept of middle and lower class for him to finally believe me. Kenyans like to think in extremes, all black and white. Africa is dirty and bad, America is clean and good. I think my passion in explaining everything made him realize how true it is. Los Angeles is filled with billionaire Hollywood celebrities, but also with slums and thousands of people living in poverty. It's true in many major cities, if not all. Similarly, Nairobi has some of the richest people in Africa, but also some of the biggest squatter's camps too. So yes, America is of course a wonderful place, but it's not perfect, nowhere is.

On a funnier note, last week while I was sleeping a mouse -who I have seen before running around- somehow made his way inside my mosquito net, attempted to burrow himself into my pillow, found my thumb instead, and decided gnawing it would be a good idea. This of course woke me up and, save for some blood stains on my pillow case, it wasn't a big deal. But I called my medical officer the next morning anyways, just in case. She said that to be on the safe side I should go to Mombasa to get rabies shots. This was an adventure too, but a week later I'm all shot up and healthy and haven't started foaming at the mouth. Yet. This also led to some good conversations with my kids about rabies and vaccinations and doctors and hospitals. One thing always leads to another and sometimes we never even get to an actual math lesson. Oh well!

Whew! I think that's all the updates I have for now. Kilifi is still hot, my kids are still awesome and I of course still miss home.

Ninakupenda sana sana sana! I love you all very very very much!

~ Shub :)

Bootcamp and District Hospitals

Well, it's the end of my third week of real teaching, and I think things are going relatively well. My kids seem to like me well enough, but that might just be because I'm actually a little bit crazy. Boarding school here is somewhat reminiscent of boot camp (so says my father) so they are constantly exhausted and barely have any time to just be kids.

They get up at 4:30 so they have enough time to get their things ready and down their porridge in time to be at school by 6:15. Except for tea break and lunch time, they sit in the same classroom all day long and watch the teachers come and go. Teachers spend their time writing notes from the book on the board, and the students copy, even if they have no idea what they are writing. Most signs in my vocabulary have one or two English words that help me make the connection from one language to the other. But their only fluent language is sign, so these words on the board they don't know look to them like Chinese looks to me; it's just a bunch of symbols. But they know I want to help them, so they consistently bring me lists of English words they don't know, and ask me for their meaning. And since I don't know a sign for most of them, I do a lot of acting things out. It's like a constant game of charades and can get pretty funny sometimes. Last night I did "seemingly," "alienate," "isolation," "flatter," "wandering," "devoted," "coaxed," and "arousing" to name a few. When school gets out at 5:00 they have just enough time to play a little soccer before their ugali and cabbage is ready, after which they spend the rest of the evening in "Preps" where they sit and recopy the notes they never understood in the first place. Bedtime at 9:30 just to get up and do it all over again the next day. Ugh. No wonder they fall asleep in class all the time! They are such good kids and like I said, they have no time to just be kids. For this reason I try my best to keep class as exciting and engaging as possible. I think me bouncing off the walls is a common occurrence. Whatever it takes though. They're curious, they're really smart when the use their heads, they're patient and polite and they totally deserve the best.

Thursday afternoon one of my kids fell through a small wooden bridge we have on the walk up to school. He messed up his knee really bad and I didn't see it until Friday morning, but as soon as I did I knew I couldn't just leave it. It was swollen beyond belief, if he wasn't black it would have been extremely red, and he was in a lot of pain. The other teachers seemed to not really care, which actually didn't surprise me, so I gave my classes some work to do, put him in a tuk tuk, and took him to the hospital. Kilifi District Hospital is certainly not like the hospital in Mombasa or Nairobi, I'm sure, but it wasn't a total disaster, I guess. We waited for a bit to go into the "Plaster Room," where a man squeezed and poked and prodded poor David's knee until he was trembling with pain. Apparently it was "necessary" to see if anything was broken. Right. He said we needed an x-ray, so we moved to another waiting area, where I learned I had to go to another building to pay for the x-ray. Two more lines and 360 shillings later (about $4.50), I was back and waiting again. We finally got into the x-ray room, which I was super surprised they even have. The man who takes the x-rays poked and squeezed all over again, and while I was cringing watching David in agony, the guy starts telling me about how men don't feel pain, how they are stronger than that, and how I would not make a good doctor. I've never wanted to go to med school, but if I ever did, it would be to prove this guy wrong. He was telling me I was in more pain than my kid, who of course was trembling from the pain he actually was feeling. We waited a bit longer for the pictures to be done, which afterwards we had to take back to the horrible man in the Plaster Room. He told me the bone was not broken, and I believed him cuz the x-ray looked ok, and that he needed to plaster the knee anyways. For 3 weeks. This seemed a little extreme for an unbroken knee, so while I was in town running around trying to find pain meds for David, I called mama yangu katika Amerika (Momma at home in the States). Though it was the middle of the night she happily advised me that the plaster thing was a bad idea, which I had an inkling of in the first place. Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation, and some ibuprofen. So I bought him the meds, a couple bananas since we missed tea break, and stuck him another tuk tuk back to school. I wrapped the knee in an ace bandage, told him to stop walking to and from school, and gave him a bag of cold water from my fridge; ice doesn't really exist here. I think throughout this whole process what surprised me the most was not the lack of decent medical care but the fact that everyone was so astounded when they realized he was deaf and we could still communicate. It blows people's minds that you can talk without talking. "You mean, you know his language?!" Yes, I do. Or least I'm working on it.

Anywho, something tells me that won't be my last adventure to the Kilifi District Hospital in the next two years. Otherwise, things here are good. I teach Life Skills in a couple hours which I think the kids usually enjoy. Last week we ended up talking about abortion and vasectomies. If I can't teach them anything else in the next two years I want them to at least learn to use condoms, and not sleep around, and how bad HIV actually is. If I can keep any of these kids from dying young, I will have done my job.

I hear the snow storms at home on the east coast are making life difficult, but just know how jealous I am. My kids love hearing that snow actually exists, and I really wish I could be there to help shovel your driveways :) Hope you all are doing well and remember, if you're ever in Kenya, you should stop by Kilifi and visit. Ha!

Okie doke, miss you miss you miss you.

Love always,

~ Shub :)