T.I.A: This is Africa

Dear Walt,
You lied to me. You told me Africa was about talking lions and wise baboons. Did you know Pride Rock doesn't exist? And I haven't seen a single herd throw a baby lion up like a cheerleader. Your childish Disney movies have congested my mind with falsities and it's going to take me a while to get over it.

For 11 weeks I was waiting for the Africa Moment that Disney had promised me. I thought that's what I needed for this trip to no longer feel surreal - to no longer have to remind myself how far I'd traveled. I'd look at a map and trace my journey from San Sebastian to Madrid to Zurich to Nairobi to illustrate how I'd ended up there, but for some reason it wouldn't sink in. The moment I was waiting for was straight out of The Lion King, and I couldn't help but wonder where all the talking baboons and singing giraffes had gone. I was so distracted by cartoon images that I was oblivious to the clues that surrounded me everyday - the "T.I.A. moments", as they are known in traveling circles, that defy all logic and common sense; moments which leave you speechless with confusion, and give you no other option than to say "T.I.A! This is Africa!" and move on with your life. I learned this phrase on my last night in Zanzibar - my last night in Africa. I was out for a drink with some friends at a beach front bar that used the Tusker beer label as their own. Without consulting the menu, half the table ordered the Kenyan beer, only to be shut down by a server who didn't see the irony in them not having the only beer they advertised. We stared at each other blankly for a moment, when someone broke the silence by shouting "T.I.A!" When I asked him what that meant, he explained that saying this is all you can do when things go wrong, and those who forget this crucial phrase risk dying of a mental breakdown. Woah, I thought. I wish I'd known this earlier. I have been putting my well-being at serious risk. And at that point, every T.I.A. moment I had in Africa flashed before my eyes - fictional menus and 3 hour waits, 12 hour bus rides over crater-sized potholes, seat-less toilets and waterless taps. The T.I.A. moments where it's better to laugh than to get upset, and remind yourself that it's all part of the experience. For almost 3 months I had been living through one extended T.I.A. moment and I was too concerned with cartoon characters to realize it. An epiphany if there ever was one! Don't worry, though, I found my Disney Moment. It was while driving through Lake Manyara's red dirt roads, spying on giraffes, zebras, baboons, elephants and buffalo through the open roof of a safari jeep, singing songs from Disney soundtracks. More Jungle Book than Lion King, but exactly what I had been waiting for.

How can I sum up the last 3 months? Challenging, inspiring, frustrating, a growing experience, not to mention an ego booster every time someone commended my bravery/lunacy for traveling Africa alone. Obviously no one told them I slept with the lights on and my valuables under my bed. But just as it's important to appreciate the experiences I've had in Africa - the inspiring, the frustrating and the perplexing - it's also important to know when to leave. As Peter Moore said in the most influential book of my travels, No Shitting in the Toilet: The Travel Guide for When You've Really Lost It, a good sign that it's time to leave is "when you start getting abusive and hostile towards the symbols of everyday aggravation while traveling - the hawkers, street touts..." Well... I've been hostile since Rwanda, so my return was long overdue! With my dad in London on the 19th and Jessie in San Sebastian for her birthday only 2 days later, I decided it was time for my African adventure to come to a close. When I surprised Jessie at the Urban House Hostel in San Sebastian a day before her 20th birthday, our 5 minute tear-filled embrace told me I had made the right decision. So long Africa.

Highs and Lows in Stone Town

I can summarize my 24 hours in Zanzibar's Stone Town as a series of highs and lows. I met some wonderful people, but also a few pests, lingering behind me for essentially my entire visit, offering me city tours, invitations to souvenir shops or just some awkward company. I was ripped off on some purchases, but once I got the hang of bartering I got some excellent deals on spices. And although I had my camera stolen, I had enough good experiences to not let that cloud my impression of the island. So although Zanzibar has its fair share of blemishes, it has plenty of attractive attributes to redeem itself. It's very historic, with old buildings from the slave trade preserved to co-exist with new museums, white sand beaches and sea-front restaurants. The architecture has that Swahili charm that drew me to Lamu - not so much African as Arab. The weather is nice - humid, just the way I like it. The water is blue, the coffee is good, and the night market has great street food and a friendly market vibe I've found on slightly safer streets of Thailand. The Forodhani Gardens were a highlight of my time in Tanzania. They are lined with food stalls, each piled with mounds of skewers of local fish - red snapper, tuna, barracuda, white shark rubbed in local spices for a distinctly Zanzibar flavour. For dessert there is fresh fruit, banana-chocolate pancakes and sugarcane-ginger juice. For my last dinner in East Africa, I was fearless. Bring it on, giardia. Give me everything you've got.

The gardens were a perfect place to meet other travellers. As I sat on the stone benches by the ocean sipping a frosty glass of sugarcane-ginger juice, a rugged British backpacker named Charlie sat down beside me and we shared travel stories. I spent the rest of the night getting to know his travel group that had formed over the last few months - med students, British students on a gap year, a German couple on the Long Way Up to Cairo. We talked about our travels, our lives back home, and divulged some of our deepest secrets - like the fact that Charlie was the lead character in the movie Stardust, starring opposite Claire Danes. It's true. I googled it. So although there were lows, I had enough highs to make this minor detour before I headed to Dar Es Salaam worth while.

Cheating my way to Zanzibar

I felt a bit guilty this morning as I waited to board the Coastal Airlines flight to Zanzibar. "You filthy cheater!" I said to myself. "You are weak! What are you doing flying - you are robbing yourself of the African experience! What happened to embracing discomfort? Hunger? Anger? Penny pinching? Isn't the 12 hours of nausea and filth, with nothing to eat but friend chicken and peanuts, the essence of African travel?" Had I cheated myself out of lifelong memories by opting for a sterile airplane ride? Yes. Yes I had, but to be honest, I've got enough of those that I'm trying to forget. The bus ride from Lamu to Mombasa immediately comes to mind. The rains were so unbelievable that by the time I boarded the bus my belongings and I were drenched. We drove for 2 hours before stopping to do some "minor" repairs. 3 hours later (3 hours of me ignoring a delusional man hanging in the doorway, rubbing his shiny bow tie, telling me he loved me) our "mechanics" gave up and the Tawakal bus company gave us a bus with brakes. BRAKES! Not that we really needed them up to that point. We had been driving through sludge so slowly that passengers were literally walking on and off the bus as we drove. The first 5 hours of that trip were one long, drawn out FML moment. 6 hours later - 4 hours later than expected - I arrived in Mombasa. The moment came back when I took a shower and watched the colour slide off my body and swirl down the drain. Not a tan, apparently. That one scarred me for life, and the thought of putting myself through that kind of filth and agony one more time was more than I could handle.

I felt a bit ashamed of this airplane ride at first, but as our 12-seater took off, I realized that this was an African experience of a different kind. I sat in what was essentially a flying mini-bus. The pilot doubled as a flight attendant, giving us a very brief safety briefing as we taxied down the runway (something along the lines of "your life jacket is under your seat for when we have an accident over the Indian Ocean." And our co-pilot was, in fact, not a pilot at all, but a passenger who wanted a front row seat. Only 10 minutes into the flight, I realized that I was not robbing myself of anything, as there were just as many things to be afraid of in the air as on land! Rather than rolling in a ditch, we could plummet through the air by the force of gravity. Oncoming traffic is still and issue, only in the air there's the added bonus of a surprise collision, as half of our time was spent blindly navigating through clouds. And let's not forget the worst scenario of all - having to pee. Considering I have to pee at least once every hour, 12-hour toilet-less bus rides have really gotten in the way of my hydration routine, as I am forced to go all day without drinking any water. But at least buses have bush-toilet breaks! Up in the air, with no bush to speak of, I was in trouble 15 minutes into the flight. Honestly, that was the longest hour of my life. A near death experience, if you will.

Despite the expected fears that come with any means of African transportation, flying had its benefits. It gave me an alternative to admiring the scenery on land - and this one didn't involved mamas shoving nyama choma (roasted meat) through my window. From the comfort of my air conditioned seat, I had a 180 degree view of Arusha as we took off, saw Mount Kilimanjaro breaking through the clouds, and admired Zanzibar's clear blue water, so clear I could see the sand underneath all the way from the air. The flight alone was breathtaking, never mind Zanzibar itself. But that is a story for another day.

Arusha: Crossroads for the ultimate trifecta of cool

I've been in Arusha, Tanzania for only a matter of days and I'm already liking the vibe this city gives off. To most people I've spoken to, Arusha is just another city. Thanks to Ronnie, my Volunteer Abroad connection, I am able to get to know this city through people who live here. My first night out was an eye-opener to this city's friendly diversity. In honour of Bob Marley Day, we headed to Via Via for a night of rasta fun (although the crowd here made me wonder if they lived every day for Bob.) The Warriors were jamman' on drums, guitars and kitchen sets for an audience of rastas, maasais and mzungus - it was the ultimate trifecta of cool. Rastas jammed, Maasais danced, and although we mzungus weren't too sure what we were doing, by the time the rasta congo line came around we had had enough konyagi to make us feel like we did. In honour of peace, love and Bob, everyone mingled together, sharing drinks and conversation regardless of dress, culture or body odour. It was a beautiful sight - so beautiful that I had a momentary memory lapse and asked myself why I shouldn't just spend the whole summer in Tanzania... but I was instantly reminded when I tried to order food, and the kitchen was out of everything I asked for. After attempting half the menu I asked "What do you have?" "Other things," said my waitress. Oh right. That's why I have to leave.

So I'll just have to enjoy Tanzania while I can - have some good coffee, go on a safari, maybe grow a dread lock or two. It's nice to have a place like the Volunteer Abroad house where I can be comfortable, make new friends and reconnect with old ones - oh, I'm getting nostalgic for my summer in Nepal with Volunteer Abroad. But it's quite the change being with people who are fresh off the boat in Africa, and in that sense I often feel like the odd one out. After spending the last two months with PCVs who've been here almost a year, their hand sanitizer having run out long ago, I quickly became desensitized to the unsanitary realities of Africa in order to fit in. I was once singled out and chastised for being caught with baby wipes and vowed never to draw attention to myself again. But here, I'm surrounded by concerns I forgot I should have. It's always "I can't pee in this dirty toilet" and "I won't swim in that parasite infested lake!" And can you believe that my defense that they can buy bilharzia pills in Uganda for only $5 didn't resonate with anybody!? Is it me?? Have I lost my sense of personal hygiene? Did you know I was once afraid of communal bar soap??? Now I'm just happy if there is soap. I don't know who I am anymore. Africa will do that to you.

Lamu: Where the showers are free and everyone gets around in a fanny pack

Lamu is a magical place - not at all the "real Kenya" I had prepared myself for. Located far North on the coast, on the road to Somalia, Lamu is a place where Arab and African cultures intersect. Women peruse the streets in full body bui-bui, men with kofiah on their heads and fanny packs fastening kikois to their waists. Most importantly, the donkeys own the streets. There is a unique attitude in Lamu in that the people are proud of their town. Rather than "please take me to Canada," people say "Welcome home!" The attitude here is carefree, and I am constantly greeted with funny phrases. "I hope you're enjoying the free showers!" when it rains; "can I give you a lift on my donkey?" when I look tired; and every time I meet someone, their name leaves me speechless.

Kenyans are very creative with their names. Each region of the country takes on a unique approach, often resulting in an eclectic mix of Western culture and tribal traditions. In Luo tradition, the first name is English and is chosen by randomly calling your baby different names until it stops crying - the last one being the baby's "favourite". The second name is Luo and indicates the time and weather conditions when the child was born. The pool of second names to choose from is pretty limited, so parents get very creative with the first. You would not believe the amount of Bill Clintons Onyangos and Fancys I've met. Every time I meet a Fancy I think to myself I can't believe your parents thought that was an option! Luos aren't the only tribe known for creative, if not questionable names. A friend of a friend once taught an Adolf Hitler, arbitrarily named after a "great European leader." No one had the heart to tell him exactly who Adolf was.

And here I am in Lamu, where there exists another unique approach to naming. I get the impression these people adopt new names as it suits them. Abdullah, for example, the manager at Sunset House, renamed himself Abdullah-Bob when he realized that about half the men in Lamu are named Abdullah. I've met a Smile, a Dolphin, and there are plenty of Captains - Captain Slow Motion Donkey stands out the most.

The funny names and fanny packs are a perfect reflection of the lifestyle and mindset in Lamu. Care free. Lighthearted. I'd happily spend the rest of my trip here, but Tanzania is calling.

(Side note: for those of you who are wondering, I never did see Dr. Foxy again. Sigh.)

In Lamu... Finally!

After 5 days of hiding out at Cafe Java in Kampala, I gathered all the courage I could and headed back to Kenya. I had a stressful few days in Rwanda and I needed some time to recover - some time to pretend I was in North America, to make some friends, to have a few laughs. For 5 days I sipped iced lattes, played backgammon over rum and coke with Jack and Ben from London, indulged in jack fruit with Sebastian from Germany and was the center of market photoshoots with Charlie from Maryland. It was 5 days of much needed laughs.

From there, I made my way to the coast. I met up with my friend Beau in Nairobi and we took the night train to Mombasa where we spent a couple of days before making our way to his house in Kilifi. Having Beau around helped ease me back into "real Kenya", where there are no movie theaters, no iced lattes and a hole in the ground constitutes a toilet. Real Kenya - where getting from point A to B means sitting with 20 people in a 14 person matatu - the Kenya I hesitated to return to, but thankfully had someone to hold my hand all the way there, and once I made it it wasn't so bad.

And now, I am writing this from Lamu on the Indian coast of Kenya. I've reunited with some Americans that I met in Kisumu. The 10 of us are staying at the Sunset House on Shella, just a 45 minute walk up the beach from Lamu, through the labyrinth that makes up the town. We have the entire guest house to ourselves - wait, did I say guesthouse? I meant Barbie Dream House. We have a housekeeper Arnold who is super human - he can grocery shop, do the dishes, wash our clothes, make the beds and cook crab all at once. Everyone has their own double or queen sized bed and an ensuite bathroom. We have a kitchen, dining room and two roof top terraces. The Swahili architecture allows for wide open spaces, a steady flow of fresh air and lots of natural light, and the decor is simple - off-white walls, straw roofs, and a few plants to bring life into the room. From the rooftop, you can see nothing but blue water, straw roofs and palm trees; hear nothing but donkeys braying and calls to prayer. This place is breathtaking - this place is paradise. It is so peaceful that I was barely phased by my trip to the local clinic the other day. We went on an obligatory dhow trip on Swahili sailboats representative of the coast. Halfway through, we stopped to explore the Takwa Ruins on Manda Island. Normally, I love decaying brick walls, but along the way I had a violent run in with a sharp and thorny branch. Unable to walk or pull out the thorn buried in my foot, the ruins quickly lost their charm. I made it back to the boat via piggy back ride and headed straight for the clinic. After 3 injections of local anesthetic, one scalpel and two varieties of pliers later, out came a thorn an inch long. I may have screamed loud enough for the whole archipelago to experience my pain, but I didn't shed a single tear. And if you could have seen my doctor, you would wish that you were the one to have stepped on the thorn. Swedish and handsome, this was more of a blessing in disguise. I felt a bit like Keri Russell's character in Waitress, where an unhappily married and pregnant Jenna falls in love with her doctor and the two of them have a romantic affair... my scenario may be missing a few details, but in the words of The Andrew Sisters in their 1938 hit: "I can dream, can't I?" I'm considering one more injury before I leave tomorrow. And let's not forget the souvenir I have to take home! Dr. Foxy put my thorn in a zip-lock bag, gave me some pain killers and sent me on my way. My first day on the archipelago didn't turn out as expected, but I can't think of a single experience that has. So as the old saying goes - Karibu Kenya. Hakuna Matata. Welcome to Kenya. No worries.

Half Birthday Delights

I consider half birthdays to be a very important occasion. No longer 22 but not quite 23, half birthdays provide an opportunity to reflect on the last 6 months of my life and set goals for the next 6 to come. I'm tempted to break out into Brittney Spears' "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman." Please tell me I'm not the only one who feels this way.

Every year, something memorable happens on my half birthday. In 2008, at the tender age of 20 and a half, I was unexpectedly dumped and spent the day with friends, drowning my sorrows in chardonnay and lamenting the fact that no one loved me. I still get a good laugh out of that one. In 2009, I arrived in Mexico on April 24 for a 5 week Latin American Civilization course - the very day the Globe and Mail ran a front page spread on the explosion of H1N1 in Mexico. Classes were cancelled, restaurants shut their doors and I suddenly knew how Dustin Hoffman felt in Outbreak when the Motaba virus put the city on lock down.

So here I am. It's April 24th and I find myself back in Kampala, my new favourite city. I spent a solid 3 hours at Cafe Javas taking in the energy of this vibrant city to recover from yesterday's rough ride from Kigali. The ride started off enjoyable enough. I sat next to a British girl living in Kigali, who provided insight into ex-pat life in this quiet city. Things turned sour when the roads deteriorated and the rain came down. My window was sealed just tight enough to prevent any airflow, but not quite tight enough to keep the floods from pouring in all over me. The worst part was that I was the only one with a defective window, and everyone around me kept looking at me and apologizing. Surprisingly, even with their concern I managed to get soaking wet.

Later, after being savagely ripped off at the border currency exchange and being too confused to notice until I was well in to Uganda, the only thing to turn my frown upside down was the immigration officer's decision to give me an extra two days on my visa - "in case you get a cold," he said. I couldn't help but smile at that justification. At one point I actually started to laugh at my own misfortune. While eating dinner - a dried bun I found at the bottom of my purse - I asked myself: "Chloe, is this really what you pictured when you imagined your exotic escape to Africa?" And as the sawdust accumulated in my mouth each time my jaw closed in on the bread, I realised that yes. Yes it was. And I had a good laugh at my own expense as the rain poured down on me.

Considering yesterday's rough journey, I couldn't ask for a better way to spend my half birthday! I love Kampala. I'm going to take a walk through town, spend the afternoon enjoying an iced spiced coffee at 1000 Cups Coffee House where I often run in to fellow travellers. As far as half birthdays go, this one is unfolding quite nicely.

Kigali Memorials, Renewed Impressions and Jelly Shoe Tears

Even though Kigali wasn't exactly what I had hoped it would be, I'm glad I went. I know Rwanda has much more to offer than what I found in the capital city, but I'm reaching the end of my funds and gorilla tracking will have to wait. I've decided to appreciate this city for what it is. It's clean, organized, safe. I even walked the 10 minute distance from my hotel to Bourbon Cafe last night. Anywhere else that would be considered ballsy - if not suicidal. But in Kigali, I get few hassles. And with the amount of heavily armed police patrolling the streets who don't have the same corrupt reputation as others in East Africa, I was in good hands. Rwanda is making a clear effort to change their image, and it really shows.
Kigali isn't hiding the fact that just over a decade ago a genocide was sweeping Rwanda. They're dedicated to educating locals and visitors alike on the realities of their history to ensure that it never happens again. The Kigali Memorial Center has three moving exhibits which are emotional, uncensored and honest. The first exhibit provides a timeline of Rwanda's history -from colonisation to genocide to the aftermath. The exhibit provides photos, interviews and historical facts to show that the genocide wasn't a spontaneous event, but the result of over a century of tension. The second exhibit is a collection of photos of children who were killed along with a description - their name, age, favourite food, favourite song, best friends names and last words. The last exhibit detailed genocides around the world from the last century - in Cambodia, Armenia and the Holocaust, among others. It shows that all of us are capable of destruction. The genocide in Rwanda wasn't simply Rwandans killing Rwandans, but people killing people. It is a harsh reminder of what human beings are cabable of.

Sites where mass acts of genocide were carried out have been turned into memorials as well. I went to a church in Ntarama, about 30 km outside of Kigali where in 1995, 5000 people were murdered. Bones of the victims line the shelves at the church entrance, their skulls exposed to show how each person was killed. Their clothing decorates the church walls and the few possessions they brought are gathered in a corner next to their coffins - glasses, tea thermoses, BIC pens, jelly shoes.

Jelly shoes. That's what made it real for me. I relate bones to natural history museums and ancient civilizations; coffins to unidentifiable people who have passed away. But jelly shoes relate to my childhood. I was 8 years old in 1995. I was playing tag at the Ecole Tuxedo Park playground, running as fast as my jelly shoes would allow as I desperately tried to escape the person who was "it." At the same time, there was a girl my age wearing the same jelly shoes, running to escape something much more fatal, where hiding and cries of "TO" would not save her. It wasn't the stories or the skulls that brought tears to my eyes. It was the jelly shoes.

Kigali is dedicated to preserving the stories of the victims; dedicated to ensuring that, through education, the promise of "never again" will be respected. You can't turn a corner in Kigali without seeing a "never again" billboard or T-shirt. So even though my 2 nights in Kigali brought a bit of frustration, I left with a great deal of respect for a city that, despite its gruesome past, is making a huge step towards change.

Overland to Kigali

Traveling overland to Rwanda is not for the weak. You will be lied to, ripped off, made to wait hours in a dusty taxi park for your matatu to fill up. Your emotional state will change by the minute - frustration over the inefficiency of the matatu system, anger at the fact that you paid double the price paid by the local next to you, anxiousness as you wait for the matatu to depart, relief when you hear the engine roar and severe disappointment when you realize that the driver just wanted to see if it worked. The only reason I even agreed to get in the van was to escape the perv hovering over me in the taxi park saying "Under 18 and just my size. I'm taking you home." I quickly jumped in and hid under my backpack, right after vomiting in my mouth.

The transfers I had to make between Mbarara, Uganda to Kigali, Rwanda where quite confusing, and the only reason I arrived in one piece is thanks to Julie, an American who joined our matatu halfway through the ride. It seems that whenever I get scared of being alone on this overwhelming continent, the heavens open up and send me a fellow traveler to instill some confidence in me. It happened in Koh Phangan, Thailand when, after being chased and yelled at by a crazy woman on a motor bike, I met a Canadian couple who invited me to stay with them. It happened again in Mbita, Kenya when I met Denea the very day I was going to buy my bus ticket out and run away from Rusinga Island. Thank goodness the angels were looking down on me yesterday! Julie's bravery astounds me. She is about my size, but much softer spoken, and she has a fearlessness that I can only wish to embody one day. She has been trekking in the DRC, barely escaped with her life after a mugging in Burundi, and the only thing that seems to upset her is drunk men sitting too close to her on the bus. Without her, I likely would be curled up in a ball somewhere on the border.

My hunt for a guesthouse at 9 pm was another challenge. I haven't had a proper job since July of 2009, so I'm on a tight budget. My first stop was at Auberge La Caverne, whose prices were twice what was quoted in Lonely Planet. Convinced I would find a better deal, I had my taxi driver take me to Hotel Gloria in the center of town. Maybe I mumbled. Or maybe I wasn't assertive enough when I pointed to it's name and location on my map. Or maybe he is just completely incompetent, because he took me to Hotel Gorilla - the most expensive hotel in town. Seriously, taxi man. Do you really think I would pass up a hotel only slightly out of my price range for a room that costs $300 a night?? AND IS IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE?? I don't normally yell at people unless I know their love for me is unconditional, but after 12 hours of matatu travel, and with my blood sugar at a dangerous low, I lost it. DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE WE ARE?? I cried. I had him take me back to Auberge La Caverne where I settled in to a double room with a porch. It's a little more than I need, but it's good value. It comes with breakfast, an en-suite bathroom, the occasional spurt of hot water, and there wasn't a single cockroach in my mozzie net last night. I'm living large, my friends!

As I write this, I am sitting at the Bourbon Coffee Shop in central Kigali - the only place in town that hasn't exported all of the good beans to wealthier parts of the world. This is just what I needed to recover from last night's charades and to come to grips with this unfamiliar city. I don't plan to stay in town long - I miss Uganda, and to be honest, the prices here are a bit too European for me. Seriously, if I wanted to sit on a terrace and pay too much for a coffee, I would have stayed in France. Hopefully my cynicism subsides before I leave this city. I'd kind of like to leave with a good taste in my mouth.

Top 10: Speaking Kenyan

After 5 weeks in Kenya, I have learned to speak a new language. It's not Kiswahili, and it's not Dholuo. It's simply another way of speaking English. Learning it wasn't so much a matter of interest, but more a matter of survival. Here are my top 10 favourite Kenyans expressions I have picked up. If you can remember these, you too will be able to speak with the locals when you find yourself in Kenya.

1. In order to have a proper Kenyan conversation, the most important thing you can do is to state the obvious. This minimizes awkward pauses and gives the listener deep insight into the details of your life. "I am awake" or "I am standing right here" serve as good examples.

2. Responding to "hello" with "I'm fine." Apparently in Kiswahili and Dholuo, hello encompasses hello, how are you, and I am fine.

3. Putting just before every command. "Just rest," or the one I hate most "just eat bread." It's meant to be polite, as in "this is all I'm asking you to do," but more often than not it comes out sounding like an order.

4. Using too many words in one sentence. "That's too many much expensive," for example. Wow. That's too many much words.

5. Saying it's ok to everything. Me: "I'm going to my room." Mama: "It's ok." Does that mean it's okay, you don't have to? Or it's ok, I approve? It leaves me confused every time.

6. I'm coming - I'm coming back later.

7. I'm moving - I'm leaving.

8. Just a minute - Come here

9. Yes - The answer to every question one doesn't know the answer to. It is employed at all times, no matter how much confusion it will cause.

10. When there is an awkward pause in a conversation you are having with someone you've just met, the common thing to say would be "Are you married?" "Are you looking for a partner?" or "Take me to Canada."



Bonus phrase! My personal favourite: Do you have an FM radio. It means exactly what you'd think, I'm just amazed at how often people ask me that. That's all for today. I hope this lesson has been fruitful and educating.

Tales from Rusinga all the way to Kampala

Goodbye Kenya... for now, at least. I have started a new chapter in my East Africa tour. I am taking a two week break from Kenya to do a bit of exploring in Uganda. I made a commitment to 4 weeks with the Friends of Rusinga feeding program, just in time for me to tag along with some Peace Corps friends on their trip to Uganda. Living with the Tito family gave me an insight into Kenyan village life - the good, the bad, the confusing. I learned so much about Kenyan culture, history, Luo beliefs and traditions. Not only did my Luo neighbours share their culture with me, I also learned about my own culture by teaching it to them. I played my first game of American football in Kenya, and also realized how ridiculous the Easter egg hunt is when I tried to explain it to the locals.

Although I had an amazing time in Kenya, I was ready for a change of scenery. My last week was emotional and frustrating. I've been very frustrated with the realities of life on Rusinga Island - teachers not showing up to school, poverty, children starving, entire age demographics disappearing with AIDS. Asking questions about these problems only brought answers that fueled my frustrations. Questions about why teachers are allowed to be absent from school without notice for days and suffer no repercussions; why men have multiple wives and several children when they can barely feed themselves; why cattle are left free to devour people's crops when that food could be used to feed children instead. Spending every day with children who are affected by these issues only made my frustration grow. My last day in Rusinga was the most emotional of them all. During a party I threw for the children, Durance, one of the older boys asked me never to forget them no matter how far I live, or how long until my next visit. I was on the brink of tears as he reminded me of the reason why those 30 children went to Ezekiel's place every day for lunch.

Between my last days on the island and crossing into Uganda, I took a few days to travel around the West and clear my mind - to Kericho, Bomet and Singorwet for tea shambas (farms), then back to Kisumu for some Western comforts and a good meal that didn't involve ugali. Speaking of ugali, I never did go into detail about how much I hate this East African staple. Ugali is one of those dishes that has no flavour of its own. It is made of maize flour and water and cooked to a dough-like consistency. Ugali is eaten with your hands, rolled in to a ball and dipped in sauce. It has almost no nutritional value, and it's only purpose is to absorb the sauce and make you feel full. Unfortunately, it fails to do both. It usually just takes on the flavour of the pot it was cooked in and leaves you feeling queasy. People keep asking me back home "Chloe, how is your stomach dealing with the African cuisine? Have you been getting well acquainted with those long-drop toilets? Are you going to come back looking like Kate Moss?" Sorry to disappoint, but considering that ugali just sits in the stomach like a rock, it's scientifically impossible for it to turn to diarrhea. But I digress. My frustrations were eased thanks to my friend Sonja's family's hospitality in Singorwet. A plate of her mama's home-cooked chapati and beans and home slaughtered goat stew definitely instilled in me a more positive outlook on life.

My entrance into Uganda was very encouraging. Paved roads? Traffic lanes? Had I entered a new planet? No, I had simply crossed the border into Uganda. My frustrations in Kenya magnified my inspiration by this country. Surely this order on the road means progress for the country as a whole. But before I ventured deep into Uganda, 19 of my closest (only) friends and I set of for Jinja for some extreme adventures on the Nile. I spent the next 2 days listening to my heart beat faster than one would consider safe, riding rapids, paddling as hard as my little arms could. To top it all off, I followed a stranger 44 meters up a flight of stairs and allowed him to wrap my legs in a towel an some rope, and I actually followed his instructions when he said "3-2-1 jump!" The cord pulled, but not before I plunged head first and waist deep into the Nile. I have lived to tell a death-defying tale.

And now I am in Kampala, Uganda's capital city. This city is like a combination of my favourite cities. It has the backpacker friendliness of Bangkok, the public transport of Kathmandu, Sao-Paulo's sidewalks and Guanajuato's callejones. It is friendly, dynamic, with the perfect balance between the comforts of home and the allure of the unknown. If this isn't love, I don't know what is. I've spent time with old friends, made some new ones, danced my heart out and filled my tummy with more pizza and iced coffee than I am comfortable admitting. My parents keep asking my when I am coming home to graduate from university, and if I spend too much time here I may be tempted to change my answer to... never. My Peace Corps Kenya group has gone back home, but they have left me in the care of Peace Corps Uganda. I'll spend another day as a lone wolf exploring this city on my own before meeting up with them and heading West. I'm looking forward to some time alone with my thoughts, as my journal has suffered some serious neglect. I will remedy this situation immediately. More stories to come soon!

Kisumu Reflections

What a lovely trip to Kisumu. As Kenya's third largest city, it offers many western comforts that I miss while living on the island. Refrigeration, ice, food that isn't ugali (more on that one later) - it was like being on another planet. I also noticed the abundance of wazungu! Clearly a popular tourist destination... so much so that the sight of a mzungu doesn't compel local men to propose to any foreign woman they see on the street. It made me realize just how much attention I get in Kaswanga.

As many of you know, I pride myself in the amount of proposals I've received. By my 18th birthday I had been proposed to three times. So what if they were all from complete strangers. For someone whose own father has deemed her unmarriageable, I'm rather proud of myself. Since arriving in Kenya that number has multiplied considerably - and if goat offerings were engagement rings, my hands would be full. It got to the point where it became annoying. I couldn't go anywhere without someone asking me if I was looking for a husband, and if that husband could be him. But then I met Denae, my Peace Corps friend, and I realized that the odd proposal is nothing to be annoyed about. After 10 months in Kenya, she has made such an impression on the locals that she can barely leave the house anymore! School principles and NGO presidents want to marry her. The banker slips her notes that say "I love you." The pharmacist wants to clip her fingernails. The fake wedding ring trick has proved ineffective, as polygamy is very much in vogue in Luo Land. And I thought I was attracting attention!

Even though I received a lonely one self-invitation from a man in the supermarket wanting to "join me back in Canada", Kisumu was a lovely change from village life. I met some wonderful people from all over the world, discovered a new city, took a hot shower and finally bought myself a Kenyan kanga - the multi-purpose fabric worn by every woman in the country. It can be a head scarf, a dress, a wrap around skirt, an apron. You can even twist it into a ball and place it on your head to balance buckets. GENIUS! When I wear it, I blend right in... really.

Life in Kaswanga

I just realized that I've given very vague details of life in Kaswanga, and I'm sure many of you are confused as to what I'm doing here, what brought me here, etc etc. Here are some details!

Kaswanga is Luo village on Rusinga Island located on Lake Victoria. It is a rather isolated village. Everyone lives in a mud or cement hut

and most people have several huts on their property where extended family members live. I live with Ezekiel

and Lydia Tito, their two children Eda and Javier, Jane the houseworker, Ezekiel's brother Moses and another

brother and his family. I'm not sure of the other brother's name, but I'm going to guess it's Peter

... most people are named Peter here. I live in my very own mud hut, and it has become my home. It's pretty cozy! There is no electricity and no running water, but it's amazing how quickly I got used to life without a blowdryer and bathing in Lake Victoria (probably a bad move, what with the bilharzia and all.) I am woken up every morning at 6:30 by not only roosters, but also chickens, a dog, two cats, one cow and about 10 goats. I can now do an amaaaaazing goat impression.

I came to Kaswanga to work with Friends of Rusinga Orphans and Widows Group. This organization is a feeding program for 25 students who come to the Tito's home everyday

for lunch. Most of them are orphans or only have one parent, and this is likely their only meal of the day. Everyday I serve the children lunch, teach at the Agiro Primary School, work on the sweet potato farm and help prepare the food. Island life is pretty relaxed here, so I would rarely do all of those things in one day.

And that is what has brought me to this quiet island village! There are very few wazungu (foreigner, plural) passing through. I confirmed this today while flipping through the local Visitors Book. Aside from one girl from Winnipeg (strangely enough, someone other than me) most of the "visitors" were from Kaswanga...

I hope that has cleared up any confusion! More details to come soon!

Notes from Kaswanga

Ok, so I'm not actually in Kaswanga. Since the village doesn't have electricity, I had to take a piki piki, the local motorcycle public transportation into Mbita to find an internet cafe. But anyways. I've gotten over my culture shock and am very happy to be here. My mud hut has it's charms, and looking at the stars when there are no streets lights is absolutely breath taking. I also met an American who has been living in Kaswanga for the last 8 months. It's nice to have a genuine friend who has no interest in marrying me or being taken back to Canada. Now that I've relaxed a bit, I've noticed some things that really make me appreciate this island village.

1. The way everyone laughs at me and yells mzungu (foreigner, or in my case, white lady) every time I walk by.

2. The dress. Many things have reached the Nyanza province much later than in North America - the cassette tape, for example, or negative attitudes towards polygamy. My personal favourite is the shoulder pad. Whether in Kaswanga, Mbita or Homa Bay, you don't have to look too far to find a woman wearing a shoulder-padded shimmery ball gown. I just don't get it.

3. The attitude towards warmth. This is actually a general Kenyan thing. It's 30 degrees here, I'm sweating like never before and everyone else is wearing a winter coat. I'm starting to wonder if I'm the one who has temperature issues.

4. Everyone spontaneously changes their clothing after lunch time. It's as if they go to bed wearing what they've had on all afternoon, wake up, hang around in those clothes for a few hours than SURPRISE! New outfit!

I have also noticed that my idea of work does not at all match that of Kaswanga. My first day my job was to rest. The second day I picked rocks out of a bag of beans. After 30 minutes I was told to rest. I've been begging for more to do, so yesterday I went to Agira Primary School and taught some English and Social Studies classes. I get the impression that the staff didn't actually need any more help, but they were happy to have an extended tea break.

That's all for now. Expect more updates soon!

Nairobi to Rusinga

Oh, the romance of the road - wait, isn't it supposed to be "the romance of the rails"? Granted, travelling by bus isn't nearly as inspiring as by rail. There's nothing more soothing than the steady chug of the train - but there was something to be said for a front row seat on the overnight bus from out of Nairobi, where I sat back and watched the moonlit Kenyan scenery pass me by. A bit dramatic? Perhaps. But that scenery was the only thing distracting me from my rather obese neighbour's invasion of my personal space, and the fact that the 6 hour journey to Homa Bay actually took 10. As Peter Moore, my favourite travel author warned me, the African timetable truly is a work of fiction.

Getting to Homa Bay was only step one. From there, I took a matatu to Mbita. 20 km and 3 AND A HALF HOURS LATER I arrived in Mbita, where I waited for

Ezekiel, the man who runs the Friends of Rusinga Group. We hopped on a motorbike and headed to the Kaswanga village on Rusinga Island. That was quite the journey.

So I've been in the fishing village of Kaswanga since Tuesday. The scenery is wonderful - there are trees everywhere, I'm within a five minute walk from the beach, and the sunsets are breathtaking. And I finally found the village bathing spot! I can't tell you how badly I needed that beach bath this morning! But to be honest, culture shock doesn't begin to describe how I feel. I had heard this place was rustic and isolated, but I hadn't expected

it to be quite so... well... rustic and isolated. It will take me a while to get used to my mud hut, as well as having to hire a motorbike to get to Mbita everytime I need electricity. But Ezekiel, his wife Lydia and their family are incredibly hospitable, and the people of Kaswanga are very friendly (even if my grasp of the Dholuo language is minimal).

So for those of you who were worried about my first long distance journey across Kenya, I am safe. Thanks Kirsten and Phil, for making sure I departed from the Akamba bus station safely. Paul and his brother took very good care of me, and I got two very enthusiastic double-hand waves as I drove away from the station! Thanks again for your hospitality, and thanks Mags and Josie for taking the blame (on a few occasions) for my smelly feet, and for reminding me that you're never too old to sit in the back of the family station wagon, wedged between two kiddy seats singing "John Jacob Jingle Heimer Schmidt." Good times!

One Week in Nairobi

I've spent the last week in Nairobi with the wonderful Krymusa family - Kirsten was my high school English teacher who lives here with her husband Phil and two daughters Mags and Josie. Thanks to their amazing hospitality, I've had a great time getting to know the city while getting my bearings in Kenya (and my parents can sleep at night knowing I'm safe.) And their calm neighbourhood, Gigiri, is a great escape to the craziness in central Nairobi. After a week with them, I feel fully prepared to venture out on my own! Here are some thoughts on Nairobi.

First impressions of Nairobi

Friendliness of passers-by on the street: A+ for enthusiasm to the inhabitants of Gigiri! A simple smile is often met with "hello, fine thank you, how are you!!"

Public transportation: the matatus are always a treat. I can risk my life for a mere 50 cents just getting into town, whereas most extreme activities like bungy jumping or sky diving can cost hundreds of dollars for just one go. Their decor is very impressive, what with their sparkly stickers and tassled curtains. And who can miss those names, like Hustler and Beyonce, for example. Rumour has it even Celine Dion is circling the streets of Nairobi.

Average speed of pedestrians of central Nairobi: glacial.

Security: For the most part I feel pretty safe, especially in Gigiri. Most security guards here are heavily armed, and there is a gate every few meters to keep out unwanted traffic. Although, they seem to open for almost everyone, and I do

wonder how effective they are when the guard keeps it open to leave his post, take a nap, or my personal favourite, sit in the booth and stroke his cat.

There's much more to tell about Nairobi, but I have a bus to catch to Rusinga Island! I'm heading to Lake Victoria for a few weeks to work with the Friends of Rusinga Orphans and Widows Group. (www.friendsofrusinga.org) I'm

very much looking forward to a taste of rural Kenya!

Jambo!

Hello everyone! Jambo!

So here I am in Kenya. Sorry for those of you who still think I'm in Spain... or in France for that matter. I've changed my plans a few times several times in the last few months and have not been very good at keeping you up to date. Thank goodness for blogs!

So what am I doing here? Africa has been on my mind for quite some time. The grey European winter was getting me down. I wanted to do something different - something outside the eat-drink-eat-drink routine I'd gotten used to in Europe (don't get me wrong - it's great, but I've had enought pastries and pintxos to keep me satisfied for years.) It all goes back to one fateful afternoon in December, I was sitting in a cafe in Bordeaux wondering where I was going with my life (I'm still working on that one...). I had just decided not to do the second semester of my exchange, and my only plans were to work in San Sebastian for a few months. At the very moment that I was writing in my journal about going to Africa, Toto came on the radio serenading me with their 1982 hit "Africa". HOW COULD I ARGUE WITH THAT?? For those of you who aren't familiar with this masterpiece, here is the music video :

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lu5PdI52heY.

Thanks Toto, for inspiring me to take some time to do the things I never haa-a-a-aaa-a-a-aave.

My plans are very up in the air at this point - I won't even tell you what they are, since I clearly have trouble sticking to them. All I know is that I'll be in East Africa until I run out of money, and luckily for me the Canadian dollar is looking pretty good compared to the shilling. No matter where I end up, I promise to provide a steady stream of stories from Africa. Enjoy!