Saying Goodbye

It’s strange having to say goodbye to a place, the things that have been familiar with for some time, which will now become foreign once again. The walk from our home to work every morning, the red dust paths which ran parallel to the bustling streets, the matatu drivers on the corner, the guard at the entrance of Hope House, the Australian couple we saw walking passed Hope House on days we were running late, the smells, the sounds. Yet what make places, I’ve found, are the people who you associate those places with. There were so many goodbyes today, and too many people I think I’ll never see again.
After taking the kids to a park in the morning, and feeding them lunch, it was time for a nap and it was my job to get them washed and tucked in. It was the hardest task I’ve been given yet at Hope House. Tucking them in meant saying goodbye to them all, for when they woke, I would be gone. They asked me where I was going, and as I thought about a way to explain to them that there is a world beyond their small neighborhood, I began to cry. I told them it was because I would miss them, which was of course the truth. Yet what I think I was really crying about was their futures. Hope House has showed me that there are wonderful places for young, abandoned kids to grow up, yet what happens beyond Hope House is what makes me nervous. My dear Wyclef is three and a half and will be going to a new home when he turns four. He will be moved to a new place, where his enormous heart and unbelievable intellect will stun all those around him, in the same way they’ve stunned me. Yet will he be nurtured there? Will he have the chance to pursue his dreams, whatever they may be? As I lay between Wyclef’s and Timo’s bed, watching them smile, laugh and fall asleep for the last time, I realized that they have become a part of me that I will always be present. Wyclef’s sharp giggle will always bring about a smile wherever I am. What I hope is not that they remember me, but they remember how much I loved them, how much everyone at Hope House loved them, and I know that this genuine love can last forever.

The Great Rift Valley

We woke up early this morning, so that we could get out off to an early start on our “tourist” day (Sundays are always our tourist days). I had no idea where we were going, just that wherever it was, there were flamingos, hippos and giraffes. As we were just reaching the outskirts of Nairobi we stopped at a gas station to fill up before we left the city. As we sitting in the car, my host mom screams and points! There was a man walking a camel past the gas station. We rushed out of the car and ran up to them, seeing if we could ‘hitch a ride’. The man was very nice, and he let Noxy and I ride all around the sidewalk. It was hysterical, and both Noxy and I couldn’t stop laughing the entire ride! It was so fun and so unexpected to see a camel at the side of a city street!
The first stretch of the trip was one of the most beautiful car rides I’ve ever taken. About 40 minutes outside of Nairobi, we stopped at a look out spot for the Great Rift Valley. It was absolutely beautiful, and quite nerve racking driving along the thin mountain roads which lead down into the valley. On the side of the mountain road, Simon stopped so we could see an little Italian church, that had been built in 1942 by Italian P.O.Ws. It seemed somewhat out of place, but my host mom later told us that Kenya and Italy have a strong, longstanding relationship. Anyways, when we walked up to the little church, many people were crowded inside, singing and worshipping, which was lovely to hear.
After another 40 minutes or so we arrived in Naviasha, a beautiful town know their National Park and the Naviasha lake, which Simon claims is the deepest lake in Africa. We parked our car at a very well to do hotel/outdoor restaurant, where many government ministers were spending Sunday brunch with their families, and had a quick drink before heading out to the lake. The lake was beautiful, and to get there, we had to walk about a mile and a half through lush pastures and grasslands. At the lake, we were greeted by a man, Nomvuyo had met the first time she came to visit the place and who assured us all that he was a safe boat driver and “made sure not to get too close to the hippos”. We all started laughing, but what we realized shortly after was that his comment was not a joke.
As we became farther from the main shore, we began seeing hippos everywhere! They are absolutely massive animals, who despite my prior belief, are much less cute and much more frightening looking than I once believed. Yet there were no fatal incidents, and soon we landed across the lake, to the 2,000,000 acres of National Wildlife Reserves. When we got off the boat we were greeted by a very small, jolly young man, who told us he would give us a tour of the park. As we walked into the grasslands, we quickly noticed that there was a large herd of wildebeests, grazing just a few hundred meters away from us. At first it was very surprising and bit scary just walking through these animals land with no fences, no nothing protecting us from them, but soon we became aware that despite their size, strength or speed they were actually the ones afraid of us.
As we continued walking through the large field, we spotted a huge, beautiful giraffe who was feeding on a tall tree. We walked over to it, and we were able to get very close. It was quite friendly, and I think was flattered by the amount of attention we were giving it. He even began posing with us, standing tall, allowing us to get pictures standing in front of him. As our walk continued we saw a huge herd of zebras and impalas grazing together, as well as a group of baby giraffe and a family of dainty gazelles.
After we finished our walk we hopped back on the boat to return to main the main shore. On our walk to get to the lake, Noxy and I had noticed some local men with motorcycles who were transporting people from the hotels or the road to the lake. We both though it would be fun, and so suggested it as we got off the boat. My host mother, Simon and Tumi weren’t up for riding themselves, but they encouraged us to take the motorcycles back to the restaurant where our car was parked. It was quite an experience, especially having never ridden on a motorcycle before. The second I got on the back of the motorcycle, the young man turned it on and sped off, giving me no time to think twice. The road through the grasslands was very smooth (and very speedy), but soon we got onto the dirt path the led to the main road. It was literally like any other walking path, through the woods, over roots, around pedestrians, except we were travelling by motorcycle. I felt a bit bad, because people walking had to dodge out of the way to let us through, but all in all it was a fabulous experience!
After we left Navaisha, we drove about an hour more, deeper into the Great Rift Valley to the Nocuro, which has a huge, famous National flamingo park. When we arrived here, my host mom told us she’d wait for us at the restaurant outside of the park, because she’d already been. So Simon, Tumi, Noxy and I went up to the gate to pay, and we found that they were charging about 8 dollars (700 shillings) for Kenya residents and 60 dollars (5,000 shillings) for non-residents to get into the park! Since we’ve been to many parks and sites, we’ve learned that Kenya charges much more money for non-residents than for residents, but we’d never seen such a huge price difference. Noxy had Nomvuyo’s Kenya ID and Simon said that Tumi was his daughter, but they wouldn’t budge for me. It was terribly frustrating and seemed really wrong and not hospitable to me, so I told them, out of frustration, that I didn’t want to go in if they were going to charge me that ridiculous price. So, here I am, with my host mom, sitting at the outdoor café, both of our computers out and enjoying the company of the friendly, wild monkeys that crawl around near our table. It was a fabulous day and a “first time” for many things!

Wedding

Today I went to Simon's cousin's wedding! The reception was just outside of Nairobi, in the back yard of someone's home, where many tents, flower arrangements and catering tables were set up. What was different about this wedding, from any other I'd been to before was the large number of children sitting in the guest seats and running around the yard. They were not nieces or nephews, cousins or grandchildren, they were homeless or very impoverished kids who looked for weddings every Saturday, so that they could have at least one good meal that week.
After we were seated at the reception, I began realizing that all the children were making their way towards where we sat. They huddled behind our seats, giggling and staring, while we were served lunch. Once I had put my plate down, which was still filled with food that I was too full to eat, Mary took my plate and slipped it to the kids, a trend I began noticing many people there were doing. It was then that I felt like crying, but due to the joy the wedding ceremonies were providing I was able to hold my tears in.
After the children had eaten they continued to lurk behind our seats, until a few worked up the courage to come sit in the chairs in front of us. The three girls, maybe 5 years old, just sat in front of us, chairs facing towards me and stared. Every time I smiled at one of them, they'd giggle uncontrollably and practically began shaking with excitement. As the reception went on, more kids worked up the courage to come sit by me, some stared, too shy to say anything to.... a white person. One ten year old boy, too nervous to talk to me, asked Noxy, who sat right beside me, if I was British. Noxy laughed and told him I was, thinking it was the easiest thing to say, though it was not entirely true. Then he proceeded to ask her if I was friends with Ronaldo, the world famous soccer player. We both laughed, and this time I responded with a truthful "No." The moment I had replied, all the kids around me started giggling with excitement and the boy looked shocked and thrilled that I had actually spoken to him. This silliness went on for awhile; children reaching to touch my light skin or catch my long enough for me to smile at them or say "hello". One girl said the word "Angel" to her friend as she stared at me and it broke my heart to hear.
It was as if they didn't understand that we were both humans, that there was nothing different between them and me besides the color of our skin and the texture of our hair. Many of them, I was later told, had probably never spoken, or maybe even seen a white person. At first I found it cute, how in awe of me they were, yet as it progressed I began realizing that they really saw me as better than them, maybe even better than anyone else at the wedding. I wanted to explain to them all that their skin is just as beautiful as mine, that my skin color does not say anything about who I am. I am not an angel, I am no less or more than they are. Yet I don't think they'd understand that, yet I hope, I hope with all my heart, that someday they will.


*The little girls running around in the picture were the homeless ones who sat next to me.

Walking Alone

This morning was my first day walking alone in Nairobi. Last night my host mom suggested I take a day off a work to finish up some school related things, so that I could “breath easy” the rest of the trip. So when I woke up this morning with Noxy, I was prepared to eat breakfast with her, and once she went to work I would start in on my work. After breakfast, Noxy asked Mary (our housekeeper) if she could walk with Noxy to work. Mary seemed very busy and didn’t seem that keen on the idea, so I offered to walk with Noxy to work and then walk home. Noxy said she’d like that, and when we got to the street work was on, I just said “goodbye” and headed back home.
It is funny how the smallest acts of independence can feel so… exciting. As I was walking the 15 minutes alone, I felt so strong. I didn’t know why, and I told myself I was being silly, but no matter what I said to myself, I couldn’t help the exhilaration from bubbling up inside of me! Of course, I got many interesting looks and even some giggles, at the sight of a young, white girl walking down the street, by herself, with a particularly peppy bounce to her step.
Though walking down the street alone seems like an everyday thing for most people, here in Nairobi, it was a big step for me. It made me realize how different the life I’m living here is from the life in Amherst. And sometimes, the little things help us to realize these tremendous differences.

Feelings at Hope House

Work has been tough the past couple days. I've found myself easily annoyed by the kids and intolerant of little, insignificant things that they do. I am trying so hard to be patient, but find myself so caught up in screaming kids and dirty diapers, that I forget to focus on loving them to my full potential. I wish that I would never be angry with them, because I truly do adore every one of them. I wish that I could find a way to take little breaks throughout the day, in order to regain strength, but I can't. I feel so privileged that I am getting the opportunity to be with these children and yet sometimes I forget just how lucky I am when I feel stretched paper thin by them. How, I wonder, can I find a balance? How can I mentally step back from the children when they're frustrating me so that I can remember, despite their imperfections, that I love them?
Yesterday I walked into the older baby's (6 months- 1 year) bedroom and found that the 9 month old twins, Enoch and Esther, were not in their cribs. I asked where they were and was told that they had been adopted yesterday evening after we had left work. I felt sad and ecstatic at the same time. I had met the couple that was looking at them a week or so ago and they were really amazing people. Yet I realized that I will most likely never see Enoch again, a baby who I fed almost everyday since I've been here, and who's boisterous laugh has brought me to tears. His 4 baby teeth will never chew on my apron again, and when he's tired, he'll be leaning on someone else's chest for comfort.
There is a range of emotions that hit me at various points throughout the work day. The feelings of frustration are always outweighed by the feelings of joy. The feelings of sadness that these kids were "unwanted" are outweighed by the feelings of excitement, that though their biological parents have given these kids up, other wonderful, loving people are working everyday to fill the gap that is caused by abandonment.

Girl

I knew there'd be children like her. Children I’d want with all my heart to give money to, to give food to, to tell them that it wasn’t there fault that they’d be abandoned. Yet this knowledge didn’t make her voice any easier to hear, it didn’t make my guilt, my sadness any less. She walked up to our car, once she saw that I wasn’t from Kenya. Her skin was dark and scars that looked like burns covered her face. She had a baby on her back, wrapped in a raggedy blanket, the baby’s cheekbones were prominent and she looked too thin for anyone her age. The girl called me “Madame”, she tugged on my shirt, and touched my soft, light skin. She asked me for money to feed the baby with and I began wondering if it was her own child. She looked no older than 13, though her frail figure could’ve been why I thought she was so young. She pleaded in a soft voice, “just some coins, Madame, just a few shillings”. I had just taken out 10,000 shillings from a nearby ATM, an amount she had probably never seen, an amount that could feed her and the aby for months. My stomach began to hurt as her sunken in eyes starred into my own, searching for sympathy. I wanted to run away, give her my 10,000 shillings and run away. I wanted to trust that if I gave her money, she really would spend it on food for the baby and herself. I wanted her to know how much her words cut into me, and that my silence wasn’t because I didn’t care, but it was because I cared too much.
I got back into the car, to get out small change for her, but she would not stop staring. She pressed her face up against the window, tapping on it. I quickly got back out and gave her all the coins I had, amounting to about 90 shillings, but it wasn’t enough. Then I realized nothing would’ve been enough. She doesn’t have a family, she doesn’t have a home and she never had a childhood. My money could buy her a meal but it couldn’t buy her all the things she really needed, it couldn’t buy her happiness, I learned money can’t do that long ago. And as I pressed my cupped hand against hers, I felt helpless. She scared me, she hurt me, her stare has been in my head for the past day, and yet I’m the supposedly “powerful” one. I’m the one that eats three good meals a day, the one that has a supportive family, the one that has flown across the world, and yet I did close to nothing for her, and she did so much to me.

Fourteen Falls

On Sunday we all drove about 60km northwest of Nairobi, to a national site called “Fourteen Falls”. It was the first time we’d been out of the city and it was absolutely beautiful! As we continued to drive further from the city, the landscape began to get green and lush. After an hour or so we found ourselves driving on a dirt road, the side of the road spotted with pineapple and corn fields, and streams with little children splashing around in them.
When we arrived at the falls, a handful of young men came up to us, asking us if we needed a tour. At this point we didn’t know what they meant by a tour, but within ten minutes, we understood. After greeting each other, the two men who we chose to be our tour guides began taking off their pants and shoes. We had come prepared to get a little muddy at the falls, but hadn’t prepared for what adventures lay ahead.
We walked down to the edge of the rocky river, that flowed into the falls. One of the guides reached for my hand, and instructed I grab Noxy’s hand and she grab Simon’s hand, forming a line. The other guide instructed my host mom and Tumi make a line of their own behind him.
The next thing we knew we were crossing the rushing river, using each others weight to keep us from slipping. Within just a few minutes, our pants were completely soaking. We were overcome with a strange combination of excitement and fear. In order to avoid getting swept under, we followed the exact steps of the guide for the whole way across the wide river.
When we got across the river, we climbed down a ways in order to get the best view of the falls. They were absolutely magnificent and thanks to our guides who offered to take pictures for us, we have some stunning photos of the falls and even some pictures of some local boys jumping off the falls.
We decided on taking the wooden boat back, instead of trekking through the river again. When we returned to the side our cars was on we took out the food and blankets we had brought for our picnic and invited our friends (tour guides) to join us. They were so grateful for our generosity and we were more than happy to share our food with them, having all noticed how skinny they were. After lunch we packed up and said “farewell” to our newfound friends and the magnificent falls.
It was an amazing place and it was really wonderful to get out of the city and see beautiful rural Kenya. Fourteen falls is one of the most stunning sites I’ve ever seen, so untouched by anything unnatural like bridges or motor boats. Pure and

Aunt Mary

Aunt Mary is our housekeeper. My host mom hired her because she works so much, and has very little time to cook or clean. At first the idea of a maid sounded unfamiliar and uncomfortable to me, thinking that she would treat us like royalty and she'd expect us to treat her lower than she. This is not the case.
Each morning we wake up, and she is at the house making breakfast for us. She makes us hot tea, eggs and toast every morning, and we make her laugh every morning. She speaks some English, and yet she is absolutely hilarious! The moment we met her, Noxy and I both knew we'd have fun with her. She is very sassy and humorous herself and so responds so well to our constant joking around. What we've come to discover is how much we genuinely do care for each other.
On Friday she took us to what our host mom calls "the slums". I will go into more detail about them in another blog for they were like nothing I'd ever seen. When we got onto the matatu from our apartment, with Mary, we were all a little nervous. But Mary assured us that we would be fine and showed the driver of the matatu that she was not playing around when she said "keep these girls safe". Once we entered the slums, Noxy, Tumi (Noxy 8 year old cousin who is visiting from South Africa) and I all immediately reached for her hand. We were all unfamiliar with the squalor living and working conditions we were surrounded by and we turned to Mary for confidence. What we later found out is that Mary lives in that area and to her, those streets were home. Later my host mom explained that Mary lives in a one-room house that is the size of our bedroom here where her kitchen, bedroom and living room are all in one room, and everyone sleeps in one bed or on the floor.
When I'm here, living in a beautiful apartment, with an abundance of food and clean water, it is easy to forget for a moment that down the street just ten minutes, is a community where people are constantly dying of hunger, AIDS, murder and disease. What I've learned is that these people are not too unlike myself. I feel like I know and understand Mary very well. She is a dear motherly figure and we have provided so much joy to each other. Never would I have guessed that she lives in such a poor area, with so much less than me. Her smile seems just as bright as ours and her joy just as genuine, do these things always reflect the conditions which were are brought up in? Does our material wealth have as much to do with the richness and beauty of our lives as we think?
I wish Mary did not have to live in such a small house, I wish that she could afford to travel to see the birth of her first grandchild next month, I wish that she could live more carefree and have to work less than she does. But she can't and I am so inspired by her wonderful and positive way of living her life, a life most would let bring them down.

Transportation

The roads here are organized chaos, yet we've not seen one car accident or one episode of road rage yet. There are no stop signs, stop lights, or road signs of any kind, and to a passer-by who's unfamiliar to Nairobi, the roads would look like one big grid lock. The roads are thin, and crowded with car, pedestrian, bike and matatu traffic. Matatus are the main form of public transportation in Nairobi. They are 12-14 person vans, which are usually decorated with bright writing and pictures of various American celebrities (Mariah Cary, Barack Obama, Lil Wayne). They are the vehicles on the road! Often you see them driving half on the side walk, in order to pass people or get through traffic quicker, and they are always jammed back with passengers. Tomorrow we are going on our first matatu ride, when we go with Mary, our housekeeper, to get our hair done in one of the slums of Lavington (the area we are living in).
Everyone is always walking, and not just from block to block. I've decided it may be why the people here all look so fit and healthy. Here, walking is a social thing, as well as the most widespread form of transportation. Noxy and I walk to work, and it is one of the most relaxing parts of my day. The exhaust from the old buses takes away from some of the beauty of our walk, but the produce stands lining the roads make up for it. Fresh mangoes, bananas, pineapples, avocados and flowers decorate the bustling side walks when we leave for work at 7:45 in the morning, and when we return at 2:45. I am working up the nerves to take a picture of these produce stands and vendors. I have even learned how to say "May I take your picture?" in Swahili, but sometimes I feel like I'm disrespecting their lifestyle by taking pictures. I think tomorrow I'll bring some shillings to buy a piece of fruit for breakfast and maybe then it will be alright if I take a picture of them, once I've spoken to them and bought something!

Simon

We call him Uncle Simon, though he is just a few years older than we are
He is our driver, though by now, just our dear friend
His voice is soft and his beautiful Swahili accent thick
We feel safe when we're with him and he laughs when he's with us
We drive through the thin, crowded streets of the city
We walk through the great, lush National Parks
We see everything with him
The slum villages, stretching the perimeter of the city
The colorful markets
The Masai herdsmen
The old, hunched man who sells bamboo off his cart
The young boys playing soccer on our way back from Tracy
The Kenyan runners
The Kenyan people
We learn Swahili from him
We learn patience from him
Simon
Rafiki



Rafiki- friend in Swahili

Wyclef

On Monday I started working at Hope House Babies Home, which is where I'll be working for the next two and a half weeks. The idea of the place is that it is more like a home than a typical orphanage and the staff and volunteers do an amazing job at sticking to this vision. The home is a small, one floor stucco house with a large backyard with toys, a swing set and a sand box. Since I am working there six or seven hours a day, I will, of course, be blogging about it all the time, but today I want to focus on a certain orphan at Hope House.
Wyclef (wee-cl-eef), is three, making him the oldest orphan at Hope House. I can genuinely say that he is the best behaved 3 year old I have ever met (I hope I'm not jinxing his behavior by saying that). When we visited the orphanage on Saturday for orientation, he was the first child we met. He came running up to us, speaking vigorously in Swahili and we knew at the point that he was "the boss" of the house.
After just two days, Wyclef and I have already developed a deep understanding of each other. He is so good at both Swahili and English, that I can ask him what a word means that I've heard someone say in Swahili, and often he can tell me what it means in English. But his translations are not the only things I can count on him for. He is the leader of the pack of toddlers and they all look up to him. He listens to almost everything I say and responds to nearly everything I ask of him, he is my little helper and when I'm watching over 7 other 1.5 - 3 year olds, any help is greatly appreciated.
As a way of expressing his interest in me, he will spot me from far a way and point and wink at me, then often, with all his might, run over to me and lift his arms, a motion meaning "swing me around". Yet these energetic interactions are not the ones that I remember at the end of the day. What I remember are time like today, when I knew he was beginning to get tired, but all his friends were laying outside. I was trying to rally them all up for lunch and as usual, he was the first (and only) to reply to my commands to come inside. He came over to me and lifted up his arms for me to pick him up. Once I'd picked him up, he began brushing his fingers through my hair. At that moment, as I was trying to channel screaming toddlers in for nap time, and having already been thrown up on twice that day, I remember thinking that Wyclef knows is so attentive to the world and to people, that he sees exactly when I'm about to crack during the day, and provides me with his love, in order to make sure I get through the long, but great hours at Home House.
It is amazing how much you find yourself understanding a person who has only lived for three years, does not speak English as a first language, and who you've only known for two days. Having to be in the orphanage for six hours a day forces me to bond with the children on such a deep level. I have so much to learn from Wylcef and all the children here, and I hope, for the older ones at least, I can bring something to their lives in return.

Outdoor Market

Today we went to our first outdoor market. It was made up of hundreds of 8x8x8 wooden shacks with tin roofs. There were rows and rows of them, extending about a block long. They were dusty and dark and walking through them, we had little room to move any way but forward. Each vendor approached us, “Hello sister”or “Karibu” (welcome in Swahili). There were earrings and scarves, beaded belts, soap stone sculptures, woven straw hats, leather sandals and products I couldn’t even name. The vendors were persuasive, yet not aggressive. They were all such amazing artists. Everything they were selling they had made by hand. It felt so different from the shops at home, because when you buy a pair of earrings at home, you haven’t met the people that have beaded them. You haven’t experienced the creativity and effort that each artist has put into there magnificent products. It was a beautiful place and yet it was so tempting to pass by so many artists and not buy every beautiful product they had made.
The woman I am living with has become dear friends with one of the woman (Sara) who sells her art there and she is such a wonderful, endearing person. She is very beautiful and only weighs around 90 pounds, causing me to believe she was in her early twenties. I found out later that she is 35 and has 3 children. After we had left the market, my host mom told me that she once had a beautiful, thriving store in Nairobi, which was run from her home. One night some robbers broke in and stole almost all her art. Because of that, she could not afford to run the store anymore and so now has to sell from the markets. Her husband was so frustrated by this and fearful of the idea of a life of poverty for his wife and their three young children that he left for the states and is now earning a bachelors degree in the United States, so that once he finishes his schooling, he will be able to give his wife and children the life that they deserve. Noxy and I hope to be able to help Sara take care of her children while she is working!
Sara lead us all around the market, making sure that no one tried to have us over pay for their goods (everyone knows I am a foreigner). She is so generous and if I see something I like and the vendor wants me to pay a certain amount for it she whispers "no baby, don't you worry, I'll get it for you". She has an amazing memory, and when we show her things we like she remembers what they are, and gets them for us later on, because no one overcharges her! I feel a bit strange about what she does, because I don't want to under pay these artists for their brilliant work, and to me the prices they offer me sound completely reasonable and often sound too cheap. But I have to remember what a different world it is here. A world where an intricate beaded necklace, which I would normally pay 20 or more dollars for at home, is sold for only 2 dollars (150 shillings) here.

On my way to Nairobi

Let me start off with the plane ride from Amsterdam to Nairobi, as it was one that I do believe I will remember...forever. The gate to our flight was a loud and bustling array of families, all speaking Swahili or another Eastern African language. As we stood in line to board the plane, babies and toddlers were running everywhere, families hugging and reuniting. The dutch security guards were having fits, as they tried to organize us into two lines. I stood next to a mother with five kids, and a group of white missionaries, who stood out... even more than I did.
After boarding the plane, I found myself sitting next to an old woman (80 or 90) who did not speak a word of English, but yet was one of the most friendly and endearing people I encountered throughout my 20 hours of traveling. After about 5 minutes of getting settled she began speaking to me in what I believed to be a tribal language of Kenya (It sounded similar, but not exactly like Swahili). After she realized that me speaking back to her in her language was a lost cause, we established a form of communicating, just as effective as any spoken language. She would use hand motions to ask me questions about the TV screens and dinner menu and I would respond with similar gestures. She would grab my pillow from behind my head point at it, and I would know that she wanted me to help her adjust her own (due to her frailness, she found it hard to maneuver in the squished space we were given to sit in for 8 hours.) She reminded me of a witch doctor, ancient, wise and mysterious. After half an hour she was taken to the back of the plane by a doctor, because she began to feel very tired and sick. I didn't see her after that, but the image of her wrinkled face, her black head dress and her frail fingers remain clear in my mind.
When we arrived in Nairobi, I felt flustered and a little afraid. I had just read in my cynical, British Travelers Guide to Kenya that Nairobi was nicknamed "Nairobbery" for a reason, and that airports could be hot spots for petty theft, especially for obvious foreigners such as myself. What I found was that there was nothing to fear. The security and workers at the airport were so friendly and understanding of my situation and they were a wonderful representation of the loving, positive people of Nairobi.