not much substance

on saturday, erika and i learned to do laundry at the lake. we spent a good hour scrubbing everything with soap until it shined (or so we thought). when we announced that we were done to ken's sister (our chaperone), she commenced rewashing all of our clothes a second and a third time. i wasted a good deal of effort after each wash wringing things out only to watch her dunk them in water again. oh well, now i know. i would've taken pictures, except there were also lots of naked women at the lake...they didn't seem to mind the male donkey cart drivers that would come periodically to fill up drums of water though.

Sunday, Gerald took Erika and I on a motorcycle trip around rusinga island. We found an airstrip that chartered customers from Nairobi into a secret resort. The sign on the gate said reservations only, but we managed to talk our way past the guard onto the manicured lawn. the place was seriously swank. Swimming pool, masseuses, discrete, khaki’d servants hidden in every nook. Even more impressive given the hungry dogs and wandering donkeys right outside it’s impenetrable doors. The plump british manager offered us drinks and told us that one night’s stay cost USD400. USD400! You can buy all of mbita for that amount. On our way out, we passed the newest bunch of fresh smelling mzungus who had just flown in. It’s hard to believe that they will have been here without seeing more than that place.

Monday, instead of working on the farm, Erika and I hired a rowboat to stalk some hippo. We spotted two clumps of them, wiggling their pink ears but otherwise resembling the floating mangroves that choke the lake. The sky here is much closer, and even closer when mirrored by the lucid lake, disturbed only by our occasional paddles and the dipping birds. An absolutely beautiful way to experience the water.

Before we went back ashore, our guides showed us the humming cages of a tsetse fly research center. I didn’t really want to go with my undeeted, naked legs, but I didn’t want to seem impolite, so sleeping sickness be damned. Also on the island, I found some perfectly round, watermelon-like fruits and was surprised to learn that no one eats them (“no, we only use them for balls”). When I cracked it open, I found a white, fleshy interior, like wintermelon. The thing was obviously not poisonous, and the Chinese would’ve made a soup out of it long ago. The wild beans on the farm fences grow unmolested too, and ppl were shocked that ppl can eat snakes. Gerald protested that snakes were poisonous and thus inedible, and someone else told me that the hatred between men and snakes is ordained by god. Given the famine, I can’t believe that ppl aren’t more cunning about their food sources.

In the afternoon, we took another motorcycle trip, but instead of 3 on 1 bike, we did 2 on 2 bikes. Much more comfortable. Everywhere we went, children ran after us yelling “Mzungu! Mzungu!” I felt like the pied piper of Hamlin. It was actually quite dangerous. One stretch of windy road was fenced on both sides by trees and shrubs, out of which kids would spring to chase erika’s bike, landing them right in front of my bike. We had close calls with about 3 of them.

The villagers we met had no qualms about asking us for money. One drunkard even showed us a gaping wound on his leg. It’s weird. We’re seen as walking money trees. All Americans must be rich, and America itself is a heavenly place that all Kenyans strive to reach. Hence the marriage proposals. Hence the begging. The wealth disparity is true enough, but I wish ppl didn’t perceive the US as such a faultless candyland. I spend a lot of time trying to convince ppl that an American visa isn’t worth the trouble or the USD150 processing cost (which you don’t get back if (when) they reject your application, which is a lot of money to a Kenyan), but no one really believes me. They’ve heard of welfare, you see: “so the government gives you money even if you don’t work?” yes, but it’s not really enough money to live on. Ppl here are poor, but everyone is poor, and the climate is nice, and the land you live on has belonged to your family forever. When you are poor in America, unless you’re on your way to becoming not poor, it’s a hard life.

But how do you turn down someone’s grandmother whom you’ve just met? Anyways, I always handle it awkwardly.

on the bright side, i forget which day it was, but one day, we taught ken and his 60 year old dad how to jump rope. we were actually trying to teach sullivan, the 3 yr old kid, but the concept was so foreign that he was too shy to try. we were never good enough to get a double dutch going, but erika and i amazed them by both jumping at the same time while ken and his brother swung the rope. ken actually had a bit of trouble timing his jumps, so finally, his dad decided to show him how things were done in the onyanga family--he got it on the first try. amazing!