tidbits in mbita

I introduced Erika to boiled peanuts the other day. She thinks they taste like potatoes (as do the plantains), which in her book is a good thing. She was throwing the shells at the chicks that wander around the center when one took a small squat and did a small poo directly into a peanut shell. I didn’t actually see it, but she thought it was intensely cute. On a separate note, chickens are ridiculously stupid. I caught one by the tail, and it gave a mighty squawk and jerked out of my hand, but as soon as I wasn’t touching it anymore, it went back to its peck peck pecking, completely still within reach of my hand. Erika caught one of the chicks, which freaked the mother hen out but once she let it go, the mother hen brought all the chicks to peck around erika’s feet again. Do chickens have a sense of smell?

Kenyans have a very biased view of Chinese ppl (which they insist I am—if I tell someone I’m American, most will say, “no, are you Chinese or Japanese?” and then, “but you and her (Erika) do not look alike, so which one is from america?”). there is a Kenyan myth that Chinese ppl are cannibals, b/c apparently the Chinese workers who built some bridge ate dogs, which somehow got extrapolated to humans. and of course, we all do kung fu. When I walk down the street, ppl make ching ching noises at me. One day, I got a fed up with it and lunged at the guy while striking a karate kid pose. i’ve never seen a grown man run so fast. He even jumped over a motorcycle in his haste to get away from me. Awesome :-D. I love when I can use stereotypes to my advantage. I think the power has gone to my head though. I find myself talking with unsynced lips and saying things like, “wood, does not hit back.”

Kenyans are understandably proud of obama. They are convinced that he is a Kenyan, not an American. Most of them even think that he was born in Kenya. A lot of ppl claim to be his kin. Hence, naming obama as the ultimate example of how Americans can look different from each other (and don’t have to be white) is an exercise in futility. There is even a beer named obama. It used to be called senator, but they recently changed the name to president. Yesterday, Erika and I shared a KSH200 jug of obama with our new mzungu friends from the catholic parish. They taught me how to swat flies with a piece of straw from a broomstick. The first one I hit only lost a wing and a couple of legs, but then it could only hop around the table like a Mexican jumping bean, rendering it rather easy to smoosh with a palm. The second one I hit went upside down and twitchy on the floor. After that, the flies learned to leave us and our beer alone. now if i only had a tailor to make me a "7 in 1 swoop" banner, what giant wouldn't tremble in my path!

instead of bathing out of a small tub, we've taken to bathing in the lake with all the other women, parasitic snails be damned! erika had the foresight to bring a hot pink bikini, just in case her audience didn't fully appreciate the flourescence of her skin. the first day, we got a lot of stares and a couple of giggles. funny how we were the ones who felt naked amongst their low swinging boobs, but everyone was friendly enough. they even said, "see you tomorrow" when we left. and from there, it's only gotten better. we're hardly worth a titter now (no pun intended).