What makes you go and what makes you stay?

I laid in bed one morning, back in January, and watched the sun's rays creep up the sides of the mesas...leaving a path of glowing embers in its trail. I missed the smell of the wood stove, which would have cut the dry, crisp New Mexican morning. I laid in bed for a few moments, grateful for the incredible awakening (a New Mexico morning greeting...always intense) and recalling the emotional skype conversation I had the night before with my close Kenyan male friend...I jumped out of bed, opened the glass french doors and was hit by the smell of strong coffee, quiet jam band music and rays of sunshine. My good friend A already had a cup of coffee for me, green chili ommlets on the stove, and the cribage board set up on the table (this routine along with about 8 other friends in my living room was part of the "normal" weekend morning routine for a good four years while I lived in New Mexico). As I picked up my coffee mug, I announced to A that I had to go to Kenya for the summer...this of course propelled him to tell me exactly why he also had to "get out of America"..! I let him go off for several minutes, as I enjoyed the first sips of my coffee, giggling quietly into my cup. When he paused, I jumped in (like I always do) and shared with him the conversation I had the night before with the guy I truely thought I was going to marry in the near future. I remember telling A, "Something has to happen A! Either we move forward, or he and I are done. I can't keep doing this {long distance}. It is too hard. So I have to be in Kenya this summer to find out where we are going." This was the first day I announced that I would be in Kenya. For two months, I said this outloud when I woke up and again before I went to bed until the day I found out that I actually was going to Kenya because an organization wanted me to conduct research for them on nomadic/pastoralist education.

Garissa Wrap-Up

After two months of traversing 1,000 km of dirt "roads," visiting 16 schools and 18 communities, and interviewing 162 people, my work in the NEP (North East Province) is finished, for now.

After 11 schools, Kimathi could introduce the team by name, but still thought we were doing "a girls' education research," despite the fact that eventually he joined the community focus group discussions! Our last stop of that trek was back at the tea place in Abakore. This time he chatted with everyone, waved to the children, and even said, "InshaAllah" when I said "Yalah Garissa!" InshaAllah is "if god wills" in Arabic, and yalah is "let's go" in Arabic! It was wonderful to see his transformation as he became to understand some of the issues and people of NEP.

Along the way, several people thought I was an Arab, due to my dress and knowing a few Arabic phrases. Therefore, some members of the team thought I would be ok in Mandera. But we (I) decided against going to Mandera. Two weeks later, three aid workers were kidnapped during the day from the lodge where I would have stayed. I'm glad we decided against it.

I was unknowingly introduced to camel meat one night while sitting in a dark tented stick hut eating dinner. I had just finished dinner when I commented on how good the beef tasted. Hersi laughed and replied, "You like it? That's good. But it isn't beef. It is camel! If you think what you just had was good, try the hump!" And he handed me a white substance, but I told him I was full! I just couldn't eat the hump! I can eat a raw spleen right out of a cow when a Masai hands it to me, but I can't eat cooked camel hump!

I wrapped up the research assignment at the end of July. I presented our findings, during a formal presentation, to 28 people; education officials, UNICEF, and other representatives from NGOs working in education in the area. It was well received and collectively, the group made recommendations, which will be presented to the Ministry of Education. The ministry is currently creating a policy on nomadic/patoralist education.
The day following the presentation, I had a flood of visitors at the Nomad. Many people felt that they didn't have enough time to discuss and share ideas/feedback the day before. I was just thrilled. I sat for hours, drinking tea, and discussing the work with people as they literally came one after another all day! I was asked to stay on for an extra couple of weeks to conduct additional site visits and to take my time writing the drafts and editing, but I had to turn down the offer (will explain in another blog).

And the Nomad Palace....what can I say? When you live in a hotel for 1.5 months, the staff become like family. Towards the end of my stay, I started venturing out at night. I made a few non-Muslim friends and we often met at the local club in town to have a few drinks and dance. On several of these nights, I got calls around 10, from the Nomad management asking if I was ok! I still get phone calls from many of the regulars. And the calls all start out the same..."Alicia! Where are you? You are lost!!"

The treks were, without a doubt, the highlight of the past two months. Two years ago, while traveling East Africa in its entirety, I told Michelle that I wanted to explore northern Kenya the next time I visited Africa. And then I told her what I really needed to do was to go to The Gambia to visit my village, family and friends. I feel so blessed that a year later (the following African "trip") I was in The Gambia.I spent 7 days back in my village with my family. I was able to go because I was given the incredible opportunity to be the project coordinator of one of our department projects in Senegal and The Gambia. And then two years later, I found myself "exploring" northern Kenya.

During my time in NEP, I have met so many inspiring people, was adorned with gifts and acts of kindness. And what I learned....well, I'm still trying to capture it all (well most!) in the report!

Bute Moments

"That baby was just born three days ago." I asked Hersi how he could tell. "The young ones like that are very dark." He answered. "Alicia, do you want your picture with the baby?" "Won't the mother be upset if I walk over? Look, she is looking at us." I asked while peering out of the window. "No! Go ahead! I will take your photo!" I hesitated for a moment and then slide out of the truck. The wind blew off my head wrap (again) so I wrapped it around my head while I walked towards the baby who was lying under the tree; beautiful green mountains surrounded us. When the baby saw me he started screaming! I heard Abdi; the driver, get out of truck. He was laughing at my hesitation and my fear of the mother. He passed me, walked over to the baby and placed his hands on top of the baby's head, but it didn't stop the screams. The young one didn't even notice Abdi; instead he was looking straight at my face and screaming. The mother stood by and never took her eyes off of me. After a few moments, she finally walked over and placed her neck on top of the baby's head, which stopped the cries. She stood there and watched me as I walked up to them. When I touched the baby's hump I could feel the matted hair of a newborn. I thought to myself, "Not only does my white face make human babies and young children scream, but it also makes baby camels scream!" A lot of young (0-6) African children that I have met - who are not used to seeing white people - scream when they see my white face. It does NOT feel good to see such fright on a young child's face, knowing that you are the reason. It is horrible. I specifically remember the day that Kati and I finally reached Kunuga's (a Maasai friend) family after walking 5 hours through corn fields and bush in Tanzania. We came across the Maasai women, dressed in blue cloth and beads, standing in the bush with some small children. The children instantly ran behind their mothers and hid their faces in their blue cloth. After greeting the women, a mother sent her daughter, who was about 5, towards us. I know the mother told her daughter to greet us with respect and not to cry. I will never forget the young girl's trembling lips as she walked to me and said "Shikamoo." Her little arm, dressed in beads and metal bangles, reached up and I bowed, allowing her to place her hands on my head and I replied, "Marahaba." And one by one the children walked out behind the security of their mothers' blue cloth and repeated the greeting, all with trembling lips.

Hersi took a picture and I got back into the truck. We waited for a few minutes while he finished his calabash of fresh camel's milk. I took one sip and Hersi told me, "Drink more! You won't have any problems with constipation!" I reassured him that I was fine. As we drove off, the herder hit the baby camel with a small stick. The baby stood on shaky legs, took a few steps, and then laid back down. The herder allowed the baby to rest for a few seconds before hitting him again, and again the baby took a few steps before laying back down. I imagine this routine went on and on the whole day and wondered who would be more tired by the end of the day; the herder or the baby?!

After a few hours we came upon more giraffe. "You know, I can't get over how beautiful these giraffe are!" I have never seen the reticulated giraffe before (at least not in the wild). "Yes! That is because they are Somali giraffe! The most beautiful in the world!" Hersi replied. "My god, you guys kills me!" I said laughing. Hersi turned to look at me, "What? It is the truth!" And wouldn't you know it. Several days later, I googled reticulated giraffe and discovered that they are also called Somali Giraffe!

"Ni, Ni! What is this? Look at all of this land! And the dark soil! Why isn't this land being used?" And this was the beginning of Kimathi's questions and break through, this was day 3. Kimathi had never been to NEP. He was just recently moved to the Garissa office, as a provincial education officer for the entire NEP. Our trek was his first exposure to the province. "Because your people have named it a low potential region! So there is no money for agriculture here! And this land that you see goes on for an hour! It could feed all of Kenya!" Kimathi grunted at Hersi's reply. And the conversations began, among all of us. Many times I gasped at how frank and direct they were.

After a few hours we began our drive in the mountains. I was amazed at the beauty. Kenya is a beautiful country. We stopped several times to take our picture in front of the mountainous landscape, even Kimathi! Just outside of Bute, our destination for the day, we got a flat tire. I watched the sun begin its decent over Bute, a small village that sits at the base of the Ethiopian foothills, while Abdi, Kimathi, and a stranger who appeared out of nowhere, changed our tire. I admired the glowing red rocks of the mountains, the giraffe in the distance, and rolling green hills of Ethiopia.

We found a place to stay for the night, small rooms inside of a family compound. There was one pit latrine and one shower stall for everyone. As we were settling, Kimathi shouted, "Ni, ni! Please, take a photo of this room so that I have proof that I slept here when I tell my friends and family!" I couldn't stop laughing when I walked into his room, "Kimathi, where is your bed?" "Under all of these mattresses!" His room was full of mattresses and the bed was tiny! I told him that mine was full of prayer mats and boxes of food! That was our first laugh together...many more would follow.
I told the group that I was going for a walk. Hersi told me to wait until he was done praying and he would accompany me. I told him I was fine to walk alone. "It is safe, right? I won't be kidnapped here?" "No! No! You are safe here. I just thought you might be more comfortable with someone else." I reassured him that I was fine. I left the compound and realized quickly that the town was not used to foreigners AT ALL. I heard shouts and women gathered in front of their compound gates to look at me. School children, dressed in uniform walking home, stopped to stare with wide-eyes and open mouths. Old men stopped in their tracks and starred as I passed. They exclaimed when I greeted them, "As salaam Alkium." I greeted people as I passed, but what I was really looking at was the brilliant sunset over the mountains. The sky was streaked with vibrant oranges and pinks and the red rock mountains were glowing.
When I reached the edge of the village, a school boy ran up to me, "Go back now. Please don't go any further. You know it is getting dark. The lions are out there. Please." I turned back and slowly made my way to our compound. A group of young people sitting in front of a store asked me to come over. After greetings a young man said, "We just want to thank you for respecting our culture by wearing the beautiful Somali dress and covering your head. Thank you. We hope you enjoy Bute." I continued my way back and before I entered the compound and young boy, probably 16 - who later served us dinner - stopped me at the gate and asked, "You from Japan or China?" I smiled at him and told him I was American. "Ah German, yes!" I didn't know what to say, so I just smiled and walked in. Kimathi and Hersi were seated in plastic chairs in front of our rooms. "Ni, Ni, lets walk. Let's find the school that we are going to visit tomorrow." So Kimathi and I walked out of the gate and turned right, opposite of where I just came from. I can't remember what we talked about, but I think the two of us together drew more onlookers than I did alone.

When we returned to the compound, I pulled out one of the huge plastic prayer mats from my room and laid it down next to Kimathi and Hersi. I laid on my back, my head propped on two pillows, and looked at the stars while the men talked. I could hear the donkeys, children laughing and crying, and the occasional metal lids clanging on the cooking pots. The sounds of night in rural Africa...
Adbi returned with the repaired tire and joined me on the mat. I gave him one of my pillows and he laid down as well. Later, the young boy brought us dinner, cooked by the compound Ma'ma. It was a mix of pasta and rice with a red tomato paste sauce. Before she cooked, she apologized for the absence of meat; she told us the town hasn't had meat in two days and there were no vegetables at the moment, nor salt. I took a handful of rice, formed it into a ball with my hands and threw it in my mouth. All I can say, is that the taste was strange. There was something strange about the rice. So I went for the pasta. "Hersi, show me how to eat pasta with my hands." Hersi showed me back and forth wrist motion that actually piles the pasta into an organized line that can easily be thrown into the mouth. "That's it! I haven't been able to figure it out!" I ate pasta for lunch and dinner for the remainder of the trip. I could NOT eat the rice. I later found out that the rice (north of Wajir) was the relief food from the World Food Program.....

I declined a shower (a bucket bath) after dinner. Even though I was covered in a red dust. I just didn't think I could do it; knowing that it was late enough for the 3in cockroaches to be out and no doubt crawling on the walls of the narrow shower room. I can still eat with my hands and sleep anywhere, but I'm not a Peace Corps volunteer anymore. I can't intentionally face cockroaches at night while showering (but I was wrong, I did two weeks later!).

In the morning we drove to the school. Kimathi made the introductions, "Headmaster, I would like to introduce myself. I'm Kimathi ________ (I have no idea what his surname is) and this is Alice, and this here is um..um..Hersi. And we are here doing a research on girls' education..."

On the Road to the North

After walking around for a bit and looking down the road, I realized that there was no other way into the bush except through the thick acacia branches that lined the side of the dirt road. I turned around to make sure the men were not in view, and then I rolled my silky pants (fabric that would be torn by the thorns) above my knees, bunched my dress around my thighs and forged through. I held my breath as my legs were instantly shredded by the thorns, thin streams of blood ran down my legs. The blood dried almost instantly...dried before it reached my feet because of the dry heat. Once I got through I walked back, deeper into the bush to make sure I was out of sight from the road. My feet sunk in the sand as I walked and I lifted my face up to the hot desert sun, which reminded me of New Mexico."Don't go too far back. There are a lot of lions in these parts," remembering Farrah's words made me stop. After going to the bathroom I walked back to the road. Before I started my walk through the acacia again, Farrah met me on the other said and told me to follow him down the road for a bit. He saw an opening further up ahead and didn't want me to walk through the thorns again. When I reached the truck, I pulled out my baby wipes, walked to the back of the truck (to hide my legs from the men) and wiped the dried blood from my scratched legs. The five of us jumped back into the truck and continued.

It was the first day of the trek to the North. We were scheduled to sleep in Habasweni that night and then in Wajir (the town where Obama had the famous "Muslim" picture taken of him) for two nights. Farrah had other business in Wajir, and would not continue with us for the rest of the trek. After three hours on the road, we stopped in Abakore for tea. "The best tea south of the Sahara!" Farrah said as we pulled up to the roadside tea stand. We greeted the old Ma'ma and male elders who were seated under the UNHCR tarp roof of the stick hut, and joined them on the benches inside. Kimathi, the education officer (who is from the same tribe as the ruling party) didn't greet anyone as he sat down. He slowly sipped his tea in silence, with a scowl on his face and returned to the truck once he was finished. Hersi and Farrah were engaged in a lively discussion with the Ma'ma. And I was just taking everything in, especially taking notice of the young girl -probably 15- who stood inside the shop stealing glances at me behind the door and giggling. Tea huts like these remind me of when I traveled in Guinea and of the nights I had to sleep on the benches outside the huts along the roadside!

We continued to Habasweni and stopped at a school along the way. The group of us, minus the driver, shuffled into the headmaster's office. Because of protocol, Kimathi had the role of making the introductions. "Headmaster, I would like to take this opportunity to introduce myself, Kimathi (something...have no idea what his surname is.. or Kimathi might be his surname..no idea)..and ni, ni.." He was pointing at me and Farrah helped him out at that point. "And I will allow the other two gentlemen to introduce themselves before I tell you about our mission." After Hersi and Farrah made their own introductions, Kimathi continued,"Yes, this madam (pointing to me again) is here doing a research on girls' education. Finding out what can be done to improve educational access for the girl child." I looked over at Farrah and Hersi, who didn't react and I couldn't help but to smirk. When he was done, Hersi said that he wanted to add on to what Kimathi said, "Actually we are here doing a study that is looking at educational access and retention of the nomadic/pastoralist youth, both girls and boys...." At that moment, I thought, ok... so Kimathi will get it straight now...

After the interviews and tour of the boarding facilities, we returned to the truck for our final stretch to Habasweni. It was a beautiful drive. The sun was HUGE and red as it sat on the acacia dotted land. And I finally saw a site that I have dreamt about since I was in the 6th grade...countless giraffe walking on the land against the setting red sun. We stopped several times and I got some beautiful shots which are actually on my stolen camera, but the vision, which has always been with me, is now real.

We spent the night in a nice lodge and woke early to continue the trek to Wajir. We stopped at another school along the way. Kimathi again, made the introductions, "Headmaster, I would like to introduce myself...and this madam..ni, ni.." Again, Farrah helped him out. Kimathi continued, " and I would like to also introduce, Mr. um.. Mr.. " Farrah jumped in and continued. "Yes, we are here doing a study on girls' education...." I smirked again and probably rolled my eyes.

We spent two nights in Wajir. Due to space, Farrah and I stayed at the Wajir Guesthouse (I actually had a three room suite and it was beautiful! Leather couches!) and Hersi, Kimathi and Abdi stayed in a smaller lodge down the road. I didn't see Kimathi much during the 2.5 days we were there. We visited schools and I conducted some focus group discussions with partner organizations. One night, Hersi, Farrah and I sat on a prayer mat in the middle of the hotel grounds and talked for a few hours after we had dinner at a Somali restaurant in town. The other night, Farrah, Rokia and I chatted while drinking tea.

In the morning, Farrah walked me to the gate of the hotel, wished us luck and as Hersi and Kimathi walked down the road to the truck, Farrah said to me, "Alicia, enjoy the trek. I'm leaving you in good hands." I looked at him and smirked and asked, "Are you?" And we both laughed. He told me again at that moment to let him know in a few days whether or not I wanted to go to Mandera. And as I walked down the road to meet the truck, Farrah shouted, "And remember, when you meet Habiba, accept all of her gifts except her men! And tell her I said that!" We both laughed and as I turned down the sandy road, my only thought was; Boy, this is going to be a long one...

An afternoon in Takaba, Kenya

"Oh this will be so beautiful! Just beautiful!" Habiba said as she plopped another handful of henna on the bottom of my left foot. I smiled and agreed. But what I was really thinking was, "No, this won't be beautiful. Really it won't. My feet are going to be so dry and orange for a month! And I'm going to have to sit here for hours without moving while this stuff dries!" "Ok, now give me your other foot! Don't let that foot touch the ground!" I leaned back on my bed while placing my right foot into her lap, my left foot swayed above the ground. There goes my pedicure. I could feel globs of henna falling off my foot and onto the floor. The compound Ma'ma walked into my room, silently watched for a bit, and noticed the henna (which looks like brown mud) on the floor. She returned moments later with a couple of sticks, picked up the henna and threw it out into the compound, after taking a bit for herself. When Habiba finished with my feet, she grabbed my hands and made circles on my palms and then covered the tips of my fingers. The voices of young boys, singing the Qu'ran, drifted through the open window as we sat in the room and chatted.

Habiba, founder of an International NGO, has dedicated her life working towards the eradication of FGM. Because of the focus of her work, she was divorced and given a nickname of "Clitoris" by the elders in the community. Her house was vandalized once - several years back - and she had to send her children to Nairobi for school to avoid harassment from teachers and students about her work. She said that she wasn't so much of an outcast now, her children are proud of her and have also joined the international community and everything she has endured has been worth it. As a woman now in her 50's she could see the "fruits of her work." The elders are beginning to understand that FGM is not an Islamic practice (with the help of visiting Islamic leaders from the Middle East) and they are slowly encouraging the women to stop the practice and for the men to support the eradication. The scope of her work has expanded to include criminalizing rape.

At some point in the conversation Hersi walked in, "Habiba, I see that you are preparing Alicia! Do you have a Somali husband in mind?!" When Hersi walked in Habiba quickly turned away from the door and with a jerk of her head (because her hands were full of henna) she flung her veil down over her face and then turned to Hersi, "Yes! My son!" We all laughed and I told her the advice that Farrah gave me before I left him in Wajir, "Habiba, Farrah told me I could accept all of your gifts except your men!" She howled at that, Hersi chuckled and left the room. With her forearms she pushed back her veil and I could see her face again.
When she was done, she told me she was leaving. She also told me to remain there until it dried and that I could wash the henna off in five hours! She bent down, gave me a hug and wrote her email and cell phone number on a piece of paper for me. I thanked her again for the beautiful dress she gave me and for the henna. Before she walked out of the room, she asked one more time, "Alicia, would you please come to Mandera with me?" I told her I was honored and that I would next time, InshaAllah. I watched her and her driver climb into her truck and they drove off, back to Mandera. There has been a recent increase of kidnappings in Mandera and if I wanted to go, I was instructed to not speak in public and to be fully veiled. And I wouldn't be able to leave my hotel room after 4pm. Not worth it! The latest kidnapping was three non-Somali education officers. The border of Somalia runs through the town and the officers were brought into Somalia. They were released, unharmed, for a large sum a few days later. We scratched off Mandera town from the list of research sites!

I laid back on my bed, with my legs outstretched and my elbows propped on the bed, and starred up at my tin roof. I remembered my first night in my training village in The Gambia. It rained, the type of rains in which one can't see through, the torrential rains. The sound of the rain on the tin roof kept me up the entire night..not because of the loud sound I later came to love, but of fear. I laid there thinking...If I scream, no one will hear me. Anything could happen to me, and no one would know. I later came to realize that there was nothing to fear except the rats and insects that climbed on my mosquito net!
Hersi walked in, asked if I needed anything, and then left to visit a friend. I laid on the bed for a few minutes longer listening the young boys singing in the compound behind ours. Their high pitched, sweet voices were almost meditative...and I recalled my conversation with Habiba and also with Rokia, a young woman who I met a few nights earlier while I was in Wajir. Rokia and I sat with Farrah on the grounds of our gated hotel until 12:30am the first night I met her. The three us drank tea under an acaia and talked for hours. Rokia is a young woman, and married to a man who supports her political and international work. She is the first female elected to political office in her district and she is the founder of a NGO that provides Non-Formal Education services to young women.

My thoughts of these extraordinary women were interrupted by Kimathi, the education officer who accompanied me on this leg of the research trek, "Alice! What has she done to you?!" Kimathi asked as he chuckled deeply and walked into my room. I sat up and smiled at him and told him that she was making me beautiful! He sat in the plastic chair that Habiba sat in just moments earlier and the two of us sat in my room looking out into the compound. Ma'ma walked by and I asked Kimathi if she washed his shirts. "Ni ni! No! She told me she was too tired!" "So? What are you going to do?" I asked him. I couldn't help but to laugh out loud when he told me that he had washed them. My laughter made him laugh and encouraged him to recall the scene again, only with more detail. As if on cue, Ma'ma walked in and placed a pile of clean, folded clothes onto my bed and walked back out. "Ni, ni! She was tired because she washed all of your clothes!" "Kimathi, what can I say? I got her this morning before we left!" And we both began to laugh again. He then asked, "How long do you have to sit there like that?" I stood up, walked outside and said, "No longer! I can't take it! Ma'ma! Mi nataka magi!" I yelled to Ma'ma across the compound as I sat on the steps outside of my room. I watched Ma'ma walk over to the open well in the corner of the compound. She pulled a bag of water up and poured it into a can and began to walk over to me. Kimathi came out and sat next to me on one of the beds that lined the veranda (common to see beds outside when it is too hot to sleep indoors). Ma'ma brought water to me and she held the can over my feet and poured as I removed all the henna from my feet. Kimathi asked her tons of questions as she helped me, "What is the henna made from? What is it going to do to her skin? What color will it be? What is the purpose?" Of course it was all in Swahili and I just laughed, Kimathi was always asking questions! "Alice! Ma'ma is telling me that you are removing the mud too soon!" I told him to reassure her that because of my light skin, the henna doesn't need to stay on as long. When she raised her eyebrows at me I knew she didn't buy it...

We stayed two nights in Takaba, in Western Mandera. I was among three others on this trek. Hersi; the TARNET coordinator, Kimathi; the education officer, and Abdi; the driver. We travelled for 1.5 weeks together in the North. I thought it was going to be a long trip after the first day, and for a few days I longed for my younger travel companions from the previous trip! But the trip turned out to be really enjoyable. It just took a few days for Kimathi to come out his shell, and for the driver to speak. We covered extraordinary land, met incredible people, and I really enjoyed the company.

"Smile and the world will smile with you."

When I was in the sixth grade, an old man placed a wooden token into my hands while I stood in line at the Ashland McDonalds with a group of friends. Moments before, I had glanced quickly at him and gave a smile while I chatted with my friends. When he approached, he didn't say a word to me, nor I to him and he walked out the door while I looked down at his gift. "Smile and the world will smile with you," was written in black letters on the polished surface. I walked outside but he was already gone.

As we approached the school, I noticed the school committee members sitting under an acacia in the middle of the school grounds. The men were dressed in their wraps and had their wooden sticks laying next to them in the sand. The two women sat close together, their faces framed by their hijabs. Hussein and I walked passed a group of baboons to greet the parents and religious leaders who had assembled for us. "Assalamu Alaikum," I greeted. "Alaikum Salaam," they greeted back in unison. I could hear the raised voices of children and laughter coming from the classrooms. Hundreds of children within six different classrooms had gathered near their glassless windows to stare at the "Muzungo" (white person) and other visitors of their school. The boys were dressed in white shirts and blue pants, the girls in blue veils and skirts. Hussein and I walked into the headmaster's small office, greeted him and sat down in font of his desk. While Hussein introduced us, I noticed the mud walls, uncovered by the years of elements that had chipped away at the whitewashed plaster. The daily schedule, the list of teachers and staff, twelve years of test scores, school enrollment, names of the school management committee, and the budget were all recorded on large sheets of paper and posted around the room. UNICEF posters promoting education for the girl child and other posters with HIV/AIDS prevention slogans were hung at random as well. After Hussein and I concluded our introductions, Hussein left the office, giving me time to interview the headmaster. We talked for almost an hour. He told me his story...the sacrifices that he and his Nomadic family had to make when he was young so that he could attend school...and the interruptions of his schooling, caused by periods of drought- forcing him and his family to move into Somalia with their camels until the rains came again- and of the clan clashes-which eventually took his father 8 years ago. His history eventually led up to the present day situation of his boarding school and ended with his recommendations to improve educational access and retention of nomadic/pastoralist Somali youth in the NEP.

We walked out of his office when we were done and I could see Hussein speaking with some elders off in the distance. The parents, still sitting under the tree, glanced at me while they chatted quietly. It was an awkward moment... I was looking at them, they were looking at me..without Hussein I could not verbally communicate. Smile and the world will smile with you... so I did. I met the eyes of one of the women and I smiled. She responded by brushing the sand next to her, singling for me to sit next to her on the ground, which I did. The awkward silence was broken and I then raised my hand to my chest and said, "Alicia." They tried to repeat my name and laughed at the difficulty and they told me their names, and laughed again when I tried to repeat theirs! Hussein joined us soon after and the discussion began..."Our children are not in school because the current system doesn't fit us! There is nothing wrong with us! There is nothing wrong with our lifestyle! But the government tells us that we are wrong when they make us change our ways so our children can be educated!" The discussion moved into the areas of religion, drought, conflict, the girl child, and the unique needs of the pastoralist child which aren't respected in the current education system, reasons why less than 20% of the children in this region access education. They spoke freely about their marginalization, their desire for education for their children - schools weren't established in this region when they were young - and their recommendations.

Before we left the school, the parents showed us where an elephant gave birth last year next to the boys dormitory hall and told us that a lion had passed through the grounds the night before, which scared the students. I asked about the baboons that were running around the children, who were now on break, "Oh, they are fine. They don't bother anyone. They are friendly with the people." After saying goodbye, "Ma Salaam," ("Goodbye" one of the few Somali words that I know) five of us climbed into the back seat, made for three people, and four people sat in front with the driver. Some of the elders asked for a lift to the next town and our road less journey back to the road began. For about 30 minutes we drove around trees and through bushes and tall grass. The thorns of the acacia scratched the sides of the truck and my face before I could close my window! We continued on our journey after dropping the elders off in town.

Ali; the young 24 year old driver, Hussein; the retired teacher, headmaster, and union leader now NGO worker and my facilitator for the first trek, and Mustuf; the young 20 year old accountant intern with EMACK who joined us for the five day trek (we called him Mustuf the tourist), made up my company for the first trek of the research. The four of us were quite a lively group. Mustuf didn't speak the first day and then he didn't stop once he started! Most of the time I felt like we were on Safari...an animal safari, not a research safari! (Safari means journey in Swahili). We saw countless giraffe, zebra, gazelle, ostrich, hyenas, beautiful birds, warthogs, dikdiks and camels. We stopped often to take pictures (which are on my stolen camera and computer!) of animals, sunsets and each other. And not one inch of our ride was on tarmac. Actually, there is only 8 km of paved roads in the entire NEP, the largest region in the country. Thousands of km, unpaved...

By the end of the journey we had a lot of inside jokes which have carried into the office and we were a little sad to see the time end. We visited five primary boarding schools and communities and were also able to meet some of Hussein's family members (of course!). This trek covered two regions within NEP that are near the coast. The other trek (which will be another blog) covered the Northern regions.

Twenty years (I can't believe it has been that long) has passed since the man handed me the token, and the phrase has echoed in my mind countless of times thereafter.

I often find myself in foreign situations, both domestically and internationally, unable to verbally communicate with the person/people around me. When these awkward situations arise, I think of the phrase on the polished token and I smile. I wish I could write to him, or his family, and share the memorable moments that follow...like the woman brushing the sand away to uncover more, inviting me to sit next to her. And I silently thank him for choosing me as a receiver of the gift and the universe for creating the moment of our meeting.

Unfortunate Events?

A cool breeze brushed the back of my neck as I adjusted my head scarf. The Sheik (one of the Islamic leaders of Garissa) broke the heated Somali discussion when he looked at me and asked, "Have you had ANY visitors to your room?" The Halgon manager, night worker, Farrah, Hersi, Helima (TARNET chairwoman) and the Sheik all stared at me..the first moment of silence since the religious meeting started. I knew the underlining meaning of the question and I said strongly, "No. Absolutely no one has been in my room except for Wanjeko, the cleaning woman."The Sheik looked at Ousman, the night worker, and he confirmed and added, "She is right. No one has been in her room. All of her socializing is done at the cyber cafe or the restaurant. And she has never went off with anyone." The discussion continued in Somali and I looked attentively at the speakers, but my mind went elsewhere. The images of my current reality were instantly replaced with visions of a distant memory. The thatched open-aired patio of the Nomad Palace and the curious onlookers dissolved into the green countryside of Ireland, back ten years ago..moments before I was robbed the first (and last) time.

I turned my Walkman up louder. U2 almost silenced the screams of the baby in the back of the bus who had been crying since we left Dublin. I looked back at the mother several times. She seemed oblivious to her child's cries. I watched the rolling green land of Ireland as I leaned on the bus window until we reached Athlone, the middle place between Dublin and Galway. Joey and I arrived in Dublin the night before, without an itinerary, but equipped with a Lonely Planet book. Over breakfast that morning we decided to bus it to Galway and then hitchhike around the coast and back to Dublin. We only had four days until we were due back in class at the University of London where we studied in 1999.
When we arrived in Athlone, I left my purse (which contained 7 pounds, my debit card, and passport) on my seat next to Joey, who decided to stay on the bus during our 10 minute rest/bathroom break. I quickly went into the bathroom. When I opened the stall, the woman with the screaming baby was on the other side. There was an awkward moment in which she locked eyes with me before moving to the side. She entered the stall as I passed. The look puzzled me as I washed my hands. There was something telling in her eyes, but I didn't get the message, at least not at that moment.
When I walked back on the bus, my heart raced when I realized that Joey was no longer on the bus, neither was my purse. Joey told me she didn't have my purse when I met her at the landing when I ran off the bus. I turned to the bus driver and told him that the woman with the baby stole my purse! I ran back into the bathroom and around the building, but she had already left the premise. Joey, by this time, had informed the bus station and confirmed my suspicion. A few people noticed that she momentarily paused at our seat before exiting but didn't see her take anything.

"How many US dollars was your laptop?" The Sheik brought me out of my thoughts. I answered him and also told him the price of my new Cannon camera. The conversation turned back into Somali, but I knew the Sheik told the manager that the hotel would need to replace the money..something I wasn't expecting. The manager agreed. He not only thought it was fair since he couldn't secure my things, but it has been a huge embarrassment to him. Because I have been so social, everyone knows that it happened. I laughed internally, again at the similarities between these two events...

The Irish guards were called immediately and I was taken to Mary Green's house, the gypsy woman who stole my purse, in an unmarked car. I sat in the backseat behind tinted windows as the plain clothed policeman/guard, walked up to her house to question her. When she stood outside, I couldn't get a good look and therefore couldn't identify her as being the woman. We drove back to the house about an hour later and she was outside hanging clothes on the line. I recognized the screaming baby's outfit on the clothesline and the little boy was sitting on the lawn next to her feet. As I was telling the officer that yes in fact that was her, a man approached the side of my window and pounded against it while yelling something that I couldn't hear. We drove off. I was told that it was Mary's brother. "The gypsy family is close. They all get involved together in issues such as this. Which is why I'm bringing you downtown to sit in a cafe while we bring them in, because the whole family will come in with her." He left me at a cafe, in a corner away from the big front window and informed the staff. Moments later there was a mob at the window and the guards were trying to block the door. The restaurant staff told me to lock myself in the bathroom while one of the men ran to the front door to lock it from the inside.
I was later returned to the bus station, around sunset. I met Joey there and she was surrounded by people; laughing and chatting. She handed me an envelope and said, "Alicia, this is what they gave us." Inside was a little more than 90 pounds - money that a few men collected from the station workers and nearby local people. I told them that we couldn't accept it because I only lost 7 pounds! But they insisted. They felt ashamed and did not want us to leave their town with bad thoughts caused by one woman's actions. The bus station also reimbursed us for our ticket and payed for our connection to Galway. The guards apologized for not being able to locate the purse; Mary was not admitting to the act.
Joey and I said our goodbyes to the guards and station workers. As I stepped onto the bus, I heard the plain clothed officer shout, "Wait!" I turned and saw him running into the station with a bright look on his face. He told me that Mary just told him where she threw the purse. He ran into the bathroom and I followed him into the stall that Mary and I both used. He lifted the back of the toilet seat and pulled out my soaking wet purse. Everything was still inside except the 7 pounds which the officer had given me out of his own pocket hours earlier. We had checked all the garbage cans in the station, but not the toilets!

Joey and I never paid for a single drink, dinner, or mode of transportation the entire weekend and the collection of money that we received paid for all of our nights in the B&Bs. We only saw the same road twice, but were graced with Irish hospitality by everyone we met, literally from the moment we stepped off the plane until we boarded again. Because of Mary Green, I will always remember the kindness of the people and town of Athlone, a place I wouldn't have bothered asking the name of during our ten minute scheduled break. My mother even wrote a Thank You letter to the Athlone newspaper.

When the meeting concluded, Ousman bent down at my side and told me that they would find a solution to this problem and said that he was very sorry, and I believed him. The manager was going to talk with the owner. I continued to receive calls and visitors all day long at the Nomad Palace from people telling me how sorry they were. Many said that they could tell that I was really enjoying the community and they hoped that this event won't change my opinions of it and of NEP in general. I have reassured people that one negative act can not replace the endless acts of kindness from the community.
Yes, of course I'm frustrated...my parents bought the laptop for me days before I left and my uncle spent time building it up with software and I lost 540 pictures that I have taken since I arrived. I lost the work I have done since arriving here, but had an external hard drive with all of the necessary documents that I need to complete my work over the summer. I bought it the day before I left only because Nina told me that I NEEDED to buy one and thank GOD. Thank you Nina!

The night this happened, I left my room for only 20 minutes to walk to a nearby store to buy clothes hangers. When I entered my room, it took me a couple of minutes to realize what happened. I actually thought I was losing my mind and thought perhaps I packed up my computer before I left the room. I looked under the bed, under pillows, in my laptop bag, in the closet...then slowly my stomach rose to my mouth and I almost began to cry...not because my computer was stolen, but because someone had entered my room, someone now has access to my files, my work, my pictures, and my music. A gift from my parents had been taken from me. And the pictures...I told school children that I would print and give their photos to them. I brought photo paper with me and Yussef was helping me print them.
Within minutes after I called, Farrah arrived with one military man armed with a machine gun, a policeman and a policewoman. They completed a report and questioned the management while I talked on the phone with Eliza who was canceling my automatic paypal account that was stored on my skype account. Farrah instructed me to pack my things and we were going to the Nomad.

After Farrah left me in my new room, I found myself sitting on the king size bed under the mosquito net canopy...and my mind started racing...was it an inside job? Did I know the person who did it or was it a stranger? I hoped it was a stranger, but didn't see how that was possible. The room was locked when I entered and locked when I returned. What could I have done differently? And then I stopped myself...and remembered one of the most important lessons I learned in Peace Corps, there are MANY perspectives to view ANY situation (you have to learn that lesson and believe it or you either leave early or go crazy..literally). In that moment I realized that all of a sudden I'm in a new environment, my daily interactions will be different than expected, and my scene was widened...I will still go back to the areas where I enjoyed spending time, but I'm at this Nomad Palace hotel where people from all over the world 'hang out.' With that, I walked out the door at 9:30pm to see what would happen. I wondered, 'Who would I meet outside in the open-aired patio?' 'What kind of conversations would I have here?'...At 2am I returned to my room for the evening... with a possible job opportunity for the month of August here in Kenya. I submitted my CV and paper work yesterday.

Was this an unfortunate event, or was this an event for a new opportunity? Both, of course.

Ainul Qamar

"No! I am a Somali! I KNOW! Camel meat can stay for up to TWO months! TWO months!" The Kenyan from the western province looked sideways at me and scoffed, and I looked away. Ali pounded the table and the six other Somalis standing around him all shouted in agreement. "You are a Luo! You know fish! WE are Somali! We know camels!" Ali continued. The Luo finished the last bite of his rice, muttered something, and walked through the beaded curtain and into the night. The group of men, some sitting at the table across from me, and others standing behind them leaning on one another, continued to tell me about the camel as I drank my first cup of camels' milk. "The camel eats from 142 different trees, some medicinal. Therefore the milk provides good medicine, it is the BEST!" "You will never have to worry about constipation when drinking camels' milk!" "A man who owns five camels is rich!" "The milk can stay for up to one month!" When they asked me what I thought of the milk, I said that it had the same warm, smoky flavor of the Massai cows' milk, but sweeter. They looked at each other and smiled and then proudly told me that they prepare the milk in the same way, but yes indeed, the camels' milk is the sweetest milk in the world.

There was a rush of customers, which happens after the 4th prayer of the day, and the workers dispersed; taking orders, shouting to the men in the kitchen, and running food out to the tables. I sat with my back to the row of sinks against the far wall, four in total, so the customers had to pass me to wash their hands. Some men smiled, some looked at me with puzzled looks, some lifted their hands in a waist high open wave (which is what some men do instead of shaking my hand), and many said, "Welcome!" I drank the milk while I watched the commotion of the restaurant. Ainul Qamar, the best in town in my book. It sure beats the lonely top end hotel/restaurants that only offer a poor attempt at "Western" food. But what is better than the food (which is really good) is the ambience. It is SO loud! The shouting, laughter, chatter, and metal plates and cups hitting the tables almost make it impossible to hear the person sitting next to you!

I was sitting back in my plastic chair, holding the metal cup of camels' milk - my arms resting on and sticking to the plastic table cloth - when I noticed the man from breakfast walk in with a group of men. His dark beard stood out against his white Kaftan and white cotton turban. I tightened up when he spotted me and as he eyed the empty seat next to me...Earlier that morning, my first full day in Garissa, I asked the cleaning lady, Wanjuko, (who was bent over a bucket while hand washing my clothes) where I could have chai and chapatti for breakfast. She pointed to a place called Ainul Qamar from where we stood on the hotel balcony. I walked down the small corridor, its sides lined with fully veiled female tailors, dressed in black, at their sewing machines. "Assalamu Alaykum," I said in greetings to a couple of men reading the Holy Quran at the entrance of the restaurant. When I walked through its open doors and a curtain of wooden beads, I quickly noticed that I was the only woman in the room. I momentarily stood at the entrance and scanned the room. Men between the ages of 20-60 filled the cafeteria style restaurant. Some were wearing t-shirts and jeans; others were in long sleeved shirts and wrap skirts or Kaftans with either a turban or a light cloth thrown over their heads. Men turned around in their seats and followed me with hard stares as I made my way to the row of sinks at the back wall. While I washed my hands, I looked up in the mirror above the sink and saw several men watching me as they scooped up food with their right hands and brought it to their mouths. I greeted the 7 men at my table as I sat down in one of the few empty chairs in the room and ordered my chapatti and chai.

I chatted with the guys at the table while I drank and ate. Before I finished I noticed a very loud man making his way to the sink to wash after taking his breakfast. When he was done, he stopped in front of me and asked, "Madam, how are you?" "Fine sir, and you?" I replied back. He continued, "Fine, fine. Let me ask you madam, have you heard the saying, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans?'" I told him that yes in fact I had. He then said, "You have a beautiful wrap around your shoulders. It should be over your head. You are here with us Somalis, so you should cover your head!" While he said this, the whole room watched, and he made dramatic hand/arm movements as though he was covering his head. As he talked, he turned to the men around him as though he was speaking to them, not me. Without waiting for my response, he walked to the front of the room. Immediately, three young men from different tables came to me and told me to never mind him. "If you are comfortable with covering your head, then cover it. If not, don't. But never mind him." I decided that while in Garissa, I wouldn't cover my head because I saw some Christians who don't cover, but I regretted my decision at that moment. I finished my conversation with the guys at the table and left.

Ibrahim, I later came to know him as, did indeed sit down next to me. Before greeting me he ordered and then greeted others at our table. A cup of camels' milk was served to him and as he brought the cup to his lips, he stopped and looked over at me and said, "This is camels' milk. I'm sure you have never had it, but you should try," I raised my glass and told him that I was enjoying a glass of it myself, and then took a drink. As I brought the cup to the table, I looked at him and said, "There is a saying...'When in Rome, do as the Romans.' So I'm here with you Somalis, so I drink camels' milk." The table burst into laughter (they were all there in the morning for breakfast and witnessed our first encounter). Ibrahim also laughed and said to me, "My sister. Tell me, what is your name?" I replied and asked him his. He asked if I knew who Ibrahim was, so I shared my experience of visiting his namesake's tomb when I was in the Middle East last year. I told him I was American when he asked my nationality, although I was hesitant. Then he asked, "Did you vote for Obama?" "I campaigned for him!" I replied! For the next hour, a group of men circled Ibrahim and I and collectively we talked about politics. We discussed Obama, the wars in Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Palestinian and Israeli conflict, and America's interest in Somalia. We shouted, laughed, and some people pounded the table when the conversation got heated!

I take my two meals a day at Ainul Qamar, breakfast and dinner, and every night the conversation theme is different, Kenyan independence, Obama, Kenyan politics and the new budget, Somalia's history and wars with Ethiopia and Kenya, Piracy, Obama, the Pastoralist lifestyle, Education, Obama, the Palestinian and Israeli conflict (which comes up A LOT...and it isn't me who raises the issue!)the similarities between the Bible and Quran and yes, more Obama! I order the same dinner every night and the price is a little cheaper than the night before. The breakfast work crew now gives me a gift of three bananas with my chai and chapatti every morning. Sometimes I meet Ibrahim and the two guys that work for him and we sit together, sometimes I eat with a Ugandan guy who always argues about the price of his dinner when he is done and tells the staff their chicken is too dry. Or I sit and chat with strangers who I later sometimes meet again in meetings or at the EMACK office!

On the weekends, I have been in Garissa for two weekends, I spend the afternoons sitting with a group of young men and veiled women outside of the cybercafe that is in the same building as my hotel. We chat, drink tea, and watch traffic and people move by as the electricity comes and goes. There are some permanent fixtures to this scene; such as an old pa with a henna dyed beard and wooden cane who harasses me all the time about my clothes. The young men tell me that when pa is yelling at me he is saying, "Trousers are for men!" "She has beautiful hair but we don't want to see it!" "This one is stubborn. She covers her head sometimes but still wears trousers!" Everyone laughs. The first time he saw me in a Somali dress with a head wrap he danced and waved his arms in the air and apparently said, "NOW, she is beautiful and ready for a Somali husband!" There is Yussuf; the young, attractive, soft spoken cybercafe owner who recently just graduated from Nairobi University in computer science. There is the hotel watchman; Ousman, who sleeps at night in a wheelbarrow at the bottom of the steps. His body wrapped in a red cloth and a machete on his chest. He so badly wants to chat with me and often sits right in front of me and speaks Swahili or Somali (or a mix) and makes hand gestures to get his point across, often with success. Helima is a young woman who comes to the cafe everyday to check her email hoping to find out about her job application status at the Dabaab refugee camp with an International NGO. She is a social worker within the NGO world. I have only seen her face once. The first day we met I asked her take me to the market. I wanted some clothes made. We entered a dark little shop with a woman behind the counter. After the greetings, Helima threw her veil over her head and I was surprised to see her pimpled scarred cheeks.

Sitting with complete strangers whom I come to know (or not) and talking for hours while sharing cups of tea are some of my favorite moments. There is a story to be told by all, and tea is often an entry point to the stories, a gateway to learn about one another and a history. A history of a people, a country, a person... Whether it is drinking tea with Helima and Yussef, members of Hamas, or fellow travelers in some back alley hostel in Zanzibar, I believe the meeting point of that moment is a middle place.

Connections

The man in a white chef's hat asked me, "Chicken or fish?" When I didn't answer he said, "Lady, what's happened? You looked stunned." I think I continued to stare at him and then he said "Don't worry. You shall recover from the ride. Now, do you want chicken or fish?"

And he was right. I "recovered" from the ride from Nairobi to Garissa, but it took two days...

At 8:02am, Friday, I was standing in the doorway of my Nairobi hotel when a short, frumpy, man, whose shirt was only half tucked into his pants, stopped in front of me and shouted quickly, "You from Mombassa?" I laughed and said, "No," and then looked over his head to see if I could see an Aga Khan vehicle coming down the road. Then, noticing that he was still staring at me, I asked, "Aga Khan? EMACK?" And Mohammed laughed and said, "Alicia?"

After drinking tea and going to the grocery store, Mohammed, the driver, and I left the center of Nairobi towards Garissa. We picked up Farrah (the dept. chief of party) at his family home on the outskirts of the city. We greeted each other for the first time, in the rain, outside his compound wall. As we drove off, Farrah leaned forward, towards my front seat and said, "I need to tell you two very important cultural things. 1. Never extend your hand to a man, but if he does, sha'? Shake it. And 2. Please cover your head. I know you aren't Muslim, but it will show re? Respect. As for me and my age mates? We don't care, but our fathers do. Now, you can do as you wish, but this is my ad? Advice. Ok. Now, we have covered the cultural things and we will continue to talk about the research, the history of the area, the history of education in this area for the pastoralist and nomadic people, the marginalization of my people, the work of E? EMACK, and along the way I also want you to take notice of the conditions, the people, the environment and how it will change. And please, ask questions. And I will point out the different types of Pastoralists communities we have along the way." I believe it was at that point, when our vehicle hit the road. For the next five hours, Farrah and I talked about all of these things and more.

The further North we drove, the clearer the sky became and eventually the rains stopped. And they stopped where the land needed it the most. The lush green surrounding area of Nairobi was replaced by sand with the occasional grass. As we continued, the acacia became more dominate until the grass disappeared, leaving the acacia standing alone in the red sand. Then the camels appeared, hundreds, lead by pastoralist moving to watering points. Small (waist high) round grass huts, some with UNHCR tarps as roofs, spotted the land. I watched all of this, the changing conditions, while Farrah and I talked. His passion for his people and for education overwhelmed and excited me. While we talked, I took notice of the young children holding out empty blue plastic water bottles, begging for water along the side of the road...of the lorries that carried water (as a relief service) to some of the settlements...of the women (now veiled) walking over a land which gave no hint as to where she came from and where she was headed, at least not to me-an onlooker.

Somewhere in our conversation, Farrah asked me if I saw Obama's speech the night before. I told him that I only seen parts of it. He told me that Obama had cited the Holy Qur'an many times, but one sentence that stood out was; "O mankind! We have created you male and female; and we have made you into nations and tribes so that you many know one another."

Soon after our discussion on Obama, Farrah asked about my past work experience. When I told him that I lived with the Fulani (also pastoralist/nomadic people) for two years, his face lit up and he said, "Did you know that the Fulani are our relatives? We believe that we were once one and then split. They are tall and fair like us Somalis! Did you know that?" I did know that there was this "split" belief but I didn't know if it was commonly believed/accepted. He then told me that the Nigerian Fulani visited Garissa a few years back and they had a forum on pastoralist education! Farrah referenced Obama's speech again, and I shook my head and smiled...

Towards the end of our journey, Farrah told me about his first career as a classroom teacher, a multi-grade teacher in fact. He then continued to tell me that the government does not provide any training on multi-grade, and that he has been "looking" for a good training manual to assist with the EMACK trainings in the pastoralist schools. Oh.. the irony....so naturally I told him about the work of LIRE in The Gambia and Senegal and that a week prior we held a West African conference on multi-grade with the World Bank! I also told him that I knew of a great manual and teachers' guide! We discussed this for a bit and then he said..."The Gambia! I have heard it is a wonderful country! I have never been, but I met one woman from there a few years back at an Action Aid conference in London." My jaw dropped and I turned around to face to him and I said, "Let me guess, the woman was..." and at the same time we both said Khadyjetou! We burst out laughing and he grabbed my hand. I informed him that I was just with her a week earlier in Senegal and that she was a member of our advisory committee for LIRE! Farrah laughed and said, "You see...your President is a very intelligent man! Please tell Khadyjetou I send my greetings and that you are here with me now."

After our five hour journey and continuous chat, we arrived in Garissa at a hotel called, "The Nomad Palace," to take our lunch before continuing to my hotel. And as I walked up to the man in the white chef's hat, who was standing behind the buffet line, visions of our ride flashed before me...the extremely harsh environment-home to the people walking to water, and the settlements-developed because the drought has taken the lives of the pastoralists' animals-which are points of food and water distribution by the Red Cross and the World Food Program. Naturally I felt odd to be in a place like the Nomad Hotel...where members of the local government and NGOs sat eating under the palm trees in the manicured grounds of the fenced property. I took my plate of chicken and rice and joined them, my back to the fleet of white Land Rovers behind us....

After lunch, we entered Garissa town. When I stepped out of the vehicle in front of my hotel, all the men and women on the street stopped and stared. The eyes of the women, the only part of the body visible, followed me, and the tall, slender, fair skinned men, dressed in modern shirts and wrap skirts, silently watched me as well. A few old men, with henna dyed beards, leaned on their wooden sticks and stared with crinkled faces.

The wind kicked up sheets of sand around us while we removed my luggage from the truck. Red Cross, IRC, Save The Children, CARE, UN, UNICEF, WFP, local taxis, and lorries passed behind us on the busy road, but everything in front of me seemed oddly stagnant, still, motionless...I looked up at the the 5 story yellow building that housed my hotel, squinting from the windblown sand that filled the space between me and the people around me. I followed Farrah and the driver. They greeted some of the men who very quietly responded while never taking their eyes off of me. I quietly walked passed the people, to the place where I would call home for two months...and I think it was at that moment, in the one minute walk to the open flight of stairs to the reception desk, in which I realized that I was no longer in Kenya...or even in East Africa for that matter. I very well could have been in Somalia.

After Farrah and Mohammed left me, I closed my hotel room and sat on the bed. Unsettled by the scene in front of the hotel, I jumped up, washed my face, and headed out the door. I bought a bottle of coke and sat on a wooden bench in front of a shop that was in the middle of the scene in which I arrived in. And this is how I began to know the Somali people of Garissa...

A Day in Nairobi

Smiley met me at the door with a huge grin and his hearty laugh. We greeted each other a good morning as Eliza and I flung my bags into the back of his car. I watched Eliza walk through the green foliage towards her three story hay bale/adobe home as we drove off towards the city center. "So, you are leaving us??!!" I looked across the seat to my right and told Smiley, "Only for a while. I'm heading north for a few months." His face lit up when he asked me where. My response of Garissa, Wajir, and Mandera, to name a few, was received in a loud surprise laugh that was more like a howl. "Mandera?" he asked, with a bob of his head he looked at me. When I replied yes, more laughs! "It's HOT! I Hope you have A LOT of cream!" He said. "It's VERY, VERY, VERY, HOT and very difficult. Who will be your host?" When I told him he said, "Oh, they have been around here for a VERY long time and they are VERY good. You will be well taken care of."

Smiley is a local cab driver that is always on time, extremely nice, and reliable. Just recently he got dentures and now smiles all the time, hence, Smiley - his nickname. However, I can't imagine Smiley before the dentures! And his laughs about the North? Well, they foreshadowed the day...

During the 45 minute ride into the city, we talked about the NEP (North Eastern Province), the region where he was raised, and he briefed me on the Nairobi neighborhoods as we drove through them. I looked out the window, while we talked, at the rolling green hills which turned into pavement and the skyscrapers as they replaced the views of distant mountains. The city was bustling with activity and people were everywhere. School children were walking in their uniforms, and business men and women were rushing to their offices, all of whom were trying to maneuver through the heavy city traffic. City busses, matatus (bush taxis), private vehicles, and taxis clogged the city veins. The Nairobi morning rush hour traffic, it's bad or good...depending on how you look at it!

Smiley dropped me off at the hotel. He was still smiling and laughing when he wished me good luck and a safe journey. I checked into the hotel, which was arranged by Aga Khan, and was accompanied to my room by a hotel security woman carrying one of my heavy bags. Becca, Paul, Sarah, if you are reading this, you know that I need help carrying my bags! I have three of them and they are HEAVY like our last trip to Senegal! The room was bright and pleasant, unlike the $15/day room I had the week before, also unlike (for other reasons) the 5 star hotel room I had 1.5 weeks before in Senegal!

I threw my bags down, put on my laptop backpack, and headed out into the bustling Nairobi morning. Several men shouted at me before my foot hit the pavement. "Cab? Cab? Taxi?" I smiled and told them no thanks. "Alright. Ok," they replied back with a nod and a wave. I turned the corner and was met by a cool breeze and the smell of grease coming from the chicken and pizza fast food joint next to the hotel. I walked passed and into a coffee shop to buy my morning white coffee with sugar for take-away. With my coffee in hand, I stepped back into the Nairobi drone of discourse and engines.

As I walked to the office, I moved between men in suits and women in heels. I passed groups of men standing on the sidewalks engaged in lively conversation and men sitting on benches beneath the palm trees reading the daily newspaper, The Nation. A few times, I caught gaggles of young women starting at me up and down and whispering to each other. With a raise of my eyebrows and a sly smile, they realized they were caught and they began to giggle.

When I arrived at the metal detectors at the entrance of the building, the male security guard asked, "Aga Khan?" I replied with a nod and was motioned to walk around the metal detectors. I remembered him from Thursday, the first day I arrived at the office...After passing through the metal detectors and checking in my laptop, I stood among the crowd of people before the six elevators. As I started to walk into the first one that opened, I heard a man shout, "Madam, wait. Where are you going?" I told the attractive young man in blue uniform, "Eighth floor, Aga Khan." He then said, "Ah, come here, and look at this." I walked away from the open elevator to a series of electronic panels with numbered buttons. He explained to me that when I enter the queue, I need to first press the number 8, for the 8th floor, and a letter will digitally appear on the screen. Then, I enter the elevator of the corresponding letter. "You can't just enter an elevator at random! You will never reach your destination!" I thanked him, and after I stepped into the correct elevator, he smiled and nodded. It is truly amazing that I even found the building in the first place! Where was this guy when I couldn't figure out how to cross the street in downtown Amherst last summer?!"

When I stepped out of the elevator, the guard, Samuel, opened the office door for me. I greeted Bernis (the receptionist) and Samuel opened the next set of doors. I walked into the hallway and into Everlyn's office to greet her and to check on the progress of my scheduled meetings with the Ministry. She told me that she was having a difficult time getting through and suggested that we walk over at 2 to make an appointment. After discussing our weekends, I went into the office that I was given for the week, sat down in the black leather chair behind the desk, and with my back to the view of Nairobi through the floor to ceiling window, I pulled out my laptop. Benjamin came in behind me and asked if I wanted coffee and then Salis, the IT guy, came in to connect my laptop to the Aga Khan wireless network. While I worked that morning, reading literature on pastoralist and nomadic education and Kenyan education policy, I enjoyed the continuous interruptions of staff introductions and welcomes to Kenya! Most assumed I was from the DC office, but when I told them I was working for EMACK for a few months in Garissa, their laughs echoed Smiley's from just a few hours before. And it was the same by all, laughs followed by, "It's HOT. It's VERY, VERY, VERY hot. Please bring your cream!" Their laughs discouraged me from naming the other places (further north) that I'm headed to! I later asked Eva, a secretary, to clue me into the laughter. With her dramatic expressive eyes, and while her nose stud sparkled in the stream of sunlight, she leaned over her desk and told me, "Oh, you see Alicia, the NEP is very harsh and hot. Us city folks find it hard. Imagine, I once went to Garissa and the people there, you know they are very strict Muslim, gave me harsh, rude unwelcoming looks. Perhaps it was because I wore a knee-length skirt, but imagine!" I giggled quietly.

At lunch, Benjamin came in with several menus and asked me to choose what I wanted to eat. He then ordered it for me and brought it an hour later to my desk. After, Everlyn called me on the phone to tell me she was ready to go to the Ministry. I met her in the hallway, rode the elevator down, and stepped out into the sunlight. The Ministry was less than 10 minutes away on foot. I walked fast to keep up with her. She explained the organization of the Ministry of Education as we walked. We had lunch together the Friday before, and I found it very easy to talk with her. She told me then, over lunch, that she was envious of my trek. She told me that she loved the field the most. She is a very animated, kind, intelligent, professional woman. She is an education officer, a mother, wife and a Masters student!

Our trip to the Ministry was a success, only because of her confident, gentle but demanding, maneuvering with key personale. As we walked back to the office, we were engaged in a lively discussion. An onlooker would have heard our raised voices and laughter, and seen our dramatic hand and arm gestures. Then, without warning, she flung her arm out across my chest and pushed me backyards, just as a huge Citi Hoppa bus sped by leaving behind a thick, eye stinging, dark cloud between us. I looked up at her wide eyes, her long braided ponytail still swaying back and forth, and she shouted, "Alicia! We can't lose you! Not before you go out there and collect all the information for us!" And we both burst into laughter. The Friday before, Alex (the Chief of Party) and I stood in the boardroom over a map of Kenya as he briefed me on the next two months. He told me that he would introduce me to Everlyn, who was fabulous and was sure I would just love her. And he was right! I told her then, as we safely crossed the street, that I was happy to know her and she replied back, "Yes, Alicia, me too! We must keep in touch. I feel as though you have been here for many years already."

The scene with Everlyn and the bus, took me back to a hot day in The Gambia seven years ago. To this day I'm sure that an ex, whom I'm so grateful is still a friend today, saved my life. We were walking in Serekunda and I felt him grab the shirt on my back, but it didn't stop me. He actually had to pull my hair and that made me stop! I literally felt the wind of the vehicle as it brushed passed me. These close encounters only happen when I'm totally engaged with the person I'm with and lost in the conversation! It's happened a few times too many, and thank you to all of you who have pulled me back to the curb!

I stayed in the office until 6:30 that night, after the rains stopped. If I didn't have my laptop, I wouldn't have minded a walk in the rain. While I meandered down the street to my hotel, I enjoyed the site of the palm trees juxtaposed the skyscrapers and the Call to Prayer (one of my favorite sounds) which eventually gave way to live music from an outside bar. I passed men and women sitting at tables, drinking beer and wine in outside cafes, groups of men standing on the sidewalk talking, and the standstill traffic. I smelled a market before I passed it (dried fish will always give it away!) and I laughed out loud when a man, who was several meters away, said, "sorry" when I surprisingly stepped into a mud puddle!

I knew this day would be like the following two, with slight variation, and I was right. It is now Thursday night. I heard the last Call to Prayer for the day, and the silent night is broken up by individual voice and cars below my window. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, or the 60 days thereafter. I know I'm getting picked up at 8am and I'm driving to Garissa. I know it will be hot and I will have to cover my head for the next two months. And I understand my assignment. But what remain unknown are the people, the environment, the food, and the contexts of my daily life. However, this gives me comfort because I'm about to enter a totally foreign experience (to me) that no book or conversation could ever teach me. And I will do my best, whatever the results may be. Remarkable opportunities, like this, give me comfort and knowing that some of the best experiences I have had, were from the unrealized dreams...

The Market

Not a day goes by without some moment taking my breath away that makes me give thanks to my parents and some higher force for bringing me to that moment...

Today, while in a market in Nairobi, I held a long slender gourd around its beaded middle and then brought it to my nose by its leather strap. As I took a deep breath I closed my eyes and went back years ago to the Masai village in Tanzania. The leather held the smell of the homes, the milk, the people, it was the smell of the Masai life...and I smiled thinking about how different my life is now compared to five years ago, the first time I traveled here to East Africa. I laid the gourd back down on the brightly colored cloth which was spread over the dirt ground and looked around to see where I would go next. And of course that was an open invitation for young and old men and women to crowd around me telling me to take a look at their items. "Looking is free!" "Welcome nice woman. Have a look." "Karibu!" I smiled and said, "Asante Sana!" "Thank you," while I gently took back the strand of my hair that was wrapped in an old woman's hand. Squatting next to me, Eliza was bargaining with a woman for a big beautiful gourd that was designed by fire. As I walked to a woman selling shawls, a man with a huge smile held out a painting of Obama and the First Family. Proudly he said, "Obama," as he pointed to the painting. I smiled and began to say, "I know, he is my president." But I stopped at "my." It didn't seem right to say, "my president." Obama's smiling face was splashed all around the market. His face was painted in all different shades, the image of his face was the design of cloth skirts that some women wore and the fabric that hung above some of the market stalls. Beads spelled his name into bracelets. He was literally everywhere! I was in The Gambia the last time I saw the image of our president's face in an African market. It was Bush, on t-shirts, holding a machine gun in each hand, smiling, with dead people at his feet.

Eliza met me at the woman with the shawls. The woman had the light ones striped in beautiful colors, perfect for covering my head while in the North. She tore the shawls out of the plastic and hung them over my arm telling me how beautiful each one was, and she was right. I bought two, a vibrant blue and a dark green streaked with silver threads. After Eliza paid for her two, we walked over to a jewelry stand and Eliza introduced me to Milton, a man who grew up in the slums and is now running a small business. He employs and trains male youth (from the slums) in jewelry making. I spotted the earrings right away and I commented on how unique all the designs were. Milton told me that the boys create all the designs on their own. I was overwhelmed by all the choices and I told him that I wanted to buy my mom a pair. He then grabbed a set and held them out and they were perfect! Mom, you are going to love these!

There are some rules/lessons about shopping in the market that I have picked up along the way...A simple thank you and a smile will alert the people crowded around you that you REALLY aren't interested in what they are selling. When you walk up to a stall, look at the seller, greet, and then look at their products. Only ask the price of something if you really want to buy it and are ready to start bargaining. Learn to make the sound that means, "Oh my friend, you are out of your mind," when they give you the first price! Cut the first price by 1/2, sometimes by 3/4 and meet in the middle. If you have them almost where you want them (in regards to price), but they aren't budging, hold out the amount of money you want to pay, or put the product down and walk away. They will call you back, but if they don't, your price really was ridiculous. Always have the correct change, but if you don't , point to something else that you want before they do! If they throw in a "free gift" with your purchase, you paid too much, but they liked you! And most importantly, know when to bargain. I always ask myself, 'what does a few dollars mean to me, and what does it mean to her/him?'

I love the market. The exchanges that occur while "looking" and bargaining are priceless, especially when it can be done in a local language. It is an ongoing exchange of smiles, laughs, touch, eye contact, and conversation while walking through a maze of vibrant colors, pungent smells, and people trying to make a living, all under the hot African sun.