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.