Goodbye Mbakalo

While I’ve managed to pick up minimal Swahili throughout the summer, the little that I know has not always been helpful while in the rural villages. English and Swahili are the official languages of Kenya, but in each area people speak their mother tongue before either of those languages. As a result, everywhere I’ve gone I’ve tried to learn a little bit of the vernacular. Usually I only make it as far as “how are you” and “I am fine,” although in Mbakalo I did manage to learn the word for “peace/hello.” In schools here, students begin learning English and Swahili early in their education, although not usually intensively until after Class 3 or so. Apparently teachers greet students daily by asking, “How are you?” to the entire class, to which they apparently respond, “I am fine.” So, whenever we pass kids, no matter how far away we are, we always can hear a loud, “How ahh yoo?” Of course it doesn’t matter how many times we reply, because they just keep asking. Usually if we ask them the same, they can come up with a response, but the conversation ends there.

On the walk from the dispensary to Mama Anne’s house, we always pass kids coming home from school or outside their houses playing. We make a turn at one house where there are always at least four children around. They ask the somewhat entertaining but eventually kind of annoying “how ahh yoo?” to which we reply, “fine.” However they like to keep talking to us, but in either Swahili or Kibukusu (honestly I have no idea how to tell the two apart). So rather than letting a conversation pass us by, Filippo and I often respond in our own made up language that has absolutely no meaning whatsoever. The kids usually stare at us and keep talking for a moment and then get very confused.

Now we don’t do this to be mean, really. It’s just that everywhere we go it’s as if we are celebrities. When we pass a school near the dispensary, all of the kids outside run to the fence, ask how we are, and try to shake our hands. If you even mention the word picture (or “picha,” as that seems to translate better), you will be mobbed. It’s risky business out here. When Victor showed us his home, we timed it poorly and I think we passed every primary school student in Mbakalo. A big group followed us to his house and waited for us to leave to follow us again. One entertaining thing to do is to stop suddenly and turn around and scare the kids behind us. Again, I know it sounds cruel, but they all laugh after and keep following us anyway. At least we give them a little attention that way (I swear I love the kids here, even though it might not sound that way…). The last time Filippo did that, one girl had a look of sheer terror on her face until she realized he was just joking. It was priceless, though.

On our last day in Mbakalo, Simon invited us to his house to meet his family. His wife, Mispah, graciously prepared a meal for us, which was delicious, and we met all of Simon’s children. He has three daughters, the oldest of which is 11 I think, but he and his wife also care for one of the dispensary nurse’s daughters because she goes to school where Mispah teaches. They have also taken in one of the sponsored OVC from the area. She is 16 and in a much better environment now than she used to be. We played jump rope and they showed us games they like, and then they tried to teach us Swahili and Kibukusu. Needless to say I did not pick up much from them, but if I’m ever in the area again I think I’ll ask them to be my teachers (key words they tried to teach me were mud, grass, corn, and food I think).

We left for Nairobi the next morning, which turned out to be slightly eventful in the beginning. Wycliffe, the LMC chairman, offered to drive us to the bus station, about an hour away, in his car. He and Simon came over early to pick us up, and after breakfast we got ready to leave. First thing I noticed as I was leaving was a hen sitting on a chair inside the house all fluffed up. Filippo and I had been trying to catch a chicken all week, to no avail and with much embarrassment, and suddenly there was one just waiting to be caught. Mama Anne told us this one was ready for chicks and wanted eggs and was laying them daily on that chair.

While that was very exciting, the best was yet to come. We got in the car, drove for approximately five seconds; the end of the car was even with the gate out of the yard, when Wycliffe stopped the car. He and Simon got out, only to discover a flat tire. How they don’t get flat tires here every other bump I don’t know, but they changed the tire faster than anyone I’ve ever seen (so maybe they do get a fair amount of practice). The stall was worth it though, since little Eugene came over and we got to say goodbye before we left.

We took the bus, an eight hour ride, from Webuye to Nairobi, and the only real excitement there was passing a flaming truck in one village. Also I was leaving the restrooms at one stop and a lady from the bus asked me to hold her son while she went in, which was kind of interesting.

A couple of days before we left Mbakalo, it hit me that my experience in Kenya was essentially over. I can’t believe two months have almost passed, and soon I’ll just blend in like any old American. While there have been days where that was all I wanted, I didn’t realize how quickly time would pass. I haven’t been here nearly long enough to really become integrated with the culture, and I know I still have so much to learn.

I’ve been in Nairobi for a week now, so more from here shortly! Unless, of course, no one is really reading this blog, in which case I’ll just keep all of my stories to myself. Sorry if they’re boring anyway. The least you could do is leave a little post. It could even be blank… I was going to offer a bribe but I’m out of postcards.

Baadaye!