Mikindani

week three

Settling into my third week, I am now adjusting to my surroundings, albeit awkwardly and still characteristically western - as evidenced by my stumbling matatu exits, thick beads of sweat, and wheezing gasps for air that accompany any Kenyan dining experience. Despite the city's frustrating transportation network, beleaguered by perpetual road rage and non existent signage, I am navigating the city with some competency. In the absence of defining landmarks, heaps of rotting garbage, fermenting in the coastal heat, have sufficed. The three-by-five garbage pile decorated with chip bags, potato skins, condoms and dead birds has to do, but must not be confused with the five-by-three refuse pile, sitting in a pool of grey sewage.

Amidst the city's seedy alleyways, aggressive sex traders, and saturating filth, is a vibrant social atmosphere - defined by its local population, rich in personality and unique in character. Walking down Mombasa's central avenues, such as Moi, or Jomo Kenyatta, no casual stroll or purposeful stride is complete without numerous formal exchanges, usually in the form of a hand shake, smile, or garrulous introduction peppered with trivial details. These elaborate greetings are surely a sign of good faith, but for a lone mazungu, these longwinded overtures can be exhausting. Walking five blocks, I find myself parched, my wrist sore, and my palms sweaty. Then again, this could be Nairobi, or the suitably named Nairobery, where a mazungo conversation is less an exchange of pleasantries, but the forfeiting of one's money. Surely, conversations in Nairobi via knifepoint are shorter, but are significantly more expensive and dangerous. Mombasa it is.

This past week I commenced lessons at Mikindani school, deep within an impoverished district of Mombasa - a fringe community relegated to the outlaying boundaries of the city. These squatters live in dilapidated mud homes amid malnourished livestock that freely graze the alleyways, feeding on weeds and an ubiquitous supply of trash. Meandering streams of urine and feces cut through the trash-laden streets while barefoot children, neglected and unrestrained, play in filth. Understandably, I find it difficult to keep clean, and often by day's end, I resemble a vagabond, matted and yellow with sweat. Notwithstanding the garbage and heat, I have been losing weight at an alarming rate, nearly five to seven pounds per week. Nourishing meals are hard to find, as is clean produce. The meals at the teachers' compound carry little more than empty calories, making it difficult to sustain a balanced diet as I would in Canada.

Mikindani School deserves a posting of its own as the school and its children are absolutely inspiring. Yet, given my time shortages, I must substitute for a shorter, and unfortunately, less floral description. The school is constructed of two adjacent rectangular stone structures, featuring open doorways, single blackboards, and cramped conditions. Lacking electricity, windows or drainage, the recent rainfall made instruction quite difficult as streams of water poured into the school and mosquitoes relentlessly attacked the students, ill protected from outside elements. Heavy rainfall beat the sheet metal roof with such deafening noise it rendered it nearly impossible to speak at an audible level during class lessons. Coupled with these environmental changes, social changes are having a toll on me, namely the constant beatings of children by faculty, often difficult to watch given the minor infractions on the students part. The students are still under the impression I will use physical punishment as a disciplinary method, often squirming or contorting their faces to a raised hand, anticipating a weighty slap, not a congratulatory high five. Despite my position as an authority figure in the classroom, I maintain a playful demeanor when interacting with the students, often dancing and singing along with them. These gestures have won me great affection from the students, changing a relationship that was initially marred by suspicion, confusion, and timidity, both on my part and theirs.

Most interesting is that I have been titled "the healer" by a few students; often carrying my first aid kit in hand I frequently cleanse and bandage wounds, or manufacture braces and splints for broken limbs. I recently bandaged a girl's wound, an infected mosquito bite that had grown into a gaping septic hole, nearly the size of a quarter. Despite my best efforts to clean and bandage the wound, her sister removed the bandage, seemingly unhappy with my intentions. As the wound grew progressively worse over the week, I proceeded to take her to a clinic in Mikindani, buying her some antibiotics for seven dollars, which should hopefully clear the infection. Enduring local customs and maintaining cultural objectivity has proven difficult in these instances, where I have tried to insist on the importance of antibiotics despite her sister's objections. Perhaps ethnocentrism and my western-centric lens and values are guiding both my hand and wallet, but maintaining an objective distance proves frustrating.

Kenyan misconceptions continue to be a problem, namely the false idea that white pigmentation of your skin and extravagant wealth are synonymous. Thus, any transaction or purchase is inflated five times its normal costs, grossly inflated by Kenyan prices. Therefore, I find myself haggling prices for the most basic staples. A bottle of water can easily cost two dollars, following exhausting bartering and fabricated language barriers on the seller's part. This misconstrued idea of western wealth often leads to much unwanted attention, namely by curio sellers who bombard you with cheap trinkets, such as carved wood giraffes and authentic massai walking sticks. While stereotypical and manufactured knick-knacks are the mainstay, I have been offered Khat, a hallucinogenic plant one chews, or sexual favors from scantily clad, aggressive and bothersome Kenyan prostitutes. Dealing with these individuals proves quite taxing on one's tolerance level, already strained by the unyielding humidity.