The Perfect Pieces

When I embarked on this journey, I knew that I would learn a great deal and I hoped that I would equally impart some knowledge, inspiration or motivation to someone somewhere. At the same time, I had no clue to what extent I would grow through this experience or in what ways it would inspire me. This entire adventure has led me through times of overwhelming frustration and disappointment, but more than anything it has given me times of incredible inspiration and realization. I have realized a more tangible vision of what I want to do with the rest of my life and in the meantime have seen so much of my life come together in different ways here.

Today was a day of a high point. The last week plagued me with the sound of the eternally ticking clock and I felt the pressure to make the most use of my time remaining here. I didn’t want to disappoint myself, the women I work with, my organization, or Duke by idling myself for the remaining time. I thought of extensively intricate and complicated plans with lofty goals of what I wanted to accomplish for these women. I thought of creating giant projects that would change their lives forever. When I realized the improbability of the success of these lofty projects, I also realized the understated importance of something I could do with these women. Immediately I understood perfectly the goals of FSD.

While I had wanted to create a market for the women of the sewing class to sell their products in, I realized who better to figure this out than the women themselves? These women have the skills to create various garments, however, they have no knowledge of what to do with these things or how to make a profit from them. The women spend hours a day creating skirts, dresses, and shirts. They have nowhere to sell them, so they inevitably give them to family members. This is when I realized that these women could really use an informational class to supplement their sewing skills.

But what could help these women to really put their skills to use? What type of information could do that? And what could I teach them that would be of any practical use in their life? Marketing. Economics. Globalization. Development. All of these concepts seemed to have some value to what I want these women to know. Immediately I began creating a course for the women that I think is best (and also most awkwardly) described as individual and community economic development. I began writing an instruction manual for this course to leave behind, once I leave in just over a week.

On Wednesday, the young mothers met for their normal discussion group. This time, however, the other volunteer at Project Africa and I described our plan to these women. I was so excited to tell them about how beneficial I thought this would be for them, and I even had a friend from Duke come for the session to talk to the women about the importance of supplementing their skills with knowledge of economics and marketing. The women were excited about this idea and proposed coming twice a week for an hour session in addition to their usual Wednesday meeting.

So now I find myself in the process of writing the already 10 single-spaced page long guide on various topics relating to economic development. In doing so, I realized I was using information I had learned back in ninth grade of high school. I surprised myself when my knowledge of the Demographic Transition Model from AP Human Geography came to me so clearly and so purposefully. All of the pieces from my life seemed to fit perfectly, ranging from what I had learned in that killer Economics 51 class about basic supply and demand to way back in high school. Lessons on globalization, developmental stages of countries, how to measure development, the “brain drain”, unemployment and overpopulation all reared their old heads at me and reminded me of their practical importance. As even more of a cosmic coincidence, I got an email from a professor of a course next semester suggesting we read “The End of Poverty” by Jeffrey Sachs. After checking the book out of the FSD library, I laughed to myself about the irony of the situation- here I am sitting in Africa in the midst of teaching women about economic development and the theoretical ladder out of poverty while reading this book about just that. The pieces were just about all too perfectly relevant.

Today was the first day of our official group meeting. About ten women showed up and to my surprise, many of them brought with them pens and old notebooks. They furiously took notes as I explained the stages of development from the demographic transition model and they all gathered around my little laptop as I showed them a picture of the graph. It was as if I was telling them the formula to life. They had me repeat myself many times, just to ensure they were copying down what I was saying correctly. I brought candy and cookies for them to enjoy while I spoke (self-admittedly it may be a bit of bribery…but that never hurt anyone). When we were almost finished, I told them that we had only ten minutes left and we could start a new topic or we could continue next week. I was met with a resounding, “please continue.”

Although I know what I’m doing isn’t life shatteringly important or ground-breaking, I was shocked at the level of practicality all of my education claimed today. Not only did I teach the women things which I have been fortunate enough to learn, I also discovered a new part of myself. I realized how passionate I am about these issues and how strongly I believe in their ability to actually promote economic development (both as an individual and as a community, of course!).

The end of my time is quickly approaching, but with some new inspiration and new focus, I think I will be at peace with leaving. I leave for our safari this evening—I’ll take an overnight bus for 9 hours to Nairobi with two other students from Duke on my program. We’ll arrive in Nairobi and then take a bus into Masai Mara for our safari. We’ll be there all weekend and on Monday night we’ll board EasyCoach and head back to Kakamega for one final week. Now that I have a new sense of satisfaction with my work here, I think I will really be able to enjoy myself and the beauty that this country has to offer.

I Bless the Rains Down in Africa..and my Umbrella

Yesterday I realized two strange ways in which Kenyans and I differ. Over the weeks, I have become more accustomed to the Kenyan way of life and have gradually gained greater understanding of a Kenyan thought process. However long I stay here though, I feel that there are still two issues over which Kenyans and I will never see eye to eye: the cold and the rain.

The weather in Kenya is even more predictable than the coming of hurricanes to Florida in hurricane season. “Cold,” hot, then rain. Every morning when I leave the house it is freezing. And by freezing, I really mean 70 or 75 degrees Fahrenheit. And every morning without fail as I walk out in my tee-shirt and skirt, my mama asks me if I have “carried anything warm.” The family, in coordination with the rest of the town, has dressed for the morning with full on winter coats- northface fleeces or puffy furry coats. If I couldn’t actually feel the temperature for myself, I would think that I had landed somewhere in the Arctic instead of just adjacent to the equator in the heart of Africa. As I walk out still wearing my skirt and tee-shirt and go to meet my friend, in his equally warm light weight pants and tee-shirt, my family is baffled by our ability to bear the “cold.”

While I don’t freeze from the 70 degree chill, I also don’t melt from the rain. I realized this yesterday as I had one of my favorite walks home from work. What made the walk so refreshing was the rain. While I agree with Kenyans that I am not always a fan of being caught in the rain every day at 5pm walking home from work, yesterday I appreciated the rain. There are two things about Kakamega that made this walk particularly pleasurable—the first being the usual harassment (or perhaps I should say, friendly bombardment) of Kenyan boda boda drivers I encounter in my daily travels. The second is that Kenyans are afraid of the rain.

As I left work yesterday, I noticed that the sky had on its menacing face of looming rainclouds. I didn’t feel like waiting around impatiently for the rain to end and after weeks of enduring the rain, I knew better than to assume that the rain would stop in a timely manner. So prepared with my waterproof backpack, umbrella, and trusty Tevas, I braced myself for the onslaught of African rain. Soon I began to notice the comical image around me of every Kenyan standing under some sort of roof or shelter to protect them from this apparently poisonous rain. Tin roofs of the market, extended roofs from shops on street corner, and gas stations were all filled to capacity with people huddling from the rain hurling down at the incredible speed of…drizzling. One gas station in particular, SomKen, had probably over one hundred people huddled as tightly as possible avoiding every drop of rain. Seeing this, I continued walking and not surprisingly felt many questioning and obviously confused stares. What I loved most about this walk was the peace. The rain has scared off all of the bodaboda drivers (rain obviously melts bicycles) and all pedestrians. I was alone to walk in complete peace from any hassle. No cars whizzing by without a care for lowly pedestrians, no bodaboda drivers asking me to marry them (it’s happened), no pikipikis (motorcycles..equally, if not more, dangerous than bodabodas), no matatu drivers asking me if I’m going to Kisumu or Mumias and literally dragging me towards their “14 passenger” van packed with 22 people. Just me and the road and the rain. I walked in the middle of the road and enjoyed every second of the rain. This time around, I did bless the rains down here in Africa.

An AIDS Book, a Soda, and Some Fried Dough

Earlier this week I was feeling frustrated with my feelings towards productivity- or rather, the lack there of. Things had slowed down after the soldiering all around town of the past two weeks. Today, however, I was quickly reminded of the impromptu nature of the working culture here, and the spontaneity of my work here. I’m a natural American- wanting everything to be done on time, on schedule, and done to perfection. My time in Paris prepared me for a bit for working in a culture where punctuality and schedules are not on the top of the priority list. As much as I was told to be prepared for a different culture of work, I still find myself often frustrated. At the same time, I have had some of the greatest moments of satisfaction and pride with my work. I have been trying to go to the population office with my boss the entire week, but extensive factors kept jumping in between me and my coveted information. First malaria (of my boss, not myself), then obligations with the other volunteers, and many appearances of “not today-tomorrow.” Well eventually tomorrow turned into today when Sussy called me around 9:00 to hurry and meet her at the population office. What I thought would be a simple interview of one individual who held these golden answers to my questions about the demographics of this little place called Kakamega turned into a wild goose chase. After the first redirection to another office, I recognized in myself an understanding and expectation of this situation. First the population office. Then the provincial office of statistics. Then the provincial planning office (still not really sure how the title corresponds to the job). Then the Provincial NACC field office (yet another questionable name). One promised information about HIV/AIDS rates, one literacy rates, and yet another GDP information…next week. After a fourth redirection, we headed to yet another office in another building of the district headquarters. Here we finally sat down in a more formal matter and explained our intentions. The woman led us to a room full of statistics, numbers, and the golden information. I wrote down number, rate, percentage, statistic, and demographic I saw and felt I was in productivity heaven. As my karmic reward for this wild goose chase, the woman at the office (Gertrude I believe) gave me a book on the Kenyan AIDS Indicator Survey to keep. Although this is not a very exciting souvenir for most, I felt like this was significant proof of my travails—and I’m not going to lie, I was pretty excited.

Kenyans joke about Kenyan time. “A Kenyan comes to a 10:00 meeting at 11:00.” To which I added, “an American comes at 9:59,” to which everyone laughed at the truth behind the joke. When making an appointment, it is critical to note that the meeting is at 2:00 pm, American time. Then people nod in understanding and the meeting quickly becomes of more importance. Although this time zone of separation may be difficult to become accustomed to, the beautiful aspects of the Kenyan work culture almost erase any frustration a researcher like myself might think of feeling. Perhaps my mzungu status gives me an advantage, but everyone I have met, interviewed, or worked with has bent over backwards to help me. I was excited about my book this morning, not because I really care to read all 324 pages about the prevalence of AIDS in Kenya (I know, it’s prevalent), but because of the kindness the book represents. This woman who I had known for approximately 2 minutes was pulling out brochures, charts, posters, books, and pamphlets with as much information as she had. Even if I hadn’t been able to find any useful information, I would have felt the day was a success, just from encountering her kindness.

I find myself often confused about what office we’re visiting, who I’m greeting, or what the purpose of these wild goose chases is, something always happens that allows me to see every piece of this complex puzzle falling into place. When we left office number 6 or 7 (I stopped counting), we ran into another man who greeted Sussy and me. Once again, I felt out of the loop-wondering how this next piece fits into the puzzle. I found out that he was Sussy’s brother in-law as he invited us to this office/shack/shop right outside the district offices. The functions of these sorts of structures are not always entirely clear, as I realized from the place that sold me my shoes (as well as sodas, candy, and your common household things-toilet paper). This place wasn’t any bigger than one car garage, but there were three people inside doing office work in the cramped space. Outside, there was a soda machine. Sussy’s brother in-law offered us sodas, so we sat down and she had a Fanta and I enjoyed a Krest. Soon, a young girl came over and gave us both a piece of mandazi wrapped in newspaper. I had just met this man and yet everyone was so happy to give us sodas and mandazis. I tried my best to finish my soda, so as not to be rude and just felt happy. A book on AIDS, a soda, and some fried dough may not seem like very much, but the generosity behind the simplicity of these items made this one morning more worthwhile than any amount of productivity I could have accomplished in your typical productivity-oriented American office.

A Racehorse Stuck Behind the Starting Gates of Time

The sound of three and a half weeks is sounding increasingly threatening. As the days continue to disappear, I am grappling with the idea of only three and a half weeks left. Having been here for over a month, I can’t imagine leaving just yet. This past month has been remarkably productive for my research. I could not be happier with how much I have accomplished with the help of both Sussy’s experience and the stamina of our legs. I have collected probably close to 100 surveys and conducted interviews, among various other research, all while trying to follow the strict guidelines of the IRB (a whole other challenge in itself). I felt as though I didn’t have time to catch my breath between the 10-12 mile walks each day for the past two weeks. Now that I feel so close to accomplishing what I set out to do I can see this project really taking form and coming to life. The research truly speaks for itself and with my newfound knowledge, the process of writing conclusion and the rest of my thesis seems much less daunting (and maybe even a bit exciting—but that’s just my nerdy self talking).

While I feel proud of all that I have accomplished, each additional minute here is accompanied by the yearning to do more. Now that I finally have been able to take a breath of relief, I have unconsciously allowed other previously repressed thoughts come to mind. I know that the work here I have done already will eventually, maybe indirectly, help the people I am working with through the knowledge it will hopefully give them. I still cannot help but feel anxious, restless, and nothing other than antsy about every idle minute I spend here. I almost feel like a racehorse at the starting gate, clamoring for the doors to open and to let out all of my pent-up energy. It’s hard to explain or understand where this energy comes from. Perhaps it’s from the years of my interest in the problems throughout Africa, or maybe it’s from all of the things I’ve studied about, but probably it’s from the pure inspiration of simply living in this place. Being surrounded by the problems of Kakamega and the need of the people, is inspiration enough to want to develop a grand world-saving scheme, but I think moreso the idea of working with the people here to find a sustainable solution and the world of endless possibilities is what drives my energy. It seems like everywhere you look there are possibilities to work with the community to better itself. Whether through infrastructure development, improving income-generating vocational skills, educational empowerment, or resource building, there never seems to be an end to the opportunities.

The Foolish Mzungu in a Cornfield and the Magic of Ja Rule

Time truly flies when you forget to pay attention. Three weeks in, and I feel like I’m really finally accomplishing what I set out to do. I got my first taste of first-hand research these past few days, and it really was so exciting and very inspiring. I am relieved that I am actually accomplishing so much at work because the days seem to be vanishing before they even appear. I had a feeling that by this point in time the days would be slipping right through my fingers. Every new experience and every new adventure especially in a place as far away as Kenya starts off so slowly, where every day feels like a lifetime. Initially, you can recite every detail of the day as if each hour is merely a single page in a book. At this point though, things are familiar and I have a fairly standard routine. It’s at this time that you tend to forget about the ever-moving hands of time and things just keep happening without you taking any notice. For this reason, I’m really going to make a concerted effort to notice the small details, remember the momentary feelings, revel in the small accomplishments, and allow the newness of the experience to remain with me for as long as possible.

Last Friday was really when the progress began, but my day on Thursday was too hysterical and honestly, kind of pathetic, not to mention. First, Sussy and I went off to two schools to speak to them about surveying the students and teachers. We left around 9 am, but by around 9:15 I realized that I was getting some huge and not so friendly blisters on my left foot. I understood that I already looked strange enough, being a blonde-hair, blue-eyed mzungu and all, so I figured that no matter what else I did I really couldn’t look much stranger. So I wrapped the strap of my shoe in a napkin- very fashionable for sure. Shortly thereafter, the strap on my right shoe broke! At this point, Sussy and I were in the middle of a cornfield (read-middle of nowhere) and I had a broken shoe and a shoe wrapped in napkin paper- makes for a ridiculous image. Miraculously Sussy knew of a shack near the edge of the field that sells sodas, candy, and apparently shoes. I only had 200 Kenyan shillings (about $2.50) but I was desperate for some new shoes so I asked the woman for the cheapest shoes she had. Luckily, I got some really stylish white shoes for 150 shillings. After about another 30 minutes, my luck continued when I realized I had huge blisters on the other foot. Then I tripped on a rock and fell on my face. It was hysterically pathetic. After walking around for three hours and speaking with two schools, we headed back. I later visited Shieywe Secondary school and distributed permission forms to have the girls get their parents to sign. I spoke to them about the focus group we would be having next week and they all seemed excited. On the way home, my luck persevered yet again as it looked as though it was about to pour. You can always tell when the African rains are coming. First, the skies erupt with angry dark gray clouds that make you believe the rain is soon coming. However, it stays like this for at least an hour before there is any actual rain. Then the wind blows a very cold chill right through you. It sort of feels as though a tornado is about to come. Then, you start to see the drops. So this is where I was when I still had about 20 minutes until I reached home. Unfortunately, I didn’t even have enough money for a boda boda home (20 shillings- about 25 cents) so when it started raining, I started running. Soon, I was the strange mzungu running through the streets in the rain with her backpack and glaringly white shoes while all the Africans were under their stands literally yelling, “run, mzungu, run.” To which I answered, “I am!” The best part of the situation was the fact that my entire 10 minute run I was singing Toto’s haunting song “I bless the rains down in Africa…” while reminding myself that I, in fact, did NOT bless the rains in Africa at that particular point in time. The irony was all too much.

After my run of bad luck on Thursday, I think someone was looking out for me on Friday. Sussy and I went to an all boys boarding school where we had scheduled to distribute the surveys. Upon arrival, we met with the principal, who actually grilled me with questions. They were all very relevant questions, but I really wasn’t expecting such an interrogation. He asked things like, ‘if your research entails perceptions of women’s education, how will this research help our school of all boys?’ Luckily, I have been working on this subject for long enough that I didn’t even really need to think to answer most of the questions he threw at me. Afterwards, the counselor led us to his office and he went to distribute the surveys. As they came back, I began to read some of the responses. It was a wonderful moment. I had finally created my research tools, distributed them, and I had feedback! I had real information and real responses. It also blew my mind to think that my ideas and my work were having an impact on students in Kenya, even if that impact was only reading and filling out a survey. They were still spending their time on my research. What was even more shocking was the variety of responses I received. While some of the responses to the question about educated women were extraordinarily heart-warming and encouraging, others were beyond unexpected and shocking. Reading that some boys still feel that a woman’s role is to eat and give birth was unnerving. Although times are changing here, they are certainly not yet changed.

On Monday I visited another school and distributed more surveys to be picked up this Friday. Afterwards I prepared for my first interview on Tuesday. When I arrived at work on Tuesday morning, we promptly left for my interview with the head of the Department of Adult Education. I left fully prepared with my list of questions in hand and two volunteers to video tape. The interview went really well and I found that I was really comfortable speaking with the woman. I think that because I am so interested in this topic and have studied it for so long, all of my nerves were dispelled. I found out some very useful information and felt so accomplished afterwards that I just wanted to yell out to all of Kakamega about my excitement and sense of accomplishment. This interview was followed shortly by an impromptu interview with another man in the office.

It really seems as though “Kenyan time” extends far beyond the actual delayed clock which this country runs on. While it is typical for someone to show up to a 9am meeting at 9:30 or so, this time seems to pervade deep into the mindset of Kenyans. Maybe it is the environment that creates this atmosphere, or perhaps it is ingrained into the culture. My interview was conducted in a concrete building with no electricity or air-conditioning and an opening in the cement posed as the window. No computers, no fancy gadgets, just people in a building. Furthermore, I have noticed that when we want to get something done, we just do it. No need to book an appointment or call to arrange a time to meet with someone. We simply march ourselves 15, 30, 45 minutes to our destination, introduce our business, and we are warmly and happily greeted.

It has really been something else doing my research this way. When I’m out “in the field,” I’m often literally in a field. Trudging through cornfields, through grass pastures, on dirt roads, through the forest, but always walking in the trail of dust the bodabodas leave behind. It’s a funny picture when I think about myself from a bird’s eye view: a probably over-ambitious blonde hair, blue-eyed white girl trudging through the dusty cornfield-- backpack on tightly, surveys in hand, and with the hope of finding even the smallest bit of useful information.

Nearly every day I make a mental note about what my host family thinks is strange about myself- and likewise, I note what I find strange about them. Most recently, my family has found my liking for water, exercise, corn with dinner (as opposed to dessert or breakfast), dinner before 9:30 pm, and peanut butter on a banana absolutely hysterical. My sister, Irene, has even jokingly threatened me against drinking water, telling me that it is prohibited. She contends that I would be able to eat more if I drank less water. My family also finds my distaste for 4 cups of milky tea per day, absurdly large dinners at 9:30pm, every food imaginable “deep fried,” and of course WWE wrestling absolutely shocking. I have learned to agree with them upon many things though, such as the true entertainment value in “En Nombre Del Amor”- a Spanish soap opera which the family never misses (and rightly so). Additionally, we share a liking of really stereotypical 90s music, like the good old Backstreet Boys and Celine Dion. In a world where nearly everything feels so foreign, singing together with my Kenyan brother and sister to some of JoJo and Ja Rule’s finest works made me believe that perhaps our cultures, as well as our paths which had led us all to that same moment, aren’t nearly as different as they are made out to be.

Our Bubble of Excellence

It’s a funny thing—how much of a self-contained bubble Duke is. While most of its students are out “in the field” in developing countries like Haiti, Uganda, Nicaragua, and of course Kenya, I find myself occasionally stuck in the mindset associated with this self-contained bubble. While Duke has most definitely expanded my view on many international issues and has opened my eyes to unimaginable experiences, it has also led me to have a very skewed view of what is “normal.” This is because Duke students are far from “normal.” For us, normal is travelling to these underdeveloped countries, living amongst struggle and poverty, and engaging in various research and community development projects. It is normal for me to have friends currently in South Africa, Egypt, Nicaragua, Uganda, and Tanzania, as well as friends in Italy, the United Kingdom, Israel, and Costa Rica (and I actually do have friends in all of these places at this very moment). And all of these friends are interning, researching, and creating sustainable community development, like myself. Therefore, I find that it is easy for me to fall into this mindset that what I am doing is as well, “normal.” It’s easy to feel that I am only one of over 300 DukeEngage students living throughout the world, doing essentially what I’m doing. Additionally, I am with a group of five other students here. We are all living and working here. It is during thoughts like this that I must remind myself just how few these 300 DukeEngage students are in our growing world. That we are not, by most standards, “normal” and what we are doing is not average. At times, when people would react in shock and amazement about this journey I was about to embark on, I could not help but think of the other hundreds of students like myself travelling on a similar journey. This is not necessarily a bad way of thinking, as it really raises our standards of normal and what we should be doing with our lives. It opens many more doors of possibilities and inspires us to do things that we would have otherwise thought impossible. We dream bigger because of the lofty goals of our peers and we are more confident we will achieve anything and everything, because of the successes of those peers. However, at times like these when I find myself in the midst of an ambitious research project of gender parity in education in the cornfields of a remote, rural, and strikingly underdeveloped town in Kenya, I must remind myself that my life and these goals are not “normal”- they are incredible. And this is thanks to Duke, and its bubble of excellence.

When all you can do is laugh

I have recently realized this feeling that I have been experiencing for the past few days. I hadn’t been able to identify exactly what this feeling was or what the source of it was, but as I was walking through town today, feeling it more strongly than ever, I realized exactly what it is. I have realized that the longer I am here, the closer I am to the starting line. Consequently, the closer I get to the starting line, the further away I am from the finish line. When I came, I knew I would experience poverty and need in a way that I never had before, however, I thought of the need as an entire entity. That need and poverty are simply need and poverty and the work I’m doing will hopefully eventually address that need and poverty. But that’s not really the case. As my time here progresses, I realize that poverty is all of the hungry children I meet on the street everyday in tattered school uniforms; it is the girls in the prison asking me to bring them paper, books, pencils, soap and sewing machines for when they are released; it is the notes in broken English given to us by children begging us for help to fulfill their dreams; it is the woman on the street walking in clothes made entirely of bags whom I pass by every day on my way to work; it is the women at Project Africa who have been beaten by their cheating husbands and who ask us to buy them more sewing machines to become financially independent; it is the babies who run around in soiled clothing because their mothers can’t afford diapers; it is women who sit in the market all day begging me to come in and buy their fruit at a price lower than imaginable. It is all of these individual cases of need that create poverty. So my overwhelming feeling that is helplessness stems from the realization of my inability to address all of these needs in this immediate moment, or even by the time I leave to my privileged life at home. I imagine that any trip to such a developing place like this would cause some sort of feelings of helplessness and guilt for your inability to help everyone right now, but I didn’t really see it coming.

This is not to say that I am not optimistic about the work I’m doing here, and the progress this community can and will make in the coming years, but it’s a feeling that never really goes away. And every day I meet someone else, with a new need. The most frustrating part is that I know I could give away all of my money and resources to those who ask me for them, and would accomplish very little to address all of these needs.

Despite this slightly discomforting realization, this week so far has been exciting in many ways. Sunday was a usual casual day in which my family didn’t do much other than sleep, cook, and watch wrestling (or telenovellas… El Nobre Del Amor is actually mesmerizingly interesting, no jokes). I did get to explore the giant cornfields behind my house with my friend who’s actually my neighbor. On Monday, we got two new volunteers from America. So now there are 5 volunteers, 2 staff members, about 25 women in the program and myself. Most of the day I worked on revising my thesis work, but in the afternoon we all visited the Remand Home. The girls seemed a bit tired again, but at the end of the class we had a wonderful time. The girls love when we sing to them, so we did per usual. After a few attempted songs, the girls started singing a song in Swahili where they all clap and sing a name. Before long we were all dancing, clapping and singing in a circle. All of the girls were laughing and I was having a great time. I think we were all so caught up in the moment that none of us realized how much noise we were making until we stopped and heard the silence. It was a wonderful moment of a good connection.

On Tuesday we visited a prison to see what the adult education programs are like in prison. We spoke with some young women who were in a social studies class. At first they were reserved, but eventually they delved into many questions. Most of them asked about the university system in America. Unfortunately, others asked us to buy them sewing machines when they got out of prison or pens and paper for them. It was difficult to not be able to promise anything or to magically produce a sewing machine on the spot either.

Today, I met again with the head of the Department of Adult Education and I finally set up my first interview! I am thrilled to have made a first concrete step towards collecting research. It has been difficult to create a schedule with Susy, since she has been busy with all of the new volunteers. I have also reserved next Wednesday to conduct the young mothers discussion group to ask questions regarding my research. It’s a bit of a relief to finalize some plans and feel like finally some of my work may be coming to some sort of fruition.

In our young mothers discussion group we focused on relationships. As usual, the conversation diverged quickly to what the women wanted to discuss, which in this case was homosexuality. Most were very reserved about the topic and some timidly asked a few questions. I have really noticed here the importance of humor and especially laughter. It seems whenever a situation is uncomfortable or when someone is trying to make a connection, they use laughter. For example, none of the women could ask a question in all seriousness about homosexuality without interrupting every sentence with an outburst of laughter. And once one woman laughs, the whole room explodes with uncomfortable laughter. Clearly, the women were not very comfortable with the topic, but they managed to get out a few questions so long as they were concealed by laughter and the question itself was barely audible. Their views about homosexuality were of course that it is wrong because of the Bible and Christianity. All who spoke up agreed that it should be illegal. Their explanations as to why ranged from the idea that every part of human anatomy has its specified function to because that is what is in the Bible and that’s just what God says. As much as they were against the idea of homosexuality, they seemed awfully curious.

I have also noticed that laughter is used in forming relationships. When you are meeting someone for a specific reason, you usually try to joke with the person for a few minutes before talking about anything serious. I am having trouble having one of my host sisters warm up to me, but the only time I feel a sort of connection is when I make a joke and we are both laughing. My other host sister jokes that the only exercise she needs is walking and laughing, and she only does a lot of the latter.

In the midst of all the poverty, abuse, and uncomfortable situations, perhaps the only thing to do is laugh. Whether it’s a coping mechanism or a medicine, maybe I should take a cue from the Kenyans and just laugh it off.