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.
