A Day At A Time

Travel is the best way we have of rescuing the humanity of places, and saving them from abstraction and ideology.     Pico Iyer

Saida

When faced with the prospect of having no control whatsoever, I default to organizing.  Something.  Anything.   In light of this truth that I’m (again) begrudgingly admitting, I’ve developed a bit of a routine here in rural Kenya.  I begin my morning by savoring my first of many cups of chai: it’s deliciousness enables me to forgive the sudden abandonment by my old friend coffee; oh, how I miss it.  I try to absorb as much nourishment as I can, both of the body and the spirit, knowing that I’ll need every last bit of it to do right by the kids.

Atoti, rarely without her pet bucket

I cut through the hospital and head over to the kids’ place, where I am greeted by shouts and squeezes and smiles.  They’ve been up and at it for hours; they are machines.  We spend some of our morning in the classroom, which is a bit like herding puppies: puppies that literally swing from the rafters and climb the wire walls.  Their love of learning makes the choice of content a moot point: they want to know everything.  When they write in their workbooks, the eldest help the youngest, and they all fight for the rusty razor blade to sharpen what remains of their pencil stubs.  If we make it an hour before I’m peeling them off the architecture and shooing them outside, it’s a miracle.  We’ve taught each other all the outside games we know, though they’re just as happy to tumble all over each other, and me. 

Sometimes we break for the local sorghum porridge ugi, but always we break for lunch, during which time I usually sit and stare vacantly, half in wonder, half overwhelmed.  I am outnumbered, outdone, knackered.  But already I love them.  They are teaching me, stretching me so much.  They make me laugh, and make me take deep breaths, and give me hours and hours of things to think about each day.  They are full of themselves, full of one another, full of life.  And I get to know them. 

Moses, x2

Our afternoons are even less structured, simply because I’m not too proud to admit my capacity.  Occasionally we return to the classroom where we have lots of thoughtful conversation, always directed by them:  “Are there lots of Satan worshippers in America?  Do white people have babies?  Do you have babies?  When will you come back to us?  Does Princess Sophia live near you?  Can you drink the ocean?  Do any kids look like us in America?  Why are your legs so big? [sigh]  Are your sister’s legs as big as yours?  [SIGH]  Will you please please please bring your family the next time you visit?  What’s the mother tongue of your tribe?  Take my picture!”  

Big Legs Sure Are Cozy!

The bulk of our time though, is usually spent outside, in a heap.  Personal space is something we’re working on, as I usually have no less than half a dozen pairs of hands on me at all times.  They are counting my freckles, and stroking the underside of my arms “You’re so soft”, and chewing on my bracelets, and braiding my hair.  If they’re not coloring my toenails with pencil, they’re erasing them.  There’s always at least one pair of knobby elbows leaning on each of my legs, while others rest their heads on my shoulders.  It is endearing and exhausting.  They insistently share with me the treats that occasionally arrive in the form of a fresh stalk of sugarcane, which is, incidentally, pretty fun to gnaw through.  I chastise them for terrorizing the giant lizards and for giving chase with shards of broken glass, to absolutely no avail. 

When evening finally arrives, they don’t appear any less energized than they were 10 hours before, but I am mangled.  I eventually return to my quarters, where I will spend the
 remainder of the evening, a mosquito murderess, alone.  It is usually very quiet, and always very lonely.  For all the smack-talking I do about our overuse of technology, I sure do miss being in touch with everyone I love.  I wish more than ever for a closet in which to debrief with my best friend Kat, the way we used to when we worked in the Robert Taylor housing projects in Chicago.  But I know that this is what I signed up for, and I also believe that my relationship with the kids is worth the temporary but complete disconnect from everyone I love.  Which I will remind myself tomorrow when one of them lunges into my hair immediately after trash diving for snails.