72 hours in and I have not had one case of diarrhea. I consider that to be a miracle since I had been preparing my bowels for the worst. I feel like that is God’s way of telling me that I am supposed to be here, though that just may be my Filipina tummy working. It has also been unseasonably cool (low 90s) so my body has had time to adjust to the supposedly unbearable heat that is usually present here. In case you haven’t caught on, I am finally, happily settled in Mombasa, Kenya. 27 hours, 11 timezones, 3 planes, and 9,918 miles later. :)
Judy, Susan, and MY (yayyyyy!) place is on the second floor of a charmingly crumbling colonial house. There is lots of space and natural light. The wind dances dirt across the floor while the humidity tries to nail it down to one area (and has done so quite successfully in my room). Every morning, I am awoken by a symphony comprised of Carl (the rooster), the bleating goat (yet to be named), and the call to prayer from the mosques. The family downstairs also keeps pigeons, large rabbits, and chickens to be made into sustenance when the time comes. Our rainbow of laundry flaps in the breeze like a giant prayer flag.
I am loving Swahili foods: sakuma wiki (spinach/kale with onions and tomatoes), chapati, tamarind juice, ugali, and many other things that I cannot remember the names of, but I promise I will learn eventually…or I will at least learn how to make them. I had a beautiful fried tilapia in a reddish brown sauce that was just divine. It was rich with a little heat and so comforting. I appreciate how people often eat with their hands here; there is no disconnect them from their food. This includes the foreigners as I was eating with the Kiltegan priests. After slipping and sliding my fish around the plate with my fork and knife, I finally just hunkered down and ate with my hands. I am fairly certain the fish tasted better because of that and I enjoyed sucking the meat off the bone.
I had been warned several times before coming here that Kenya is very different than the places I have visited, but so far, the only difference I am finding is that I stick out here far more than I have in the past (having only traveled to places in Asian and South America) and I have literally no idea what anyone is saying to me beyond jambo (hello), habari gani (what’s the news?/ how are you?), karibu (welcome), and asante sana (thank you very much). I use asante sana all of the time in response to everything, whether or not it is appropriate. Many of the sights are the same as places you have probably visited. Small shops, little fruit and vegetable stalls along the road, street vendors, beat up roads, crazy drivers (the matatu drivers in particular are a little cray cray), faces staring at you curiously knowing you are foreign and somewhat lost. There are bars on most of the windows, glass embedded in the tops of the walls around the house, and the electricity gets to decide when it works. If you’ve been to a developing nation (the politically correct term now is the global south, by the way), you can hack it in Kenya. Some come on over and visit, y’all. Carl and I will be waiting. :)
Judy, Susan, and MY (yayyyyy!) place is on the second floor of a charmingly crumbling colonial house. There is lots of space and natural light. The wind dances dirt across the floor while the humidity tries to nail it down to one area (and has done so quite successfully in my room). Every morning, I am awoken by a symphony comprised of Carl (the rooster), the bleating goat (yet to be named), and the call to prayer from the mosques. The family downstairs also keeps pigeons, large rabbits, and chickens to be made into sustenance when the time comes. Our rainbow of laundry flaps in the breeze like a giant prayer flag.
I am loving Swahili foods: sakuma wiki (spinach/kale with onions and tomatoes), chapati, tamarind juice, ugali, and many other things that I cannot remember the names of, but I promise I will learn eventually…or I will at least learn how to make them. I had a beautiful fried tilapia in a reddish brown sauce that was just divine. It was rich with a little heat and so comforting. I appreciate how people often eat with their hands here; there is no disconnect them from their food. This includes the foreigners as I was eating with the Kiltegan priests. After slipping and sliding my fish around the plate with my fork and knife, I finally just hunkered down and ate with my hands. I am fairly certain the fish tasted better because of that and I enjoyed sucking the meat off the bone.
I had been warned several times before coming here that Kenya is very different than the places I have visited, but so far, the only difference I am finding is that I stick out here far more than I have in the past (having only traveled to places in Asian and South America) and I have literally no idea what anyone is saying to me beyond jambo (hello), habari gani (what’s the news?/ how are you?), karibu (welcome), and asante sana (thank you very much). I use asante sana all of the time in response to everything, whether or not it is appropriate. Many of the sights are the same as places you have probably visited. Small shops, little fruit and vegetable stalls along the road, street vendors, beat up roads, crazy drivers (the matatu drivers in particular are a little cray cray), faces staring at you curiously knowing you are foreign and somewhat lost. There are bars on most of the windows, glass embedded in the tops of the walls around the house, and the electricity gets to decide when it works. If you’ve been to a developing nation (the politically correct term now is the global south, by the way), you can hack it in Kenya. Some come on over and visit, y’all. Carl and I will be waiting. :)