It's about time...
I'm in an internet cafe about two miles from where I've been living for five and a half weeks now, deciding whether or not to go buy really expensive Indian food or eat the food I eat for dinner every single night for lunch again today. They gave us off from clases today because it's Friday and we have term papers and are moving to rural internships in two weeks, where there will be no computers or library or phones or anything.
My life here is long days. It's waking up at 6 AM to Esther, who is four years old and I now am in love with but once thought was terribly bratty, and it's sitting at the table for milky tea with her and six year old Sammy, saying "Eat" over and over because they just don't like food, it seems. It's six hours of classes with American students that I think just don't get it most of the time, except for the three friends I've made, one of which is the thirty-four year-old Kenyan man I am dating, whose lived in Minnesota for fifteen years. It's two hours in of those six where the advanced Kiswahili class goes to town and interviews vendors or guardmen or police officers. It's strept throat and antibiotics that make you puke for six hour car rides to the border and back. It's handwritten homework. It's teaching a dyslexic six year old the alphabet from scratch. It's Girl Scout meeting with 90 girls all singing and teaching you to jump rope as fast as they do. It's the orphanage, with the new babies every week that they find on the sides of the road. It's the crowded matatu rides squished between big men. It's the man who stalks you that your host mother finally reports to the police, who he probably paid off anyway. It's the thirty-four year-old man you're falling in love with but fight with in the most crowded market in Nairobi. It's the children drinking muddy water off the streets. It's the stores like Nakumatt,like Target, with flourescent lights that alwyas kind of shock you now. It's phone calls home once a week or so that cost five dollars a pop. It's sugarcane. It's buying lollipops when Sammy can finally figure out the difference between a fucking E and an I. It's the shouts and the snaps and the way they all stare. It's the way children are children are children. It's desperately waiting for emails from home that only come every so often, because life goes on without you. It's Valentine's Day in 115 degrees in Paradise/Zanzibar. It's the best stories I've ever written. It's the most passionate poetry I'll ever get. It's the longest days, even though I'm in bed before eleven. It's hard to live here. But it's starting to just feel like life now.
I hope you are all good and that this wasn't a stupid way of updating you and actually shed some light on where I am. I don't check this often, but it's nice to sort of feel connected sometimes when I do.
My life here is long days. It's waking up at 6 AM to Esther, who is four years old and I now am in love with but once thought was terribly bratty, and it's sitting at the table for milky tea with her and six year old Sammy, saying "Eat" over and over because they just don't like food, it seems. It's six hours of classes with American students that I think just don't get it most of the time, except for the three friends I've made, one of which is the thirty-four year-old Kenyan man I am dating, whose lived in Minnesota for fifteen years. It's two hours in of those six where the advanced Kiswahili class goes to town and interviews vendors or guardmen or police officers. It's strept throat and antibiotics that make you puke for six hour car rides to the border and back. It's handwritten homework. It's teaching a dyslexic six year old the alphabet from scratch. It's Girl Scout meeting with 90 girls all singing and teaching you to jump rope as fast as they do. It's the orphanage, with the new babies every week that they find on the sides of the road. It's the crowded matatu rides squished between big men. It's the man who stalks you that your host mother finally reports to the police, who he probably paid off anyway. It's the thirty-four year-old man you're falling in love with but fight with in the most crowded market in Nairobi. It's the children drinking muddy water off the streets. It's the stores like Nakumatt,like Target, with flourescent lights that alwyas kind of shock you now. It's phone calls home once a week or so that cost five dollars a pop. It's sugarcane. It's buying lollipops when Sammy can finally figure out the difference between a fucking E and an I. It's the shouts and the snaps and the way they all stare. It's the way children are children are children. It's desperately waiting for emails from home that only come every so often, because life goes on without you. It's Valentine's Day in 115 degrees in Paradise/Zanzibar. It's the best stories I've ever written. It's the most passionate poetry I'll ever get. It's the longest days, even though I'm in bed before eleven. It's hard to live here. But it's starting to just feel like life now.
I hope you are all good and that this wasn't a stupid way of updating you and actually shed some light on where I am. I don't check this often, but it's nice to sort of feel connected sometimes when I do.