Moving Days
Night before last, I start packing my possessions in a large suitcase and duffel bag. It doesn't all seem to fit so I stuff things into the box of coloring books Jennifer Miller shipped over. Shoes fill one large plastic shopping bag from Nakumatt.
On the way to TICH yesterday morning, I stop by the Ruprah's and pass the bag of shoes to Samuel, the guard. I leave TICH at 4pm, arrive home and gather the packed goods, then walk to the main road looking for two strong boda boda drivers. I explain I'm shifting house and ask if they'll help. One guy says, “20 bob,” and I say, “No, you'll get more than that for moving heavy stuff.” They come home and I bring out the suitcase and dufflebag and the box of books and a bag containing the water filter. They work to balance it all on their bikes, securing it with rubber straps.
We walk to the Ruprahs, me carrying a box with a bag over my shoulder. All the way over, the bigger guy tells me his story. He struggles with English but does well to tell me he was orphaned young, has two children, has a hard life, he's trying, trying to get by but it's tough. I listen and nod and agree. For 15 minutes, he struggles with his English to tell me how difficult his life it. We drop off the goods, I pay the guys 100 shillings each.
I return home to get the ironing board and a tray containing papers (passport, immunization records and money) in an envelop hidden under the tray liner. One more trip this evening, just one more trip, and tomorrow morning, on the way to TICH, I can drop off the last bits. I'll be moved! Walking along the road with the ironing board level in front of me, balancing on the tray with important papers, I'm cautious to stay out of traffic. A very nice young man walks beside me and asks if he can help carry the load. “Thanks very much,” I say, “but it's not heavy, just cumbersome.” He understands.
A boda boda comes from behind ringing his bike bell and I squeeze out of the way. But he manages to bump into me anyway, coming from the right, and the ironing board and tray fly out of my grasp, landing in the ditch. The boda boda driver doesn't say “pole” (sorry), but keeps going. The woman on the back of his bike just looks at my stuff blowing through the ditch. The other young man, who had offered to help, runs over and begins to help gather up the papers and passport and money. We collect it all, every last bit, and I'm grateful to the young man for his help.
Somehow, squatting in the ditch, picking up my belongings now covered in sandy dirt, I don't mind that the boda boda scattered my possessions. It's 5:30 and afterwork traffic is busy, so many people walking and cycling past, looking down at me in the ditch picking up dirty paperwork and a sandy ironing board. But I don't mind that the guy didn't say “pole.” Because the bigger picture, bigger than this ditch and scattered papers, is that I'm moving into my own space!!
I drop the board off at the Ruprah's and sit with them on their verandah until it darkens. Then I head home. One more night. Just one more night.
6am. I'm up, taking down the mosquito net, stripping the bed and slipping it all into a bag. I load up my make-up, nightclothes, grab the sleeping bag pad and tie it all onto my bike. I reach my new home by 6:45am and begin putting clothes on hangars, books on desks, toiletries on sinks, scarves on shelves and tables and chairs, adding a bit of color and softness.
By 7:45am, everything is out and up and I'm home! I'm driven to add beauty to this space. Visions of color schemes and fabrics for curtains dance through my head. I visualize a refrigerator, which means chilled wine and eggs and mayonnaise (which means sandwiches!) and cheese and cold beer. A burgundy velvet couch and chair dominate the sitting room, along with a long table painted white and chipping. In the US, the table would be called shabby chic and would fetch a lot of money. I'm seeing a room-sized rug pulling the furnishings together. I'm seeing me lounging in a cool wrap on the soft couch, Mozart playing (or Bach or Chopin or Wagner or Handel or Vivaldi) in the background, a glass of chilled white wine on the side table and a book about East African trees and shrubs, printed in full-color, on my lap (or a collection of short stories or plays or poems. Any literature to ease my soul's inner ear). This is a different Kenya than I entered eight weeks ago, with orphans as house servants and a 10-year-old boy securing the gate.
Here at the carriage house, grown men work shifts to secure the gate 24-hours a day. The Ruprahs own a gold Mercedes and a Nissan. They say they'll take me to town or to the market with them. No walking. No bike riding. I like to walk and bike, but enjoy the mental image of passing through the streets of Kisumu in a car where people can't stop me to share their dreams (or their nightmares) and can't yell out “hey, white lady.”
It's another Kenya. An entirely different Kenya.
On the way to TICH yesterday morning, I stop by the Ruprah's and pass the bag of shoes to Samuel, the guard. I leave TICH at 4pm, arrive home and gather the packed goods, then walk to the main road looking for two strong boda boda drivers. I explain I'm shifting house and ask if they'll help. One guy says, “20 bob,” and I say, “No, you'll get more than that for moving heavy stuff.” They come home and I bring out the suitcase and dufflebag and the box of books and a bag containing the water filter. They work to balance it all on their bikes, securing it with rubber straps.
We walk to the Ruprahs, me carrying a box with a bag over my shoulder. All the way over, the bigger guy tells me his story. He struggles with English but does well to tell me he was orphaned young, has two children, has a hard life, he's trying, trying to get by but it's tough. I listen and nod and agree. For 15 minutes, he struggles with his English to tell me how difficult his life it. We drop off the goods, I pay the guys 100 shillings each.
I return home to get the ironing board and a tray containing papers (passport, immunization records and money) in an envelop hidden under the tray liner. One more trip this evening, just one more trip, and tomorrow morning, on the way to TICH, I can drop off the last bits. I'll be moved! Walking along the road with the ironing board level in front of me, balancing on the tray with important papers, I'm cautious to stay out of traffic. A very nice young man walks beside me and asks if he can help carry the load. “Thanks very much,” I say, “but it's not heavy, just cumbersome.” He understands.
A boda boda comes from behind ringing his bike bell and I squeeze out of the way. But he manages to bump into me anyway, coming from the right, and the ironing board and tray fly out of my grasp, landing in the ditch. The boda boda driver doesn't say “pole” (sorry), but keeps going. The woman on the back of his bike just looks at my stuff blowing through the ditch. The other young man, who had offered to help, runs over and begins to help gather up the papers and passport and money. We collect it all, every last bit, and I'm grateful to the young man for his help.
Somehow, squatting in the ditch, picking up my belongings now covered in sandy dirt, I don't mind that the boda boda scattered my possessions. It's 5:30 and afterwork traffic is busy, so many people walking and cycling past, looking down at me in the ditch picking up dirty paperwork and a sandy ironing board. But I don't mind that the guy didn't say “pole.” Because the bigger picture, bigger than this ditch and scattered papers, is that I'm moving into my own space!!
I drop the board off at the Ruprah's and sit with them on their verandah until it darkens. Then I head home. One more night. Just one more night.
6am. I'm up, taking down the mosquito net, stripping the bed and slipping it all into a bag. I load up my make-up, nightclothes, grab the sleeping bag pad and tie it all onto my bike. I reach my new home by 6:45am and begin putting clothes on hangars, books on desks, toiletries on sinks, scarves on shelves and tables and chairs, adding a bit of color and softness.
By 7:45am, everything is out and up and I'm home! I'm driven to add beauty to this space. Visions of color schemes and fabrics for curtains dance through my head. I visualize a refrigerator, which means chilled wine and eggs and mayonnaise (which means sandwiches!) and cheese and cold beer. A burgundy velvet couch and chair dominate the sitting room, along with a long table painted white and chipping. In the US, the table would be called shabby chic and would fetch a lot of money. I'm seeing a room-sized rug pulling the furnishings together. I'm seeing me lounging in a cool wrap on the soft couch, Mozart playing (or Bach or Chopin or Wagner or Handel or Vivaldi) in the background, a glass of chilled white wine on the side table and a book about East African trees and shrubs, printed in full-color, on my lap (or a collection of short stories or plays or poems. Any literature to ease my soul's inner ear). This is a different Kenya than I entered eight weeks ago, with orphans as house servants and a 10-year-old boy securing the gate.
Here at the carriage house, grown men work shifts to secure the gate 24-hours a day. The Ruprahs own a gold Mercedes and a Nissan. They say they'll take me to town or to the market with them. No walking. No bike riding. I like to walk and bike, but enjoy the mental image of passing through the streets of Kisumu in a car where people can't stop me to share their dreams (or their nightmares) and can't yell out “hey, white lady.”
It's another Kenya. An entirely different Kenya.
posted by Cindi at 4:45 PM
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