10/10/10

It feels like every moment brings a new adventure here—I wonder what will feel momentous after I’ve adjusted to East Africa!  My flights were mostly uneventful, thought I certainly felt the toll of consecutive flights by the end of my 1.5, 9, and 7.5 hour legs.  (WARNING: I tried to upload the pictures I refer to in this blog but my connection is too slow.  I'll edit this post and add them as soon as I am able.)

After switching from a domestic to the international terminal in the Atlanta airport, I wrote myself this note on the back of a receipt, “Something about entering the international terminal—not just the Rosetta Stone booths of the “exotic” destinations (I saw  a flight to Bogata as I searched for my gate)—but the force of diversity.  It feels like a strong gust of anonymity, a recognition that there ARE billions of individuals on this planet, so I’m not only one of millions of Americans, but one of 6 billion residents of our planet.  Just as I embark on this momentous (for me) journey, I feel a remarkable sense of insignificance.  Welcome to the realm of world travel.  While in the terminal, I did my last step of preparation—called my cell phone company and placed my account on hold.  I haven’t been without cell phone service in years…it feels both liberation and lonely.  My mom whispered to me at the Kansas City airport that this may be my last solo journey.  I hope dropping the cell will help my solidify my sense of self.”  My neighbor on the first flight, from Atlanta to Amsterdam, was wearing a Stetson and kept that cowboy hat in his lap all nine hours.  He was headed to Germany to judge a horse show.  Here’s a picture of the first meal Delta/KLM served:

On my flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi I sat next to a German couple who spoke minimal English.  I had purchased a book and a New Yorker magazine in Atlanta, but the handle on bag the bookstore had given me stretched its maximum amount and snapped in my hand just as I settled into my seat.  The German woman immediately rummaged through her purse and produced a canvas bag, which she offered to me.  I was shocked—what generosity!  Here’s a picture of the bag:

I believe it’s promoting a library in Munich.  Later, I asked her if I could borrow a pen, which she didn’t understand.  I tried to squiggle my pinched fingers vigorously, demonstrating what could only be a desperate traveler penning an SOS letter.  I discovered that squiggling hand movement is not universal sign-language for writing utensil.  We worked it out eventually, and I ruled over a couple Sudoku quizzes before falling asleep.  I actually awoke with my left foot just 10 or so inches from my face—I’d kicked up my leg so that my calf rested on my tray table and fell asleep in that awkward position.  I awoke to the most beautiful site out the window: mountain peaks piercing through the clouds.  It’s not the smartest photography move to take a picture out an airplane window, but I tried:

Landing in Nairobi left my heart in my throat.  I wandered along with the crowd down hallway that was much narrower than any American or large European airport. It was lined with shops also much more crammed than spacious American airport stores.  The air was much warmer and thicker than the over-air-conditioned setting in the states.  After showing my passport to a guard and scanning all of my fingers into a small box with a glowing (and slightly ominous) green light, I headed down to baggage claim.  A woman stopped me on the way and asked me my name.  I wasn’t sure what to do or say, so I introduced myself—and it turned out she was also a participant in the American Jewish World Service volunteer corps.  It was pretty fortunate we found each other before leaving baggage claim—just outside were nearly 100 men, all pushed up around a short barrier with signs with the names of their patrons or the hotels for which they worked—but none of them held my name.  If I hadn’t met Ruth, I would have had a difficult time making it to our hotel.  Ruth and I went through the final customs stop together, and the man working the station, smiling a wide grin of braced-teeth, asked us if we knew Barack Obama, and then if we met him. We both mentioned our long-range connections to our president, and he beamed back at us.  Our taxi driver wasted no time asking us the same questions about Obama, and then regaling us with stories about his relationship to Kenya and their current president.  Apparently, the president was the minister of Finance when Obama’s father worked there, and helped get his father a good job.  The driver was certain Obama now holds the Kenyan president in high esteem because of his good treatment of “Obama senior.”    

Our hotel is apparently in a posh neighborhood.  It has a pool and is teeming with guards in green uniforms.  They serve three meals a day and offer glass bottles of coca-cola without corn syrup, a much sweeter variety.  It’s the first hotel I’ve stayed in where my room was outfitted with twin beds, and offered complimentary mosquito nets:

Making my bed included encircling myself with the net:

I slept 12 hours and woke up a little dizzy, but relatively rested.  I took a quick swim at the hotel pool, which filled up over the hour with community residents.  Many of them were men with children, who they were teaching to swim.  Most children seemed to enjoy their lessons, but one young girl howled every time her father let her go.  We had our first orientation session this afternoon.  There are eight of us from the states: two couples traveling together, both spending the better part of this year traveling the world, volunteering and sight-seeing together; the rest of us are single (without travel partners, if not without partners at home) women.   We discovered that in the couples, the women were the instigators of their trips.  An interesting statement, perhaps, about who is drawn to travel…?  All the participants seem wonderful, and we each are so awed by our surroundings.  Can you believe it?  We’re in Kenya! We keep pronouncing to one another.  We walked down the road to a nearby restaurant for dinner.  We passed a group sitting on the side of the road with grills comparable, for me, only to the travel grills people bring when tailgating at Royals and Chiefs games.  They were cooking corn, crouching beside the grill on the ground.  Our meal was served under a tent with Michael Bolten crooning in the background, “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?” and covering Otis Reddings’ “Sitting on the dock of the bay.” 

Our group has dispersed for the evening.  I’m sitting on a car in a lounge area at the hotel, with a British group of tourists chatting away behind me. They’re discussing songs they can sing at, I’m presuming, a Methodist Church, since our hotel is Methodist affiliated.  They’re suggesting they do “Joyful, Joyful…” I sort of feel like they’re speaking to me.   I’m tempted to mimic their accents under my breath…

Looking forward to a good night’s sleep and remembering to take pictures tomorrow.  I hope I remember to use bottled water to brush my teeth!  My computer hasn’t switched time, so I know that it’s 1:30pm in Kansas, though it’s 9:30pm here.  Hope my American friends and family are enjoying their auspicious Sundays (it’s 10/10/10!)  Much love….