I showered in the rain two days ago. Felt like I was in an Irish Spring Soap commercial. It rains like tornado’s come in the midwest. With warning. Thunders once, and dumps like mad. Puddles of trash make mini tributaries running down from the road to the businesses and houses below. Truckers driving petroleum tanks, which is more like driving bombs for a living if you think about, park on the side of the road taking shelter in their cabs ’til it passes.
Transition.
Kids wave as they run toward you ringing down a chorus of “how r you, how r you, how r you” in thick kenyan african notes before retreating to their mothers long legs. I am Mzungu. I am white person. Chad and I were in Nairobi looking for water and stumbled across a shop with patches for travel packs and overpriced shirts for the African tourist. I got a couple patches to sow onto my pack hoping to show off my world travels as I pass slowpokes on RMNP trail back home. Chad was checking out the shirts when he stumbled upon one simply stating, “Mzungu.” With boy like curiosity, Chad walked up to the shopkeeper and asked what it meant. He said, “White Person.” Almost as soon as Chad heard the answer he blurted out, “I’ll take it.” I did my best to barter with the man about the patches saving a few shillings in the process for a moral victory.
Transition.
I’m twenty-five and had never sowed before Ireland. Tyler Boyd would be so proud of me. I think my dad tried to show me once or twice to no avail. Trying to sow at night with a head lamp on in Kenya is not a strong suit of mine. See the electricity is more of a theory than it is a fact. Most of the time our teams here end up spending the last couple hours of the night like fireflies flickering on and off in a room or books and glowing computers. I managed to draw blood twice while trying my best to do a Martha Stewart impression. I ended up snapping the needle in two, had to start over twice, ending with Kenya’s flag strung crookedly next to a Galway tartan.
Transition.
I found a clump of animal hair in my beef today. I didn’t think much of it after eating chicken head the second night I arrived in Busia. Actually, I didn’t really eat the head. I ate the mohawk, tongue, liver, gizzard, and some cheek. I was just trying to make quick friends with my contact and our cook. I thought they were impressed before they let me know that they don’t even eat the head but leave it for the cats and dogs. I felt like Stevo from JackAss. It reminded me of freshman year in the dorms when we would mix all of the leftover food from our trays and pay Pat Shanks meager amounts of money to gag down our shake concoctions.
Guy
