The Transition Artist

The afternoon is probably my favorite time of day. I finish my time at the school by hanging out with the kids and teaching them songs, games, or just talking and telling stories. It’s quite literally the most rewarding and redeeming part of my work there. I relish and soak in every minute of that time. Then afterwards, one of my sisters comes to the school to walk me home (just to be safe), and I spend the rest of the evening in our tiny kitchen cooking over a little coal stove, laughing, singing, dancing, and learning some Swahili and how to make traditional Kenyan food. I adore the children I spend time with, I adore my sisters, and I love so many things about the culture here.

I’ve started to get so used to so many of the differences between culture here and culture at home that I almost forget that they’re not normal. At first they shocked me, but now I don’t even blink at them. A prime example is how natural it feels for me to offer my hand to someone. Whether it’s in greeting, out of affection, to express a stronger
sentiment, or to say goodbye, I know to extend my hand to anyone and everyone. I even automatically extend my hand to children, which I would probably never do in America because it’s not expected that children care to shake hands, but I know the kids here love it. I also have started saying “fine,” as a greeting because I know that’s normal, and I use words like “smart” to describe a nice dress, “matatus” when I’m referencing the public buses, and say “slowly by slowly” instead of “little by little” because it makes more sense to people who use that language every day, even if it sounds funny to me.

There are so many little things about the culture here that I doubt any visitor would realize at a surface level if they only visited and didn’t live in a home. One thing that struck me as interesting is that, although everyone says English is the national language, it feels very much like a second language. If you don’t speak Kiswahili you get a little left out of the more emphatic, private, or household conversations. Kiswahili also isn’t the only language they use. I live with a house full of Luo’s, one of the many prominent tribes here, and sometimes they mix English, Kiswahili, and dholuo, their tribal language. Although the words are similar, someone from another tribe may not understand them, but my family still tries to teach me both their tribal language and the mother tongue, Kiswahili. It’s challenging to learn, but if I could speak at least one, I’d be involved in a lot more of their conversations. Luckily, I come from a pretty diverse background and I’m used to conversations taking place around me in languages I don’t understand (my best friend’s family speaks pretty much Spanish only at home), so I don’t feel at all offended or left out.

I think the biggest adjustment for me was getting used to the culture of food, though. I’m used to generally eating really healthy meals that have protein, maybe a little carb (usually whole grain), and loads of raw fruits and vegetables, and then there’s this other part of my diet exclusively reserved for desserts. I have a mean sweet tooth.. The meals at home here usually go a little more like: a LOAD of carbs (heaps of white rice, a big mound of oogali (flour and water cooked until it’s like a sticky bread), chipati (a greasier, thicker version of tortillas), or just straight up sliced bread) that you’re expected to finish when served, a little portion of protein (usually fish or beans), and sometimes a cooked vegetable (usually something like bulgur, cowpeas, this leaf that legitimately tastes like just trees, or spinach/kale, all cooked with okra and tomatoes into a sort of mushy green soup). The good news is that I’m not a picky eater, so I eat all of these things with no problem. The bad news is that everyone thinks I’m too skinny or don’t eat enough because Africans eat each meal like it’s their last.

I’ve quite literally seen one person down a whole loaf of bread with their tea as a “snack,” and I just watched them as they ate three slices at a time in shock, wondering how they weren’t stuffed and/or as big as a house. Sitting down at a table with people who eat like this and expect you to do the same feels like some sort of cruel punishment or food eating challenge, and the carbs just put me way past my limit because they just expand and expand.. So here’s a fun myth busted: “you lose weight in Africa because you don’t eat as much and walk everywhere.” Totally untrue. They’ll send you home fatter and more carb consuming than you ever imagined if it’s up to them.

There are a lot of different things I could tell you about the cultural differences here, but the number one thing the culture has taught me is that it’s so wonderful to be different. Sometimes I eat way more carbs than I ever would’ve consumed on my own, and they try to make me fat, but I love it because there’s no judgement about how much I eat or what my body looks like. They just want me to be satisfied, and at the end of the day they’ll all still tell me I look “smart.” I might giggle at some of their sentence structure, but I can be purely myself, laugh and dance around, and joy will still speak the same language.

They still call me “the only white girl in the house” or “Kaaaate in the hooouse” when I marvel at their culture, but there’s no awkwardness around it. I don’t think they’re racist nor am I ever offended at being called “the white girl” or “baby mzungu” because it’s not discrimination, it’s just true! My favorite part of this trip, though, is that, no matter what cultural differences or challenges I face each day, I get to go to sleep in a tiny room, with two of the world’s sweetest, most genuine girls, and know that they love me and I love them just the way we are, differences and all. The kind of happiness that brings is just priceless.