What's Normal...

My normal in the States looked so different but this is what my new normal looks like…

            Seeing donkeys carrying a ridiculous amount of cargo.    

            Walking through a heard of cow.

            Eating chips (fries) with a fork but most other foods with my hands.  (I can’t even begin to explain it)

            Telling people my name is Sela because that is how they pronounce it anyway.   (I’m one step ahead in this game.)

            Goats jumping my gate to eat my compost and chickens racing towards me for the scraps. 

            Seeing toddlers roam on their own / Young children caring for and carrying even smaller children strapped to their back with a piece of cloth.  (Seriously, those baby carrier things that are outrageously expensive…Unnecessary.)

            Kids climbing under my compound gate to listen to music, dance, and play.

            Feeling like I’m in a parade everyday.

            Hearing this constantly…Give me…sweets, your shoes, clothes off your back, your bag, whatever you are holding in your hand pretty much.  Marry me.  Take me to America.    

            Being flogged by students wanting to touch my hair and skin.

            Living without a fridge (and not really even realizing the lack of one anymore.)

            Having 4 shillings in my bank account.

            Having money in my bank account but the ATM not working so I have to live on $ 1 . 50 for the rest of the week.

            Getting excited about the littlest things.  Seriously it doesn’t take much here.

            Having a meal at a neighbor’s house and eating 10 minutes past the time you were full only to have them tell you that you didn’t eat. 

            Seeing other mzungus (foreigners) and staring at them wondering what in the bejeezus are they doing here.

            Seeing an entire family and pets/dinner on a motorcycle.   No kidding I’ve seen a kid sitting in front holding the hand grips.  The father driving.  A child in between the father and mother holding a chicken and the mother holding a baby in back.   (In case you weren’t counting that’s 5 plus a chicken.)

            When out at an actual restaurant…seeing people leave half their drink or dessert and wanting to go grab the left overs, but the waiter swoops in before you swiped it.

            Awkward and outside the comfort zone = typical day.

            Tucking myself in my mosquito net only to realize I forgot something.

            Not being able to live without buckets and basins in my life.  (What did I ever do without them??? Oh that’s called a washing machine, sink, and shower!)

            Collecting soda caps, blueband (butter) containers, anything really because even though it is trash you can do something with it.  Need a bowl have a blueband container, need a jewelry holder have a blueband container, need a wine glass blueband. Making cinnamon sugar for your toast- blueband it.   (I’m worried I’m turning into a hoarder.)

            If a shirt/skirt has only been worn a couple times and isn’t completely orange from the dust then it’s still clean. 

            Turning around when I hear Nahula. (My village name.)

            Leaving spiders alone in my house to eat the bugs. (One Friday night was spent watching a battle between a spider and grasshopper.  The spider killed it. Literally.  Oh how my weekend activities have changed.)

            Riding in a 5-person vehicle with 12 people. Or in the trunk with a bag of dead fish.  (Done this more than I can count.) Or a 14 with 30.  If your lap is open there is still space.  I have stood in a moving vehicle leaning over other passengers.  I have sat on others and have had people sit on me.  It is a death trap every time.  (What is a seat belt?) 

            Carrying around toilet paper everywhere you go.   (If you are smart.)

            Always having a book in my backpack because it is inevitable that you will be waiting hours before your meeting will start.  Or your vehicle will break down and you have no idea how many godforsaken hours you will be on the side of the road waiting. 

            Having leftovers from the previous night for breakfast.  I would never do this in the states.  I mean I would rarely if ever eat leftovers that same day with refrigeration.  I will be a human garbage disposal when I get back to America and leftovers will always get eaten from here on out. 

           

I’m a little scared what this will all mean in a year and a half when I return to such a different world.  My Grandpa K. grew up during the great depression and I remember him disliking that we would throw away plastic cups and he would dig them out to wash them.  (But isn’t that the plastic cups purpose and the point in buying them?)  Will this now be me going through the trash and seeing so many possibilities other than garbage?  Am I destined to glares and stares because I grab plates of half eaten food from unoccupied tables?   How many places will I get kicked out of because I pop a squat because the line for the bathroom is too long? 

This is my life and this is normal.

Oh and I also do this…

NORMAL.

The Shamba Workout

A guy from my youth group asked if he could take me around and show me more of Namboboto.  Yes, absolutely.  What a generous offer.  So on Friday at 4 we met and as we were walking away from town I asked where we were going.  He said something and it didn’t answer my question and clearly we were having communication issues.  I decided to go along with it. 

This experience is so much doing things you would never do in the States.  So I continued to follow.  We first stopped at his house.  He showed me his cattle, pigs, chickens, his maize he had stored for his family to eat until next harvest and the maize he would sell during the off season.   Not everyone plans.  Food gets scarce and prices go up.  This is smart. 

From there we continued walking further in the bush.  Of course now he had a curved blade he was carrying.  Nope, nothing scary or wrong with this picture.  We met his boys along the way taking the animals to graze.  And then we made it to his shamba where he showed me how they water during the dry season.  He has dug trenches from the water source so a stream flows to his crops and he opens and closes mini dams as he wants water.  He walked around uncovering hoses and a machine he has buried because it is too much work to haul it back and forth every 3 days.  So this machine it’s like a stair stepper and it pumps water through a hose with a sprinkler like attachment.  After 5 minutes my legs were feeling the burn.   Who needs a gym, right.   Screw P90X.  

Not many people have machines like these; it’s an invaluable item to have especially during the dry season with no rain for months on end.  We did this for a couple hours and by the end my skirt was soaked from the sprayback.  But I was ok with that.  I felt like a kid playing in a sprinkler.  I wanted to ask if I could bring my shampoo next time.  It’s basically a shower.  And 8 year old Sarah wanted to run home and suit up in beach attire to run, splash, and play (of course, this would be completely inappropriate not only because I am 28).  Who knew watering the crops could be so fun and such a workout at the same time. 

Peace Corps is insane with its highs and lows.  At one point I was taking a break and standing on a hill with a boy behind me with grazing cattle, his father in front of me stair stepping it up to water the crops, and a mama to the side of me throwing water and the sun going down behind her.  

The scenery is breath taking really. I was so high on my life at that point.  Sometimes my life is too amazing I don't know what to do with myself.  It was a ridiculously awesome day and I’ll be going back every Friday from 4 til sunset to work in the shamba or what I will now call my gym. 

As the sun was going down he had his son take me back home with the cattle while he would stay to finish the job.  Again no reason why I shouldn’t trek back through the bush with a ten year old and animals with horns that can spear me.  

The boy walked me back to their home and I am yet to figure out how they find their way anywhere.  I can’t tell one dirt path from the next.  How do you know which tree to turn at or whose back yard you have to traipse through.  So now all I had to do was get myself back home, only a 6 minute walk though this is dependant on the number of people who stop me along the way and how many kids want to play with my hair.  I had taken 5 steps and I was asked where I was going… Namboboto Dispensary.  Dude said he was going that way.  Great you can show me.  He said he knew a short cut.  Which ended up taking forever on tiny paths getting scratched by the brush along the way.  I kept confirming… this leads to Namboboto Dispensery, yes? Ehhhhh.  That means yes in Samia, the local language.  The sun is seriously going down at this point.  I’m getting nervous and planning my escape plan if necessary.  Not that he has given me a reason to need a plan.  You can never be too careful.  And from an Americans perspective this doesn’t seem smart following a stranger further in the bush, I know.  The stranger danger alert is going off in my head.  But it is life here and relying on strangers is sometimes a must.  Though I am almost positive this short cut is not taking me to my home. 

I am for realz lost in the middle of nowhere.  I couldn’t even call any friends for help at that point.  All I had to go by to explain my where abouts was dead crops and fields forever.  Following him was my only option.  We finally made it to one of the main dirt paths where one of my softball girls asks where I’m going.  I say in an unsure tone, home.  She informs me I am going the wrong direction.  Ya, I kinda figured, which is why I kept trying to confirm with my “guide” that he was taking me to the right place.  Nah we were headed to the dispensary in the next town over.   And at that point I nearly panicked.  The sun would be down soon and it isn’t good for me to be wandering the villages at night.  Immediately I was knocked from my high like an American Gladiator knocks their opponent from their pedestal with that thing that looks like an over sized Q-tip.  What’s that thing called?  I don’t know.  I always wanted to duke it out on American Gladiators with Storm and Laser and the crew though.  And they just sucker punched me. 

Thankfully, my softball girl offered to escort me home.  I am lost without roads and cars and street signs and landmarks.  Not really though.  I’m just lost without my TomTom. 

True Story.  

Malaria & a Viral Infection. So that happened.

Ah this past Sunday I took the padlock off my door for the first time in 2 weeks to walk into my hotbox of a home that had empty water bottles, medicine wrappers, dust, and cobwebs all over.  Heck yes, I busted out some sweet ninja warrior moves at every run in with a cobweb.   You know the feeling.  When a web hits your face it’s like instant super powers.  Ok. Enough on that.

So lets back up to say Jan 20^th.  The Peace Corps experience is like a rollercoaster.  This week just so happened to be an up week.  Health clubs, softball practice, meetings, everything was going well.  I was reading some friends comments back home about how Kenya has been treating me well.  And I was like you know what it really has.   I haven’t hardly been sick.  MISTAKE. Not 24 hours later: Boom – Have some malaria and that’s not enough how about we throw in a viral infection. 

So I was doing laundry Friday morning and when I was taking my clothes off the line I became incredibly weak my clothes instantly became 90 lbs. and I needed to sit down.  It wasn’t until Friday night that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was malaria.  PC medical told us in training that we would know when/if we had malaria.  True statement. 

We were given a med kit stocked full of meds we might need at some point during our service.  In this kit is a rapid malaria test.  I didn’t drag myself out of bed until Saturday morning to confirm that it was malaria.  I pricked my finger, drew blood, and watched the 2 lines appear indicating what I already knew.  I called PC medical they told me to start the anti- malaria meds and that I would feel better after the first dose.  (It’s 4 pills in the morning.  4 at night for 3 days.)  I didn’t start feeling better until I had taken all 24 pills.  At one point I was on 20 pills a day for different symptoms. 

I had a splitting headache.  I’m almost sure an axe was stuck in my skull.  My back was in excruciating pain like I had never felt before.  I’ve been in a couple car accidents that have messed up my back.  Had nothing on this.  I was drenching my clothes in sweat one minute.  Then the next I was freezing, wrapped in my sleeping bag wearing a sweatshirt, pants, and socks.  None of which I have had to use at my site till now.   (Remember my house is like a sauna…it's free, no club membership necessary.  Come visit.)

My symptoms only got worse and my temperature kept increasing.  When it reached 103 and I wasn’t showing any signs of getting better it was off to the hospital for me.  The first night I spent 5 hours trying to get admitted to the hospital.  I had nearly finished the meds by now when they tested my blood so it was already out of my bloodstream and they told me nothing was wrong with me.  Yes, but I beg to differ.  So I stayed in a hotel room being miserable freezing under 4 blankets with a 103.7 temperature.  (any higher and I was looking at possible seizures, brain damage, etc.) 

PC was going to fly me to Nairobi the next day.  In fact one of the PC med staff was going to fly out to get me but abdominal pain had now joined the unwelcomed guest list and they just wanted to get me in a hospital asap.  So I went back to the hospital that denied me.   After 3 hours of running me back and forth through about 12 steps they admitted me.  I was sitting with one of the drs when she was on the phone talking to another dr. telling him she was admitting me because I was Caucasian.  Really!?  Cause that didn’t work for me last night. 

While I was waiting in the waiting area there were no seats so a nurse came over to tell everyone to scoot over and share seats so I could sit down.  Awesome even hospitals do it matatu style.  (You may remember me writing about how they pack in 30 people in a 14 passenger vehicle.)  Cool lets have all the sick people sit on top of one another coughing all over each other.   This seems good.  They called me back to put in my IV line and by this point I was feeling pretty ill.  The nurse asked me why I was looking like that.  Seriously, do I need to explain?  I nearly puked all over the place.  She gave me a bowl to carry around just in case.  

I was put in a room with 6 other women who would randomly peek behind my curtain to wave at the white girl.  A nurse stopped by to ask if I wanted anything to eat.   (I have no idea what Kenyan hospital food would be.)  I hadn’t been able to eat since I was sick but I kept trying.  I asked her what my options were and she said no, you tell me what you want and I’ll get it.   Um, so in that case a brownie sundae and BBQ.  She brought me chicken and terrible rice.   I looked down at my hospital bracelet to see that it was a baby bracelet and latched on the very last hole giving no room between the bracelet and my wrist.  

The next night I was in a private room but my bed was angled like a ski slope so I woke up with a stiff neck and kept falling to the foot of the bed.  The food was endless (which they kept being surprised when I hardly took a stab at it…people can we remember I don’t feel well.  You know the whole hospital thing and all.)  I also got fruit baskets with fruit I had no idea how to eat or even which part to eat.  When I first moved into that room they brought me my own salt and peppershakers.  Living fancy.  You got nothing on me with your hospital stay Beyonce.  The next morning the IV had made my wrist and hand swell up causing the baby bracelet to cut into my skin.  Luckily, I was able to leave to get to Nairobi so PC could have a go at me before the hospital had a chance to balloon up my remaining hand. 

I ended up staying in Nairobi for a week and a half while they monitored me and ran blood tests every other day.   My liver was over functioning and a few other things were high but after 2 weeks of labs, check ups, and resting I was able to come home.  My stats have gone back to normal.  I’m still a little weak and my appetite hasn’t fully returned but I’m getting there.  I was pretty miserable but I got spoiled with people serving me food, running water (showers, a real toilet) rooms that don’t feel like I’m in an oven, and uninterrupted sleep with no one banging on my door. 

Let’s back up one more time to Jan. 1.  A fellow PCV and I have been in search of a decent cheeseburger.  I have had 4 and none have been slightly good, but we finally found one in Nairobi.  We were passing through to get back to our sites.  Nairobi is off limits to us except for medical reasons.  So we were discussing how we could get "medical" trips to come to Nairobi to eat real food.  I didn’t realize what I was asking for and the worst part I didn’t have an appetite my entire stay.  I never got to order that bacon cheeseburger that I’ve been dreaming about ever since I found it a month ago.   I know I know little violins are playing. 

By the time PC was done with me I had been stuck with needles about 10 times.  Also everyone always has a hard time finding my veins.  So it’s a search and find but with all the blood work to get here and shots I’m used to it by now.  At one point I had 6 jabs in my left hand.  I played connect the dots and made a dinosaur. 

It was tough being that sick and away from the people that love me but I kept hearing about how many people were praying for my recovery and keeping up with the updates on how I was doing.  Even people I have no idea who they are.  I was told one guy after finding out called 33 people.  The love was felt from afar.  Thank you for that. 

I also had a number of great PC friends visit me at all of my medical stops along the way.  In my worst hours I couldn’t help but question how long I would let Africa beat me up.  You may remember back in 2009, I came back from Uganda with a viral infection that turned to pericarditis.  That wasn’t fun but I remember saying then that it wasn’t gonna stop me from returning.  Malaria is mean and viral infections hate me but this won’t stop me from staying.

So this is how you wanna play 2012.  I like a good challenge.  Lets go. 

That was too long.  I’m done.  


Except I'm not.  Side note: People have been worried that I haven't been eating for 2 weeks that I'm losing weight.  Yes, indeed I have lost 5 pounds.  But no worries somehow I have gained 18 since being here.  Crazy right.  I try to gain forever in the States and can't, but move to a place that is lacking food.  Sure, makes perfect sense.


Last thing:  World Malaria Day is April 25th.  More on Malaria in a couple months.  

 

Life By the Numbers. Worth It.

6 ½ : number of months I’ve lived in Kenya

26: number of mosquito bites I have had at one time

1: number of cups of water I need to wash my hair

8: number of cups of water for a bucket bath.   Gotta conserve.  

This one time… my waterman failed to bring me water for 10 days (and it hadn't rained in a while so couldn't get water that way) so I was forced to bathe using a bottle of water.  Surprisingly, I was clean.  True story.

You know that saying glass half full vs half empty.  A Peace Corps Volunteer can take that glass and bathe in it.  Fact.  And probably use it to do some laundry.  I kid not.

3: number of people I’ve seen hit by a motorcycle/car.

37: number of kids that knock on my door wanting to play everyday.

3: number of soccer balls that have popped.  The number would be larger if I continued to supply.

45-60: number of minutes it takes me to walk to my market town/bank/post office/supermarket depending on my pace.  It’s gorgeous by the way.  But don’t take my word for it, come see for yourselves. 

Maybe 4 and that’s being generous: number of books I read in a year in the States.  

Ok, or my whole life.  

4: number of books I am currently in the middle of.

12: number of books I have finished.

9: number of donuts I ate in one day resulting in a bellyache like a 5 yr old.  Don’t judge.  There is no snack food here.  Unless of course you are a fan of eating dried minnows or catching termites. 

12: number of potatoes I eat in a week. 

27: number of people I've been sardined in a matatu with.  (This is a 14 passenger mini van taxi.)  

Of course a few chickens and dead fish were also present.  Smells awesome.  Wish I could include a scratch and sniff for you here.  Pole sana...  Very sorry.  

18: number of hours I spent on a bus in one day…with a chicken under my feet. 

Too many.  I’ve lost track:  number of times I’ve been in a vehicle with a goat.  

(Goats ride at the same cost as humans.)

1: number of monkeys I’ve seen hop a gate.  Grab a woman’s doggy bag and hop on the roof of the restaurant to enjoy free dinner.

16: number of shots I’ve been given to be here.  Ain’t no thang.

1,440: number of minutes I sweat in a day.  Ok that’s all of them.  Exaggeration but it’s dang hot under a tin roof.  (Incredibly grateful for the roof over my head though.)

3: number of minutes it takes for my hair to dry after being washed.  Who needs a blow dryer with the African sun and tin roof yo.

3: number of minutes it then takes for my hair to become drenched in sweat.

4,680/ Every one since I hopped the plane: number of hours I’ve missed my nephew, Roman.

All of them.  Well maybe that’s pushing it: number of kids I want to adopt when I grow up.

A ridiculous amount.  You’d be surprised: number of people who ask if I know Obama after finding out I’m American.   After I tell them: Ya, the President, but I don’t know him personally.  

Their next question: Oh, well how about Michelle?

 A gajillion: number of times I’ve been reminded how lucky I am at the chance I was born in the States; and that alone promises me a fair chance in life. 

Many: number of mornings I wake up and have to remind myself where I am and what I am doing. 

99: percentage of the time that I think to myself: How cool is what I’m doing.  I live in mother loving Kenya.  This is my life!?  Awesome. 

1/flipside: percentage of the time I think: This is my life!?????  I live in mother loving Kenya?  What am I doing????

Here’s the thing every Peace Corps Volunteer has sacrificed to be here.   We have all left very different lives back in the States.  Comfortable ones, at that.  With Bacon Cheeseburgers!

I could tell you about the number of times I wished I had a cold Gatorade.  20 and that’s only been in the last 8 hours.  Actually, I’d even take it hot these days  (Gatorade it’s the thing I’m stuck on missing right now.)  I could mention how I wish I could wash my clothes, I mean have a machine wash my clothes and then throw them in a dryer.  I could tell you the outrageous number of times I miss my family, fast food, home cooked meals, toilets, entertainment, showers/hot water, FOOD, football and game time food, BUT the point I’m getting at is that all the adjustments, shots, mosquito bites, lack of amenities and food choice/flavor: Worth it.

So Worth it.

I live in Kenya!  I have this incredible opportunity before me.  People get excited to see me and cheer for me everyday.  I love where I'm at and what I'll be working on for the next 20 months.  More on that in upcoming posts... next year. 

I don’t want to get preachy (and really I don’t know how I’ve ended up here) but we really don’t know how great we’ve got it. 

Enjoy your family, friends, and of course the food during this holiday season! 

Miss you all 1,000 and ten%

Bat Tag...Uh, No Thanks.

I received an awesome birthday box last week.  Today (ok every day the kids stand outside a barbed wire fence at the front, back, and side of my house calling for me to come play) so today I thought I’d bring out the NEW soccer ball for a kick or two.

There is a girl’s primary school right next to my house.  They too stand calling for me to come and talk to them.  

I have tentative plans with many of them for the coming weeks to visit their homes and meet their families.  I brought the soccer ball to the school as they requested and got mobbed by 200 girls.  I threw the ball unaware that we were playing kill the carrier.  Some chased after it.  Many stayed to pet my hair and rub the white off of my arms.  I have been in my village for 2 ½ months now and we still go through this every day.  But hey I’m not complaining about their constant compliments on how they just want to look at me because I’m beautiful (oh children, I love you) and I’m definitely not going to argue with anyone who wants to play with my hair.  Ya, I think I can manage for 2 years! ;)

They also beg me to dance with them.  I imitate or at least try and they think it is hilarious.  I have no problem making a fool of myself for kids.  I leave them with nothing less then the best white girl dance I got in me.  Seriously they all erupt with squeals and laughter, which only draws the town’s attention even further.  Though I’m starting not to notice that everyone is constantly watching every move I make.   I’m getting suffocated and lost in the sea of blue and pink uniforms.  I manage to escape by saying: look is that Obama.  I chase after my soccer ball and run like I’ve never run before back to my home.  Reminder: We are in Kenya, these kids can run yo.  

The neighborhood kids follow behind and we continue playing a more manageable sized soccer game on my compound.  Rather I should be saying futbol.  

The mamas have been watching and they call me over to the fence, meanwhile the school girls line up along the other side of the fence (I’m really not kidding when I say I have people watching me ALL the time.)  I talk to the mamas selling sugarcane and get an invitation, mostly prompted by myself, to go to her shamba (farm) tomorrow afternoon. 

I go back to playing futbol.  We have played all afternoon and I’m surprised the ball is still intact and has not been popped yet.  I could play with these kids all night…until they find an injured bat.  One kid is picking it up by its wing.  Then launches it at me and finds it funny that I am scared of that and run.  To reiterate if you did not get that…they are now throwing a half alive/ dying bat at me.   Not only is he laughing but the mamas, the school girls, the other kids, and the men who have stopped to watch.  I again for the second time of the day grab the futbol and high tail it to my house as fast as I can. 

The kids continue grabbing the bat and chucking it up in the air. It flies for a bit then drops to the ground.  The futbol is now inside, safe, with me so they throw the bat at each other for 10 minutes.  A few times they knocked on my door to get me to come back outside.  Ummm ya, I’m not gonna open my door to get a bat thrown at me.  I like sports.  I like tag.  I like Batman.  I like cultural exchange. But I am no fan of Bat Tag.  Thanks, but I'm gonna sit this one out. 

For My Grandpa

For my Grandpa.

My grandpa has lived a full life.  He has been a husband to Patricia Dressback for 65 years.  A father of 4…7 including spouses.  Grandfather to 9…15 including spouses.  And a great grandpa to 8…no spouses for those youngins yet! 

I have been incredibly blessed to call Jack Dressback my grandpa for the past 28 years (and will continue).  He has been very present in all of our lives.  

He was in the audience when I was a bee in my very first school play.  I may have even played a rock at one point and even for that I’m sure he was there, if I’m not making this up.  He spent countless hours on the bleachers watching softball, soccer, and yes even middle school girls basketball.  He picked me up from school, was at every grandparent’s day school event, fundraisers, banquets, car washes, recitals, you name it; Jack Dressback was always there, early!  He was there for my high school graduation and drove countless hours to give me a hug and congratulate me on my graduation from college.  He again drove numerous hours, with my grandmother, to sit in the congregation to hear me deliver a sermon. 

My grandpa loved cars, racing, eagles, and sports.  I am a colts’ fan because of him.  And lets not forget his obsession with John Deere.  I was young but I remember the days in Indiana when my grandparents would keep me while my parents were at work.  My grandpa would sit me on his lap and let me think I was driving the John Deere to mow the yard.   After raking the leaves and re raking after I jumped in them he would put the leaves first in the trashcan and then lift me in next, letting me stomp them down.  This is one of my favorite memories in life.  When the family moved to Florida I remember visiting my grandparents for trips to the park, K-mart, and McDonalds.

He always suited up for church and has been an usher since Noah built the ark.   

I think the whole family was shocked to learn of the news.  Jack Dressback was one of the most active and healthy 87 year olds around.  Jack Dressback was super human in my mind.  I honestly thought he would out live Methuselah. 

He lived an incredible life.  He served his country.  He was a dedicated family man.  He will remain as one of the strongest and gentle, most kind of persons I have ever met.  He will remain a hero to me. 

It didn’t matter what it was, my grandpa has been watching me, do whatever it is I do, from the day I was born.  He has shown up for every event in my life.  And as he is taking his last breaths right now, I’m heartbroken that I will not be able to show up for him, but I know he will continue to watch me.  And I’m sure there is a recliner with his name on it.  

I need to add that my grandmother was also present for all of these events as well.  I’m a pretty lucky girl. 

Jack Dressback lived…

Game Time

So after 3 meetings over a course of 3 school weeks, I just got home a few hours ago from Namboboto Secondary School Girls very FIRST softball practice!  I have to tell you after last week I didn’t think I would ever even throw a ball.  I mean it's game time but lets have a meeting...or 3. 

For the past 6 weeks, I have been going to meeting after meeting, all over Funyula, introducing myself and basically saying hey, I’ll be in the area for the next 2 years lets work together on projects, etc.  At this particular school meeting there was a box of helmets, gloves, balls, and bats in the corner and I was asked if I knew how to play baseball because they have no idea were their exact words.  Jumping ahead in my mind to their next question, which was what followed…Could I teach the girls how to play?  I must’ve lit up like the Krispy Kreme sign when the donuts are hot.  (Dunkin Donuts are still better)  

Well, since you know how to play baseball do you also know how to play basketball?  I laughed a little to myself.  Uh Michael Jordan owned my bedroom walls during the 90’s.  They inform me the boys have a coach and therefore a team, but no one will coach the girls, (say no more) which means no team.  I'll do it!  I’ll be back on Monday for the first practice.   Unsure of which one they want me to teach, but that doesn’t really matter.

3 weeks later of similar meetings on a Monday a Tuesday, a Friday we finally get the girls and the equipment to unite.  One would think it’s a simple task …give me the girls and a basketball and we’ll do this thing.  Welcome to life in Kenya!  Seriously, this was a huge triumph and I am celebrating! 

I have 50 minutes with 51 (high school) girls and 25 gloves, 3 days a week as long as it doesn’t interfere with my primary activities.   Only 1 girl had ever played prior to this day.  The rest hadn’t even seen or heard of softball.  Challenge accepted!  One of the things I love about working with children and youth is teaching them new things.  Ok, so we will start with throwing and catching.  I instruct on a few things, one being how to hold the glove, wait for the person to look before you throw so you don’t knock someone out, let’s stand in a line so escape balls (again) don’t knock someone out and then I tell the girls to get a partner, a glove, and softball for the 2 of them.  Lets start at the basics…

Before I knew it I had a line of girls I was assisting with putting on their gloves.  I assumed far too much and my prior comment on how to hold the glove was skipping ahead.  Oh, well if you are right handed you need to wear a glove on your left.  Here lets put this on your other hand. Um that’s on backwards.  You actually have to put the glove on your hand.  Not all of your fingers go in the index finger’s slot.  You only need 1 glove, not 1 for each hand.   The glove goes on your entire hand not just your fingers.  No kidding, we spent half of our time learning not the basics of softball but the basics of a glove.  Then because there are so many girls interested in playing we switched it up and I taught round 2 of glove 101.   We made it through the different ways to hold your glove to catch a throw, pop fly, and grounder.   It seems small but today was a major success! 

No right or wrong about it but feeling accomplished has a new meaning in Kenya than it did in America. 

And tonight I am feeling very accomplished!

At the end of my 2 years, softball should be feeling very used and abused by me because that’s just what I’m doing using it as my in to get to know the girls and then address the issues confronting their lives.   That’s the Game Plan, at least. 

Jersey is on.  (Or in my case, skirt)  Shoes are laced. (flip fliops)  It’s Game Time, Namboboto!