Hi, I'm Eugenia

Further Proof of the Chinese Presence

Fri, 03 May 2013 04:42:10 -0400

A few years ago people used to not even know what to make of me. I got “Chinese!” and kung fu sounds thrown at me on the streets, but I also had “Japanese? Korean?” shouted.

Now there are so many Chinese people here that I’m rarely ever mistaken for another ethnicity. China is being pulled into the folds of Nairobi, with Chinese restaurants and grocery stores popping up all over the place. And now, financial services…

Prime Bank now offers Chinese Yuan accounts.

A Pleasant Surprise

Fri, 03 May 2013 04:38:05 -0400

How things change…

Back in 2009 when I lived in Kibera, I used to walk around and spend time at the Maasai Mbili studio where Solo7 worked. Then, he was known mostly only around Kibera for the graffiti he painted there. Now he has a whole billboard up on Valley Road, which I see on my commute home.

This is how I want to feel right now.

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 09:55:49 -0400

This is how I want to feel right now.

Dreaming of Better Days

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 05:01:42 -0400

Capri, Italy. October 2012.

Scenes from Istanbul

Sun, 07 Apr 2013 09:08:19 -0400

Nairobi Matatus

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 09:19:55 -0400

When I’m on a matatu at just the right time in the morning, I get to spot the morning paper delivery.

Newspapers are so prominent that you see them everywhere. A lesson I learned recently with a team I was managing is that e-mailing digital information is not enough; no one will look at it or remember it. Newspapers and hard copies are the preferred medium here. You develop a relationship with your newspaper man. You say hello to him in the morning. You know where to expect him during the course of your morning commute.

You see this relationship in startling action on matatus. It’s almost like watching a shooting star- if you are at the right place at the right time, you will see it, and it is kind of amazing.

Every newspaper man has his designated route, a place where he stands in the morning for commuters to pick up their newspapers. Despite the fact he is standing in the middle of the road with cars zipping by, he recognizes all the matatus, especially the ones he has relationships with.

Matatus will drive past with the driver’s window down and, sometimes without even a word, the newspaper man will simply chuck the newspaper through the window while the vehicle is moving full speed ahead. I once saw one hit the driver’s head, but for the most part the aim is pretty impeccable.

I also love what follows. The newspaper gets passed around as inquisitive passengers follow up on the news for the day. Nairobians love to consume information and are some of the most up to date people I’ve ever met.

For all the complaints people have about matatus, I am continually fascinated by the way in which they are places of expression (pre-2009 especially, when they were covered in art) and information consumption. The sites of chaos are where the most interesting things happen.

Istanbul, Turkey

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 05:32:35 -0400

I do believe that the day you don’t see anyone fishing off the Galata Bridge will also be the day pigs fly.

The Galata Bridge is an incredibly bustling place and fishing is at the heart of it. Walk on any day, and you’ll find men with all sorts of contraptions set up to hold their poles steady while they chat with friends or gaze out over the Bosphorus. Interestingly, I only saw two women fishing in the entire time I was there.

One of my favorite things to do in Istanbul was simply to walk on the bridge and people watch. A simple pleasure, but one that roots you to the local community.

Resilience

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 06:54:00 -0400

“You’re Americans,” he continues, his voice deep with Chinese authority. “You’re not used to seeing tragedies. You pity us, yes, because you can later go home to a comfortable life and forget what you’ve seen. For us, this type of disaster is commonplace. We have so many people. This is our life, always a crowded bus, everyone trying to squeeze in for himself, no air to breathe, no room left for pity.

- The Hundred Secret Senses, Amy Tan

I just read this the other day and it really resonated with me. Sometimes I think I’m more American in this way, yet sometimes I think I’m more Kenyan/Chinese. The other day a yoga teacher I practice with occasionally died in a car accident, and it made me think about how many people I’ve seen killed or people I know of who have been killed since I’ve been here. Whether it’s my colleagues’ friends or my own acquaintances… somehow it just becomes “normal”.

Sometimes I feel like devastation is a bit of a luxury. Because if you actually live in it all the time, you simply cannot keep it up emotionally. I was devastated the first time I discovered a rape. I was devastated the first time I saw someone killed by a car. I was definitely devastated when D. was raped and murdered. But now, when I see someone lying on the side of the road in Mathare, I just move away before an angry crowd gathers. I feel almost numb to it, because the alternative of letting it wreck me emotionally simply isn’t a real possibility anymore.

I wrote the above in an e-mail to a good friend the other day. This was written in a moment of darkness; I certainly don’t feel this way all the time. After all, in the end I am American to the core, and I really will eventually go home to a more comfortable life.

I’ve been thinking about resilience a lot lately. I try to turn a lot of my unhappiness with the inequality I see around me into energy that I put towards my work, into something positive and productive. Regardless, there are some ways where I truly do just feel battered and worn down, like I just can’t go on anymore and all I want to do is climb in bed and not move.

This is where resilience comes in. It’s amazing to see what people can go through, and how they come out stronger after it all. I see this every day in Mathare, even just from interacting with my amazing colleagues who have beat the odds. I’m incredibly blessed because I interact every day with people who are truly special, who know who they are even among different pressures and things seemingly working against them.

And I watch them and remind myself that I will get through this. Throughout, I believe I’ll emerge from the difficult patches stronger than ever.

My coworker Vincent made me smile yesterday. I read this quote on his Facebook: “When I see her smile, I know everything is okay..” I teased him, asking if he has a girlfriend I don’t know about.

He looked at me and said, “‘She’ refers to you, to Gloria, to Rose, to anyone. Because when I see you and you are smiling, I know in my heart that everything is ok.”

Because even in the worst setting, the most difficult of times, there are always people to share smiles and laughter with. With a little resilience and the right people, you can get through almost anything.

Days When Nairobi Redeems Itself

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 13:52:37 -0500

Today, I:

Woke up at 5:30 AM so I could leave for work early, and meditated as the sun rose.
Got tear gassed downtown on my way to work, but got in a matatu just in time to avoid the worst of it… and still have no clue what caused it/why it was there.
Led a team in conducting student assessments
Had delicious tea and chapati in a school
Spent most of the day working in said school’s staff room alongside other teachers, who ended up asking me all sorts of amusing questions about the U.S.
Sat in a tiny wooden desk, imagined being a student again, and wondered over the fact that my children will always have the opportunity to attend a school significantly better than the one I was in.
Got unimaginably dusty while shuttling back and forth between schools and office.
Had a long dinner over sushi and Japanese with a friend about life, robots, the future of technology, and more.

Nairobi astounds me sometimes. Where else can I move from getting tear gassed to long conversations in noisy school staff rooms to thoughtful dinners over delicious Japanese food? My love-hate relationship with Nairobi is volatile and ever-changing, but that’s what also allows for the versatility and amazement I encounter in my life.

Finding My Way

Fri, 01 Feb 2013 12:24:43 -0500

Some days, it feels like everything I create for myself here is just so fragile. I work to develop a presence, relationships, and ease in Nairobi, only to have it all fall apart as soon as I get on a matatu someplace and someone tries to overcharge me. I will always have to deal with the perception that money doesn’t matter to me, that whatever I’m wearing was expensive even if it only cost me $5 USD, that I come from a place of having and so people can take advantage of me.

I always want to tell them, “Do you know what I’ve seen??” but it doesn’t count for much in the end anyway. All that will be seen is my skin color, which I have always worn and will always wear.

The truth is, I guess I could be considered an outsider in some ways. I don’t always connect with people as easily as I see others do. I can spend a whole weekend with a group of people and walk away, not feeling like any friendships were truly forged in the process (this happens constantly here). But that’s never bothered me, not like being a non-Kenyan here in Nairobi does. Some days the city just feels so unforgiving- I get on a matatu where someone overcharges me and everyone else stays silent when I voice the injustice of it, then I climb onto another bus where a man walks by leering at me, undressing me with his eyes, all while going, “Ching chang chong chong,” like I’m not a real person but rather a zoo animal with no feelings. And sometimes I just want to shout, “DON’T YOU KNOW THAT YOU’RE EXACTLY WHAT’S WRONG WITH KENYA?!” but I realize how nationalist and absurd that is.

I could only imagine living here long-term if I were to move to place like Gigiri with its beautiful leafy roads and nice homes, drive a car and never walk on the roads, and basically totally insulate myself from the ugliness I see every day in people. But until then, I have yoga, meditation, and the occasional getaway to help temper my frustrations here.

When I feel especially wistful, I listen to this song. I still...

Thu, 24 Jan 2013 10:04:32 -0500

When I feel especially wistful, I listen to this song. I still remember the first time I heard this song. I was sitting in the Java at Adams Arcade in Nairobi nearly four years ago, and braved the slow internet just to wait hours for it to download.

I felt light as soon as I heard it. It was like how one feels when spring is finally emerging after a long winter. As cheesy as it is, that’s the only way to put it. Relief, and hope.

Given that I’ve just spent the last 24 hours having trouble keeping anything down (capping off my birthday by throwing up in the toilet, not alcohol-induced), it seems like a strange song to accurately describe how I feel right now.

But I’m lying in bed right now, watching the wind rustle my red curtains, and I smell rain in the air. And I still feel really, really good.

Life Decisions

Wed, 16 Jan 2013 03:14:00 -0500

I’m sitting here in my office, distracted and tired because in the last three days I have:

Hopped off a plane in Nairobi after a 20-some-hours journey
Woken up mere hours later due to jetlag
Got to my office and entered utter chaos with deadline rushes
Worked 10 to 12 hours each day

I’m tired. I miss my family. I miss waking up in the morning, doing yoga, and then sitting and relaxing with a cup of tea, chatting with my mother. I miss my best friends, who make me laugh like no one else can.

My four year anniversary of the first time I set foot in Kenya is coming up in a few short weeks.

I remember the wonder I felt when I first came to Kenya. The chaos of the cars rushing around me, weaving in and out through open air markets, chatter, noises, all my senses overwhelmed. I would wake up in my tiny room in Kibera, mattress sunk in the middle and torn mosquito net, windows open, to the sounds of the call to prayer and then to the rooster’s continuing crow as the sun began to rise. I didn’t have much and lived rough those first few months, but I was happy.

I’d never felt so alive.

Every now and then I see Kenya through those eyes again. Whether it’s camping out on the beach late at night, seeing more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life, or driving through a national park and quietly watching a herd of fifty elephants gingerly pick their way through the savannah, I always feel my senses tingling and involuntarily, a “wow” escapes from my jaded expatriate lips.

Other days, Kenya is a place like any other. I wake up, I go to work, I battle traffic, I come home, and all I want to do is collapse. It’s entirely plausible that the things I hate about Kenya outnumber the things I love, which I can’t say for Boston or New York City, places I’ve lived and loved. I hate the way women are treated here. I hate constant street harassment. I hate the traffic, the lack of sidewalks, the smog and pollution. I hate that nothing ever quite works the way it should here. I hate that I’m constantly alert and on watch. I hate personally knowing people who have raped or, worse, knowing people who have been raped and murdered.

Some days, I wonder if it’s time to leave.

But what makes me want to leave is also what keeps me here. With all the emotions I feel here- the sadness, the indignity, the anger, the frustration, and even the compassion and happiness- I remember all over again that I feel a purpose here. There’s so much for me here still.

Someone once told me that you give up a lot when you move to a place like Kenya, but you give up a lot when you leave also. I think about this constantly and I’ve just come to accept that I will always be torn across multiple places, relationships, and wants. What I can hope to do now is to commit myself and see what happens.

I suppose, all this is a long way of saying that I first made the move to Kenya thinking I would be here for a year. Soon after arriving, I signed on for a second year, and recently made the decision to extend to year three. I’m now in my Nairobi, the city I both hate and love, until mid-2014.

I have such a complex relationship with this country, a place where I am both welcomed with warm arms and hearts but also judged coldly by others who know nothing about who I really am and what I’ve experienced. It was not an easy decision to stay, but it wouldn’t have been an easy decision to leave either.

I’m proud/nervous/excited to make something better for myself. 2013 and the first half of 2014 will continue to be a period of growth and learning, and hopefully taking better care of myself.

But oh, how I’m looking forward to long summer walks in New York and napping in a hammock in my backyard when I finally move back to the US.

Wake Up Italy

Fri, 09 Nov 2012 16:15:07 -0500

Venice, Italy

Meditations on Mortality in Nairobi

Thu, 13 Sep 2012 08:54:38 -0400

Today, a woman forced me off the side of the road into a ditch. She never missed a beat, not slowing down or even glancing my way as she passed.

Two days ago, I watched a man crossing Juja Road get hit by a matatu. I’ve seen bodies on the side of the road before- the aftermaths of accidents- but it was my first time witnessing an accident firsthand.

A screech of tires from the driver suddenly braking, the shatter of glass, and suddenly there was a body on the black tarmac, a dark pool of blood spreading steadily from his body. His eyes still closed, his body flopped as he turned onto his side.

“He moved,” I gasped. “Maybe he’s still alive.”

“Sometimes when they die, they move right before,” my colleague observed, amid murmurs and hums of agreement.

As we continued down the road, we passed another man lying on the ground, wearing that bright reflector vest boda boda riders generally wear- a lot of help that had done him.

We face our own mortality on a daily basis.

Kenyans regularly open the newspaper each day to check the obituaries, checking to see if someone they know has passed away. I find it morbid, but it’s a natural part of the daily routine. The obituary pages include photos of the dead, faces staring solemnly back at the living.

I hope that when I die, the only photos of me in newspaper obituaries are of me laughing.

Despite this heightened awareness of our mortality, sometimes I feel like there’s a remarkable disrespect for human life here. As a bicyclist, you have no right of way. As a pedestrian, you’re at the bottom of the Nairobi traffic food chain. Cars move full speed ahead, going faster than necessary. Jumping into bushes to avoid cars is a regular occurrence. The only time I can get a car to leave me a wide berth on the mostly sidewalk-less roads is when I hold my umbrella out from my side.

Drivers would rather hit a soft body than have their paint jobs scratched by an umbrella.

I’ve been hit twice by cars now- neither enough to seriously injure me, but both frightening enough to make me painfully aware of the bodies I find on the road, aware that no one ever thinks it’s going to happen to them.

Some Wednesday Writing Inspiration

Wed, 05 Sep 2012 03:19:50 -0400

How long has it been since you wrote a story where your real love or your real hatred somehow got onto the paper? When was the last time you dared release a cherished prejudice so that it slammed the page like a lightning bolt? What are the best things and the worst things in your life? And when are you going to get around to whispering them or shouting them?

– Ray Bradbury

Content

Sun, 02 Sep 2012 08:20:45 -0400

Sunday morning: one hour walk, reading lazily on the couch, and sitting at Alexandre with rose tea and madeleines, people watching and musing.

In Nairobi you can feel alone even when you’re surrounded by people, but it’s nice to have days where you can enjoy real, physical solitude on your own accord.

Food Deserts

Wed, 29 Aug 2012 06:00:18 -0400

The food desert is a concept in American poverty that has fascinated me for some time. The general premise of this is that poorer areas do not have access to healthy foods in the form of supermarkets and more. This goes along with the fact that studies have shown that low-income Americans tend to be more overweight, due to difficulty accessing healthy foods and the prevalence of fast food restaurants.

GOOD, one of my favorite websites, writes a great article about food deserts. It sums up some of the main issues with food deserts and shows why it’s still a problem in low-income areas.

I’ve seen the existence of food deserts before. When doing field work around Somerville, MA, we found that in some areas people think of the local 7-Eleven convenience store as a supermarket. This is because the 7-Eleven is the easiest way to access food and tends to be the largest source of food in the area.

When I was working in Mathare in 2010, Rose and I struggled with finding healthy and clean nutritious meals. After hours of walking around and visiting schools, we would often collapse into our tiny one room office with bags of fries in hand, and not much else (I gained a lot of weight over those months).

These days, even with the more stable office enivornment, I’m experiencing my latest variation of the food desert situation. In Nairobi, it’s fairly easy to buy fruits and vegetables anywhere on the street. Sukumawiki, mangoes, avocadoes, bananas, tomatoes- these are the typical fare. Butcheries are very common, though the quality of meat is doubtful. This is the case for Mathare and most communities.

Past that, however, things are a bit more difficult in Mathare/Eastleigh. The closest “big” supermarket is found in Huruma, which is either a 25 minute walk or a matatu ride. To get a lot of basic cleaning supplies, tea, and more, we have to send staff downtown. This requires a travel time of 20 to 40 minutes one way, depending on the time of day. Given how busy things have been at the office, we will often go days without basic supplies because no one has three hours to take out of their day to travel and go shopping.

My colleagues and I joke that Baba Dogo, an area that also houses a slum and neighbors Mathare, is a far nicer area because it actually has a Naivas and Tuskys supermarket. We sit and discuss, and marvel over how convenient it must be to have things right there when you need them. It’s true- it makes a world of difference.

I always breathe a small sigh of relief when I return home to Kilimani. Three supermarkets, all within a 20 minute walk radius, a bevy of restaurants I can eat at, and all kinds of options. We pay a lot to live in neighborhoods like Kilimani, where we get the convenience of access and having so many different services available.

But we pay even more in our health and time when we live in so-called “deserts”.

Open Smiles

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 01:12:00 -0400

These days, I’ve started to take a specific joy in my morning walk to my office. Between the hours of 6 AM to 8 AM, Mathare and Eastleigh conduct symphonies of color through the different uniforms of children being taken to school. These colors have become deeply ingrained in my understanding and perception of Mathare.

I feel a deep fondness when I see the green uniforms of Naioth Education Centre, a school where I’ve found refuge and moments to think in quiet over the last two years. I smile when I see the red uniforms of Valley View Academy, because I think of the amazing student support they give and the big smiles of Mr. Leonard, the deputy head teacher. I recognize the navy blue of Kiboro Primary, the closest government school to our office. And more, and more, and more. Strangely, the school uniforms have been a major part of contributing to my sense of belonging in Mathare.

My favorite part of seeing the children though, are the smiles. They stare at me in wide-eyed amazement, a little fearful but fascinated at the same time. They can’t look away. When I smile back at them, it’s like a switch has flipped. They decide, “This is someone nice. This is someone I can like.”

Young children as uncensored. What you see is what you get. So when they smile back, so openly and unabashedly, it never ceases to make my heart melt. In a community where you can get caught up in politics, are constantly negotiating through other’s environments, and where you have to put up a strong front even when you don’t feel that way, it’s nice to have these pure, unadulterated moments of joy.

We Poop Differently

Fri, 13 Jul 2012 05:31:32 -0400

… because poop-related things always get people’s attention.

I had a really fascinating conversation a few weeks ago with a friend of mine who works for Sanergy. The main idea: we don’t really know pooping habits in other cultures. This came up because Sanergy was trying to build toilets and wanted some of the Sanergy staff to test the design of the toilets.

Here, particularly in the slums, there is a bevy of “squatty potties” available, toilets that are dug into the ground and which one has to squat over to use.

I can’t even remember when I first encountered a squatty potty, except that it must have been when I was a toddler in Taiwan. Nevertheless, they’ve always been natural to me. I find them convenient and efficient. A traditional healer in Mombasa once talked about how these toilets are far more conducive for the passage of waste through the system. Not to mention, it’s a running joke that Asians have a genetic ability to comfortably squat.

As someone from a different cultural environment, my friend remarked on how interesting the way Americans use squatty potties is. To my great surprise, she told me how Americans use these toilets on their tip toes, never with their heels down. Sanergy also found that Americans take a much wider stance when using the toilets. Therefore, they couldn’t design toilets using just anyone to test the toilet. If they wanted to design for Kenyan usage, having American staff test the toilets would provide inaccurate data about the ease of use and design.

I love anthropology for the lessons and behaviors it can uncover. Understanding bathroom behavior, something intimate and private that no one else ever sees, is so important to sanitation work and more.

Asante Sana, Kenya

Thu, 28 Jun 2012 14:23:12 -0400

Sunrise, as seen from my apartment. I see this almost every day- another fixture in my life here.

Today marks the day I moved to Kenya, a year ago.

Tomorrow marks my one year working full-time at Dignitas.

Tonight, I decided to stay in and cook for myself. I made mango cupcakes for my coworkers in celebration of tomorrow. I finished reading the seventh book in this young adult series I’m strangely addicted to right now.

And now I’m sitting in my room, listening to music, thinking about everything that has happened in the last year.

I’ve been through so much. Transient and sometimes hurtful/stressful relationships, uncovering rapes, interacting with rapists, the rape and murder of someone who was very dear to many of the Dignitas staff, being mugged, sexual harassment, many days of tears, stress, homesickness, and traffic.

On the other hand, there has been countless nights of laughter, big group dinners, meeting incredible people from who I learn new things all the time, traveling throughout Kenya and to Ethiopia, gaining invaluable experience working with schools and inspiring youths from Mathare, pushing my limits constantly to do things that frighten me and make me nervous. I’ve redefined family to include the eclectic group of Kenyans that make up my office, special people from Mathare, and my expat friends. I’ve learned about nuance, how to be more empathetic and compassionate, how to give feedback, how to push myself until I think I can’t anymore and still keep going.

I feel more alive and low here than I ever have anywhere else. And at the same time, I feel incredible. I feel stronger than I ever have in my life, more settled in myself. I can already see how it’s all fallen together, the good and the bad. I’m not the same as I was last year- I’m wiser.

And I’m so, so grateful for that.