So funny thing- all of the experiences I’ve had over the last two months have somehow been overpassed by the happenings of the last four days. I’ve went from Nairobi to a plantation-like town called Mumias. It has a different province, different language, different climate, different religion, and one more thing- completely different company. We’ve went from being constantly surrounded by the other 36 to alone, peke yake, and this is something that I will just get used to.

Three days ago, we were being addressed by the U.S. Ambassador at his residence. His speech to us was broadcasted on national television and got international attention because of the current political state. I heard the slogan “Yes we can” more times during this ceremony than I ever had before. From there we had a celebration involving music and dancers from every tribe in Kenya, and before we knew it, we were shipped off to 36 different places throughout the country.

After a bit of temporary housing, I currently live in a house on the St. Peter’s church compound in Ekundu, a junction village near the town of Mumias, the “city of natural sweetness.” Mumias sugar is the branded sugar in Kenya, so it is a “cosmopolitan” town in the Western province (I love when they use that term.) Because of the massive sugar factory here, people from every tribe in Kenya reside here, including a very large Muslim population that migrated from the coast. Although Kenya is overwhelmingly Christian, there are more mosques in the small town of Mumias than in the entire western half of Kenya. For this reason, Kiswahili is the main language spoken. I have the chance to learn the local language Kiwanga, which is a dialect of Kiluhya, the main language of the Western province. However, I am able to communicate fairly well in Kiswahili, and everyone I interact with is very impressed that a mzungu knows Kiswahili and has only been here for two months.

I am neighbors with the parish pastor, and he has made me feel more than welcome by inviting me over for meals and providing me with an assortment of beverages, ones I didn’t even know that priests drank. They felt bad that I didn’t eat meat in the nyama choma hub that Ekundu is (burnt meat), so they surprised me with some fresh fish for dinner last night. I was shocked to see an entire roasted tilapia on my plate- yes, an entire foot-long fish directly from Lake Victoria. At first I was a little wary to see the fish eyes glaring at me, but after turning down so many animals slaughtered for me in Kenya, I decided to bite the bullet and eat the entire fish- head included. Marinated in tomatoes and spices, it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

After that giant fish and a few adult beverages, I failed to sufficiently tuck my mosquito net into my bed fully. It was then that I had my first lesson on the Western Province climate. My right calf somehow snuck out of the reign of the net, and it is now covered with seventeen mosquito bites- not an exaggeration.

After a less than satisfying sleep, I woke early and decided to meet some of my friends in Kisumu for the day. After some confusing breakfast conversation in Kiswahili, I found myself on a 15 passenger van full of nuns- straight from the convent- on their way to a funeral. After praying the rosary and a bumpy few hours of riding, I found myself in Kisumu, where I was able treat myself to a fancy meal of vegetable curry and French fries. I was also able to buy a gas stove, a full-sized area rug, and many other household furnishings. I then returned home with all of these purchases by matatu, peke yake, in a packed car of Kenyans wondering why this strange white person was sitting with a gas stove in her lap. Somehow I made it home, and my house is one step closer to being a home.

I’ve also had some very interesting conversations with my new Kenyan counterparts and supervisors, who are very eager to learn from the American, the new “public figure” of the town (they actually called me that). I first had to whip out my world map (thanks Mom and Dad!) and explain the difference between America and the U.S. and disband the myth that both North and South America were ruled by Obama. And why do people speak Spanish in Mexico, when Spain, the team from the World Cup, is so far away? (I really went out on a limb for this answer). The Catholic pastor asked me what my stance was on gay marriage. Being gay is illegal in Kenya- illegal- so I danced around some answer involving not segregating against gay people because they cannot choose. I then asked for another drink and changed the subject.

“So, are there poor people in America?” “Yes,” I quickly answered. “There are many people that are poor in America.”

“Are there people who cannot read in America?” “Umm, I think so,” I hesitated to respond. “But the number may not be many.”

“So why are there so many more poor people in Africa than anywhere else in the world?”

How do you answer that? How do you even begin?

If you think of something, please let me know.

Also, Mom and Dad, you’ll be very pleased to hear that I have already went against your one wish and am currently engaged to a Kenyan man- a Maasai warrior, to be exact. He runs a medical dispensary at the Tanzanian border, and he is arranging for a bracelet to be made and delivered to me with my name on it, signifying our engagement (pictures to come). But don’t worry- he has offered me land in the Maasai Mara, so hakuna matata. I suggest you start building a stable in our backyard because cows are on its way to Omaha, Nebraska- they’ll fit right in. I received two text messages today- one saying Ninakupenda sana, meaning “I love you so much” (good thing I know Kiswahili), and the other saying he had milk and blood for lunch. It’s pretty much official.

The mosquitoes are coming out, so I must go in. Lala salama!