So I woke up one day and decided to go on a mission. I set off to bike to Kakamega, a city 30 kilometers (18.6 miles) away. I had been told that the road there was flat and it seemed like a good way to save money as well as get some exercise. I figured it would be kind of like riding my golden bike back in Lincoln, which was more of a leisurely activity than an intense exercise. So I strapped a bag full of clothes to the back of my brand new bike and set off. After the first ten kilometers, I was feeling pretty good and was making decent time. But then I realized that when Kenyans say the road was flat, they mean the road was actually paved and not full of potholes. They failed to mention that there were many rolling hills that can be both grueling to pedal up and terrifying to go down. I should not fail to mention that the Kenyan bikes are fairly janky, have no gears, and have only footbrakes. And there are no traffic laws, so matatus can zoom past you up to 100 km/hr on either side of the road and knock you right off your bike if you aren’t paying attention- or even if you are. I had also not factored in the weather, which, needless to say, was deathly hot. This was the exact opposite of a relaxing and leisurely activity. By the 20th kilometer, I had pretty much given up and was walking up most hills even though my legs felt like jello. Signs every two kilometers updated me as to how far I was along, which did not help my motivation one bit. By the time I navigated the city and found Nakumatt, the “Wal-Mart” type store, my friends were too nice to not show their disgust with how sweaty I was. I pretty much bathed in their public restroom not once, but twice that day. The second instance involved us trying to find a nightclub but instead finding a torrential rainstorm and ending up stranded at a grocery store with one less shoe than we started with. Luckily, there is no “No shirt, no shoe, no service” policy in Kenya and a plastic bag suffices.

The next day, I ended up paying double to strap my bike to the top of a matatu to drive me home. So much for saving money.

GO GREEN 2010.

The most work-related thing I have done here in Kenya so far was being introduced to the local public officials. The Kenyan government is a very bureaucratic system and puts a lot of stress on formalities, introductions, and protocols. This includes the order in which you shake hands, the proper greetings to use, and, most importantly, the signing of the guestbook. On my visit to the district offices, I signed about fifteen guestbooks, and it was a blatantly confusing process. You fill out your name, contact information, and phone number (and yes, the last two categories are exactly the same thing) and then there is a comment section. The person awkwardly stares at you as you try to come up with something acceptable to write in the comment section. “It is a nice day outside,” or “This office actually has a decent restroom,” are not good comments to write.

After the guestbook task, I am then asked to recite a paragraph in Kiswahili explaining who I am, what I’m doing, and for how long. The person then expresses surprise for my “fluent” speaking. Then without fail, my supervisor loves sharing this comment:

“Her father is an Indian. Her mother is an Italian. Somehow, that makes her an
American. And soon, she will be a Kenyan.”

As awkward as this comment is, the guests just love it and express their dearest thanks that Obama’s daughter has come to help them. All the while, I just twiddle my thumbs. I guess this is how we do business in Kenya.