"Jambo" means "I'm a white tourist"

It’s been awhile. I am sitting in the SIT office right now after having my second Swahili lesson and lecture. Yesterday I moved in with my family. Right now, it is my mother, Betty, and my five siblings. Four girls and one boy. I felt bad for  the boy until he introduced himself. He told me his name was Patrick. It’s not. His name is Edwin. Because I’m not confused enough. The second oldest girl went off to the university the day I got there. The oldest sister, Maggie, studies at the University of Nairobi and lives at home. The third oldest is Edwin/Patrick and he is leaving for the university on Wednesday. The fourth is 17 and her name is Winny. She’ll be leaving for boarding school tomorrow. Basically, I’ll be hanging out with the youngest daughter, Stacy. She’s 12 and might be home from school for a while due to the Nairobi teacher’s strike. We both started today, so when I go home I’ll find out more.

This is Stacy

The last two days have been a whirl wind of Kiswahili and life in Nairobi. First, let’s dispel some myths:

1.       Not everyone in Africa is starving. The people here eat 5 meals a day, not three. Breakfast, tea, lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner. My family thinks I’m weird because I eat small portions and like my tea black. They don’t believe you if you claim to be still full from lunch at afternoon tea.

2.       People are not dying in the streets. That’s pretty straight forward.

3.       Not everyone here runs. Stacy is the fastest in her grade, but she is the only Kenyan I have talked to about running since I have gotten here.

Things that are true:

1.       There was a monkey on top of a house. Near where I live. Apparently they sometimes raid the trash.

2.       I noticed my host family sometimes clicks when talking

3.       The sidewalks turn to mud when it rains

Everywhere I walk, people stare, for no other reason than me being white. People want to talk to me…because I’m white. People will ask me for money… because I’m white. Sometime they will even shout “mzungu”, which means white. I never really think about my color. I’m tan enough to not burn in the sun but light enough that I can write notes on my hands. I’m tanner than my “white” friends, but here I’m just mzungu. Stacy also likes to brush my hair because it is not “hard” like hers. Her hair is in beautiful braids and her skin glows. Why she would ever want my bushy hair or pasty skin is beyond me.

My mother asked me if I liked to dance. I said yes, so she put in a video (they have TV. And lights. And hot water. It’s like the US) teaching me how to traditionally dance and did it with me. They laughed at least.

I’m short on time. There’s so much more I meant to say and forgot. There will be much more to come!