Thursdays are the best days. and an LCD monitor could do your job.

I love Thursdays. It is the one day my host mom has off work and Tracy is always in such a good mood when they get to spend time together. Mama Tracy works usually 14 hours a day, and 6 days a week. And she told me today she makes about $300 a month.

Think.

Wednesday was our last day of class, we had our Swahili final- which I think went well, and the rest of the day off. I went to the University of Nairobi and studied in the International Development Studies library for like 5 hours, just reading books upon books- and found good stuff for my papers. And I know I’ve already said this but a book published after I was born is a rare find there. I have 3 term papers that aren’t due until December but I’m trying to get a head start. I left at around 5 and walked to the Posta stop to grab a bus. I waited for about half an hour while numerous 46s and 4Ws passed, but no 32s which take me closest to my house. Sitting at this bus stop I grew quite frustrated with efficiency in Nairobi. There is SO much work here being done by people that has been mechanized in other countries. Not to say their work isn’t valuable, but it most likely poorly paid and as my professor would say, a waste of people’s time. They could be working in r&d, going to school, or in a specialized trade- is holding a sign with a number on it out of a bus window and collecting fare- things that can be done by (a) an LCD screen and (b) an automated change counter- really a positive contribution to the nations economy and development? (This question can also be expanded to things like laundry, dishwashing, lugging jugs of water around, storing water to use during rationing, the list goes on, but I’ll stop here.)

The 46 and 4W take Ngong Rd and then I have to walk a ways into my gate. The 32 goes through Kibera, Nairobi’s biggest slum, but drops me off just on the other side of the wall. I prefer the 32.. We turn off Ngong and weave away from the city and pass the wall which separates Nairobi from its slum. About 15 minutes on this main, two lane and very narrow street, filled with shops not contributing to the GNP. The informal sector is quite large here, and its unfortunate that this time and energy expended by people does not factor in to measurements like the GNP, which many people use to define a developed nation. We come to a stop at the end of the line, I exit and walk through a tiny open air shop, where mostly fruit and vegetables are sold, and the mud cakes my shoes to a standstill. I pass a large pot of githeri over mkaa (charcoal) and many people sitting around it. Then I hop over the railroad tracks, looking both ways first, even though I think I’m the only person who does this. Step over the wires which switch the tracks, through a guardrail I have to turn sideways to pass through, two more barbed wire fences and I’m home free.

I spent most of today organizing notes and outlining the papers at a café near my house. I came home early afternoon because I like to be home on Thursdays.

We had mokimo tonight (no idea if that spelling is right?), basically mashed potatoes with maize and some green vegetable that I can’t translate to English, with a fantastic stew and cabbage on the side. I love the food here. It is so simple, but always so flavorful. I am going to miss Eda’s home cooked meals. In Kisumu, where I’m moving to, they eat A LOT of fish. Now I like fish, but…I have a feeling I’ll run into some pretty interesting meals.

Tracy was upset because she had to eat a whole cup of uji before dinner. Uji is essentially porridge, but if you ask me its like cold biscuits-and-gravy gravy, and also my family informed me that they put fish in theirs :) It has a uniquely chalking taste, and even though you would eat it with a spoon in the states, here they say they drink uji, and think it’s hilarious that we would “eat” it. Well, I skipped on the uji, it’s the one thing I haven’t been able to stomach so far.

So Mama Tracy was holding Tracy and feeding her the uji and we were all joking around. Tracy told me that instead of leaving in December I should stay until January 14^th (her birthday). She said if I stay she will have “thank you for sending us marta, she was a very good girl” written on her cake, and she’ll cut 3 pieces to send home for my mom, dad, and sister on a plate. “and you can carry the plate on the plane,” she said. :)

I am excited to move to Kisumu but I’m really going to miss my host family in Nairobi, Nairobi itself, and Jamhuri (my neighborhood).

Today I was walking home and thinking about all the things that I see everyday but don’t ‘see’ really anymore. A herd of cattle grazing along the sidewalk and “boulevard” and stopping traffic. A man in a Cowboys starter jacket, a man wearing a two-piece teal jogging suit with pink strips, walking alongside young professionals. A man grabs my wrist “madame, I have shirts.” “Hapana,” I reply as I release his grip and answer next week to his inquiry of when I’ll return. A matatu driver that has evidently decided the sidewalk is ok for him to drive on to beat the jam. An 8-year-old carrying a jug of water bigger than my upper body. 4 men controlling a wheelbarrow that has a flat tire carrying a 40 gallon water drum. Cars on the left side of the street- and I still look right. Everytime. STILL. Kids walking home in school uniforms. Street vendors selling snacks, mandazi, chai, fruit, vegetables, SAFARICOM signs everywhere I look. The butcher shop with fresh cuts hanging in the window. Dinner. A man welding an iron gate with no goggles on. A man cutting rebar with a hacksaw. More stray dogs than Appalachia- though none of them ever seem to bark here. Mud, everywhere. The tailor who made my skirts. “mzungu.” All-the-while hop-scotching puddles and manure. A bus passing so close to my right shoulder it gives me goosebumps in 80 degree sun, and then sputtering exhaust and clouds of dust in my path. Me, the only person wearing sunglasses, with white skin that conversation follows. The group of men always standing under the lightpole, some leaning on a car. The red kiosk where Mike works.

“Habari yako?” my Maasai guard asks everyday. “Mzuri, na wewe?” I reply. “Mzuri.” Our routine, sometimes a handshake. Chickens, roosters, and chicks in my courtyard-owner unknown. The chicks are getting big. Novell and Kafura sitting outside our gate. Novell swinging on the top iron bar, hands gripped in between spikes meant to deter unwanted guests. Kafu, probably saying “I’ll pinch you” to someone or another, most likely an authority figure. Through my blue gate, ducking under clotheslines and through the narrow corridor. Around the corner I know the coals will be hot and dinner on already, and it is. Eda in the kitchen, and Tracy on the couch with a smile on her face. “How was your day?”