home sweet home

So, I'm back in the U.S.

That's a sentence filled with a lot of conflicting emotions. I hesitate to say I'm back home because home has become such a loaded word for me. Why is it that I never really felt homesick for the U.S. while I was away, but now that I'm here, I'm homesick for South Africa? The only explanation is: South Africa is my home. There's no denying it.

When Anna and I left Namibia, we took an overnight bus from Windhoek to Cape Town. We were giddy as we crossed the border back into South Africa at 4 in the morning. I have never so closely resembled a crazy person before. Our original plan was to spend a week in Cape Town, the city that we both love so much. But as we got closer, we thought, let's just spend two days in Cape Town, because we want to get back to Grahamstown to see our friends. Well, when it came down to it, we ended up spending approximately three hours in Cape Town - just long enough to visit our favorite haunt on Long Street for a drink and a shwarma. We were just too excited to be back in South Africa and wanted to see our friends as soon as possible. We thought, Cape Town will always be here. (I know I'll be back someday.) Our friends won't always be in Grahamstown. So we hopped on yet another overnight bus. Of course, being my last bus in Africa, it had to break down. Twice. Though the seats were cushoined rather than flat, hard plastic and I did have the whole seat to myself without having to share it with any big mammas or chickens, so I was happy.

It must be weird to hear such love for such a random little town. What is so special about Grahamstown? I can't even recommend it to fellow travelers. It's really just a small college town without a lot going on. I don' t know why I love it so much. Maybe it's more about the people you're with rather than the place you're in. I don't know. I just know that it's home. Three weeks was not enough time to spend with everyone there. Leaving was completely heartbreaking.

Everyone warned me that I was going to have a hard time adjusting back to American culture, but I didn't believe it until I came back. Everything here is so big and loud and fast and desperate. Everything looks so new and fresh and immaculate. Why does the water come out of the tap so fast? Why are houses so big? Why are people so impatient? Why do we waste so much?

I spent a year drinking bottled water, dreaming of the day I would return to the U.S. and could drink out of the tap. I actually remember a moment when I was swimming in the ocean off the coast of Kenya and I had a vision in my head of me standing at the sink in my mom's kitchen downing glass after glass of water, refilling the glass from the tap as I drank. (I realize this sounds a bit crazy. I might have been suffering from heat exhaustion at the time.) But water was the one thing, at least, that would be good about being back. Is it ironic or is it a sign that I came back right at the moment when the entire city of Boston was under a "boil advisory" after a pipe burst, making the entire city's water supply undrinkable? I spent my first three days back drinking bottled water and listening to obnoxious Bostonians complain about not having any water. Excuse me, you do have water, you just have to boil it for a minute before you can drink it. Sorry to inconvenience you. Why don't you try walking 8 miles to get water - undrinkable water, at that - and then carry it on your head 8 miles back home just so you can cook dinner for your family.

My mom insists that I'm not only going through the post-Africa transition, but I'm also going through the post-college transition at the same time. Which makes sense. I did take off last year a mere two weeks after graduation, when all of my friends were still clueless and floundering as much as me. Now I'm back and they're all pretty settled down. They all have 9 to 5 jobs, apartments, boyfriends. They don't drink like they're still college students. They don't spend each day wondering where they're going to be sleeping that night. Their possessions don't fit inside a backpack.

I know that some of the things I went through this past year were not specific to Africa. Everyone experiences certain things the year after they graduate from college. Like paying rent. And learning how to cook. And seriously thinking about your future for the first time. But I'm pretty sure that my year after graduation was a little different than most. Like chasing donkeys off my front porch. And having break-ins be a constant possibility. And gulping down guilt every day as you pass starving beggars while you walk home from work.

I'm surprised at the extent of culture shock that I've experienced since coming home. I really thought I remembered what this country was like. My jaw dropped the first time I ordered a large Coke and needed to use both hands to accept it. And the first time I went out to a restaurant and could only eat half my meal (a travesty, if you knew my family). And buying clothes two sizes smaller because everyone else is so huge. And why is our scenery so bland? I am perfectly content just staring out the window on a 12-hour bus ride from Nairobi to Kampala because there is so much to see - so much activity, so much color. I had to sit in a car for a mere four hours to New York to see family and I couldn't believe how bored I became, and how quickly. The scenery is so bland. There are trees. There are houses. That's about it. There's nothing to watch; nothing that captivates my attention like a bus ride in Africa. There are no women draped in bright colored patterns walking home with barrels of water on their heads. There are no men bicycling bundles of wood or pineapples or gasoline. There is no animal slaughter that would cause our bus to stop so the passengers can buy some meat. There are no people clambering to sell you goods - whether it be chicken, nuts, water, or sunglasses - through your open window. (God, how I miss being able to buy dinner and furnish my house through an open bus window.) It was just a boring, monotonous four hours.

It's also taken me a long time - longer than I expected - to readjust to Eastern Standard Time. I used to be a really light sleeper. I used to wake up to the slightest Boston noise - police sirens, ambulances, cars pumping reggaeton rolling down my street, my deaf neighbors' TV on loud and them screaming to each other - but now I never notice. I guess after a year of sleeping through screaming kids on recess break (there was an elementary school across the street from my house in South Africa) and loudspeaker calls to prayer at 5am (cheap accommodation in Tanzania, Zanzibar, Kenya, etc. is always next to a mosque), Boston noises are no contest.

The longer I'm back, the more adjusted I become. I have finally stopped crying (for the most part). I have stopped tearfully looking up flights back on expedia.com. I have enjoyed seeing my family and friends, especially nephews and nieces for whom year is a really long time. I am getting used to my feet always being cold, to the point of numbness. I am getting used to no longer being tan (though I do still get asked if I am Hispanic/Indian/Italian/etc.). I am getting used to hearing people talk really loudly. (Seriously, why are Americans so loud??) I am getting used to hearing people complain about the most mundane things while I hold my tongue and think about how ungrateful they are. But as much as I'm gettnig used to living in America again, I can't help but feel like I was made to live in Africa. I am so comfortable there. I feel at home there. I was meant to live there.

That being said, I am entering the Peace Corps pretty soon. In a few months, I'll be back in Africa somewhere, teaching English and starting my next Big Adventure.

I'll be sure to keep you posted.

namibia

I can’t believe we’re back in southern Africa! It’s quite a culture shock. We flew from Nairobi to Windhoek, Namibia, with a stopover in Johannesburg. I really like Namibia. At first I liked it because it was such a stark contrast to Nairobi. Namibia is about four times the size of Great Britain but with a population of only about 1.8 million, so it feels very spacious. After Nairobi’s chaotic, jam-packed streets it is really nice to walk around wide streets with nearly empty sidewalks. It’s like going from a state of war to total peace. You barely even have to look when crossing a street. The other thing I like about Namibia, other than finally having some breathing room, is how culturally similar to South Africa it is – but without the racial tensions! Afrikaans is spoken freely by all races, unlike in South Africa where it has a negative association as the language of apartheid. Every bar here has a diverse clientele, unlike in South Africa where there are mostly separate establishments. It’s also really exciting to see things that we haven’t seen for a few months – things like green cream soda, modern toilets, drinkable tap water, ice in drinks, hot showers, and white people. I feel scandalous wearing shorts again and not having to cover up. I realized after a week of being here that we haven’t had a power outage once! How luxurious! It’s a whole different world in southern Africa.

Namibia has a very interesting history – the main European colonizing influence was German, so the streets in Windhoek are still labeled “strasse” rather than “street.” We walk around on streets named after composers, such as Mozartstrasse, Beethovenstrasse, Bachstrasse, Verdistrasse, Wagnerstrasse, Schubertstrasse, Brahmsstrasse, and, my personal favorite, Chopinstrasse. For some reason that I can’t really grasp, there is also a Robert Mugabe Ave and a Fidel Castro Ave. If someone figures that one out, let me know. At least it’s a change from Maputo, where you have to have either had a failed ideology or died or a horribly painful death to get a street named after you.

Our flight from Joburg to Windhoek was packed with the Namibian rugby team. Even if they hadn’t all been wearing matching shirts, their bodies’ tendency to go straight from bulging shoulders to square heads with no neck in between made it pretty obvious that they were rugby players. We befriended Vernon and Randall, the team doctor and physiotherapist, who gave us a lift from the airport to our hostel in town. We hadn’t realized it was 40 kms from the airport into town, which would have been a fortune of a taxi ride. They even gave us two headlamps and two mattresses to sleep on in our tent! We’re not used to such luxurious camping. Vernon and Randall are genuinely nice people who have shown us around Windhoek with true Namibian hospitality. Randall studied in the States and says that he is simply returning the hospitality he encountered there. (That’s nice to hear a good account of Americans for once!)

The reason we came to Namibia in the first place was to see the huge sand dunes out in the desert. At some point in recent years I must have seen a picture and it’s been stuck in my mind ever since. We knew there was no public transportation out to the Namib-Naukluft National Park, so we figured we were going to have to shell out the money to go with a tour company.

Let me take this moment for an aside about tour companies in Africa. If you travel for any amount of time anywhere in Africa, you’re bound to run into an overland truck or two or twenty. They pack a number of people into a big truck and drive from point A to point B, seeing all the tourist sites and providing meals. A popular route is Cape-to-Cairo, or at least Cape-to-Nairobi. The problem with these overland trucks is that they advertise themselves as “The Real African Experience,” when in fact you stay in your comfort zone the entire time, only leaving your truck to be herded on and off to see something. The trucks are usually full of obnoxious Americans/French/Aussies/Brits/etc. who have no desire to talk to anyone outside of their group, let alone an actual African person. What’s the point of a trip like that? I had enough frustration on a Birthright trip to Israel where 40 of us were herded on and off the bus like cattle, barely meeting any Israelis except the six who were in our group. That’s not how I like to travel.

So. We were not excited about the prospect of jumping on one of these trucks for a few days to go see the dunes. But we were prepared to since we thought it was the only way to get out there. We were thrilled when we met Thijs (pronounced tice, like dice), a Dutch guy staying at our hostel, and Johannes, from Germany. They had been in Windhoek longer than us and had researched all of the options thoroughly and discovered that it was actually much cheaper to rent a car and were looking for two other people to join them. After some research of our own, we agreed with them and rented our little VW Golf for three days.

our car

Our first day we drove to Swakopmund, the biggest town on the coast. It’s amazing how different the Atlantic Ocean is from the Indian! It’s colder, murkier, and smellier, but it’s an ocean so I was happy to be near it. Swakopmund is a really cute town, with colorful German colonial buildings housing antique stores and seafood restaurants amid rows of palm trees. But it had the feeling like everyone there was a tourist, so we only stayed for one night. After an action-packed morning of quad biking among the dunes – the most fun thing ever – and sand boarding down the dunes (pretty much like sledding but on sand rather than snow), we left Swakopmund on a buzz of adrenaline.

me quadbiking

walking back up the dune - the worst part of sandboarding

The seven hour drive to Sesriem, the closest campsite to the national park, sapped us of all that energy. Though we did cross the Tropic of Capricorn, which was cool. (We also crossed the Equator in Uganda.) We got up at 5 the next morning to drive out to Dune 45 to watch the sun rise. This was “The Thing” of the trip. Everyone – locals, guidebooks, other tourists – talk about it. ‘You have to watch the sun rise from Dune 45,’ they all say. Maybe we built it up too much in our minds. I had imagined the dunes changing all different colors – yellow, orange, red, purple – as the sun rose higher and higher. I had imagined the most majestic sunrise ever.

It was okay. Nice, even. Hiking up a dune is not exactly the activity I would choose to do at 6 in the morning. Have you ever tried running on the beach? Now picture that sand much more loosely packed and as a steep mountain, and you might start getting the idea. Maybe we were there on the one day that the sunrise was not that majestic. Plus, a lot of other people chose that day to go, so it wasn’t exactly the epitome of solitude that I had envisioned. We were kind of like, so that’s it? Still, it was a beautiful view from the top. Once the sun was up, we could see the desert for miles. Everyone on their overland trucks hiked to the top, saw the sun rise, immediately hiked back down again, climbed back into their trucks, and left. It was much nicer once they were all gone. I decided that I had huffed it all the way up to the top so dammit I was going to stay up there and enjoy it. And enjoy it we did. With the crowds gone, it felt like we had a whole desert to ourselves. We had a ball jumping around on the sand, sliding down the side of the dune and scurrying back up.

Anna, Johannes, and me on top of Dune 45

me and Anna on Dune 45

me and Anna on Dune 45

We finally climbed back down the dune and drove to Sossusvlei. Well, technically Dune 45 and all the dunes on the way are part of Sossusvlei, but we drove to a different part to hike among other dunes. Unfortunately our little 2-wheel drive had to be parked 5 kms away from where we wanted to go, so we started walking. On sand. In what was quickly approaching midday heat. A unanimous decision to hitch was forged and fortunately we got picked up by an almost empty 4WD safari vehicle. It was very cool to hike around the highest dunes in the world. Thijs went off the climb the highest one – the highest in the world! – while Anna, Johannes, and I decided we didn’t need to break our backs climbing any more dunes. We explored Dead Vlei, or Dead Pan, an area that I don’t even know how to describe. Dead trees stick out of hard, cracked ground at every angle. It’s carbon dated 500 to 600 million years old.

Dead Vlei - that green speck is Anna

Our fun road trip finally came to an end back in Windhoek – but not before Thijs taught Anna and me how to drive a manual car! This skill was something that I’ve been dying to learn for years and was beyond happy to finally learn. We are also happy to report that after our calculations, our car rental, camping, food, and even drinking added up to less than half of what a trip with a tour company would have cost.

We decided to hang out in Windhoek for a week. It’s a charming city and we wanted to explore it a little more. It’s a very pretty city surrounded by sprawling mountains. It kind of reminds me of Cape Town except the mountains are not as imposing and there's not as much to do. Our hostel is a great place – the kind of place that constantly has a stream of The Doors, Cream, AC/DC, Pink Floyd, and the like floating out of the speakers by the pool. With the exception of a few tense minutes when some loser asked the bartender to change it to the “Contemporary Instrumental” channel, it’s a great place to hang out. (The incident was amended by a quick coup and soon we were once again R-O-C-K-ing in the USA with John Cougar Mellencamp.)

Now we're back in South Africa - back in Grahamstown! I can't really explain the emotional mess I am now that I'm back, so I'll save that for another day.

kenya, uganda, & kenya again

Kenya is a fascinating place. There is plentiful wildlife in the national parks, including Tsavo, home of the infamous man-eating lions in the 1890s (watch the movie The Ghost and The Darkness). There is Nairobi, a cosmopolitan city with first-world amenities but notorious for its crime. There are the Maasai, a tribe of people who have preserved their traditional lifestyle to the present day. And then there is of course The Lion King, which must be set in Kenya or Tanzania, using Swahili words like simba (lion), mufasa (king), and rafiki (friend) as names for the characters.

Anna and I first arrived in Nairobi, the capital city, late on February 10th, to visit her boyfriend Alvin. We’ve been traveling by land for nearly four months now and we’ve covered a lot of this continent, but I can tell you without a doubt that the bus ride from Moshi, Tanzania to Nairobi was the most terrifying bus ride of my life. (And that includes all the Chinatown buses I’ve taken back and forth between Boston and New York.) We only left an hour late, which is actually early by African standards, but the bus driver must have thought he needed to make up that time and then some. He clearly thought he was in the movie Speed, despite the fact that we were on bumpy dirt roads, the windows were open thus coating us all in clouds of dirt, and he was not Keanu Reeves. A fellow passenger kept shouting, “Slow down! We are not animals!” At the time, Anna and I were laughing, but now that I think about it, it was probably only to keep from crying. When we finally screeched into Nairobi, my knuckles were white from gripping the armrest for ten hours.

Some travelers love Nairobi. I’ll be blunt: I don’t like Nairobi. I like Alvin’s neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, but every time we go “into town,” as they say here, I absolutely hate it. Matatu (minibus) rides are fun; I admire the drivers who are even more aggressive than the Massholes I’m used to in Boston. Whereas in Tanzania drivers run through red lights without hesitation, in Nairobi there aren’t even signs or traffic lights or road rules of any kind. Going into town is like preparing for battle. You can’t take a purse because you’ll get it ripped from your shoulder in broad daylight. We prepare for town by stuffing money into our bras, taking off jewelry, summoning courage, and praying that we’ll make it back in one piece. Once in town, it’s utter chaos. Not only do you have to dodge careening cars and matatus where there seem to be absolutely no rules of the road, but you also have to dodge the throngs of pedestrians rushing to and from work. It’s not the fun, exciting kind of hustle and bustle of New York City. It’s frantic, stressful, and harried. I literally pushed an old man out of my way once as I crossed a street. It’s you against the world. A trip into town only results in anxiety, stress, headaches, and ultimately relief and appreciation when (if) you make it safely home.

I’ll tell a tale about Nairobi. One night, Alvin, Anna and I found ourselves outside a fast food place. I was uncharacteristically not hungry so I decided to wait outside while Alvin and Anna got food. Alvin claims he told me to wait inside, but he and I differ on our memory of that part. Within moments I felt a quick chop to the back of my neck and saw a man running away – with my necklace.

Now, this isn’t just any necklace. It’s a gold locket that my father gave me when I was seven years old. (Why any parent gives a seven-year-old a gold locket, I’ll never know, but I love it.) On the front are my initials and on the back is inscribed, “From Dad With Love 1994.” Call me an old sap, but I like to wear this locket when I’m far from home. It’s probably my most prized possession – not that I have many possessions. It’s not flashy but it’s real gold and since I wear it often, it never occurred to me that it would be a target in “Nairobbery,” as Nairobi is, I discovered, aptly nicknamed.

I always figured that if I ever got mugged or robbed or into a situation of this sort, I would be the kind of person who would sit back meekly in the take-everything-just-don’t-hurt-me mode. I always imagined that I would be too shocked to take any action whatsoever except to drop my jaw in surprise and perhaps open and close it silently like a fish out of water. In my mind, I no doubt would have let the necklace go and would have thanked my lucky stars that nothing worse had happened to me.

Here’s what I did instead: I ran after the guy. I know. Stupid. I believe as I was running – which in my mind was as swift and graceful as an Olympic athlete, but in reality probably more closely resembled Phoebe on Friends – I was quietly moaning “nooo…” to myself multiple times, quite possibly accompanied by “not the locket…!”

I’m not sure how far we ran. It seemed far. It was probably only two blocks. The next thing I knew, I was standing over the thief as he was sprawled out on the ground. I’m pretty sure that this position was not a result of my momentarily gaining superpowers, catching up to him, and knocking him to the ground, but rather an overly nice bystander sticking out a foot and tripping him. But I’ll never know for sure. What I do know is that after a few quick but solid kicks to his gut and to other more sensitive areas of his anatomy, he handed over the locket. Though it was only the locket and not also the chain that it hung on, I decided that was good enough and, after one more kick to his ribs for good measure, left him there to deal with the growing crowd of bloodthirsty onlookers who continued to beat him up – whether in my honor or for their own amusement, I’m not sure.

This was my first experience with the idea of East African “mob justice.” I had heard of the system of thieves getting caught and stripped down to their underwear by bystanders (they don’t call the police because the thief could just bribe the police to let him go), but I never thought I would see something like a crowd beating up a thief firsthand. It was a shock to my First World sensibilities. If I hadn’t been a victim of a mugging, I probably would have been shocked at the idea and would have started espousing the ideals of the American legal system, but the honest truth is that there are a lot of inconsistencies and prejudices in courtrooms in the U.S., and seeing my thief so swiftly punished was gratifying.

After that delightful experience, I didn’t feel like exploring Nairobi too much. But one cool thing in Kenya is the tuk-tuk. An import from India, it’s a fun albeit slow way to get around. It’s a three-wheeled metal shoebox-like contraption that fits three passengers. I like to think of it as a cross between a car and a motorcycle. We stayed with Alvin for about two weeks and went to Uganda on February 25th. It was nice to leave most of our stuff in Nairobi and only take small bags with us. My hairbrush didn’t make the cut of the things I needed for Uganda, earning me the nickname Hagrid while I was there.

me in a tuk-tuk

Uganda is my favorite country that we’ve visited so far! It’s hard to explain why. Despite the rain, the potholes, the dustiness that caused me to ditch my contacts and wear my glasses that I hate, the fact that I got scabies, and the fact that I had to wear the same three shirts for three weeks, I adored Uganda! It is an incredibly beautiful country with the friendliest people. We first went to Kampala, the capital, where we stayed with Bethany, an American friend we had met in Dar es Salaam. (She is friends with our friend Kyle.) Bethany is awesome to be around – her energy and laughter are infectious.

We had an eventful five days in Kampala. One day we realized that it was the last day of the Olympics – I didn’t even know the Olympics were going on. We traipsed all over Kampala trying to find a bar that was showing the U.S. vs. Canada gold medal hockey game, but to no avail. We consoled ourselves by going to a casino where we not only had a blast but also walked away from the blackjack table with a lot more cash than we started with! It was tempting to fund my travels this way, but fortunately I resisted.

There is a bill up for voting in Uganda called the Anti-Homosexuality Bill. If passed, homosexuals would be subject to life in prison or even the death penalty. In addition, if you know someone is gay and don’t report that person, you can go to jail for three years. Bethany’s roommate John was helping organize a press conference to voice the opposition to the bill (which caused some initial confusion – wait, John, you’re for the Anti-Homosexuality Bill? No, no, you’re Anti-Anti-Homosexuality Bill). It was nice to attend the press conference and hear the “Kill the Bill, not the Gays” opinion, even if it is a minority in the country. It’s crazy coming from a country where I think it’s ridiculous that there’s even a debate about whether or not gay people should be allowed to marry to a country where there’s a debate about whether or not they should live.

After five days in Kampala, we caught a matatu to Jinja, a small town at the source of the Nile River. There we met up with Mary, one of the Australians we traveled with in Zanzibar. Our campsite was about 9 kms outside of Jinja, a beautiful spot right on the river. It was very cool to swim in the Nile! Mary is volunteering in Jinja for a few weeks so I went with her and spent two days painting a school. I was browsing through one of their history textbooks and found that it completely skipped over the entire Idi Amin period – it went straight from colonial times to Uganda today. I understand that it was a very painful period that people are still recovering from, but I think it’s a terrible mistake for Ugandan youth not to learn about it.

painting a school in Jinja

Anna, Mary, and me at our campsite overlooking the Nile

One of my favorite things about Uganda is the transportation. There are the usual matatus but also, my favorite, are the boda-bodas. Bodas are motorcycle taxis! They’re tons of fun and the easiest way to get around, especially in Kampala traffic. It’s hilarious to see them pack as much stuff as they can onto a motorcycle, such as three people and their living room furniture. (I’m not kidding.)

After five days in Jinja, we went back to Kampala for a quick stop before going on to our next spot. It happened to be International Women’s Day (March 8th), so we had a huge barbecue with Bethany’s group of friends and had the men all cook while the women did nothing. It was great.

We quickly took off again for Kabale, a town about 30 minutes from the Rwandan border, from where we went to Lake Bunyonyi, one of my favorite places on this trip so far. I can’t even begin to describe how beautiful Lake Bunyonyi is. The rolling, terraced hills made me think of Switzerland or Austria, except with volcanoes rather than plain old mountains. There are lots of islands and hidden bays as well. We camped right on the lakeshore and spent our days jumping in from high treetop platforms (the lake is super deep, over 6500 feet), swimming, and manning a traditional dugout canoe – harder than a regular canoe! We were proud to avoid going around and around in circles, known locally as the “mzungu corkscrew.”

beautiful Lake Bunyonyi

One day we went to a nearby school for orphans and had a great time playing with the kids. We sat in on the incredibly over-packed classes – one class had over 80 kids between the ages of 3 and 6 squished onto a few benches with only one teacher, an absolute saint. I had a mild heart attack when each teacher asked me to come to the front and teach, but it went well – good practice for the Peace Corps!

teaching!

playing with the kids

After five or six days on Lake Bunyonyi, we went back to Kampala for a few last days in Uganda. Kyle had just gotten back from India so we got to see him again and hear all about his trip. We were sad to leave Uganda but on March 17th we caught a bus back to Nairobi for a quick two days before heading to the Kenyan coast.

We first went to Lamu, a kind of miniature Zanzibar. We explored the winding streets of the old Arab-Swahili outpost and enjoyed seeing donkeys rather than cars.

Lamu

We spent most of our time in Malindi, a beach town that we discovered is very popular with Italian tourists. While I enjoyed the availability of gelato for a few days, the presence of the Italian tourists was very disheartening. All too often we saw old – I mean OLD – Italian men with young Kenyan girls. I’m all for interracial relationships but these were not exactly made from true love. We became fast friends with three women and quickly discovered that going after the rich tourists was a way of life for many young women in Malindi. They all had kids who lived with their parents, often in other towns, while the women continued to party and try to catch more rich men. It made me very sad. One of my first thoughts, upon meeting one friend’s six year old daughter, was: how soon will it be before she starts prostituting herself for the Italian tourists? Ten years? Less? All this happening in a town where the sign for the hospital reads “Malindi District Hospital/Funeral Home.” Must be a great hospital.

Now we’re back in Nairobi, having swum in the Indian Ocean for the last time. I can’t say I was too unhappy about leaving the speedos, the “Ciao bellas!,” and the prostitution behind. Tomorrow we fly down to Namibia for a few weeks before going back to South Africa. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that our northern-bound trek is over and in a mere six hours on a plane we’ll be back where we started four months ago.

a common bus companion: chickens under our seats