You know something is affixed in your heart when you can still speak as passionately about it a month later as you did on the day you finished it. Thanks, Nuru - and teammates - for taking a chance on someone who (as we both knew) didn't really know what she was getting into. It made a lasting impact.

The Plight of the Female

Crystal, my wonderful partner, is really into gender equality. I mean, it's her THING, her passion, her cause. Crystal has a lot of causes, but creating a world where women are recognized for their differences, their strengths, and given completely equal opportunity to pursue life choices -- that's the one. I'm not a feminist. In the past, I have even thought that it can be a sign of weakness to complain about one's plight because of a particular diversity characteristic. I've had a lot of circumstances throughout life when I've been the only female on some team, doing some job, etc. I've convinced roomfuls of stubborn old(er) factory workers to question their ways and listen to me, a young female who'd never set foot in their plant before a month prior. As a result, I kinda think I'm tough. I kinda think those gender issues just don't apply to me. And maybe I'm right. But I know now that this is only true because so many brave people have paved the way for me. Even if there are still people out there whose mindsets I have to change, I DO have the opportunity to do so. There are places out there where women don't even have that opportunity. Where the cultures and customs are such that a woman has no way of beating the "system", of countering the general mindset of what she should be. Because she has nowhere else to go once she's made a stand, no way to support herself, nobody who will take her in.

In Kuria, women run the house. They figure out food, clean water, animal care, and basic survival aspects of life. The older mamas are the queens by word, but are still the servants by trade. The men seem to listen to them, but are catered to like the kings, and have the true final say on matters that impact them in the house and how the household positions itself with respect to the outside world. In matters of finance, in matters of family health and family planning, in matters of business and in agriculture. The women have no way of exercising control on anything outside the house. It's an odd balance. And it starts in part by the way girls are raised -- believing their education is not as important as their brothers', being tasked with caring for younger siblings as if they were already moms themselves. But it is driven home by the ways that women move from childhood to adulthood.

Female Genital Mutilation (FGM, aka female circumcision) is abundant in Kuria. In fact, 80-90% of women undergo the procedure. (The exact numbers are uncertain, but that's believed to be pretty accurate.) Every two years, the ritual occurs in the community. It's like a tribal holiday -- people run around in masks, people celebrate in the streets. And one day, an older woman wakes up and there are a pile of knives outside her door. She has been chosen as the cutter. Only recently have women started bringing their own razor blades to the operation; until then, blades and knives were reused over and over again. The girls undergoing the procedure are anywhere from 14 to maybe 19 or so. Their families decide when they're "ready"... but to be fair, oftentimes the girls "want" the procedure. This is because they've been told that this is the only way they can become a woman, the only way they will ever get married. And that, of course, is their ultimate goal: to be married and have babies. What blows my mind (well, one thing) is that the ones who most religiously promote and propagate the practice are the old mamas, the "gocos". It's like a rite of passage. You'd think that they would have seen how many awful things come of it, how their lives have been shaped by being forced into submission, forced into young marriages, forced from their education -- and would want better for their children or grandchildren, want to save them from such misery. But no. And the girls -- those who don't want to do it are ridiculed. Socially ostracized if they don't, looked down upon even if they just show fear.

Aside from the obvious issue of this being a brutal and unnecessary practice that robs women of any ability to enjoy intercourse, there are some serious health and social issues that stem from such an abundant practice of it. Women bleed to death. They contract STDs and HIV from the use of dirty knives. They are more likely to contract these diseases later in life when they become sexually active -- because their cuts reopen so easily. Some must get resewn after every birthing. Some die in childbirth from excessive blood loss. On the social side, many many women do not return to school after the procedure. They are ready to marry - and so they do. And rob themselves of any chance - or at least any confidence - of doing something more in life. They will always consider themselves uneducated and hence bound to the home. I know that educated women are valued more highly because Mama Chacha's son Laurent told me that his friend's family had to pay 30 cows in the dowry for his bride "because she is an educated woman." That's a lot of cows. Have you ever asked yourself how many cows you're worth? How many do you think a Harvard Business School degree adds on? What if it's just, like, 10? would I feel belittled knowing that I were valued equally to the herd of cows I passed the other day in the field in Vermont?

I went to the City Museum of Nairobi and it made me mad. I saw the "ancient tools" used for cutting ... and I wasn't so sure they were all that ancient. The museum said that today circumcision is outlawed and many other rituals are instead used as a transition to adulthood. Maybe... but just because the government outlaws it doesn't mean it's stopped. Nice to have the tourists at the lovely museum believe that they're visiting such a clean country. But in a weird sort of way, I felt like I could read behind the lines of the museum plaques. Like even the people writing them knew, even they were paying some degree of homage to the practice.

And so I say, maybe there's a place for feminism after all. A place that provides women the opportunities that I have. That gives them a voice - one they can use without being beaten (physically or mentally) afterwards. A right not to be persecuted and belittled. So maybe next time I walk into a roomful of men and tell them why they should listen to me, a little part of me should be thankful that a lot of people - both men and women - did a lot of hard work so that I can do that.

The trip home - Parts 1 and 2

The trip home: Part 1 – Bus Ride

December 19, 5:00am: Lesson #1: Don’t trust African public bus schedules. A bus that may say it’s leaving at 6am could actually leave at 5am. And so it goes. Interestingly enough, we had planned to be at the bus by about 5am because we were attempting to transport my bags, Crystal’s “house” (aka like everything she owns packed into several giant duffels), a computer monitor, and 4 large boxes filled with our research and surveys. So at 4:45am, Isaac the driver picked us up, and we said our good-byes to Jake and Evans (the gate guard). A few minutes later we pulled out of the bumpy dirt road from Mohochi land, where the Nuru house is located – just in time to see the Nyamira Express bus whiz by. Isaac swiveled around, yelling “it’s ok my friends! We will get it!”, and TOOK OFF. What ensued: A high speed chase down the road, Isaac versus Bus, Isaac flashing his lights and honking his horn and swerving around any cars in his path… all the while, me yelling “Isaac stop! I think maybe there’s a 6am bus too!” (But what did I know.) Result: Isaac successfully flagged down the bus (amazingly, without any harm to anyone), got it to stop and load on our million pounds of boxes and bags, and we were on our way to Nairobi.

6:00am: The bus stops in Migori (the next town over from isibania). No biggie, considering the bus was supposed to stop in Migori. We wait. We wait some more. About 15 min into waiting, a Kenyan guy comes up to us and says something in Swahili that includes the question “passports?” We look at each other with concern. Julius jumps up immediately and runs out to check to see if the luggage is ok. (Lesson #2: Luggage in the lower compartment of an African public bus is NOT secure.) What ensues: A police blockade, checking the bus for contraband. Our duct-taped, twine-tied boxes of surveys look totally suspicious. The police make us open one. Luckily Julius picks the one WITHOUT the computer monitor, which I am SURE they would have come up with some reason for us to part with. We pass inspection. The bus starts up again, about an hour later. We fall asleep.

8:00am: The bus stops in Kisii (another town). A preacher boards. Preacher begins to preach at the TOP of his lungs (and he’s got a good set of lungs) in crazed-sounding didactic Swhaili. I recognize brief interspersions of English words such as “Christ”, “apostles”, “damnation”. People begin to give money to the preacher. He doesn’t stop. Crystal yells out a big “Amen!” – hoping that he’ll get the message. He doesn’t stop. I think his volume increases. Crystal and I plug our ears with our fingers – that’s how loud he is – it’s almost painful. 8:45am – he stops and takes a seat.

10:00am: The bus stops again. This time I don’t know where we are because it’s an unplanned stop. Kisii was supposed to be the last one before Nairobi – but again, schedules don’t mean much. A man with live chickens boards. The chickens go chill in the back of the bus. A large, made-up Kenyan woman boards with a big cloth bag. She does not take a seat – but rather, takes the preacher’s place in the aisle and starts screaming something. I recognize brief interspersions of English words such as “7 days”, “2 months”, “sick”. I discover she is selling herbal / traditional healer medicines to our bus. A TON of people buy from her. She keeps ranting about the benefits for some time, drawing in other buyers. I plug my ears again.

12:00pm: We arrive at the Nairobi bus depot (basically just a large parking lot located adjacent to a really disgusting and rancid trash pile). The bus is promptly swarmed by prospective drivers and baggage hands (likely many of whom are living on the street and trying to make a few shillings by carrying your luggage out of the fray). I am the first one of our group off the bus, and try to push my way in towards the luggage compartment – I want to be right there the minute they open the door, to make sure that nobody else grabs our stuff. I am totally surrounded by a mob of people… “mzungu, is this your bag?” “mzungu, I help you!” It’s a no-win situation. If you ignore them, they become insolent. If you so much as turn your head or say one word towards them, they take it as a sign of encouragement. Crystal and Julius get off the bus and the crowd moves to engulf Crystal as well. The police come to break up the frenzy. Another bus tries to get through the microscopic space between our bus and another, and the crowd is forced to part. We seize the opportunity and squeeze between the buses, out of the madness. We wait by the trash pile for the taxi that Julius has called. The smell is so rancid that I gag a few times and almost hurl. It’s the grossest trash I’ve ever ever smelled. The taxi finally comes and someone with seeming authority tells us that he can’t pull in beside the trash pile (right, b/c it’s really coveted real estate??). Julius slips him some cash and all of a sudden it’s a free parking zone. We jump into the cab and are on our way, Part I of our journey home completed safe and sound.

The trip home: Part 2 – Planes

December 20, 3:00pm: I’ve spent the morning touring around Nairobi with my fabulous driver Michael. He’s driving me back to Mama Chacha’s hosue (where I’ve spent the night) and all of a sudden a huge wave of nausea washes over me. I’d been feeling a little weird all day, in fact. My flight isn’t supposed to leave until 10pm, but I’d been planning to go to the airport early to meet up with Jake for some drinks and conversation at the airport bar. I decide to take a nap first and hopefully my stomach will settle. I tell Michael to come back at 6pm because I want to get a move on before dark, anyways.

5:00pm: I wake up from my nap. I’m so dizzy that I can barely stand up to finish packing my things. I crawl around on the muddy floor of my room, stuffing clothes and packages into whatever bag they’ll fit in. I have chills – it’s like 75 degrees and I’m wearing my Patagonia jacket and shivering.

6:00pm: Michael comes back to take me to the airport. Julius decides to accompany me to the airport – I think to make sure I don’t pass out in Michael’s car. I insist they stop at the neighborhood chemist, where I stumble in and purchase several antibiotics for which, were we in the US, I’d need to get a prescription. It costs me a ridiculous amount of money because I refuse the African generics and opt for the boxes that have names I know. Once back in the car, I pop one and close my eyes for the remainder of the ride. I can sense Julius looking back at me with concern.

6:20pm: We arrive at the airport. There’s some unknown roadblock and Michael can’t get me all the way up to the KLM departures entrance. Julius runs ahead and gets me a luggage cart, for which I was really grateful. I pay Michael, hug Julius good-bye, and walk about 5 meters before I’m forced by the man at a checkpoint to leave the luggage cart behind. I haul my bags onto my back and make my way to the check-in desk.

6:30pm: There’s nobody in line because KLM only has one flight – mine – which isn’t leaving until ten. The woman behind the counter starts checking me in, and all of a sudden the system freezes. “We are locked out”, she explains. “Amsterdam has shut us out of the check-in system. Anyways, you are later, you know.” “Yes”, I answer. “I know we’re not leaving until ten.” “No”, she replies. “There is bad weather. You are leaving now at 3:30am. And Amsterdam has stopped letting us check people in right now. But do not worry, the system could come back any minute.”

6:45pm: System still locked out. My whole body is aching and I am having trouble standing at the counter. I ask the woman if she would be OK with my sitting on the baggage belt next to her counter, and drop down on it before she can even respond. Three or four more people arrive for the flight and line up behind me.

7:15pm: Line building a little more. System still locked out. Still sitting on the baggage belt. Try eating a piece of a protein bar and my stomach churns.

7:30pm: System comes back up and the woman motions to me. I realize I’m going to miss my connection in Amsterdam and ask her if she can rebook me on a later flight to Boston. She says no; she’ll just check me to AMS and I’ll deal with it there. I balk at this and call over her manager. The system locks out again and all arguments are off. I return to the baggage belt.

8:00pm: A good looking Kenyan guy dressed in those cool branded sweats that probably cost way more than my designer jeans asks me if he can weigh his bags. I glare at him and ask if he can please make it quick. Guilt washes over me, slightly stronger than the nausea, and I mumble, “Sorry. I don’t own the baggage belt. I’m just not feeling well and I need to sit.”

8:05pm: Turns out the guy is really nice, and distracts me from the wait for a few. His name is Osseyou, and he’s in real estate in Portland. I commiserate about the state of the market, and hope for his sake that commercial doesn’t continue to tank. We chat about Nairobi, where his family is from.

8:30pm: The line is REALLY long now. Hundreds of people, most of whom thought the flight was leaving at ten. None of whom can check in. Since the airline staff don’t speak great English and aren’t doing a great job of explaining what’s going on, many come up to ask the girl lying on the baggage belt why the line isn’t moving. I gaze up at them and act as polite and informative as possible. We are all hoping that the system has locked out because they’re working on rebooking us all.

8:45pm: Airline staff come around with handouts -- a printed explanation of the state of the flight. I wonder why they can’t just get someone to make an announcement over a loudspeaker. Even a megaphone. Or find that preacher from the bus – everyone would surely be able to hear HIM.

9:00pm: System opens up. I haven’t been rebooked on anything. I allow them to check me only to AMS – knowing full well the problems I’m setting myself up for. I accept my single boarding pass and walk to the immigration desk. Kenyan guy behind the counter waves a blue piece of paper in my face and asks me where mine is. I have forgotten to fill out the exit VISA form – but in my daze I have no clue what he’s talking about. He seems to decide I’m too confused to be worth his time, and waves me through illegally. I later wonder if Kenya knows I’ve left the country, and if it even matters.

9:10 – 10:00pm: I wander around the airport looking for Jake. I become totally exhausted.

10:00pm: I decide I want to go into the British Airways Executive Lounge and wonder if my Platinum AMEX will gain me admission even though I’m not actually flying BA. I thoroughly confuse the girl behind the counter who has never heard of AMEX and she calls over her colleague, a young Kenyan guy who decides to let me in – not because of my AMEX, I’m sure, but either because he thinks I’m cute or he’s expecting me to pay him off. I don’t care the reason. I go inside, drink a glass of OJ which upsets my stomach, and fall asleep on a really fabulous couch.

11:00pm: Lounge guy wakes me up and tells me I can stay until midnight, when he’s closing. He also tells me some garbage about people paying $20/mo to use the lounge. I tell him I pay $450 for my Platinum AMEX which allows me to access airline lounges whenever I want, and that he was supposed to let me in anyways. I close my eyes, signaling an end to the discussion which I sense was going in the direction of me giving him $20.

11:55pm: I wake up, use the bathroom, and begin to leave. Lounge guy tries to convince me to stick around for a drink with him and his friends, who’d begun diving into the champagne the minute all the “legit” passengers left. I decline and make a quick exit.

12:10am: I finally find Jake in the Java House. Thus proceeds the kind of conversation that two people who don’t know each other too well can usually only have either late night or after a few cocktails. Jake is an extremely thoughtful and insightful human being and I am quite happy to have gained his respect and gotten the chance to see into the wonderful Nuru world he’s created.

1:30am: Announcement over the loudspeaker that it’s time for our flight to line up and start proceeding through screening into the holding pen – that stupid water-less, bathroom-less room that airports with poor initial security screens send you into before you can get on the plane, signaling to the US or EU that they’ve gone through the desired security proceedings at least for that subset of passengers heading to the western world.

2:00am: While standing in line, I realize I’m about to totally lose it. I throw my bag at Jake and make a dash for the bathroom. I’m pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the Nairobi airport bathrooms – compared to India and Rwanda, they’re like being at your own home toilet. I have no time to consider that though, as I promptly lose all the contents of my stomach. UGH.

2:00 – 4:00am: Blur. Go through security. Fall asleep sitting up in holding pen. Get on plane. Take several Nyquil. And thus, good-bye to Kenya.

PS - Don't Tune out Yet!

Even though I just wrote my "farewell Kuria" post, there will be more. And I am writing this mini-post to hold myself to that. I have two more posts I have been meaning to write: (1) A commentary/comparison on medical testing in Africa and the US, and (2) A commentary on on the correlation between poverty and corruption. So enjoy the post below - I hope it makes you smile as it did for me while writing it - and stay tuned :)

Farewell Kuria

Last day in the district of Kuria. Tomorrow before dawn I will get back on the infamous bus and head out to Nairobi for the weekend. As such, I feel compelled to reflect on what I will and won't miss about this lovely place and our life here this month.

What I'll miss:

• Sunrises, sunsets, and the bright stars
• 6am yoga on the porch -- being zen.
  
• Falling asleep to (or being kept awake by) crazy thunderstorms
• Greeting everyone you pass
• Openness. Easy trust. Warm people. The kind of welcoming attitudes that no longer exist in at least the northeast US and its constant bustle.
  
• Mangoes, pineapples, avocados, chapatis. Mmmm.
• Sunny morning Boda rides out to the field.
  
• Little guys (aka lizards. Even the one in my bedroom and the one in Crystal's shoe.)
  
• Baby chicks
• Monkeys
• The frog in the shower
  
• Cute/funny little kid greetings. ("mzungu, I'm fine." "mzungu, welcome to Kenya." "chicamo")
• Crystal, Gaby, Stephanie, Jake, the Nuru team -- of course.
• Nightly "family dinners" with the above.
  
• Boda Peter and Boda Abraham (whose mother I am named after :) )
• "My kids" - our wonderful team of surveyors. I will remember them all and hope they are able to lead successful lives in which they exercise good judgment in family planning, respect the women in their lives, respect and have confidence in themselves, and strive to make a difference in their community.
• My kids' random comments and questions about me and my life, which never cease to entertain me.
  
• MJ dance parties
• Seeing where Nuru has made a huge and noticeable difference in someone's life, and feeling swept up in the excitement and emotion of the family.
• Long walks through the villages. Scaling hills and jumping rivers.
• Not caring what I look like :) Not looking in a mirror for a week straight.
• Prayers before meetings. The feeling that many things in this world may still be left up to fate and/or a higher power.
  

What I won't miss:

• My bed. Think of the hardest piece of foam rubber you can imagine, then fold it up and put a big dent just to the right of center.
• Dirt. Being dirty.
• Smelliness. Garbage. Cows. Me. Others. My Nalgene bottle. (i have tried EVERYTHING. any suggestions??)
• Roosters
• Whatever the heck runs around on the roof directly above my bed at 4am. it is SO loud.
• Dodging cow poo. Everywhere.
• Afternoon rains when you're just plain tired and don't feel like getting wet and muddy.
• "muuuzzzzzzzuuuunnggguuuuuu! aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! how are yoooooooou? aaaaaahhhh!" (and repeat. and repeat.)
  
• The pile of 600 completed 20-page surveys that need to be entered into the database.
• Sad diseases. Sad sick people. Little kids with big bellies who don't have enough to eat. Little kids with sad diseases. Their images will all stay in my heart and I will pray for the betterment of their lives.
• Sad cases of the substance abuse that plagues families and "gives their money legs to walk out the door".
• Bugs that live your stomach for a week.
• My STUPID Kenya phone. It's such a ridiculously poor design. Nokia, WTF?
• Talking to people at home via Skype. Happy they invented it; not thrilled, always, with the execution.
  
• Doing dishes and sweeping. Yeah, I'm spoiled. I like dishwashers and vacuums.

Finally, I would like to encourage my readers to check out Gaby's tales of our Kuria adventures as well. It's a fun, informative, and well written blog... and PS - I am the girl who swung the broom that broke the monitor AND I am also the girl who went for the scary medical examination (all is OK). But read and find out more!
http://www.nuruinternational.org/about/research.html

The Bash

Today was our last day working with our interviewing, surveying madmen (and women). And upon request, we decided to throw them a good-bye "bash" (wondering where they picked up the term "bash" - which seems to refer to any celebratory activity), at the ritzy / corporate establishment in town (basically the only place that would remotely resemble an actual restaurant as we Americans know it). As an aside, this place has seemed to me such an odd out-of-place haven of quiet and order amidst this crazy, dirty, bustling little town of market stalls, kiosks of veggies and fruits everywhere you look, random stuff on the street, random and sometimes troubling people on the street, motorbikes, screaming kids, etc. Interestingly enough, for several of our interviewers, it was the 1st time they'd ever been. I couldn't decide if I liked that -- that we made them feel special by taking them to the high-end place -- or if I'd rather have let them know that us mzungus don't need to go to such a place -- we like theirs too.

So I'm too tired to write out the full bash-tastic story, so here are some bullet points of poignant and/or funny memories:

• The way they all (even the skinny little girls) filled their plates with fried food as if they were storing up for a winter hibernation. And then went back for seconds. Keep in mind the bash was NOT at meal time. But I doubt any of them had eaten lunch.
  
• The ease with which many of them expressed their feelings about what we've accomplished and what we've learned about the community.
• That Peter Sabora said that if he ever tries again for an interviewer job, he'll be the best trained person in the pool.
• Okoth giving a Barack Obama speech when accepting his certificate. Note: Okoth thinks that an Obama speech goes as such: "Thank you California! Thank you Ohio! Thank you North Carolina! Thank you Chicago! ..." (...and on and on)
• The boys talking about gender inequality in the community (Crystal will have them preaching women's rights yet!) and the need to educate and empower/create women leaders and role models.
  
• The strange look that some of the guys gave Crystal when she told them "ladies first".
• Okoth, in recollecting his earlier impressions of us: "Crystal, well, she has been around Africa. Sarah, well, she was SO mzungu!"
• Peter Sabora calling me a conservationist because yesterday I wouldn't let him drop the almonds wrapper on a farm. (littering around here is awful - people have so little respect for the beauty of their surroundings. I think it's because they don't know how different it could be.)
• The last performance of our own interviewer choir! Their singing gives me chills. I get chills sometimes when I'm in, like, a really fabulous B'way play with amazingly moving music. It was those kind of chills. And again - I don't even understand the words.
• My troublemakers being late. I was so mad at them today. We've come full circle. At least the work in between their trouble-making was really good.
• The genuine appreciation. The connections with us and with each other. We taught them a new skill set, gave them a challenge, kept them on their toes, and for some, gave them new friends. When Crystal and I first wrote our "desired interviewer characteristics", I never expected that we would also have the benefit of having such a fun and upbeat crew.
• Crystal again pointing out what a good match we are for this job. Our talents are totally different and that's why this has worked.
  

In a roasted-brown-nut-shell

(just trying to be more 'kenyan' with my title.)

Monday morning: In the field doing Biz interviews with my fun friend Clement.

Monday afternoon and evening: Consulting flashback with Gaby talking spreadsheets and metric calculations galore, mixed in with crazy unexpected interruptions and phone calls. It's like being back at Booz together ... only we're a lot dirtier and there's a lot less wine. And a lot fewer people yelling at us (namely, none). And we cook for ourselves (actually that's not entirely accurate - the CEO helps cook for us :) - definitely ALSO not a typical consulting scenario). And we have the craziest t-storms ever pounding at the roof. And there are dive-bombing bugs dropping onto our computers/desks. And a frog at the door.

Monday night: Team pow-wow. Data troubles. Wondering how we will ever get the results we want from all this field work.

That is all.