Kenya Dig It? - Camping Out
Nov. 20th, 2007 12:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bloodyrosemccoyHeh heh heh ... the malaria story will come in due time. But as I said, I'm planning at this point to begin at the beginning, so you all will just have to wait in suspense and hold your breath hoping that the malaria story doesn't end in my death.
Well, okay, I'm not gonna begin at the very beginning, because that's the airport, and nobody wants to hear more about airports, do they? We all know that they're not really places, after all--they're like hyperspace, in a dimension all their own in that liminal place between Point A and Point B. Plus, I was on Ambien for the long flights, so even though I met my groupmates in JFK, I kind of didn't notice.
So we'll skip that and just say I arrived safe and sound in Mombasa, and a week later so did my bag. This may have been a blessing in disguise, as everyone assumed that's why I cried a few times that first week, and I didn't have to explain that I just cry when going through transitions.* But it also meant that I had to make do with my carry-on things, which by the end of the week were in something of a state.
Fortunately, I am a smart traveller and put the important shit IN the carry-ons, so I had all of my essentials. I had money, notebooks, toiletries, my towel,** a Mini Addy doll from American girl, camera, iPod, and my pills. I also had some extra clothes. So for the first week I survived on two shirts and two pairs of underwear that I'd alternately wash and wear. As they're magic Ex Officio clothes, they take a lot of punishment, and they WOULD be quick-drying if Mombasa didn't have the sort of climate you normally find only inside rice cookers. And since the jeans I was wearing on arrival are not part of the Mombasa Student Dress Code, I used the one other item of clothing in my bag: Ganesh. This is a double-size sarong with a batik image of--anybody want to guess? I almost converted to Hinduism that week. As it was, the rest of my group was just a little puzzled by my calling the sarong by name and talking about it like a person. But then they found out this is the least of my eccentricities.
The first week was overwhelming, but the students were in good hands in the form of Athman and Ali, our academic directors. They took us on a walking tour of Mombasa, which contains a large number of people with mattresses on their heads and a larger number of cats. Our section of Mombasa is made up primarily of alleys, which I suspect the locals of rearranging at night. I'd have gone off and never been heard from again in those alleys if it weren't for these guys.
They took us to restaurants, on walking tours, to Fort Jesus, and even to their own houses for dinner. They gave us lectures on what to expect. They sent us off to explore on our own but promised they were just a phone call away. They made us feel safe.
And by the end of that week, I was starting to believe Mombasa existed--it always takes my mind a little while to catch up with the rest of me on that point when I'm traveling. No longer was I stunned by the sights of sequined buibuis. No longer did I follow Utah traffic laws in a world where they have no place. No longer did I instantly get lost the moment I stepped out of my front door. I was getting used to Mombasa.
Figures that as soon as that happened, we packed up to go somewhere else.
But since the first stop we made on the way out of Mombasa was the airport to pick up my bag, I was quite happy, and beginning to get the hang of this travelling thing. And so, with the first week behind us, I looked forward to a month of travelling the coast before coming back.
*Interestingly, my name literally translates to "she has cried" in Swahili. Coincidence?
**I'd just like to take credit here and note that I am a hoopy frood who always knows where her towel is.
Well, okay, I'm not gonna begin at the very beginning, because that's the airport, and nobody wants to hear more about airports, do they? We all know that they're not really places, after all--they're like hyperspace, in a dimension all their own in that liminal place between Point A and Point B. Plus, I was on Ambien for the long flights, so even though I met my groupmates in JFK, I kind of didn't notice.
So we'll skip that and just say I arrived safe and sound in Mombasa, and a week later so did my bag. This may have been a blessing in disguise, as everyone assumed that's why I cried a few times that first week, and I didn't have to explain that I just cry when going through transitions.* But it also meant that I had to make do with my carry-on things, which by the end of the week were in something of a state.
Fortunately, I am a smart traveller and put the important shit IN the carry-ons, so I had all of my essentials. I had money, notebooks, toiletries, my towel,** a Mini Addy doll from American girl, camera, iPod, and my pills. I also had some extra clothes. So for the first week I survived on two shirts and two pairs of underwear that I'd alternately wash and wear. As they're magic Ex Officio clothes, they take a lot of punishment, and they WOULD be quick-drying if Mombasa didn't have the sort of climate you normally find only inside rice cookers. And since the jeans I was wearing on arrival are not part of the Mombasa Student Dress Code, I used the one other item of clothing in my bag: Ganesh. This is a double-size sarong with a batik image of--anybody want to guess? I almost converted to Hinduism that week. As it was, the rest of my group was just a little puzzled by my calling the sarong by name and talking about it like a person. But then they found out this is the least of my eccentricities.
The first week was overwhelming, but the students were in good hands in the form of Athman and Ali, our academic directors. They took us on a walking tour of Mombasa, which contains a large number of people with mattresses on their heads and a larger number of cats. Our section of Mombasa is made up primarily of alleys, which I suspect the locals of rearranging at night. I'd have gone off and never been heard from again in those alleys if it weren't for these guys.
They took us to restaurants, on walking tours, to Fort Jesus, and even to their own houses for dinner. They gave us lectures on what to expect. They sent us off to explore on our own but promised they were just a phone call away. They made us feel safe.
And by the end of that week, I was starting to believe Mombasa existed--it always takes my mind a little while to catch up with the rest of me on that point when I'm traveling. No longer was I stunned by the sights of sequined buibuis. No longer did I follow Utah traffic laws in a world where they have no place. No longer did I instantly get lost the moment I stepped out of my front door. I was getting used to Mombasa.
Figures that as soon as that happened, we packed up to go somewhere else.
But since the first stop we made on the way out of Mombasa was the airport to pick up my bag, I was quite happy, and beginning to get the hang of this travelling thing. And so, with the first week behind us, I looked forward to a month of travelling the coast before coming back.
*Interestingly, my name literally translates to "she has cried" in Swahili. Coincidence?
**I'd just like to take credit here and note that I am a hoopy frood who always knows where her towel is.
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-20 06:11 pm (UTC)I may have already quoted this, but Marc Augé refers to airports (and supermarkets and the like) as "non-places".
no subject
Date: 2007-11-22 09:57 am (UTC)I know what he means, though. They sort of don't count.