My Maasai Life. Robin Wiszowaty
they eventually agreed.
The other issue was money. This trip was going to be expensive. Fortunately, I’d been working part-time jobs since I was fifteen: secretarial work, lifeguarding, camp counselling. All along I’d set aside eighty percent of every paycheque, always knowing that a time would come when I’d need funds for this eventual something. My friends threw away their allowances and earnings on movie tickets or dinner at McDonald’s. Those things meant nothing to me. I had bigger things in mind.
So when this trip came up, I was able to cover my plane ticket, health insurance and most other costs. This was actually happening!
I knew nothing about Kenya. When I pictured Africa, all I imagined were the stereotypical National Geographic images of wild animals, rural huts, underfed children with flies crawling across their wan faces. I looked at photographs of the capital city of Nairobi, which was unlike anything I’d seen: crowded streets, drab buildings, certainly not a white face in sight. Those photographs only reinforced to me that I had no idea what to expect. I wouldn’t know how to say “hello,” “goodbye,” “thank you,” anything. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was going far, far away. That was enough for me.
I might have asked myself once or twice, What will it be like, to go away, to not see any of my friends or family, for a whole year? But I never entertained such thoughts for long. When people asked how I would manage, I had my automatic answer: “It’s going to be fun! It’s going to be an adventure!” Adam and Erin seemed fed up with my incessant whining and complaining, so they clearly didn’t take my ambitions very seriously. Friends told me I was foolish for even considering doing this. But I would just smile and nod while inside I was fuming, thinking, As if you have any idea! You would never do what I’m about to do!
The days leading up to my departure were full of excited preparation. Mom and I talked in heartfelt conversations, holding hands and discussing how was it going to be while I was away. Through tears she told me how much she was going to miss me and that she was scared to death that I’d get sick, even die. For his part Dad said he was worried I’d get caught up in political turmoil or even choose to never return home.
Yet when my parents asked me what my fears might be, I’d vehemently declare, “Nothing!” I denied myself the opportunity to think about what could go wrong. This, I was convinced, was everything to which my entire life was leading, my big, once-in-a-lifetime chance to show everybody I was more than just some angry, rebellious kid. This was my time to do something more daring than they ever would, and I would excel and thrive in it. In your face! I thought viciously. I had no idea what awaited me and I didn’t care. I didn’t even think twice about it.
But I did feel guilty, knowing how hard it would for everyone I was leaving behind. Thinking ahead, I collected birthday and holiday gifts for my entire family for the coming year, entrusting them to my grandma to deliver at the appropriate times. I hid small notes throughout the house so they’d be found at given times. For example, I knew Dad only read his Bible a couple of times a year, so I slipped a special note in there for him to discover later. I hid Christmas cards for everyone with the stash of decorations kept upstairs. I purchased cards from a florist and gave them to one of my mother’s co-workers, arranging for them to be delivered with fresh flowers to Mom’s office at the end of every month.
I had my friends go through my clothes and pick out what they wanted, then donated the rest to Goodwill. I squished everything I’d need into one backpack, figuring I’d buy clothes when I got there. I gave away my computer and my printer and whittled down my contact list to only those addresses I really wanted to keep. The plan was to rid myself of all superfluous things and people. I had only a few bare essentials—and my mission. That was enough.
I tried to set up these systems so that those I left behind would be okay, but also for selfish reasons—with these small reassurances, I could totally break all ties and wouldn’t have to worry about anyone or anything while I was off on my adventure. In my mind, I was done with this place.
Before I knew it, it was time to leave for Kenya.
My flight was in the afternoon, so the last morning I slept in, unconcerned and in no rush for anything. A knock came at my bedroom door, and my father entered. He joined me on the bed, which he never had done before.
“Robin,” he said, “if for whatever reason, you don’t come back, if you’re in some tribal conflict, or you catch some horrible disease . . . just know we love you, we’ve always loved you and we always will.”
He was choked up, and his fears were genuine, but I was only embarrassed. I had seen my father cry only once before, at my grandfather’s funeral. I wanted to properly honour what he was doing, reaching out this way, but I just couldn’t. It was too much. I couldn’t be seen as weak now, just when I was leaving. I needed to feel strong.
“Okay, Dad,” I said. “Thanks.” I didn’t want to make a big deal of my departure, but at the same time travelling overseas was the hugest, most dramatic thing that had ever happened to me. At the airport, my dad hugged me and cried again. Then it was my mom’s turn. She hugged me and also cried, just as I knew she would. Through her tears, she whispered in my ear.
“I want to leave you with some words of wisdom, but I don’t have anything to tell you that you don’t already know,” she said. “You’re ready for this. Go do it. Just call us when you get there.”
Saying my last goodbyes, I picked up my bag and headed for the security gate. But before I’d made it through, I froze. I turned and ran back. For the first time in years, I shed tears in front of my parents. At that moment I felt such a sudden, powerful outburst of emotion. Yet despite my tears, I did my best to reassure them I was okay. They said they understood, and we held each other, sobbing together.
Then I headed off, this time for real. But as I was leaving, I realized I wasn’t sure if I had my passport. Do I need that? I wondered. You need a passport to go to another country, don’t you? I honestly couldn’t remember if I’d checked it with my baggage or still had it on me. There, in the middle of O’Hare airport and in sight of my puzzled parents, I dropped to my knees and tore through my overstuffed carry-on bag.
Luckily, my passport was there. I waved it to my parents on the other side of the gate and called out to them: “It’s okay, ’bye!”
Then I stuffed the passport in my pocket and hurried to catch my flight.
2
Culture Shock in Nairobi Life
Everyone is s taring at me. A crowd of bodies surrounds at all angles, a collision of voices whisper and laugh at what I assume must be me. Wildly self-conscious, I shove my hands deep into my pockets, feeling my face grow hot, wishing I knew how to sink into the crowd, invisible.
It’s like the first day of school all over again, only this September it’s my first time taking Nairobi’s public transit on my own. Up till now my host family has accompanied me, but from here forward I refuse to have my hand held as I find my way around the city—even though I’m not entirely sure which bus to take. I chalk up my uneasiness to an overactive imagination and compel myself to stand taller, trying to look as if I know what I’m doing.
Every morning at seven o’clock I embark on a two-hour commute across Nairobi, hopping a Nissan minibus—called a matatu—through town to the Nazarene Church on Ngong Road. There I meet with other University of Minnesota students for Swahili lessons, classes on Kenyan culture and sessions where we share ideas for our individual research projects. From my host family’s home in a suburb on the west side, it takes about fifteen minutes by foot to reach the first matatu stop, called a “stage.” There I join the crowd at the curbside and find shade from the sun—already blinding despite the early hour—beneath a signboard advertising a cellular phone company.
Calls and shouts from the matatus ring on all sides. Everyone is a potential passenger, the prey of aggressive matatu operators.
“Beba