Excerpts from Will Dobbie’s Letters Home:

Why Kenya? I was asked so many times why I was going to Kenya that I ended up repeating the same “canned” responses over and over: “I want to try something entirely new and outside my comfort zone,” and “I want to study in a third world country whose economics and politics have not been studied a great deal”—both true, but they got rather stale after six to ten months of use. I had other reasons that were more difficult to explain.

I was very interested in some kinds of discrimination and racism that seemed unique to East Africa: Black African to Black African racism, and Black African to White expatriates or foreigners. In Kenya there are at least forty-two distinct ethnic groups, with different languages, customs, beliefs, everything. Many ethnic groups can be distinguished by physical appearance, while most others are immediately distinguished by their names or their region of origin. Due in part to the British exploitation of Kenya, and to the way they encouraged dissension between the various ethnic groups during the colonial era, many tensions—particularly political—still exist today. Every election sees the issues at stake swallowed by tribal concerns; whether it be which clan the candidate is from or which clans are represented in his group of appointees and staff members. Often presidential candidates will “bribe” an area by appointing a member of that ethnic group to a cabinet or parliamentary position, effectively high jacking democracy.

In addition to the ethnic discrimination within Kenya that has led to wide wealth disparities among ethnic groups, there is the less overt discrimination and racism between Black Africans and Caucasians, with discrimination moving in both directions. Obviously the wide wealth disparity between the average Caucasian and the average Kenyan will create a vast array of misconceptions and resentments in both directions. This is already evident to me in the three weeks I’ve been here.

Preparation: I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare for Kenya, but my summer job really prepared me to benefit from the experience; I was employed until five days before leaving as a camp counselor in a position requiring upwards of 115 hours a week of work. The camp itself was extremely positive, both in that it prevented me from obsessing over study abroad, and that it put me in an entirely new situation where I was required to facilitate intercultural communication and understanding. Knowing that I would not have a great deal of time after the camp, I had made it a habit to do basic research into the history of Kenya, and to read The Nation newspaper on a regular basis. I do wish I had finished some of the books I have since read on underdevelopment in Africa, and taken Kiswahili classes before the K sponsored classes…

First Impressions of Kenya: Upon arriving at the airport, my host parents pull up in an E class Mercedes. Needless to say, my first impression is of great wealth, at least in parts of Nairobi. On the drive home we go through the entire city, as our district is on the opposite side of Nairobi from the airport. We see only one or two other cars despite the "early" time of eleven in the evening. My host mom explains the desertedness as being due to the extreme lateness of our flight and the to insecurity of the city at night. We then proceed to drive through a slum, which is quickly replaced by the gated community in which my host parents live. The transition from one-room shanties made with corrugated metal roofs, falling-down walls, and burning garbage on the hillside, to an immense gated community with homes that would be considered large in any American subdivision, all with individual gates in addition to the guard out front, was amazingly short. Inside the house, I find that my parents have cooked a many course meal for me, and both sit down to eat with me, despite the fact that it is obviously far past when they usually sleep, let alone eat dinner (our flight was delayed). The length to which they went to make sure I felt welcome was surprising, and it really touched me, despite the fact that all I wanted to do was sleep after over thirty hours of flight time. After struggling through the delicious meal without falling asleep, I went upstairs and discovered that at night the upper levels of the house are sealed with a thick iron gate; in addition to this, the downstairs is bolted with large padlocks and gates on every door and window, and a sensitive alarm system. In my second story room there were thick metal grates over the window; I felt a prisoner in my own house.

In the first two hours of my time in Kenya, without a doubt, my first impressions were of the dichotomy between the outgoing and friendly people and the insecurity, which has caused them to create walls between themselves and those around them. I clearly saw the dichotomy of the extreme contrasts in wealth and prosperity and the national motto, Harambee (coming together), suggesting that the entire community contributes to help those in need—this was immediately apparent.

Adjusting to a new place—a day in the life: In my first month and a half in Kenya, I have adjusted in a number of ways, but more and more I realize adjustment is not only getting used to the obvious cultural differences, the things they teach you about in guidebooks and orientation meetings; it’s also the little details of a day that make life what it is. I was mentally prepared for the poverty, the crime, the inevitable mugging, for being singled out for being white; though all of these changes are still difficult for me, I knew what to expect and was therefore prepared to be shocked or annoyed. However, it’s the simple things that mark the true adjustments necessary to be successful in Kenya, and it’s the insignificant details of life that make the difference between a satisfying day, or twenty-four hours of pure exasperation and frustration. For example, getting home at night. It’s easy enough in theory, as explained by my host-mother: get on matatu 23, go past the first stop, get off in the slum area by my house, and walk about half a mile to our house in Loresho. In practice, it’s not so simple.

First, my mom tells me she is starting night classes the next day, so she can’t pick me up in the evening; I need to be prepared to find my own way home. We drive by the matatu terminus closest to our house, and she tells me that all of them go into town, but to come back out from the university just find one numbered 23 going to the “waste-lands.” Now, being in Nairobi all of five days, I assume “The Wastelands” are the slum area where I get dropped off, but more on that later... Full of confidence, I head into the city for our first Saturday in the city, expecting the matatu to stop at the university at the usual place.

Relaxing on the matatu, glad to finally be independent of my host mom for transportation, I am surprised when all of a sudden everybody on the matatu gets off, and the driver tells me this is the last stop. Now, we are most definitely not at the university; we appear to be in a small alley, with only a few rays of sunshine illuminating the grubby faces of the street kids crowding around the matatu, and no landmarks in sight to orient me. Rather disconcerting for this mzungo (White guy). I walk out to the main street and head quickly in an entirely arbitrary direction, as this a street we were advised never walk on, especially alone. Despite my considerable apprehension, and the numerous inquires about where my shoes were manufactured (Germany), I make it back to the nice part of town none the worse for wear and ready to continue my day.

Later that evening, I end up at another student’s house after a day of walking around town, and even though it’s getting close to evening, when I should be off the streets, I’m only a little concerned about getting home in time, because, hey, just catch a matatu to the wastelands, right? After politely accepting a cup of tea, and making sure everybody else has a ride home, I finally make my way back down to the university to catch my matatu home.

Now, if you have no idea what a matatu is, let me digress and give a quick description. A matatu is essentially a small minibus used by everyone to get around almost everywhere in Kenya, but calling a matatu a minibus is a bit of an understatement. Every matatu is characterized by a number of features, especially in Nairobi where competition is toughest: extremely colorful and imaginative designs on the exterior, often of American pop cultural themes like a New York skyline with Slim Shady sprawled across the emergency door; four rows of cramped seating inside for four people across each row, plus the front row for the driver which holds 2 passengers as well; a driver, usually very quiet, probably from lack of sleep or excessive miraa chewing, with two touts manning the side door in an attempt to coerce passengers into the matatu, and to collect the money once underway, not to mention hang out the door of the matatu at every stop doing what one writer describes as “stunts worthy of an Olympic event;” and of course the requisite eardrum-bursting music that is quickly muted whenever the police are in evidence. Some matatus are more equipped in this manner than others, but all include at least some of these characteristics. In addition, because the faster you drive through the route, the more money you can make, matatus entirely disregard every traffic law in the attempt to reach their destination fastest; for example, one hotel was forced to build a large wall on the corner of their property alongside a popular matatu route, as two matatus had already careened off the road and into the hotel pool in an attempt to shave precious seconds from their route. All in all, your trip to Kenya isn’t complete until you experience the matatu phenomenon of downtown Nairobi.

Back to the story. So I leave the house and get back to the university staging area for the matatus to my area. Although the sun is starting to set I’m not too worried. I jump on the first matatu that is numbered 23 and says they are heading to the wastelands, and away we go. To a different stop.

See, until your matatu is full, or more than full, if possible, the matatu owner isn’t making as much money as he could. Since our matatu is only half full we head in the opposite direction from my house to pick up some more customers. As it gets darker and darker, and I get more and more worried, we finally pull out of our stop and head towards the wastelands. Even though I’m not recognizing any of the streets we’re passing, I’m only a little panicked, because my directions seemed pretty simple. As we pull into our next stop, I see a sign that says “Westlands,” and the tout looks at me and tells me to get off, that this is my stop. Now, this is most definitely not my stop, I tell him over and over that I need to go to the wastelands, then walk to Loresho, but he keeps telling me this is the ‘wastelands.’ Anyway, I stay on that matatu as we head further out, thinking that eventually I will get to my stop even if the tout thought that other place was my stop. As the sun finishes its inglorious descent, I don’t recognize anything at all that we’re driving past. As I really start to panic, wondering how I’ll get home if I’m dropped off in the dark in a strange neighborhood, we keep heading further and further outside the city. Finally, I recognize a building and realize that I think I am on the right matatu after all no matter what the matatu guys said. And, after my worried walk through the slum in pitch dark, my first commute home is over, no damage done.

A week later, after many more miscommunications on the matatu, I realize the source of all my misunderstandings came from two very simple pieces of information I did not have: in Kiswahili ‘e’ is pronounced like the ‘a’ in “waste,” meaning “the wastelands” and “the Westlands” are one in the same; and some #23 matatus stop in the Westlands, and some go further out to Kangemi, the slums whose name I didn’t know. For a week, I dreaded going home because I didn’t understand a very simple transportation system, and with the simple understanding that cultural adjustment brings, my day is much easier, and I am able to concentrate my energies on more productive arenas.

Summing up: For every day I spend in Kenya, I collect one more story of cultural misunderstanding and consequent adjustment from these heretofore unknown little details of life in Kenya: appropriate dinner manners, matatu etiquette, patience with making connections with other organizations, overcoming mzungo discrimination, learning to understand the Kenyan accent, etc. For my first month and a half, adjustment has not been a process of sudden enlightenment, but instead, a steady process of learning the little details that no amount of reading books on crossing cultures, talking with former study abroad participants, or doing Internet research could prepare me for. At the same time, it is these unexpected pieces of information that make traveling and living abroad the most rewarding; learning about what drives the everyday interactions and lives of Kenyans, and learning to appreciate those differences.