Excerpts from Jess Eldridge’s Letters from Nairobi, Kenya:

Why I chose Kenya: In coming to Kenya, I was looking for a challenge and an opportunity to see and live the poverty, lack of resources, and daily difficulties that were not a part of my own reality. Also, though it may sound too idealistic, I was very interested in the possibility of seeing what I could do to help with some of Kenya’s major national concerns. Additionally, I was fascinated by the idea of living as a member of a minority. I had never really ventured outside of my white, suburban, middle-class existence before coming to Kenya. I wondered how much my race and sex would play a role in shaping others’ opinions of me and reactions towards me, and thus far it has been quite a learning experience. Perhaps my biggest goal in coming to Africa was to try to integrate myself with the people and become a part of the culture. Visiting any foreign country on vacation will not produce the integration that comes with an extended stay, but I reasoned that it would be even more difficult for me to visit a country such as Kenya later in life and feel as if I belonged. Because of the racial dynamic, the country’s impoverishment, and also because of the stereotypes held concerning wealthy, individualistic Americans (which definitely have some validity in comparison to Kenyan culture), I saw this as my one opportunity to live, and hopefully earn some respect, as a “Kenyan."

Mixed feelings on arrival: I had expected that I would absolutely hate this country for at least a few weeks before I started opening myself up to the good things. I expected to arrive and experience that sinking feeling in my stomach that happens when I get lonely or I feel out of place or unhappy with myself, followed by a serious depression. Surprisingly, I think it took me exactly twelve hours to adjust to things here. I stepped off the plane, went through customs, grabbed my baggage and found myself pulled into the arms of my host mother who gave me a huge hug and a gorgeous bouquet of roses. I experienced a little bit of that sinking feeling when I was shown my room, which is about the size of a dorm room with a shower and toilet that resemble something you might find at a campsite. I thought it smelled a bit musty, and it was not connected to the house (though the house was mere feet away around the corner and up a set of stairs). But I stifled that feeling for the time being and walked into the house, where I was greeted by the smiling house help, Emily and Maggie, who had prepared dinner for me. For a few moments while I was preparing for bed that night I thought I might be extremely lonely here. My room is outside the actual house, my family goes to bed early and they don’t take meals together, Maggie only speaks Kiswahili, I have only one ten-year old host sister at home, and my mom says she works long hours and spends a lot of time in her room. So I knew that I would have to approach everything with open-mindedness, excitement and a willingness to take the initiative to get to know others, particularly my family. It took me only a few days to adjust to the daily routine – getting up and being served breakfast at the table, leaving for school, taking tea with Monique after class, sitting up on my host mom’s bed chatting with her after she gets home from work, and hanging out with Emily and Zach in the evenings. I can honestly say that the sinking feeling in my stomach has never returned.

Adjusting to the reality of Kenya: I quickly grew accustomed to things here, and I was not bothered by the living conditions or city environment. Nearly everything I had heard about Nairobi was true – I have to carry my own toilet paper to the bathrooms, which look worse than most public pit toilets in the U.S., my family cooks in a kitchen the size of a couple of bathroom stalls, the city is generally very dirty, running into street kids is a daily occurrence, power goes out frequently, sometimes I take cold showers, people are CRAZY drivers, sidewalks in Nairobi are in such terrible condition I have to watch virtually every step I take, I hold onto my shoulder bag for dear life whenever I am walking by myself, there are guards dressed in navy berets carrying machine guns outside banks or on street corners, I get accosted by matatu (minibus-type taxis) drivers every morning on my way to school and I am accustomed to ignoring the stares and occasional rude comments by young males loitering outside shops downtown. But somehow, I have found nothing here that I hate.

The first time I set foot in Nairobi I was overwhelmed by all the sensory input around me. I was thrust into a fast-moving, fast-talking crowd of people, dressed very nicely for the most part, hurrying to their intended destinations. In complete contrast to that fast-paced crowd in the middle of the sidewalk were the people, mostly younger or middle-aged males, standing around in front of shops, either alone or in groups or two or three. They didn’t seem to be talking very much, but since they were standing still it was much easier for me to catch their stares as I walked by. And I would say the most intense sensation I have felt here in Nairobi is a total awareness of how much I stand apart from most people here, and also a self-consciousness about how unsure I might appear to others. If I walk by those men outside the shops and happen to glance at their faces, I wonder how much my eyes betray not only my naivety, but also my awareness of how different I appear and how discomforting that can feel. Nonetheless, I have learned that appearing confident, while less-than-confident thoughts run through my head, is half the battle. I desire respect more than anything here, and I will do whatever it takes to earn it, including walking by those men standing on the street and enduring their stares until they start looking at me as someone other than a tourist (and maybe, with a little help, as something other than a conceited, White, American female).

Poverty in Kenya: Perhaps the things around me that have made the biggest impression are those directly related to the poverty here. Yesterday I was walking down Moi Avenue and I was so struck by a blind man searching the ground in front of him for the change someone had just thrown at him. A few weeks ago on Kenyatta Avenue, I ran into the most enthusiastic street girl I have ever seen. She was wearing a red shirt and a red bandana, her eyes were yellowed and bloodshot, and she gave me the biggest toothless grin and held out her hand telling me she wanted some money for bread. While I replied with my standard, soft-spoken, “Mimi ni mwanafunzi. Sina pesa. Pole.” (I am a student. I have no money. Sorry), I now look for her every time I go down Kenyatta, hoping to find her so I can buy bread for her and maybe make her day a little easier. Somehow, that street girl has become a symbol of the spirit of so many Kenyans I have met here. So many people here suffer or live with less than what they need, and yet for the most part, everyone is so happy, so friendly, and so willing to share even what they do not have.
One more stunning example of the poverty in Kenya, which left an indelible mark on me, was our van ride through Kibera, the second largest slum in the entire world, and home to nearly one million people. Ironically, Kibera is located on a hill atop Cemetery Road. Driving up the hill, the shrub along the roadside suddenly gave way to an immense stretch of shacks made out of sheet metal, crowded so closely together that one could easily get lost on foot mere feet from the entrance. People dressed in mismatched rags with tired and listless eyes were propped up against the fronts of some shacks, and some were making their way in between the shacks, carrying bags of trash or small children. I saw some kids chasing one another along the road, while others were sifting through massive heaps of garbage, searching for food or other valuables, I assumed. The smell of human waste assaulted my nose, nearly making me gag. And all the while as our van drove through the area, I couldn’t help but wonder what these people must be thinking about the group of white college students peering at them with gazes of total ignorance. And strangely enough, as we made our way down the hill, the slums seemed to disappear nearly as quickly as they had emerged. From the intersection of Cemetery with the main highway, one would never guess the tragedy that lies a few kilometers up the road. I think it was at that moment that the poverty I had been reading and hearing about, the pictures of kids sitting in the middle of trash mounds, took on a very human face. When your university professor tells you that over half the Kenyan population lives on less than one U.S. dollar a day, you don’t really understand what that means until you’ve visited a place like Kibera. I want to get to know these people so I can be involved in efforts to help them, though I realize I am only one person and this is a problem that will take a nation to solve.

The importance of speaking Kiswahili: A small moment that meant a lot: The smallest things here can be the most memorable, and it’s funny how they can make my day. The first time I asked Maggie what she was cooking—speaking Kiswahili—she looked at me wide-eyed, spoon in hand and said, “WOW” very slowly and deliberately, followed by laughter and a huge hug. And of course, she answered me in Kiswahili and I actually understood her. I had a similar experience with the guard outside my building. One morning after I had been here a couple of weeks and I was used to going by him twice a day and giving him a friendly wave, I had the courage to greet him in Kiswahili. I will never forget the surprised twinkle in his eyes as he answered me and smiled. At home, I love the way my host mom grabs my hand if one of us makes a joke and we are laughing together, because it always makes me feel like I might actually be her daughter. It is those moments that have made me feel at home here and perhaps kept me from missing the people I love so much back in the U.S.

Coming to terms with White privilege: Only recently have I noticed myself making judgments where I once reserved them and taking off the rose-colored glasses I wore during my first month here. I have noticed several cultural challenges that make me question if I could truly live here as a Kenyan and if I would ever feel accepted. Perhaps the most pervasive cultural challenge I have found is encountering stereotypes on a daily basis, and feeling slighted or taken advantage of as a result of those stereotypes. Being American and Caucasian, my skin color and nationality are synonymous with money, and I have found these associations inescapable in most situations. For example, when I walk in downtown Nairobi I am continually approached by street children and adults, generally males, asking me for money. On the one hand, this is a facet of living in a major city and the product of national problems like poverty and unemployment; on the other hand, by virtue of my appearance I am approached far more often than the average Kenyan. I know that I am privileged. I probably make more money during the summer doing odd jobs than the average Kenyan makes all year. The fact that it is possible for me to obtain a job when half of all Kenyans are unemployed speaks to the lack of opportunities in Kenya as a whole. However, I am finding it increasingly exhausting to walk downtown carrying the weight of my nation’s best and worst characteristics as evaluated by people of a different country.

While it is a little difficult for me to admit, I understand exactly why my appearance is equated with wealth, and yet I really resent that equation. I resent being approached for money every time I venture out onto the street. I resent being quoted a price that is at least three times higher than the quote for a Kenyan every time I try to take a taxi or each time I ask how much something costs at a local market without fixed prices. I have grown accustomed to being told, “I’ll give you the sister price, not the mzungu one,” and then being offered the mzungu price. (mzungu means white person, by the way.) And, I have also grown accustomed to the opposite, that is being told flat out, “But you’re a mzungu. I can’t give you the real price!”

Recognizing my own defensiveness: As a reaction to that stereotyping, I am immediately suspicious of almost everyone who approaches me and my reaction is instantly defensive most of the time. I find that I am very careful about extending my trust to people. This attitude is clearly reflected in my body language walking down the street. Several times I have caught myself walking with a scowl on my face, or narrowed eyes that send the message that I do not want to be approached. If I am walking in a more familiar area, or in the area near my house instead of in the center of town, I find that in general I am more relaxed, but I think I have developed a coping strategy of ignoring what is around me. I walk fast, with purpose, and pay little attention to my surroundings, including people’s stares, whistles, comments, approaches, etc. And I think this has been largely successful as a coping strategy. If I choose not to hear and see things that might upset me, I won’t be upset. (On the other hand, if I am already in a bad mood and start walking on the streets downtown, it is much harder to ignore people’s reactions to me.)

Closing down and opening up: As a result of a disappointing experience with a Kenyan I had thought to be a friend, I found myself withdrawing a bit from Kenyan society, and spending more time alone or with other American students. This past weekend, however, my host cousin had a birthday and I took the occasion to try to build my relationships with family members. My youngest host sister, Monique, and I walked to the supermarket and bought ingredients for fudge and French toast and then had a blast cooking it and chasing cousin Emily out of the kitchen so she wouldn’t spoil our surprises. Thereafter, we just sat around eating and talking and it was truly one of my best afternoons here. But I think the best part of my day was that night, when I was lying in bed and my cell phone beeped. I got up to get it and found a message from Emily that read, “Thank you Jecy for making my day so special. God bless you.” I was really touched that she had enjoyed her birthday and that perhaps I had contributed to her enjoyment, and it made me feel more like a real family member again.

Belonging is a state of mind: I don’t know that I could ever be seen as a real Kenyan, but I think integration in this respect is more of a mindset than a reality. If I set foot on the street thinking that I belong in this city, it becomes so much easier to acknowledge my differences from the people around me and to acknowledge why people see me the way they do. In doing so, I can respond politely enough to convey both my understanding of their reaction and also my desire to be seen as an individual beyond the stereotypes associated with my appearance. This is much easier said than done, but it is something over which I have complete control, meaning that I almost choose how integrated and accepted I feel here in Nairobi. And maybe that is all that counts, because I can’t hope to destroy a pervasive, culturally entrenched stereotype that is admittedly based in part on fact. I can only change my own attitude and response to such stereotypes. Furthermore, in examining the meaningful ties I have with people here, notably my host family, I have plenty of evidence that stereotypes can be overcome, that it is possible to be seen as me, not “the Caucasian American.”