To celebrate our first real week of teaching in Kenya, several of the teachers took us into the “interior” to drink mnazi, which is coconut wine. After a mile or two walk in the dark into the jungle, we came to a hut surrounded and lit by flaming coconut husks where we could smell roasting fish. A lot of men were sitting around on small stools. (I can get away with joining the men since I’m so weird anyway.) Everyone was sipping mnazi out of old aspirin containers or broken beakers salvaged from some lab’s garbage. The straws were made of hollow reeds, each with a wadded up ball of dried grass tied onto the end so that when you sip the mnazi, the dead bugs are filtered out. We spent the next five hours drinking and talking about how dangerous lions can be (“Oh they are clever! They will hide behind turnip leaves and if you don’t see them they will eat you!”). It was very fun, despite the fact that when we woke up we both felt as though we had ice picks lodged behind our eyes.
Love,
K
P.S. Kate and I just watched helplessly as a baboon grabbed our neighbor’s cute little white kitten and took off with it into the jungle. Our neighbor Tibu said the baboon wanted to adopt it since it has no children of its own. Mtua, the little boy who comes with me when I get water sometimes, said that she would eat it. I’m figuring that soon we’ll see a cat swinging from tree to tree by vines, or we’ll find tiny kitten bones mixed with the mangoes under the tree behind the house.
All the best,
Dave
P.P.S. Kate said to ask you again what you do at your job.
NEW YORK CITY
January 30
Hidy Kate,
The snow, this paralyzing, post-New Year’s megadump, is all anyone’s talking about, and everything is quiet and pretty. It was a mighty blizzard all right, over two feet of snow. All my crap’s still in storage, and I had to buy snow boots, but since the Gap has a liberal return policy, I’ll be taking them back after I unpack or after the thaw, whichever comes first. Yesterday was a snow day for the whole city—the mayor forbade private vehicles from traveling the streets. So there were zero cars and I walked down to my dentist in the middle of Fifth Avenue. Stack is sporting a fake fur coat this season. He refuses to concede that this makes people think that he is gay. Which he is not. He wants to write a book on how to act gay to win chicks. At his suggestion, we played King of the Mountain on the snow piles. Of course, ladies’ man that he is, he let me be king. Play, I’m even more sure these days, is what we do best.
Right now my whole body is sore from shoveling the walk. What walk? you say. I’ve moved. To my new apartment? you wonder. Ach, well, not yet. I’m staying at a brownstone on the Upper East Side. It would be really fancy (It belongs to friends of my parents.) but it’s under renovation. The fifth floor, where I do little more than sleep, is cloaked in sheets of plastic, and the floors on the way up are coated in a plaster dust that rises around me as I climb. I pretend I’m the Flashdance girl, waving goodbye to construction workers on my way out every morning. But being a nomadic waif in this deserted construction site on Park Avenue is far more palatable than was my dad’s loft, particularly when he got up at six to use the NordicTrack two feet from my head.
Clementines are back in season and I’m happy about it. Do you miss them? They are perfect. I thought all of the orange family was great before I ever tasted them. First, the color. Orange is so surreal. Maybe lemon is too—when you think of either color dangling from a tree. Well, I haven’t ever seen that, but I have an idea of how surreal it is. So there’s the color, and then there’s the smell. In The Shining, the psychic guy who dies in the movie smells oranges whenever he’s about to have a vision. It’s a good, strong smell that stays on your fingers. Okay, then there’s that white stuff inside an orange peel. It doesn’t exist for clementines, but in oranges you can sink your nails into it in a very satisfying way. That’s texture. Also, you can light the orange oil on fire or something, right? And clementines peel beautifully, and divide out into perfect sections, and you can see that they are full of juice. And then you eat. And that’s a whole nother thing.
On New Year’s Eve I brought home a guy I met that night, and, luckily, he isn’t an ax murderer and there’s even a chance that we’ll like each other. He went to Yale and was friends with jocks but has since acquired an all-black outfit to complement his new literary scene. We had our second date (thanks in advance for being generous enough to count New Year’s Eve) last night. Maybe it should be fundamental, but I took great pleasure in what felt like a really even exchange. He talked. I talked. He laughed. I laughed. He walked me through the tall snowdrifts to my door, and I thought: I would like to know more about how the world appears to this person. I will invite his lanky, ponytailed self in, up all the stairs, and into my room, which is dominated by the bed. We were looking at Animals of Our National Parks through the Viewfinder that Stack gave me for Christmas when Nick kissed me.
Here’s where I feel a little sorry for you. You, my friend, you’ll never date again, never dress for a night wondering if he’s got a shoe fetish or if he prefers blondes. Never will you wonder if you’re attractive and entertaining enough for him until the minute you see him, at which point you will begin to wonder if he’s attractive and entertaining enough for you. Never will you negotiate the still-lingering politics of who pays the bill. Never again will you contemplate the first kiss, wondering if it will be cautious or impassioned. It must be a drag to have all that in the past.
My friend’s sister is coming to stay with me again for the week. She called last night when Nick, whom I like to call New Year’s Guy, and I were making out. I picked it up after fifty rings and was like I can’t talk now and she was like, okay, but did I leave my blue jacket there? Arg. Later Nick and I curled in bed together, eating, you guessed it, clementines. As it happened, last night I didn’t sleep well because of my snow-shoveling trauma—pitiful, I know. Nick didn’t seem to mind my tossing and turning (wink, wink). It’s too soon to say what will happen, but luck and lust already prevail in this new year. My mother would definitely disapprove of bed-sharing on a second date, but I feel a need to vary my speed, you know?
Speaking of which, it appears that my brother and Emily will soon join you and Dave on the cruise-control highway. The likely possibility that they will marry delights me. First of all, it locks in Emily as my friend, if not sister. Sister! It’s just that I’ve never gotten to refer to someone as my sister before. Also, it means that Steven won’t be co-opted into a distant world of marriage. After all, I picked Emily for him. I’ve known her for longer than he has. It will just make our family bigger, which we could stand. Those Thanksgivings with just me, Mom, and Steven have been feeling pretty small. Third, I’m sure they’ll continue to be as sickeningly in love as they have been. And, gross as they are, at least they still sustain fairly separate personalities. I’m happy. I’m happy for them and for me. I can only imagine the less-than-ideal alternative—that Steven or you might’ve married people toward whom I had to be polite. Phew. It makes me want my mate to pass your inspection. Oh, and most important, if this goes through I’ll get tons of attention and credit for introducing them. My people call that a mitzvah. It really has made me start thinking, Marriage? I can handle marriage if my big brother can, and if you can, and all those other strangers can. But I’ll never wear a white dress. White makes me look green. I might need to get married in the desert, naked.
I went to see a movie with the two of them after we were talking about their pending engagement. When it was over, Steven had to use the men’s room and Emily told him not to go, because she wanted to head straight home. He frowned his Charlie Brown frown and I said, “Emily! If you want to marry my brother you’d better not plan to control when he goes to the bathroom! Geez.” Steven said, “Yeah. You’re not the boss of me,” which is what he used to say to me when we were kids. She flushed and giggled and said, “It’s so annoying. He always does this.” But I made her promise out loud, “I will never stop Steven from heeding
nature’s call.” What would he do without me?
I don’t understand about the chunky water? I’m guessing that those chunks aren’t Everlasting Gobstoppers. So what, pray tell, enhances your drinking water so meatily? Do you think the teachers were teasing you about the lions? I don’t want any uncaged lions to happen to you.
I feel sick from eating too much chocolate. Some things never change. Okay, it’s snowing again and I’m going to dinner now with my new work friend. Happy happy new year.
—H
P.S. I’m bad for not having sent this yet. There is so much gossip it’s almost not worth your time. Oh weakness, oh repetitiveness, oh curse of ages, I know you don’t want to hear it but I slept with that cad Jason again, but give me credit! I held to my resolution. I didn’t sleep with him one single time last year. Nick is only a maybe, but so many options! So much possibility! I must have a good haircut or else it’s a hormone. But I know, I know. I need my adventures to be more than boy-safaris.
All my love to you and that constipated husband of yours,
Hilary
RAMISI
February 7
Oh hello Hilaryish One,
Snow, you say? Snow? Ha, ha, ha, HA—I laugh at the likes of snow, I laugh at anyone who doesn’t laugh at the likes of snow. What’s kind of amazing about how hot I am right now is that even if I were about to die of heat, there is absolutely not one thing I can do to make myself any cooler even by a small fraction of a degree. Sweat and water do nothing because it is so humid there is little to no evaporation happening. I’m already virtually naked. Nothing in the whole village is below room temperature, seeing as there’s no refrigeration or airconditioning, so there’ll be no Snapple had and no place to cool off. I’m sitting here, sweat running down my face unchecked (I’d have to wash anything I’d wipe it with) reading a letter from you about snow and it’s not cooling me down. At all. In fact I’m getting all worked up. Nice. Another cool thing (oh how ironic) to keep in mind is that I presently have a slight fever because of my recent case of malaria which is adding a flush to my crimson cheeks. I just ate a melted Cadbury’s Dave got me in Mombasa when we were last there to save my malaria-threatened life (I can joke about it since I’m still alive), which we mightn’t have bothered about seeing as how I’m about to perish of sunstroke, and now the chocolate is boiling and frothing in my stomach. But a body can’t just let a Cadbury’s sit there, as you have taught me. So, in sum, I’m fairly miserable for the moment, although still chatty, much to Dave’s resentment as he tries to read the book he recently got in the mail from Uncle Billy (Dune, aptly). And how are you?
Yes, about the water. We are currently a bit troubled about our water, seeing as it’s the color of shit and smells like the Exxon Valdez, so Peace Corps is sending in a bit of it for a test, to find out what those chunks are made of. For now, to get the water, Dave fills up a big vat from a pump a few kilometers away, straps it to his bike, and brings it here. Then, we boil it over a fire and pour it into a ceramic filter inserted in a bucket. We used to use paper filters first to keep the ceramic one from clogging, but our neighbors took us to better water at a different hole, so we don’t have to anymore.
I don’t think I really knew what canned food was for before. I never realized what an important and amazing invention it is. If it weren’t for cans, people in some places could only eat the food they could grow or kill. I mean, if you try to bring anything from anywhere it spoils immediately in the heat. Anyway, a fringe benefit is that now Dave and I have a can that used to contain cheese affixed to the wall of our bathroom with a candle in it so we can see the various infections on our bodies when we wash ourselves after dark. (Did you get that part about canned food? It’s important.)
. . .
I’m quite worried about the situation at school. I know I started to tell you about this already, but the three weeks since classes have started have really opened our eyes to another whole world of trouble. Despite all that we had read and learned about corruption in Kenya, we had no idea what to expect. Public school costs money here, enough, in fact, that a good many Kenyans can’t afford any formal education. Some families or villages pool their money to send just one promising son or daughter to school. This makes it all the more painful to watch when that money seems to disappear into thin air.
In Ramisi, the students have not received any supplies. Without books or paper, following the national curriculum is quite difficult, as you can imagine. Then keep in mind that the headmaster just purchased a new white pickup truck. He seems quite content and doesn’t seem too curious about where all the supposedly ordered supplies might be. Everyone tells us that this is the situation all over Kenya, but there doesn’t seem to be any way to fight it. The headmaster brings a big fat chicken to the one man in the village who is higher in command than himself, so the two of them are the best of friends.
A few days ago, when the students began to grumble about the situation, the headmaster put the form fours in charge of the younger students, told them he would give them each an exercise book if they would “supervise,” and left town. The older students took that to mean they should beat up the younger ones. We arrived at the school to see one of my form four students force a younger one to kneel and then slap him across the face. As this happened, students started to yell and run, and fighting broke out everywhere. We stood there, frozen. Kamango, a teacher friend, suddenly appeared, ripped a big branch off a mango tree, and started flailing it around to break up the fighting. The boys ran off yelling. After we cleared up the broken desks and chairs, Kamango walked us the short way home and told us that if the rumbling started again, we should join him in leaving town, since students in situations like these sometimes become violent with teachers.
Now, a day later, occasional screams across the courtyard (which can be normal coming from a crowd of teenagers) set my heart beating hard until I hear quiet again. To tell the truth, what’s hardest to understand is that the other teachers and neighbors don’t seem shocked by the fighting. They talk to us about the dangers of incidents like this, but if nothing happens on Monday, I have the feeling that everyone is going to pretend it never occurred. I feel like people should be horrified and should show it. They should not think this is okay or normal, even if they are used to it. It is a big deal that the students are being mistreated, that they have been robbed and beaten, and now it’s another big deal that they are beating each other. Maybe people are embarrassed to act as if it’s significant in front of us outsiders. Maybe they want us to dismiss it, so they are acting like it is something that can be dismissed. More likely, though, people are too used to it to get worked up.
On another front: I will not speak about you re-sleeping with the unspeakable one. I have crossed it out of your letter and it will not be spoken about. He is Wrong and Bad and you will Stop. Don’t think you can do it just because I am so far away, either. No. Bad, Hilary, bad dog! No! The other one, Nick, seems okay so far, but you would know what I’d think about him better than I would, at this point. Congratulate Steven and Emily for me.
Although I neatly ripped off this section of paper, thinking I had exactly that much more to say, I now find that my chattiness has succumbed to my sluggishness. In other words, there is no more.
(Except)
Love,
Kate
NEW YORK CITY
February 19
Hi Kate,
Oh, favorite person, if you lived here then I would see you. Oh my God this fancy computer is capitalizing the first letters of my sentences. Geez. Also it puts a red wavy line under words like Kate and geez. Let this luxurious high-tech extravaganza stand in contrast to your current situation. I’d (it capitalized that too) say that you are experiencing the passage of time more slowly than I am. Weeks fly here and it seems to me that I write you a letter, then I get one, then I write one. My life is moving very fast, and it’s all pretty fluid. But I think that you are doing a million new things every day and learning a
whole life. I have trouble actually reacting to the peril of your situation. It’s as if you’ve gone to war. And I’m here just finishing my peppermint pattie. Mmmm. Remember peppermint patties?
I sort of expected that you would get malaria. I bet you hid it from everyone for ten years too. Typical. Just don’t get Ebola because then you’ll liquefy from the inside out and that would be totally gross. Your most recent letter really made me appreciate temperature regulation. You know how kids like to ask: would you rather freeze to death or burn to death? Guess you have an answer now. I won’t tease you by reminding you of how dramatically cold movie theaters are in the summer here. It’s nothing a nice toasty fire and some hot chocolate wouldn’t help. Mostly, I can’t imagine you in a place without showers, considering that they are your sanity mainstay. Kate, without an hour-long shower for meditation and ritual detoxification? This will truly test your mettle. Your situation seems worse than it’s supposed to be. If it’s so hard to accomplish anything, are your struggles worth it? You sound so hot and dirty. I’m counting on those prenatal vitamins to keep you scurvy-free. But I’m worried about the malaria, or is it the common cold of Africa? You’ll come home if it’s too bad, right? Could you please be serious for one minute about this? I’m not your mother. Don’t give me sunshine and petunias. I’ll be angry at you if you send me a bunch of blasé letters and then drop dead.
Dear Exile Page 4