It was a long hike..

I thought that perhaps today is a good time to update. It's Sunday, the end of the week and it usually provides a quiet opportunity to withdraw and write a few lines to summarise the week's events.

Monday kicked off in a dreary fashion. Motivation was at a low and the skies were pissing on me, telling me things were not going to improve for a while. So I trudged on in the wet for another two days. Then came Thursday, or Thanksgiving as it happened to be in America. That night, a bunch of American girls were feeling nostalgic and had cooked a whole buffet of delicious food! Save for myself and an Austrian girl, all the others were accustomed to the tradition that for some is an even bigger day than Christmas (I found this very hard to fathom...). We had a culture clash. The Austrian girl and myself argued that butter came with the bread. It was natural. Be it peanutbutter or cheese, the bread would always be spread with butter. The Americans thought otherwise, and neither of us would budge. Ah, the problems we face... It turned into a very cosy dinner and it was great to meet some others!

Friday passed quickly and to be honest I can't remember what I did... I really can't.

Saturday, or yesterday, was hike day with Colette and Jessica. The girls arrived in the afternoon to my place and we set out on a walk that later found us trailing the main road in the pitch black. We walked to a tiny village and climbed atop a hill where the roaring sounds of the cars below were hardly audible. Not so far from us were the surrounding mountains with the remains of last week's snow. It was very peaceful and we gulped up our fruit and bread to quench our hunger. Realising that it was starting to get dark we decided to walk to the nearlying town Divonne to catch a bus back. Within fifteen minutes it really was pitch black and the three of us walked in a line next to the busy main road in order to reach the town in time for the bus. All in all, quite the walk and now my legs are in pain...

But Saturday doesn't end there. Arriving back in my room, all limbs completely chilled from the cool air, I take a hot shower. Dinner with the family and their relatives. The older half brother is staying over together with his aunt and her daughters. We decide to go to the local bar for a drink. It's great. Our talk revolves around a multitude of subjects, but usually with the theme of human nature, life... When we've finished our juice we take a walk and find a bench up on the hill and chat for a while.

Hopefully today will find me in Divonne again (although this time I probably won't venture the long walk...) for the Sunday market, which is supposedly something very special in itself. I may even allow myself the luxury of trying the Turkish baths, but only if my friend Colette comes along...

A hat incident

Merde. I've been caught in a little bit of a fiddle. Losing my favourite hat and trying to muster against the chill winds, I ran into one of the shops and bought myself a new one. Not a great deal to fret about one might think. But this is a hat with fur lining. Surely nobody sells real fur anymore, I naively thought to myself. Or perhaps the problem was that I didn't consider it at all. The next day, clad in my new very warm hat, someone (who's vegetarian...) asks me if it's real. With a nervous laugh I reply that naturally it's synthetic, I would never wear it if it were real. Up in my room I tear off the hat and tug at the tags inside only to discover that in large print it says "RABBIT FUR". There it was. The symbol of my hypocrisy staring me right in the face, only a few days after considering a second attempt at eating much less meat. Now I'm in a dilemma. I should really discard the hat (not sell it obviously because this would only mean a personal gain and a toss of morality) and buy myself a new one. Right? More research will have to be done...


Though it produced quite the sweat on Monday, afterwards I can laugh at it. To determine my level of French I went to the language school to take a test. Writing an essay on my aspirations, why I was learning French, what I'd done during the vacation etc. The other one was a grammar test. The lady said if it was too easy I should call her and she'd give me another one. Haha, I said I hardly thought that would be the issue... Half an hour later and quite satisfied with my attempt, considering it was about five or six years ago since studying French I present the papers to one of the teachers. She smiles at me and starts looking through my work. Soon it turns into a frown with the question, "You say you've studied French? At school?" Uh-oh. Also, I had to explain my situation in French. Hum hum. Eventually I managed to convince her that my understanding was far better than my ability to express myself (which I believe she had already gathered...) but that I was willing to work hard in order to catch up. Thus my first French class was yesterday morning and I found that among the students I really wasn't very far behind. "Phew", what a relief. But there's much to do. Afterwards I had over an hour to spare before my bus would arrive to I settled into a little local bar for a coffee. Once in my place, a man in his sixties and the older barman started a little chat. When I had to leave they promised that next time I returned they'd check through my homework and help me along by speaking French to me. I've taken quite a fancy to these spontaneous little chats and am considering coming back every week for my coffee and extra lesson.

Bonjour!

There was England and soon to follow, there was France. The former proved a delightful plate with just the right portion of everything. A long weekend of dinners, visits to London, sausages and mash, pub crawls and what not passed by far too quickly, as these blissful moments do. Clichés are what they are for a reason; most people have experienced them. Parts of it were a blur, I am sad to admit, for the promise was to soak up every moment and not let too many drops of alcohol poison the nights. But when emotions are at its peak, sometimes it's difficult to steer in the right direction and not trail off - be it emotions of joy or sadness.

Then, of course, there was France. Sunday afternoon I arrive, slightly more rested from my weekend; in Genève. J meets me with a big smile, and though my nerves have been slightly unsettled all morning, I already feel her warmth and start to calm down. Soon we've crossed the border into France; the impressive mountain range is a pretty backdrop to the villages we pass by before arriving in the village that for the next few months will be my home. Although I've repeatedly said that "I don't know what to expect", the village was very similar to what my mind had pictured. Steep hills where rustic apartment buildings line the streets. A patisserie here. Further down a butchers with a stereotypically dressed butcher clad in a white apron tightly fit over the round belly and bearing a thick, dark moustache. I was surprised by how much I had already anticipated in terms of the town's countenance and its inhabitants. On Saturdays a local market is held in the centre, with cheese being sold in masses, and fresh vegetables and fruits well over the tables.

After two weeks here, much has happened and it's been intense. Although it can be difficult not to always be understood I'm being forced to utilise the French I know and it is coming along much better thankfully. Next week lessons should hopefully be up and running, thus I will begin my task of being fluent by next year. Tonight I watched a Spanish movie with French subtitles at the local cinema, and though it most of what I did was read the subtitles and try to translate as quick as I could I got the main story. Hrmn, perhaps I was only deluding myself though... I don't know.

The only downside at the moment is the lack of much contact with other au pairs. It's proven slightly difficult to be part of the nightlife in Genève since my last buses leave at around 8pm. However, once in French class I'm bound to meet more people in my area so... there are many prospects.

Too many humans are stubborn in their conviction that the objects they cannot obtain will assure them the happiness they have so long been trying to grasp. I cannot rid myself of this anger toward the materialist sickness that seems to linger like a virus. How do we find a cure, or a sensible way of living with it, without letting it pester our daily lives and the future that lies so frail and vulnerable at the tip of our fingers? I'm torn. Torn between the longing for another pair of sunglasses, or a cream that will eradicate the mishaps on my skin, and the release of these silly 'necessities'. But it's not so simple, to resist the objects that whet our senses and bring a hunger that cannot be quenched. We strive to develop, consider ourselves far advanced from the civilisations a few hundred years ago. Or the peoples in the third world. We are not so different. Our ways of communicating are constantly becoming more efficient and the pressure on us to constantly evolve, digress from our past is forcing us into a lonely corner where we fend off any competition and believe we can hide away in the luxurious apartment with the wide screen TV. In our nature, we're all the same. Our drives vary to some extent, but stripped of our 'treasures' not much sets us apart as human beings. We should learn, in the West to sometimes sit back, realise that not everything is about efficiency, try to spend valuable time with elders, the younger. It's not about laziness, but about QUALITY. The word and its concept seems to have disappeared from our lives and instead taken the superficial form in objects that we pay hefty fees for to convince ourselves that it is quality. I do not speak for a return to a society where there was lack of food, or where we give up the ambition to achieve anything. For after all, technology in itself is not such a bad idea. But seeing mothers on maternal leave, strolling with their prams, profusely shouting into the phone, makes you think... what about the baby in the pram, with its wide-open eyes curious to learn about the world. Does his mother ever give enough time to speak to him?

I need to vent...

Let's reminisce, because times are still what they were

There was another blog, a little while before. I read it again, today and remembered sitting in Maison de Bertaux, the French coffeehouse in Soho. And cigarettes. It was a while since I inhaled the smoke... So here are two old entries. For you.
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Observations

"The clock has just passed one in the afternoon. In the corner of the French cafe she sits snuggled up with her book. At the bottom of her cup is a small pool of cold coffee.

A young woman and her, presumably gay male friend, discuss their potential future. Their conversation is a low murmur; plans of a Yale scholarshpi, applications to university in America dominate their talk. While the man speaks, the woman draws a deep drag of her cigarette. She shuts her eyes, shifts her head upwards and clearly enjoys the thick cloud that escapes her lips.

Nina Smone plays at a low volume, barely audible.

Private lives, dreams intermingle in the quiet of the cafe spreading through the room like the slow lingering smoke. It touches the other guests if rarely noticed. It is about the quiet seclusion of friends, strangers who participate in other's lives unnoticed, if only for an hour.

The friend leave. All that remain is the dying cigarette haphazardly tossed into the dirty ashtray. Nina Simone continues her singing without interruption; "Try a Little Tenderness".

Another couple to her right speak in an unknown language, probably Japanese. She cannot be certain. All they allow for interpretation is their body language and tone of voice. They engage in the same quiet murmur as the departed strangers.
This is what Maison de Bertaux creates, the quiet whispers, sometimes intense discussions with an artistic edge.

To provide an escape from the masses, the standardisation of society. If only for an hour or two, the guests find solace in the place that rflects another era, a different dimension where discontent with the state translated into passionate discussions of uproar. The cafe digs into the corners of a person's thoughts, places ideas into a different light. Desire for life, for quality, and wisdome is at its peak. Books, paintings, music are the foods that satisfy the hungry appetites."
-- Written today in Maison de Bertaux.

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"It's about knowing you'll die" [The Guardian]

I thought I'd share some comments from the Guardian on smoking:

"While I was smoking I often pictured my lungs, just to torture myself; in my mind's eye, years of steady puffing had transformed them from cheery pink wet breathing baubles into a brittle pair of crackling, desicated paper bags, dangling side by side like twin toasted whilemeal pitta breads filled with tar and tumours. Little wonder I wanted to quit."

"Yes, if there is going to be a winner in all this smoking ban hoo-ha, surely it will be them, the little children, safe in the knowledge that their lungs will now be tar-free and gleaming as they galabant from meadow to meadow. Too bad that they will be too obese to walk."

"Smoking in art is an emblem of mortality... just because something kills you doesn't mean it isn't beautiful or at least "sublime"."

And so, I console myself with the illusion that by smoking my cigarette I am somehow connecting to the creative world. If someone dares smoke next to me on the street however, I will glare at them in the haughty manner of a non-smoker.

[Focus to the Music]

"I listen to the keys strike, the piano is rarely audible. It's my fault, I'm distracted. The mind wanders astray too swiftly. The faint chords create a dreamy softness, contours begin to fade and mix with neigbours. Soon the music is many distances away, it blurs. It happens, often, a certain illusionary presence. "Focus, focus", and I stray off again. Afterward, I don't distinctly remember the exact course of my thoughts. Where they began on the map, what their goal was. But the music is pleasing, it works as a chaotic guide. It decides the stops on the way, the jolts."

Listening to: Paolo Conte, Russ Columbo, Amelie soundtrack.

So There It Is...

A few weeks left - provided all papers get sorted and the family doesn't suddenly decide that I'm probably some very odd character - until I should be leaving for France. Dates haven't been specified yet, but such are the news. We had a long phone call last week, after which we decided that yes, this seems perfect! I'll be staying in a small village just 30 minutes from Geneva (but still in France). French lessons every week, oui oui... :)

Ah, but I forget! Saturday night Clara and I have a cosy pre party with shisha and Amarula (Kenyan equivalent of Baileys) at hers, then make our way to the official doctors party!! Nono, not dress up, but for Stockholm's med students. We managed to get invited by our old class mate. I was all pumped up (yes, you were as well Clara) for the prospect of meeting these very handsome future doctors. However, despite the quite good turnout of attractive will-be doctors, I did not manage to be swept off my feet by a single one of them. Imagine my disappointment :O It's just as well that I'm off to France...

SO, Sunday night (without my doctor), I manage to drag my brother off to the movie theatre to see "Ensemble, C'est Tout!", a French, cosy, romantic, little bit dark movie starring Audrey Tatou. It brought me back into the large-scarves-old-French-apartment-mode. Another must-see movie.

I must be off to skype Janie - think she might be pissed off I was writing this entry instead of speaking to her on msn... ;)

GOING GOING, ALMOST GONE

I'm going, I'm actually going!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Drop it.

Farewell, we had a good time, but now this relationship has gone too far and become too dependent. With a little click, drag and drop it was over. I had considered the drop earlier, but a few minutes ago I decided it was enough. Into the trash, there it went. Gone, hopefully for a long time. Limewire had to go. In the future the music blasting through my speakers will either be from the online radio or music I have bought. Last time I bought a CD... well, the memory fails me. On Tuesday, on my way back from Action Aid that lies in the "Sofo" area of Stockholm (yes, our equivalent of Soho), I backtracked on one of the smaller streets. I happened to walk past a second hand record store. It was a different sensation touching the covers of these older records. The Beatles, Led Zeppellin, Brigitte Bardot, T-Rex... None of the hurried downloading that gives you ANY music you want at ANY time, ANYwhere. This was quality. Buying one of the records would be like taking a small risk. Initially I might not like all the songs, but there might be a hidden surprise, some might grow on me. I might give each song a little more time, after all, money had been spent on it... there might be more to the song. If I get too impatient, i-Tunes store will provide me with the music, but this time I would be supporting the artist.

Plans for next year are starting to see a brighter light... hopefully I'll be able to post a full update of where I'm going soon ;)

A Minor Addiction

I am officially addicted to this wonder called "2 Days in Paris". After this film I will never be able to watch a movie again and appreciate it as much, because I will always compare it to Julie Delpy's masterpiece. In spite of the gaping hole in my bank account I hope to be able to watch it in the cinema theatre again because I simply may not be able to wait for its release on DVD (at which point I will be first in line to grab my very own copy).



[Oh and as a side comment I officially hate all second and third graders at primary school. But I will have to put up with them for a little longer until I am off somewhere else.]

Thursday I will put up a minor photo exhibition at one of the school events for the orphanage in Kenya to get a few donations from the families wandering the premises. Hopefully they'll feel generous enough to donate their spare change. Which reminds me, make sure to take a peek at www.goodsamaritanvision.net!

Tomorrow, office work at Action Aid. Perhaps this is what I am supposed to do... work for a charity organisation. It's worth a thought.

[Fast-Ward-Re-For-Wind]

We walked the streets that glittered with the remaining rain drops. A bit of a drizzle. That was all. The dark was waking, but wasn't showing its entire countenance. I skipped a puddle - une, deux, my feet counted. My step was light, I was seeing the movie, 2 Days in Paris, finally. Pop corn, non merci, only the movie. No distractions.

The cramped theatre housed the expectant audience. Merely nine rows, but all filled. In third row, the heads in front of me block part of my view. Adverts start, I'd like to skip, fast forward, forget this part. It's starting, I sink into my seat, put my feet up, rest them as best I can in an awkward place. Julie Delpy and Adam Goldberg, sleeping on a night train from Italy to France. Natural faces; who looks good after a sleep on the train? Immediately the short flashes of places they have visited, the amateur filming captivate me in all entirety. Constant bickering, conversation, art, politics, real life. I love it.

http://www.2daysinparisthefilm.com/

A Little Late

As my title indicates, this entry is a little late. I promised before my trip to write in my travel blog, but no such luck. However, I can blame this misfortune on the speed of the Internet connection. Little did I know before embarking on my travel that Kilifi's Internet cafés were far, far behind what could have been anticipated. Waiting up to fifteen minutes for the log in page to load stretched all our patience to the limit, and we all gave up trying, acknowledging the fact that this was Africa and things here were going to be a lot slower than we were used to.

A Slow Pace of Life

Perhaps the first time we were served a taste of the Kenyan slow pace of life was the first weekend ordering dinner at our hotel. A group of around twelve of us were sat down at the dinner table chatting away. We were tired from traveling and eager to try what the chef had to offer. The waiter quickly took our orders and headed for the kitchen. A good sign, or so we thought. An hour later, he returns.

"Who ordered steak?"

Oh no, five of us raise our hands. He informs us that the steak is finished.

"I'll have the chicken then."

"Sorry there's no more chicken."

"Right... if there's no steak left, and no chicken... what exactly can I have?"

In the end, steak is swapped for sausages with bread and chips. Quite the delicacy, I bet.

One learns to slow down, and appreciate the time people take. What is the rush for anything, really?

Orphanage

After a bumby journey on the main road from Kilifi to Mombasa, we finally arrive at the orphanage where we will be staying for the next 2-4 weeks. In total, we are five volunteers, the first to arrive at the project. As we find out in our evening tour, the director of the orphanage has misunderstood our place at the project. He begins by showing us around his future nature park and after ten minutes we stop him to say,

"... we're actually here to help at the orphanage and school... this is an entirely different project to the one we signed up for."

A short pause follows and we discuss how to best divide our chores. In the end we decide on a rotational schedule where two of us work at the school, one in the orphanage and two at the park. Every day we rotate.

An Early Start

It's 05.30, Tuesday morning. Outside the sun is showing a very bleak face so far. Perhaps it is as tired as myself. I stagger outside to the kitchen and begin the morning's chores. Getting breakfast ready for the circa twenty children. I sit with the matron outside with an enormous pot of boiling water on the jiko (their equivalent of a stove... but it runs on coal... so more like a grill). It's quiet except for the crickets. Despite the early start this day becomes my favourite. When the older children are off at school I get time to chat to the matron and teach the younger ones a few games from home. I'm shocked when Christine (the matron) tells me her monthly wage only measures to around £20, which she uses to pay for the tuition of three children and their food. For two weeks she lives at the orphanage, working from 05.30-23.00, goes home for a Saturday night and comes back on the Sunday night. I don't think it appropriate to tell her how much I have paid for this trip...

Once dinner preparations begin I'm called back into the kitchen to help! The matron and the lady of the house grab a bag of what looks like a sack of potatoes. To my horror a herd of live crabs tumble out of it and into a saucepan. In desperation they try to escape their fate as dinner, but with no success. The women start to beat the claws off with wooden spoons while one holds the crab down. Half way through - during which I have been gaping with a wide open mouth - I ask if I can try. For a moment I seem to forget animal rights and beat away. One cannot be picky while out here. Served together with these is the typical ugali - ground maize mixed with water. It turns into a very thick, quite bland porridge, which eventually I start to like.



A Disaster In the Toilet

No, not that type of disaster. Due to the bad locks I managed to get locked into the bathroom after my shower. The handle wouldn't work and for over ten minutes I sat inside waiting to be let out. Outside the men had to break it open and finally managed to free me. However, one of them soon managed to get himself locked in as well while trying to fix the lock... We were roaring with laughter when we heard him shouting for us to help him out.

Coconut Conservation

Although we managed to convince the director that we weren't there for the conservation project in the end, three of us still had to help with the nature park before we only handled duties in the orphanage and the school. Our task: planting seedlings (little trees) in already dug holes, with... yes, empty coconut halves as substitutes for spades. In the heat, this was quite the task...




A Brothel? We Thought You Said a Guesthouse...

First weekend away we get the other volunteers from Mombasa to join us for a weekend at a hotel in Kilifi. Our project coordinator tells us he knows of a very cheap hostel just a two minute walk from the beach. However, he strongly advises us that we should arrange for someone to escort us from the beach... Dodgy? Yes.

On the Friday night we let him lead us to the guesthouse, along some small alleyways. Initially we quite like the fact that it will only be us staying there and that we have our own kitchen. However, it seems too small and we tell the owner that we need four more beds. No problem apparently, and she leads us to the back of the house to four small rooms. In each of them there is a toilet roll and a condom on the nightstand. The five of us give each other meaningful stares and discuss the situation outside with Gamba, our coordinator.

"It is a knock-up shop, we can't stay here!" we giggle.

However, he convinces us to walk to the beach before we decide anything. This little walk just intensifies our pessimism. It is not the suggested two minutes, but ten. And a long walk through dodgy alleys until we arrive at the beach. We fully understand the need of an escort. At this point we politely decline the offer, pick up our bags and decide to check in to a fancy hotel we have read about in our Lonely Planets.

We are ravenous and thrilled to be able to check in at the hotel! After a quick shower we head to the hotel's private beach for an enormous three course buffet, with a performance by African acrobats. Our plates were piled high with each course! After mostly rice and beans for the week, our stomachs had saved some space for this food.

They Sleep in the Staffroom

Classes at the school (which belongs to the orphanage) consist of eight students at the most and range from nursery class up to year five. We were all very impressed by how well behaved all the students were and their eagerness to learn! Take out a book and soon eight kids will be standing around in an attempt to be the first to read the story.

My class had only two students. First meeting with the class tutor:

"So you teach Maths and English. What else can you teach?"

"Well I can assist you in the other subjects."

"So you want to teach Science and Social Studies."

Teaching the kids about the Kenyan landscape and political system... no, don't think so.

"No no, I can sit in the class and help the children if they need any extra attention."

In the end I taught English and Maths on my own. Although it went really well... myself and the others felt very thrown into it and quite left to our own. We soon realised that the standards weren't really the same as at home, for the teachers. Ten minutes into the lesson they would leave their classes to get on with their work and either go for a stroll or sleep in the staffroom. Quite amusing...

A Safari to Remember

The next weekend off, my friend Vicky and I headed off for a three day safari at Tsavo East National Park (with an area larger than Wales or Jamaica). For two nights we were to stay at a camp site where no fence kept out the wild animals and the Masaai had to lead us back to our tents at night from dinner, to ensure we weren't the juicy food of a lion. Although I say we stayed in tents, we had proper wooden beds and a bathroom with a toilet and shower. Still it was very simple and out in the wilderness as we experienced our first afternoon.

Following our first game drive we decided to take it easy and read our books outside. We grab our chairs and place them a little away from our tents. We start to discuss our potential reactions to seeing an elephant walk by us.

"I'd probably just sit still and let it walk by..." Such were our comments.

Five minutes into our talk, Vicky grabs her things, shoots out of her chair while trying not to shout: "There's a monkey behind us".

Quite rightly we are being watched by a large Baboon standing merely ten metres away. I quickly follow into our tent and we take shelter inside. Once inside we giggle at our little adventure and decide to unzip the tent slightly and both take a peek outside. To our surprise little monkeys are scurrying about on our roof and seem very curious about their new neighbours. Soon there's full action outside and we manage to get some great close up shots with our cameras. However, we are too scared to leave the tent and end up lying on the floor while peeking through a narrow opening in the tent with our cameras.

As for the game drives, we were lucky enough to get a van to ourselves and could move around as we liked. The landscape was striking - orange dusty roads twisting through the colourful landscape. The morning and evening drives are the most memorable and peaceful. Especially the last night when we are late back, since staying longer to watch a lion hunt. The sun starts to set and with only Vicky, myself and the driver as passengers driving along the quiet road I cannot imagine a better moment.

For our meals we eat from a selection of foods from the buffet, under the trees. At the camp there are merely ten or so guests. In the evenings one of the Masaai holds the campfire stories about the park and the Masaai culture. Vicky and I manage to befriend one of them. He promises to take us down for a private tour to the river, which lies just slightly beyond our campsite one day. Since it is completely dried up we manage to walk on the cracks in the ground and spot the holes where the elephants have dug for water. John, the Masaai finds it very amusing to tell us how we can get attacked by lions or elephants. Any rustle in the bushes and we are both clinging to each other for cover.

One night, while heading back from the campfire, the Masaai stops us. Thankfully so. Ahead of us, standing right in front of our tent, munching away at a bush is an elephant! Adrenaline rushes through my body and I get all jittery "Ah, there's an elephant!! What do we do! Ah!" I whisper. The Masaai waves for us to return to the campfire and let him try to steer it away. The two other Masaai soon come to the rescue and not long after the elephant has been scared off. Although we can still hear the sound of the elephants at night, we are not visited by one in the night.

We are not very lucky with elephants on of the days. While clicking away with my camera at an elephant about to cross the road behind our van I notice in my lens that it is beginning to get a bit too close. Suddenly I realise that it is immediately by our van, I take a last click and throw myself onto the floor as best I can with Vicky soon following suit. Our driver tries to drive away, but the motor stalls! The elephant seems to try to warn us to get out of his way and eventually we manage to escape in one piece. What a rush! Soon we are both laughing at our ridiculous attempt at 'saving our lives'!

Once our safari is over we head to a Masaai village. However, I was very disappointed and felt humiliated (both of us were pulled into their welcome dance...). Like the dumb tourist with her camera... However, I must admit that after that weekend of being around the Masaai I did find one very attractive and bought two bracelets from him. Without haggling. It's strange to think, but I could understand why western women I had read about would find it so romantic to marry a Masaai.


I've never experienced such peace as I felt at the safari, or this whole journey to be honest. While sitting at dinner under the trees and the star speckled sky I wanted to keep that moment forever, to prolong it, press the stop button and keep replaying it. I was in no rush to do anything, all I thought about was how happy I was. Right then. I was neither looking back nor ahead. I wish I could keep that feeling with me.



A Farewell

Last week was lovely at the orphanage. I felt I had properly got into the routine and become more a part of the big family. Vicky and I had adapted a routine that fit so well. The children knew us much better, we sat on the steps outside playing games. I've never seen such happy kids. Only when we put batteries into the few toys they had did we see how their selfish sides began to show.

The Thursday of my last week, news reached us out in the countryside (the orphanage lies out on a country road which only has mud huts spotted along it) that a dead whale had washed up on the shore. After school, in total we were fifteen who crammed ourselves into the school van for an excursion to the beach to see the whale. It was brilliant, the short journey! In all the excitement there was loud chatter and giggles. Some were sitting in others' laps, some teaching me Swahili animal names, others playing games - probably the time we all felt like we were really beginning to become an important part of each others' lives. The whale on the other hand... EURGH!! Smelly and cut up in places where people had carved out meat to bring back to make medicine.



Last day, saying goodbye was difficult. And tearful. But on the journey back on the Saturday morning I felt so much at peace. I was up at 04.00 to catch a flight from Mombasa to Nairobi at 06.00. Once in Nairobi I had one hour until my next flight. When none of the luggage was arriving I asked one of the attendants what I was supposed to do, or could they inform Virgin that some of us were running late I was told,

"Oh, well usually at this time they don't accept anymore passengers. But it'll be fine, don't worry. Just sort it out once you get there."

Right... At least there were others in the same situation.

Once my luggage arrived I ran to the International terminal. Before entering all my luggage had to be security scanned. With my phone, iPod and tickets in my hand I chucked them into a tray and quickly walked through the scanner. However, I realised that my phone was gone. Luckily one of the passengers informed me that our flight was delayed so I stayed to find my phone. In the end I had about six attendants trying to find my phone and one telling me that this happened, people got their things stolen all the time but that I shouldn't think it was one of them. Finally I found my Kenyan phone number and one of them could call it. Suddenly I heard a loud ring and everyone scurried about to find where it was coming from. On the other side, in the trolley I had just used, was my phone. I had forgotten it in my hurry. Embarrassed I picked it up and mumbled many sorry's before walking off with my things to the check in desk. There I was informed that my flight was delayed by five hours. Surprisingly enough I stayed calm and thought, "Well... not much I can do, I'll just read my book and see what the airport had to offer."

Since I was connecting to my flight to Sweden at Heathrow, I was missing my last flight and decided to stay a night in London to fly back on the Sunday instead. Once my flight was rebooked a man on the same flight invited me and four other strangers to the first class lounge, where we spent the next five hours waiting to depart.

Once at Heathrow I called Kathi and Bugra hoping that one of them could give me somewhere to stay. Thankfully, Kathi picked me up from the airport as it was getting late and the next day I had lunch in Egham. All this time I felt calm and not worried about it at all. I was going to get back, when didn't matter so much. I knew it would work out, and it did. Very unlike my usual worried, paranoid self...




Hopefully soon I embark on my next adventure somewhere else. My feet are starting to itch, so soon I should be off.