I realize I'm starting this blog on the 3rd day, but given I've been in transit for over thirty of the last fifty-something hours, I think I get a free pass out of internet obligations.
After a three hour drive to JFK Airport in New York City, we boarded an airplane to Mumbai, India. We then waited two hours, only to board a flight to Nairobi, Kenya, followed by a short stay in the city.
The unmitigated hell of airborne transit was softened only slightly by my access to a few hundred movies, none of which seemed engaging enough to keep me awake.
In the end, I survived on pretzel goldfish and World War Z, a novel documenting the oral history of the zombie war.
The city of Nairobi proved as potentially dangerous as it was awe-inspiring. Filled with gorgeous buildings from a smattering of eras, the large city featured a unique traffic system, unprecedented in confidence.
In short: Cars do not stop.
Not for one another.
Not for reckless bike messengers.
Not for two-ton buses.
Not for clueless American pedestrians who may happen to stray directly into their path.
The chaos of the traffic system was rivaled only by the steel-gutted bravado of our mercenary cab drivers. While charming and entirely personable, every driver who were happily acquainted with proved as willing to usher us into their vehicles as they were to risk our lives among the screeching tires and blaring horns of the immense city.
Our resident lodgings, The Parkside Hotel, featured glamorous drapings about each bed known as Malaria-preventative Mosquito Nets. All the same, there was much talk of the princess-worthy effect they added to each room.
We dined that night at the Nairobi Java House, which, contrary to popular belief, had little to do with actual java.
My entire table, including myself, ordered Mexican food.
It was pretty spectacular.
So much, in fact, that I didn't even think to snap a photo beforehand. The following image documents the surviving remnants of our dinnertime rampage.
After a pleasant night's sleep, interrupted only by a siren suspiciously similar to the hotel's fire alarm and the wailings of a phantom woman, we boarded a bus.
We were going to ride eight hours to the village of Kitali.
I was given the delightful opportunity of sitting next to our team leader, Faith, a veteran to both Kenya and Senegal. Her knowledge of Africa was rivaled by her lucklessness with seat partnering.
I proceeded to coo over sightings of baby sheep and pester her about the lack of pet dogs in the city for the next six hours.
She was saved from my incessant querying only by my swift, jetlag-induced, coma-like sleep and my desire to capture a music video moment by listening to folk music while staring at the countryside flying past.
The following are my three favorite sights:
-A four-year old boy, hot on the heels of an 800-pound cow
-An entire vanful of local travelers, all joyously drinking strawberry milk
-A group of Kenyan preschoolers, excited and overjoyed beyond comprehension, playing with a pile of tires.
I couldn't fathom the happiness I saw on so many faces as we passed them on the road. So many local people faced both work, road, and each other with smiles and peace the likes of which is unseen in American cities. I understand the impoverished status of this country, but when confronted by the attitudes of the people I have watched, I can't help but feel a sense admiration: amidst chaos, corruption, and need, they encounter joy in every day.
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