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passively. The culture in Kenya is generally one in which people evade issues and do not say rude or
disrespectful things to one another. We tried desperately to act culturally like Kenyans but were treated
culturally like the Westerners we are.
With the drunken street hawker gone, the doors closed tight, and the matatu bouncing along the potholed
road, I decided to take charge of my time in Kenya by accepting the status I carried on my shoulders.
Because we lived in one area for two or three months before moving on to the next, we got to know our touts.
Eventually they didn’t grab our arms or snap at us for attention. They greeted us, smiled at us, and stepped
aside while we got into the van.
The street hawkers, too, began to see us as glorified locals. They still pushed plastic bins and candy through
the windows, convinced we wanted to buy them, but when I put the whole picture into perspective—these
guys are just trying to make a living—the street hawkers just became a commonplace, if not comical, part of
Kenya. “Sure, I’d love to buy some squeaky children’s shoes,” my husband would joke with them, and they’d
laugh and laugh, trying to sell him even more ridiculous items. They provided a service, and we ended up
buying what we needed from them. I even began to seek out the street hawker who sold the bags of tiny,
sweet plums for 10 shillings each.
Even the street kids eventually turned into a normal part of my life. At most, they were a nuisance. When
younger kids approached us asking for money, we began turning their questions onto them. “Give me money,”
they’d beg, yanking on our sleeves.
“You give me money,” I’d challenge, pulling gently on their baggy shirts. High or not, the kids would hoot with
laughter, greatly amused by this ongoing game with a foreign couple.
“You give me money.”
“No, you give me money!”
This would last until we climbed aboard our matatu or until they became bored and wandered off.
When the perpetual warm smell of sweat didn’t bother me anymore, and the dirt caked to my ankles became a
second layer of skin, and the tinny music blaring from stereo speakers turned into the background music of my
life, the obvious annoyances that frightened me upon arrival were strangely comforting. The street hawkers
and kids harass everyone—that’s a part of Kenya. There is petty crime, but anyone with their guard down is a
target—that’s a part of Kenya. There is something good-natured in the plastic widgets and gadgets selling for
a shilling and the sense of humor the street children still have after all the lonely nights and long years living in
alleys—that’s a part of Kenya.
And there are elephants and beautiful people and wonderful languages as well—but they, too, are just a part
of Kenya.
disrespectful things to one another. We tried desperately to act culturally like Kenyans but were treated
culturally like the Westerners we are.
With the drunken street hawker gone, the doors closed tight, and the matatu bouncing along the potholed
road, I decided to take charge of my time in Kenya by accepting the status I carried on my shoulders.
Because we lived in one area for two or three months before moving on to the next, we got to know our touts.
Eventually they didn’t grab our arms or snap at us for attention. They greeted us, smiled at us, and stepped
aside while we got into the van.
The street hawkers, too, began to see us as glorified locals. They still pushed plastic bins and candy through
the windows, convinced we wanted to buy them, but when I put the whole picture into perspective—these
guys are just trying to make a living—the street hawkers just became a commonplace, if not comical, part of
Kenya. “Sure, I’d love to buy some squeaky children’s shoes,” my husband would joke with them, and they’d
laugh and laugh, trying to sell him even more ridiculous items. They provided a service, and we ended up
buying what we needed from them. I even began to seek out the street hawker who sold the bags of tiny,
sweet plums for 10 shillings each.
Even the street kids eventually turned into a normal part of my life. At most, they were a nuisance. When
younger kids approached us asking for money, we began turning their questions onto them. “Give me money,”
they’d beg, yanking on our sleeves.
“You give me money,” I’d challenge, pulling gently on their baggy shirts. High or not, the kids would hoot with
laughter, greatly amused by this ongoing game with a foreign couple.
“You give me money.”
“No, you give me money!”
This would last until we climbed aboard our matatu or until they became bored and wandered off.
When the perpetual warm smell of sweat didn’t bother me anymore, and the dirt caked to my ankles became a
second layer of skin, and the tinny music blaring from stereo speakers turned into the background music of my
life, the obvious annoyances that frightened me upon arrival were strangely comforting. The street hawkers
and kids harass everyone—that’s a part of Kenya. There is petty crime, but anyone with their guard down is a
target—that’s a part of Kenya. There is something good-natured in the plastic widgets and gadgets selling for
a shilling and the sense of humor the street children still have after all the lonely nights and long years living in
alleys—that’s a part of Kenya.
And there are elephants and beautiful people and wonderful languages as well—but they, too, are just a part
of Kenya.
Bio:
JoAnna Haugen served as a Peace Corps
volunteer in Kenya from 2004-2005. She
currently lives and writes from Las Vegas,
where she can often be found planning
her next great adventure. One of her life
goals is to touch all seven continents.
Read more of her work on her blog at:
www.kaleidoscopicwandering.com
JoAnna Haugen served as a Peace Corps
volunteer in Kenya from 2004-2005. She
currently lives and writes from Las Vegas,
where she can often be found planning
her next great adventure. One of her life
goals is to touch all seven continents.
Read more of her work on her blog at:
www.kaleidoscopicwandering.com
| WAVE Journey.com Women's Adventures, Vacations & Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
TM
| REDEFINING KENYA ~ continued pg 2 of 2 Article by JoAnna Haugen, photos by Cory Haugen |
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for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you are interested in finding businesses or
services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one online travel resource.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented travel businesses & services
around the world.
WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor activities this website is
for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you are interested in finding businesses or
services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one online travel resource.
His grin was missing two front teeth, his eyes
glazed over and watered, and his body stunk of
potent amounts of alcohol. He held a gaudy door
decoration in my face, insisting that I wanted to
buy it. The other waiting passengers watched us,
giggling quietly at whatever this man was saying
in a language I didn’t fully comprehend. My cheeks
burned in humiliation and frustration. I didn’t
understand why no one in the van would help me
stand up to this guy. The street hawker poked at
me and dangled the item in front of my face like
bait. No, I insisted, I was not interested. The
onlookers laughed, my husband tried helplessly to
get the man to leave me alone, the street hawker
breathed heavily in my face. Finally, in
desperation, I signaled to the tout for help and
the man was swiftly booted from the vehicle.
That’s when it dawned on me. As Westerners we
stood out and were targeted for our skin color
alone, but we didn't have to fight our battles so
glazed over and watered, and his body stunk of
potent amounts of alcohol. He held a gaudy door
decoration in my face, insisting that I wanted to
buy it. The other waiting passengers watched us,
giggling quietly at whatever this man was saying
in a language I didn’t fully comprehend. My cheeks
burned in humiliation and frustration. I didn’t
understand why no one in the van would help me
stand up to this guy. The street hawker poked at
me and dangled the item in front of my face like
bait. No, I insisted, I was not interested. The
onlookers laughed, my husband tried helplessly to
get the man to leave me alone, the street hawker
breathed heavily in my face. Finally, in
desperation, I signaled to the tout for help and
the man was swiftly booted from the vehicle.
That’s when it dawned on me. As Westerners we
stood out and were targeted for our skin color
alone, but we didn't have to fight our battles so
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