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| A Woman's Directory For Travel and Life. WAVE Journey is your one stop online resource for women oriented businesses and services around the world. WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, garden, 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 resource. REDEFINING KENYA ~ Continued Article by JoAnna Haugen, photos by Cory Haugen |
| WAVE Journey |
| Women's Adventures, Vacations & Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
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 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.
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 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.
Author’s 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.myspace.com/joanna_haugen.
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.myspace.com/joanna_haugen.
Although the matatus scared me with their
unbeltable seat belts, questionable drivers, and
clearly unsafe features, I felt safer confined in them
than open and vulnerable outside. Street hawkers
crowded around the vehicles pushing everything
from pencils to underwear. They intimidated me, but
touts (the matatu conductors who collected
passengers and fare) regulated their pushiness to a
certain extent so as not to lose business. One
afternoon after a day of grocery shopping and
indulging in a meal out in Thika, a street hawker
climbed aboard our vehicle and firmly planted himself
in the seat next to me.
unbeltable seat belts, questionable drivers, and
clearly unsafe features, I felt safer confined in them
than open and vulnerable outside. Street hawkers
crowded around the vehicles pushing everything
from pencils to underwear. They intimidated me, but
touts (the matatu conductors who collected
passengers and fare) regulated their pushiness to a
certain extent so as not to lose business. One
afternoon after a day of grocery shopping and
indulging in a meal out in Thika, a street hawker
climbed aboard our vehicle and firmly planted himself
in the seat next to me.