pole

My broken hand garnered me no sympathy in my journey to Kenya, but it has since drawn the attention of most passerby's who cluck a "pole" as they shake their heads in my direction. Pole is one of the first Swahili words I have learned. It is pronounced polay, and means sorry. Not a sorry out of pity, but a sorry out of true concern for my well-being. If the person continues with dialogue, they next inquire, "in which country did this occur?" When they hear it was in Canada, you see their shoulders relax, and an audible sigh of relief that it was not in Kenya that I was so tragically wounded. Pole. Concern for my well-being. A warm welcome to Kenya.

I arrived in Nairobi on Tuesday afternoon, to a "sorry" at the visa desk, and my tourist visa was stamped without question. I was pleasantly shocked when I retrieved all of my bags from the conveyer belt and began apologizing to Nyamuhu for loving books so much that I felt I had to bring a whole library with me to Kenya. Books, and my favourite cereal bowl, and my sacred bodum French press, and a Frisbee and an exercise ball.

Wednesday morning we were off to Eldoret, for a whirlwind tour of meetings and greetings. Three hundred twelve kilometers and 9 hours later we arrived after 4x4ing through muddy construction, crossing the equator twice while seemingly going in the same direction, and admiring the breathtaking mountain views through cold breaths that fogged up the land cruiser. As we rose to an elevation of almost 8,000 feet I added every possible layer of clothing and wrapped myself in the hotel wool blankets upon arrival. And everyone thought I would be hot.

Thursday brought some sunshine and more warm welcomes from the Plateau hospital staff. I was impressed with the hospital staff, the cleanliness, and the bright murals painted in the maternity ward. I was also introduced to my host family, a lovely couple and their son, with whom I will live for 2 months once I return to Eldoret. Mama is a nurse at the hospital, and Baba is a retired school teacher turned farmer. Timothy, my new brother, helps on the farm. He and Baba asked me if I had ever milked a cow.
Oh boy. It may be good physical therapy for my healing hand, but I am hoping my therapy sessions don't start at 5 a.m.

I caught a glimpse of my future home, complete with wood burning fireplace (which I think I may need on a frequent basis), and 3 bedrooms (hint, visitors are welcome). We stopped in a grocery store where I discovered I can get sensodyne toothpaste and sunlight laundry detergent. It will seem like I never left Calgary!

On our safari home, we passed several long distance runners, some of who may be training for world competition. There are a few Olympic gold medalists living in my new town. My measly 5 km jog is going to look pretty lame; I will have to find some back road to avoid feeling like a slug.

The weekend has been spent wandering downtown Nairobi. I unknowingly meandered a few hundred metres away from the president at a prayer meeting (I was wondering why there were several black sedans and police everywhere). I was on a quest for an internet café and coffee. Can you blame me?

Monday I begin my Kiswahili lessons, and perhaps I will impress the teacher with my knowledge of pole and asante. Maybe I can learn "don't worry, I broke my hand in Canada."