Arrival on Rusinga Island - Sam

We arrived in Mbita, the town you reach before you cross over to Rusinga Island, with little information about the family we would be staying with. All we knew was that they were connected to a school (of which we didn't know the name), that they lived on Rusinga Island, and that their first names were Jane and Michael. We have been in contact with them for the past couple months talking briefly with one another through email. A few days before we left Nairobi, I realized we didn't know much more about them than their first names and the area in which they lived. I emailed them to get some more info about them, but got no response. We left for Rusinga a couple days later. 

We arrived on the island in the evening of the Feb 1st, the day they should have been expecting us. We knew Rusinga Island was small enough that we expected we could ask around and find them. After asking a local man if he had heard of them, he said, "Oh yes!" and directed us towards a school. He also said something about them being muzungus (white people), which was news to us. We then went to St. Joseph's Secondary School, an all girls Catholic school. We talked with a woman and asked her if she knew of a muzungu couple, Jane and Michael, who worked with a school on the island, whom we only assumed were actually a couple. She said no, but directed us to a man who seemed to be of importance with the school. He, not knowing who they were, then directed us to the Priest Father Sewe. Father Sewe was very friendly and welcoming, but didn't know who we were asking about so he gave his friend a call to ask if he knew of a muzungu couple by the name is Jane and Michael. He hands me the phone. The man on the end didn't know who we were looking for, but gave us another clue, the number of a muzungu woman, Linda, who runs an eco-lodge on the island. With this information Matt and I retired back to Mbita and got a hotel. We had been riding all day and decided to give up for the day hoping we would get a response from them by the next morning. Back at the hotel we decided we might as well call Linda. She, again, wasn't sure who we were asking about, but said she would call someone and get back with us. Within the hour she was back on the phone saying she has found Jane and Michael! She gave them our number and within the evening their grandson Michael Martin was in contact with us. We then made a plan to meet with them the following morning. It took 8 people and about 4 hours to find Jane and Michael Odula. As we learned, if we would have known their last names it would have taken far less people and we would have been at their house that evening. That's village life on Rusinga Island for you.

Home Sweet Home

The next day we rode to their house and were greeted by the family. There is Michael Odula,  that patriarch,  and Jane, his wife, their two grandsons, Michael Odula Jr. (known as Martin, his middle name) and Michael Odula III (known as little Michael) and one granddaughter. They are Rusinga Island natives and are certainly not muzungus, a fact that certainly made it more confusing to people when we searching for them. Michael showed us to our room which has two beds with mosquito nets. The property consists of four concrete buildings with metal roofs. There are chickens that roam around, a couple cows, and occasionally goats roam through the yard. I'm not sure who the goats belong to. Probably a neighbor nearby, but people often let their animals roam around freely so it's hard to to say for sure.

Our Room

That afternoon we accompanied Michael to Wanyama Secondary School where we would be volunteering. It is a small building that has two offices and three classrooms, although only one of the classrooms is being utilized as there aren't enough students, or supplies, to fill all three of them. Michael is working to get more students at the school and four more have recently shown up. With that being said other students seemed to have disappeared. The day before we arrived, Michael said he sent a few students home to try and collect their school fees. That may very well be why there are students that do not always show up to class. The school has a cook who cooks the lunch for everyone at the school. She cooks on an open fire right behind the school. There is a small room on the backside of the school where she can keep wood and prepare meals. 

Mr. Michael Odula

That same day, Michael sent Michael Martin with us to town to get some groceries on our motorbikes. As we were walking around the grocery store I began to wonder if we were going to be paying for these groceries. Occasionally Michael Martin would look at me and wait for me to pick out a brand of coffee or a brand of bread. I would look at him and say, "I don't know man. Whatever you guys usually get is fine." Then there would be an awkward pause and he would choose something. When we got up to the counter and everything was rang up and ready to be purchased, Michael Martin just looked at me. Again, an awkward pause. "Are you expecting me to pay for this," I asked. "Yes." I replied as if I should have assumed as much. "Well will I be reimbursed," I asked. With which Michael Martin assured me, Oh yes, yes of course." Of which I knew immediately was not the case. In Africa if people are unsure of what you said or feel uncomfortable they just tell you "yes, yes!" 

I was a little pissed off about the complete lack of communication that had just occurred and the assumption we would pay for everything. Upon returning to our host family's residence I showed Michael the receipt. Upon which he exclaimed dramatically, "Ohhh people in America are so kind and generous!" "No", I said dryly. "Am I going to be reimbursed the groceries I just bought?" His tone immediately flipped to a deep sadness, again very dramatic. "I am not sure how it will be possible." I explained to him that this time it was okay, but I did not appreciate him assuming I would buy things without any prior communication. I also added that on their page on workaway.info, the site we used to find this place, it clearly states that there is an exchange of volunteer work for room and board. Many other people are honest about needing a little money to help out with food and potential costs and that's fine. A large reason Matt and I can afford to travel as long as we are is because we are volunteering for a month. But everyone in America is wealthy right? No, of course not. Well, sort of. Wait...Maybe?

Last year I made far less than the standard poverty level wage in America. I also have the privilege of working jobs that pay for my room and board, so I am able to save much of what I earn. I also don't have a wife, kids, or even a girlfriend for that matter. That has allowed me to invest all my time and money into traveling a third of this past year. So no I am not rich, BUT I am traveling a third of the year and Matt and I just bought new motorbikes that cost about $1200 each. We are living a life of luxury and excess compared to that of a rural Kenyan. We just learned today that five students at a local primary school cannot afford their school fees that cost only $2.50 per month. That mean no education this month and quite possibly next month as well. After that who knows. So the question remains, are we wealthy? At this point, I barley have enough money to get through the rest of the continent and get home, let alone get back to work in Oregon. I'm counting on selling my bike at a somewhat reasonable cost. That may be a long shot. I honestly don't have the answer to the question. It's very clearly circumstantial, but I do have the insight at least to see how I am lucky and clearly privileged. Sometimes it makes me feel like I shouldn't be here. Sometimes I feel like an asshole for complaining about splitting a $40 bill with Matt with a family that barley has enough money to get by. And maybe I am. Other times I think why shouldn't I be able to travel and experience different places and meet different and inspiring people along the way. I didn't choose where I was born or what advantages I have in life. I'm just playing the cards I am dealt. Again, I don't have the answer. I suppose there is truth to both scenarios.

I think it is fair to also add that after getting to know Michael Odula a little better I believe he is a sincere man. He is passionate about education and has worked his entire life as an educator and principal. He is also well traveled and has studied education and environmental studies around the world. It may be that the incident on the first day was due to cultural differences and expectations of ones culture that in Michael's case turned out to be a little skewed.

The Secondary School Class

On a more positive note we are making progress with students that we are working with here. They are very shy and are not very inspired to participate in class. This proves to be a large obstacle as the only guidance we have been given for volunteering is, "Just interact with them." Yeah, interact with a group of 13 students from 2 -5PM who don't answer simple yes or no questions. Easier said than done. With the help of our cultural exchange that we have set up with my sister Diana's class, however, we are making some progress. The kids, ages 15-17, are beginning to come out of their shells and seem to be very interested in interacting with students from America. This week we are going to try and buy a soccer ball and volleyball for the school and teach a PE class. We're hoping that if we can get out of the classroom and get the kids moving and laughing, we will make even more progress. The kids are after all very bright. They just have never had a muzungu from America interacting with them in their class before. They are a little out of their comfort zones and that is OK. In fact is a very good thing and we hope that in the next 2 or 3 weeks we can create a more open and comfortable environment. At least as much as we can within such a short frame of time.

Me Enjoying Ugali and Sardines

The meals here have been quite interesting. Simple, but interesting. A common dish is a stew made from sardines that are caught regularly here in Lake Victoria. They are caught in large numbers and then dried and taken to market for sale. They are found in markets all through Kenya and in Tanzania as well. They have a wretched fishy smell that fills the air unmistakably when one gets even near a market. They are then stewed  in a salty broth that actually doesn't taste too bad. It isn't great, but not horrible. Today, however, there was no broth. Just salted, cooked sardines and ugali. Ugali is another staple food of both Kenya and Tanzania. One that the people here eat enthusiastically as it provides them with nutrients and energy to perform their daily tasks. It is made from maize and is a bread like dish that has little to no taste. I personally don't love it, but when eaten with salty fish or beans and rice, it isn't too shabby.

One of my favorite dishes we had just two nights ago. We had chicken that was cooked in a broth with rice, ugali and a green that resembles kale mixed with seaweed, also very popular. The soup had whole pieces of chicken in it and before I knew what I had grabbed I realized it was the chickens head. This honestly excited me as I love trying strange food that I am not familiar with. It is part of the joy of traveling. I began tearing the head apart and eating bits and pieces of meat including the comb, the fleshy red thing on top of the chickens head. Unsure whether I should eat the eyes, I turn and ask Michael whether I should indulge or not. He looks at me blankly and says, "I eat everything," and immediately returns to eating. So I pop one in, chew it up and swallow. It was as delicious as the comb, although the texture was a little unsettling. It had a rigid, almost crunchy bit that must have provided structure to the eyeball. After picking the thing clean, all that was left was the skull and what was inevitably inside. It is here that I regrettably refrain from continuing. I nibble at the brain stem momentarily and give up. That was a bit more than I was willing to eat, but as I am writing this I feel should have indulged a bit further. They may be time still before Matt and I depart for redemption. One of the worst meals I had here was plain beans and maize. It was not seasoned and the maize was not cooked thoroughly. It was a bit of a chore to get through. Neither Matt or I could finish the heaping bowl that sat dauntingly in front of us.

Matt and I on his Birthday