Quirks: unique in an individual sense, ubiquitous in the
universal. Part of adjusting to any new environment involves coming to terms
with its quirks and nuances, much like getting to know its personality. In beginning to describe some of the things
that have made my experience in Kijabe unique thus far, I found myself creating
something like a list of characters in a play. While not comprehensive, these
are just a few of the (non-human) players that add a little spice to my
day-to-day:
[The Bedroom Door]
On warmer
days, my bedroom door becomes something like a willful horse. If there is any
hesitation or sign of weakness in your touch, it resists you with every fiber
of its being. A single, firm, uncompromising motion is needed to bend it to
your will, though I am afraid one of these days I’m going to break it.
[The Bandit Moth]
When the
sun sets and a cool breeze slides down the escarpment over the entire town like
a soft blanket, windows beg to be opened. However, once or twice when I have
opened the windows but forgotten to turn off my light, a certain moth (and yes,
I’m convinced it’s the same one each time) decides I need some company.
Luckily, I’ve discovered the most effective method for apprehending and
removing said moth, which involves throwing one’s boxers on the target and then
using them like oven mitts to pull the invader off the curtains or bed sheets
(to which he desperately clings) so he can be escorted out the window from
whence he came.
[The Spiders]
When I first
arrived in Kijabe, the first order of business directly after moving my things
into my room was to launch a small campaign against the spiders that inhabit
the bathroom. Even though most are the kinds of spiders with thin, spindly legs
that probably aren’t dangerous, the number of legs something has is inversely
proportional to my comfort level. We’ve actually gotten to the point where the
smaller ones and I live in peace and respect one another’s territory. One day,
however, I walked in to find a spider that I probably could have taken a pulse
on, and, after my stomach was done visiting my throat, I was forced to take up
the shoe of aggression once again.
[The Shower]
I think we
all value consistency in relationships. We all have our good and bad days, but
all in all, we want to be able to count on one another and develop trust. My
shower and I have issues in this regard. The issue isn’t just inconsistency in
terms of heat, water pressure, or simply working; it’s inconsistency in terms of
its inconsistency. It would be one thing if I knew sometimes the shower won’t
have good pressure, or some days the heat won’t come on, but my shower has
taken it upon itself to keep things interesting with any combination of
scenarios.
Act 1, Scene 1:
Shower: I see you’ve just put shampoo
in your hair.
Me: Sure did.
Shower: Must be nice cleaning up after
a long day, huh?
Me: Yep.
Shower: Mmmm. Well I have to go do
something else, bye.
Me: Wait, no!
Shower: …….
Me: Shower?
Shower: ……
Me: [stands dripping with a soapy head,
feeling both helpless and ridiculous]
Act 1, Scene 2:
Me: Okay, Shower, I really need you to
come back.
Shower: …..
Me: You don’t want me to have to rinse
my head off in the sink, do you?
Shower (anemically dribbling): Calm
down, I’m back.
Me: Are you pouting?
Shower (pouting): No.
Me: Okay, it’s fine, I’m just glad
you’re back.
Shower (continuing to dribble at the
rate a cool glass perspires on a
summer’s day): Whatever.
Me: Ooh, starting to get a little chilly, aren’t we?
Shower: Get over it.
Act 1, Scene 3:
Me (trembling like a newborn child):
It-it’s really pretty cold now, Shower.
Shower: I know.
Me: But w-why? We were fine a few
minutes ago.
Shower: STOP TELLING ME HOW TO LIVE MY
LIFE!
Me: I wasn’t; I was j-just trying to
point out…
Shower: No, I don’t want to hear it. Just
stand there and freeze your
appendages off.
Me: Okay.
Shower: Hey, guess what?
Me: [unable to speak due to hypothermic shock]
Shower: Jk, lol. [unleashes glorious streams of warm water]
End Act 1
(After a brief intermission,
the saga will continue)
Dramatics aside, it has been
interesting to see how getting used to odd little things like these,
frustrating as they can be sometimes, can make a place begin to feel like home.
Yes, certain things are peculiar or slightly dysfunctional (much like one’s
relatives), but they create a kind of fingerprint familiarity that makes this
place here and nowhere else.
I’m sure I will probably write about more of these sort of nuanced experiences
while I am here, but I at least wanted to give an introduction to a few of the
daily details that seemed anxious to be observed.
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