Enter the Tourist

We as humans have developed the useful ability to filter out sensations that occur repeatedly or incessantly so as not to overwhelm our faculties. That’s why you were not consciously aware of the feeling your shirt has against your body (until just now) or the position your tongue is resting in your mouth (until just now, and I apologize). You can imagine, then, being introduced to a place where almost every sensation encountered is novel, and thus everything is felt, seen, heard, tasted, and smelt in the arena of consciousness. This kind of experience could be summarily referred to as “sensory overload,” and also qualifies as an accurate description of these first three weeks I have spent in Kenya. In this case, I am using the word “overload,” not with the negative connotations it may carry, but with the intention to convey the unfortunate fact that I will only be able to present the tips of several experiential icebergs at this point, though each may merit its own blog if I were to do it justice.

            One of the most immediately strange sensations I had to cope with upon arriving in Nairobi was Kenyan driving. While British influence is undoubtedly the culprit responsible for the flip-flopped drivers’ seats and driving lanes, I’m convinced an anarchist society is responsible for the driving conventions. “Conventions” here can be best defined as, “doing whatever is necessary to arrive at one’s destination while dodging bathtub-sized potholes, mountainous speed bumps, fearless herds of cows, pedestrians obviously convinced of their own immortality, and knot after knot of drivers, all trying to do the same.” However, for those of us who do not yet have our international driver’s license, the ordeal is somewhat less stressful since all we have to do is clutch the edges of our seat and marvel with petrified admiration each moment that passes without an accident. How my sister has managed to master this art is nothing short of impressive, and it makes me incredibly grateful that the person transporting me from place to place knows what she’s doing.

            Automotive situation aside, I struggle to begin an adequate description of how beautiful many of the places in Kenya are. When first considering equatorial Africa, one may be inclined to imagine an environment suitable for human liquefaction, but because Kenya rests between 6000-7500ft above sea level, the actual result is a place that maintains close to ideal temperature year round. For instance, the most frigid temperature one could expect in the depths of a winter’s night would be about 50 degrees Fahrenheit while the maximum in the summer might be around 85. For the vast majority of the time, however, we experience the gloriously moderate in between. Not only does it feel amazing most of the time, but the surroundings continually make me feel like I’ve been dropped into a National Geographic article. From the three day safari my family and I took, to visiting the elephant orphanage and giraffe center, to touring and eating lunch on a tea farm, to hiking a dormant volcanic site affectionately called Hell’s Gate, I have already captured so many moments for my mental scrapbook that I will treasure forever. Before this trip, I couldn’t have told you what the rubbery, soft back of a baby elephant’s ear feels like or how rough a giraffe’s tongue feels against your face when it kisses you. I couldn’t have told you how swimming in a hot sulfur spring feels like wading through warm cream or how the entire night air groans when lions have conversations. Each of these moments could constitute a once in a lifetime experience, and yet they have all happened in a matter of weeks. Sensory overload, people: it’s real.

            One might expect, as I did, that traveling to far away places would provide perspective on how big the world is, and while this is true to a certain extent, I find that it has really made the world feel smaller if anything. I think there is a certain convenience to distance that allows us to conceptualize distant countries or people as so far removed from our daily experience that they cannot possibly bear any meaningful resemblance to our homes or ourselves. I wouldn’t say this is a conscious thought in most of our minds, yet sometimes it’s not until we are holding the hand or looking into the eyes of someone who has lived on the other side of the world for both of our lives that we fully confront and appreciate the common experience of being human and the irrelevance of location to that simple fact. I don’t mean to minimize the differences encountered in other parts of the world. In fact, sometimes I feel like they cannot be overstated, but it’s also amazing to notice the deeper common thread that connects us as people.

            My role in Kenya up to this point has been that of a tourist: simply enjoying the newness of my surroundings and attempting to soak it all in, which I have thoroughly enjoyed. For the next three months, however, I will be living in Kijabe, which is a small town nestled on the side of a mountain along the Rift Valley and home to the surgical referral hospital that I will be working with. I have only been here two days so far, but I can already tell you that I’m not in Kansas anymore. I’ll save going into any more details at this point, but it’s safe to say I’ll have no shortage of stories to tell in my next post.