The airbnbs I stay at usually are on estates, which means they are walled residences with guards that control the gate. Usually there are others gardening on site, and often a house-keeper lives in separate quarters on the grounds. In addition, often the entry avenues leading to the houses have a pole across the road, with a security person manning it at all times. Such is the reality of an old caste system, only slowly altering as Kenya struggles to create a middle class.
Because I like to walk, I often meet my Uber about 1/2 mile up the hill where George is the day-guard at the road to this property. Due to unplanned growth, bottlenecked highway infrastructure, and a general hakuna matata about time in Kenya, I usually wait a bit beyond the planned time for my drivers to show. So we’ve had room to chat.
He’s 32 and has a 15-month old son. He has “not had much schooling” he says, clearly a bit shy admitting this to me. I do my best to assure him there are many forms of intelligence besides the academic route. For instance, I point out, you always ask me very good questions, and this alone is a sign of a keen mind.
He tells me for his son, Trivon, it is his “great desire one day he might be able to afford getting him to private school” (essentially public schools offer mostly dead-end, manual labor job options for graduates here). I try to assure his son can do well no matter, that by guiding him at home it will help his son grow bright. He’s skeptical—and perhaps accurate given the system here. I try again: George, you always ask wonderful questions, allow your son to do the same and be patient with your answers, so he may grow. Do your best in giving him as much time as you can. This can be more crucial than classroom learning.
I tell him about my father having to quit school, to work for his family and this resonates with George. I tell him how proud my father was we were able to attend school because of his sacrifices. And of my own son becoming an engineer, in the space industry no less, and how I would never have been capable of getting through such studies. It seems to sink in as several minutes pass.
A jet flies overhead. Our chat has created an opening. Never having been to an airport himself, and aware I’m from America, he correctly assumed I took a flight. “Mister John, tell me, how big is a jet plane? As big as a lorrie [a small truck]?” Oh, you’d be amazed I tell him, there are small ones this size, but the ones I was on carried 300 or more people. “What!! How can this be so?! 300!!” He exclaims. I tell him about the one I was on a few years back that actually had two levels within the seating area and he is incredulous. “I had no idea they were this large! They appear so small in the sky!”
I share my own amazement that such a heavy thing can fly, and how I don’t really understand the way a jet engine works, or how they can carry so much fuel that we cross an entire ocean on one fill up of petrol (“gas” to a Kenyan). All the while he’s listening intently.
I suggest jet fuel is lighter yet more potent than diesel fuel, but it all still seems hard for me to fathom. “So, jets do not use diesel petrol?” No. Only jet fuel. “Ahh…” I can feel his wheels spinning. “So, this is good information. If I go to the airport, and need a fill up, I must be sure to request diesel so I do not get jet fuel!”
Well, I smile, George, this is excellent logic but you do not need to worry. Jet planes will not be in line next to you for petrol at the airport. They would break off their wings! They have separate filling areas set aside for the jets. Realizing the mistaken vision within his otherwise good logic he laughs heartily. “I see, I see!”
Yesterday, as I passed him to go for an evening walk, he says he is ready to go home and the other guard will be coming soon. I inquire what his name is. “He is named Hillary.” I repeat myself and try to understand that he is a man, and whether George meant female? “No!” Likely thinking of his colleague “For sure he is man!” He looks at me dumbfounded. I return the look. We do a verbal dance, each carefully repeating the spelling twice from our cultures, and it’s precisely the same.
Hmm. I say, in America, Hillary is only used for women. “Really?!” Yes! Maybe you have heard of Hillary Clinton. “Ah yes, I have heard so. I knew of President Clinton, and then this one, Hillary.” Well, SHE was his spouse! “What! No way!” Yes! By now I’m determined to figure this out, as we both hunt for the disconnect.
Apparently George never SAW an image of Hillary (I judiciously avoid any comment about pantsuits): “I thought always thought Hillary was maybe Bill’s brother! Finally now I understand!” He tells me with a big smile. I imagine he tells his spouse when he gets home—“Honey, can you imagine— Hillary Clinton— this is a WOMAN!”
I tell him I also have learned from him, Hillary in Kenya obviously is used for men, and might possibly also be used as a female name. In this way, I gain insights into his experiences and cultural norms, and he learns a bit about ours. We shake hands as I depart, and I thank him, sincerely letting this man of “not much schooling” how much I appreciate him as I always learn from our discussions.
.
Because I like to walk, I often meet my Uber about 1/2 mile up the hill where George is the day-guard at the road to this property. Due to unplanned growth, bottlenecked highway infrastructure, and a general hakuna matata about time in Kenya, I usually wait a bit beyond the planned time for my drivers to show. So we’ve had room to chat.
He’s 32 and has a 15-month old son. He has “not had much schooling” he says, clearly a bit shy admitting this to me. I do my best to assure him there are many forms of intelligence besides the academic route. For instance, I point out, you always ask me very good questions, and this alone is a sign of a keen mind.
He tells me for his son, Trivon, it is his “great desire one day he might be able to afford getting him to private school” (essentially public schools offer mostly dead-end, manual labor job options for graduates here). I try to assure his son can do well no matter, that by guiding him at home it will help his son grow bright. He’s skeptical—and perhaps accurate given the system here. I try again: George, you always ask wonderful questions, allow your son to do the same and be patient with your answers, so he may grow. Do your best in giving him as much time as you can. This can be more crucial than classroom learning.
I tell him about my father having to quit school, to work for his family and this resonates with George. I tell him how proud my father was we were able to attend school because of his sacrifices. And of my own son becoming an engineer, in the space industry no less, and how I would never have been capable of getting through such studies. It seems to sink in as several minutes pass.
A jet flies overhead. Our chat has created an opening. Never having been to an airport himself, and aware I’m from America, he correctly assumed I took a flight. “Mister John, tell me, how big is a jet plane? As big as a lorrie [a small truck]?” Oh, you’d be amazed I tell him, there are small ones this size, but the ones I was on carried 300 or more people. “What!! How can this be so?! 300!!” He exclaims. I tell him about the one I was on a few years back that actually had two levels within the seating area and he is incredulous. “I had no idea they were this large! They appear so small in the sky!”
I share my own amazement that such a heavy thing can fly, and how I don’t really understand the way a jet engine works, or how they can carry so much fuel that we cross an entire ocean on one fill up of petrol (“gas” to a Kenyan). All the while he’s listening intently.
I suggest jet fuel is lighter yet more potent than diesel fuel, but it all still seems hard for me to fathom. “So, jets do not use diesel petrol?” No. Only jet fuel. “Ahh…” I can feel his wheels spinning. “So, this is good information. If I go to the airport, and need a fill up, I must be sure to request diesel so I do not get jet fuel!”
Well, I smile, George, this is excellent logic but you do not need to worry. Jet planes will not be in line next to you for petrol at the airport. They would break off their wings! They have separate filling areas set aside for the jets. Realizing the mistaken vision within his otherwise good logic he laughs heartily. “I see, I see!”
Yesterday, as I passed him to go for an evening walk, he says he is ready to go home and the other guard will be coming soon. I inquire what his name is. “He is named Hillary.” I repeat myself and try to understand that he is a man, and whether George meant female? “No!” Likely thinking of his colleague “For sure he is man!” He looks at me dumbfounded. I return the look. We do a verbal dance, each carefully repeating the spelling twice from our cultures, and it’s precisely the same.
Hmm. I say, in America, Hillary is only used for women. “Really?!” Yes! Maybe you have heard of Hillary Clinton. “Ah yes, I have heard so. I knew of President Clinton, and then this one, Hillary.” Well, SHE was his spouse! “What! No way!” Yes! By now I’m determined to figure this out, as we both hunt for the disconnect.
Apparently George never SAW an image of Hillary (I judiciously avoid any comment about pantsuits): “I thought always thought Hillary was maybe Bill’s brother! Finally now I understand!” He tells me with a big smile. I imagine he tells his spouse when he gets home—“Honey, can you imagine— Hillary Clinton— this is a WOMAN!”
I tell him I also have learned from him, Hillary in Kenya obviously is used for men, and might possibly also be used as a female name. In this way, I gain insights into his experiences and cultural norms, and he learns a bit about ours. We shake hands as I depart, and I thank him, sincerely letting this man of “not much schooling” how much I appreciate him as I always learn from our discussions.
.
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