My Swahili is not going so well. My mistakes, though, Elizabeth continues to find a constant source of humor. So there’s that. I am fluent in all of the words that found their way to Disney’s Lion King. “Simba” is a lion. “Rafiki” is a friend. And “hakuna” means none or no as in no worries, hakuna matata. Beyond Lion King, though, I’m hopeless. No, not hopeless, but “yes” sounds like “no”—ndiyo.

No teaching today, but we are heading down to Kibera tomorrow in the morning. I’m still not exactly sure what the plan is, but I’m looking forward to seeing the school and meeting the kids. I will try to say something in Swahili, and they will laugh a lot.

Today we went downtown to the National Museum. In addition to an important collection of early hominid fossils, there was a great exhibit of photographs called “Kenya’s Living Treasure.” The pictures were large, sepia prints of Kenyans from a variety of tribes and regions, and the diversity was striking—the Muslim influence in the coastal region standing in sharp contrast to images of Maasai warriors with bright shields and tall, sharp spears. Outside the museum, we waited behind a large group of school kids who seemed to be about the age for kindergarten. School children here all wear uniforms, bright sweaters and shorts or jumpers, redolent of Kenya’s British colonial past. And as small Kenyans seem to do when they see white people who take notice of them, they started asking “How are you” and waving. Kenyans all learn English as soon as they start school, and “How are you” is clearly the first thing they learn. So before viewing “Kenya’s Living Treasure,” we spent a few minutes shaking tiny hands and saying a lot of “Fine, and how are you”s.

On the way to the museum, we needed to change some dollars into Kenyan shillings. Our driver, Patrick, suggested a place between the hotel and the museum, not the shopping center Elizabeth had in mind. As soon as we took a few steps from the car, a uniformed guard met us and ushered us inside. There a woman behind a small desk asked us our business. We told her, and she pointed to an opaque, sliding glass door. We entered a small office big enough for one chair, closed the door behind us, and sat in front of a bank teller window—glass window with speaker cutout and sliding, two-way drawer for exchanges. Elizabeth slid dollars across, and the woman on the other side of the glass slid shillings back.

“Asante sana” (thank you very much) and we were back outside where the guard met us and stood next to us while our driver made the block. The guard apologized because there were no parking spaces.

“Hakuna matata” I said before I noticed our car moving slowly up the street. “Oh, there he is.” And then we were back in the car with the guard just on the other side of the door, never once without privacy or protection, the former being a version of the latter.

There’s something disconcerting, of course, about being so protected, specifically, the fact that you are in need of such protection in the first place. But I feel very safe here. After all, there are the bank guards. And the school kids seem to like me. I am fine, and how are you?

Lala salama (peaceful sleep or goodnight),
Kreg