A Sharp Contrast

I am here, and right now, here means Kenya.

In the past week, I have seen only nice parts of Nairobi – international embassy residential neighborhoods, private schools, shopping centers, and a community-protected forest. Because of that, I am simply blown away by how different all of this is to my experience in small-town Honduras.

In Honduras, I shared a room with two, or sometimes three, other people. Here, I have my own room, with a comfy bed. I no longer wake up sore in the morning. I also have a full-length mirror, enabling me to see more than just a reflection of my head and shoulders.

My home has furniture and carpets. I have seen no rats or tarantulas.

I can drink the tap water. The running water has not gone off. There is even hot water and a pool in our compound.

There are no piles of dirty dishes here, waiting next to the sink for days, for someone to take the initiative to wash them while the water is on. We have a housekeeper.

The fridge works. As does the washing machine.

The supermarket in this neighborhood is just about the same size as the small supermarket in Cofradía. But it has everything I could ever want, including chocolate chips, a selection of cheeses, many brands of peanut butter, and vitamin supplements. Rather than an entire aisle dedicated to cooking oil and margarine in plastic squeeze tubes.

At every gate, whether to a private home or to a shopping center, are stationed guards. At shopping centers, they will check each car as it enters the parking lot. Maybe I didn’t spend enough time in wealthy areas of San Pedro Sula to notice something similar.

There are so many international people around. I don’t get stared at quite as much when I run through the neighborhood, and in the shopping centers, I look quite normal.

Everyone speaks English. I may not always understand the accent, but it’s English, nonetheless.

Instead of cows and horses and chickens everywhere, I’ve seen monkeys in the forest. And I’ve only seen cows on the road once.

So far I’ve heard no fireworks, gunshots, rooster calls, Latino dance music, or dog barking.

The weather is absolutely delightful. It is now the hot season, but there is neither the extreme heat nor the humidity of Honduras. The air smells like flowers and fruit.

I am allowed to walk around by myself, outside of the compound. I can run by myself, even with my iPhone. I can walk around after dark.  I can make eye contact with people on the street.

It’s mango season, finally.

Instead of 30 four and five-year-olds running around me all day, I live with my wonderful godmother, Rose, her seven-year-old daughter, Kendwa, Rose’s friend, Jonathan, and his two teenage sons, Jack and Evan.

I have yet to determine exactly what I’ll be doing for the next few weeks here, and not having a plan is almost scarier than the prospect of teaching English to a classroom of 30 young children.

I’m in a bit of disbelief at my new surroundings. Especially at the fact that I am in Kenya, and that this is my current lifestyle.