Big Exotic Fish in a Very Small African Pond

My third-grade class was a little different.  Instead of desks we sat in couches, loafed in bean bags or sat cross legged on the carpet while our teachers opened our young minds. Twenty years before the internet, we had a H.A.M radio which reached around the world to operators in Alaska, Poland and Antarctica.  This was our world wide web in the 1970’s, and every week we gathered around the console as the glass tubes warmed up and waited for the world to come in.   

As a class, we struck up a friendship with Brian at a distant research station near the South Pole and held regular chats with him.  His updates and letters exposed us to a bigger world in a way that no lecture, book or film could.  Sitting around that receiver as our teacher turned dials and aerial controls we held our breath until she reached the specific frequency which brought Brian into our lives once again.   After two or three weeks of radio silence, he walked away from his radio at 90 degrees south and right into our classroom.  No group of 3rd graders ever went as completely ape-shit crazy as ours before or since when we realized who it was standing casually in the doorway – keep in mind we only knew Brian by his voice.  I remember that day better than any other during elementary school, and I believe I’m not alone among my classmates.  

Walking into the school yard today at Sirembe primary school, a small sea of children immediately surrounds us.  It’s district playoffs for school athletics and there are at least 4 entire school bodies here, along with parents, peanut roasters and sugar cane hawkers.  Two young girls rush up next to Shari and grab her hands; I turn around and watch as she wades through waves of smiling faces and closely shaved heads wearing competing, colorful school uniforms.  We don’t know most of these kids, only the ones wearing the local maroon appear familiar, but we seem familiar to them.  We push through to the far side of the gaming pitch where we normally meet to play music, dance, sing at the top of our lungs, and tell stories.  They engulf us, at least two hundred strong.  

We are almost getting used to this kind of treatment, which feels a little weird to say.  Since arriving, we’ve been stared at, waved to, chased, followed, and otherwise made to feel like some kind of celebrities in this little town.  To be fair, it is a small town where few white people ever go, simply because there is little which could draw them there.  As far as I can tell, white folks, (Mzungu) in Kenya fall into three broad categories – tourists, development workers, or ex-pats who probably evolved from one of the other two bloodlines.  

The kids have been our entree into the community.  They really seem to appreciate our presence, our brief shaking up of their routine, exposing them to something different.  Their parents, a bit more reserved perhaps, smile at us now because their kids have told them the tale of our jam sessions, and micro mosh pits.  The kids adore the music, probably don’t get enough of it in their daily lives, and have fallen completely head over heels with our cover of Old Crow Medicine Show’s “Wagon Wheel,” which they lovingly call, “rock me momma.”  I’m okay if they don’t reference the source, or even Bob Dylan’s original chorus; but in no way, am I trying to pass these covers off as my songs.  It is the music, the way it makes them move and feel that is important here – no matter how I may tire of playing the same 5 tunes.   I just can’t refuse them when they start screaming for it.

All of this will soon come to a stop.  We are heading home in just under 4 weeks.  When we arrive back in the U.S. we’ll be just another face in the crowd, and no one will stare open mouthed – even if I have food in my beard.  My feelings on this are mixed, of course it will be nice to just slip back into some anonymity and eat burritos with impunity, but where else are children likely to change their path home just to peer into our compound and shout, “How Are Yooo?”   

We had no delusions of affecting a monumental change in coming here.  Our intentions were much more practical.  We wanted to see if there was a good fit between the needs and projects within the community and our skill set, check!  We wanted to see if we could get enough rest at night to thrive in this environment, mostly check!  We also wanted to see if we would just simply “fit in” here.  For people who draw attention everywhere we go, we fit in as well as could be expected.  Yes, we are mzungu, but we have become their mzungu.  And that fills me with no small amount of pride.  I am Hutch, child of Sirembe, fear my jembe!

As our short three-month stay in this community draws to a close, we have no way of knowing how our being here has really helped the community.  Have we made any lasting, positive change?  We’ve certainly made friends, entertained children with great Newgrass tunes, brought some books, taught some natural science lessons, and tried our best to turn a group of girls who never held a stick before into a lacrosse team.   Maybe making change isn’t the point of serving abroad?  I think back to the moment when my world suddenly became much broader when Brian walked out of my imagination and into the front of my 3rd grade classroom.  That someone who spent the polar winter in Antarctica would come to my small town in central Michigan to visit with our class simply blew my mind.  I’m sure Brian doesn’t know the fire he lit in me, an insatiable curiosity for adventure, exploration, and seeing the world.  Just like we may never know what will come from our efforts in Kenya.  I know for sure, we’ll never know if we fail to return another year.  

So, rock me momma, we’ll be back.