My plane descended into Africa just as the sun’s first rays hit the jagged peak of Mt. Kenya, then trickled down over the green hills, down onto the plain, finally glinting off the buildings of downtown Nairobi. The moment I stepped out of the plane and into the walkway connecting to the terminal, that unmistakable scent hit me– equatorial countries, countries with less money than the one I come from, countries that seem to be perpetually burning things in back yards, along the sides of roads, in stoves situated in shacks that millions call home.
My own home for the next three months is a compact room in an apartment above a daycare in the middle-class suburb of Buru Buru. It’s less smokey here than would be near Nairobi’s core. It’s clean too, and relatively quiet. I stress relatively, as the peace on my first night was broken at 4 am by a dog barking at what was likely just the rustle of leaves. But of course that dog got the dog in the next yard going, which got the dog in the next, next yard going. So on and so forth until the one rooster down the street was roused, and whose crowing, for some reason, set off a car alarm. This burst of suburban African noise subsided and I drifted back to sleep until a few hours later when a shrieking child with separation anxiety was brought to the daycare.
I have earplugs. I will be using them.
photo by R. Chursinoff
