Mzungu
Mzungu
At age eleven, many kids spent their summers in camps, road tripping, and water parks, but not me. Almost every summer, my parents and I would travel internationally to either sight see or visit family. My dad, whom would make me research anything I wanted him to buy me and come up with a full presentation to show him, used the vacations to teach me about different cultures and life lessons. The summer of 2005 was one of the most eye opening three months I experienced. When my parents initially told me we were going to Kenya that summer, I had mixed emotions. I had never been to Africa before and even though I am part Kenyan, the country was still a mystery to me. I understood Swahili completely but spoke like a complete foreigner. My brothers did not help the situation by telling me I would get kidnapped for being what Kenyans call Americans, mzungu. Up until the day of departure, the butterflies in my stomach were moderately fluttering, but once we made it to the airport with all four oversized bags checked in, I had a burst of jittering butterflies in my stomach. The thirty hour journey was strenuous, including two layovers and three different transfers in Miami, London, and finally Nairobi, Kenya. Our final destination was Mombasa, to which we rode a plane that reminded me of the magic school bus. The seats were narrow, the space was congested, and you were able to feel every turn the pilot made. When we finally made it to Mombasa, it was nearly two in the morning and the sky was illuminated by the sensational stars. Mixed emotions began to run through my head. I was terrified of anything bad happening but curious as to how the experience would be. My mother’s brother was picking us up from the airport, and we were going to stay in his house for the majority of the visit. He came in a rusted red Ford pickup truck with enough room for only three people, so I sat in the back with the four suitcases and gazed at the scenery. The dancing clouds,
At age eleven, many kids spent their summers in camps, road tripping, and water parks, but not me. Almost every summer, my parents and I would travel internationally to either sight see or visit family. My dad, whom would make me research anything I wanted him to buy me and come up with a full presentation to show him, used the vacations to teach me about different cultures and life lessons. The summer of 2005 was one of the most eye opening three months I experienced. When my parents initially told me we were going to Kenya that summer, I had mixed emotions. I had never been to Africa before and even though I am part Kenyan, the country was still a mystery to me. I understood Swahili completely but spoke like a complete foreigner. My brothers did not help the situation by telling me I would get kidnapped for being what Kenyans call Americans, mzungu. Up until the day of departure, the butterflies in my stomach were moderately fluttering, but once we made it to the airport with all four oversized bags checked in, I had a burst of jittering butterflies in my stomach. The thirty hour journey was strenuous, including two layovers and three different transfers in Miami, London, and finally Nairobi, Kenya. Our final destination was Mombasa, to which we rode a plane that reminded me of the magic school bus. The seats were narrow, the space was congested, and you were able to feel every turn the pilot made. When we finally made it to Mombasa, it was nearly two in the morning and the sky was illuminated by the sensational stars. Mixed emotions began to run through my head. I was terrified of anything bad happening but curious as to how the experience would be. My mother’s brother was picking us up from the airport, and we were going to stay in his house for the majority of the visit. He came in a rusted red Ford pickup truck with enough room for only three people, so I sat in the back with the four suitcases and gazed at the scenery. The dancing clouds,