A Taste of America
After two weeks in Kenya, the Kenyan food had begun taking its toll on the
Americans. One by one we fell ill. Those of us who didn’t have a cold were
affected by the food. Julie and I were sitting across each other on
Wednesday night, staring at each other. We made no faces but both of us knew
exactly what the other was thinking. We were struggling to force down Ugali.
Kenyans are known to value bland food over spicy food. (eg. Beans, spinach,
rice, etc.) So, one of their favorite dishes is Ugali. Ugali is a unbearably
bland Kenyan food that starts off looking like a white brick. But you eat it
by breaking off a piece from the brick and squeezing it in your hands until
it becomes a mini doughnut with depression in the center instead of a hole.
Then you load it with spinach or another vegetable that you have on your
plate.
We had been eating it nearly all the time now, and for Julie and I, it had
gotten to the point where it was as if trying to force sand down our
throats. Julie and I stared at each other throughout the entire dinner, if
Julie wasn‘t offering me emotional support through her eyes. I don‘t think
I‘d have finished the dish. (In Africa, it’s rude to leave food on your
plate.)
All of the Americans would start warning each other, “be careful, it might
be Ugali.” If you ever wanted to shut one of us Americans up, all you had to
do was mention the word “Ugali.”
Oh and the tea, for every single meal we drank tea. Tea, tea, tea… Four
times a day, seven days a week. Almost sixty meals with tea as our only
beverage.
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The next night was hardly met with any enthusiasm. The meals had become so
predictable that the Americans, despite hunger, no longer looked forward to
entering the room where we dined. It was the bane of our existence in
Africa. Sick and lacking an appetite, none of us wanted to eat anymore.
We all entered the dining hall that Thursday night to find something very
strange. There were familiar bottles marked Coca-Cola, Fanta, Sprite, Grape
Soda… We were completely puzzled. All of us took a closer look to find that
sure enough we were not being deceived.
Even though most of us never liked soda back in the states, we began jumping
with joy. Hugging each other. I said to Julie that “I never knew soda could
make me so proud to be an American” as I poured myself a cup of coke. (into
a teacup)
A strange man came in asking where our group leader was. Unsure of what he
wanted, we sent him away with Margaret. We were all too happy to ask
questions. Until I walked outside in search of Norma because I wanted to ask
her what the deal was with the soda.
Then I then saw a food delivery bicycle, Margaret was standing outside it
with the man. It was then that I knew we were in for a real treat… I took a
closer look at the bicycle and saw a company logo on the back. I couldn’t
make out the words so I took a much closer look.
“P-I-Z…”
I was gone before I could finish. I sprinted into the dining room and
slammed open the door, everyone looked at me in horror as if a tragedy had
befallen us. “It’s PIZZA!!!”
All six Americans jumped out of their chairs at the same time… Screaming,
Dancing, Cheering. We were hugging each other and dancing around the room.
Before long, Margaret caught up in time to see the excitement. As a Kenyan,
she instantly started laughing at our reactions and pulled out a camera to
film us all.
While we were jumping for joy the Kenyans were sitting, amusedly watching us
dance around the room. They didn’t quite understand what pizza was or why we
were so happy but they later understood that pizza was a part of who we are
and very much an embraced part of American culture.
We couldn’t believe what was happening to us. The second Norma walked into
the room we piled up onto her. Showering her with affection. The joy stuck
to us for the rest of the night.
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We finished every last slice, downed every drop of soda, and later found out
that the pizza was paid for and given to us by Alim. The founder of GRO.
(Alim make note of this for future reference) You made our week.
We spent the rest of that night dancing around the campfire.
- Greg Pollock