When our little family lived in Caronport, Saskatchewan, grocery shopping always seemed like such an aggravation. I needed to drive in our car the 15 – 20 minutes to the Superstore in Moose Jaw, get a cart and my shopping bins, spend the next hour going from aisle to aisle, wait in line to pay, pack up the car and head home again. The round trip could take almost two hours depending on weather and my commitment to getting the job done.
In retrospect, this process was quite luxurious and efficient.
Now, grocery shopping in Likoni/Mombasa is the new standard for inconvenience. I take a piki piki to the ferry, walk down to the queue, stand in the queue and try to look casual as everyone stares at the only white person in sight, get on the ferry with hundreds of other people, get off on the Mombasa side, walk up the hill and through the market to the Nakumatt (our local grocery store), walk from aisle to aisle, making changes to our weekly menu as various items are not available, wait in line to pay, push the cart out to the parking lot in order to find a taxi home, load up the taxi, make small talk with the driver as we wait in the ferry queue, ride the ferry and drive back to our home in Likoni. The round trip takes between 3-5 hours, depending on how busy the ferry and the store are, and how quickly I can move in the heat.
Ah, the joy of perspective.
I have noticed another difference between the two shopping experiences. While living in Canada, I could go to the store and home again, having never spoken to anyone. I would maybe have to exchange some meaningless comment about the weather with the lady at the checkout. That would be the most required of me for the whole trip. I actually enjoyed this anonymity and worked at maintaining the distance between me and the people around me. I never once wondered about the story behind my cashier’s tired face. I wasn’t curious about the teenage stock boy and his hopes for the future. They had their lives and I had mine. I just wanted to get groceries and get home. The end.
Here in Kenya, this kind of anonymity is pretty much impossible.
Yesterday on my weekly trip for groceries, I learned (unsolicited by me) that my piki piki driver is from western Kenya. His family has a shamba and he owns a cow. He told me as we drove to the ferry that he loves his cow. He wanted to know if I had a cow. When I told him no, he was sad for me. He had opinions about home schooling, about our leaving Kenya, and about other missionaries he has known. All of this he shared with me on our 5 minute ride.
After finishing the shopping, I learned that my taxi driver has been married since 2010. They were married in a church and when he told me this, he smiled like a man in love. He and his wife have a little daughter, just turning one. He is originally from up country but has lived on the coast for 8 years. He works from 6:30 am until 9:30 pm everyday and that even he finds it too hot sometimes.
In addition to these longer conversations, I greeted and chatted with at least 20 other people. I didn’t go out of my way to do this, either.
As I see it, Kenyans/Africans don’t want anonymity. They live in community most naturally and this means that they talk to you. They share personal information with you. They want to know about you in return. It reminds me of the Kenyan belief that we are stronger together and we are someone only in relation to others. Here, there is always time to talk, to connect, to share. This is the stuff that matters.
On my worst days here these past months, I hate this constant social pressure and at times want to scream, “I don’t care about your cow, your house, your family, your opinions! I just want to get my groceries and go home!” Thankfully, I have never actually done this. Talk about really standing out in a crowd!
But on most days, I find it a source of great joy. The friends and strangers I meet here teach me about community all the time. It is just part of life; nothing to strive after or strategically plan for. Just step out your door and you are in it up to your eyeballs. We never have to be alone.
I am not sure how I will translate this new perspective into daily life back in southern Ontario. Clearly, I won’t be forced to travel with strangers as often once we have our little car back on the road. Constantly knocking on my neighbour’s door and walking in might not go over well. Telling random strangers about my life will certainly get me nowhere.
If I am honest, I must admit that I still like having time to myself. But I don’t want to lose the lessons learned here about sharing in life together. Maybe it will be as simple as asking my cashier how her day is going or learning the name of that boy stocking the shelves. It might be just saying “thank you” to the guy pumping my gas and remembering that every person I meet has a story, even though they don’t share every detail with me. It may be just opening my door and stepping out into community a bit more often, or even scarier, opening my door and letting community in sometimes.
Maybe I should get a cow . . .
~Mandy
