What a Difference One Month Makes...

Almost every morning since I've started working here, I’ve tried my best to crack the security lady’s angry countenance. Saying a big hello in the morning? Didn’t work. Asking her how her day was, nope. Even making sure to say thank you when she hands me an I.D. badge. All I get is a passing, unfriendly nod. After numerous failed attempts, I decided to try yet another tactic, and practice the few words of Swahili I’ve learned on her.
Me, hesitantly: Habari Ako.
Her: Mzuri!! [insert extra words here she says but I don‘t understand so I just smile and nod].
And with those few words, a smiling Canadian girl and a frowning security guard made friends. I finally saw those pearly whites of hers (well, more like crooked pearly browns with a few gold caps in the middle).
It was later in the day that I realized something kinda great. It happned as I was walking through an extremely busy intersection, passing even some locals who were impatiently waiting on the sidewalk for cars to stop whizzing by. I on the other hand, took a quick glance to my left (I've finally learned to look in the correct "British" direction for oncoming cars) and didn't hesitate much before stepping out onto the congested street. After a month in this crazy city, I'm actually beginning to get used to the place! In the beginning, making my way through those crosswalks was like a deathtrap, and always ended in a sigh of relief that I was able to survive one more day without getting hit. Now, I don’t even break my stride when I hear the sound of brakes squealing to a halt as I step out onto the crosswalk. Nor do I jump anymore when the cars come to a screeching stop less than a metre from my legs. I have even learned to perfectly time holding my breath when a city bus or matatu* pass by, to avoid taking in the thick black smoke that they inevitably leave behind.

*stinky public transit minivans with at least five extra people hanging out of it

Jami, my roommate, is still learning.
“I think I’m going to get lung cancer from this,“ he said to me on the way home a few days ago, as he turned his head away a moment too late from a huge bus on the road emitting a waft of diesel loveliness from its rear end.
And at work, I might still look like a foreigner, but I'm not a stranger anymore. The ground floor guards let me pass despite the beeping of the metal detector - something that DOES concern me a little; I’m greeted with high fives, extended conversation and always an invitation to “take tea” when I walk into the office; and more people know MY name than the other way around.
When we go out on a story with a driver, I now head straight into the tightest corner of the back seat, rather than sitting in the middle, knowing full well at least seven more people will pile into the little sedan after me. I don’t feel car sick anymore on the bumpy roads and have even learned to text message in a moving vehicle without hurling.
And when we get to a press conference and the organizers without fail prepare the room with the worst possible set-up for TV camera angles, I have no trouble pointing it out and re-arranging the furniture myself. Seems Little Miss Bossy works just as well in Kenya!
I’ve even learned to drink the numerous cups of chai we have in a day just like the Kenyans do - with a cup full of milk and a tea bag “on the side”.
But even if I am learning to blend in with the people here, it doesn't mean I fully understand this country. Sitting at home watching TV one evening, I was hearing a lot of "bleeps" during a syndicated TV show, something to which I've grown accustomed but still find odd. Mainly because the words being bleeped out don't really sound like swears. I had not been able to quite figure it out until that moment.
“[bleep] damn you!”
“oh my [bleeeep]!.
It seems the word missing each time...is “God”. Apparently, the word is just not meant to be taken in vain in this God-fearing, oops, I mean [bleep]-fearing country.