"When are we going to the village? It looks like FAO Schwarz in my tent," one of my classmates, Tess, complained. Our group of Columbia University students was in Kenya for ecological research but we had plans to tour a local village. One of the suggestions on our packing list, after quick-dry pants and a flashlight, was stuffed animals, markers, and other charitable donations. After weeks of observing nothing but researchers and zebras, my class awaited the bout of cultural exposure with real Kenyans and even a soccer game.
There was nothing distinctly Kenya about our trip. The Mpala Research Centre had a few one-story stucco buildings, with white researchers milling about, discussing the bird calls of superb starlings and interpretations of ANOVA results. The compound looked out to an expanse of flat vegetation, peppered by bulbous guinea fowl and twitching klipspringers. Undulating waves of blue mountains lay misty on the horizon.
Not every observation was for research. Walking back to my tent from a morning bucket shower as the sun rose, I observed impala grazing across the river. In the muted light, the water slapped the rocks loudly, rushing downstream to the baboon colony at the opposite end of the campsite. Elephant babies stumbled into the thick legs of their mothers at the sound of our van's engine, and hippos snorted water and wiggled their ears, lazily annoyed when we circled around their pool. Giraffes sat down in protest, hiding their dappled mosaic of brown and yellow in the tall savannah grass. Only the vervet monkeys sought our company, hurdling over the two layers of electrified fencing to play in the trees next to our tents and observe our strange activity—roasting marshmallows in a fire pit, playing Frisbee in the rain, running to the vans in a frenzy.
After our six am breakfast one morning, our professor Dr. Dustin Rubenstein listed the day's agenda, which began with the usual tasks of data collection and written analyses of statistical results, and ended with the instruction to gather up FAO Schwarz and Kenyan shillings. A hush fell upon the table and we quickly rushed back to our tents, preparing ourselves for the break from routine. The group congregated in front of Dustin's office after afternoon teatime, with toys instead of tape measures. We began walking down Jenga Road, a wide path of burnt orange dust. No more than five minutes had past before four mud huts stopped us in our tracks. The villagers had assembled together to welcome us, clapping as we drew closer.
Children began reaching out for the Western Treasures, beaming as our hands made contact and then silently running away. A hierarchy of toys had formed, with the largest stuffed animals on top and the crayons on the bottom. With the pyramid dissolving fast, the children began whining "me, me, me." Some of us laughed at the children's distress, since the village was so small and tightly packed that the toys could surely travel around. We do not know what they had been promised, but they were determined to get it. My classmates began tearing sheets of paper out of their notebooks, and lines began forming in front of those digging through their pencil cases. Surrounded by smiling black children with sores on their legs and scalp, we felt queasy and could not take pictures of the interaction.
We had been promised something too, though, and after the parents shouted in Swahili, the children took our hands and began leading us to a field. I walked with a boy wearing a blue shirt with OBAMA written in red blocky letters. He did not speak but clung tightly to my fingers as we approached the electrified fence. He taught me which barbed wire I could manipulate to allow my body through and which wire to avoid (the top one).
Ten or fifteen teenagers awaited us on the soccer field, aimlessly kicking the ball. My classmates and I gathered one of the goal posts, repeating "Jambo!" one of the few Swahili phrases we had confidently mastered along with habari gani (how are you?), nzuri (fine), asante sana (thank you very much), karibu (you're welcome), lala salama (good night), sawa (okay), maji (water) and mtoto tembo (baby elephant). We had not excelled past this rudimentary vocabulary because we spent most of our time with Kenyan citizens who did not speak Swahili: Plains zebras, dik diks, acacia ants, drongo birds, Thomson's gazelles, Defassa waterbucks, and reticulated giraffes. Soccer in Swahili is "mpira." We split into teams based on shirt colors. The game began.
The Kenyan teenagers all rivaled my tallest classmate, Justin, a Marine vet over six feet tall with a hulking frame. The men nimbly danced with the ball, though, instead of using the full capabilities of their strength. They were showing off by not showing off. We were so distracted by their fancy footwork that goals for both teams whizzed by without any effort on our part. The soccer ball skirted around the men's ankles. How did the ball travel from the front of his toes to the back of his left heel to between his legs to his head to the opposite end of the field? The array of moves was dazzling.
Their charity to us was the honor of being passed the ball. My soccer skills did not surpass middle school gym and I did not even try to mimic the complex moves. In an effort to blend in, though, I began aggressively stealing the ball from the opposite team by hopping on top of the ball, pushing it backwards, turning around and kicking it with the inside of my right foot. Oftentimes I just ducked or flinched to avoid getting a soccer ball punch to the head or stomach. Sometimes I collided with my African teammates and they were very apologetic. After three rounds, they gave up on manners. The game grew heated as the temperature got colder; the sun was setting. My team, the dark shirt team, was losing. We had made a goal but the other team insisted it did not count. "Hakuna gol!" they shouted. Watching The Lion King had helped me in comprehending the angry claims. If "hakuna matata" means no worries, then "hakuna gol" must mean "no goal." Bummer.
I do not have a competitive personality, which is a reason I switched from sports to dance in high school. My teammates did and I absorbed their energy. The game was ending at dusk, when we could no longer see the ball. We needed to score. I ran to block a pass from a classmate on the light shirt team, skidded on the gravel, and fell on my side. My hand broke my fall, pressing into an acacia shrub. I jumped back up, pulled the acacia thorn from my thumb, and passed to a teammate. My field credibility suddenly on par with the Kenyan soccer tricks, I found myself kicking the ball much more frequently as the sun turned bloody. Despite noble intentions by all, my team lost. Hakuna gol.
Our professor drove up to the field like a soccer mom. My classmates and I shook hands with the Kenyan teenagers, valuing the perfunctory friendships we had formed. The village was only five minutes from the research center, so we could feasibly meet again. Maybe they, as natives, knew more about drongo bird feeding habits than we did. They certainly knew more about soccer.