Cultural Exchange

It has been years since I have seen the cartoon Popeye. I had forgotten how ignorant old cartoons were. I’m sitting on the couch in my host families living room covered in children. There is one on my lap, one on my left, on my right and one sitting behind my head dripping mango juice on my shoulder. I have only known the kids for 15 hours. It seems strange to have already won their love when things are still awkwardly polite with my host parents. Children are never hard to please. I gave them toys and candy the second I got here, I’ve never felt so adored. The youngest one is 3 then 6, 7 and 9, two girls and two boys. They have just returned for lunch from the madrasa (Islamic Sunday school). They entered in a flurry of clothing being thrown everywhere and head scarves torn off. My host family is ethnically Arab; their families came from Yemen several generations ago. But back to the racist Popeye, he has taken a trip to India on the show and as he and his girlfriend olive oil walk around marveling at the “savages” and buying trinkets. “oh look at that Popeye, please buy me the magic lamp”. I feel myself squirm under the pile of Kenyan children. Tourist guilt is not new but never goes away, at least I’m not as bad as Olive Oil, she just called a Buddha statue a “she”. After Olive is abducted by an evil man in a turban one kid asks me why he looks so funny, ( big nose, long neck, your basic Indian stereo type) and now I’m really at a loss. I shrug and we switch to Scooby Doo. And so it begins.

A quick note on the wonderfulness of Kenyan TV…
Any country that combines the dry wit of British sitcoms with Indian Bollywood, Middle Eastern news, American melodrama, and of all things Mexican Telenovela ’s is the best place on earth. That is all.