Jetplane To Nairobi

Where was I?

Ah yes. Africa.

After the suffering the city of London for a day, and finishing my weird corn and chicken sandwich, I brushed myself off and boarded my flight to Nairobi, Kenya, Africa.

I was pleased with myself at having reserved a window seat so that I could look out onto great Africa when I awoke.

Also, I was surprised to see that the flight wasn't completely full and I had an entire row of seats to myself. That is, until an older gentleman sat next to me.

Tanned white skin, gray hair and gray mustache. He turned to me at some point before takeoff and introduced himself. He was John from England. He had business in Nairobi. He flew in 6 times a year to check in with the company's progress.

He asked me what I was doing, an American on my way to Kenya. "I just want to help people." One of my many vague answers I'd give out when people asked me. I was going to be a part of a volunteer group, teaching English to kids.

Was I certified to teach? No.

Did I have a passion for it? Not really. No.

In fact, I had problems with the upfront mission of teaching English. Why did I want to teach English? Why should everyone speak the same language? Wasn't that just making the world flatter and tame? Wasn't I contributing to some kind of new world order? To mass industrialization? Was there even anything wrong with that?

Really, I just wanted to go to Africa and experience it on the inside. To attempt to see it eye to eye.

I had vowed that I wasn't going to be the normal tourist and just go to see the giraffes and elephants. I was going to be different. I was going to help. Somehow. Armed with my white skin and some half-stoned mission statement, I was going to be part of the change.

So I gave John the "I just want to help people" line, and he had responded just how three others had the day before with the exact same word. Apparently, what I was doing was "admirable".

Soon after, John decided it was time to scare the shit out of me with Nairobi horror stories.