Pussy Wants Juju
I’m teaching another of my apparently very popular HIV workshops, this time to members of Neetha’s organization, which provides support and care to orphans. Neetha herself is out of town for a different workshop, so I’m staying at her house for three days while I teach. Observation #1 about her house, which I’d never noticed because I’d never lived in it: Neetha owns exactly four dishes. One of these belongs to the cat.
Not that I’m complaining (too much); she’s letting me use her cooking gas, sleep in her bed, bathe with her self-fetched water, and drink the milk her neighbor brings her twice a day. Observation #2 about her house: Her cat looks like an evil Anime cat, complete with big pointy ears, giant Siamese eyes with black slits for pupils, and a tiny nose and mouth for expressing disapproval. It’s hilarious.
I also brought Fatso along, because I leaving her alone with three days worth of food usually results in lines of enthusiastic ants marching all over my house. So this morning I stuffed her into a pillowcase, and boarded a matatu to Neetha’s village. Fatso hates the pillowcase and was meowing loudly, which was immensely entertaining to all the other passengers, who couldn’t stop laughing.
“It’s a pussy?” they would ask.
“Yes,” I’d say, as if there was any doubt.
“It’s your pussy?”
“Yes,” I’d sigh, mentally noting the innuendo that would have existed if this conversation had happened in the States, but that was un-ironically absent because we were in Kenya. “It’s my pussy.”
After a few minutes I let Fatso out and held her in my lap for awhile, which seemed to calm her down a bit and make everyone giggle.
“Oh, you have such a beautiful pussy,” said the man in the front seat, as people behind me continued to laugh inexplicably. I knew they weren’t laughing about the word “pussy,” which is what I would’ve been laughing about, if I’d been laughing.
Fatso put her front paws on my chest, which sent the entire matatu into fresh gales of laughter.
“It wants juju!” the women howled.
Juju, I decided, must have something to do with breastfeeding or breastmilk, which didn’t make it any funnier to me. I let them enjoy themselves, thinking resigned thoughts about how juvenile their sense of humor was.
Apparently they took my non-involvement to mean that I hadn’t understood them. And apparently this joke was so good that they had to share it with me.
“Juju,” the matatu conductor tried to explain, looking at my boobs.
“I know,” I nodded vigorously, indicating that I understood and no further explanation was needed, especially not one using my boobs as a visual.
“Juju,” he said again. “Here.”
He put his finger an inch away from my nipple.
“I GOT IT,” I said, sending everyone into hysterics again.
Side Note On Ants, From My Aunt. Here’s a trick I learned from my relatives in Taiwan. Instead of spraying toxic Doom – aka Raid – all over your kitchen when you have an ant invasion, swab all the cracks in the counters, walls, floors, etc with that Chinese herbal stuff that’s made from camphor oil and menthol. I don’t know what it’s called but it’s basically liquid Tiger Balm, and it’s available in Kenya. It’ll keep the ants away until you get around to cleaning, and you won’t coat all your food with a tasty layer of poison. Plus your kitchen will smell just like a Chinese grandmother.
Oh Yeah, The Workshop. The workshop is based on a Training of Trainers (TOT) model, which emphasizes discussion and analysis of issues surrounding HIV/AIDS like cultural practices, gender inequality and communication skills, rather than rote memorization of acronyms and biology. So inevitably, the conversation turns to all sorts of interesting cultural insights and quotable quotes that sometimes end up on my blog.
For example, I always get stumped by the belief among adult Kenyans that if you talk with children about sex, they will immediately run out and try it. I tried to explain that studies comparing young people who attend sex education classes and those who attend abstinence-only classes show that there is no difference in the age at which these kids first have sex. Other studies show that kids who know more about sex tend to delay their sexual debut slightly longer than kids who don’t. Talking frankly about sex creates healthy attitudes, and empowers kids to make informed choices.
The response is always the same. “America is a very open society,” they say. “It’s okay to speak openly about sex and boyfriends and girlfriends. But here, we cannot.”
I never know what to say at this point, without sounding judgmental and inappropriate. Especially after someone said today, “If a girl brings her boyfriend home for lunch with her parents, she will be killed.”
Killed?
I wasn’t sure if they meant that literally, but the point was made.
Then there’s the insistence that condoms have holes, and the corresponding resistance to all my assurances to the contrary. I’ve decided that the “condoms have holes” myth has been so completely drilled into people’s heads that I’m fighting a losing battle trying to convince people otherwise. No matter what kinds of demonstrations I do – blowing up condoms and tying the end, submerging them in water to show there are no air bubbles escaping – or what kinds of numbers I present about diameters of HIV and oxygen and pores in latex – the “condoms have holes” damage is done, and thousands of PCVs all around the world can’t undo it.
The argument is seemingly convincing: Latex has microscopic pores in it. So HIV can sometimes pass through, rendering condoms effective only 75% of the time.
First of all it amazes me that someone went to the trouble to cook up something like this. My response is always to point out the math.
“The truth is that condoms are effective 99% of the time when used correctly. I know you may not believe me, and I can’t force you to. But let’s assume that your number is right, that they are only effective 75% of the time. So if you use a condom, chances are 25% that you could get HIV. But if you don’t, chances are much closer to 100% that you could get HIV. Which are better odds?”
People always state the obvious answer. They would choose to use condoms. But the truth is that the “condoms have holes” myth isn’t the biggest problem. It strikes me more as an elaborate stunt pulled by churches to further their own social agendas, and it distracts from other factors.
People don’t avoid condoms because they think they have holes. They avoid them because there’s so much social taboo against using them. With your wife, because you’re both supposed to be faithful. With your girlfriend, because only prostitutes use condoms. In general, because they don’t feel as good and it’s not manly. And ultimately, because you could go to all this effort to make sure you use condoms to protect yourself, and tomorrow you die in a matatu accident, not of AIDS.
How do you respond to such a complex litany of excuses? At this point, I’ve almost come full circle. It’s embarrassing to say this, but George W. would be proud.
Now, I just say, “Well, then, abstain.”
And then I think in my head, “It’ll save the world from irresponsible people spawning their irresponsibility into the already fetid gene pool, and their genital ulcers into other un-ulcerated genitals, and their HIV-positive dependency into the deep pockets of international aid ear-marked for this immense social, political and economic scourge that may or may not be out-smarted by worldwide intervention anytime soon.”
And it’s about as effective as saying, “Use condoms.”
The whole ABC (Abstain, Be Faithful, Use Condoms) prevention campaign is deceptively simple on the surface, and a hugely controversial teaching aid pitting abstinence-only finger-waggers against freedom-of-choice liberals. And in Kenya, it just seems useless for anyone who teaches about AIDS.
This is why I’ve latched onto this TOT curriculum. It’s focus is on talking about things that are hard to talk about. It teaches people about the one thing that has historically proven itself to resolve almost every conflict and problem in life, at the individual and universal level: communication.
Well that, and death.
Not that I’m complaining (too much); she’s letting me use her cooking gas, sleep in her bed, bathe with her self-fetched water, and drink the milk her neighbor brings her twice a day. Observation #2 about her house: Her cat looks like an evil Anime cat, complete with big pointy ears, giant Siamese eyes with black slits for pupils, and a tiny nose and mouth for expressing disapproval. It’s hilarious.
I also brought Fatso along, because I leaving her alone with three days worth of food usually results in lines of enthusiastic ants marching all over my house. So this morning I stuffed her into a pillowcase, and boarded a matatu to Neetha’s village. Fatso hates the pillowcase and was meowing loudly, which was immensely entertaining to all the other passengers, who couldn’t stop laughing.
“It’s a pussy?” they would ask.
“Yes,” I’d say, as if there was any doubt.
“It’s your pussy?”
“Yes,” I’d sigh, mentally noting the innuendo that would have existed if this conversation had happened in the States, but that was un-ironically absent because we were in Kenya. “It’s my pussy.”
After a few minutes I let Fatso out and held her in my lap for awhile, which seemed to calm her down a bit and make everyone giggle.
“Oh, you have such a beautiful pussy,” said the man in the front seat, as people behind me continued to laugh inexplicably. I knew they weren’t laughing about the word “pussy,” which is what I would’ve been laughing about, if I’d been laughing.
Fatso put her front paws on my chest, which sent the entire matatu into fresh gales of laughter.
“It wants juju!” the women howled.
Juju, I decided, must have something to do with breastfeeding or breastmilk, which didn’t make it any funnier to me. I let them enjoy themselves, thinking resigned thoughts about how juvenile their sense of humor was.
Apparently they took my non-involvement to mean that I hadn’t understood them. And apparently this joke was so good that they had to share it with me.
“Juju,” the matatu conductor tried to explain, looking at my boobs.
“I know,” I nodded vigorously, indicating that I understood and no further explanation was needed, especially not one using my boobs as a visual.
“Juju,” he said again. “Here.”
He put his finger an inch away from my nipple.
“I GOT IT,” I said, sending everyone into hysterics again.
Side Note On Ants, From My Aunt. Here’s a trick I learned from my relatives in Taiwan. Instead of spraying toxic Doom – aka Raid – all over your kitchen when you have an ant invasion, swab all the cracks in the counters, walls, floors, etc with that Chinese herbal stuff that’s made from camphor oil and menthol. I don’t know what it’s called but it’s basically liquid Tiger Balm, and it’s available in Kenya. It’ll keep the ants away until you get around to cleaning, and you won’t coat all your food with a tasty layer of poison. Plus your kitchen will smell just like a Chinese grandmother.
Oh Yeah, The Workshop. The workshop is based on a Training of Trainers (TOT) model, which emphasizes discussion and analysis of issues surrounding HIV/AIDS like cultural practices, gender inequality and communication skills, rather than rote memorization of acronyms and biology. So inevitably, the conversation turns to all sorts of interesting cultural insights and quotable quotes that sometimes end up on my blog.
For example, I always get stumped by the belief among adult Kenyans that if you talk with children about sex, they will immediately run out and try it. I tried to explain that studies comparing young people who attend sex education classes and those who attend abstinence-only classes show that there is no difference in the age at which these kids first have sex. Other studies show that kids who know more about sex tend to delay their sexual debut slightly longer than kids who don’t. Talking frankly about sex creates healthy attitudes, and empowers kids to make informed choices.
The response is always the same. “America is a very open society,” they say. “It’s okay to speak openly about sex and boyfriends and girlfriends. But here, we cannot.”
I never know what to say at this point, without sounding judgmental and inappropriate. Especially after someone said today, “If a girl brings her boyfriend home for lunch with her parents, she will be killed.”
Killed?
I wasn’t sure if they meant that literally, but the point was made.
Then there’s the insistence that condoms have holes, and the corresponding resistance to all my assurances to the contrary. I’ve decided that the “condoms have holes” myth has been so completely drilled into people’s heads that I’m fighting a losing battle trying to convince people otherwise. No matter what kinds of demonstrations I do – blowing up condoms and tying the end, submerging them in water to show there are no air bubbles escaping – or what kinds of numbers I present about diameters of HIV and oxygen and pores in latex – the “condoms have holes” damage is done, and thousands of PCVs all around the world can’t undo it.
The argument is seemingly convincing: Latex has microscopic pores in it. So HIV can sometimes pass through, rendering condoms effective only 75% of the time.
First of all it amazes me that someone went to the trouble to cook up something like this. My response is always to point out the math.
“The truth is that condoms are effective 99% of the time when used correctly. I know you may not believe me, and I can’t force you to. But let’s assume that your number is right, that they are only effective 75% of the time. So if you use a condom, chances are 25% that you could get HIV. But if you don’t, chances are much closer to 100% that you could get HIV. Which are better odds?”
People always state the obvious answer. They would choose to use condoms. But the truth is that the “condoms have holes” myth isn’t the biggest problem. It strikes me more as an elaborate stunt pulled by churches to further their own social agendas, and it distracts from other factors.
People don’t avoid condoms because they think they have holes. They avoid them because there’s so much social taboo against using them. With your wife, because you’re both supposed to be faithful. With your girlfriend, because only prostitutes use condoms. In general, because they don’t feel as good and it’s not manly. And ultimately, because you could go to all this effort to make sure you use condoms to protect yourself, and tomorrow you die in a matatu accident, not of AIDS.
How do you respond to such a complex litany of excuses? At this point, I’ve almost come full circle. It’s embarrassing to say this, but George W. would be proud.
Now, I just say, “Well, then, abstain.”
And then I think in my head, “It’ll save the world from irresponsible people spawning their irresponsibility into the already fetid gene pool, and their genital ulcers into other un-ulcerated genitals, and their HIV-positive dependency into the deep pockets of international aid ear-marked for this immense social, political and economic scourge that may or may not be out-smarted by worldwide intervention anytime soon.”
And it’s about as effective as saying, “Use condoms.”
The whole ABC (Abstain, Be Faithful, Use Condoms) prevention campaign is deceptively simple on the surface, and a hugely controversial teaching aid pitting abstinence-only finger-waggers against freedom-of-choice liberals. And in Kenya, it just seems useless for anyone who teaches about AIDS.
This is why I’ve latched onto this TOT curriculum. It’s focus is on talking about things that are hard to talk about. It teaches people about the one thing that has historically proven itself to resolve almost every conflict and problem in life, at the individual and universal level: communication.
Well that, and death.
posted by Justina at 5:57 PM
1 Comments:
Love it. "Pussy Wants Juju" makes it SO OBVIOUS that you're in the right place at school. Can't wait to find out what happens next.
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