After a few days of adjusting to cold showers and a constant presence of Africa’s famed red dust, orientation came the first Monday in Africa. We were told to pack everything at Pastor Regina’s, as we would most likely be moving to another home stay, and that someone would be by to pick us up around 930ish, which loosely translated into, someone should be around sometime to collect us Monday morning…ish. In Kenya, everything runs on Africa time, which is to say time is a fluid and flexible approximation of the happenings, leaving my watch to be more of an instrument of frustration than practicality.
At the orientation the mix of American, Canadian, and English volunteers introduced themselves and explained why each came to Kenya. Job loss and a desire to help seemed to carry a common theme amongst the group. The head of Fadhili Community, the Kenyan organization that was to act as a go between for the volunteers and their placements, Joe Gichuki welcomed all of us with a hearty warm laugh and then launched into an informative talk about the customs of his country and some of the precautions that one should take. Fadhili started as a way to link international volunteers with need based groups in Kenya. Like many organizations, it serves a purpose for the community, while also providing an income for the young staff that works for it.
In the afternoon, we took a trip to the Nakumat, an African version of Wal-Mart, to buy some of the essentials one might need, i.e. toilet paper. Since we had already been there before (Pastor Regina’s is a 10 minute walk away), I used the time to explore the rest of the mall. It was a surreal feeling, one I did not appreciate, being in what could be considered quintessentially American. The mall had everything from an African version of Barnes and Nobles to a food court with an imitation Jamba Juice. The final nail came when the first booked I picked up relayed the account of Peter Beard’s, a Montauk resident, trampling by a bull elephant. I was all too happy to leave.
In order to drop all the volunteers at their respective home stays, we darted around the city for hours, until the sun finally set. In Kenya, there are few streetlights, but this does not prevent many drivers from driving without headlights either. Whipping through the streets, avoiding the pedestrians crowding the roads and the other erratic vehicles provided quite a bit of entertainment and worried looks, but the excitement was not enough as I dosed off along the bumpy ride. By the time we reached, Mama Lydia’s it was well past dark. The low stone building stands behind a 12 foot wall with a solid iron fence. Mama Lydia, a boisterous and friendly woman, welcomed us and showed us to our rooms. Yvonne and Louise, Canadian twin sisters, would be staying and working with me. I was left in a small room with four empty bunk beds and the unexpected promise of hot showers in the morning.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
First Days
My first experience in Kenya, involved anxiously watching all the luggage that was not mine pass me on the carousel. Nairobi’s airport gives passengers a view of the bags as the handlers unloaded them and the police canine sniffs each one, leaving me a bit more worried every time a cargo truck pulled away without dropping my bags. As each moment passed, I took note of the contents of my carry-on: one pair of jeans, one set of boxers, a pair of socks, and the flannel shirt I wore leaving a blizzard covered New York two days before. It was 87 degrees outside.
When the last truck pulled in, my anxiety peaked. I had barely started a three-month trip to work in an AIDs clinic in Africa and everything was already going terribly wrong. And then it appeared, my blue and black backpack coasting along the carousel. The dog stopped for a brief second on it, reigniting all the angst, only to move onto the next one. I walked out of the arrivals, stiffened immediately by the heat. Standing amongst all the others, stood Oliver, one of the Fadhili Community workers, holding a ripped piece of cardboard with my name scrawled across it, and Robin, another volunteer.
On the way to my transition housing at Pastor Regina’s, Oliver sped through the streets of Nairobi, swerving across three lanes of traffic and back at 80 kph, while pointing out the zebras and other “interesting” points. Robin, the lanky volunteer from England, talked about his time out in Masaii Mara and why he had lost his job as a uranium miner in Australia. A pervasive mix of exhaust fumes and sweat filled the car, and rolling down the window did little for the smell or heat. When we slowed in traffic, young boys, in ragged clothes and with faces caked in the red African dust, came to the window hawking different fruits, car accessories and some mystery products.
I spent my first weekend in the slum that Pastor Regina resides. For all its lacking in modern convenience, Pastor Regina’s orphanage provided a glimpse into a life I had never known before. The dirt streets of Deliverance, named after the local corrugated tin church, run with foul water and burning garbage, mixed with smells of cooking meat and nuts. To some this may seem strange, but my senses danced with discovery, nothing is muted here. The sounds of the neighborhood rang everywhere, bleating goats, men bargaining their wears of used shoes and rusted tools, people coming and going about their business, and always a friendly “jambo,” the formal Kiswahili greeting here and there for us “muzungos,” or white people. Pastor Regina’s concrete house stands as an oasis in the wooden and corrugated tin of the shanties surrounding it. As we pulled past the metal gates a dozen or so children, dirty from the Kenyan dust and dressed in the hand me downs of volunteer donations (one boy wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a well-known New York City adult store), congregated around the car as arrived, pressing their faces against the window, bright eyes and smiling as they peered in.
I first met Virginia, one of Pastor Regina’s employees, who showed me to my room. The small concrete space had two sets of rickety bunk beds, with mosquito netting over each and a window that peered out into the garden. Stacked into tidy, but unorganized piles, the clothes and other backpacker’s supplies hinted to the other all ready in-country. I soon met Cheryl, a young bubbly Canadian, working in the same program as I am. And not long after, Melissa, a jetlagged English girl emerged from one of the other rooms. She would be working in the orphanage program for six weeks, before returning to start a child nursing program in university.
As we sat in the modest, but nicely furnished sitting room, we shared stories of our travels and our intentions for our stay here. But, one common factor seem to be an excited, but restless desire to know what capacity we would fill and what lay in store for us. Orientation would be the first Monday following the weekend, but for now the trip has been one of many unanswered questions.
When the last truck pulled in, my anxiety peaked. I had barely started a three-month trip to work in an AIDs clinic in Africa and everything was already going terribly wrong. And then it appeared, my blue and black backpack coasting along the carousel. The dog stopped for a brief second on it, reigniting all the angst, only to move onto the next one. I walked out of the arrivals, stiffened immediately by the heat. Standing amongst all the others, stood Oliver, one of the Fadhili Community workers, holding a ripped piece of cardboard with my name scrawled across it, and Robin, another volunteer.
On the way to my transition housing at Pastor Regina’s, Oliver sped through the streets of Nairobi, swerving across three lanes of traffic and back at 80 kph, while pointing out the zebras and other “interesting” points. Robin, the lanky volunteer from England, talked about his time out in Masaii Mara and why he had lost his job as a uranium miner in Australia. A pervasive mix of exhaust fumes and sweat filled the car, and rolling down the window did little for the smell or heat. When we slowed in traffic, young boys, in ragged clothes and with faces caked in the red African dust, came to the window hawking different fruits, car accessories and some mystery products.
I spent my first weekend in the slum that Pastor Regina resides. For all its lacking in modern convenience, Pastor Regina’s orphanage provided a glimpse into a life I had never known before. The dirt streets of Deliverance, named after the local corrugated tin church, run with foul water and burning garbage, mixed with smells of cooking meat and nuts. To some this may seem strange, but my senses danced with discovery, nothing is muted here. The sounds of the neighborhood rang everywhere, bleating goats, men bargaining their wears of used shoes and rusted tools, people coming and going about their business, and always a friendly “jambo,” the formal Kiswahili greeting here and there for us “muzungos,” or white people. Pastor Regina’s concrete house stands as an oasis in the wooden and corrugated tin of the shanties surrounding it. As we pulled past the metal gates a dozen or so children, dirty from the Kenyan dust and dressed in the hand me downs of volunteer donations (one boy wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a well-known New York City adult store), congregated around the car as arrived, pressing their faces against the window, bright eyes and smiling as they peered in.
I first met Virginia, one of Pastor Regina’s employees, who showed me to my room. The small concrete space had two sets of rickety bunk beds, with mosquito netting over each and a window that peered out into the garden. Stacked into tidy, but unorganized piles, the clothes and other backpacker’s supplies hinted to the other all ready in-country. I soon met Cheryl, a young bubbly Canadian, working in the same program as I am. And not long after, Melissa, a jetlagged English girl emerged from one of the other rooms. She would be working in the orphanage program for six weeks, before returning to start a child nursing program in university.
As we sat in the modest, but nicely furnished sitting room, we shared stories of our travels and our intentions for our stay here. But, one common factor seem to be an excited, but restless desire to know what capacity we would fill and what lay in store for us. Orientation would be the first Monday following the weekend, but for now the trip has been one of many unanswered questions.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Leaving Day
Today I'm leaving for a 3 to 4 month journey to Kenya and a few surrounding countries. After years of enjoying the fruits of the western world, I decided to undertake an opportunity to volunteer in Africa, working in a HIV/Aids clinic in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya.
The trip begins with a 12 hour flight to Dubai, a 14 hour layover there, then followed by a 5 hour flight to to Kenya's capitol, Nairobi. Last night a blizzard left New York blanketed on over a foot of snow. Tomorrow I'll be in a desert jewel, surrounded by the all the modernizations the west pioneered. But, by Saturday, many of those conveniences and luxuries will be replaced by a true third world lifestyle.
Over the next three months, I plan to use this blog to relate the experiences, both personal and social, that occur through my work in Kenya and the interactions with those I meet. I hope I can make a difference, even if its only within myself.
The trip begins with a 12 hour flight to Dubai, a 14 hour layover there, then followed by a 5 hour flight to to Kenya's capitol, Nairobi. Last night a blizzard left New York blanketed on over a foot of snow. Tomorrow I'll be in a desert jewel, surrounded by the all the modernizations the west pioneered. But, by Saturday, many of those conveniences and luxuries will be replaced by a true third world lifestyle.
Over the next three months, I plan to use this blog to relate the experiences, both personal and social, that occur through my work in Kenya and the interactions with those I meet. I hope I can make a difference, even if its only within myself.
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