After years of NYC cabbie experiences, I have developed quite the animosity for the irate drivers of those quintessentially New York yellow beasts. So when I first arrived in Kenya, it was with great interest that I learned about the public system of minibuses called “matatus.” However, for most foreigners it is either a love or “oh god, never again, do you have a death wish” type relationship? During my orientation, our guides warned us against the dangers and drawbacks of matatu travel, using everything from a skit to explain pick pocketing techniques to an explanation of the mamba’s (conductors in a sense) hand gestures. My mother would never approve; I could not wait for my first matatu journey.
The Swahili word “matatu” literally translates to many three, but essentially means 30 cents, denoting the cheapest way of travel for the masses in Kenya. On the streets of Nairobi, two types prevail, the smaller matatu, usually a Nissan minibus legally carries 14 passengers and the larger mathrees, buses that can accommodate many more passengers, dwarfing there smaller brethren. Each runs a particular route, with handwritten placards denoting the number of the matatus route. However, many will operate on two different routes depending on the time of day and ability for profit. Good luck finding a route map, though, asking locals for information and simple experience will have to suffice.
Though they make up a larger public transportation system, all are privately held, reflecting the owner’s style with individual paint schemes and decals and blasting music. Matatus generally come with a white exterior, though many trick out with specialized rims and decals placed along the windows. The décor ranges from English premier league to obnoxious symbols of American wealth- Hummer, Loius Vuitton and others. Many adorn back windows with biblical quotations, a symbolic display considering many passengers pray for safe arrival once inside.
In the tradition of cabbie driving, matatu drivers take aggressive driving to a new level of art. Sans seat belts passengers whip back and forth as the vans dart through traffic, making two-lane roadways into improvised six lane bypasses. Anything that resembles, a short cut, even goat paths, will suffice if a little time can be saved. Armed with horns more appropriate for freight trains, drivers use one hand for steering and the other for warning everyone they’re coming. If one is lucky enough to find a matatu with a large television screen mounted in front, then the hardcore Kenyan rap video becomes a welcome reprieve. However, the two seats next to the driver give a candid view of the insanity that is Kenyan driving. When sitting in the middle, one is left in the precarious position of witnessing approaching danger, while having nothing to grab on to. Either make friends with your seat mate or reach for the driver and risk pulling the van back into the path of the tractor-trailer he just cut off.
As matatus approach stops, called stages, the conductors hang out the middle window, reaching along the outside to open the door. As passengers file out, the conductors shout the prices and beckon customers to their rides. Using a hand system to advertise route prices, one finger or closed fists bumped together equals 10 Bob, two fingers is 20 Bob, closed fist held high represents 50, and one extended pinky a 60 Bob ride, the conductors make impassioned pleas, and often try to drag customers towards unwanted routes. Before one learns the real prices of rides, reflected in a constant flow of supply and demand, often mizungus will receive inflated prices. However, when called out on the trickery, a smile and shrug often accompany the correct price.
On the matatu lines, foreigners remain easy targets for unscrupulous conductors and others looking to skim from one’s pocket. One morning, during rush hour, the twins and I waited patiently as matatu after matatu passed, too filled for all three of us. A small crowd had gathered, waiting for a cramped ride to work. When a fairly empty one approached, Louis bargained the price for all three of us and as we entered a surge joined us, pushing into the van and separating us. As I sat in the back corner, a well dressed man asked me to slide over, claiming an injured leg that did not seem to bother him when he ran to join us (a classic move as we had been taught). With close to 20 people inside, another man in tatters sat in the gap, blocking the exit, and each of the twins either sat upon someone of acted as a seat herself. Next to me, the man in a pressed button-down, pulled out the newspaper and I read from one eye about a recent string of inside job armored car heists. We ambled along to our stop and the conductor tapped on the window indicating a stop. As a stood up slightly, I nudged the man blocking the way, but he played dumb and did not move. I then felt a slight tug on my pants, moved the paper aside, just in time to see the well-dressed mans opposite hand retreating from my pocket. A few obscenities later and hard shove to his companion blocking my way; I was outside, money still intact. I stood next to the window, extending a customary international relation gesture (yes, Top Gun fans, that one), as the man and his bad leg slid across to the other side.
Luckily, for me, the man still needed work on his trade, but Yvonne’s did not fair so well, loosing 500 shillings, but gaining a story for the cost. Despite the dangers, matatus remain the cheapest and most thrilling way to move about town.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Korogocho
Each morning, we head off to work in a slum the size of many small American cities. Situated on the northeast of Nairobi, Korogocho slum is home to anywhere from 150,000 to 200,000 people, living well below any poverty line. Boba Ndogo, one of the many entrances into the heart of Korogocho, lies on the elbow of a paved road, acting as a matatu stage for the minibus drop-offs. Factories for Sarah Lee, seed companies, and other industries, along with a smattering a churches, line the road to here. Just across the street, men sit under tin-roofed stalls offering shoe polishes, reminding me of a rickety version of their Manhattan counterparts. However, instead of polishing just the well-oiled leather of businessmen, these men polish and clean everything from sneakers to sandals, scrubbing the red dust that pervades everything.
On our first day, David, the field representative for UMAY, met us at that corner. A young, affable Kenyan, David cracks an easy smile every time I see him. As an NGO (non-governmental organization), U.M.A.Y, Uplifting Men and Youth, remains in its infancy, only starting operations a few months ago. As we descended along the dirt road into Korogocho, hawker stalls lined the road, selling everything from new and used clothing to chickens to soap and toilet paper. Small Honda motorcycles blasted horns as they cruised past, bumping along with a passenger clenching the rear bar.
As we walked along, David told us that much of the election violence had centered in Korogocho, parts of it never recovering. Just past a women frying potatoes in an oil-filled wok over an open fire, stood a bridge just wide enough for two people to pass each other. Underneath a river of grey water flows, garbage seeming to pile higher than the banks of the river rots in contrast to the green foliage sprouting from patchy areas. Thinking it worthy of a photographed, we stopped atop the bridge for a moment, only to be shocked by the distorted picture the camera gave us. The millions of pixels formed a lazy river scene reminiscent of Tom Sawyer rather than the decay of society.
On the other side, the real desolation of Africa glared. Streams of waste water run down tiny dirt alleys, imposing tin shacks leaning from one side to the other create a claustrophobic sense, highlighting the putrid smells of rot mixed with the tantalizing odors of new and sometimes indiscernible foods cooking. Mizungus, or white people, do not live here and rarely visit either. However, most of the children here shout choruses of “How are you?,” often from blocks away and causing one to search for in the direction of the tiny voices. Their smiles shine bright against dark faces and run to shake hands with us.
David first brought us to the UMAY office, which shares a building with the KYEEDA (Korogocho Youth Education and Economic Development Association) school. In contrast to the schools of my American youth, the school building resembles the shell of a school. During the election violence, much of it was destroyed. With a thin barbed wire fence surrounding the dirt yard, the building contains no doors or windows, except for those of the office. These are only to protect to the few work books and supplies the school desperately clings to. Joshua, the charismatic head school teacher, wearing a neatly pressed shirt and dress pants, with a tie worn considerably shorter than in many western countries, toured us around, telling us that he originally trained as an accountant, but had found the need for schooling in his home area. In Kenya, schooling up to the Class 8 theoretically is funded by the government. However, corruption and poor management have left places similar to Korogocho with 20,000 to 40,000 school aged children and only 2 government schools with a capacity of a thousand students each. And, according to some, even these come with additional fees.
Instead, many areas benefit from the compassion of a few to provide a service for their communities and a life for themselves. Joshua and his teachers are not properly trained, but for what they lack in proper education they make up for in fervor. With nearly 400 students, the tiny classrooms of KYEEDA crowd themselves with rustic desks and blackboards. The students wear maroon uniforms, often ill-fitting and resembling more of an approximation of uniformity. As the grades descend, the desks go from individual models to benches to tarps laid out on the floor for the younger ones. Many of the students pay little if any tuition, using a formula based on the number of parents determining actual cost. An orphan will attend free, while a student with both a mother and father will pay 250 shillings a month, or just over three dollars. Only about 65% of the students fund the school, with little, if any, additional outside help. With so little money, rent for the school remains in arrears and the teachers’ salaries remains paltry, even by Kenyan standards.
As most of the children head home for lunch, Joshua touched on his love for all things foreign. A few months back, a visitor had allowed him to borrow what I believe was a US history text book. He described the eagle seal on its cover, and the line of presidents within. When he inquired about the possibility of acquiring another copy, I could not fathom how would track down, the specific copy that he described. However, if this former accountant could start a school for hundreds of needy children in the center of depravity, I could not resist the challenge of finding one. (ANYONE WANTING TO DONATE A US HISTORY OR GOVERNMENT TEXTBOOK, PLEASE CONTACT ME, THIS INCLUDES CURRENT STUDENTS WHO SIMPLY HATE CARRYING IT TO SCHOOL)
From the school, we walked farther into Korogocho. Women sat outside their small homes, peeling maize husks. Only feet away, two pigs rolled in the mud that bisected the little dirt road. As we passed one of the government schools, men and women in ragged western clothes sat in the hot sun tending to piles of colored plastics and random junk, waiting for someone to find value in their scavenged efforts. David spotted to members of a partner organization, MAAK, Men Against Aids in Kenya, a community outreach program. Douglas a tall, laid back fellow with a very gentle voice, works as a counselor visiting men affected by the AIDs epidemic, providing them with a psycho-social support system. In Kenya, discrimination remains a serious concern, often creating a barrier for treatment and the prevention of the disease’s spread. Morris, an older father-figure type with a crippled hand that he was not embarrassed to offer in handshake, provided protection for the group. With serious poverty and an influx of alcohol and drugs, crime acts as a means of income for a segment of Korogocho. Though lacking in a physically menacing appearance, I was cryptically told Morris had “ways of dealing with bad men.”
In its operations, MAAK makes house visits to many of its members. Douglas invited us to go along with them. As we gingerly made our way through tiny alleys, avoiding drainage water snaking though out path, I misjudged a corner and sliced my arm with the rusted edge of a house. I could not have been happier thinking about the tetanus booster I recently received. The tin sided maze led to a tiny compound with a door we ducked through. Inside, three young children chased around a dirt-covered duck. Douglas brought us inside a tiny one roomed house, devoid of light, a stale smell pervading throughout. We sat upon the tattered remnants of a couch, all five of us crowded in, sitting opposite a man well into his final stages and his frail wife. Douglas translated, as Sam told us his story, relaying the difficulties he faced, the tortured life and the circle of taking drugs to prevent the onslaught of AIDs only to be too weak to then eat. In this room, no larger than a small NYC living room, the five of them slept, cooked and ate their meals, leaving at a level that I found difficult to fathom. Sam’s problems are a constant reminder of the devastation that poverty and HIV bring to this country.
Slightly dazed and emotionally drained, we made our way out of the labyrinth to one Korogocho’s only medical clinics. MAKWAK (a Swahili acronym) stands in a compound with a police station and the Korogocho Rehabilitation board. Only steps from the only paved road, the dusty, concrete building sits low and unassuming. However, hundreds of patients pass through it each day, seeking medical attention. Inside, we meet John and Agway, the managers of the clinic. Their story sounds similar in its desire. Each morning the clinic purchases the small amount of medicines that can be afforded, often depleting the supply by mid-morning. Each person that works at MAKWAK receives a daily stipend of a few dollars, essentially volunteers by most standards. Patients pay 25 shillings per visit, or about 33 cents. However, many cannot afford it, but none are turned away. Despite the HIV epidemic, Korogocho’s main concerns are malaria and water-born diseases, such as typhoid and cholera. The clinic manages a fresh water supply, providing cheap and easy access to residents, who line up to fill jerry cans of the water. With the bustling work day’s and dedicated staff, MAKWAK attempts to fill a void within in the community, however, no certified doctor has ever worked there.
Leaving the dirt streets and tin facades of Korogocho, David brought us to Kariobangi, a stark contrast with paved roads and concrete buildings rising into the sky, piles of garbage and strange smells, still pervaded, but the change noticeable. We ascended seven flights of stairs to eat on the roof top of one of the buildings. We ordered ice cold Cokes and local food, a silence eerily present over all of us. The height provided an excellent view over the slum, including the Dandora garbage dump that Korogocho bordered. Dozens of vultures circled above, riding the rising methane plumes. So many of my problems seemed instantly absurd.
On our first day, David, the field representative for UMAY, met us at that corner. A young, affable Kenyan, David cracks an easy smile every time I see him. As an NGO (non-governmental organization), U.M.A.Y, Uplifting Men and Youth, remains in its infancy, only starting operations a few months ago. As we descended along the dirt road into Korogocho, hawker stalls lined the road, selling everything from new and used clothing to chickens to soap and toilet paper. Small Honda motorcycles blasted horns as they cruised past, bumping along with a passenger clenching the rear bar.
As we walked along, David told us that much of the election violence had centered in Korogocho, parts of it never recovering. Just past a women frying potatoes in an oil-filled wok over an open fire, stood a bridge just wide enough for two people to pass each other. Underneath a river of grey water flows, garbage seeming to pile higher than the banks of the river rots in contrast to the green foliage sprouting from patchy areas. Thinking it worthy of a photographed, we stopped atop the bridge for a moment, only to be shocked by the distorted picture the camera gave us. The millions of pixels formed a lazy river scene reminiscent of Tom Sawyer rather than the decay of society.
On the other side, the real desolation of Africa glared. Streams of waste water run down tiny dirt alleys, imposing tin shacks leaning from one side to the other create a claustrophobic sense, highlighting the putrid smells of rot mixed with the tantalizing odors of new and sometimes indiscernible foods cooking. Mizungus, or white people, do not live here and rarely visit either. However, most of the children here shout choruses of “How are you?,” often from blocks away and causing one to search for in the direction of the tiny voices. Their smiles shine bright against dark faces and run to shake hands with us.
David first brought us to the UMAY office, which shares a building with the KYEEDA (Korogocho Youth Education and Economic Development Association) school. In contrast to the schools of my American youth, the school building resembles the shell of a school. During the election violence, much of it was destroyed. With a thin barbed wire fence surrounding the dirt yard, the building contains no doors or windows, except for those of the office. These are only to protect to the few work books and supplies the school desperately clings to. Joshua, the charismatic head school teacher, wearing a neatly pressed shirt and dress pants, with a tie worn considerably shorter than in many western countries, toured us around, telling us that he originally trained as an accountant, but had found the need for schooling in his home area. In Kenya, schooling up to the Class 8 theoretically is funded by the government. However, corruption and poor management have left places similar to Korogocho with 20,000 to 40,000 school aged children and only 2 government schools with a capacity of a thousand students each. And, according to some, even these come with additional fees.
Instead, many areas benefit from the compassion of a few to provide a service for their communities and a life for themselves. Joshua and his teachers are not properly trained, but for what they lack in proper education they make up for in fervor. With nearly 400 students, the tiny classrooms of KYEEDA crowd themselves with rustic desks and blackboards. The students wear maroon uniforms, often ill-fitting and resembling more of an approximation of uniformity. As the grades descend, the desks go from individual models to benches to tarps laid out on the floor for the younger ones. Many of the students pay little if any tuition, using a formula based on the number of parents determining actual cost. An orphan will attend free, while a student with both a mother and father will pay 250 shillings a month, or just over three dollars. Only about 65% of the students fund the school, with little, if any, additional outside help. With so little money, rent for the school remains in arrears and the teachers’ salaries remains paltry, even by Kenyan standards.
As most of the children head home for lunch, Joshua touched on his love for all things foreign. A few months back, a visitor had allowed him to borrow what I believe was a US history text book. He described the eagle seal on its cover, and the line of presidents within. When he inquired about the possibility of acquiring another copy, I could not fathom how would track down, the specific copy that he described. However, if this former accountant could start a school for hundreds of needy children in the center of depravity, I could not resist the challenge of finding one. (ANYONE WANTING TO DONATE A US HISTORY OR GOVERNMENT TEXTBOOK, PLEASE CONTACT ME, THIS INCLUDES CURRENT STUDENTS WHO SIMPLY HATE CARRYING IT TO SCHOOL)
From the school, we walked farther into Korogocho. Women sat outside their small homes, peeling maize husks. Only feet away, two pigs rolled in the mud that bisected the little dirt road. As we passed one of the government schools, men and women in ragged western clothes sat in the hot sun tending to piles of colored plastics and random junk, waiting for someone to find value in their scavenged efforts. David spotted to members of a partner organization, MAAK, Men Against Aids in Kenya, a community outreach program. Douglas a tall, laid back fellow with a very gentle voice, works as a counselor visiting men affected by the AIDs epidemic, providing them with a psycho-social support system. In Kenya, discrimination remains a serious concern, often creating a barrier for treatment and the prevention of the disease’s spread. Morris, an older father-figure type with a crippled hand that he was not embarrassed to offer in handshake, provided protection for the group. With serious poverty and an influx of alcohol and drugs, crime acts as a means of income for a segment of Korogocho. Though lacking in a physically menacing appearance, I was cryptically told Morris had “ways of dealing with bad men.”
In its operations, MAAK makes house visits to many of its members. Douglas invited us to go along with them. As we gingerly made our way through tiny alleys, avoiding drainage water snaking though out path, I misjudged a corner and sliced my arm with the rusted edge of a house. I could not have been happier thinking about the tetanus booster I recently received. The tin sided maze led to a tiny compound with a door we ducked through. Inside, three young children chased around a dirt-covered duck. Douglas brought us inside a tiny one roomed house, devoid of light, a stale smell pervading throughout. We sat upon the tattered remnants of a couch, all five of us crowded in, sitting opposite a man well into his final stages and his frail wife. Douglas translated, as Sam told us his story, relaying the difficulties he faced, the tortured life and the circle of taking drugs to prevent the onslaught of AIDs only to be too weak to then eat. In this room, no larger than a small NYC living room, the five of them slept, cooked and ate their meals, leaving at a level that I found difficult to fathom. Sam’s problems are a constant reminder of the devastation that poverty and HIV bring to this country.
Slightly dazed and emotionally drained, we made our way out of the labyrinth to one Korogocho’s only medical clinics. MAKWAK (a Swahili acronym) stands in a compound with a police station and the Korogocho Rehabilitation board. Only steps from the only paved road, the dusty, concrete building sits low and unassuming. However, hundreds of patients pass through it each day, seeking medical attention. Inside, we meet John and Agway, the managers of the clinic. Their story sounds similar in its desire. Each morning the clinic purchases the small amount of medicines that can be afforded, often depleting the supply by mid-morning. Each person that works at MAKWAK receives a daily stipend of a few dollars, essentially volunteers by most standards. Patients pay 25 shillings per visit, or about 33 cents. However, many cannot afford it, but none are turned away. Despite the HIV epidemic, Korogocho’s main concerns are malaria and water-born diseases, such as typhoid and cholera. The clinic manages a fresh water supply, providing cheap and easy access to residents, who line up to fill jerry cans of the water. With the bustling work day’s and dedicated staff, MAKWAK attempts to fill a void within in the community, however, no certified doctor has ever worked there.
Leaving the dirt streets and tin facades of Korogocho, David brought us to Kariobangi, a stark contrast with paved roads and concrete buildings rising into the sky, piles of garbage and strange smells, still pervaded, but the change noticeable. We ascended seven flights of stairs to eat on the roof top of one of the buildings. We ordered ice cold Cokes and local food, a silence eerily present over all of us. The height provided an excellent view over the slum, including the Dandora garbage dump that Korogocho bordered. Dozens of vultures circled above, riding the rising methane plumes. So many of my problems seemed instantly absurd.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Outreach Weekend Part 3- IDP camp
The morning after Hells’ Gate, I woke to a light rain falling on the tent. The other slept soundly on their sleeping mats. Outside clothes, from the day before remained wet and smelled of river and mud. In attempt to lessen weight I had thankfully left a dry set of clothes in one of the vans. But, my shoes remained logged down by the adventures and I chose to go barefoot instead. We had arrived at Cornelly’s Camp after dark, hiding the beauty of the surrounding lake and the main restaurant and bar. Even though we had spent the night before playing pool and drinking cold Tusker’s, the solitude of breakfast in the open-aired sitting area, covered by a tin roof that amplified each rain drop, and filled with large colorful pillows lying on carved wood furniture, struck me as one of those perfect moments that will live with me forever. I sat there eating chipati, an African flatbread, and drinking coffee reading the adventures of an Australian who traveled overland from Cape Town to Cairo. If it were not for the instant Nescafe, instead of the famed Kenyan coffee, everything would have been perfect.
Soon the others began to shuffle in, some complaining about muscle aches and the irresponsibility of the day before. I felt a little more alive for the same reasons. For all the physical trials Hell’s Gate posed, Izzo warned us that the day’s visit to the IDP camps would challenge our emotional strength. In 2008, a disputed election between the current Kenyan president and prime minister led to fierce fighting and violence throughout the country. Tribalism spurred friends and neighbors to turn on each other, leading to thousands of deaths and hundreds of thousands of others to flee their homes, thus resulting in the IDP, or Internally Displaced People, camps.
We traveled into Naivasha, nothing more than a truck stop for many of the long haul transports, to purchase bulk amounts of flour, rice, and cooking fat. We filled plastic bags with each of the food stuffs, creating quite a mess, while debating the politics of aid and volunteering. On one hand it seemed to be in the spirit of humanity to be helping the needy, but the danger of forming dependency overshadowed as well. Within about an hour or so, we had divvied up 270 kilos of flour, 250 kilos of rice, and another 50kg of cooking fat, hoping to supply 174 families with food for the next two weeks. Loading everything into one van and squeezing extra bodies into another, we ventured off to what the British used to refer to as the “Happy Valley.”
While many IDP camps exist throughout Kenya, the three that we visited all distinctly took there own form of evolution. Children came out happily waving and smiling, as we drove across fields to reach the first. In the distance, other camps could be seen. This one had moved only two weeks before, and consisted of little more than a dozen ramshackle structures made from empty cement bags, tarps, and sticks. One woman worked on hers, only the crooked skeleton of its wooden frame finished. We visited one of the houses of a woman and her seven children. No bigger than a small NYC bedroom, all nine of them slept on the dirt floor. The wind rustled the plastic shell, with light poking through all the different holes. A small fire from a three stone stove filled the air with an acrid smoke, as flies flew from body to body. We crammed in as Izzo, told us the horror stories of her past. Forced from their land, they had lost everything and had little to show. The UN had given them tents; however, they had been mistakenly relieved of refugee status and the tents taken. Collectively the group bought land, but had settled on the wrong parcel, causing their move only two weeks prior. As her story unfolded, the strain became apparent on many of the volunteers, only made worse by the uncomfortable position in the tiny tent. We emerged to begin distributing the food; giving one bag of flour, one piece of fat, and either one or two bags of rice depending on the size of the family. One woman collected quantities for others, as many of were attending the funeral of a young child.
Weary from the initial visit, we drove to the second camp. Markedly different in appearance, the tents here bore large UN symbols on the side, and stood in a somewhat arranged shape with little plots of land surrounded by thatch fences and chicken coops on others. However, the people looked no different, wearing worn and tattered clothing, their donated status obvious from the various American and Canadian names emblazoned on them; a Hamilton hockey shirt catching my eye. Like the first, we went into the home of an HIV+ woman, living with her five children. A little bigger than the first tent, a makeshift bed took most of the room, with little tables and clothes scattered about. Izzo translated part of her story. During the violence she witnessed the brutal death of her brother, and the abandoning of her family by her husband. She did what she could to survive. Izzo then told us of the lack of work and hope it seemed, forcing many young girls and women to prostitute themselves to the Naivasha truck drivers. While some of the volunteers distributed food, I taught a group of children thumb wars, trying earnestly to overcome the language barrier. A few even seemed to be afraid of my red hair, but eventually coming forward to try the strange new hand shake game the mizungo taught.
With the first two groups living in tents, the stone houses of the third provided a little chance of hope for the others. Despite the ever present immobility of the Kenya government, Habit for Humanity built the houses for the community with the help of government donations. However, when one inquired the other groups were not as organized, an obviously frustrated response resulted. “It may never happen. That’s just the way it is.” While this camp received some of the same food stuffs, a donation allowed for the purchase of canvas shoes for many of the children. As the shoes were organized into sizes, I played with a few children. They took an obvious interest in my red beard and it was not long before several small hands ran over my face, giving me the impression of what it likes to a petting zoo attraction. The sun began to dip below the horizon preventing us from seeing the inside of the houses. But, the stone buildings with their similar outhouses gave the impression of a Midwestern government built town, each house exactly the same as the next.
With the day done, rain again fell on us. We departed with the knowledge of utter helplessness. And inside I could not stop feeling that even with all good intentions of our visit; we only continued a trend of dependency. As Izzo drove home along the twisting, slick roads, a few passengers drew sharp breaths with each close call from a passing truck, muttering an occasional “slow down.” In spite of the video game-like excitement of the drive, the weekend had drained me and I dozed off as we bounced along.
Soon the others began to shuffle in, some complaining about muscle aches and the irresponsibility of the day before. I felt a little more alive for the same reasons. For all the physical trials Hell’s Gate posed, Izzo warned us that the day’s visit to the IDP camps would challenge our emotional strength. In 2008, a disputed election between the current Kenyan president and prime minister led to fierce fighting and violence throughout the country. Tribalism spurred friends and neighbors to turn on each other, leading to thousands of deaths and hundreds of thousands of others to flee their homes, thus resulting in the IDP, or Internally Displaced People, camps.
We traveled into Naivasha, nothing more than a truck stop for many of the long haul transports, to purchase bulk amounts of flour, rice, and cooking fat. We filled plastic bags with each of the food stuffs, creating quite a mess, while debating the politics of aid and volunteering. On one hand it seemed to be in the spirit of humanity to be helping the needy, but the danger of forming dependency overshadowed as well. Within about an hour or so, we had divvied up 270 kilos of flour, 250 kilos of rice, and another 50kg of cooking fat, hoping to supply 174 families with food for the next two weeks. Loading everything into one van and squeezing extra bodies into another, we ventured off to what the British used to refer to as the “Happy Valley.”
While many IDP camps exist throughout Kenya, the three that we visited all distinctly took there own form of evolution. Children came out happily waving and smiling, as we drove across fields to reach the first. In the distance, other camps could be seen. This one had moved only two weeks before, and consisted of little more than a dozen ramshackle structures made from empty cement bags, tarps, and sticks. One woman worked on hers, only the crooked skeleton of its wooden frame finished. We visited one of the houses of a woman and her seven children. No bigger than a small NYC bedroom, all nine of them slept on the dirt floor. The wind rustled the plastic shell, with light poking through all the different holes. A small fire from a three stone stove filled the air with an acrid smoke, as flies flew from body to body. We crammed in as Izzo, told us the horror stories of her past. Forced from their land, they had lost everything and had little to show. The UN had given them tents; however, they had been mistakenly relieved of refugee status and the tents taken. Collectively the group bought land, but had settled on the wrong parcel, causing their move only two weeks prior. As her story unfolded, the strain became apparent on many of the volunteers, only made worse by the uncomfortable position in the tiny tent. We emerged to begin distributing the food; giving one bag of flour, one piece of fat, and either one or two bags of rice depending on the size of the family. One woman collected quantities for others, as many of were attending the funeral of a young child.
Weary from the initial visit, we drove to the second camp. Markedly different in appearance, the tents here bore large UN symbols on the side, and stood in a somewhat arranged shape with little plots of land surrounded by thatch fences and chicken coops on others. However, the people looked no different, wearing worn and tattered clothing, their donated status obvious from the various American and Canadian names emblazoned on them; a Hamilton hockey shirt catching my eye. Like the first, we went into the home of an HIV+ woman, living with her five children. A little bigger than the first tent, a makeshift bed took most of the room, with little tables and clothes scattered about. Izzo translated part of her story. During the violence she witnessed the brutal death of her brother, and the abandoning of her family by her husband. She did what she could to survive. Izzo then told us of the lack of work and hope it seemed, forcing many young girls and women to prostitute themselves to the Naivasha truck drivers. While some of the volunteers distributed food, I taught a group of children thumb wars, trying earnestly to overcome the language barrier. A few even seemed to be afraid of my red hair, but eventually coming forward to try the strange new hand shake game the mizungo taught.
With the first two groups living in tents, the stone houses of the third provided a little chance of hope for the others. Despite the ever present immobility of the Kenya government, Habit for Humanity built the houses for the community with the help of government donations. However, when one inquired the other groups were not as organized, an obviously frustrated response resulted. “It may never happen. That’s just the way it is.” While this camp received some of the same food stuffs, a donation allowed for the purchase of canvas shoes for many of the children. As the shoes were organized into sizes, I played with a few children. They took an obvious interest in my red beard and it was not long before several small hands ran over my face, giving me the impression of what it likes to a petting zoo attraction. The sun began to dip below the horizon preventing us from seeing the inside of the houses. But, the stone buildings with their similar outhouses gave the impression of a Midwestern government built town, each house exactly the same as the next.
With the day done, rain again fell on us. We departed with the knowledge of utter helplessness. And inside I could not stop feeling that even with all good intentions of our visit; we only continued a trend of dependency. As Izzo drove home along the twisting, slick roads, a few passengers drew sharp breaths with each close call from a passing truck, muttering an occasional “slow down.” In spite of the video game-like excitement of the drive, the weekend had drained me and I dozed off as we bounced along.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Outreach Part 2- Hell's Gate
The road to Hell’s Gate passes through fields of Kenyan flower farms, with giant white plastic awnings protecting the delicates from the scorching sun. Gnarly fences of spiny cactus protect the commercial endeavors. Outside the gates, Kenyans stand patiently, hoping there will be enough work today. We drove past, eventually arriving at the ranger station of the national park. For a 7km bike ride in, we searched through the inventory of battered bikes. One had the option of multiple gears, working brakes, or inflated tires, but not all three. As I made my way into the park made famous for the Lion King’s pride rock, we spotted zebras lazily eating, impalas running through the fields, families of warthogs snorting and playing around, and even a giraffe, that ran away with most graceful stride. Walls of sheer rock lined the plains and the catalyst for pride rock proved to be disappointing, but no less interesting.
As darkening skies began to loom and thunder crashed off on the distance, we abandoned the bikes to hike into the canyons. Signs warning of flash floods and baboons dotted the way, to a tiny stream the granite walls, only 10 feet apart, dwarfed. Rain began to fall in small drops, soon turning into giant gobs of warm African rain shower. With no protection, everyone scrambled for the few plastic bags for valuables and sacrificed everything else. The steady stream built into a small river, building with intensity at every bend, sending floating sticks and debris our way. We reached the first waterfall, and many in the group questioned how we would climb it. Nick, a recent Peace Corp veteran, stepped under the falls, covering himself in gravel and mud streaming down. Just as he walked away a rock the size of grapefruit passed the spot his head had just been. I looked back down the canyon, mentally taking in where one could climb if the water level increased. With sheets of rain, drenching the rock surface, few places looked suitable. The decision to carry on had its risks, but as I heaved myself over the top of the fall, whipping away blood from my elbow, I couldn’t help smiling to myself, the excitement boiled.
The river deepened and strengthened, the group forming human chains to push through, some groaning louder with every obstacle. The second waterfall required the remains of a fallen tree, acting as a sort of ladder. I rounded the bend, to see Christine fall from it, missing the small handhold. Shaken she clamored back up, but a few loudly voiced their displeasure. I made it over, slipping a bit at the end, but the group dynamic had soured with heavy rain. Izzo informed us that the last fall only a few would make up and that to our dismay the only exit was behind us. A vote was put whether to push on. I had already decided I would not be climbing the final fall, but I wanted to see what I would not conquer. The final fall was not enormous, but the wall was sheer and the water cascaded down. It was a fear of heights or climbing it that deterred me, but coming down blindly. All the more prudent choice, when Ryan fell coming down narrowly missing the jagged rocks at the bottom. I sat exhausted and emptied the piles of pebbles from my shoes and discarding the useless wet rags of sock.
The exit proved to be a less treacherous than originally imagined. The storm abated and the river returned to a gentle stream. Part of the group separated, and a few of us were rewarded with a hot springs showering from a rock face. Earlier I had lost my footing, and bounced my head off rock and mud, covering me from head-to-toe in a limey clay. Having a bar of soap handy, it seemed like the perfect time to strip down and shower. The hilarious scene ensued with a group of half-naked muzungos washing themselves along with muddy clothes, as bewildered guides looked on with amused glances. We hiked out as dusk set, scaling a cliff face to meet the waiting van and grumpy remains of the group. I looked back over the fading view of canyon and treetops, a sight that rewarded the difficulty of the day. The rain started falling again, but no one cared and we laughed about the prospect of hot showers and cold beer- together.
As darkening skies began to loom and thunder crashed off on the distance, we abandoned the bikes to hike into the canyons. Signs warning of flash floods and baboons dotted the way, to a tiny stream the granite walls, only 10 feet apart, dwarfed. Rain began to fall in small drops, soon turning into giant gobs of warm African rain shower. With no protection, everyone scrambled for the few plastic bags for valuables and sacrificed everything else. The steady stream built into a small river, building with intensity at every bend, sending floating sticks and debris our way. We reached the first waterfall, and many in the group questioned how we would climb it. Nick, a recent Peace Corp veteran, stepped under the falls, covering himself in gravel and mud streaming down. Just as he walked away a rock the size of grapefruit passed the spot his head had just been. I looked back down the canyon, mentally taking in where one could climb if the water level increased. With sheets of rain, drenching the rock surface, few places looked suitable. The decision to carry on had its risks, but as I heaved myself over the top of the fall, whipping away blood from my elbow, I couldn’t help smiling to myself, the excitement boiled.
The river deepened and strengthened, the group forming human chains to push through, some groaning louder with every obstacle. The second waterfall required the remains of a fallen tree, acting as a sort of ladder. I rounded the bend, to see Christine fall from it, missing the small handhold. Shaken she clamored back up, but a few loudly voiced their displeasure. I made it over, slipping a bit at the end, but the group dynamic had soured with heavy rain. Izzo informed us that the last fall only a few would make up and that to our dismay the only exit was behind us. A vote was put whether to push on. I had already decided I would not be climbing the final fall, but I wanted to see what I would not conquer. The final fall was not enormous, but the wall was sheer and the water cascaded down. It was a fear of heights or climbing it that deterred me, but coming down blindly. All the more prudent choice, when Ryan fell coming down narrowly missing the jagged rocks at the bottom. I sat exhausted and emptied the piles of pebbles from my shoes and discarding the useless wet rags of sock.
The exit proved to be a less treacherous than originally imagined. The storm abated and the river returned to a gentle stream. Part of the group separated, and a few of us were rewarded with a hot springs showering from a rock face. Earlier I had lost my footing, and bounced my head off rock and mud, covering me from head-to-toe in a limey clay. Having a bar of soap handy, it seemed like the perfect time to strip down and shower. The hilarious scene ensued with a group of half-naked muzungos washing themselves along with muddy clothes, as bewildered guides looked on with amused glances. We hiked out as dusk set, scaling a cliff face to meet the waiting van and grumpy remains of the group. I looked back over the fading view of canyon and treetops, a sight that rewarded the difficulty of the day. The rain started falling again, but no one cared and we laughed about the prospect of hot showers and cold beer- together.
Outreach Part 1- KCC
Friday started off worse than I could have ever imagined. Many of the volunteers were gathering for a weekend trip to an orphanage, a national park, and a few of the refugee camps that sprung up after the election violence of 2008. In order for us to make it Nakumat Junction on the other side of Nairobi by seven, we would have to wake at 430AM and leave the house a little after five. At just after midnight I got a few texts asking about volunteers I did not know, waking from a much needed sleep. The guard dogs that patrol many of the gated compounds in the area seemed to be viciously attacking the random shadows the full moon cast and I was up for the rest of the night. By the time, we got going we were already half-an-hour late, and heading for rush hour traffic. Thicka Road, the main artery into the city and the place where one catches a local matatu, or minibus, lies about 2 miles away. With the sun not yet breaking the horizon, early morning drivers veered along the roads, playing a “how close can one get to the pedestrians” type of game.
By six, we were standing at the stage area, with an ever growing group, watching as each matatu passed, filled with wearied eyed workers. In the meantime, a phone call brought some unwelcomed news, further dementing my tired mind. After 30 minutes, of standing we scrambled into an overcrowded vehicle blasting a talk radio show, in which the host kept scolding a black woman for allowing her white husband to control her. I felt odd looks penetrating the back of my head every time the host screamed “white husband.” We then inched along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, passing a few accidents. As seven approached, we barely made it to the city center, then needing to find the correct bus out to the Junction. Once aboard at 7:20, Izzo, one of the weekend’s guides, called half jokingly scolding me for being late. I sat back and just closed my eyes, Africa time!
By 8:30 the bus finally dropped us off near the meeting place. The others sat around the van, the early morning and our tardiness clearly affecting their moods. I rushed inside to withdraw money. However, after three different ATMs I was left with nothing; wondering how I was going to make it through 10 more weeks without cash. A security guard directed me to a dodgy looking stand alone machine. As I inserted my card, I reasoned that loosing what would remain in my account was a fair trade off if I could get any currency right now. It worked! The first thing to go right.
As we drove out to our first stop, I recounted the morning’s events and how my decision to come to Africa severely crippled my personal life. The road out into the highlands passed through beautiful vistas of forests and hills, overlooking the valleys below. Donkeys acted as mile markers and when we passed a sign that read, “Nairobi International Centre” sign, with a hand-painted “Car Wash Now Open” sign underneath, I smiled a bit and figured the worst of the day might be over.
An hour outside, of Nairobi, the KCC slum of Naivasha are home to about 600 families, a miniscule size compared to the 150,000 inhabitants of Korogocho, the slum I had become familiar with. We pulled off the road, we a few low-slung tin buildings stood amongst fields of maize and kale. Children ran around, with a few volunteers dotted around. The KCC children’s group started a few years ago by volunteers to act as a feeding program for the children of the nearby slum. In time it has grown to a full time school, with over 120 children attending everyday. Melissa, an English girl I had first met at Pastor Regina’s, met us, her hair long golden hair now braided into the local tradition, a process that took no less than seven hours. We split into groups and some of the kids to play what would be a very odd version of dodgeball. Many of them ran up to me, smiling and greeting me, asking my name. Each had name tags, all with very Anglican first names and Kenyan surnames. One child about 5 or 6, named Joseph took a particular interest in me, grabbing my hand and delighting with smiles and giggles each time I lifted him high above my head. For all their suffering, lack of food, and poor excuses of tattered clothes, the smiles and laughs greatly changed my mood. I laughed with them.
After the sports, we took them to arts and crafts in the classroom. The wooden structures featured screens for windows and low wooden benches for desks, a stark contrast to the desolate concrete structure of the Korogocho schools. With the other volunteers seemingly lost I took the only approach to arts and crafts I could think of: drawing hand turkeys. Since I was not sure if they knew what turkeys were, one of the teachers taught me the Swahili word for chicken. Thus, brightly colored “kukus” began to emerge. The children tried to out do each other and ran up to me, shouting “teacher, teacher,” showing me what they had made. When we seemed to exhaust the rainbow options of chickens, I began to make their drawings into paper airplanes. A few yelled out “jet!,” when I finished my first attempt and then promptly laughed as it failed miserably to retain much airtime. I tried many different versions, however, if in 20 years any of these children decide to become aerospace engineers because of what I taught them, I suggest flying on anything but Kenyan made airliners.
We stayed long enough for the children’s lunchtime. Their meal came in a large bucket with a porridge like substance called uji. For many of the children, the one or two cups that KCC serves may be the only food they eat for the day. Often times some will take home an extra serving for siblings not quite old enough to come yet. Some of the women sorted French beans just picked from the surrounding farm and we happily accepted the fresh treats. As we pushed our hired matatu, Izzo popped the clutched, the van emitting a burst of fowl fumes, the children waved and we were off to Hell’s Gate.
By six, we were standing at the stage area, with an ever growing group, watching as each matatu passed, filled with wearied eyed workers. In the meantime, a phone call brought some unwelcomed news, further dementing my tired mind. After 30 minutes, of standing we scrambled into an overcrowded vehicle blasting a talk radio show, in which the host kept scolding a black woman for allowing her white husband to control her. I felt odd looks penetrating the back of my head every time the host screamed “white husband.” We then inched along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, passing a few accidents. As seven approached, we barely made it to the city center, then needing to find the correct bus out to the Junction. Once aboard at 7:20, Izzo, one of the weekend’s guides, called half jokingly scolding me for being late. I sat back and just closed my eyes, Africa time!
By 8:30 the bus finally dropped us off near the meeting place. The others sat around the van, the early morning and our tardiness clearly affecting their moods. I rushed inside to withdraw money. However, after three different ATMs I was left with nothing; wondering how I was going to make it through 10 more weeks without cash. A security guard directed me to a dodgy looking stand alone machine. As I inserted my card, I reasoned that loosing what would remain in my account was a fair trade off if I could get any currency right now. It worked! The first thing to go right.
As we drove out to our first stop, I recounted the morning’s events and how my decision to come to Africa severely crippled my personal life. The road out into the highlands passed through beautiful vistas of forests and hills, overlooking the valleys below. Donkeys acted as mile markers and when we passed a sign that read, “Nairobi International Centre” sign, with a hand-painted “Car Wash Now Open” sign underneath, I smiled a bit and figured the worst of the day might be over.
An hour outside, of Nairobi, the KCC slum of Naivasha are home to about 600 families, a miniscule size compared to the 150,000 inhabitants of Korogocho, the slum I had become familiar with. We pulled off the road, we a few low-slung tin buildings stood amongst fields of maize and kale. Children ran around, with a few volunteers dotted around. The KCC children’s group started a few years ago by volunteers to act as a feeding program for the children of the nearby slum. In time it has grown to a full time school, with over 120 children attending everyday. Melissa, an English girl I had first met at Pastor Regina’s, met us, her hair long golden hair now braided into the local tradition, a process that took no less than seven hours. We split into groups and some of the kids to play what would be a very odd version of dodgeball. Many of them ran up to me, smiling and greeting me, asking my name. Each had name tags, all with very Anglican first names and Kenyan surnames. One child about 5 or 6, named Joseph took a particular interest in me, grabbing my hand and delighting with smiles and giggles each time I lifted him high above my head. For all their suffering, lack of food, and poor excuses of tattered clothes, the smiles and laughs greatly changed my mood. I laughed with them.
After the sports, we took them to arts and crafts in the classroom. The wooden structures featured screens for windows and low wooden benches for desks, a stark contrast to the desolate concrete structure of the Korogocho schools. With the other volunteers seemingly lost I took the only approach to arts and crafts I could think of: drawing hand turkeys. Since I was not sure if they knew what turkeys were, one of the teachers taught me the Swahili word for chicken. Thus, brightly colored “kukus” began to emerge. The children tried to out do each other and ran up to me, shouting “teacher, teacher,” showing me what they had made. When we seemed to exhaust the rainbow options of chickens, I began to make their drawings into paper airplanes. A few yelled out “jet!,” when I finished my first attempt and then promptly laughed as it failed miserably to retain much airtime. I tried many different versions, however, if in 20 years any of these children decide to become aerospace engineers because of what I taught them, I suggest flying on anything but Kenyan made airliners.
We stayed long enough for the children’s lunchtime. Their meal came in a large bucket with a porridge like substance called uji. For many of the children, the one or two cups that KCC serves may be the only food they eat for the day. Often times some will take home an extra serving for siblings not quite old enough to come yet. Some of the women sorted French beans just picked from the surrounding farm and we happily accepted the fresh treats. As we pushed our hired matatu, Izzo popped the clutched, the van emitting a burst of fowl fumes, the children waved and we were off to Hell’s Gate.
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