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.