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.