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.