Bofu (boh-foo) is a larger village like our central village of Mnyenzeni. It’s 7 miles away by road, but only 4 if you take the small paths that connect the web of villages around here. In Bofu they have a secondary as well as a primary school, both of them trying to catch up to Mnyenzeni’s schools. Curt and Sue Tingey have gathered funds from friends, family, and innocent bystanders to help lift Bofu closer to their goals by constructing another set of much-needed classrooms. The Koins team jammed into our rented van and headed to the groundbreaking ceremony that was planned. We arrived to a huge gathering of the community, all interested in getting busy and getting the project started. The corner pegs had bright strings indicating where the building walls would go. We have outlined so many classrooms around here that our staff can measure our standard classrooms with their eyes closed. Steve gladly took the pick in his hand and drove it deep into the soil (about a ½ inch because the dirt here is like smacking asphalt). He repeated the same process several times to the exuberant cheers of the villagers who came to help. He stepped aside and Leah took her turn. This was not the first time this girl had thrown a pick, and dirt began to fly. I’m sure Steve softened the ground for her. Within a minute everyone who had shown up began mauling the soil with their hoes, shovels and broken picks. Within 5 minutes the outline was clear and strings removed. Only 40 minutes after groundbreaking the work stopped. Many hands make light work had no truer example than at Bofu today.
Steve asked to have us driven to a school where we have never worked before, even though the existing school is within our service area. The road to Nunguni (noon-goon-ee) is not a road, but a 4-wheel drive route through bristly stubble and coarse, rocky landscape. We arrived to a silent courtyard and empty classrooms as school ended last week for a monthlong break. The walls of this rustic village school were of rock and mud, with floors exclusively dirt. There were a total of three desks at this school of 250 students, with two of their classrooms serving multiple grades – one teacher standing at one end of the classroom while the other trying to teach from the opposite end. The school needs serious attention, so a meeting with them will be in order.
Upon returning back to the main dirt road from Nunguni, the Area Chief had to return to Bofu to the right. The Koins Center was to the left, but the bumpy road had several of us wanting to stretch our legs and back, so we got out and began walking. Steve and Buffalo walked together, and even though I was in long pants and button-up shirt, I began running, thinking that I would continue until the car picked us back up. By the time I reached Chikomani, over 20 minutes later, the van had not arrived, so I ran down the hill towards home, dodging rocks and thorny bushes along the trail. I actually made it back to the KCC before the van, overheated and sweating like a team of horses. A cold bucket shower with a frozen water chaser saved me. No more afternoon running for me, thanks!
Quick trips to the dispensary often provide spectacles of activity that would be impossible to witness in the U.S. During my last trip here I was able to help in the birthing of a little boy. Secretly I hope for something just as astonishing, but today there is only a dislocated elbow of an older woman who fell, and a sick young man with symptoms of the flu.
As I walk back to the KCC I visit with several villagers from the area. I practice my best Duruma greetings with them, and they find it extremely entertaining as I stumble through the succinct progression of their repetitive exchanges. It would be nice for me if the whole thing didn’t change throughout the day, so the morning greetings are different from the afternoon or evening. Throw in the plural context if you’re speaking to more than one, and it turns messy real quickly.
A firestorm of electrical activity keeps the dark night sky jumping, but no rain today. Perhaps we’ll be fortunate tomorrow.
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With the SRA and Koins bringing their staffs together, further aligning our organizations, coupled with all the changes we have made in our board, we have had a lot of table time going over an abundance of mutual objectives. In very short order I am certain the progress of our agricultural programs will accelerate, advancing our communities in nutrition, scholastic achievement, and commerce. Our path will be paved with a lot of exertion, but once realized, it will surely become a super-highway to a much higher life and health standard for all involved.
The trip to Kinango is 36 excruciating kilometers of bad road, washes, and stone avoidance. The math tells us that even though it’s less than 25 actual miles, it required 90 minutes to reach the headquarters of our school district. We met with the D.O. - District Education Officer (Superintendant of Schools) to discuss our mutual plans for the Koins Service Area. Our construction activities need to match the agenda of the D.O. so we can always insure the correct number of teachers with our corresponding buildings. Mr. Kimani is a younger man with the “can do” attitude that is beginning to creep into the old bureaucratic mindsets of inaction. He must work within the confines of ceremonial politics, but his determination to drag his constituency forward is refreshing.
The road to Kwale traverses Shimba Hills, an animal sanctuary thick with trees of every kind, providing refuge to its inhabitants. I have made this journey on several occasions, and all I have to show for it is a bad photo of a warthog heading away from me. The road shows no improvement over what we have been on, but once we reach Kwale we hit pavement. It’s full of potholes and uneven patches, but it’s a far cry from what our last 60 miles has been. Kwale sits perched atop a hill that flows down to the Indian Ocean. The scenery is stunning, but it’s no place to plan your vacation. From here we take the coastal road to the southern part of Mombasa. Luckily we arrived to functioning ferries, so we drove aboard the rusty vessel and she escorted us across the channel leading to Mombasa.
Steve and his entourage of SRA staff came from the village in the north and we convened at the Bank of Africa. The process by which signatories are changed from the old guard to the new and creating two new accounts was baffling. I have closed commercial real estate deals with less documentation and procedural hullabaloo than this, but there is simply no option……and the truth be known, we were in an air-conditioned office.
Like a group of associates going out after work, we closed the bank down. I was given the keys to drive as this was going to be an adventure trying to reach the village at this hour. Mombasa has one main road leading north towards Nairobi. The road is single lane most of the time, but riddled with obstacles all of the time. Throw in the traffic component and our trip back home will surely be two hours, with the distinct possibility of turning into three or four if the single lane road experiences even the slightest mishap along the way.
Drivers are beyond aggressive here. In all actuality they are very alert and quite astute behind the wheel, but chaos rules. The jam began early, and the line of dusty trucks exiting the city clogged the single artery of the city. With oncoming traffic reasonably light, we spent more time in the other lane than our own. When vehicles met us we simply went to the shoulder of the opposite side of the road. Police officers at the major intersection leading out of town (Steve calls it Malfunction Junction) try and maintain some semblance of order, but it is a free-for-all that boggles the mind. As I approach the intersection on the other side of oncoming traffic, passing cars in all directions, I don’t even receive a second look. I’m not causing a jam, so they don’t even pay attention to us. This major road has no asphalt even though the Chinese “repaired” it just three years ago. The only thing that remains from their work are the large stones that were to provide a base, which now act as tire-puncturing devices. This is a four-wheel-drive rally road that must be traversed by commercial vehicles, buses, taxis, and Koins for Kenya vehicles.
As I place my thoughts on paper, I sit solitarily in the dark, my computer screen the only source of light for miles. A small choir of frogs sing in the distance while two geckos fight on the wall above me. Now that the lights have been extinguished, their buffet of insects has closed for business. Unfortunately I have become the focus for every kamikaze bug and I am inundated with creepy-crawlies of all sizes, so my day ends via default.
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Leah’s baptism by fire begins early and appears relentless throughout the day. Anthony is here to provide backup, but Leah is learning the ropes in rapid fire bursts. Her stern discussions with soft undercurrent demonstrate her leadership abilities.
The morning clouds protected Rick and I as we bustled down one of the many paths leading away from the village. Although he’s been here in the village for several days, he has not experienced our area. We crossed the gully near where the baby was found and began following three village women carrying their early morning water buckets back to the village. I bid them good morning in Duruma, and they gladly responded in kind. We chatted as we walked with them, learning that they were headed to Majengo, only a mile away. We headed up the hill to a peaceful family village consisting of 11 small huts. As we approached, Rick was given the warm welcome that I have come to love from these people. “Karibu” (welcome) is heard over and over from young and old. Two younger ladies, carrying babies on their hips, entered the village court to greet us. One spoke English very well, telling Rick she had completed primary school but lacked funds to continue into secondary. She was so articulate and bright that I was curious why she had not qualified for the Koins scholarship. She had finished primary school a year or two before our program had started, so she had no options available to her. She returned to her village, got married at 16, and now has 4 beautiful children helping fill the compound with all the other kids. Although she is content with where she is in life, who knows what would have happened if she had not slipped through the cracks. The possibilities are endless to imagine. Now all we can do is hope that she has food and her children grow without too much sickness. With luck on our side, we will educate her children.
The clouds began to distribute their wares over our valley, so we turned back towards the center. We walked down into the thick coconut grove, taking shelter under a massive mango tree. As we waited for the heavy drops to lighten I could hear familiar whistling above our heads. If it weren’t so melodic I would think a strange bird had taken refuge in the palms above us, but I knew it was Chirima (chee-reem-ah), the local harvester of coconut beer. He spends his days in the tops of the trees tapping the young leaves for their nectar high in the canopy above. The sugar content is so high that the white liquid ferments in a day within the small, dirty jugs he attaches to the stems. I’ve never seen Chirima without a smile on his face and the sweet sound of a happy bird coming from his puckered lips. He doesn’t appear to be intoxicated, but a man this happy is suspicious when his mode of making a living is brewing illegal elixirs here in the village. He shimmied down the tree like a fireman responding to an alarm, greeting me with his normal cheerful disposition and hearty handshake. His English outperforms my Swahili, so we gravitate to that mode of conversation. Business is good, his family is healthy, and his trees are performing well. Life is good.
The hair on my head has grown past the stubble stage. It’s difficult enough to maintain facial hair in an orderly fashion here, but with all my meetings with the local leaders, I’m forced to stay clean shaven. I hardly notice the graying wool on my cranium becoming bushy until an African reaches out and rubs their hand on it to feel the thin carpet of spikiness. Out comes my dulling blade, and while showering in our open air stalls, I polish my head as best as I can.
Kombo Ali, the first student from our area to receive a scholarship, visited his favorite white man, Steve Littlefield. Nancy and Steve have sponsored Kombo from the first day, providing additional benefits to this hardworking boy to support him and sustain him. Kombo’s father was bitten by a puff adder several years ago, dying from the lethal injection of toxins from this feared serpent. His mother would not succumb to the cultural traditions of this tribe, rejecting the uncle as a replacement husband. She was kicked out of the village, having never returned. The children remained behind with the rest of the clan, and Kombo was not able to attend secondary school due to the tuition. Steve and Nancy fell in love with him during one of their expeditions, and now this valedictorian is finishing his accounting degree and his American parents could not be more proud.
George Kihoro, the current chairman of the Kenyan board of Koins, also made the trip to the village from Kinango. His new assignment as head teacher in Kinango has restricted his daily involvement with us, but his heart and passion remains as sturdy as ever. Someone new will take his place as chairman, but his experience and wisdom will remain firmly with us as a board member.
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I was running on the main road when a car approached me from behind. It slowed down considerably as it neared, but always staying behind me. I moved over, and it still didn’t pass. I curiously turned around to see that Kombo Mwero was the driver. He is the former Minister of Agriculture of Kenya, and one of my original friends from the government. He has constructed a nice home within our area, and was on his way to a meeting when he saw a large, white guy running and was ascertaining if it was me. It’s always good to see this classic man, one of great honor and dignity. He was kind enough to invite me to his home for dinner in a few days, which I declined since I would have many guests and needed to make sure they were fed. He requested that I bring the entire group with me, so now I’ll be able to share this wonderful guy with everyone.
As I chose another path to return to the village I came across a family burial plot. I hoped that it was not considered trespassing as I looked at the hand-etched headstones. An old man of 47 years was the largest above-ground sarcophagus on the plot. Several others with only dates of death were scattered in the small area, along with simple piles of stones which demarcated a burial place. In all there were 17 individuals buried here. It is Duruma custom that anyone killed in an accident be buried away from the family plot to make sure their bad luck doesn’t result in any other accidents. I’m sure the stories behind the individuals entombed here would be moving since dying of plain old age is a rarity.
I ran into the man we found a few days ago with the severe leg wound sitting in front of his workshop today. No matter how sick he might be, he is the breadwinner for his household and therefore has no choice but to work as hard as he can. He has cut out the metal heads used for hand hoes with a hammer and chisel. He methodically pounds the heads into their final shape, then pummels the edge until it becomes a sharp blade for cutting through the earth. He is too weak to go out looking for the proper wood that is used for the handles, so he sends someone. His work is precise and his tools hand-forged for strength. I ask what it costs for one, the reply “240 shillings.” I asked if I were to buy ten, the quick answer, “2,400 shillings.” Although this amounts to $3 per hoe, I negotiate aggressively because I wanted to buy more than one. We settle on 200 shillings per hoe and I order 20. He can make 5 per day, so 4 days from now I can pick up my hoes for a total of 4,000 shillings ($50). He probably makes 70-80 cents per hoe net profit, so at 5 per day he can rake in up to $4 for his work, a very nice living around here. The hoes will be given out to the top performing women of our agricultural programs, and they will think they have struck gold. Everybody wins.
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As I was running the other day a man called my name from the field where he was planting corn seeds. I waved until he asked me to stop, which I did. I needed a break anyway. He came to me and told me that he wanted me to come to his village so he could give me his biggest chicken. This is a great gesture, but I wondered why such a random act. He then explained that it was me who had helped his wife during child birth a couple of months ago. He went on to explain that since they named him “Bret,” the boy had grown strong and healthy, and he believed this all tied together. I graciously acknowledged his kindness, but told him that I was the one blessed by his son having my name. Well, today I was summoned to the front porch where the man, his young wife, and little Bret awaited me with a flailing chicken in a plastic bag. These people cannot afford to extend such gifts, but their desire to give it to me could not be curtailed. I sent Bret home with a new blanket and his parents received one of my gift bags filled with corn flour, sugar, rice, and some wheat flour. Mine is a gesture of kindness, while there’s was a gift of the deepest appreciation. I cannot match that.
Since arriving here I have received several chickens one goat, one hand-woven hat, and a piece of coral from the ocean. I have had several of the boys named “Bret” come and visit, and have employed one of them to make marbles out of clay for our group to take home as gifts. He’ll make a tidy sum, we’ll have a great story to tell, and everybody wins.
There is truly nothing better at the end of the day than taking a shower in the Koins shower stalls. The African night is a spectacular site with thousands of bright diamonds scattered overhead. The far away sound from villages can be heard as you wash and prepare for the night. Tonight I found a passenger that I picked up somewhere along my travels. He was small, but extremely uninvited. I felt his presence as I scrubbed today’s dirt from my skin. Unfortunately where he decided to attach himself to me was particularly unsettling. What was even worse is that the possibility of having someone willingly help me remove the tick would be improbable. Luckily he had only been there a short while and had not begun feasting on my blood yet. As he struggled with all his might, holding tightly to the flesh he so badly wanted to chew on, I plucked him and systematically crushed his body with my fingernail. After what he tried to pull, only one type of punishment fit the crime………at least in my book.
BVL
