I love this place.
March 27. 2011 (Mnyenzeni, Sunday)
Another long, interesting day.
I nearly have a beard. It stopped hurting today (it has grown long enough to stop curling inward). It is so grey. It is filling in nicely. It makes my face sweat. And it collects dust. I can’t remember if I have ever gone 8 days without shaving. It has been a long time. I have flirted with the idea of growing a beard. But I probably won’t. Just not me.
So, I have talked to Jami most nights on my international cell phone, Lauren sometimes. Leigh once or twice. I am going to hate my phone bill. But if you move around, you can find spots with pretty decent coverage (especially over by the showers).
Today we got up, ate, then all piled in the car and rushed to Mombasa to get to church by 9:00 am. Of course, church didn’t start until 10:00 a.m., which we only found out when we got there.
So we instead went to the Akamba carver place. The Akamba are a tribe, and they have cornered the market on wood carving. It was very cool. I bought something for every member of the family. There were so many items - all hand carved. Animals, figures, masks, bowls, jewelry. It was just really neat and it felt authentic. And the prices were amazing.1
We were late for church (arriving during announcements). We had to sit in our inappropriate clothing, in the first 2 rows (which I really don’t like, and it seemed disruptive to the meeting, in such a small place). I had a baseball cap on and felt so out of place, self-conscious. But there was a sweet spirit in the meeting, a nice story told (badly) by the very nervous first speaker (a newish member of the church). It went like this: a father had to tuck his son in bed. Usually his wife did this. She usually read to her son a book, with no words, just pictures. The son would correct the dad as he used different words than the mother. He got annoyed. Finally, he asked “who is the boss, the leader of the family, who is right?”. And the boy said, “you are, father”. The father was pleased and asked how he knew this, and the boy said “because mother told me.” But you could barely understand the story, and there was no reaction from the audience.
So, the next speaker on the program simply did not show up, so the branch president gave a very good, spontaneous talk, and gently re-told the same story and did such a nice job. Very inspiring, quoting Pres. Uchtdorf and others from recent conferences.
I went up after sacrament to the branch president (who had spoken) and profusely apologized for our appearance. I wish we could have slipped in the back of the meeting, but there were no seats (as we were late . . . .). The leaders were (of course) so very gracious. The prayers at the meeting were so good. The music was played off of a CD.
We get back to the village and Patrick is waiting for us. There was some misunderstanding and his family thought we would spend all day with them. It is 4:00p.m. at this time. So we put on our walking shoes and off we go with Patrick to Viculani, about 2 miles away. We walked through several villages, attracted many children, and made it to Mama Frieda’s. The road is dusty and washed-out from the rainy season, full of nice places to trip or stumble. We pass so many mud huts, and dreary little places. Goats everywhere. Children playing everywhere, happy. The boys that are 16-20 tend to just stare sulkily at us, but any kid younger than 15 will engage us in some way. I wonder how odd I look, this tall white man with very white skin (remember, it is winter back in Utah), with an equally white kid, striding up through their villages.
It was so nice to visit a real Kenyan home, and visit with people who feel like long-lost friends. Jami and Leigh both spent much time at this house in the past. Ted saw Patrick’s room and I sat in the living room and talked for 2 hours or more with Mama Frieda and her husband Josephat. It was so nice. So many children around (both their own and curious neighbors trying to crowd in and see the walangos– white people). Eventually a lamp was lit, as it was getting dark. We talked about so many things– family situations, politics, schools, etc. It is amazing how much in common an attorney from Utah can have with a teacher in Viculani. I am sure they would have felt the same way had they visited our house. I was glad to bring them some gifts, including some special salt from Utah.
Such a hard scrabble life they live. And they have a nice big (relatively) stone (not mud) house. Dirt floor. No power, sewer, water. Dusty. No furniture (mat on the floor and folding chairs). They made us bread and tea (the bread had some bugs in it). Mama Frieda brought a chicken and for us ready to kill it in front of us for dinner, but I was able to spare the bird’s life! It got late (10:00?) and we needed to go home. It is just amazing to hear this man, who is a school teacher, talk about worrying if they can find any water to drink, now that their cistern is dry. It is a narrow edge between life and death. If a child is sick, you carry him many miles to a clinic, if it is open. No hospital for 30+ miles at least.
But their is a great dignity and strength, a survival instinct, in these people. They have great passion. Their families are great. They have hope and love in their eyes. And they have us.
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| Ted, Patrick and his little brother, John |
Ted and I walked home in the dark, accompanied by Josephat and Patrick. We begged them to let us walk home alone (I thought it would be a great adventure), but they just smiled and kept walking with us. Africans can be so stoic. You have to remember that there are NO electric lights, and by this time, most of the huts are dark. It is pitch black. We walked along a narrow dirt path, often with shrubs on either side, often passed by people going the other way. I was very worried about tripping or turning an ankle. Ted thought it was a riot. This little corner of the universe is lovely at night. So dark. The stars seem so bright, so close. You sense the villages around, but don’t see them. It is like a dream.
Tomorrow is our last full day in the village. Hard to believe. It has been amazing. I feel that we have a special connection with Mama Frieda’s family. I will always think of them. I am privileged to have slightly entered their lives. How do you forget effort like this? How do forget poverty and want like this? How can you not deeply respect people who work SO hard for everything in their lives, and never complain? I have this feeling every day that I am in the company of extraordinary people, people worthy of true admiration and emulation. People who are, well, “real” in every sense of the word. T.I.A.
There is really only one thing I miss from the US. The feeling of being clean. I am always sweating, dusty. Hair unkempt and gross. I miss soap, shampoo and hot water. But that is all besides the loving touch of my wife and children. And maybe a Café Rio cheese enchilada with hot sauce!
March, 28, 2011 (Mnyenzeni, Monday)
A long hot dusty day of driving. This might be what it feels like to work for the U.N. Little places in the middle of nowhere, one by one by one. The same looks on people’s faces, especially when challenged by white people seeking answers to hard questions.
I woke up at 5:00. When Patrick (Mama Frieda’s son) came to pick up Ted. Off they went to school - a 45 minute walk. I was so proud of Ted for his willingness to try new things, to interact with people his age. He is an amazing kid and I am so glad we have had this trip together. It is a walk of several miles to the Miguneni school where he will be attending today.
I think I fell back asleep (I am 100% sure) after Ted left.
I got out of bed and read until we all left for the albino school in Kibandaongo, many miles to the south. It is a long, long way. It had rained in that area. In one place, the dirt road went through, what had been a dry river bed. It was running with water at least 1-2 feet deep, red muddy water. Omar (our driver) looked at it, took a deep breath, and ripped right through. I felt like I was on an Indian Jones ride. It was steep and muddy on the other side and we started sliding back down into the water, the wheels spinning on the mud. But then the wheels caught and we cheered and we made it up the hill slipping this way and that up to the top where it flattened out, and then eventually to Kibandaongo.
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| Albino School Dorm |
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| Albinos at Kibandaongo |
Kibandaongo is a little village, with a small mosque, perhaps the size of Mnyenzeni, maybe smaller. There is the albino dorm, next to the public school. There had been great concerns about the facility, the program and the students and it comes to be that the fear was well-founded. There were only 9 albino kids there, we were told, although I saw only 4-5 (and it is not a big place). There was little food, little water, no security at all– not even a locking door. Not much there at all. A “volunteer” lady live in the little office and supposedly cared for the albino children. We talked to the principal of the school and others. It was disturbing. Even the school was in a bad shape - termite ridden, etc. It was hard to get square answers. It was hard to know what to do. We have some money that has been donated to help the albinos, but how can we use it and know that it is all going to help these kids in this place that is far from the Koins action area? We could build infrastructure, but is the program going to be operational without someone in charge? I got the feeling that no one really cared for these albino children, but that they were only perhaps a source of some assistance that could be latched onto by others, with the albino children an afterthought. Maybe I am too cynical. T.I.A.
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| Two albinos at school |
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| Albino Dorm |
After that, back in the car and off to Gona. Another long drive. There Kendy did a pen-pal project and I looked at the library. I took some pictures. The pen-pal project involves kid from classes in Utah schools that send a bunch of letters, and Koins matches them up with classes in Kenya. Kendy does a good job of helping the kids in Africa understand the unfamiliar words in the letters (like skiing, snow boarding, blizzard, tubing, jet skiing, etc.), so it is a group language lesson at the same time. It does help make the world smaller, and it is amazing sitting in this minimalist school room with a bunch of Kenya children and thinking about what the lives are like for the kids on the other end of the letters– if they only could see what I was seeing at that moment. I wish we could bring them all together.
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| New Cistern at Gona Primary School |
Then we drove to Miguaneni, the school where Ted was. When we drove up, we saw him eating lunch with a huge group of students. He was enjoying himself but was very hot. We did another pen pal project , toured the school with a very proud Buffalo (who is a teacher there). It was fun to watch Ted interact with the students. He said they all wanted him to help with English on their pre-tests for the state exams, and they were amazed that he knew every answer to every question (it is a form 6 class, and he is an 8th grader, a couple years older than the students). After looking at the library and other rooms, we went out in the yard, and some of the kids put on an African dance and song thing. It was cute, and not too long. I saw one of Mama Frieda’s kids in it (a girl). They made us come out and dance with them. Kendy was really into it. I was extremely sheepish. I am not even a good dancer in the US, much less in traditional Kenyan dance.
Then we went to Miyani, which is on the road back toward Mnyenzeni. There we toured the schools (a large primary school and the Sean Michaels school for handicapped kids). We saw kids sitting on dirt floors at school and then we saw a very cool thing: a class filed with the very desks that Ted had built, already in use. How grateful the school administration was for the desks. They shook Ted’s hand profusely and thanked him. We saw many classrooms today where the kids are sitting on dirt floors. Some sit on concrete floors. It is so hard to write, so hard to learns, from the floor. Ted did a good thing. I am proud of him.
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| Teacher in classroom, no desks |
I am so thrilled with what Koins is doing here. Building schools, helping kids learn. They are making a HUGE difference. They really have it down, and are empowering and not creating dependency in any way. And most of all, they are creating relationships, all the time, relationships of trust, of love and friendship, bonds that are almost unbreakably strong.
I knew several of the teachers at Miyani (from the seminar, from KCC), and we had a great time talking and laughing and reliving the seminar. We watched the kids play soccer (Ted and a mob of school children) while Kendy did yet another pen-pal project (she certainly has a lot of determination– I just couldn’t sit through another one). Ted just seems to enjoy whatever he is doing on this trip. Never a complaint. Always doing something. I feel like he almost could have come over here without me and done just fine!
Then we drove to the KCC, giving about 5 people rides from the school - there were 11 people in the van. I love how everyone cooperated around here. People are picked up and ride for a short way in the vans. People stop and talk. It feels . . . vibrant. Cooperative. The Koins area is visibly different from other areas that I have visited. Better. Moving ahead. Busy. I want to be a part of it.
Now I write, we are about to discuss the library. I asked to run down the whereabout of Jami’s nativity sets that we ordered from a local wood carver. And, sadly, I need to pack. I started to let my mind wander to work back in Utah today, for the first time in several days. It seems so far away, yet I know that Friday. I will be snapped back to harsh reality. I wish I could just live here forever and help this community, be a part of it. It is an amazing corner of the world.
As we drove, I looked out at the brown and dusty earth. The green mango and coconut trees, the mud huts, the dusty roads, the graceful, quiet women. The smiling, chattering men. What a place. So far from where I come from. Such a wonderful place. Such a good people. I am so privileged to be here. What a forgotten corner in the Lord’s vineyard. Such potential. Such desperation and struggle.
Tomorrow we leave here, and it makes me sad.
March 29, 2011 (Tsavo West National Park)
We are at this lovely lodge perched on a hillside, looking north. Ted just swam in the pool as it grew dark. I watched a lone giraffe walk from west to east, perhaps a mile, in the dusk. It got cooler tonight. There was lightning in the east and north, so we came in. Dinner is in 30 minutes.
Last night, our last in the village, was so bittersweet. Kind of chaotic. Kind of stressful. Kind of sad. Kind of reflective. I talked to Jami and she just stressed me out with a huge list of things to do, check on, etc. Suddenly all this stuff started showing up at the KCC, that needed to be brought back to Utah. Besides our clothing and personal stuff. It was amazing. These two 2 inch-thick mahogany boards, each weighing 25 pounds. All kinds of envelopes, carved stuff, packages. I finally got it all packed, then 100 handbags show up. 100!!! I start trying to get rid of everything I can. A pair of shorts. Socks. Anything possible. My bags are overweight. Stuff is being crammed into pockets I didn’t even know existed in my bags.
I had anticipated a quiet night of goodbyes. Not to be.
We had a Koins for Kenya board meeting, to discuss the library. At the middle of this chaotic evening. We sat in the dark, on the lawn at the KCC, and talked about it. Kendy took notes. Elihud, Buffalo, Naomi, and Anthony spoke. Anthony led the discussion. He asked for my input. My concerns were that (1) I wanted this to NOT be my library, but their library; (2) what would the community bring to the table; (3) what would the government bring to the table, and (4) how does it sustain? You can’t just build a library and stock it with books. Books wear out, and someone needs to always be in charge, every day it is opened. There is only 1 library in Mombassa, a city of 700,000+. One library! There are no functioning libraries outside of Mombassa that anyone knows about (and I am not counting the ridiculous Taru library, or the libraries found in each school, none of which is even close to functional, in my opinion. There are so many challenges. Yet, benefit would be so great! A place of learning and interaction. A community center. A place for children and old people. A lit, quiet place to study. A reading and literacy center. I basically left it in their hands. I believe that I can make it happen with their input and guidance, but it needs to be their thing, their lead. I did enjoy the good tone and substance of the discussion–very collaborative, and Anthony does get to the point.
The room we are in is tiny. A fan circulates the air, a wall-mounted oscillating fan. There is a bare bulb on the wall. Casting shadows across my paper. There is a holey, inadequate mosquito net around our two beds. But it will do. I miss our more homely accommodations at the KCC, although at least the mosquito nets are functional! It is hard to leave my friends there.
So, we got up early this morning at the KCC. I had one last chapati for breakfast. Right before we left I found a secret pouch in one of our luggage where I could cram the last few handbags. I felt pretty good about that. Got the last receipts to bring back. We said good bye to many people. One teacher from Miyana came to say goodbye and tell me how much he was impacted by my seminar. Came all that way, just to see me. He said that he thinks it made a difference, and I hope he was not just trying to make me feel good.
Patrick brought by a note to give to Leigh, who he remembered from last year. So cute of him. I unloaded some of our stuff on him ( gum, a poncho, a spiral notebook).
Well, off wen went, driving toward Tsavo. Buffalo got a ride with us (us being Ted, Mike, Betty, Omar and myself) to the highway. We turned north and drove for a couple of hours. Stopped at a roadside shop, which was set up for rich tourists. The same bottle of Coke that was 25 shillings (30 cents) in the village was 150 shillings (in other words, six times more). The same carved animal set that I bought for 100 shillings at Akamba Carvers was 4500 shillings (45 times more). And so on. The people there were pushy, mean, manipulative, and make me sick. It was such a scam, preying on tourists who did not know better. Probably the low point of the trip.
Then to the park gate, and we started our safari. It started very slowly, searching eagerly in the bushes and seeing very little of anything. But eventually we saw warthogs, ostriches, zebras, gazelles, oryx, impala, elephants, giraffe, Cape buffalo (water buffalo), jackal, lions, vultures, elan, many birds, colorful lizards, baboons, monkeys and many others that I am forgetting. Waterbuck. Various deer-looking creatures. Big 4-5 foot long lizards.
The most interesting moment of the safari was in the evening of the first day there. We were driving about, and we came to a line of about 7-8 other vans and Range Rovers. They were stopped. We snaked between the vehicles to the front, and found a mother elephant with her baby. They were on opposite sides of the road. The baby was kind of oblivious to what was happening. The mother was stopped, and somehow had decided that the line of vehicles was a threat to her little one. So, every few minutes she would charge the nearest vehicles, and everyone would quickly reverse and back up for30-40 meters until she stopped. Once the baby was watching and then the baby charged the nearest vehicle. This lasted for twenty or thirty minutes, and we were going backward. I started to tease Omar the driver about what a sissy he was, how he lacked “man parts” and so on. He was just cracking up (probably never having received a string of American insults on his manhood). I got him so riled up he just took off fast and zipped right by the mother elephant, when her back was turned. By the time she realized what had happened, we were 100 meters past. We stopped, and the mama looked at us, then back at the other vehicles who were still timidly lined up and backing up. We were whopping and hollering and congratulating Omar. It was fun. Eventually, several of the other vans gained some courage from Omar’s brave dash and followed suit. But not all . . . .
Ted swam in the pool after that, and I read my book by the side. The sky was very threatening, lighting in the distance, the feel of rain in the air. It was dusk. We had the pool to ourselves. When the lightning hit on a mountain a few miles away, Ted about leaped out of the pool and we went and had dinner, and called it a night.
The safari feels surreal and touristy. So many white wans driving around, people from all over the place, mostly Europe. There is a fence around the park, so it reminds me a lot of the SD wild Animal Park. - it looks just like it. It feels like Jurassic Park when you see a giant giraffe loping by, or a herd of zebra. Unreal. The real Africa, before the West screwed it all up, is gone. This park, thus, is kind of fake, a fleeting memory of what once was. But if it allows Kenyans to make money and to take pride in something unique to their country, then I am okay with it. I just don’t know if I will make it out to such a place again. I think Ted enjoyed it a lot, though, and that is also rewarding.
Tonight we are sitting on our beds and playing Scrabble on Ted’s I-Pad. There is no TV or radio, no phone. No wake up calls, but rather a wake-up knock on your door. My beard is so long. I really want to cut it off, as it makes my face so warm. But I could get used to not shaving.
Tomorrow is the big plane ride back to the States, and life goes back to normal. But my heart, or a part of it, will remain here in this desperate, dusty, place, where water is scarce but the people are real.
March 30, 2011 (Plane from Mombasa to Nairobi, Wednesday)
One thing I have learned during this trip is how ugly people can be without really thinking about it. I am sure I have done it myself. You always have to think about what you are saying. I just cringe every time I hear someone criticize something African, right in front of Africans who take some pride in their homeland. Obviously, the roads are bumpy, the weather is hot, and the food is not what you get back home. But you don’t need to repeatedly and constantly point that out! Some people just have no cultural sensitivity, period. They just think that “their” way is the best way and perhaps the only way. But there are many ways, and we can learn much from others, and we need to take every opportunity to do so.
Today we woke up at the hotel in the park. Kind of a hard night, woke up, odd dreams, thinking we had missed our wake-up call. Then we did get up and had breakfast with the Wasutasts. Then some more safari (I just don’t have the attention span for a safari, just too boring for this boy). Then lunch at a very touristy restaurant. Then the long drive back to Mombasa from Voi. I mostly read in my Vince Lombardi bio and looked at the African landscape rushing by. We saw a nasty car accident. The driver who looked like she caused it was a white tourist, and she looked scared and distraught. I would be scared to drive here, on the left side, with little by way of traffic rules.
It rained much of the way. Mombasa was still the same, and I always feel a sense of sadness as we drive through the slummy, stinky neighborhoods, with so much need. We were able to say good-bye to Anthony and Johnson. Omar took the Wasutas to their motel (they were leaving the next day early in the morning).
Now we are in the air flying to Nairobi from Mobasa.
Ted is in a great mood, happy about the wonderful trip he had, happy to soon see his friends back home. This trip was everything I hoped it would be for him and I think he has changed. I think he will be haunted by Africa and will look at life differently.
I miss Mnyenzeni and the people there. I picture them right now, sitting around, eating dinner, the last school kids walk by, the sun setting. The evening rhythm of the KCC.
But I am also looking forward to especially seeing Jami, to seeing the kids (and grandsons and sons-in-law). To reclaim work. To start on the next Kenya project, to push the library forward, etc. I guess I am officially in the Kenya club now!
I hope I can sleep on the next leg - Nairobi to Amsterdam. It seems like this trip has ended so quickly. I really wish I could have experienced this with Bret. His spirit is evident all around the Koins area. He is respected, but you can tell that the Africans feel that Bret respects them, and that is the key around here. They trust him, and they talk a lot about partnering with Koins on projects. It is true that every once in a while, an African will straight out ask for something, and you kind of recoil from it, but in the big picture, Bret has changed the entire vibe of the Koins area. It is a vibe of industriousness, of taking charge of your own life. It would be so fun to cruise around here with him, and see it through his eyes, to see the progress that he has seen.
I have witnessed three Africas on this trip.
The first is what I will call “Tourist Africa”. It caters to tourists, and business people flying in and out of Kenya on “big” deals. The African people are in the background in Tourist Africa, part of the scenery mostly, hosts and hostesses, performers, room cleaners– quiet, meek, obsequious. Things are all at European prices. Things are kind of fake. All is clean. This is the Africa featured in the flight magazine on Kenya Airways - gleaming glassy buildings; long, sandy beaches; beachfront condos. Lots of air conditioning. It is the phony faux-remote safaris, the expensive gift shops, and the prospectus for high-end real estate developments. It is the all-you-can-eat buffets at the tourist motels which to me mock the poverty, need and near-starvation going on just miles away. No rural Kenya has any stake in Tourist Africa, unless they are lucky enough to be a cook or room cleaner or driver (like Omar). People who only witness this Africa have seen something that really doesn’t exist, much like someone thinking they had seen the United States after walking down Main Street in Disneyland.
The second Africa is “Slum Africa.” You find this not only in the big cities of Nairobi and Mombasa, but also in other cities along the highways. This is a hellish place, often stinking of burning garbage, and filled with images of want, desperation, poverty, violence and disease. Stinking. Decrepit. Crowded. An air of danger. Cunning and needy eyes staring at you from the shadows. Beggars everywhere. People crowding the window of your car trying to sell you bottled water (of indeterminate origin) while you get gas. The infrastructure is either failing or non-existent. The services that humans need– clean water, road repair, doctors, banks, etc.– are not in evidence. Death feels close by. Garbage is burned in the streets. Emaciated cattle and goats eat the garbage, and will later be eaten by people. Everything is for sale– every possible bit of junk and scrap is set out and ready for sale. The people look haunted and hopeless. You see few children. AIDS is rampant. There is no joy. This Africa is kept out of the sight of businessmen and tourists, as it might disillusion them. And I get the feeling it is ignored by the political power structure as well. There is nothing they can take from it. People who only witness this Africa come away despairing, hopeless, cynical, and disheartened, even traumatized.
The third Africa that I know is “Rural Africa,” the Africa of Mnyenzeni, of Mama Frieda and Josephat and Patrick, of Taru and Miyani and a thousand other little hardscrabble villages where people hang on to their lives by the narrowest of margins, day by day. Dirt floors are swept out and somehow kept “clean.” Children make do with hand-me-down clothing lovingly washed by hand by their mothers. Meals are taken as families, made in traditional ways, simply, with much work, gratefully, with everyone very aware of the amount of work that went into the meal. Every day is full of work, especially for the hardy, graceful, stoic woman, from morning to night. Traditions are honored. Song and dance have their place. Smiles are often seen and laughter is often heard. Children are everywhere– energetic, curious, frenetic, smiling, sometimes shy, sometimes bold, always watching, playing with whatever is at hand. There is pride in a mud house, in a simple community school, in the accomplishment of a child. There is great dignity. There is a fierce desire, often in spite of poverty, disease and difficulty that we in the U.S. have a hard time understanding, to progress, to better things. People who witness this Africa are seared to their very soul, and can never forget, and consider themselves brother and sister to their village friends and acquaintances.
T.I.A.
Asate Sana, Steve. You have envisioned Kenya in a way I have seen few express it. IVL
