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The young lady walking in front of me as I strolled to the dispensary
to chat with Naomi about a location for our Gala Goats, was bent over in
pain, almost tumbling into the dirt. I rushed to steady her, and as
she stood I discovered a woman heavy with child. She groaned deeply
and reached for her back and began tilting once again. I picked her
up and rushed to the closed, blue door of the dispensary. I called
for Naomi, the nurse, and she beckoned me to come inside, not knowing
I had someone clutching to me.
This girl of her mid-20’s had been on her way to the weekly clinic
where pre-natal drugs were being distributed, along with immunizations
and tests of all kinds for the toddlers in the village. Along Mwaka’s
(M-walk-ah) 2 mile path to the dispensary her labor pains came
quickly, with her water breaking onto the sandy path below her feet.
This was her second child, and she did not experience the same pains
during her previous pregnancy, so this was new territory. In between
contractions she would walk as quick as she could until she finally
reached the boundary of the dispensary property……and me. Mwaka’s
greatest discomfort was in her lower back. As I gently laid her on the
green, vinyl-cushioned gurney that has surely been used hundreds of
times by ladies using its soft padding as a place of comfort, Mwaka
seized with pain, so I remained there and massaged her back. It was
obvious that this relieved great pressure and pain.
Naomi had seen Mwaka on several occasions over the past months, so she
knew it was time to prepare for the birth. As I stood at Mwaka’s side,
providing the longest back rub of my life, the nurses scurried about as they
had not planned on a baby this busy morning.
The contractions were less than two minutes apart, with almost a
minute of duration, so even I knew this wouldn’t be too long. Men are
NEVER allowed in the birthing rooms during delivery, so I was breaking
new ground. Even the husbands are nowhere to be seen while their
wives suffer to deliver the children. So to have a man, a white man,
a man that is not your husband in the room was, to say the least, over
the border taboo, and I knew it.
The contractions were less than two minutes apart, with almost a
minute of duration, so even I knew this wouldn’t be too long. Men are
NEVER allowed in the birthing rooms during delivery, so I was breaking
new ground. Even the husbands are nowhere to be seen while their
wives suffer to deliver the children. So to have a man, a white man,
a man that is not your husband in the room was, to say the least, over
the border taboo, and I knew it.
Mwaka’s pain grew more intense, and the beads of sweat on her face and
forehead dripped onto the bed. As she tightly grasped one of my
hands, I continued to rub the growing knots from her lower back, much
to her relief. Her teeth were stained from the water they are forced
to drink in some of the outlying villages, her hair speckled with dirt
particles from the life of living in a mud hut in an arid area. Naomi
brought in her medical card which had Mwaka’s thumb prints at the
bottom, a common way for the illiterate to sign their name. Naomi
quickly reviewed the history and saw nothing alarming, so full
preparations for a normal delivery were made.
At one point Mwaka grabbed the sinew at the back of my leg during a
particularly excruciating contraction, thinking it was the rail of the
bed which she had been squeezing. For the entire duration of the
spasm I received the most painful horse bite I have ever experienced.
I didn’t have the heart to pull her hand off of me for fear of really
embarrassing her, but even after 9 hours I still have marks from the
ligament crushing she provided me.
Naomi had to check Mwaka to see how dilated she had become. I offered
to leave, but Mwaka begged me to stay with her. This was really odd,
but somewhere I had been before many years ago with the birth of my
own children. Naomi was thrilled that I was there helping her and
taking some of the heat off as I provided what coaching I could in my
Tarzan-like Swahili. The moment of truth came about two hours after I
first plopped Mwaka on the bed, and again I asked about me being
there. Both Mwaka and Naomi demanded that I stay, so everyone took a
final deep breath and the pushing began. As I whispered pumua
(poo-moo-ah) pumua into Mwaka’s ear, reminding her to breath
correctly, Naomi was shouting twende, twende (Twen-day) which is
Swahili for go, go or push, push. I lifted Mwaka’s head towards her
knees, something Naomi had not seen before because there are never any
father’s around. On the second big push the baby’s head went from
crowning to fully exited. Within 5 more seconds the rest of the
pale-colored baby boy was out, and layed on his mother’s tummy. Mwaka
blew out one final deep breath as I placed her flat on the bed. It
was over. Naomi placed rubber gloves on me and now had me cutting the
umbilical cord and handling the newborn. I wrapped him in one of the
many colorful blankets that we have brought here to encourage mothers
to come to the clinic for birthing, and held him for a few moments.
One of the other nurses came into the room and began to assist, so I
went back up to Mwaka and told her how well she had done. She looked
at me through her tired, bloodshot, eyes and said “nashikuru.” She
didn’t have to say it, as I knew she was grateful, but my Africa
experience had just been enriched in multiples, and I was the one who
was truly appreciative to have taken part in this tiny miracle. I
don’t know how many this makes now, but I have another namesake who
will run the hills and valleys of this difficult place, hopefully
knowing me well as he grows.
My activities were postponed by the delay in the delivery room, but I
picked them back up as soon as I could. The sun was strong overhead,
and within an hour of walking around attending to my commitments, I
could feel the sting of the rays beating down upon me. I had
forgotten my hat as I left the dispensary, so I cut a palm leaf and
fashioned an umbrella over my head. I was quite unfashionable, even
by African standards, but my head was covered, so I continued on. By
nightfall I could feel the tingle of my crispy dome.
Two years ago an awards assembly was initiated with the top performing
students from each of our schools, along with the teachers who had the
highest overall grades in their respective classes. A committee
oversee the program and we go into Mombasa to purchase the prizes for
the award winners. Do they want iPods, Xboxes, or remote helicopters?
What these children desire most is to have their own books, a study
guide, or pens and paper. We are giving the top teacher a solar panel
to recharge their cell phone or radio. The committee was almost giddy
at the thought of their counterpart receiving this wonderful gift.
A new tailor has been hired at the workshop for our sewing projects.
I met with her as a formality and chatted about our uniform situation
with each of our schools. The kids are forced to wear uniforms, and
many of them are tattered, especially those who wear hand-me-downs
from older siblings. We are designing a handsome shirt absent of the
traditional buttons and pocket, replacing that look with something
more comfortable, but durable. We’ll see how this works out, but we
have the overwhelming support of all the headteachers.
Porch meetings in the dark were the order of the evening. Power
outages are more common than ever, stopping work several times during
the day. In fact, I am on battery right now. The moon has decided to
stay hidden, so the sky was as black as Anthony’s eyes. The stars
were as glorious as I have ever seen, and the voice of my bride on the
other end of the phone as sweet as ever. I grumble at the thought of
being here while my grandson is born, but the newborn baby that I
delivered today is named in his honor (Max), so that softens the blow.
As I hear of the weather turning bitterly cold back home, a drop of
sweat drizzles down my back, and I’m conflicted as to whether I would
prefer being cold, or extremely hot.
Sleeping in feels soooooo good!! Too bad I have no capacity to
actually do that here. I had requested an early arrival from our next
group of rotational garden families, so by 7:00 a.m. they were gathering at
the KCC. We asked them to bring something to eat for our goats,
directing them to pass by our fields near Kevin’s Creek and tote corn
stalks up to our pens. After a brief kickoff meeting
with this second group, they almost jogged to the fields where they’ll
be planting their crops because they were made aware that I was
heading to Mombasa to pick up seeds for them to plant and the ground
must be fully prepared before I would give them any seeds. Placing a
border of slate rocks around each garden is required, then a mixture
of manure, grasses, and topsoil is to be churned to make the perfect
bed for our new seeds. It is fantastic to see the excitement in the
eyes of these families at the prospect of providing themselves with
nutritious meals.
Going into Mombasa is always problematic and frustrating. We need to
buy hundreds of packets of seeds for our rotational gardens, some
supplies for our center, a few veterinarian supplies, and the all the
items listed for our awards ceremony this Saturday.
Dr. Kimeni, the District Education Officer hooked up with us at the
Blue Room, a local dive where they have food, drink, and WiFi. It’s
very popular with the tourists and locals who can spend $5 on a meal.
There are so many issues to discuss that our meeting extended over 2
hours. I truly enjoy being with this guy, especially after his
predecessor was such a dud in getting anything done. I am becoming
more convinced that the generation of politicians and leaders coming
up through the ranks will make colossal changes to this country. It
has so much potential, such a desire from the people to change, that I
am convinced they will not be denied.
When I walked into the store where we usually buy our school supplies,
Jenny, the sister of the store’s owner, greeted me so kindly, and
stated, “I knew you were in Kenya.” I was surprised at how this was
possible unless she knew someone from the village. Then she explained
that she follows the Koins blog and website and saw that I had returned. So,
if you’re reading this, Jenny, thanks for taking such wonderful care
of us while at your store!! Hopefully we’ll host you this weekend as
we had discussed…..so bring your husband and brother, too.
Upon return to the KCC, large boxes containing steel crates were
sitting on the front porch and just inside the doors in our meeting
area. It looked like John Paras furniture had delivered us a bunch of
chest freezers. But, could it be???????? Yes, our Pitster Pro
motorcycles had finally arrived!! The motorbikes that we have used
for the last 5-6 years have been held together by chicken wire and
some bad welding jobs, all evidence of the roads and the beating they
take going back and forth to our work sites. But since the engines
are now beginning to fail, we really needed a solution. In September
we made arrangements to have some good bikes sent here, along with an
ATV for those on our board who do not ride motorcycles. They were to
arrive during my last trip in November, but T.I.A. (This Is Africa)
took over and they never came. After a lot of kicking and making
noise, we finally located them at the port, and with great excitement
for everyone, they are here for our immediate use… Some assembly
required
It is another dark night with a phenomenal starlit bucket shower since the lights
appear to be out for the duration.
Asante,
BVL
