We got home safely this week from Nairobi, but not exactly in the way that I had envisioned. Like normal we grabbed a matatu from the City Centre stage and suffered through the dust, noise and danger that is modern Kenya's finest mode of transportation. We arrived with our lives and person intact in Kajidao, and set up a meeting with one of our counterparts. Julius was also worried about the looming water crisis and set about solving the problem. This was music to our ears as we have been saving bath water to wash our clothes in before dumping it on the few remaining green plants we have in the backyard. Its been pretty tight here water wise, which made our experience in Nairobi slightly more bizarre.
We met with our APCD on Thursday, and discussed, among other things, our emergency action plans. This roughly translates to discussing all of the worst case scenarios, and then laughing at the possibility of ever having to implement them. For example, on this particular trip, we discussed the riverbed we cross to leave our village. Its a dry beach for 11 months of the year, and a seething torrent in heavy rains. Under normal circumstances, if the river is raging, you just don't cross. This is a widely accepted method of coming away with your life, even if you don't get to town to buy peanut butter or luke warm soda. But like I said, we weren't there to discuss what normally happens.
A month ago, we had discussed the very same river crossing issue at site visit. I had laughingly suggested that, should we need to leave when the rains come, we could use a rope and some flotation devices to help each other across. Tie one end to a tree as the other person wades across, and then repeat on the opposite bank. So you can imagine my shock when we were handed a "life vest sign out sheet." I quipped that they must have made this form specifically for us, and got a rather annoyed glance in reply. Anyhow, we found ourselves the next day holding life vests in Kajiado, walking to a meeting with Julius.
Julius shares our concern over lack of water. In fact he took it so seriously that he arranged water and a ride for us back to the village. But like I have continually said about this experience, the aspect which I assumed was the strangest, took a close second to the massive tanker truck that appeared to chauffeur us to Orinie. We spent the final hours of our day, bouncing along the dusty track that leads to our home, squished between two truck drivers, a huge bag of vegetables, and two life vests, all headed, strangely enough, for one of the driest places I have ever been.
We arrived at dusk and helped the guys load our dispensary tank with water. At the request of Julius, I was to put a lock on the tank, which put me in an awkward position standing amongst a crowd of thirsty locals. I didn't get a hard time from anyone really, though I could tell they weren't happy. I was saved however by a scream from our house. I ran in to find Jennie in a pile of our dirty laundry, cursing like a sailor. In our absence, a mouse had set up his home in our clothing, and had found a way to nibble all the important aspects of our undergarments. We had made it safely, and with water, and had to laugh at life vests and risque underwear, because it was just another day in Orinie.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Dust Football
I have started playing football in the evenings with the kids here. The field is rough, extremely potholed, lacking goal posts or sidelines, and definitely not flat. But they don’t care, they just play.
As the sun sets, crowds of students battle in the rising dust. The action stops frequently to restitch the ball due to thorns and sharp broken glass. The kids huddle around and find some way to fix the ball, and then, amid screams and much chaos, play resumes. It’s so much shabbier than any field I have ever seen and I have no response to “Nicko, how do you see our field”? In the end, I guess what I see are kids, too enveloped in fun to notice how much they lack. And for their sake, I hope that this reprieve stays with them, and gives them joy through all the difficulties they face. There is so little here, and the small moments really do matter. Every little bit of enjoyment is squeezed out, reused and savored.
The fading of the light makes continuing almost impossible, and yet, there is always one final goal to score. “Last one is the winner.” At some point an enormous hum comes across the field, and for a minute we are covered in bees—millions of honey bees. They are migrating right through the middle of our match, and everyone is on their knees, shirts pulled up over heads, screaming, laughing. The bees pass, and one enterprising lad scores as the defense is still half-shirtless and cowering. The ball pops for a final time and it’s not repairable due to darkness. We all wander home coated in dust, sweating, and laughing at the bad plays I have made. This is how the games are savored, walking home in the dark, arm-in-arm. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, only maybe you won’t miss. Maybe you can actually send it in the direction of the opponents goal, just a suggestion, nothing personal. Do they have football in America? Do the kids sleep with their cleats on?”
I can see their outlines in the fading light, jumping, sprinting, arms raised, mouths open, eyes wide, chests heaving, feet furiously seeking the ball. They are playing because they can forget about herding goats, or hauling water. They can forget about typhoid, malaria and AIDS. They can breathe in the cold evening air, and exhale all the worries that 12 year olds carry here. The weight is lifted, even if only for a moment, and I can see their gleaming faces in the moonlight. They are children who must grow up fast. But for an hour or so, they are football stars, and I think I shall always remember them this way.
As the sun sets, crowds of students battle in the rising dust. The action stops frequently to restitch the ball due to thorns and sharp broken glass. The kids huddle around and find some way to fix the ball, and then, amid screams and much chaos, play resumes. It’s so much shabbier than any field I have ever seen and I have no response to “Nicko, how do you see our field”? In the end, I guess what I see are kids, too enveloped in fun to notice how much they lack. And for their sake, I hope that this reprieve stays with them, and gives them joy through all the difficulties they face. There is so little here, and the small moments really do matter. Every little bit of enjoyment is squeezed out, reused and savored.
The fading of the light makes continuing almost impossible, and yet, there is always one final goal to score. “Last one is the winner.” At some point an enormous hum comes across the field, and for a minute we are covered in bees—millions of honey bees. They are migrating right through the middle of our match, and everyone is on their knees, shirts pulled up over heads, screaming, laughing. The bees pass, and one enterprising lad scores as the defense is still half-shirtless and cowering. The ball pops for a final time and it’s not repairable due to darkness. We all wander home coated in dust, sweating, and laughing at the bad plays I have made. This is how the games are savored, walking home in the dark, arm-in-arm. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, only maybe you won’t miss. Maybe you can actually send it in the direction of the opponents goal, just a suggestion, nothing personal. Do they have football in America? Do the kids sleep with their cleats on?”
I can see their outlines in the fading light, jumping, sprinting, arms raised, mouths open, eyes wide, chests heaving, feet furiously seeking the ball. They are playing because they can forget about herding goats, or hauling water. They can forget about typhoid, malaria and AIDS. They can breathe in the cold evening air, and exhale all the worries that 12 year olds carry here. The weight is lifted, even if only for a moment, and I can see their gleaming faces in the moonlight. They are children who must grow up fast. But for an hour or so, they are football stars, and I think I shall always remember them this way.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Volunteers log: Day 135
Jennie has come through a rather nasty fight with a stomach bug. She spent the last few days camped out under the mosquito netting, feverish and reading a Jodi Picoult novel. Wednesday was site visit, which among other things brought, not one, but two boxes from France. Our supervisor Anne came by Land Rover to see us, and reaffirm that we are in fact, the most remote posting that she has under her domain.
As for the package, it contained every essential item necessary for survival in the bush. Jen tore into the Sudoku puzzles and wasn't seen or heard from for a full day except to sharpen her pencil. The package also had two gallon sized bags of M&Ms, which are at this moment being finished (2 days after receiving the package). There were also several large chocolate bars of possible French and or Belgian origin, though I can’t say with any certainty given that the wrappers are already torn, and the chocolate, likewise consumed greedily and embarrassingly fast. There were also some sticky things that probably glow in the dark, though we have not yet confirmed this. The packaging was entirely in French, and so we spent most of the time talking about how, despite several years worth of French classes, I still couldn't ascertain what the heck these things were. At any rate, we are enthused and plan to stick them on a board in the sun, and then around the house on the walls. Most likely, they will make good night lights for our resident frog population.
We must also report that toast is now possible. We have realized after many bread and butter mornings that grilling toast here not only works, but also thankfully removes all hair on my hands.
This means that Jennie’s trifecta of Oatmeal, bananas and cinnamon toast is complete. We have only to convince the local store owners that there is in fact a large market for diet soda. This has proven to be no easy task, but one that, working in tandem, we may be able to bring to fruition given two years worth of pleading and tantrums.
For me, I spent the morning trimming my beard. Usually about once a week I happen by a mirror and stand aghast at the freak staring in my direction. This particular morning, I decided I had the time, and the need to trim the thing given that I woke to find a moth fully dead and probably partially decomposed somewhere underneath my chin region. I wouldn't call the result a proper haircut or beard trim, but it certainly is shorter. I still make babies cry, old mamas snicker and school children flee, but I think they pause for a minute now before doing so. Sometimes I give them what they want and do something strange. Running at the kids, hands raised and growling like the abominable snowman is priceless, though I don’t have a sense for what it does to my professional credibility as of yet.
More than anything, we want to thank all of you for supporting us with kind words and packages. We miss home, and we miss family and friends, so your words, and your chocolate mean a lot. Stay tuned for a safari update, and our work with the school, and many, many thanks.
As for the package, it contained every essential item necessary for survival in the bush. Jen tore into the Sudoku puzzles and wasn't seen or heard from for a full day except to sharpen her pencil. The package also had two gallon sized bags of M&Ms, which are at this moment being finished (2 days after receiving the package). There were also several large chocolate bars of possible French and or Belgian origin, though I can’t say with any certainty given that the wrappers are already torn, and the chocolate, likewise consumed greedily and embarrassingly fast. There were also some sticky things that probably glow in the dark, though we have not yet confirmed this. The packaging was entirely in French, and so we spent most of the time talking about how, despite several years worth of French classes, I still couldn't ascertain what the heck these things were. At any rate, we are enthused and plan to stick them on a board in the sun, and then around the house on the walls. Most likely, they will make good night lights for our resident frog population.
We must also report that toast is now possible. We have realized after many bread and butter mornings that grilling toast here not only works, but also thankfully removes all hair on my hands.
This means that Jennie’s trifecta of Oatmeal, bananas and cinnamon toast is complete. We have only to convince the local store owners that there is in fact a large market for diet soda. This has proven to be no easy task, but one that, working in tandem, we may be able to bring to fruition given two years worth of pleading and tantrums.For me, I spent the morning trimming my beard. Usually about once a week I happen by a mirror and stand aghast at the freak staring in my direction. This particular morning, I decided I had the time, and the need to trim the thing given that I woke to find a moth fully dead and probably partially decomposed somewhere underneath my chin region. I wouldn't call the result a proper haircut or beard trim, but it certainly is shorter. I still make babies cry, old mamas snicker and school children flee, but I think they pause for a minute now before doing so. Sometimes I give them what they want and do something strange. Running at the kids, hands raised and growling like the abominable snowman is priceless, though I don’t have a sense for what it does to my professional credibility as of yet.
More than anything, we want to thank all of you for supporting us with kind words and packages. We miss home, and we miss family and friends, so your words, and your chocolate mean a lot. Stay tuned for a safari update, and our work with the school, and many, many thanks.
Much Love from Kenya, Nick and Jennie
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