Being at home with family, just in time for Christmas, is a gift in itself. But my time in Kenya was simply too short. I am, however, reminding myself that the alternative was no trip at all.

The two worlds are so vastly different that it’s proving difficult to keep my focus on the people and projects that occupied my last seven weeks and will continue to be part of my life. Before the New Year, my daily routine will return to what it was before I left, but I’ve vowed to dedicate some time to furthering those projects from where I now sit. That means establishing a web presence for new projects looking for volunteers, and connecting people in the western world who need some direction on where and how to help, to people and programs that are worthy of (and endlessly grateful for) their time and resources. If you’re one of those people, or just beginning to contemplate the idea, let me know; I can hook you up.

It’s difficult this time of year, to reconcile our lifestyles within the grand scheme of the planet; there’s no greater contrast than that of street children in Africa and Christmas in North America. There is joy in sharing gifts and feasts with family and friends, but it takes a concerted effort to accept and enjoy annual traditions when you have a direct link to what could otherwise be provided if we skipped over just 20 per cent of it all.

I spent my last day in Kenya visiting the lunch program started by Bart Sullivan, with thanks to his Vancouver yoga community for donating funds, and Mama Mercy. After I left for my month in the western province, the two decided the funds would be best spent on feeding the children of Kware and Rongai during their five-week break from school (and their only guaranteed meal they get each day). What evolved in the vast, dusty church ground was a place for more than 120 children to run, jump, skip rope, play football, pray, sing and laugh for hours before being served a hot meal. And the women who cooked are being paid for their work. As a bonus project, Bart decided the children should all get baskets of food for their guardians or families to take home after their Christmas pagent. He put the pledge out to his online community for donations, and they answered in spades. Here’s how well it worked: http://blip.tv/file/560050. I was sadly en route to Newfoundland by the time the pagent happened, so I’m grateful for technology giving me a taste.

Having seen first hand, the act of giving in this part of the world can elevate joy to a whole other level. I highly recommend it.

Sitting in a quaint, historic coffee shop in the heart of Nairobi, my good friend asked me how I felt to be back in the big city. I told him my shoulders had definitely dropped this time around; I felt much safer than at the start of my trip, being able to communicate a little better and with the full realization that Nairobi is not the danger zone it used to be. I told him how guarded I’d felt at the beginning of this trip, having heard and read all the dire warnings. I told him it doesn’t seem to warrant the old nickname “Nairobbery.”

A few minutes later, I stood up to greet Mama Mercy’s son Kimani who’d come to drop something off to Bart. He left after 60 seconds, and I sat back down, rummaging under my big bag, looking for the smaller cloth one. Gonzo. I’m open to interpretations on this life lesson, but I’m going with “Don’t get cocky.”

So once again, Hilary Cole is cell-phone-free. But I also lost the lovely blank book my mother and sister bought for me, now filled with the names, addresses, e-mails and phone numbers of every contact I’ve made across this country. Also snatched was a book I was reading, ironically entitled “Becoming Human.” I’m niaively hopeful the thief might read it.

Here are the list of positives Bart and I came up with while calling my phone on the street to try to hear it ring and checking garbage dumpsters:

#1. The thief didn’t take my other bag, containing passport, money, credit and bank card, clothes, and malaria meds.

That was a big one. That should be #s 1, 2 and 3.

#4. I’ll now be in touch with only those people I’m meant to stay in touch with, and who decide to contact me. Streamlining; I like it.

#5. My bag is lighter now; more room for the wickedly cool cowboy-shirt clothing line Bart and Kimani have started and want distributed in Vancouver.

#6. I get to see good fortune turn things around. I have a loaner cell phone for my last two days, and Mama Mercy gave me a brand new blank book this morning, ready to be filled.

That name has been in my consciousness for 15 years - that’s how long ago I started sponsoring a young boy from Rusinga Island, Kenya through Christian Children’s Fund (CCF). After three years of letters, pictures and updates, CCF terminated the sponsorship for some administrative reason - something about the Canadian office falling out of the Kenyan catchment area. My 22-year-old self was devastated. But Erick’s name and that of Rusinga stuck in some little recess of my brain, thinking I might one day meet him.

I left the farm in Kabula three days ago with tears in my eyes; the Lubanga family had been so lovely to me, and I met dozens of wonderful people who were working and volunteering for them. But looking ahead, I was on my way to Rusinga Island, on yet another Indiana-Jones mission to find someone with only the smallest of leads. I drove most of the way in ICODEI’s SUV with a couple of volunteers who were going to visit a friend’s project. We spoke to a group of teenagers there - an area with a 30-40 per cent HIV prevalence - many of them either orphaned or themselves infected. I stayed the night with my friends in Homa Bay, and then hopped on a very, very crowded bus over an unbelievably bad road to Mbita, the town connected to Rusinga by a little causeway.

My accommodation options were limited to a 5-star, $500-a-night exclusive resort, a dive behind the bus stand, or a little lakeside oasis called Lake Victoria’s Safari Village. (Guess which I picked.) My three nights at Safari Village cost as much as 10 at the hostel in Nairobi, but it was a slice of heaven. As life’s little non-coincidences would have it, a friend-of-a-friend was staying on Rusinga to work on a latrine-building project, and was given a near-gratis hut at the afore-mentioned 5-star. So after my own cup of tea by the water, I took a taxi over to visit her. A swim in a pool felt like pure luxury.

On the way back to my own digs, I asked my cabbie (read: guy with a car who will take you somewhere for a random price) if he knew of the Rusinga Island Family Development Project. “Yeah, CCF - right there,” he said as we passed by a little sign. So that was where I headed the next morning. I arrived after a long walk from Mbita at about noon. They showed me into the director’s office and I threw down my crap-shoot of a request. The older man and the two younger ones who had showed me in looked at me like I had 10 heads when I told them I wanted to find a boy I sponsored 12 years ago. I hadn’t been here long, but I’d already learned that Odhiambo is the Smith of this region of Kenya, and Odongo is a nickname. And did I mention there are many Erick’s?

They told me it would not be possible without his ID number (there are 1000 children currently registered in the program), and even still, they didn’t keep records back that far. The two young men just shrugged their shoulders after a brief check in their files. But the older man wouldn’t let it go. “Odhiambo Odongo…. Odongo Odhiambo….” he kept saying, looking up into the air. “How can we help this lady?” Then he said he thought he remembered someone by that name who served as their treasurer many years ago. So as I’ve learned these searches go, we went for a walk down the road. A man in the Rusinga Greening Initiative office said he knew of an Odongo, and gave us a cell number. Alphonce, one of the young men, borrowed my phone and went outside to make the call. He returned three minutes later and said he’d just spoken to this Odongo . He’d confirmed his son Erick had been sponsored through CCF. The son was there and they were expecting us. An hour after being told it would not be possible, the whole family was waiting.

What followed was not a Hollywood reunion, but a very enjoyable lunch with Erick and his parents. At first I thought Erick didn’t remember, although the parents seemed thrilled to meet me. He was quiet and very shy; I learned he left school after grade seven. So much for him being on the priority list for a new sponsor. He wasn’t speaking much, and his father told me his communication was not good, due to his schooling and something to do with an illness and back problem. I was confused by that and, being the brain-injury therapist, wondered if he was aphasic. Then Erick left the little room without saying anything. I was starting to feel awkward. But he returned a minute later, just as silently, and handed me a 13-year-old photo of myself playing field hockey. It was tattered and wrinkled, but my writing on the back was still legible: “I’m the one in the blue shirt - number 14.” I laughed. Then his Mama from the corner blurted out “Mount Saint Vincent University!” Apparently I’d sent him a t-shirt from my school. Just a note: don’t think that the tiny little things you do for people far away don’t matter.

After an hour visit and taking a bunch of photos, we left in a cab, Erick accompanying us, to drop me where I would meet up with my friend. I talked with him a little on the way there - he told me his wife’s name is Millicent, but unfortunately she wasn’t there today. I gave him some simple exercises for a back problem I wasn’t sure about, and said goodbye. It felt way too quick and insignificant, but I felt like that was the end; I was disappointed and still confused. I spent the rest of the day with my friend and another volunteer I’d met touring their projects in a little fishing village on a beach, then took a taxi back to Mbita before sunset.

As I was driven at warp speed down the dirt road, I spotted Erick at the last second, just as he spotted me. We both stuck our arms out and waved. “Stop!” I yelled to the cabbie/guy-with-a-car. Erick ran up to the car and I told him I would be hiking up a big hill to see all of Rusinga the next morning with one of the CCF people, and asked him to come. “Yes, I’d like to come,” he said, and gave me his cell number. So the next day, Erick Odhiambo Odongo and I climbed a mountain together. We chatted the whole day by the way - no communication problems that I could tell. It was a remarkable place, and a remarkable day. Erick had never been there (Alphonce was our guide) and he loved the view from the top - a stunning 360 of the entire area and surrounding islands. We walked back to Mbita together, and I bought some fruit for him to take home to his mother and wife. He’s since sent me three text messages.

I’m killing time now on my way back to Nairobi. I need to see all the people I met there the first time around, and then it’s off to St. Andrew’s en route to Canada for Christmas; again, looking forward to the next adventure.

I spent yesterday with Reverend Chris’ family near the town of Kakamega. It was about an hour matatu ride followed by 30 minutes on a boda boda into his family’s rural compound. The beauty all around was astounding. The lush rolling hills of sugar cane can take your breath away, and easily disguise the disparity they create between the farmers and sugar manufacturers; when the latter group actually decides to pay, they are far from fair.

Chris’ father is a former school headmaster - an educated and wise man who showed me great respect as his visitor, and took the opportunity to enlighten me on the ‘real’ Kenya. He believes the country is deceiving the world into seeing it as a democracy, with its multi-party system and free elections. But his definition of democracy goes much further. He posed the question of whether primary education is really free if the public schools have one teacher for 80 to 100 students, making every parent desperate to find the fees to send their children to private schools. And according to him, no one gets treated at a public hospital, regardless of the level of urgency, unless they first produce money, and that, to him, does not make a civil country.

But the purpose of my visit was to see and photograph the family’s compound to help promote Chris’ vision: a volunteer organization which aims to empower young girls, enabling them to make choices in their lives by learning about health issues and women’s rights, as well as skills and trades. His father has already given him land - two acres - which leap frogs him over the biggest hurdle to getting something going.

Since I last wrote about it, another volunteer from ICODEI named Eric has joined heads with Chris on the problem of young boys in this area - there is a plethora of homeless boys who spend their days scrounging for a few shillings to buy a little bit of food and a whole lot of glue for sniffing. There is, quite possibly, nothing worse than seeing a shoeless boy in completely rotten and tattered clothes as high as a kite, grabbing your hand and asking you to buy him food. So Eric and Chris are adding a boy’s orphanage to the vision. We’re all beginning by trying to establish an organization to receive donations and volunteer support from abroad. The first job will be to erect a structure or two on the land to house volunteers and then build a home for boys. A relative of Chris’ has already offered some unused classrooms nearby for teaching space.

After enjoying a wonderful lunch prepared by Chris’ perpetually-smiling mother and lovely sisters, and meeting virtually everyone in the area (Chris cannot walk by a single soul witout being summoned for a chat or a soda), I’ve seen how much support he has for his vision. He is driven, and with more people making micro-movements, I really see it happening.

Tomorrow I leave Bungoma/Kabula and head for Rusinga Island before my trip back to Nairobi. I’m sure more adventures await in the week ahead, but I’m still looking back with gratitude for the hospitality, education, and teaching opportunities I’ve had until now. The people here make it remarkably easy to build relationships, with their openness, grace and constant greetings; I hope those ties are only just beginning.

If you’re just joining this thread, read my post from December 7th first.  Here’s some foreshadowing: it’s entitled Bad Car Karma.

Yesterday was my last day teaching the EMPOWER HIV/AIDS program - exam day.  We’d had to push it ahead to Saturday due to the afore-mentioned cancelled day for a busted timing belt on the car.  What I failed to realize was that our car is actually owned by a woman who loans it to ICODEI, except for those rare occasions when she needs it.  Yesterday was one of those rare occasions.

So after lecturing the class about “making good time” for exam day, I left in a taxi 45 minutes late for a two-hour drive.  We of course, had to stop for gas first, which I paid for and had to tell the attendant to add 400 shillings more gas after he charged me 2000 but filled it to 1600.  Happy I’d already learned the keep-your-eyes-open lesson.

Then we had to stop and pick up a cake for the graduates - a quick, organized stop but our driver, in his haste, drove over a boulder-like rock on the road, scraping and grinding every compartment on the uderside of the car.  We all cringed and just drove on. At this point, I was imagining my ever-efficient friend Cheryl in the situation, and that made me laugh.

As for the class, they did remarkably well, with a couple of 100 per-cent marks and many in the 90’s - and this is complicated immunology material.  But due to a whole other set of dramas the day before (broken generators and empty ink cartridges), their EMPOWER certificates weren’t ready.  My cohort John was attempting to do three things at once, including get the certificates to us before the end of the class, and ended up hitting a pedestrian newspaper salesman (on the arm with a rear-view mirror).  That of course resulted in a 2000-shilling payoff and a ride to the hospital, but much more importantly, another stress-related seizure for John. He’s thankfully doing fine again - just ate breakfast with him. (I’ve learned since the first episode that he actually has a seizure disorder and it’s not a direct consequence of his HIV.)

So there was lots of action, no certificates and a rushed exam day to avoid driving over bad roads in the coming rain, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in Kenya, it’s bring cake and everyone will be overjoyed.

I must have been a vandal or a thief in a past life, as this week has been one car issue after the other.

This week’s EMPOWER HIV/AIDS class is about a 2-hour drive away, but I at least have the good fortune of being entertained by Peter the driver and enjoying the company of Mary and John David. It’s especially good to like your travel companions when the timing belt breaks and you spend an hour or so on the side of the road.  I got a ride home after we called our contact to cancel the day-three class; Peter spent the next six hours dealing.  But he’s a gem and rolls with it as well as anyone.

Day four was the flat tire as we were about to leave the very-rural church where we were teaching.  Again, Peter saved the day like a pro.

Today, day five, was the best.  Highway police check.  The three passengers in the back weren’t wearing seatbelts, namely because there are only two in the back and they don’t tighten enough to work anyway.  Usually the police just wave us on and hastle the matatu drivers, but this morning, the tall portly cop opened the back door and tugged on Maurice Lubanga’s belt.  It flew off his lap.  “Out out out!” the officer yelled.

I stayed in the car but what ensued was a negotiation to prevent them from taking a fellow volunteer, Elison, to court for a 2000 Ksh fine (about $300).  Peter asked me how much money I had on me - I had a 100 note and a 1000 note.  100 was not a big enough bribe and 1000 was too much.  Peter is a quiet guy but he was disgusted. We ended up using Peter’s 500 Ksh note to bribe them to let us go - that’s actually the purpose of the Police check.  As Peter says, “Our police are thieves.”  And 500 is a lot to ask of a driver with a wife in school and four kids at home. I’ll top him up for that.

Wish me luck for tomorrow.  Right now I’m heading to the bank for some small bills.

My camera and I were invited to attend Reverend Chris’ graduation from Bungoma Bible School on Friday; it was supposed to be impossible due to my teaching schedule, but he must have had a word or two with a higher power, as my class was cancelled the day before. So Chris got his photos.

I arrived at 10 a.m., an hour after it “started” and joined in the warm-up singing, dancing and general joyousness. The actual ceremony got going a half hour later. After five years of study, he now has his Bachelor of Theology degree.

He preaches at the little church on the farm where I live, so a few of us attended this morning. He made sure to translate most of his sermon for us, which was a messge about December being a month of so many expectations, and suggested we instead see it as a month of preparation for the life we want to live.  Okay.

I likened the Swahili church-service experience to going to the opera - you know the general storyline and can surmise what they’re singing about, but it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand the language because the music is beautiful. Only about 30 people attended (all of them great singers and/or drummers), but interestingly, the children play outside except for various intervals when they come in to dance up the aisle to lead off the processions (gospel, offering, etc.). They were adorable, but what really stands out is how totally uninhibited these kids are when they dance; it’s their role, rather than a self-conscious exercise their parents make them do.

With my other day off last week I went to the Kakamega Rainforest an hour away with a couple of girls; it is stunningly beautiful both inside and from afar as it’s flanked by tea plantations.  Tea is the richest, greenest crop I’ve ever seen; far from the black stuff at the other end of production. I’m hoping to go back there for a night so I can get up and watch the sunrise over it. Our guide told us he knows the perfect spot.

Day one of a five-day EMPOWER class gets going tomorrow, then I start thinking about leaving Kabula, likely for Rusinga Island before I go back to check on all those wonderful people in and around Nairobi.

I’ve just finished the second EMPOWER HIV/AIDS program, and am ready to start the third and last on Monday.  This last one was youthful, vocal, and at times, a bit macho.  The only two young women had their work cut out for them.  Mary, my formidable translator, has no problems handling a group of boistrous young men though. When talking about preventing mother-to-child transmission, several of them (half) joked about the woman getting herself to the hospital in case of birth complications.  She does the one-eyebrow-raise really well: “Did she get pregnant by herself?” The women are strong here, and the times they are a-changin’. 

The greatest moment came at the end of the six-day course; Drake, an eager, bright participant but definitely one of the cool-guy members of the class, stood up to volunteer his plans for using his new knowledge in his community - “First, for me, foremost,” he said, putting his hand on his chest, “I am going to go the the VCT and get tested.”  I applauded him for leading by example.

This is the same man who’d informed me earlier where half our church benches had gone - they’d been taken for a funeral the night before. The woman who’d died was apparently young and ambitious. “Too many funerals,” he said shaking his head without any melodrama, just as if this was an unfortunate matter-of-fact.  “Myself I’ve seen five,” he said. He can’t be more than 21, and this was a small, rural place.

The next young man stood up and also pledged to get tested for HIV and know his own status first. He followed it by saying he would then share his knowledge with his community members and “country wide.” I high-fived him for thinking big. It has to start somewhere.

For those of you who haven’t been acquainted with the concept of “Kenyan time”, here’s a little snapshot: 

I decided this morning to go to a local wedding which several members of the Lubanga family (my hosts) were involved in. We were assured that at Kenyan weddings, anyone is welcome. It was to start at 11 a.m., and Mama Betty suggested we get there a little early, as it may start early.  I’ve not been in this country long, but I knew enough to assume it would sooner snow.

The eldest son of the family, Stalone, a striking, gregarious and soulful person, walked with myself and two of the young American student teachers to the church, talking all the way of his commitment to developing his relationship with God, and not just following “the word” through rote learning.

There was already a festive atmosphere in the wood-beamed and aluminum building when we arrived; music played from loudspeakers and people milled and introduced themselves.  Kenyans love to shake hands. I sat for a while with a young pastor who is about to graduate as a Deacon on Friday.  He is really fired up about his plan to start a vocational training school for disadvantaged young girls in his home town of Kakamega (about an hour away); he already has two acres of land and has met with about 20 prospective girls. 

He says he feels the plight of young Kenyan girls and women is his burden, and goes to bed at night feeling he has to do something to provide them with opportunities. He plans to partner with ICODEI but hopes to establish his own program, complete with overseas volunteers. (Any takers?!) I told him about the Rescue Dada beauty school and he was floored to hear about his vision already in action in Nairobi.  So I pulled out my camera and ran through the photos of the school and the girls there. Hopefully he’ll be able to visit to learn from their successes and ideas.

It was a joy talking with Reverend Chris, and good thing, ’cause the wedding party arrived more than three hours late.  You can go back and re-read that, it did say three hours.  I explained to one young man that in Canada, if the bride is more than five or 10 minutes late, the groom starts to worry she may have changed her mind.  He thought that was hilarious.  When in Kenya, one must simply roll with it, but my silly mzungu (white person) companions and I didn’t bring any water, and we were all starting to get lightheaded in the pregressively sweltering church.

I’m happy to report, we stuck it out, and I couldn’t be happier we did. When the car carrying the bride arrived in caravan with the bridesmaids and groomsmen, a great, thundering chorus of howls rose up from the crowd gathered outside.  I can’t possibly immitate the sounds that ascend from the throats of these people, but it is an absolute gas to be in the middle of!

Those yells and whistles carried on for the next hour, as it took the bride half an hour to get out of the car, and then another half an hour or more to walk down the aisle of the very small church.  It’s a tradition that the bridesmaids, flower girls and the bride herself move “pole pole” (slowly, slowly) down the aise, dancing the entire way. We all stood and danced and clapped with them. All the while, my lack of food and water all day became infinitely less important; if those six little girls and eight beautiful bridesmaids could dance for an hour, I could certainly stand and dance with them a while longer. It is absolutely impossible to wipe the smile off your face. Stay tuned for pictures.

After that procession, and an hour into the ceremony, the rousing words from the pastor (to which the congregation responded with affirmative shouts, claps and the occasional referee’s whistle), had not yet begun to approach anything resembling wedding vows, according to our volunteer translator on the bench behind us.

We opted to leave at the next appropriate moment, as dehydration headaches had set in all around, despite big smiles.  It was hard to leave, but a smart decision I think. I’ll have to save my dancing shoes for another afternoon.

Who would have guessed my mud hut would have laminate flooring, an area rug, wicker furniture and a chest of drawers? Really, don’t feel sorry for me. I thought about coming to do this program in Kabula nearly two years ago, but something in the universe made me hold out until they installed the water pump, rain-water flush toilets and one mother of a generator.  Every night (okay, most nights), the lights go on in the “big hut” - a massive mud-brick gazebo with enough chairs for all 25 of us. 

Yes, 25.  Besides building the big hut, ICODEI has also added a “mansion” - a large sleeping hut for 12 to add to their smaller four-person huts.  Thankfully, I’ve just got three roomies. (The bigger the hut, the bigger the dramas.) Most of us are volunteers for ICODEI programs, and we range from 23 to 50-something.  But 14 are student teachers from the University of Indiana. Besides being there to make me feel extremely old, they’re getting credit at the end of their teaching degrees. They’re a lively, fun bunch who are generous with their advice and direction, having pre-dated me by a month.

I started teaching the Empower HIV/AIDS program my first day here; there was already a 6-day class in progress with John, my formidable American counterpart and mentor, so I joined in and gave him a little reprieve. That class was comprised mostly of young men and women. They were all extremely bright, which necessitated some really in-depth teaching on the physiological stuff. At first I was surprised at the level of questions and how far they wanted us to delve, but I’m starting to get an idea of just how important, let alone relevant, this information is to them. They take it very seriously for a reason.  That group of 20 all passed their tests (with flying colours), and posed for a zillion photographs with their certificates.

We teach in churches, as those are usually the only structures in a community that have the capacity and benches to sit on.  The churches, like most structures in this area, are made of mud, with mud floors, and either a thatched or aluminum roof.  (The hut I sleep in is the same - I love looking up at the vaulted grass-and-stick ceiling through my mosquito net.)

We don’t teach on weekends, and we take a day off between classes, so yesterday, I was a tourist.  I took a bloody long matatu ride with one of the young student teachers into Kisumu to visit the craft market.  It was fairly exhausting, and I think my travel partner needs a chiropractor after his six-foot frame was crammed into the back of the 12-passenger vehicle with 18 other lucky travellers for three hours. No live chickens this time though.

Today was the first day of a new course, and I’m on my own with our wonderful Kiswahili interpreter Mary for this one. My co-teacher, John, is HIV +, and while this makes him an invaluable teacher and resource, it also means he’s prone to bouts of extreme fatigue and, unfortunately today, seizures.  He was well taken care of at the hospital this morning and is back at the farm with the Lubanga family, resting for what will probably be the next couple of weeks.  (Those of you who are so inclined, say a prayer please.)

This new group of learners is also young and keen and full of questions, and I had the painful task of turning away four people today as we passed our maximum number.  It’s likely that ICODEI will send someone back to the same area to teach again within the next few months.  In the meantime, this is a teaching-the-teachers program….