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….

One of my missions on this trip was to find a woman my dear friends Avchen and Lindsey stayed and worked with seven years ago. Her name was Mama Mercy, so named for dedicating her life to serving the poor children in her community of Rongai. Mama Mercy was the one who brought my friends to Rescue Dada in Nairobi seven years ago to show them the kind of place she dreamed of opening in Rongai. Hence the Vancouver connection to Rescue Dada.

All I had to go on was a photograph of Avchen with Mama Mercy and a group of young schoolchildren, and the name of her town about 1/2 an hour outside Nairobi. Not knowing if she was even still alive, I planned on just getting off a matatu and wandering and asking. Linsdey assured me someone would know. Thankfully, my friend Bart liked the sound of my plan and asked to join.

We arrived late in the afternoon, and got off at the most promising sign – one that indicated there was a Christian Women’s Centre nearby. We walked down the market road, flanked by vegetable and clothing stalls, on ground that was about a 70/30 mix of mud and garbage. We followed the same sign again on a left turn down another lane. Children ran everywhere, all shouting their favourite phrase: “How are you?!”

We started showing the photograph and asking for Mama Mercy, but to no avail. Bart suggested we look for older people to ask, and stopped a woman in a bright yellow fleece. She likely wasn’t much older than me, but she summoned over a very old woman. For a moment we both thought this could even be her, which made us laugh. But after much conversation (Kiswahili way over our heads), we gathered that this quiet woman, with her frail frame and crooked smile, knew who we were looking for. Apparently Mama Mercy was known to her as Mama Mwangi (the mother of Mwangi).

We were now an entourage of about six adults and two children, following Mama Werimu and walking through the slum of Kware, back into what was officially Rongai. We walked for what seemed close to an hour until we reached a quiet lane with a door in the wall. We walked through, and it felt right. There were no lights on in the main dwelling, but Mama Werimu knocked on the door. A young woman came out of an adjacent dwelling and told us that yes, we were in the right place, but Mama Mwangi had left that morning for Narok (not a day trip). My heart sank, but I still wasn’t convinced we were tracking the right woman. We were given a cell phone number, which Bart called to no answer, and we left a note.

We walked back with our group, all the while being told of the massive problems facing this slum – no work, no food, and so many orphans – by two passionnate community leaders, Charles and Beatrice. Charles runs an orphans’ school in Kware and wanted us to see it. First we stopped at a grocery store and bought bags of maize flour, rice, sugar and chai for our group and the orphans. They expected a lot from us and it was hard to draw the line, even though I was both grateful and empathetic.

We spent the next hour or so walking and talking, sitting in each woman’s house, and visiting the orphans’ school – a tiny two-room hut with a small outdoor space. A funeral was happening close by. While there, Bart’s phone rang – it was Mama Mwangi. She was ecstatic when I told her who I was, or more accurately who my friends were, and insisted we stay in her house that night – she would leave Narok early in the morning to be back before noon (she hadn’t even yet arrived at her destination).

We decided to stay, and were asked by our escorts to speak to a group of their community members the next morning about living with HIV/AIDS. I was hesitant, insisting I wasn’t a doctor or expert, but this was what I’d come to Kenya to do. Charles said he would arrange a meeting for 9 a.m.

We were met at Mama Mercy’s sparse but lovely home by her daughter-in-law and two grandchildren. The next morning they came back to give us breakfast and lock up as we left for our meeting. At the schoolyard, there were about 25 children, and initially a dozen adults, growing to about 20 as we talked. The meeting opened with a poem recitation by a few of the children. It was about how AIDS had taken their mothers, stolen their fathers and struck down their aunts and uncles, like a tree being cut down. This is what these children recite at school. We mainly answered the group’s questions on a very basic level, and spoke of caring for someone who is sick, with nutrition, medication, love and support.

From the moment we arrived, Charles and Beatrice saw our unexpected visit as an opportunity, and I can’t blame them. After the meeting, they’d arranged for us to sit with a group of six or seven community leaders to talk about how we could help them. The other requests up to this point had been  uncomfortable; it’s difficult to say no when the need is beyond obvious, and short-term handouts don’t feel much like productive support. But this was a meeting about how we could help get people working, to give them something to do and a way to feed themselves. We left with a plan to return with new information from all sides, me after my month in western provice, and Bart in about a week’s time. Stay tuned on this one….

Finally, I was on my way to meet Mama Mercy. She greeted me at her front door like a long-lost daughter. It was heartbreaking to tell her of Avchen’s passing – the visit from Avchen and Lindsey seven years ago had been something she’d prayed for, and was clearly moved by. So we prayed together and talked about her work to help the poor which she had taken throughout the entire country. She told us her “testimonies” from the slums of Kenya, and gave us an insight into how she lives: she gives everything she has, would even give up her own shoes, and has faith that God will continue to provide what she needs. So far, I think she’s onto something.

She pulled out a map of Kenya to show us all the areas where she’s travelled to dig toilets and wells in the most awful of slums. She has not yet established her Rescue Centre in Rongai, but has a budget and a prayer for it. I have no doubt; this woman is truly the most inspiring person I’ve ever been in the company of. And easily the happiest, even laughing at her own toothlessness. Her own life is a testimony on how to be a human being.

We left Rongai, 24 hours after we’d arrived, with plans to go back. I’m in Bungoma now, and helping to teach the HIV/AIDS Education program with an unexpected and wonderful mentor, but I’ll have time for Kware and Mama Mercy before I leave.

Finally, some sleep. Eleven hours the other night – Dad you’d be proud. But I’m back in deprivation again. I’m staying at a campsite / hostel that’s well protected and private in the Upper Hill area, but it just so happens that last night, Upper Hill Capsite was the proud host of a techno party.

There were some serious speakers, a couple of funky DJ’s, and a mostly local Nairobi crowd of 20 and 30 somethings. Through my connections – Sandy from Rescue Dada and the afore-mentioned Bart from Vancouver – I met some really cool and interesting people. Everyone here is willing to talk politics at any place or time. Did I mention it’s an election year? Kenyans vote for a new president December 27. Some say voting by tribal background is still common, others say those days are gone (not so different from Canada, no?). Kibaki, the current president, is running about five points behind. They say he’s done a good job in terms of social services (free primary education, better roads, etc.) and he’s certainly put the construction push on in the city just in time for the polls, but people love change and say the front-runner will chip away at corruption more. Don’t all politicians say that?

It’s still early on Sunday morning, and my plan is to plug away trying to upload photos here with my very-cool Spanish safari guide for a while, and then go on a mini adventure in search of a woman Avchen and Lindsey stayed with when they were here seven years ago. She was apparently attempting to set up a similar program to Rescue Dada’s in her area. I’ll do my best Jeff and Lindsey. I’ve got some Kiswahili-speaking help coming with me.

I can hardly wait to see the girls at Rescue Dada tomorrow. It’s going to be hard to say goodbye to them for a month or more. As a young guy I met at the party last night, who spends a lot of time at Rescue Dada, said, they all have talents, and have no way of realizing them. He is quite right. It doesn’t take long to learn their individual personalities, insecurities and unique gifts. Consolatta could be a teacher – it comes naturally to her – although she gets frustrated with my persistent inability to count to 10 (“moja, mbili, uhhhhh…”) . Mercy could be a physician – she’s smart and diligent. Janet could very well become a yoga instructor (c’mon photos, please load!).

The girls at the beauty school attached to Rescue Dada seem hell-bent on giving me a head-to-toe makeover. They need clients to practice on, so I oblige. When the bell rang Friday for the young girls to go back to class, I went for my pedicure, having already had a facial complete with eyebrow tweezing. My personal esthetician, Margaret, told me her story while she did my nails. It’s not a good one. She’s 19, and both her parents have passed away. Every day, she goes home from the Rescue Dada school to clean another woman’s clothes for a few shillings to buy food for her three younger siblings. “Life is a struggle,” she says. I helped her for today, and offered my compassion from the remarkably odd position of feet up with toe spacers in, but I simply cannot relate. Her future is only slightly less bleak thanks to Rescue Dada. I wish the world for her.

On a lighter note, they do a great job there. The eyebrow treatment is particularly hilarious as I’ve been meaning to get a professional job done for about a year. I don’t know that Yaletown Esthetics would do it for a buck though. Yes, I look hot.

But the most beautiful thing at Rescue Dada doesn’t come out of the beauty salon; it comes out of the mouths of 40 girls all singing and dancing together in a beautiful call-and-response form with their teacher, drums beating in the most infectious rhythm imaginable. Truly a wonderful sound, like God is speaking through the mouths of little girls.

…have I got a weight-loss plan for you! The belly blues weren’t so bad though. There are toilets in my current locale and I’m back on solids a mere two days later. Here’s a tip for future sufferers of GI issues – get yourself to a street-girls’ rescue centre in Kenya and the blues will be gone in no time. These girls love visitors, love attention and love love love that digital camera. I wish I could share all my photos but it’s taken 1/2 hour to upload just a few. The full Flickr photo album will be available at Christmas.

Yesterday I went to Rescue Dada alone – don’t worry Mom, my driver is a diligent caretaker and there’s a former tour-guide now working on the road to Rescue Dada that looks out for me every day. Actually, this whole place is far safer than I’d expected, and everyone is commenting on how much Nairobi has changed in the past five years. I have to make an ethical decision if I do get mugged (I don’t plan on it at the moment) – if I yell for help, apparently a mob attacks the mugger and beats him thoroughly. No kidding, they don’t appreciate being given a bad rap. Michelle and Alex witnessed this yesterday. So I’ll have to decide if my few shillings’ loss is worth some poor guy’s life.

Back to happier tales, I met Juliana yesterday – she’s the other girl being sponsored through Avchen’s fund. She’s already been reintegrated back into her home with her mother and is in a public school. So the Rescue Dada driver, a very bright and wonderful man named Antony, drove me and two social workers over crazy roads (I use the word road loosely) to her school. It was a brief meeting but so worth it. She is an incredibly shy girl – beautiful, polite, and wants to be a doctor when she grows up. She says she’s very happy to be going to a private school thanks to her sponsors (of which I told her there are many). Her home situation is not a supportive one, and since Kenya made primary schooling free, classes in public schools have up to 100 children per class. With her demeanor, she would definitely be left out. I feel confident in saying we are supporting two girls who will undoubtedly benefit.

I’m back at the Centre on Monday and then leaving for the western province for my teaching project – I’ve been laughed at when I ask about e-mail access there. Keep well everyone.

This was an e-mail I sent two days ago….

I think I was optimistic on the blog and flickr plan; I’m currectly at the “fast” Internet place.  It’s taken 1/2 an hour to get to this point…

But I need to share the events of the past few days, as they have been truly remarkable.  I met two fantastic people immediately upon arriving; a British helicopter pilot and his American-OT wife who live in Calgary now.  As traveling goes, we’ve become instant friends; we’ve also connected with a young freelance journalist who is taking a break in NAirobi after his 5 months in Sudan. He’s been a wonderfully generous tour guide.

So the above-mentioned Michelle and Alex, who arrived on the same flight as me, loved the idea of the Rescue Dada Centre and wanted to come along yesterday. Then I called my friend (and gracious subletter) Cindy’s friend Bart who is here now and he wanted to come too.  So I took an entourage to Rescue Dada and had the most fantastic two hours.  After our guided tour of the girls’ living quarters, school rooms, kitchen and the associated beauty school for older girls, we were met by the end-of-schoolday onslaught of love and affection. TAking digital camera photos with a bunch of little Kenyan girls was a riot.  BArt apparently re-discovered his passion for leggo.

I will try again to upload photos and send more information – they’re really beautiful and heartwarming.  And the people at Rescue Dada were so grateful and full of thanks.  I gave them the first year’s sponsorship for Agnes and Juliana, and the beautiful photo of Avchen.  I met Agnes (Aggie) and she is adorable.  All the staff were praying we would sponsor her as she’s been there for five years – far more than the typical rehabilitation time as she has no family to return to. There is so much to write, but it will have to come in installments.  We went back again today and the girls were so happy to see us again.  We helped the cook prepare dinner and then, in gratitude, the beauty school girls treated Michelle and me us to manicures and Alex to a foot and hand massage!!!  You should see my beautiful pink nails – my cuticles have never looked so good!

We’ll go back again tomorrow; Bart wants to teach the girls yoga, so they’re organizing that.  And Michelle and Alex want to sponsor a girl now.  So the gift keeps on growing….

Safiri salama!
Hilary