Round Two
On our second tour of the slums of Nyalenda, Walter wants to show me the interior. Tony is in town uploading the latest version of the TICH website, so he's not able to join us. In the area we visit, garbage dumps sit on paths between the houses. These dumps contain human waster as well as household waste. Chickens and goats climb on the mounds and dig/peck. The stench is overwhelming sometimes. Garbage pits are okay if they're dug below ground and filled in with earth. But these are simply piles of trash and waste sitting outside someone's front door. With the camera, we document the dumps, the defunct latrines left standing near the water, the minnows from Lake Victoria spread to dry in the mid-day sun as hundreds of flies turn the fish from white to black, two boys drawing water from the stream, women at their fruit stands, widows with their children and children at play.
The children love to be photographed and pose like professionals. But the first group of women Walter speaks to about being photographed want something in return. He holds a conversation with the woman who runs the fruit stand, explaining what his organization is doing in the community. He tells her she'll see long-term benefits, not just a few shillings for the photo. But the talk turns somewhat heated and while I can't understand what's being said, I understand what's going on. When Walter says we should just move on, I listen and move. An older woman walks up, however, speaking very good English. She shakes my hand and welcomes me and says to stop by any time. She is Mama Ogai, the village elder's wife, and she tells us to photograph her with another woman selling corn. As we set up the shot, one of the women from the first group, who wanted to be paid, tries to sneak into the frame. Our corn seller uses her entire body and three “no” sounds to push the woman out of the picture. I grin from behind the camera.
The corn is in a wheelbarrow. The seller digs her container deep into the corn, dramatically, while Mama Ogai flourishes her basket out for filling. The basket is almost flat and made of woven straw covered in dried cow dung. Corn floats kernel by kernel into the cow-dung basket as the women make exaggerated gestures, even though it's a still photograph. They appear rather triumphant after the photo is complete.
It's understandable why the people of Nyalenda expect payment. They see so many groups come through, so many people with cameras who promise more this and better that. Then they never see the visitors again. Hard to believe, but some people will use the slums and its inhabitants to raise funds from donors, and then skip out with the monies. Hard to believe, but then again with such poverty, any amount of money is tempting to people. It's another symptom of the extensive corruption in Kenya, beginning at the top-top and trickling down. The government is trying to tackle corruption through transparency, but it's slow going.
We visit the old Mama again where the common well will be built. She's sitting just outside her door in the same exact chair she occupied on our last visit. She's been ill, perhaps tuberculosis, and doesn't move around a lot. It seems every other person Walter introduces me to has been ill, close to death. They're not always ill with AIDS, it could be cancer, diarrhea, TB or typhoid, which is common in the slums...and deadly for small children. Several toddlers, between 18 and 24 months, sit naked in brightly colored plastic pans, an older child soaping them up and rinsing them off under the bright sun. The last time we visit, the children become terrified by my white skin and scream and run into the house. This time one child begins to cry and another runs away. But the others simply look with curiosity. Maybe after one more visit they won't cry or run. One little girl, about four, sitting under a fruit stand is scared of me and begins to cry. As usual, the ladies laugh, and I backed away saying "pole" (sorry), but the mother yells at this child and throws a flip-flop at her legs. The child screams louder. I back away faster, distressed.
We stop to visit Mama Eric, but she's not home. In East Africa, a mother and father are named for their children. So Eric's mother, while she has her own first name, will be known by the name of her first born. That makes me Mama Jaime and my father Baba Cathy. Walter opens the door to Eric's house and leans in, but only slightly, only enough to determine Mama Eric is out. He spent quite a bit of time with Eric bedridden in this room. Eric has only been gone from the room two days. A framed picture of Jesus hangs on the wall, above two wood-carved chairs with red velvet cushions. We stood in this spot last week and heard the singing prayers and clapping hands. Today we hear nothing.
The children love to be photographed and pose like professionals. But the first group of women Walter speaks to about being photographed want something in return. He holds a conversation with the woman who runs the fruit stand, explaining what his organization is doing in the community. He tells her she'll see long-term benefits, not just a few shillings for the photo. But the talk turns somewhat heated and while I can't understand what's being said, I understand what's going on. When Walter says we should just move on, I listen and move. An older woman walks up, however, speaking very good English. She shakes my hand and welcomes me and says to stop by any time. She is Mama Ogai, the village elder's wife, and she tells us to photograph her with another woman selling corn. As we set up the shot, one of the women from the first group, who wanted to be paid, tries to sneak into the frame. Our corn seller uses her entire body and three “no” sounds to push the woman out of the picture. I grin from behind the camera.
The corn is in a wheelbarrow. The seller digs her container deep into the corn, dramatically, while Mama Ogai flourishes her basket out for filling. The basket is almost flat and made of woven straw covered in dried cow dung. Corn floats kernel by kernel into the cow-dung basket as the women make exaggerated gestures, even though it's a still photograph. They appear rather triumphant after the photo is complete.
It's understandable why the people of Nyalenda expect payment. They see so many groups come through, so many people with cameras who promise more this and better that. Then they never see the visitors again. Hard to believe, but some people will use the slums and its inhabitants to raise funds from donors, and then skip out with the monies. Hard to believe, but then again with such poverty, any amount of money is tempting to people. It's another symptom of the extensive corruption in Kenya, beginning at the top-top and trickling down. The government is trying to tackle corruption through transparency, but it's slow going.
We visit the old Mama again where the common well will be built. She's sitting just outside her door in the same exact chair she occupied on our last visit. She's been ill, perhaps tuberculosis, and doesn't move around a lot. It seems every other person Walter introduces me to has been ill, close to death. They're not always ill with AIDS, it could be cancer, diarrhea, TB or typhoid, which is common in the slums...and deadly for small children. Several toddlers, between 18 and 24 months, sit naked in brightly colored plastic pans, an older child soaping them up and rinsing them off under the bright sun. The last time we visit, the children become terrified by my white skin and scream and run into the house. This time one child begins to cry and another runs away. But the others simply look with curiosity. Maybe after one more visit they won't cry or run. One little girl, about four, sitting under a fruit stand is scared of me and begins to cry. As usual, the ladies laugh, and I backed away saying "pole" (sorry), but the mother yells at this child and throws a flip-flop at her legs. The child screams louder. I back away faster, distressed.
We stop to visit Mama Eric, but she's not home. In East Africa, a mother and father are named for their children. So Eric's mother, while she has her own first name, will be known by the name of her first born. That makes me Mama Jaime and my father Baba Cathy. Walter opens the door to Eric's house and leans in, but only slightly, only enough to determine Mama Eric is out. He spent quite a bit of time with Eric bedridden in this room. Eric has only been gone from the room two days. A framed picture of Jesus hangs on the wall, above two wood-carved chairs with red velvet cushions. We stood in this spot last week and heard the singing prayers and clapping hands. Today we hear nothing.
posted by Cindi at 1:49 PM
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