Nina, Ed, Jeff and Jan at the African Pearl

Malindi from Nina's Apartment

Malindi: Another Bustling Coastal Town

With it's tall buildings, very loud call to prayers, guys pushing their services (of all kind) and constant matatu traffic, Malindi is a typical coastal town. What makes it unique, however, is its people; specifically Paul and Nina and Jan and Jeff. Paul is a fellow VSO volunteer, but I've never met him. He's back in his native New Zealand and will return soon. In the meantime, Paul's wife, Nina, is in Malindi and she's gracious enough to allow Ed and I to stay with her. Nina and Paul have taken the same tact I did and opted to rent a place costing slightly more than what VSO will pay. Their apartment is lovely with three bedrooms and a guest bath! The muezzin begins the day's first call to pray at 4:30 am. And it's very, very loud. Our first night in Malindi and Jan, Nina's best friend, calls to say they're cooking for us at the African Pearl. "Who's Jan," I ask. Nina is from Canada and Jan was her best friend there. Jan came to visit Nina and Paul in February of this year. While visiting, Jan meets Jeff, the owner of the African Pearl. Jeff is the only Kenyan who owns and operates a hotel on the coast. Jan met Jeff on Day Five of her three week vacation When she left Kenya, Jan's objective was to shut down the life she was living in Canada and return to Jeff and the African Pearl. Which she has done! Malindi has very few boda bodas (bikes for hire). Instead, most people get around by tuk-tuks (pronounced tuck-tucks). They are motorized, 3-wheeled cars built to hold three passengers comfortably in the back and one driver in front. Slightly more expensive than boda bodas, but less than taxis, tuk-tuks are seen all over town and appear to be safe. We take a tuk-tuk to the African Pearl and enjoy the evening's cooling breeze rushing through the open sides. The African Pearl is a neat and active hotel near the beach. Next to the pool is a huge thatched pavilion with a bar, an L-shaped pool table and lots of comfy Swahili-style seating for socializing. Tonight, Jeff is cooking stewed chicken with chappati. We sit under the pavilion, listening to easy rock music, drinking cold beer and discussing Kenyan politics. The stewed chicken doesn't last long. Even though it's sprinkling, we decide to walk back to Nina's. Tomorrow is Independence Day, a national holiday in Kenya, so people are out partying on a weeknight and we figure there is safety in numbers.

The Palace Ruins at Gedi

Strangling Ficus Overtakes Gedi City Wall

Gedi Ruins

Ed and I take a matatu to the dirt road leading to the Gedi ruins. On foot, we pass wooden stalls where women sell fruits and hair cuts. A dirty young man, obviously mentally imbalanced, seems to sing while crying and shuffling his feet in the middle of the dirt road. The ladies working the stalls on either side tend to ignore him. We near the gate to the Gedi ruins when a white vehicle pulls in front of us. Three Italians look up one road, then down the other, saying they're searching for mushrooms that have blossomed with the recent rains. They laugh good-naturedly when we pass them again near the ruins. Italians are numerous on the coast, as are Germans. They've been coming to Mombasa, Malindi and Lamu for years. I opt for a guide to show us around the ruins of this Swahili town. Otherwise, we're simply walking and looking at crumbling walls. Founded sometime in the late 13th or early 14th century, and occupied until the 17th century, Gedi has been well-excavated and preserved. Undisturbed until the 1920s, Gedi was overtaken by the surrounding forests and named a national monument in the late 40s. James Kirkman excavated the site over a 10-year period in the mid-1900s. Historians can only speculate about why the city was abandoned in the early 17th century. Perhaps invasions from inland cannabalistic tribes, from Somalians, from the Portuguese. Perhaps the water supply gave out. Kalama, our guide and a student on a two-month attachment from Tsavo University, has conducted a study on the well system at Gedi. He's determined the settlers built too many wells, draining the water table and driving the people away. Not sure how accurate his theory is, but being a Muslim town, Gedi residents did use a lot of water. Cleanliness is an essential element of Muslim culture and huge wells were dug outside each of the mosques in Gedi and smaller wells were dug at most of the homes. If anyone has an inclination to study archeology, they should hasten to the coast of Kenya. (Donnie McGuire, dear, sweet nephew, this means you!!) Kalama tells us an archaeologist is currently unearthing the Mosque of the Outer Wall, but it appears very little excavation has been completed. Leaves cover the site and everything is still at ground level (except for the massive strangling Ficus that has overtaken a portion of the outer wall). Very little digging and documentation have been done along the coast, yet this area is ripe for exploration. Establishing digging sites will also help preserve the coast's history, but preservation efforts seem to be too little and haphazardly undertaken. Dream Job Alert: Studying the cultures buried around Watamu, Gedi, the Tana River and the Lamu archipelago, including the Takwa ruins on Manda Island (just across from Lamu), another 16th century Swahili town mysteriously abandoned. When we visit the Takwa ruins and our guide, Mohammed, is showing us the mosque's water container, I'm amazed to see part of a blue and white porcelain bowl still embedded as decoration in the bottom of the container. Souvenir hunters and vandals have taken away many of the bowls inlaid at Gedi and Takwa, but here is a piece still intact! There's an old mosque in Lamu that leans and obviously requires restoration. Otherwise, it will ultimately fall. The locals don't seem to mind the dilapidation and eventual demise of their historic artifacts. Or they're simply too poor to do anything about it. Archaeologists, art restorers, lovers of architecture, run, fly, sail to Kenya's coast and help preserve her rich history! Gedi's main mosque also has a large holding container near its entrance. Muslims must clean their face, hands and feet before entering a mosque. Someone would draw water from the well (the diameter of the well is about 10 feet!) and pour it into a trough, where it would flow into the large container. Scooping the water from the large container, they clean themselves and allow the water to flow into a hole in the ground that connects back to the well. Lined with coral, the "pipe" purifies the water as it is funneled back to its source. Inside the mosque, built into the north wall, is the mihrab, once decorated with inlaid porcelain bowls, and showing the direction to Mecca. The mihrab has built-in acoustic qualities allowing ceremonial words projected into this niche to bounce back into the mosque. Men kneeling in the back could clearly hear. To the right of the mihrab is a minbar, or pulpit, of three steps. Kalama stands on the top step to demonstrate how the service was officiated. When I take his photograph, he tries to hide the Tommy Hilfiger logo on his t-shirt. Women have their own portion in the temple, a narrow room just outside the main gallery. The palace, supposed home of the ruler of Gedi, also served as the municipal center of town. Measuring more than 45 acres, the entire town was enclosed in a 9-foot wall. The excavated portion of Gedi, including the palace and 14 large homes, makes up the more prosperous area and was enclosed with an inner wall. This prosperous part of town faces north, toward Mecca, with the poorer houses, usually built of mug and wattle, located outside the inner wall and on the south side of town. The Palace is equipped with sophisticated toilets typical of lavatories found throughout Gedi. They consist of two small cubicles with a lower partition wall between them. In one is a pit with a square hole and a urinal channel. In the other, on an upper tier, is a washing bench with two cavities (to hold bowls), while a divided seat below is used as a bidet. Interesting items found during excavation give the homes and building their names. The homes have names such as House of the Scissors, House of the Porcelain Bowl, House of the Cistern, House of the Venetian Bead, and House of the Iron Lamp. These finds, especially the porcelain bowls, indicate residents of Gedi traded with people coming from Arabia, India and perhaps beyond. Luckily, many of the items are preserved in Gedi's on-site museum and in the museum at Fort Jesus in Mombasa. Even though Gedi exists and traded with other sea-faring cultures, there is no written record, in either Arabic or Swahili, that mentions the town. Some feel it was hidden so deeply in the forest, away from the coast, so that even the Portuguese, who ruled for more than a hundred years, never knew Gedi was there. Walking through the excavated town is extremely peaceful. Massive Baobab trees have sprung up everywhere, providing shade in the coastal heat and humidity. (Spongy pulp from the giant Baobab fruits are mixed with sugar and red food coloring to make "African Candy.") A tomb at the northern entrance of town is inscribed with the Arabic date of A.H. 802, which corresponds to 1399 A.D. on the Christian calendar. Several tombs on site have been excavated, revealing corpses, but Muslim law prohibits carbon dating tests. Luckily, having this dated tomb helps fix the time of Gedi.

Honeysuckle by Indian Ocean, Watamu

Crab on Coral Islets, Watamu

Box for Reporting Criminals in Watamu

Watamu's Blue Lagoon

Blue Lagoon (That's its Real Name!)

Watamu is a tiny hamlet on the coast about an hour north of Mombasa. Known for its three lagoons, Watamu is far from the maddening crowd and very casual (except for a very nice resort, Turtle Bay, that's waaaaaay out of our price range). Being low season, few tourists are about. Men selling their fish or handmade sandals or boat rides or guide services have an extremely limited audience. Upon arrival, Ed and I hop out of the matatu and decide to check out a few places to stay, to see what rate we can get. The first place we visit, Marijani, agrees to the price we offer; 800 shillings per night, including breakfast. So we settle in. After three days of travel and sight-seeing in Mombasa, I'm ready to kick back on the overstuffed Swahili sofa and simply read. Which is exactly what I do. Later in the day, Ed and I walk over to the lagoons. They're gorgeous with coral islets mushrooming from the surf. When the tide goes out, we walk right up to one of the massive coral "islands" and examine its miniature wildlife. In the village, children hold their hands out and ask for sweets or money or writing pens. They follow and ask over and over again until a local adult walks by, then the kids clam up and leave quickly. Back at Marijani, I shower, relax and read. While showering, from the second floor window, I look into the walled yard next door. An older white man sits under a circular pavilion, reading and drinking tea. A white woman weeds a nearby flowerbed. Huge, exotic plants cover their compound and two fierce-looking Doberman pinchers guard the yard. At the slightest noise on the road, the dogs steel their bodies and point their noses toward the gate. Who are these people living in the middle of nowhere, tending to their yard, drinking tea? Where are their children, their extended families? The woman is bent over, using a trowel to scoop up soil, and a turtle plods along the sun-warmed concrete. She is unaware of the turtle's path leading directly to her foot and I wonder if she'll jump from fright. When the turtle bumps gently into her ankle, she simply stops weeding to bend down and rub his extended head. One, two, three soft strokes to the turtle's head, who seems to pause for this express purpose. Then the turtle plods on across the warm, paved compound while the woman resumes her weeding.

Wendy Preparing to set Sail at the Mombasa Yacht Club

Mombasa Yacht Club

We visit Wendy's workplace, Kwetu, a training center working with farmers. The center is 5 km out in the bush, down narrow dirt roads, past farms and banana groves. We're in Kwetu's 4-wheel drive vehicle. The Kewtu Training center is a series of pretty white buildings, all solar powered. The vista is fantastic. Because the buildings are locked up, we walk the grounds and visit the garden and bee hives at the bottom of the hill. Afterward, we drive back through the bush to a restaurant built on the "creek," complete with houseboats and speedboats moored in a marina next door. They call the water a creek but it's as wide a river and beautiful, flowing toward the Indian Ocean. The service is spectacular under this vaulted, thatched roof. The bathroom is the best decorated and most clean of any I've visited in Kenya. We could be in San Diego or Miami. Wendy has a sailing lesson today so she brings us with her to the Mombasa Yacht Club. We drive through back roads to pick up her fellow sailor, Fina, a single, black woman with grown children who owns her own shipping business. At the Yacht Club, we sit on a veranda as the sailing folk gear up, plotting the course of their afternoon race. These nice people are the jet set of Mombasa. They stagger boat departures according to each team's handicap and when all boats are on their way, we swim in the pool overlooking the bay. Jose from Kakamega has traveled with a friend to Mombasa so they join us at the club for the afternoon. While we take turns showering back at Wendy's, the TV is showing the US sitcom, The Hughly's. Ed seems to be getting into the show, saying he watched it back in the UK. As we step out of Wendy's apartment building, the laugh track from the Hughly's can be heard coming from just about every apartment in the complex. It's a little strange, hearing African-Americans while standing in East Africa. We head to Yul's, an Italian restaurant, where we eat seafood pizza and Italian ice cream. Tom joins us for dinner but doesn't eat, just sips the red house wine. Tomorrow we head to Watamu, a tiny hamlet about an hour north of Mombasa. And while I'm tired, anticipating the early departure, Ally McBeal is on KTN when we arrive at Wendy's. She and I sit up and watch Ally, commercial free. Sometimes I miss the US.

I Love the Nightlife (Sort of)

Around 9pm, Tom, Ed and I meet Wendy at Bob's, a restaurant. We then head to a club on the beach, Il Covo. An Indian family has rented the bar for the night, so we sink into Swahili couches (giant chairs with huge, soft cushions) on a terrace overlooking the beach, drinking wine. The moon skates across the water toward us and we laugh about the cheesy dance music coming from the party and talk about life as volunteers in Kenya. Tom and Wendy are leaving in September when their placement ends, both going back to the U.K. It's late and I'm tired, ready to hit the sack, but Wendy insists on stopping by the Causarina bar on the way home. Ed is crashing at Tom's, so it's just me and Wendy in the matatu. She says we'll only stay five minutes, we won't get a beer, she just wants me to see the place. It's an open air bar sitting only a few yards off the two-lane highway, enclosed in woven walls with a thatched roof and a wooden dance floor. In the center of the floor is a pole and from the pole are suspended six young men, part of an acrobatic team performing for the crowd. The music is pumping and they do amazing things; hard-to-watch things. Wendy orders a beer, a 500 ml, and I calculate how long it will take her to finish. I was ready to leave before we arrived. Wendy seems energized by the scene, but as a I look around at the crowd, I notice old, white men talking with young, black girls. Sometimes they're seated together. Sometimes the old man is on a bar stool and takes liberties with a series of young women as they pass in front of him. To kill time, I go the bathroom but can't find Wendy afterward. The crowd is young, except for the old, weathered white people. A tall, slender young man steps up to me and slowly runs the back of his fingers down my bare arm. His friend looks on as the guys says, "Are you having a good time?" "No," I say and walk away, toward the entrance, looking for Wendy. She appears, thank goodness, and a Masai friend of hers stops us. As they talk, I scan the crowd and see an older white couple sitting with a young black couple. The women, bottle-blond with too much sun on her skin, is leaning into the young, black man, their shoulders resting against each other. Across from her sits the white man, who's nestled into the young black woman. I've heard about the tourism sex trade on the coast, almost as infamous as Thailand's sordid practice. But to see it is disgusting. We walk to Wendy's apartment, two blocks behind the Causarina. It's nearly 1am and not at all a good idea to walk, though Wendy seems to feel safe in her neighborhood. The rains have flooded the street and left giant puddles the width of the road. I don't breath deeply until we're within the guarded gates of her compound. But the guard is sleeping and it takes him a few minutes to let us in. Wendy admonishes him for falling asleep. A metal grill covers her front door five floors up. When we're inside and the door and grill are once again bolted, I finally relax. Somewhat.

Indian Ocean from Fort Jesus

Inside the Good Ship Doulos in Mombasa Harbor

Detail on Carved Door at Fort Jesus

Fort Jesus, Mombasa

Carved Door at Fort Jesus, Mombasa

Tourist Once Again

When we wake up, we're still about an hour outside of Mombasa. The scenery is similar to other parts of Kenya, especially the houses and shanties built close together and children running along the track waving and asking for money. Nearing Mombasa, the industrial buildings increase and though it's an ugly part of capitalism, the huge buildings and earth moving equipment speak to me. We don't see many of these things inland. It drizzles as we glide into the station, then it pours. Tom, a fellow VSO volunteer, meets us. We wait under shelter until the rain eases up then take a matatu to a nearby store owned by Tom's friend. The owner graciously lets us store our luggage in the back while we explore Mombasa. When we're drinking Arabian coffee and eating bahjia (Indian fried potatoes), Tom tells us about a ship docked in Mombasa, something of a traveling bookstore selling new books at greatly reduced prices. "Books?!" I exclaim. Yes, books. So we head to the harbor before we go to Fort Jesus, Mombasa's most famous landmark. The Doulos, which means "servant" in Greek, is an old passenger ship sponsored by a German organization. Built in 1914, The Doulos is now the oldest, active ocean-going passenger ship in the world (she's even in the Guinness Book of Records). But what makes her story even more remarkable is her benevolent mission. Run by a Christian organization, the Doulos travels the world, docking in port cities for two or three weeks and inviting the populace aboard. The store is manned by 300 volunteers from all over the world. They sign on for a two-year mission and go to ports the world over. What a fantastic way to spend two years. There's more info on their website at www.mvdoulos.org. Though there is a large religious section, the bookstore also carries books on history, philosophy, art, architecture, gardening, hobbies and cooking. And lots of music. The floors are dark wood and fans keep us cool as we browse. There are journals and pens and note cards and games, all the things found in a Western bookstore. I am in heaven. In Kenya, books are printed on inferior paper, almost like newsprint, and they cost way too much. To stand before shelves of gorgeous books printed in full color on quality paper moves me immensely. The Doulos has a clever pricing system. Each book is marked in units. Upon arrival, they convert the units to the local currency. For instance, I bought three books priced at 200 units each. 100 units is 160 shillings, so each book is 320 shillings, totaling 960 shillings. These are books on architecture, impressionism and modern art originally priced at 8 pounds, or approximately $14 USD, each. At 320 shillings, they cost approximately $4 USD each. Just thumbing through the books brings me joy as I glimpse Renoir, Degas, Kandinsky and Dali (which reminds me of touring the Salvador Dali museum with my son James and Mama in Tampa!!). Oh, the glory of being able to look at paintings and cathedrals at will. Such luxury books simply don't exist in Western Kenya. We exit the ship and head to Fort Jesus, a fortification built by the Portuguese between 1593 and 1596. Nearly a hundred years before, Vasco da Gama sailed to Malindi, north of Mombasa, where he received a warm reception and set up a base. From this base in Malindi, the Portuguese attacked and burned Mombasa four times before the town finally gave in. After a hundred years of occupation, Mombasa was overtaken by the Arabs of Oman in 1698. Mombasa's Arab influence is strong to this day. Of course, the Imperial British East Africa Company took over administration of Mombasa in the late 1800's and abolished the slave trade, which reversed Mombasa's steady growth, ending a period of great prosperity. Walking through Old Town Mombasa offers sights of buildings influenced by Arabia, India and Britain. All these influences mesh into the Swahili-style house found along the coast. These include flat roofs topped with thatched or tin-roofed kitchens (so the smoke goes up and not into the house), long, narrow rooms opening on to the next and beautifully carved wooden doors. Also part of the Swahili culture are baraza, couch-like stone seats built just outside the front door. This allows the man of the house to accept visitors without the women of the house being seen. It's important in the Muslim culture that women are not seen by men from outside the family. In some areas, a man will knock at the top of the door and a woman at the bottom so the inhabitants will know which sex is calling. Women inside can remove themselves if it's a man knocking. Mombasa is home to people from almost all communities in the Indian sub-continent. Indian merchants settling on the coast contributed to the architecture. Kiswahili and English are the official language, but we also hear Arabic and many Indian languages. People of Arabian descent still consider themselves to be citizens of their ancestor's homes, even if they were born in Kenya. There is such a mix of people, African, Arab and Indian, that it's mind-boggling to sort them out. Add to these coastal groups all the indigenous tribes found on the mainland and further out in the bush. Kenya has such a variety of cultures within her borders. After exploring the fort, we visit Tom's workplace, called Bombolulu Workshops, which employs physically challenged people. The workshop employees make jewelry, clothing, shoes and bags. Most of the 100 people living and working at the workshop were handicapped by polio or malaria. Tom's job is like mine, to help Bombolulu Workshops market their goods, which they sell wholesale to companies all over the world. Tom has also arranged with local hotels to bring their clients to Bombolulu for a tour. The day we're there, three white people are in the cultural center dancing to drum beats with Africans in traditional dress. Turns out the guests are from Asheville, North Carolina! And though they're originally from Idaho, I don't care. It's so good to hear their accents and find out how things are in Asheville, only a three hour drive from Atlanta. They're visiting their daughter, Susan, a doctor who's conducting AIDS and Tuberculosis research in Mombasa. Ed and I take the official tour of Bombolulu Workshops, guided by Chris, who's from Kisumu. We are greatly impressed with the grounds, the workshop, the artisans and the gift shop. They've created life-sized homes from seven Kenyan tribes. Each home is made from mud or thatch or stone or coral rag, true to the tradition of each tribe. In addition to a Swahili house, they've constructed homes in the Luo and Luhya style, which dot the area we live in. Very impressive. Touring Bombolulu Workshops was worth the trip to the coast.

View from Train as we Near Mombasa

Rural Coastal Kenya from Train

Mombasa Bound

Our bus leaves Kisumu at 9am, headed to Nairobi. For the third time in four months, we head out through the escarpment hills, into the Great Rift Valley and into crowded, muddy, hectic Nairobi. Luckily, the bus station is 200 meters from the train station. Still, it's takes a great deal of skill to navigate the people, matatus and mud puddles. Kenya has received a good bit of rain over the last month. In spots, where there aren't sidewalks, the road side is muddy. I must pull my pants legs up to walk, thankful the Chaco sandals are waterproof and practically indestructible. Nairobi's train station is a throw back to colonial times, including the uniforms worn by personnel. We park our baggage in the train station and are given a good deal. The guy says it's usually 80 ksh each, but he'll only charge us for one. With this, he holds up the 200 ksh note Ed has given him and says, "I'll give you 100 shillings change, right?" What he has done is padded a 20 shillings tip for himself by saving us 80 ksh. On the door leading to the luggage room is a sign reading, "How can we cut down on corruption?" Free of luggage, we again dodge folks on the busy streets of Nairobi to get to the Java House, a very Western coffee shop with beautiful pastries, salads and hamburgers. The coffee is fabulous and we're surrounded by very trendy young people in western dress with fancy jewelry and costly hairdos. They have cell phones and sunglasses. It's a bit of a culture shock, so I choose to concentrate on the gorgeous cafe au lait in front of me. Back at the train station, we sit and watch the crowd get on the 5:30 train to Kisumu. Most are traveling third class and they cram into the cars. And they cram into the cars. They cram until men are standing on the stairs, outside, holding the exterior handles. Once they pull away, our train arrives. We find our first class cabin and explore its full 8 foot by 7 foot interior, which includes a sink with a cover, a fresh dispense that does not work, a mirror and a tiny closet with hooks for clothes. Restrooms are at either end of the car. They're latrines, no toilet to sit on. Urinating into a pit on a moving train is a true test of balance and stamina and never fails to make me laugh out loud when managed successfully. Luckily, ours is the first cabin so the bathroom is right around the corner. The dining car is just ahead of us and offers a nice, open space to sit and watch the landscape go by. It looks like a 50's diner with overhead oscillating fans and Formica table tops. We leave the station after 7pm as it darkens outside. Ed has brought along the book "Stupid White Men" by Michael Moore, to pass along to Julie in Lamu. I borrow the book for the trip and read it until bed time. Ed takes the top bunk, so I spread a sheet on the lower bunk and nestle into my pillow, which I brought from home. We paid 1885 ksh (about $23 USD) for this train trip. That doesn't include food or bedding, so we bring our own sheet. When the porter walks through the cars with a chime, ringing out the dinner tune, we ignore it. I've lifted the interior window cover and see an older white gentlemen, perhaps 70 or so with a large belly, walk past, headed to dining car with a bottle of red wine resting in the crook of his arm. Old white people sure know how to live the good life. The train stops regularly, to pick up passengers and cargo, which is why it takes 14 hours to get to the Mombasa by train and only 8 hours by bus. This is my first overnight train trip and I'm enchanted with the swaying, from side to side, that feels much like being rocked in mom's arms. All night long, it's a wonderful sensation, lulling to the beat of the clanks. I awake and am compelled to look out of the window, as though there's something fantastical waiting for me. So I very quietly lift the leather screen and look into the night, seeing mountains lit up by the moon. No towns, no houses, just land and mountains. I go to the restroom and practice my balancing skills then step into the dining car. Someone has left a window open so the cool air flows in, along with night sounds and the roll, rolling of the wheels. I sit in the car and look to the South for a while, then to the north. A porter comes through the car and is startled to see me, but he's very courteous. "Ni saa ngapi?" I ask him and he says, "4:30." Soon we pull into a station where civilian men gather in a circle with uniformed trainmen, their heads close together. Only minimal light, but I see several women walking across the platform with packages on their heads and babies tied to their backs. Probably taking their goods to market. When we pull away from the station, I stand to leave the dining car. But the cool air moving through the open windows captures me. It feels fresh and significant, bringing Africa's precious aspects to me in the early morning hours when all but the crew are sleeping. I want to remember this sensation...and do. The rocking bunk calls, however, and I return to slumber, waking each time the train brakes into a new station.

Oh Happy Day!

My sister, Jan, sends a letter. It arrives today and I rip it open and read her words, then check the date, stamped May 5. It arrives today and I'm so happy to see her name on the envelope and to read her address, Sugar Hill, Georgia. "It's from my sister in Sugar Hill, Georgia," I tell Liz, the receptionist. She's laughing and I do a little joy jig in the reception area, saying "Sugar Hill, Georgia" over and over. Jan is funny, an excellent, excellent story teller and the best joke teller I've ever heard. Reading her emails always brightens my day. She's sassy and unsinkable and promises to keep a journal so I'll know everything she's been up to. A journal. What an excellent idea!! Walter Odede stops by my office to update me on the Pamba Zuko building's progress. The foundation is laid and the brick walls are about to be constructed. He's not well and thinks it might be malaria; his joints are aching and his back is sore. I tell him to go to the doctor then go home and rest and heal. I show Walter Jan's letter and he asks all about her and her children. When we're through examining the letter, I tuck it into the secret compartment of my backpack. Another package arrives today from VSO in Nairobi. It's an emergency medical kit containing syringes and needles and IV tubes, etc., to take the hospital if something bad happens. Tucked into the package is an envelope with red lettering, "passport." My passport is back from immigration, stamped with a two-year work visa, giving me access to Kenya through May 2007. I take the passport to the Reverend's office, so we can celebrate, and on the way run into Dr. Ariga. When he sees the visa stamp he says, "Now when your friends from immigration show up, you can just show them your stamp." Immigration showed up two months ago asking about Bevon from the Congo. They drove through the gates at TICH and steered their pitiful little car straight up the walkway to the front door. It wasn't a parking spot, but a walkway, and they drove right up the front door and parked in everyone's way. Pushy. While interrogating Bevon, these two immigration agents see me walk by and, simply because I'm white, they send Dr. Ariga to bring me before them. As if they're royalty. The short guy is rude and condescending, mumbling his words rapidly so I can't tell what he's saying. "Whayoudonhere?" Excuse me? I say. "Whayoudonhere?" I stand tall. "Are you asking what I'm doing here at TICH or here in Kenya?" "In Kenya," he puffs, angered that I question him. But I know I have a temporary visa and a Kenyan ID and he can't scare me. He laughs when I mention the ID and insists on seeing it. When I return with the ID, he looks it over and his companion looks it over then they dismiss me with a wave. Thank you, your highnesses. But now, with my work visa, I'm legal and I hope immigration does show up and demand to know what I'm doing in Kenya and I'll whip out the passport, like it's a police badge, and tell them to back up. And to get their pitiful little car off our front porch, too! Liz is in the Reverend's office when I arrive to show off the visa. Once again, I'm doing the joy jig in front of her, about the passport this time. A letter from Jan, and emergency medical kit and a stamped passport. It's a mighty fine day.

Jig of Joy

The long rainy season has finally arrived and the temperature has dropped, sometimes as much as 10 degrees. It's often in the mid-80s here. And because we're all used to 96 and 98 degrees, we get a little chilly in the mid-80s. Some people wear sweatshirts and fleece. Sometimes, it's even too cold to take a cold shower. Which is why I'm ever so, ever so, ever so grateful to have hot water in the shower. Didn't have it in the other place but smile very, very big when I turn on the warm water now. An electrical unit is mounted high on the wall outside the shower room. It must be switched on for 20 or 30 minutes to heat the water. The less time given to heating, the cooler the water. The first time I try the shower, I don't turn the switch off. When I grip the metal spigot to turn the water on, I get a low-grade shock. It vibrates the bones in my hands and sends an unpleasant sensation up my arm to the elbow. Stupidly, I try the other spigot with my other hand. This is enough aversion therapy and I become depressed and leave the shower room, deflated and fearing two years of cold showers. It occurs to me, however, to turn off the switch before turning on the water, which is what I do. No shock, only cold water, cold water. For a minute the water runs cold, then it slowly starts to feel warmer and warmer until it is actually hot!! I do a little jig of joy as the water runs over my hair and onto my back. Luxurious.

Sikh Priests Lunching with Ruprahs

Priesty Boys

I'm heading to Kakamega today for Kiswahili lessons. It'll take one-and-a-half hours in a matatu and we're supposed to arrive by 4pm. There's time for lunch with the Ruprahs, who have invited the priests from the Sikh temple. Lunch is at 1pm, so I arrive at 12.30. The TV is on an Indian station and we watch a soap opera filled with beautiful Indians speaking Hindi. Mrs. Ruprah hits the remote until she finds an English-speaking channel. There sits Donald Trump behind a conference table. I'm hooked immediately, even though I'd never watch The Apprentice in the states. What draws me in isn't the drama and the backstabbing, but the clothes and the accents and the scenes of New York streets-all the things I don't see here in Kenya. I'm reminded what the world looks like with white people in it. Sometimes I long to be surrounded by white faces. They show the front of the Trump Tower and I remember buying Jaime's graduation present, a fantastically expensive writing pen, in a shop on the ground floor. I remember walking down Fifth Avenue with Kelly DeBoer from Lincoln, Nebraska, and buying white chocolate from the Lindt store. Ahh, New York. Ahh, the United States. Ahh, "you're fired," all the way to Kenya. Raju's car pulls into the drive. Mrs. Ruprah turns off Donald and his apprentices and goes to greet the guests. There are three priests and one woman, the wife of the elder priest. The men look striking in their pure white suits and black turbans. The two young priests sport raven black beards. The elder priest's beard has gone gray but there's a bit of glee in his eyes, behind his wire-framed glasses. They're all quite handsome in their loose, flowing clothes. Pristine. They wear satin slippers with silver embroidery, pointed at the toe and cloth throughout. Comfy. Mrs. Ruprah asks me to show them the photos from the wedding, so I retrieve my laptop from my house and set it up in the living room where Raju is serving warm Coke in small glasses. The photos are displayed as an automatic slide show. Mrs. Ruprah asks me to take photos of the guests so I, again, cross the yard to my house and bring back the camera. We take photos then settle down to chat, waiting for Mr. Ruprah to arrive from the foundry. Punjabi is flying from the men and women and I sip my Coke, waiting in case someone says something in English. I glance up at the priest's wife and she is looking at me, talking. I then look at the handsome, young priest next to her and he is also looking at me. So I scan the room to find all eyes on me. "What are you saying?," I ask Mrs. Ruprah. It's rare that I ever ask people what they're conversing about, because they'll include me by interpreting if they want to. But I'm overcome by their stares and she then asks me, "How old are you?" And I burst out saying, "Oh, Good Lord, I can't believe you're telling them my age!" It's funny, of course, so I say "41." The priest's wife pats her stomach and Mrs. Ruprah pats her stomach. They say, "fat," then point at me and say, "slim." I'm embarrassed. When Mr. Ruprah arrives, Mrs. Ruprah goes to the kitchen and calls to me through the opening. In every house in Kenya, there is an opening between the kitchen and eating area. She pours food into serving dishes, passes them to me through the opening and I place them on the table. Raju is mixing one part Sunfill, a Coca-Cola product of various flavors, with four parts cold water in case our guests want something other than water. The table is set for nine. We all settle into the carved wood chairs and the two young priests dig in unreservedly, piling on the food and not bothering to pass the serving dishes. Somehow, we all get access to what we want. The priest's wife gets a kick out of putting a pickled lemon rind on my plate. It's the most flavorful things I've ever eaten. Priests don't eat meat, so everything is vegetarian and delicious. After lunch, Mr. Ruprah heads back to the foundry and collects one of the young priests to drop back by the temple. I ask about their god. The eldest priest is sitting on my right and he says, "God is all," and he spreads his arms wide, "God is everything." I think he's saying God is omnipresent, inside each of us and all things. Sikhs have deified 10 gurus who lived as men long ago. The first guru is depicted in a picture hanging above the dining table, though Sikhs don't really know what the first guru looked like, just as Christians don't know what Jesus looked like. The young priest tells me he is 25-years-old and will marry in December. "Is she from Kisumu?," I ask. No, she's from India. "What's her name?" Well, he doesn't exactly know because his parents, back in India, are busy finding a wife for him. If they choose a girl, he must marry her. "Tell them to make sure she's beautiful," I tell him. When Raju translates, the young priest blushes. Our guests speak very little English and even though Raju is translating, he doesn't always capture the exact nuance of my questions. But we do okay, me, Raju and the priests, in understanding each other. The elder priest tells me he plays and sings prayers while the younger priest plays the drum. I must come to the temple one Saturday, one holy day, and hear them sing. Mrs. Ruprah tells them I'll be on the coast for the next two weekends. Then I must come to the temple when I return from the coast. "You'll do this," Mrs. Ruprah says, and she demonstrates placing her scarf over her head. No one enters the temple with a bare head. If men aren't wearing turbans, they'll use a handkerchief. Mrs. Ruprah leaves the room and returns with a miniature piano. Raju says "It's an old harmonium, from the seventies." The keys are pearly yellow and the back board falls away so it can be pumped toward the instrument to create wind for sound, like an accordion. Mrs. Ruprah puts a multi-colored songbook in my lap and the priest chooses a prayer to play and sing. While his left hand pumps the back board of the harmonium, his right hand plays the keys and he sings to his god (or gurus). Mrs. Ruprah hands a pan lid to the young priest, to use as a drum, but he feels silly playing a pot lid. So Raju plays it instead and we all laugh and enjoy the music. It's lovely, even though they all agree the harmonium is old and out of tune.

Interruption in Service

I've finally been able to upload recent photos (had trouble with Hello software), so scroll through the blog, back to early May to see photos of the graduation and other related events.

Lots has happened in the last week and I will eventually post all the glorious, and not-so-glorious, news here. However, a group of VSO volunteers is traveling to Kakamega tomorrow for Kiswahili lessons. We'll be gone until next Tuesday, May 24. I'll work hard to update this blog when we return. Don't be worried, though, if this space isn't updated until after June 7. Ed, a VSO volunteer, and I are leaving next Friday, May 27, headed to the Kenyan coast to visit fellow volunteers in Mombasa, Malindi and Lamu. Unless we have time to access a cyber cafe, I may not be able to post to this blog until after June 7th. I'll miss communicating with you and hope to have lots of interesting items to share with you upon returning from the coast!!

Take care and be well!

Caroline and Karen Assisting with Foundation

Walter and William Lay Pamba Zuko Foundation

Pamba Zuko Construction Team

Construction Team Extraordinaire

I visit the construction site of Pamba Zuko's building, sponsored by friends in the US. The building is being constructed in the heart of the Nyalenda slum area to provide education to adults and children, focusing on widows and orphans. When I arrive, Walter is busy directing the crew in mixing cement and pouring the foundation, with the help of a professional contractor, William, who is donating his time. The project brings hope to the people around the site. Caroline and Karen are active with Pamba Zuko and prepare meals for the workers, in addition to bringing water to the site for mixing cement. The main water source for Nyalenda flows next to the building site. It is clogged with plastic bags and other trash. Clogged. I tell Walter we must clean the stream from Ring Road to Pamba Zuko's building and perhaps beyond. Maybe all the way to the river. Perhaps we can teach the community children to clean the area, dividing the children into teams and assigning them a segment of the stream to maintain. What parent would toss feces-filled plastic bags into a stream being maintained by children? None, we hope. The Mama at the back of the slums, who owns a large plot of land next to the river, has agreed to allow Pamba Zuko to construct a water collection site on her land (to be built with bricks from our building) where water will be purified and available to residents of Nyalenda. Right now, hogs wallow in the water, pit latrines leak into the stream and it is constantly contaminated by people stepping in its flow after they've visited the bathroom. People simply bend down with a plastic Kimbo container and collect the water they'll use to cook and bathe with, even though a hog is rolling in the stream a few yards ahead. We're still working out how to ensure residents take ownership of the purified water source and help keep the area clean. The Mama is also allowing Pamba Zuko to plant a garden on her land. This will give widows and children a space to grow their own food and to grow food for selling. We hope to teach a strong work ethic through this community garden. Walter and I also talk about cleaning up the area around our building and planting cacti to dress it up. Because goats roam freely through the slums, as seen in the photos, any flowers or shrubs we plant will be eaten. So we'll use cacti and other hearty plants for landscaping. With plans to keep our compound clean, we want to teach cleanliness by example. After the building is completed and the purified water source is available, we'll begin working with clusters of homes to build and maintain their sanitary latrines. These very basic things, clean water and sanitary toilets, will be addressed before we begin teaching income-generating activities to the widows and before we begin educating orphans so they can enter school at the level of their peers. Pamba Zuko has something other aid organizations don't have. Walter Odede, who grew up there and who still lives there. He knows the people inside and out. Walter knows how to take his neighbor's negative, suspicious attitudes and turn them around to see Pamba Zuko's vision for the children. I've seen him turn people on several occasions. Today, the man who lives next door sits with our workers as they eat lunch. He's drunk and irritated, trying to provoke the men, somehow angry that we are putting up a building. Walter talks with the man and invites him to be in the photos. The man lifts a shovel of mortar and throws it in the wood frame, his face smiling hugely at the camera. After he's included in the photos, our neighbor is on our side. When I leave, Walter walks with me to Ring Road. As we stand talking, a parade comes down the road, led by men on skates in bright yellow t-shirts. Seven vehicles pass by, the largest supporting a musical band dressed in nutty costumes. They are promoting Tusker's new beer. Everyone runs from the slums to see this spectacle, especially the children. The music is pumping and the paraders are smiling and waving. They pass on by, headed to town toward the mountains of the Rift Valley escarpment, and things return to normal along Ring Road. Well, normal for Nyalenda.

Student Nurses

Angela and Jackie, student nurses from Canada, will be at TICH on a six week attachment. They're both 21-years-old and will work/study at TICH and the district hospital to gain a better understanding of health issues in developing countries. Last Saturday, Ed, me, Jack, Angela and Jackie walk into town, to show them around. We walk along a paved road and pass cows. Jackie says she's not sure she'll ever get used to seeing cows on city streets. Or turkeys. Despite the bad roads and strange language, Angela and Jackie seem to be acclimating well. Seem to be... They're on campus today and tell me they've spent the last two days at the district hospital. They look shell-shocked. Emotionally void. Angela says she's seen more people die in two days than she's seen die in three years in Canada. They say the hospital has two and three people per bed and no bed sheets or pillows. A pregnant woman, 19 years old, walks a day and a half to reach the hospital. She is malnourished. Her husband arrives at the last minute, just before the baby is birthed, with supplies required by the hospital: IV tubes, dextrose, syringes, needles, catheter, razor blade (in case surgery is required), etc. The husband is 40-years-old. He drops the supplies and leaves. The baby is born with cracked lips, a sign of malnutrition. The mother is afraid to breastfeed, saying she has no milk. When Jackie rolls the mother's nipple, colostrum streams out. But the mother is afraid to breastfeed and Jackie thinks the baby will not survive. A second mother gives birth to twins. Both are extremely underweight. One dies immediately, the other is jaundiced. The district hospital has no treatment for jaundice at the hospital. Jackie thinks the baby will die anyway simply because it is too tiny and malnourished. Angela has been working in the children's ward, which holds twice as many patients as they can handle. Children are sick with malaria, pneumonia, diarrhea, AIDS. This is a government-run hospital asking mothers-to-be to provide their own medical supplies and failing to provide clean linens on beds. Government run. Many Kenyans blame the nurses and doctors for negligence, saying they're in the jobs just to make money and do not care about the people. Corruption exists in hospitals where equipment and drugs are stolen and sold. One doctor was recently found to be taking government drugs to his private practice. When people would show up at the government hospital, he'd tell them he had to leave but they could see him at his private clinic, where he would then sell them the drugs they would have received free at the hospital. Corruption is a way of life for Kenyans, who are used to paying for services that should be free. It's engrained in the culture and has a name: T.K.K., Tai Kitu Kidogo, "Give Something Small." It's hard to imagine what would happen in the US or another western culture if children were crowded onto a dirty hopsital bed or slept on the floor, where they died from lack of resources. The outrage would be swift, long-lasting and severe. Here, it's just the way things are, just another day. Angela and Jackie say they'll take me to the district hospital one day. I tell them I'll take them to Nyalenda, to the slums, so they can meet the widows and orphans they've been hearing so much about. It's a rather pitiable exchange.

Food, Glorious Food

Mrs. Ruprah is always feeding me. And that's alright. The other evening, after dark, she knocks on my door and, when I open it, she hands me an ear of roasted corn. Today, she calls me over to where she's sitting on the patio and asks if I'd like an egg roll. Egg roll? You bet! So she runs into the house, as she does nearly every day to fetch food, and returns with a plate. There's a small bowl of curry on the plate, along with a hump of nutty dessert containing brown sugar and what looks like chipped pistachio nuts. The egg roll is actually a small bread roll, cut open to make a sandwich. Inside, she's smeared a sweet, red chili sauce on the bread and overlapped slices of boiled egg. It is absolutely delicious! She sometimes deep fries cassava, a local vegetable that tastes like potatoes. Mrs. Ruprah serves her deep-fried cassava slices with a tomato chutney sauce containing chopped onions. Locals grind cassava to make flour. Indian dishes have made it onto traditional menus in the restaurants. Samosas cost between 15 and 50 shillings each, depending on the restaurant. I feel very fortunate to eat Mrs. Ruprah's home-made samosas, both meat and vegetarian, for free. She asks if I'd like tea, but I decline. She's done too much running in and out of the house on my behalf. Tea in Kenya is made by boiling water, tea and milk together. "You drink coffee," she says. I nod. She says, "One day, I'll come with you and see your machine. We'll drink coffee." I tell her we'll do it one morning since coffee might keep us up at night. She asks how the machine works, does the milk and water go in together? I explain the process and she's pleased. "Mama likes coffee, too," she says, pointing toward the other Mrs. Ruprah. Mama is sitting quietly but nods, yes, she likes coffee. Even though she doesn't speak English, she understands a bit of it. "Unapenda kahawa," I say to the old Mama, practicing Kiswahili (You like coffee). "Ninapenda kahawa," she confirms (I like coffee).

Party in the Pavilion

The Ruprahs host a party in their backyard pavilion. After much pleading from Mrs. Ruprah, Grace, the housekeeper, stays to help cook and serve. The newly-married couple from across the street, Raju and Goldie, are guests of honor and bring along their extended family. Mrs. Ruprah's nephew, Mr. Ubi, and his family come, too, so there are 20 of us. Mr. Ubi cooks chicken in a pot over a jiko, a coal-burning stove. As usual, the women sit on one end of the pavilion and the men on the other while the children alternate between groups. Raju sets up a radio, tunes it to an Indian station and we listen to top "Bollywood" hits, tunes made famous by Indian films of the last 20 years. Raju prepares calf's liver expertly. "Sandy!," calls Mr. Ruprah from the men's end of the pavilion. "How do you like the Indian liver?!" And he laughs, "Ha!" when I say it's delicious. "Sandy," he yells again, "Have a beer. A cold Tusker." I refuse because I'm sitting with the ladies (who do not drink alcohol), but Mr. Ruprah gets up and brings me the big beer and a glass, which I self-consciously fill, hiding the remaining beer behind the chair leg. The newly-weds somehow find each other from their respective gender groups and make their way onto the Ruprah's roof for a closer look at the moon. They're away for nearly 20 minutes and I imagine they're making out on the open, flat rooftop. At least I hope they're making out on the roof, after entering this arranged marriage. I hope they make out on roofs forever! Several curious children clamber up the stairs. Of course, children always come along and divert attention, just as they've done this evening. So the newly-weds rejoin the larger group, her sitting with the ladies and him resting with the men. "Sandy!," Mr. Ruprah calls. "Have another beer." Oh, no, I protest, that's just too much. Though I really do want another beer. "It's okay," Mrs. Ruprah says at my side. "You're at home. It's okay to have two." So I have a second cold beer. I'm at home.

Michelle Strong in Ethiopia

Michelle Strong is a fellow VSO volunteer serving in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Michelle and I roomed together last November in Ottawa during VSO's “Preparing for Change” course. She is one of those people whom everybody loves. Smart, pretty and full of energy, Michelle is in Addis for one year before she returns to Vancouver (she arrived in Ethiopia one month before I reached Kenya). Recently, Michelle took a two-week tour of rural villages and shared a write-up of her experiences. When I asked permission to use some of her words on this blog, she graciously agreed. It's important to know, when reading her account, that Michelle is about five-foot, 3 inches with blond hair and blue eyes. Though they are both East African countries, Ethiopia and Kenya are very different, geographically and culturally. With unrest between Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia, land mines are a huge concern for Ethiopians, something Kenya doesn't deal with (thank goodness!).

Michelle has a balanced perspective and writes with much sensitivity about the people and their struggles. We can learn a great deal from her when she writes, “I left with our work team for a two week field trip to the Tigray and Afar regions of Ethiopia to do an impact and needs assessment on our projects. The regions mentioned are the northern areas where poverty is at its worst and therefore the areas where RaDO (Rehabilitation and Disability – the organization I work for) has camps to support the communities as best they can. Poverty is so bad due to very dry and hot conditions where nothing can grow, there is a serious water shortage (much worse than in Addis where we have access to reservoirs) and, of course, there is the devastation from the Eritrea/Ethiopia war which has taken the region's limited resources. Off-shooting effects include terrible disease, lack of education and starvation. Okay, having said that, the trip was an experience I cannot describe nor express the impact it had on me.”

Here are other excerpts from Michelle's 5-page trip summary:
“The first place we went was the most memorable. We were 60km from the hottest place in the world, Dennikil Desert, which is considered another planet from a scientist point of view due to the unique terrain. When I stepped out of the SUV the wind felt like a powerful blowdryer on extreme heat. This was close to the area Lucy was found, the first human. The village people had never seen a foreigner and I was asked (by translation) if I was a boy or a girl. Too funny – I knew I was having a bad hair day but this is the ultimate. Truly, they were just as fascinated by me as I was by them.

“Although I sneaked a few pictures, from a professional (business) point of view, I couldn’t take many because I didn’t want to be perceived as a tourist. I especially wish I captured the picture of the tribe leader of the village who gave each of us a pop bottle and opened it with the trigger of his gun. It was quite the site as the gun was pointed at each of us as he opened it. All my questions were answered through a translator and I was so proud to be alive that day and witness a tribal village of 100% Muslims that hasn’t changed much from their ancestors thousands of years ago.

“We visited a school to understand the impact of our mine awareness program and their needs. When the children saw me, they all ran out of their classrooms to greet me. Another emotional moment. I shook each hand and did all that I could inside to hold back my emotions as I witnessed the shaved heads due to lice, the lack of nutrition, the bathing problems and their innocence of life that was sheltered by their village. The children and community have nothing including electricity and water but they showed so much love and spirit of life.

“We then left Mekelle and traveled to our next main camp Adigrat. This is the basecamp we used to venture to the town that bordered Eritrea. It was a bit dangerous due to the potential outbreak of war which has been mentioned in our local papers. We visited the border town of Eritrea/Ethiopia called Zalinabasa which has been devastated by war. I witnessed the blown out buildings and the tents that had been set up for the displaced people. We met with the key task force members to understand how we can help the community. This consisted of the head of the army, the head of the police force, the head of the HIV/Aids administration, the priest and other key members of society. I wish I could have taken a picture but, again, not appropriate. They were all such fascinating individuals and our meeting was held in the remains of a rock-built compound that had been blown up by war. We sat on the rocks and talked via a translator. The priest had a special fly swatter which he used regularly and I secretly envied. I forgot to mention that flies are a serious problem in the north and they attack your eyes mostly and face. Flies are everywhere and are much more aggressive than anything we are familiar with. It is horrible and they have a way of attaching on to eyelids and swarming the eyes. It was a real issue for me as I couldn’t sit still. I was always swatting flies and they are eerie. Unfortunately, they have caused a lot of eye diseases in the region.

“We moved on to the next remote village. A few celebrities were in the area we were in to promote land mine awareness (i.e. Danny Glover). The problem was serious enough that we traveled in two SUVs and when we got to the risk areas, our backup SUV drove ahead to assess and if anything happened we obviously wouldn’t travel on that road. Well, all was fine but when we arrived at the village, we were sadly met by a father whose ten year old girl had just been impacted by a land mine. She survived but was rushed to the nearest hospital four hours away. The father was beside himself and couldn’t go with her but the mother went (due to cost). So we drove the father to the hospital and the team met the ten year old victim in the hospital in Adwa. It was a tough thing as she was so young and all bandaged up and RaDO wanted me to take pictures as I had the digital. We needed the pictures to help support the issue of land mines but it was very difficult to take the photos. The precious girl will be maimed for life. When asked why she picked up the “foreign object,” her parents spoke for her and said she had never been to school (she was ten!) and didn’t get the education about the dangers of land mines. That was a real killer – her life is changed forever and all because she didn’t have the opportunity to go to school and get the education about the dangers of land mines that RaDO works so hard to implement. It was a painful moment for me. I opened my wallet and gave a limited sum of money to help but it will never be enough. I think now I should have given more but that seems to be a theme around here. Ugh – the hospitals here are horrible, too, a must mention. The lack thereof, the horrible smells, the brown water and the suffering.

“So we moved on to Axum and I got some sightseeing in (for just two hours due to a hectic schedule). Axum is one of the cultural cities in Ethiopia. Complete with two bodyguards, I saw Queen Sheba’s Palace, the absolute famous house of the Ark of the Covenant ( the one Indiana Jones was after) though, of course, it was just the building as no one is allowed inside. I also saw some cool tombs and the Obelisks made of stone. All great and a nice diversion.

“I was elated to arrive back in Addis. It had a new feeling and after the things I had seen on the field trip, I was glad to be back in the capital and the things I complained about suddenly became luxuries. So that is the latest adventure. Crazy, but we lived on (literally) bread and water and gravy during that time. It truly was an experience of a lifetime and hopefully our efforts will help these remote communities over time.”

Thanks, Michelle, for sharing your stories and your insights and yourself!!!

Tonny Bolo at Pamba Zuko Site in Nyalenda

Thank You, Atlanta Supporters!!

Walter organized a crew to break ground and prepare for the laying of the foundation of Pamba Zuko's building in Nyalenda slums. They began digging the foundation last week, while Tony and I were covered up with the TICH conference. We're beginning to return to business as usual at TICH, so yesterday Tony and I walk over to the construction site and take a couple of snaps.

Children call out “mzungu!” and people stare and congregate to see the white lady in their neighborhood. Two guys, drunk, call to me from across the stream, wanting their photo taken. They are feeling very good, as evidenced by their photo. Two older men, village elders, ask Tony for money simply because he is walking with me. Tony explains our programs will benefit children and widows and with this information the men are satisfied, allowing us to move on.

On our way back to TICH, we run into Walter, who is accompanied by a guy pushing a cartload of bricks. They're headed to the site to deposit the bricks. Walter is organizing his members for the next step in the construction process; the laying of the cement foundation. I'll take photos, I tell them, because the people in Atlanta who have donated funds to this project will enjoy seeing the progress. Walter is especially appreciative of the contributions coming from the US. The joy is evident on his face as we talk. His vision and dream is being realized, step by step. We all get a little silly and laugh and smile when we discuss the building and the widows and the children.

None of this would be possible without the support of the fantastic people at Experian and Steve Shelnut, who used to work at Experian but is now with Equifax. Steve gave a hugely generous donation which is now hard at work, buying brick and timber and roofing materials, so children can be educated and widows can learn ways to earn money.

Walter must hurry along, to catch up with the cart full of bricks and to organize the men for the construction party. He runs with a bounce and a smile.

My Favorite Rooster

Michael and Chicken on TICH Porch

Chicken Ahoy!

Looking for Dr. Emmanuel Ariga, the deputy director of TICH, I enter his office and find sitting in his chair not Ariga but a red hen. Ugutu Owi is standing opposite Ariga's desk, writing a note. Ugutu's back is to the chicken so he doesn't know it's there until I tell him. We tease about the chicken being Dr. Ariga and speak to the hen, saying, “Dr. Ariga, your feathers appear ruffled, is there anything we can do?” I tell Ugutu, “Dr. Ariga will probably come in and find a stack of eggs in his chair.”

I then visit Sister Masheti, seeking copies of speeches given by ministers, assistant ministers and ambassadors during the conference and graduation. I return to Dr. Ariga's office once again, hoping he's now in. He's not there, nor is the chicken's head bobbing just above the desktop. I walk around the desk to look under it, looking for the chicken, when I spy in the chair a gorgeous, light brown egg! If I hadn't known the chicken was there just a few minutes before, I would think someone left the egg as a joke. Very clean, this egg-laying business.

I'm posting a photo of one of the director's rogue chickens who found a nice nesting spot in the rattan chair on TICH's front porch. The chicken did not mind one bit that all the other chairs were occupied by mzungus from around the world. There's the backside of Michael Gorelik of the Weitz Center for Development in Israel, leaning on the column while he chats over the chicken. As I take the photo, my favorite white rooster comes along to check out the action, so I snap him, too. Isn't he handsome?!

During the conference, we hire a videographer to film all speaker presentations throughout three days of sessions. As we're listening to presenters, cocks are crowing and chickens are bok-bok-bokking in the background. The director's chickens are yelling out on the southside of the building while our neighbor's chickens are telling the news on the northside, often simultaneously. I'm convinced their sounds will show up nice and clear on the videotape and I wonder what someone in Paris, watching the video on CD, will think of the bok-boks and cock-a-doodle-doos. At TICH, chickens and humankind co-exist in loving peacefulness... most of the time.

Kakamega Forest Overlook

500-Year-Old Strangling Ficus & Friends

Weeping Stone

Kakamega Forest

Ed, Vincent, Diana and I meet in town, then walk to the matatu station. Diana is a former intern at TICH who met Vincent when he was visiting before. She is Kenyan, born in Nakuru and lives there now, a three hour drive from Kisumu. We're headed to Kakamega Forest, an hour and a half drive north of Kisumu.

At the matatu station, guys get in our faces and demand we get into their vehicles, saying they're going our way, while other guys yell out, “don't listen to them, come with us, we know where you're going.” So Vincent and Diana climb into one matatu whose conductor says the bus will leave immediately when we board and won't sit waiting until the bus is full, which is the usual practice. Ed walks ahead to another matatu to check it out. I'm standing outside the first matatu, keeping an eye on Vincent and Diana while a square-headed guy puts his nose to mine and says, “Come with me, Lady, I'll take you where you're going.” “I'm going right here,” I say and point to the ground. The matatu wants to leave and they're angry we're considering a second bus. The conductor tells the driver to go, but Vincent and Diana are in the very back, and as the driver revs his engine and looks at me, I point my finger at him, emphasizing each word in my most stern voice, “Don't you pull away with them in the back.” And he listens.

Ed waves for us to go to the other bus, so I signal Vincent and Diana and we all safely board the new bus which sounds like a rolling nightclub. Heavy disco remix bass beats pulse through us as we settle into the back seats. We knock our heads on the metal ceiling a couple of times as we bump, accelerate, then brake along the highway out of Kisumu. We climb the escarpment, gaining altitude and cooler weather, marveling at the lush landscape rolling and rolling from mountain to flat valley. Houses poke out of corn fields and banana groves, up and down the sloping hills. Cattle munch in yards, women carry baskets, bags and wood on their heads. We pass a coffin maker shop with caskets on display. One coffin, covered in plush, maroon velvet with a decorative pattern woven in the velvety pile, catches my eye and I can't look away. We come to the Weeping Stone, a huge rock formation that seeps water from the top. It looks something like an eagle. We bounce by, getting a glimpse through the dirty matatu windows sporting decorative tape designs on the outside.

“Can you imagine how nice it would be to travel these roads in a private vehicle, stopping to take pictures whenever you wanted?” Diana agrees it's a fine idea. I dream of private vehicles a a while longer as we jostle to and fro, front to back, trying to keep time with the music. Before one song ends, another starts up and both songs play for about 30 seconds, as though a dj is operating two turntables. We pass a road where a crowd walks toward us, hundreds of men, led by a bull. “It's a bullfight,” Diana tells us. “Is it a man against a bull or bull against bull?,” Vincent asks. Diana laughs at Vincent, saying it's bull on bull, of course. “Well, I ask because in Spain bullfighting is between a man with a red cape and a bull.” “Oh,” says Diana, “Here, it's bull against bull and it's very popular, as you can see.” Madonna sings to us about falling in love with San Pedro, then Diana and I sing to “Let's hear it for the boy, let's give the boy a hand.” We are entering Kakamega and our matatu driver keeps turning down the sound, but we continue to sing, “Let's hear it for my baby, you know you gotta' understand.”

We exit the bus at a gas station and cross the road to buy snacks at a supermarket. Then we catch a matatu to the north gate of Kakamega Forest, about 20 km ahead. A sign clearly marks the forest and we follow it down a red dirt road to the gate. Kakamega isn't a national park, though it is run by the Kenya Wildlife Services (KWS). We pay 500 shillings ($6 USD) as residents of Kenya and Vincent pays $10 USD, or 780 shillings. Strange how they list the non-resident rate in USD. A young man in tattered and unclean clothes follows us from the main road, espousing his expertise as a forest guide. We're not interested in his services and ignore him somewhat. When Ed asks him if he knows who Tony Blair is, the young man answers in the positive and says he feels Blair's re-election is a good thing, unlike Bush's. We all laugh. People all around the world, in developed and developing countries, know everything that's going on in the U.S. I'm often amazed by how much people know about our culture and politics.

After we pay our entry fees and begin walking, the young man follows us until we finally tell him we want to navigate the forest on our own. He's not happy and asks for money for a coke. None of us respond but instead discuss which direction we should go. Should we see the forest, the falls or the viewpoint first? We decide to follow the sign to the KWS office and soon find it. Kakamega Forest, approximately 240 square kilometers, is the only remaining part of an ancient forest in Kenya that once covered the African continent along the equator and from the Indian to the Atlantic Ocean. With the population explosion, and people cutting down forest for farmland and firewood, Kenya's forest is in danger of being lost. The Rough Guide to Kenya says Kakamega is of interest to zoologists and botanist around the world as an example of how an isolated environment can survive cut off from its larger body.

Though the government talks about preserving the area, people live on the forest's edge and continue to slash and burn for farmland. It's also said officials, elected to protect the forest, sell parcels to locals illegally, pocketing the money. An organization called Kenyan Environmental and Ecological Protection (KEEP) works to educate the locals on the importance of preserving the forest. They are holding a class for children when we enter their building and Henry, who runs the program, shows us their tree nursery, where they're raising seedlings to distribute to local farms. This will give the farm owners a source of firewood so they will not enter the forest for fuel.

If we'd like a guide through the forest, to the falls and to the viewpoint, it'll be 200 shillings per person per activity. We're gob smacked (speechless). 600 shillings is a lot of money for a guided tour. Of course, the funds go directly to the program to preserve the forest. Even then, we all agree it'll be nice to have a guide through the forest, but we should be able to find the overlook point and waterfalls ourselves. So Ifango, our guide, takes us to the forest and proves very helpful in finding the more interesting sights. The Rough Guide says the forest is “a haven of shadowy gloom for over 300 species of birds, 45 percent of all recorded butterflies in Kenya, seven species of primates and other mammals, as well as snakes, various other reptiles and untold varieties of insects” (2002, p. 354).

Ifango shows us a Ficus tree that's in the process of enveloping another full-grown tree. It's a Strangling Ficus and takes nearly a hundred years to overtake a tree and several more hundred years to kill the host tree. It's quite amazing to see the tree as it warps around the other. We come upon a Strangling Ficus that long ago killed its host tree. This giant tree is estimated to be more than 500 years. It's massive, with roots standing more than a foot above the ground. We all pose amongst the roots and Ifango takes our photo. Further into the forest, we see a strangling Ficus in the early stages. Bird droppings deposit the Ficus seed in a tree above the ground. The Ficus then grows roots that reach the ground and keep going. In the meantime, the Ficus is also growing upward toward the sun and spreading over the host host until it overtakes and kills the host.

Ifango also shows us a Antiaris Toxcaria Africana, a tree indigenous to Africa. When its bark is scratched, this tree oozes a milky poison used on spear tips to kill animals and enemies. If someone has a cut on their hand and the milk touches the cut, that person will be dead in 15 minutes. He also shows us a plant (which must remain nameless) that when ground up will kill within minutes. Ifango says some people will grind up the leaves, put them in local brew and serve it to their enemies. When the person dies, gashes develop in their torso.

After our hour and a half hike, we leave Ifango and head to the overlook, passing groups of butterflies clustering near water in the road. Reaching the overlook, we climb a nearby hill and sit, snacking on cookies and banana chips and cashews. As we soak up the hills and trees and sky, a man approaches, followed by a local woman. He sees us, waves and says, “You guys been up there all day?” We laugh. I say he's American judging by his loose-fitting jeans and baseball cap. A third man follows in a dress shirt and khakis. Diana says, “I think that's my friend Sweetie,” and we all laugh and say no way.

Diana climbs down from the hill and sure enough, it is Sweetie, so she and her companions climb the hill. They are Hong and Goofa who work for the International Center of Insect Physiology and Ecology (ICIPE). Hong lives in Buffalo, NY (I Was right about his clothing!!) where he works for SUNY, though he's originally from China. Goofa lives in Kisumu but is affiliated with SUNY at Buffalo and is also originally from China. They are both etymologists and are in Kenya to study malaria control. We have a wonderful conversation about mosquitoes and genetics standing on the hill overlooking the magnificent Kenya forest and mountains.

After 30 minutes of introductions and talking, they invite us to ride along with them to the waterfall. Diana and I catch eyes and grin. There are seven of us and their Suzuki fits seven! We ride past houses, children waving and yelling, to get to the falls. The path becomes more and more narrow until it's only wide enough for a person. We climb out and hike down. With the recent rains, the falls are gushing brown water. We take photos then head back to the vehicle. Is it too much to hope they're headed back to Kisumu and will allow us to ride along?

It's not too much to hope. They are very kind and insist we join them, saying, “How often do you get seven people from five different countries together?” We head home in a cushioned seat. I relax into the comfort, relishing it, relishing the space, the feel of a private vehicle. Driving in Kenya is tough, though, and after an hour Goofa asks if we mind taking a few minutes break. We pull off the road and stretch, munching on crackers and cashews, watching the big trucks climb the escarpment hill at 5 miles per house, chugging out giant plumes of black diesel smoke. Children gather across the road to look at these white people, these Asian people riding with two Kenyans. Then children and adults gather on our side of the road. We draw quite a crowd before getting into the car and driving on.

We pass the Yalla River, the site where ICIPE is running a test on malaria control. Malaria is more prevalent in Western Kenya than any other part of the country. Hong explains that within a 3 to 4 km test area they have sprayed every house and provided anti-malarial drugs to all children under five. Because children under five are most vulnerable to malaria, with many of them dying from the disease, they want to find the best preventive techniques. Only certain species of mosquitoes carry Malaria and of those species, only the female bites. The males seem to be born only to share their reproductive powers and then die. When their Yalla River test is complete, ICIPE will know better how to prevent malaria in other areas. Hong says US dollars are supporting this project, “your tax dollars,” he says, “and you should be proud.” Funnily, I am rather proud because most people only have negative things to say about the states.

“Here's the Weeping Stone,” says Hong. I grab my camera and turn it on, prepared to photograph the rock as we roll past. But Goofa pulls to the side of the road and stops. I snap the pic and Diana says, “Looks like your wish came true,” and I think back to the comment in the back of the matatu, about being in a private vehicle and stopping at will for photos. She's so right. So right.

I ask Ed if he's seen a burgundy-colored velvet coffin by the road on his side of the car. He says no. Diana says people shouldn't have coffins any other color than brown or white. Then she tells us most people in their culture believe dead bodies communicate. For instance, she says, if a family is bringing a body back to their village from Nairobi and they have mechanical problems, they'll ask anyone in the vehicle if they've had disagreements with the deceased. If the deceased disliked any of them in any way, the person will be forced out of the vehicle. “I've seen it,” Diana asserts. “One time, we were driving from Nairobi with a body when the car broke down. After checking the engine and finding nothing, the uncle said, 'I know what's causing it,' and he went to the coffin, opened it, and slapped the corpse twice, telling him to give it up and move on to the next world. The car started and never had another problem.”

Just then, we see the valley containing Kisumu and Lake Victoria. Goofa pulls over for photos, then we cruise down the hill toward town, all of us relaxed and happy and comfortable, no mechanical problems to speak of.

Lost Cow, Baby Goats

Yesterday, Vincent Maugis and I leave TICH at the same time. Vincent works with UNESCO, a division of the UN, developing an on-line system to capture research data from organizations all over the world. He's in Kisumu for TICH's Annual Scientific Conference and to work with our IT/Research team to gather specs for his system.

After we pass through the gate, a brown cow comes trotting down the dirt road toward us. Vincent visited TICH last November, so he's not alarmed to see cows. It's common to pass cows on the road as they seek grass to munch, along with their goat and sheep companions. Not sure I'll every get used to walking beside a lopping beast, or navigating down the center of the herd as we head in opposite directions. I've learned they don't spook like horses, so it's rare they'll ever swing their horns our way, no matter how close we get. But it is unusual to see cows running down a Kisumu street.

This trotting cow worries me. He heads one way, then another. He spies a young tree and brushes against it, sending the tree toward the ground. As Vincent and I walk on, the cow nibbles a little grass but soon turns and heads our way. Vincent walks straight, then around a corner to St. Anna's Guest House where he's staying. I turn left. Nearing three school girls, I notice they bunch together off the road. I turn around to see the brown cow trotting our way, head down, swaying. We all move off the road and watch him run by, smell him, hear his breath exhaling, puffing. Then watch him cross the street and turn back toward us. But he's confused and he turns again, making a full circle in the middle of the road, before straightening out and heading away from us. He's lured to the side of the road by a high pile of cut branches, cut so recently the leaves are still green. He grabs a mouthful and is off again.

He bellows a rather mournful sound. A lonely sound. When he gets to the intersection of the dirt roads, he trots left, then right, turning toward Ring Road and Nyalenda. He stops by a hedge of bougainvilleas and munches for half a second before bellowing again and crossing the road, bouncing/trotting fast, head moving from side to side as though he's looking for someone.

I'm headed away from Nyalenda and look back to see the running cow turn right on Ring Road and vanish from sight. I worry about him and hope he finds his crew soon.

Today, walking toward TICH's student hostel (where they serve lunch in the outdoor cafeteria), two baby goats, glossy black, come running along the road, the very road the cow had been circling and circling in. They run briskly, one behind the other, as if they're rushing to catch up with the little boy who just passed me. He pays them no attention, however, and I think how children in the US would delight in seeing baby goats running free.

The babies hurry along, cry out, then stop at the same pile of cut branches the cow nibbled yesterday. These branches were their destination, without question. Around the corner, from Nyalenda, comes a mama goat, brown, black and white. Getting too close to a Mama's baby is more dangerous than dodging a running cow, so I ease to the other side of the road. She seems to be pregnant and her utters are full and swinging. Her gait suggests the swinging mammary glands are painful. But her mission is to catch up with her babies. As she passes me, she bleats, deeply, and the babies cry out, high pitched. Mama answers again and then she's there, by their side, watching them navigate the pile of dying and drying leaves on cut tree branches.