Joseph

"His name is Joseph, and it's his first day at the Orphanage," she says to me with a heavy heart. A five year old boy sits at the edge of the field, alone and crying. Immediately I realize this means either his parents have just died yesterday, or they are too poor to keep him any longer...the former being more likely. No one said this was easy.

St. Mary's has an orphanage to house street boys. Some of them run away, some return, and three in ten will make it through secondary school. I walk over to Joseph and although he cannot understand English, I hold out my hand. He looks at me with hesitation but takes it, and walks with me back across the field to where the other boys are playing. All of a sudden teaching basic food groups and promoting medical or legal professions is the least of my worries...just getting Joesph to make it until tomorrow clothed and fed is the priority.

Joseph will not leg go of my hands and stands in front of me with his back against my legs. He watches the others in torn wool sweaters, socks and pants in 90 degree heat as today, his entire life has changed. The street boys are all at different educational levels and there is one woman who teaches the groups. The first group is made up of boys that have come straight from home, have never seen a classroom or heard English. The second group cannot read Swahili or English, and the third group can read only three or four letter words. If you ask them, none of these boys know their birthday or even their age, since they lost their parents so young.

"Daniel, please spell 'triangle' for me," I say to a disinterested nine year old. Sometimes Daniel speaks, other times he doesn't even hear what I'm saying. Daniel is HIV positive and doesn't know it, he just takes daily medication without reason. We are advised not to tell them. I sit under the shade of a tree in the yard, boys circled around me, and I use flash cards to teach them beginning English words. Sometimes they sit with me through their break because the cards are clean and new, and they want to hold the stack themselves.

In English class today the 6th graders learned an intro to 'storytelling,' and were encouraged to stand up and make up a story of their own. I wasn't prepared to hear the outcome, as child after child stood up to tell of parents begging for clothes on the street, children not having food for days, men stealing shillings out of wallets and pushing women down on the street. The kids make these stories up, but the disheartening reality is that they are not far from the truth.

Joseph tried to run away twice today, to return to a home that no longer exists. I watched the other boys herding him back as he escaped out of the makeshift classroom. He wouldn't go with the others to eat lunch either. Obstinent and sobbing, he resisted their beckoning and physical force. I walk over as I unpeal the banana that's in my bag and hand it to him, he's been eyeing it my entire walk over. He hesitates only slightly, then devours it within seconds, with his eyes down, saying not a word. He's stopped crying and sitting next to me, safe, if only for the present.

No one said this was easy.

The End of the Beginning

There's a ghost living in my new homestay. You cannot make these things up. She knocks on my door without fail every night at 12:58am then walks through the house and disappears up through the attic. I'm 100% certain about this, but hey, it's Africa...things could be worse.

I have arrived in Nyeri Town after 5 days of complete electronic isolation while on Safari. I watched the sunrise in the Maasai Mara National Park at 6am, just before witnessing a lion, lioness and cubs eating the carcass of a water buffalo they killed 3 days prior. Rhinos, hippos, buffalos, giraffes, and elephants at every turn. On the border of Tanzania and Kenya, there is an unassuming cement monument that marks the line. Slightly anticlimatic but one step closer to Kilamanjaro. When you're traveling amidst a span of land this vast, it tends to take on its own personality and becomes so overwhelming and humbling.

My lips are caked in dirt and it looks like lipstick. It is brown dirt and a result of wind and dust racing through the mutatu windows. I am on my way to Lake Nakuru feeling drowsy in a way that can only be drug induced. I've taken a sleeping pill, foolishly thinking I could sleep while instead I am flying up out of my seat every few minutes due to the quality of infrastructure that will continue for the next 5 1/2 hours. Earlier today I choked down soy nut butter that's 70% salt on stale "brown" bread. Not really sure if it's even wheat, and the spread tastes like I'm preparing for a shot of Patron. I'm not sure why I continue to eat this, but I wash it down with a bottle of boiled water that tastes like a dirty bath but is, at least, safe to drink. I've observed that instead of barbed wire to keep intruders from climbing over the tops of compound walls, they place shards of glass into the blocks of cement and let them dry in place. Does this work? Who's to say...

Nyeri is much more alive than Karatina, a better fit for me, but it was still bittersweet to say goodbye my first host family, placement, and roommate in Kenya. It was the end of my beginning. My last day at the Orphanage I was able to buy shoes, bookbags, notebooks and pens for a few of the older kids I'd been helping with homework. The sad part is that most of the children who are funded through secondary school(high school) will end up back on the streets after they are finished because they still don't have family, money, or the opportunity for a job. We need to be teaching these children and women trade skills that will allow them to create income instead of just giving them food and money and then leaving. Otherwise, what will they do the next day after eating and using their resources? They will just continue to view us as dollar signs and only expect this type of treatment. Mzungus have created a reputation of just giving handouts and then returning to their comfortable lives. As for me, I will be working at Nyamachaki Primary School as a Math, English, and Science teacher for grades 6 and 7. I will have my own classes and am finally feeling needed because they desperately lack teachers here. I am preparing by observing classes and making lesson plans and am so excited to take on a bigger committment and responsibility.

Mama Morena is my new host mother. She lives by herself and is a complete feminist and eccentric to say the least, so obviously our personalities fit well. The phrase, "Isn't it?" oddly follows every one of her sentences, and yesterday she took me and my new sisters(other volunteer roommates) to see President Kibaki speak at her daughter's boarding school. Incredible. My room is the blue light special because apparently blue light bulbs are a hot deal, and I share it with a green lizard that comes out right as I am falling asleep.

I have been officially given Swahili and Kikuyu names. "Ma Kena," which means "the one who is happy" and "Wa Njido," which means the smallest one on the block...."Shiro" for short. It only took 3 weeks....

Bless the rains down in Africa

The woman seated in front of me leans casually on the satchel stuffed with a banana tree, which occupies two seats in the mutatu traveling from Karatina to Nyeri. The leaves overflow into my lap, as do the passengers next to me. No one finds this odd, and I am thankful it is blocking my view of the windshield in this journey. Mutatu drivers make NYC taxi drivers look like they could teach driver's ed.

I have been in Karatina for four days, and since there are only six children at the Orphanage during the day, next Friday I will be moving to Nyeri to teach classes at St. Mary's all-boys school. Unfortunately, this means I must tell my host mother I will not be staying with her much longer.
She looks at me through glassy eyes with an expression that tells me she's been through this type of disappointment before. "Is it me? Is it my house, you do not like it here?"
"No! No!" I say, without skipping a beat. "I love it here, but the work, the work is too little."
"You see Jennifer," she says slowly, deliberately. "We did not use to have a house nice like this. I use to fear the volunteers, that they would not like me or my house, because they are upper class. But when you stay here, I benefit. They give me money to buy food for you, and then I am able to eat what you eat. So if you leave here, I no longer benefit."
A hollow ache creeps into my stomach as I realize why her eyes are welled with tears and the guilt is overwhelming. The struggles of this country stretch beyond blurred lines.

There are times in this magical country that I experience moments of complete and absolute euphoria. I try to hold on to these moments for as long as possible, and hope I'll be able to do so in the future when I need to remember who I truly am, where I came from , and where I want to go.

By some divine act of fate, I have been placed with a family so religious, we pray for ten full minutes before every meal, and I've just spent this entire morning listing to Baba preach about why there is a god. My feet are incredibly dirty, and we have refugees from Sudan living next door. Now that's something you don't hear every day. The house is cozy and spacious, and the couple have 3 children over 23 yrs old that live in Nairobi. My days here feel like weeks, and I've truly learned the meaning of "living for the moment." We buy for what we need in present, we eat as much as we can because we know that for now, at least, we have it. It is so refreshing to see the people here thankful for anything and everything.

There are also moments I find myself in unexpected situations, that are surprising yet fitting, all at the same time. Today I find myself in a teal-walled living room playing Scrabble with Nancy and Carol. They are 14 and 19 yrs old respectively, and are Kenyans living down the street from the Orphanage. I am not quite sure how this happened. We met while watching after the children, and they invited us into their home for lunch and "American Pie" on VHS. But now I am playing Scrabble with my new friends. The rains have begun, and we realize we will be staying awhile.

I am becoming acquainted with having no particular place to be, nor anything urgent to do. And when strangers invite you into their home to share a prepared meal, you politely oblige. This is Kenya, that is just the way it's done...

"Mzungu, this is Africa!"

I am shivering and crouched by a facet in the bathroom of my home-stay. The faucet is spitting out cold water from the wall near my knees, and all I know is there is no other choice but to wash my hair. The problem is if I turn up the pressure, it will leak down the floor into my bedroom. The toilet doesn't flush, and because I have an impeccable sense of smell this is not the optimal of situations. However, I am safe, I am fed, and I have pigs and roosters living right outside the window. I know this because they wake me up every morning at 5:30am.

I arrived in Nairobe at 9:30pm with two other boys from the States. Our driver, James, picked us up and immediately the stench of alcohol exuding from his pores hit us. Perfect! As we arrive to a home-stay, James proceeds inside to argue with the woman of the house. When he appears back outside, he says, "The two boys, you stay here, Jennifer, you come with me." I cannot explain the reaction my body had at that very moment, but I can say that it was bad. While everything in my mental preparation was telling me this was the worst possible idea on the face of this planet earth, with a little assurance from the lady of the home, and a little fear of offending her with my actions, I went with our driver. I'm still alive, so that's a good thing. Oh Africa....

I may be the only person in existence to actually gain weight while I'm in Africa. After day one of Orientation it is almost a certainty that I put on 20 pounds. Chinese lo mein, potatoes, rice, sweet bread, beans, pasta, white bread, need I continue? My first two days here have been spent in Dagoretti Corner, an urban slum outside of Nairobe. Down every pathway is a tin box serving as either a bodega, a house, a chop shop or an electronic store. I walk down the streets to shouts of "Mzunga!"(white person) by little children, who proceed to break into hysterics and run towards me, then away from me just as quickly. Everyone is so friendly and it's surprisingly homey. The colors are vibrant and goats mosey on the street along side of me. It is very alive, and laughter is never very far.

There is a 58 year old Australian man in the house next door to me who is also volunteering. I call him Sydney Steve, though I can't be sure that's even his first name. It's inspiring. I leave for my placement in Nyeri this afternoon. It's a three hour drive, but I hear it's beautiful. I feel as though I've been here for weeks already, and I just find myself wanting more. Smiling is a language all in it's own here, a stark contrast to the streets of New York.