Don't Forget the Peanut Butter

Long time, no post

2008-07-28T19:35:00.000-07:00

Yeah, so when I left Africa, I was a bit disenchanted with everything. It's been more than a year, and I'm just now ready to start writing again. So....here we go. It’s been more than a year since I came home from a three-month stay in Africa. When I first returned, I didn’t want to talk about my experience. I was disappointed. A few bad encounters had left me wondering if people could really make a difference. I’m ashamed to say that it’s taken me this long to gain some perspective. But little things like e-mails from people who stumble across the blog I haven’t touched since last March, the souvenirs I come across as I unpack boxes in my new home, and those smelly Columbia sandals I wore nearly every day as I traipsed around the Kenyan countryside are beginning to pull me out of my funk. They are helping me set aside the disdain I have for the rapist, corrupt officials and drunken soldiers I had the misfortune to meet. They are reminding me of the funny moments, good people, and positive things I saw. For most of my life, I have been drawn to Africa. When I was in sixth grade, I wanted to be an Egyptologist. I’m pretty sure that when I was in high school I was the only person in my hometown who had and wore a “Feed the World” T-shirt. And when I discovered BBC journalist Fergal Keane and started reading his accounts of the Rwandan genocide, I knew I had to go to Africa as a journalist. It took enrolling in the master of international journalism program at Baylor University to get me to Africa. I tested the waters by leading a journalism team on a two-week trip to Nairobi. Standing face-to-face with glue-sniffing street children, meeting a woman who quit her accounting job to start an orphanage, befriending a girl named Mercy who at the age of 2 began selling trinkets on street corners, and seeing the living conditions of the millions who live in Kibera slum only whetted my appetite to share Africa’s stories. So I signed on for three months in one of the poorest regions of western Kenya, hoping to find that people were trying to help themselves and not just relying on the kindness of others. I found what I was looking for, but I’m only just now able to wrap my mind around it. I’m only just now able to separate the good Africa from the bad Africa. Yes, I heard horrible stories of wife and child abuse. But I also met an inspirational woman named Sister Freda who runs a fledgling medical clinic for the poorest in her community. A recent e-mail from someone who read my blog entries about Sister Freda jogged my memory. I now can clearly see her nurturing eyes and feel her gentle touch on my arm as she led me through the herb gardens that provide her with the ingredients for homeopathic remedies she must use when pharmaceuticals are in short supply. Yes, nearly everyone I encountered on the streets asked me for money. But I also met Mama Judy, a widow who welcomed me into her home and shared what little she had with me. She called me her American daughter, taught me the few words of Bukusu I needed to know to get through a police checkpoint, and on the day of our last visit gave me the most precious gift she could give – a chicken. I don’t know how the chicken felt about the situation, but I couldn’t contain my amusement as I walked away with my gift tucked under my arm. I came across a picture of Mama Judy one day last week, and all these memories came rushing back to me. Yes, a couple of drunken soldiers with AK-47s harassed me until I gave them $30. But then Elijah, my guide and translator, delivered me safely to my destination every single day and then made sure I found my way back home. He didn’t have a car, so together we walked at least 20 miles a week – him in his brown loafers and me in my Columbia sandals. I was washing dirt off those sandals last week, and I had to laugh because they weren’t nearly as filthy as they had been that time I stepped in cow dung. I still doubt whether the idealists of the world can make a widespread difference in Africa with corrupt leaders in place. But they still believe, and I no longer want to dampen their enthusiasm. I’m finally ready to unpack my boxes of memories and do what I can to help the people who are working for the betterment of Africa. Heck, I might even go back.

Outstretched Hands at Every Turn

2007-03-09T08:02:00.000-08:00

(Written Wednesday, March 7, 2007) I came to Africa thinking I could dispel the notion that the people of this continent always have their hands outstretched, asking for more help. It is how Africans often are portrayed in the media – the continent can’t help itself so it looks to the West for help, and then when that help isn’t enough, they ask for more. After 2 ½ months of living here, I am not so sure I disagree.

As a journalist, there is not much I can do to help the people who are struggling to survive. I can write their stories and hope my work spurs someone to act. Still, in my time here, I have used my skills to write the life stories of women who otherwise might be forgotten by their very young children. Every single woman I have interviewed has been overwhelmingly grateful for my work. But just when it seems that I have given them something, they ask for more.

They always want to know if I can help them get some money. Can I talk someone into paying for their children to go to school? Can I talk someone into giving them money to cover the basic cost of living? My answer is always no. I don’t know anyone who is going to send money unconditionally to a group. The only funding sources I am familiar with are the institutional kind – and those require grant proposals outlining detailed plans for improvement and systems for accountability. The groups I have been working with are not established, organized or sophisticated enough to meet those requirements. I am sorry, but no one I know is going to send a flood of money to the widows living in the Kiminini area.

But it is not just the widows who ask for more. Shop keepers always want you purchase a little something more; market vendors always want to charge you more than they would an African; street children always follow you around even though you’ve already said no to them; and everyday people walk up to you and ask if they can have your watch or hat or camera or whatever interesting thing you might have.

When I arrived in Kiminini in January, I had to keep reminding the project director and his staff that I came here specifically to write oral histories. They kept asking what more I could do. I am not a teacher, so I could not work in the school. I am not knowledgeable about agriculture, so I could not show local farmers how to organically grow anything. I finally drilled it into their heads that I was not a typical volunteer; I came here as part of my master’s degree program, and my internship proposal states specifically that I will write articles and oral histories.

It can just be so frustrating to hear someone ask me what more I can do. I paid a fee, every cent of which was supposed to go into the community where I worked; I left my husband for 2 ½ months; and I traveled around the world to participate in a program that I thought could benefit people. I am doing the only thing I know how to do. Yet, everyone still wants more.

Inherited Tradition of Oppression of Women

2007-03-09T07:52:00.000-08:00

(Written Tuesday, March 6, 2007) I wrapped up my oral history project last week and am spending this week trying to conduct interviews for articles I hope to publish. In the midst of all this, I am very excited about the prospect of coming home next week. I can’t wait to see my husband and my dogs. And I am craving cheese dip and margaritas like crazy!

I wrote a total of 26 oral histories. Looking back, I am glad my project in Muhuru Bay did not work out. I learned much from the last six women I interviewed in Mbai. I met a woman who was a victim of wife inheritance – after the husband dies, his brothers come to the widow and basically force her to marry one of them. She eventually left her abusive second husband, but she has suffered tremendous hardship because of this decision. During her second marriage, her husband took all her money and property. She had to abandon the nice home and farm that she and her first husband shared. She now lives in a one-room cow dung and mud house that is hardly fit for an animal. Her dismal dwelling is located directly behind her father- and mother-in-law’s spacious, brick home. The in-laws cannot even see fit to let her and her four children move in with them. The father-in-law follows the traditional belief that if he shares a roof with his daughter-in-law, he will die a sudden death. The man is in his 80s. He is going to die soon anyway! I cannot tell you how sick I am of these traditional beliefs geared toward oppressing the women and making life easier for the men. Because of tradition, this old man can get away with neglecting his daughter-in-law and grandchildren. It is outrageous. Thank God this courageous 29-year-old woman has the support of the other widows. Otherwise, she would be all alone.

When I get home, I would like to work on a story that brings together everything I have learned about widows groups and the women who rely on them for financial and emotional support. These groups are growing in number, though, as I suspected, the staffers at the local Department of Social Services office were completely inept when it came to helping me find out how many of these groups exist in this district. And these groups are in a very small way helping women make a stand for their rights. If the women in this country want their lives to improve, then they are going to have to put up a fight. The men here are mired in traditional beliefs, which benefit only them.

In pursuit of my story about widows groups, I visited with a widow who is HIV-positive and not afraid to talk about it. I spent two hours with her and heard the most amazing story of strength and resolve. She contracted the disease from her husband, a Kenyan Army warrant officer who is now dead. He had four wives and took concubines everywhere he was stationed. Two of the four wives are dead from AIDS. The other wife refuses to be tested. But Gladys, the woman I interviewed, is thriving thanks in large part to her widows group, which gave her the means to start a micro-enterprise project that is providing her with a steady income. So she can afford to go to the doctor once a month for check ups, and she can afford to purchase the medicines she must take.

By the way, those medicines are supposed to be provided free by the government. But various people along the chain of command would rather make a dollar than help the people suffering from HIV and AIDS. Some antiretroviral medications never make it to the hospitals and clinics. So the hospitals and clinics are left with a shortage. This gives doctors and pharmacists the opportunity to benefit financially. What medications are available go to the people who can pay for them, leaving the impoverished to die.

Needless to say, I have seen so many emotionally draining things in these last two-and-a-half months. Sometimes I think this country is just waiting to spiral out of control. And it is considered one of the most stable democracies on the continent! Read the Kenyan newspapers for an entire week – especially during this election year – and you begin to doubt there is democracy and freedom at all.

But I will write more on all this later. Right now I need to concentrate on finishing up my interviews. I plan to interview an official from one more widows group in an effort to find out how these groups are helping women, and I hope to visit a group of women who operate a thriving pottery business. When I get home, decompress, and have time to go back through all my notebooks and journals, I will start sharing my thoughts.

And, I know, the blog is not really complete. I need to post pictures and the articles I have published since this whole journey began. Please be patient with me. I have so much to do.

Kenya Travel Tip #3: Bring your Rose-colored Glasses

2007-03-01T08:10:00.000-08:00

(Written Thursday morning, March 1, 2007) I imagine that every single person who participates in an overseas volunteer program has a different experience. I am reminded of what one volunteer said to me before she left Kenya and went back home: “The Kenyans are such a peaceful people.” That is not my impression at all.

This particular volunteer spent one month in Kiminini. She ended her trip with a safari but ventured to no other places inside this country. She spent most of her time inside Joshua’s compound, working at the school. She took occasional strolls outside the compound, and she went into town accompanied by Joshua. I don’t think she ever rode in a matatu, and I doubt she picked up a Kenyan newspaper even once since she viewed the New York Times as the gospel. She certainly did not spend any significant amount of time with the people who live in this area, listening in disbelief to their stories of forced marriages, murdered spouses whose bodies were dumped in the river and families who were displaced due to tribal clashes (as recently as the mid-1990s).

I certainly would not classify myself as “adventurous.” After all, I cut my losses in Muhuru Bay after just a few days. But I think any sane person would have done the same considering that there was a rapist wandering around.

Still, I have made an effort to get to know this place. I meet people, and I ask about their lives. I try to read the Daily Nation every day so I know what is going on in this country. I read with great interest the exposés on the increasing poverty and crime rates, and I pay careful attention to the news briefs about car jackings, home break-ins, armed robberies, etc.

As a journalist, I know that many news outlets focus their attention on the “bad” things that happen. But we must pay heed to these things if we are to get a full view of human nature. And my experiences here in Kenya have shown me that Kenyans are no more peaceful than anyone else in the world. The children here argue and fight just like any other children. And the adults here are capable of committing the same atrocities as every other adult in the world.

Maybe life is a little more bearable for those who view the world – and other cultures – through rose-colored glasses.

Blessing or Curse?

2007-03-01T08:07:00.000-08:00

(Written Wednesday evening, February 28, 2007) I had a heart wrenching interview with a widow this week. I know Gladys is struggling now that her husband is dead, but a small part of me really is glad that he is gone. Gladys’ story of how she came to be married makes me furious.

Gladys was still rather young when her parents died. So she went to live with her grandmother in Kitale. She was 16 years old when she met her husband, who was 12 years her senior. Morris was a 28-year-old truck driver when he first spotted Gladys walking to a shop in town. He immediately pulled over his truck, got out and called to the shy teenager. Gladys immediately ran away. But Morris stalked her for two years, finding out all he could about her family and her routine. He discovered that Gladys was an orphan, which meant that when she got married no family members would pressure the husband to pay a dowry. So after two years of watching her, Morris made his move. He snatched Gladys off the street one day and took her to his remote home village, where for several days he raped her. Of course, “rape” is my word. In Gladys’ words, Morris “forced her to marry him.”

Morris impregnated the girl, who was terrified to go back home to her grandmother. She thought that no one would believe she had been kidnapped. She thought she would be labeled a liar and be beaten. And so she remained with Morris.

Gladys said that after three children and six years of “marriage,” she came to love her captor. I cannot know her true feelings. Her speech and gaze were devoid of any emotion as she talked about Morris and the forced marriage. I tried to hide my feelings, too. But inside I was screaming in anger and mourning this girl’s lost youth. There supposedly are now laws prohibiting this kind of “forced marriage.” But I imagine they are like most Kenyan laws – enforced only when it is convenient for the officials in charge.

Gladys’ husband, who also was an alcoholic, eventually was poisoned. He drank a locally brewed beer (they usually contain formaldehyde and other unsafe chemicals) and died in his sleep. Was his death a blessing or a curse?

Bureaucracy is Universal

2007-03-01T08:01:00.000-08:00

(Written Wednesday morning, February 28, 2007) All this work with widows has made me wonder just how many Kenyan women are struggling to survive following the deaths of their husbands. Of course, I may never know for sure. People keep telling me that the number is increasing due to the spread of AIDS as well as the deaths of the men who practiced polygamy during the first half of the 20th century. I figured one way to gauge the growth in the number of the widows was to investigate just how many widows groups are registered with Kenya’s Department of Social Services. If you think getting data from a U.S. government office is difficult, you’ve never tried to get data from an African government office.

Joshua made an appointment for me to meet yesterday with the assistant director of the local Social Services office. I thought for sure that I would have to wait all day just to see her. But, in Kenya, if you know someone things move a little more quickly. Luckily, Joshua was friends with this woman. She escorted me straight into her office and gladly talked to me about widows groups, what purposes they serve, and why widows have such a hard time surviving in Kenya.

I could not help noticing, though, that this very helpful woman had no computer. In the States, if you need some data, it can be acquired with a few strokes on a computer keyboard. That is absolutely not the case here. This Social Services woman has to do everything by hand. She has a metal filing cabinet filled with folders and copies of the paperwork documenting the existence of widows groups in her district. I suspect I will never know how many widows groups have been formed in this province, much less the entire country. I will be very lucky if the Social Services woman can find the time to go through her files and find out how many widows groups exist in this district. But all is not lost. At least I got some good quotes.

Kenya Travel Tip #2: Learn the Local Lingo

2007-03-01T07:57:00.000-08:00

(Written Tuesday, February 27, 2007) You should see the looks on people’s faces when I manage to spit out a few words of Bukusu, a Luyha dialect. I’ve picked up some Kiswahili, too, but the majority of the women with whom I work are Bukusu. So I could not imagine spending a couple of months here and not learning at least the basic greetings. But people just seem so surprised when they hear me say, “Oriana” (How are you?). And they go nuts when I say, “Buliye” (Good-bye).

Bukusu is sort of like math. It’s something that I figured I would play around with while I am here but never actually use for any significant purpose. I could not have been more wrong. On the way to Kitale today, Joshua and I were pulled over at a police checkpoint (Yes, I am tired of being bothered by the police). I have no idea why the policeman pulled us over. He inspected the licensing decals on the windshield of Joshua’s car, and then he came to my window. I rolled down the window, and the policeman shook hands with Joshua. He said a few words to Joshua, and then he looked at me. He said, “Oriana.” I wish I had a picture of the expression on his face when I responded, “Demalem” (I am fine). His initial expression was one of utter shock. Then, he started laughing so hard that I thought he would fall down.

Joshua told me that the police are not impressed when mzungus speak Kiswahili to them. Everyone who comes here ends up learning a little of that language. But they are duly impressed when a mzungu can speak a few words of a local language. I wasn’t out to impress the man. I was simply answering his greeting. As a result, he forgot why he pulled us over in the first place.

The policeman motioned for Joshua to move on. As we started to roll away from the shoulder of the road, I poked my head out the window, waved good-bye and said, “Buliye.” This made the policeman laugh even harder.

I don’t think the police at that checkpoint will bother Joshua again.

Call me Nafula

2007-03-01T07:54:00.000-08:00

(Written Monday, February 26, 2007) The women with whom I am working had a fairly easy time accepting me into their community. One of the first things they did was name me “Nafula.” It is a Luyha name given to a baby who arrives during the rainy season. Normally, it is very hot and arid this time of year in Kenya. One of the two rainy seasons ends in December. However, it has been raining off and on here ever since I arrived in early January. Thus, I was christened “Nafula” because the women believe I brought the rain with me. And that’s just fine by me. I am not a hot weather person. I much prefer the rain. When it rains here, the weather cools off significantly. So, let there be rain! We even had hail the size of large gumballs one day after I returned from horrible Muhuru Bay. I wonder if I caused that, too. After all, I was pretty angry.

Cutting the Trip Short

2007-02-25T08:24:00.000-08:00

(Written Sunday, February 25, 2007) I am cutting my stay in Kenya short by about 2 weeks. The Muhuru Bay debacle really threw things off for me. I will finish up my oral histories this week, and then spend the following week doing some reporting. But, after that, there is nothing for me to do here. I would rather be at home twiddling my thumbs than in Kenya twiddling my thumbs. Actually, I won’t be twiddling my thumbs at all when I get home. I have articles to write and reports to turn in to my professors.

A Mission of Medicine from Arkansas

2007-02-25T08:17:00.000-08:00

(Written Saturday, February 24, 2007) I am exhausted after a week of hard work and disappointments. The hard work came into play Tuesday through Thursday. I made the six-hour trek to Migori to meet up with a medical mission team from Fellowship North church in North Little Rock. They were a great group of medical professionals and volunteers intent on making a difference in a community that is ravaged by poverty and AIDS.

I arrived late Tuesday afternoon to find everyone streaming in from the medical clinic. Their home base was Marindi Children’s Home of Grace, an orphanage established in 2003 by a nonprofit organization called Kenya Relief. The orphanage is home to approximately 100 boys and girls whose lives have been affected by AIDS. Most of them have lost their parents to the deadly disease. Unfortunately, I did not have time to meet these children. They were in school, and I was there to chronicle the medical work taking place.

The group was kind enough to allow me to spend two nights with them. I spent all day Wednesday with them at the medical clinic across the road from the orphanage. The clinic is so new that it does not yet have running water, electricity or panes of glass in its windows. It has 15 nearly empty rooms that are just crying out for permanent medical equipment. The Kenya Relief staff are in the process of raising money to finish the clinic, and they hope eventually to turn it over to a Kenyan medical staff. Of course, medical specialists from the United States will be rotated in and out.

We arrived at the clinic at 8:45 a.m. Wednesday and found about 300 people already waiting to be treated. The volunteers had set up a very efficient system of getting people through the clinic. The people would show up early, put their name on a waiting list, be assigned a number, and then wait until it was their turn to see someone. Their first stop was the “triage” area, where nurses and other volunteers created a basic chart showing the patients’ vital signs and medical complaints. Those patients would then be routed to an appropriate doctor or nurse.

It was sad just how many of the ailments were common things such as neck and back pain (especially among the women, who carry huge loads of various items on top of their heads), pneumonia and dehydration. Many people were suffering from malaria, which is a travesty considering that there is medicine available to prevent that. Still others had sexually transmitted diseases, AIDS and reproductive health problems. One woman had been living in constant pain for three years because she had fibroid tumors in her stomach. One 15-year-old girl stunned everyone when she said she had a 6-year-old child. And she was pregnant with her third one!

The male patients were extremely hesitant to admit they had any sort of sexually transmitted disease, and they were not receptive at all to the medical team’s attempts to provide basic sex education. The women were more open about these things but, in the grand scheme of things, they are still at the mercy of these men who are so pig headed. Traditional beliefs are hard to change, and in rural parts of

Kenya

women are second-rate citizens who must obey their men.

I was absolutely stunned at how many patients the medical team treated. It grew from 367 on Monday to 578 on Wednesday. I am sure there were even more people on Thursday and Friday. There obviously is a great need in Migori for free healthcare. I interviewed one woman, and she assured me that the people did not mind waiting all day long to see a doctor because they cannot afford medical treatment otherwise. She had arrived at the clinic at 7 a.m. Wednesday, and she did not leave until about 5 p.m.

My great disappointment is completely unrelated to the medical clinic. Before I left for Migori, I went to check on Grace, an elderly widow who was barely surviving after suffering several small strokes that left her unable to do most domestic and farm chores. I had interviewed Grace for the oral history project and was devastated because her family members lived so far away. She had no one to help her or to look after her. Somehow she was surviving, but just barely.

When I checked on her, she told me that she had never actually been to the doctor to have her ailment diagnosed. She assumed she had strokes because she could not use one side of her body. Somehow I found myself being led down a path that would have me paying for Grace’s medical bills, something I cannot afford to do. At first, she said she did not have the money to pay for a matatu ride to the hospital in Kitale. I was okay giving her that money. We were talking about less than $2. She initially told me that the doctor’s visit was free. Soon, though, the story changed. The doctor’s visit would be about $20 – and that didn’t include tests, medicines or hospitalization if it was required. I started to feel really uneasy.

I talked to Joshua about the situation, and he said I could not do anything for her unless Grace’s family was involved. He wanted them to understand what was going on and what my limitations were. So, on Monday, we drove out to Grace’s house. The woman who claimed she could barely get around was no where to be found. We spoke to her neighbors, and they informed us that Grace had set out on foot early that morning to the doctor. Turns out she has some means to acquire healthcare after all. I was so devastated.

I can’t stand being lied to. Once someone violates my trust, our relationship is pretty much over. Grace hurt me even more because I could look into her face and see my own grandmother. I am here in Kenya trying to do something that will benefit the people, and yet they seem so intent on taking advantage of me. And it’s not just me. It’s every mzungu (white person). Every other volunteer who has crossed my path has a similar story of being taken for a ride. Joshua told me that Kenyans simply cannot be trusted to tell the truth. I hate to think that his blanket statement is accurate, but right now I am just so angry. There were other widows – ones that I have worked with – present when Grace told me her sob story about not being able to see the doctor. They had to know she was lying, yet they did nothing to warn me. Luckily, I had the good sense to consult with someone before committing to anything. But what about the next volunteer who may be less skeptical than I?

Lonely Planet's Idea of a 4-Star Hotel

2007-02-18T20:12:00.000-08:00

(Written Saturday, February 17, 2007) Since fleeing Muhuru Bay, I have been staying at the Alakara Hotel in Kitale. There are so many volunteers at Pathfinder Academy right now that Joshua has no room for me in the volunteer huts. But do not for a second think I have been living the good life. This hotel has a serious water problem.

The Lonely Planet’s Kenya guide lists the Alakara Hotel as a mid-range to top-end hotel. It notes, “The comfortable rooms have phones, the staff are friendly and prices include breakfast. There is a good bar and restaurant, secure parking and a TV room.”

I am the first to admit that I have a slight hotel phobia. Even in the nicest U.S. hotels, I simply cannot bring myself to walk barefoot, to sit or lie on the comforter, or to take a bath in the tub. It freaks me out to think about all the people who have stayed there before me – and what they have done in the room. But I can agree that my room at the Alakara has been “comfortable.” It fairly resembles an ancient dorm room, with cold tile floors and high ceilings. It is furnished with two twin beds, a desk and a chair. The telephone mentioned by the Lonely Planet does not work, by the way.

The Alakara’s staff are, indeed, friendly. It bothered me just a tad that the housekeeper took my bag of dirty laundry and washed it. Yes, I desperately needed to do laundry and had no way to do it myself. But she could have at least asked before doing something that cost me 300 shillings.

I also can agree that the restaurant is wonderful. I have been eating fresh fruit, toast and sausages for breakfast every morning rather than plain bread with peanut butter. And the bar is certainly a perk. But, given a choice, I think I would rather have dependable running water.

The Lonely Planet fails to mention that about half the time the hotel has no water. This means no shower, no washing hands at the sink, and no flushing toilet. I don’t understand how the Lonely Planet’s crack team of seasoned travelers could have missed this very important point. Perhaps they didn’t stay at the hotel for a whole week like I did.

When the Alakara’s water system is working there are just two temperatures: icy cold and scalding hot. And the water usually will run for about five minutes before fading into a slow trickle and leaving me to remove soap residue with baby wipes.

But the grossest thing of all is that during these water “shortages” the toilet won’t flush. At first I did not understand why the housekeeper left a bucket full of water in my bathroom. After a horribly one-sided conversation with a Swahili-speaking housekeeper (I finally stopped trying to explain that my toilet would not flush, said “Kuja,” which means “Come,” and led the woman to my bathroom) I discovered that I am supposed to pour the bucketful of water into the toilet tank.

I definitely plan to send a note to the Lonely Planet editors. And I think I’ll pray very hard that the third volunteer hut is completed in the next couple of days. I am so looking forward to the pit latrine and a bucket bath.

On a different note, the hotel has proved to be a good place to see some wildlife. A bunch of enormous and scary looking birds have established their nests in the trees in front of the Alakara. Every time I walk outside, I expect them to swoop down and attack me. I don’t know what they are, but they should star in their very own horror movie.

And I was quite surprised today to look across the street and see a monkey of some sort leisurely walking along the eaves of the buildings. I have no idea where he was headed, but I certainly was surprised to see him hanging out in the middle of a crowded town.

Kenyan Tourism Tip #1: Bring Spare Tires, and Spare Cash

2007-02-14T14:35:00.000-08:00

(Written Tuesday, February 13, 2007) It seems that I may have brought some of the bad ju-ju from Muhuru Bay back to Kiminini with me. My flight to safety can be described only as hellacious.

My trip got off to a good enough start. I caught the bus from Muhuru Bay a little after 7 a.m. Monday. My escort was already on the bus, and I was able to link up with him easily enough. Soon, though, the games began. And in Africa every game ends with someone handing over a big wad of cash.

Although it is difficult to tell, Kenya does have transportation laws. These laws restrict vehicle speed, passenger numbers, etc. I have yet to run across a public transportation employee who abides by these rules.

The bus from Muhuru Bay can seat approximately 60 people. At one point, the bus driver had an extra 25 people standing in the aisle. Highly illegal behavior. So, as we rolled out on to the main road to Kisumu, the bus driver began to restrict the number of extra people he accepted. From Migori to Kisumu, the number of extra people hovered around six to eight. Of course, every time we approached a police checkpoint, the bus “conductor” motioned for the standing people to squat down in the aisle so they would appear to be sitting. Not a single police officer stepped on to the bus. Every one of them simply peaked in the window and accepted a few hundred shillings to let the bus pass. I wanted so badly to open my window and tell everything that I knew. However, my desire to return to Kiminini outweighed my desire to be a tattle tale.

When I reached Kisumu, I had to change buses. As soon as my bus rolled into the bus park, some kid ran up and grabbed my suitcase. Before I could stop him he had hoisted the heavy bag up on his shoulder and started carrying it over to the Kitale bus. I kept insisting that he put my bag down because I knew what would happen next. Sure enough, after he loaded my suitcase in the baggage area of the Kitale bus, he turned to demand 200 shillings. I told him to fuck off since I had not even asked him to carry the bag. Then, he launched into an angry tirade that I could not understand because every word was in Kiswahili. I heard the word “American” and figured he was referring to how wealthy we all are (HA!). My escort tried to give the kid 50 shillings and tell him to get lost, but the kid was adamant. He would not go away. He would not shut up. I was afraid he would attack my escort, a middle-aged man with such a wonderful, fatherly demeanor. The kid reluctantly took 100 shillings and walked away mumbling something in Kiswahili.

A few hours and many text messages later, I realized that Joshua – my savior – was driving along behind the bus. He instructed me to get off the bus at the next town. I could not wait to do so. I was crammed in the bus next to some guy who kept elbowing me in the ribs, and the putrid Christian reggae blaring from the cassette player was driving me crazy. Note to the CIA: Playing such music to prisoners of war may well be an effective interrogation technique. I think I would have said just about anything to get the bus driver to turn off the “music.”

I felt very safe and relieved after jumping into Joshua’s car. Two other volunteers were in the vehicle, and none of us were phased by the flat tire we experienced along the way.

Then, about seven miles from Kiminini, we ran into big problems. We encountered a roadblock manned by two soldiers wielding automatic weapons and flasks of alcohol. In a normal situation, police officers and soldiers stop only public vehicles – buses, matatus and taxis. On this day, the soldiers were stopping everyone. And they demanding money of everyone.

One of the soldiers motioned for us to stop. We did. Then, in his drunken stupor, he waved us through the roadblock. However, he failed to pull the barrier – a length of metal with spikes – completely out of the roadway. So, when Joshua proceeded, he hit the spikes and shredded two tires. The soldiers took one look at the three of us mzungus and figured they could get a lot of money out of us. And so they began to accuse Joshua of “malicious” intent to destroy government property. Yeah, sure, he meant to shred two tires along a desolate road at dusk.

After threatening to take Joshua to jail – Joshua agreed to go with them as long as they went right that second so the soldiers’ commanding officer could see how drunk they were – the soldiers demanded 20,000 shillings (about $300). At this point, I wanted to shout, “Take us all to jail and see how you fare when the American embassy finds out you are holding three white females hostage.” But my more rational half prevailed. I kept quiet. But the drunker of the two soldiers eventually made his way over to me, started ranting about Joshua’s “malicious” intent, and opening his hand to show me the spikes he had picked from Joshua’s tires.

“Oh, really? I didn’t see a thing. I am sure Joshua ran over those really big rocks back there. They were so sharp that they cut into the tires. Joshua did not and does not have any government property. See, you are the one holding the spikes. How am I to know they were ever in the tires?”

Yes, the games can be entertaining.

“I can’t believe it is dusk and you are keeping three mzungus (white women) stranded on the side of the road. Oh, yes, you will be held responsible if anything happens to us. You can count on that. The U.S. government is not happy with Kenya as it is, what with all the car jackings and the murder of two American women in Nairobi. I imagine the U.S. military will be forced into action if there is additional violence against Americans.”

The soldiers finally decided they could live with 2,500 shillings. They just wanted the mzungus gone before it got to be too dark. Of course, that didn’t happen considering that Joshua had spent all that time “trying to reason” with the soldiers. He had not had a chance to call anyone for help. It was already dark by the time he was able to telephone some friends and ask them to bring us two tires. And I took great satisfaction in knowing that those soldiers were scared to death that something was going to happen to the mzungus under their watch. I wanted them to sweat the situation. I wanted them to fear for their jobs – and their lives. I wanted them to believe that U.S. military forces would swoop into Kenya at any moment and kill them where they stood.

When help finally arrived, Joshua and his friends worked quickly to remove the shredded tires. They loaded the tires – and the three mzungus – into the other vehicle and sent us on our way. We girls were headed to safety; the tires were headed to a tire repair shop. The ordeal finally ended about 10 p.m. Yes, lovely Kenya. What a wonderful place for tourists.

A Trip to Hell... and Back

2007-02-14T14:32:00.000-08:00

(Written Monday, February 12, 2007) Expectations are something I am learning to abandon while in Africa. The continent definitely has a tendency to throw curve balls every now and then.

I set out last Friday for Muhuru Bay, an impoverished town located on Lake Victoria. The lake is so large that its shores often are referred to as “the other coast.” And Muhuru Bay, like so many coastal communities around the world, is a sordid little place that the entire world has forgotten about. It also is a place where people really are not what they seem.

I spent two nights there before returning to the safety and sanity of Kiminini.

I went to Muhuru Bay to write oral histories of HIV-positive women – the same work I have been doing in Kiminini for five weeks. But when I arrived in Muhuru Bay, I found out that my project had been canceled several months ago. It would have been nice to know this before I made the seven-hour journey to Muhuru Bay. But, hey, lack of communication abounds here.

The director of the program at Muhuru Bay decided long ago that he did not like the oral history project. It was too invasive, and people were too reluctant to talk about their poverty and disease. The oral history project was frowned upon so much that a box of completed histories was burned before I ever arrived. No one attempted to give the histories to the rightful owners. No one considered how much time and effort went into preparing those documents. They simply defiled other people’s sacred property.

Still, I considered toughing it out for six weeks in Muhuru Bay. I figured that, as a journalist, I could always find stories to write. I would have to find my own translator since one was not readily available to me. But there is a wealth of stories in Muhuru Bay. I could have explored various aspects of the fishing industry. The Nile Perch found in Lake Victoria is in such high demand that its stock is slowly being depleted. I also could have explored the prostitution problem. And I am not talking just about the women who sell fruits and vegetables by day and their bodies by night. Everyone and everything in Muhuru Bay is for sale.

Then there is the witchcraft. I actually met a pregnant woman who plans to go to a local witch doctor to have a ritual performed. She is afraid that she is going to give birth to a fish since her fisherman husband spends so much time at work.

And the list of possible stories goes on.

But, frankly, I was not willing to risk life and limb to get these stories. I found out last Saturday morning that a known rapist is allowed to freely come and go from the compound where I was staying. He has raped multiple women and been sent to jail twice. However, he is a man of some influence, so he paid his way out of jail both times. Now the community is wary of him because they believe, probably rightfully so, that he has the police on his side. This man has threatened to rape two of the volunteers working in Muhuru Bay. And no one is doing a damn thing about it.

I was stunned, sickened and scared. If the mark of a great journalist is the willingness to put your life on the line, then perhaps I will never be a great journalist. Maybe if the circumstances were different, I would have stayed. Maybe if I had a photographer working with me, a guide/ translator looking out for me, or a volunteer coordinator whom I could trust, I would not have been so frightened. But in this particular situation – I was working alone with absolutely no support in the community – I chose safety and peace of mind.

So here I am, back in Kiminini, ready to continue my work with the widows I have come to know so well. They value my work, and I respect them for their courage. No one involved in the program at Kiminini would ever dare burn the life stories of these women. They have been to hell and survived – and they deserve to have their stories preserved for future generations.

The Evils of the Matatu

2007-02-07T16:03:00.000-08:00

(Written Tuesday, February 6, 2007) In theory, matatus are a clever way to transport people from one place to another. These mini vans, which are built to accommodate 14 passengers plus a driver, are cheaper than taxis and hired cars. But, in reality, they are a horrendous way to travel.

I have tried to avoid matatus like the plague. But, with Joshua out of town today, I had no choice but to board one of these nasty, crowded vehicles. Of course, Elijah was with me. So I wasn’t nervous about being charged way too much money or being harassed on the way to Kitale. Still, every time the vehicle stopped, I prayed that we could get off.

Matatu drivers always pack way more people into the vehicle than they should. When Elijah and I arrived at the matatu park in Kiminini market, one driver came over and tried to get us to climb into his already filled-to-the-brim vehicle. No thank you! The second matatu we examined was far less crowded. In fact, were were among the first three passengers to board. So far, so good. But then all the others came.

By the time we pulled away from the matatu park, we had 19 passengers, a driver and two money takers. The air, filled with a mixture of exhaust fumes and body odor, was suffocating. I don’t understand why Kenyans are averse to opening a window! And the chatter was deafening.

The matatu was obviously not well maintained. The seats were sticky vinyl, and the floor had holes in it. I could actually see the road passing beneath my feet.

Plus, I witnessed just a little bit of the corruption people associate with Africa. As we approached a police check, where the officers are supposed to pull over all public vehicles and check to make sure that the vehicle is not carrying too many passengers and that all the passengers are wearing their seatbelts, the matatu driver slowed down enough for one of the money takers to toss a crumpled 100 shilling bill out the window. The police then waved us through. So much for safety.

I was thrilled when our ride came to an end. Unfortunately, I will have to repeat the experience on my way back to Joshua’s house this afternoon.

Al Gore and the Four-horned Bull

2007-02-07T15:59:00.000-08:00

(Written Sunday, February 4, 2007) Life in Kiminini has been fairly slow the last week. I conducted interviews and wrote oral histories but not much else. Three other volunteers have arrived, and Joshua is being pulled in many different directions. I am not sure I will get to visit any of the other Common Ground projects before Friday, which is when I leave for Muhuru Bay.

We tried to visit the Kitale Nature Conservatory today. It is a place dedicated to environmental preservation and research. There is a nature trail and botanical garden as well as a facility where genetic research is conducted on deformed animals. There is supposedly a three-eyed cow, a four-horned bull, etc. The goal of this facility is to find out what causes such deformities, and then prevent them from occurring in the future. I think it would have been interesting to see. But we didn’t quite make it through the conservatory gates. The gatekeeper jacked up the admission cost for us mzungus (white people). He wanted us to pay 700 Kenyan shillings a piece, which is ridiculous considering that some national museums charge only 500 Kenyan shillings for entry. Seven hundred Kenyan shillings is only $10 American, but we were offended. Kenyan citizens have to pay only 100 Kenyan shillings to enter the conservatory.

So we opted out of the conservatory tour and decided to just have lunch there. That was a big mistake. The food was good, but the service was lacking. The woman who took our orders had to keep coming back to our table to ask what we had ordered. And it took two hours for us to get our food. During those two hours, we did walk around the “general” area of the conservatory. It was more than a little weird. There were three “caves” constructed of concrete and rocks. One “cave” served as a classroom for visiting school groups, another “cave” was home to a raptor that kept screaming at people, and I have no idea what was in the third “cave.” I was startled enough to see what was on top of that third “cave.” There was a dome-like structure with miniature buildings, vehicles and people. Each piece of the diorama was supposed to represent some horrible effect of global warming or ozone layer destruction. For instance, the diorama featured three Army-green tents that were home to refugees displaced by some weather calamity. And there was a man who supposedly was suffering from cataracts and skin cancer. Of course, each piece of the diorama had a label describing what it was. It was just so bizarre. Maybe I just don’t appreciate the seriousness of global warming. I am sure Al Gore would have been pleased with the display.

A Boy Struggles to Succeed

2007-02-01T16:23:00.000-08:00

(Written Tuesday, January 30, 2007) A boy named Rogers arrived at Pathfinder Academy on Sunday. He is a lanky boy with a far-too-serious face. Rogers is in the eighth grade – for the second time around. But not because he is unintelligent. In fact, Rogers scored so highly on the national exam last year that he was accepted into a national secondary school. However, his family cannot afford the approximately $500 a year – or $42 a month – that it would cost to send Rogers there.

According to Joshua, there are about 20 really good national secondary schools in Kenya. And each one accepts about 150 new students each year. Competition for acceptance is fierce. So it is no small feat that Rogers was able to get in. One of the main marks against him appears to be his gender. There is a real push here to educate girls. Many organizations offer scholarships for bright girls who want to attend secondary school. There are fewer such scholarships for boys.

And Rogers could certainly benefit from a scholarship. Pathfinder requires its eighth-grade students to board inside the compound so they can participate in night classes and tutoring sessions. Each student must provide his or her own mattress, blanket, uniform, school supplies, etc. Nothing here comes free. Rogers showed up Sunday with practically nothing. He had no mattress or blanket, so he must share a twin bed with another boy. The only school supplies he had were used notebooks, so Joshua relented and bought the boy some new ones. I gave him a school supply bag with a pencil, eraser, pencil sharpener, colored pencils and calculator. I had brought enough of these bags for each eighth grader. As for the uniform, I do not know if he has one. I’ve only seen in him tattered street clothes.

Rogers is repeating the eighth grade in an effort to bump up his score on the national exam, which will be administered in November. If he gets an even higher score, a prestigious national school might offer him a scholarship. It is a shame that such an intelligent boy must wait for his bright future to begin. As I have written before, a student who attends a national secondary school is pretty much guaranteed a college education. And that means he or she will be able to earn a decent living in a country where so many are struggling. If Rogers never makes it to national school, then his only options may be to cart passengers around on a bicycle or to become a manual laborer. Either way, his God-given intelligence will go to waste.

Over the river and through the woods...

2007-01-29T12:10:00.000-08:00

(Written Friday, January 26, 2007) You may be wondering by now if I have opened my jar of peanut butter. The answer is yes. I opened it my second week here - but not because I am tired of the local food. My guide and translator, Elijah, and I travel by foot three days a week to a nearby village. It started out being a 6-mile, roundtrip trek. But as the weeks have passed, we have started walking even farther. Some of the widows we visit live on the far edges of the village. Next week, out treks will be so long that we have to walk to the main road, hail a matatu (a horrible, crowded mini van) a short distance, and then ride boda bodas (bicycles with passenger seats above the back wheel) for a while. The journey does not end there. The bicycles can travel only so far on these rutted, rural roads. We still will have to walk quite a distance. Then, we will repeat our steps on the journey home.

All of this travel takes time. I do not think we have ever made it back to Pathfinder Academy in time to eat lunch, which normally is served about 2 p.m. So I have been eating a snack of peanut butter and crackers after we return.

The food here is actually fabulous. I eat a piece of bread with peanut butter and jam for breakfast most days. Lunch and dinner typically consist of vegetables (kale, spinach or cabbage, for instance); a carbohydrate or two (ugali, pasta, rice or potatoes); and a protein (beans and maize or stewed meat). About once a week, we have roasted chicken and chips, or French fries, for dinner. So do not worry about me losing a lot of weight.

If You Can't Say Something Nice...

2007-01-25T09:45:00.000-08:00

(Written Tuesday, January 23, 2007) Living and working in a foreign culture definitely has its challenges. First and foremost, it requires flexibility. If you set a meeting for 10 a.m., you can count on people not showing up until 11. And when those people finally do show up, you must spend several minutes engaging in small talk rather than getting down to business. Then there are the questions you simply do not ask. It is not polite to ask a woman’s age, and it certainly is verboten to ask someone if she has AIDS. Indeed, talk of the disease is largely taboo among the people I am living. The widows with whom I am working probably would not tell me if they had AIDS – that is, if they have even bothered to be tested. AIDS still carries such a stigma here that some women simply do not want to know whether they have the disease. It is a dangerous prospect – for them and their families.

In my years as a journalist, I have learned to adapt. I have learned to assess a situation, and then behave appropriately. I prefer to begin my interviews with ice-breaking questions that will put the person at ease rather than hard-hitting questions that will make the person distrust me. And I never, ever judge the person or express an opinion about the answers they give me. Perhaps a woman is struggling to support 13 children. I would never tell her that she “made her own bed” and now must lie in it. I would never tell her that she has too many children.

So, as I observe everything taking place around me, it is difficult to watch other American volunteers pass judgment on the people they encounter. It grates on my nerves to hear them tell Joshua that his student-to-teacher ratio is too high and that he should hire more teachers, or that he has packed too many boarding students into the dormitory and should expand the building. It bothers me even more to listen to those volunteers chastise Joshua’s children for doing chores late at night and to criticize Mama Sandra for not taking the time to mend her children’s clothes.

All of these things are easier said than done. It is difficult enough for Joshua to pay the teachers he has. Forget about employing more. And adding onto the dormitory is a dream that may never happen. As for a family’s internal affairs, that territory should remain off limits to outsiders.

I suppose some Americans come here thinking they need to affect change. Ultimately, they appear arrogant and authoritarian. They make all Americans look bad. And by focusing their attention on what is “wrong” with the community, they are robbing themselves of the opportunity to expand their understanding of the world.

Sister Freda

2007-01-22T14:27:00.000-08:00

(Written Friday, January 19, 2007) I have met Mother Teresa incarnate. Her name is Sister Freda, and she is a Kenyan nurse who founded a clinic more than a decade ago. She caters to poor villagers and slum dwellers. The 24-hour clinic serves as many as 200 outpatients on a busy day. Some people walk two days just to reach Sister Freda, whose bedside manner is unrivaled. As she moves from room to room, her voice remains calm and soothing. She is careful to stop and stroke the hair of a pregnant woman who could go into labor at any time, and she gently places a blanket over the legs of a sleeping toddler. Indeed, Sister Freda offers medical attention as well as comfort and hope.

Most of Sister Freda’s patients come to her with stories of great desperation. Morgan, a child no more than 2 years old, came to Sister Freda not too long ago. He lived in a nearby slum, where his daily diet consisted of tea and dirt. Yes, the rust colored dirt that covers the ground here. Morgan is the progeny of teenage parents, who abandoned him. Other slum dwellers took pity on the child, who was living with an uncaring grandmother, and took him to Sister Freda, where he is thriving. Still, if left to play alone outside, the baby will grab a handful of dirt and revert to the only method of survival he knows.

Esther, who is about 3 years old, has spent most of her life at the clinic. Some villagers took her there when she was just 9 months old. Esther’s mother was insane and kept the child strapped to her back, with her legs raised up over her head. Esther’s mother drowned another daughter in the river. When the villagers found out, they took Esther from the woman. Problem is Esther had been strapped to her mother’s back for so long that her legs seemed to be permanently fixed toward the sky. Months and months of physical therapy and rehabilitation later, Esther has made a full recovery. She now walks and runs just like any other little girl.

Amos, who may be about 9 years old, is another work in progress. He is afflicted with jaw cancer and has been living in hospitals for three years. Amos is the son of an 80-year-old man and a 20-year-old woman, neither of whom are around for him. He resides at Sister Freda’s clinic and has been receiving chemotherapy for a year-and-a-half. Amos is a lovely child, with gentle eyes and a playful manner. With just one bashful glance, he can steal your heart.

A multitude of sheep, each with a different yet horrific story, comprise Sister Freda’s flock. She cares for so many but has so few resources. She cannot afford to pay her employees, and she struggles to pay the clinic’s debts. When she cannot afford medicines, she treks to a nearby forest, where she has planted all manner of herbs and trees, the leaves, juices, barks or roots of which she uses to create natural remedies for everything from asthma to ringworm.

As Sister Freda escorted me through her outdoor pharmacy, she dazzled me with her knowledge. Never in a million years would I be able to recognize, name and properly use all of those plants! This angel of a woman also touched me with her kind and generous manner. Fearful that my pale skin would burn under the intense African heat, Sister Freda gave me a soft kiss on the cheek and placed a shawl in my hands so that I could cover my head on especially hot days. Then, after thanking God for sending me her way, she bid me farewell. I never imagined such a delicate vessel could contain so much physical and spiritual strength.

A Heartening Offer

2007-01-19T11:26:00.000-08:00

(Writen Wednesday, January 17, 2007) Being a journalist has its ups and downs. Some days I feel powerful, with the truth on my side. Other days I feel completely impotent, as if my words are not enough to solve all the problems I see. Each of the seven widows I have interviewed has asked me the same question: “What can you do to help me?” I don’t like my answer.

These women are lucky to have roofs over their heads. It does not seem enough to say that I can share their stories with the world – and hope that someone who reads those stories is moved to action. But, frankly, that is my job. Journalists are not supposed to become part of the story. We are trained observers, not trained activists. Otherwise, we would all go to work for international relief agencies. But how do you explain that to a woman who cannot afford the flour to make her favorite flat bread? I usually find myself saying, “I don’t know.” That is not what they want to hear, and it is difficult to watch their eyes drop to the floor. It is not, deep down in my heart, what I want to say. But my occupation requires me to suppress my personal feelings. It requires me to seek the truth and report it while trying to minimize the harm I do to others. It sometimes seems a paltry contribution to society.

So it is heartening that I have heard from a woman who offers secondary school scholarships to girls from poor Kenyan families. She ran across my blog, and she has asked me to help her identify potential scholarship recipients. She even plans to come here next month to visit with Joshua and to scout around for girls who meet her very high academic standards. At least I have that bit of hope to offer the widows I encounter.

Regal Spirit

2007-01-17T11:41:00.000-08:00

(Written Tuesday morning, January 16, 2007) Somalia is so far away from this place. Yes, Somalia and Kenya are neighboring countries. But the people living in Kiminini, perhaps the entire Western Highlands, are too busy attending to their own lives to worry about the fighting taking place on the northeastern border. Somalia creeps into their lives only occasionally, when they tune in to BBC radio or pick up a newspaper. For the most part, though, people here keep themselves occupied with surviving.

On the way to Mbai yesterday, Elijah and I walked past a woman who was drunk. It was barely 10 o’clock in the morning. We also encountered a man – a former teacher – who was dismissed from his job because of his drinking problem. These are not the first alcoholics I have seen or met in Kiminini. Life here is hard, full of challenges and no guarantees for the future. Many turn to alcohol for comfort. That presents its own problems; if you have little money to begin with, how do you afford the alcohol you think you need to tame your demons? Many forego feeding their families. Others turn to illicit, even life-threatening, means to earn the money.

So it is heartening to meet women like Rose, a member of the Mbai widows group. Rose lives in a one-room cow-dung home, the walls of which are adorned with colorful pages from calendars and magazines. Every stick of furniture is draped with a pastel coverlet that Rose knit by hand.

Rose was the last of three wives taken by a farmer, who died of heart failure in 2000 at the age of 57. The couple had no children of their own, but Rose has “adopted” four young relatives, all of whom lost their mothers to AIDS. Many people in Africa refuse to talk about AIDS, but Rose surprised me with her candidness. Two of the children belonged to Rose’s sister; the other two belonged to Rose’s aunt. Both women were widowed and struggled to make a decent living. Eventually, each of them turned to prostitution. That is how they contracted HIV. It is an example Rose does not intend to follow. Although she struggles to earn a living and to send the children to school, she has vowed to remain celibate for the rest of her life. And she brings in a small income by knitting school sweaters for local students.

In our interview, Rose spoke honestly about her life now. So much changed when her husband died. She used to be choosy about the clothing she wore and the food she ate. Now, she wears whatever she can get her hands on. And she eats the foods – cabbage, rice and ugali – that she can afford. Still, she shared with me her favorite recipe for “Queen Cake,” a simple cake made from eggs, flour, sugar, baking powder and margarine. It once was eaten by queens but now is served on special occasions such as a wedding or birthday. In my eyes, Rose is one of the most regal women I have ever met. And she deserves all the “Queen Cakes” in the world.

"Christy" (Finally)

2007-01-17T11:31:00.000-08:00

(Written Saturday morning, January 13, 2007) Today is a day of down time. Joshua and his family are at church – and will be there for three hours or more. Joshua’s second daughter, Margo, was a little peeved with me. I had told her that I would attend church with her today. But, as it turns out, I have work to do. I am putting last-minute touches on the oral histories I have written, and I am writing my column for The Times of North Little Rock.

Friday was a busy, yet relatively unproductive, day for me. Elijah and I walked back out to Mbai. I should have strong legs when I return to the States. Walking six miles three times a week and squatting to pee and bathe should build up my muscles!

Apparently the stern talk I had with Elijah a few days ago has paid off. He finally has stopped calling me “Christine.” Thursday afternoon, as Elijah walked me around Pathfinder Academy and introduced me to all the students who have arrived for the start of the new school year, we argued about my name. He insisted that “Christine” and “Christy” are the same. I begged to differ, pointing out that he wouldn’t like it if I called him by any other name. I also may have threatened to turn around and start walking back home the next time he calls me “Christine.”

But we arrived at Mbai today and met with Judith, the chairwoman of the widows group. She gave us the names of two widows who were expecting us, and so we set out to meet them. After making our way through the countryside along cow paths about a foot wide, we found that neither widow was at home. Each of them was called away for an emergency. One was in town caring for an ill friend, and the other was attending a funeral.

I cannot count the number of times Elijah told me, “That is just a problem you encounter when you go into the field.” After awhile, I told him that I was quite used to such problems, having working as a journalist for many years. Sometimes you show up for an appointment, and the person is not there. That is the nature of the business. I am sure Elijah thought I was offended by the widows’ absence, especially since we had walked so far. But I was okay with it.

I scored a huge victory on the way back to Pathfinder Academy. Elijah and I stopped again for sodas – at the same small shop (Royal Stores) in Kiminini market. I grudgingly drank a Coca Cola before Elijah told me that the shop keeper will sometimes take special orders. I talked to the man, who was thrilled to have our return business, and asked him if he would mind stocking Coca Cola Light (Diet Coke) for me for the next four weeks. I told him that I would likely come to his shop every single day. He agreed to my proposal.

Joy of joys!!!! That shop keeper may be my favorite person in Kiminini right now.

Crystal Light to the Rescue

2007-01-12T05:41:00.000-08:00

(Written Thursday morning, January 11, 2007) Every day begins the same for me. I awaken at 5:30 a.m. to the sound of voices and chickens clucking, and then I lie in bed writing until about 7 a.m. I stumble to the toilet, and then I bathe with the well water provided to me in buckets. Breakfast follows, and popcorn is one of the dishes served. After a week, that still amazes me. But maize is a staple in this culture, so many things are made from it. The mixed vegetables served at lunch and dinner feature maize, and the ugali (a dish sort of like Italian polenta) that everyone here counts as a favorite food is made from milled maize.

I haven’t really missed it, but I have tracked down a source of Coca-Cola Light, or Diet Coke. One of the supermarkets in Kitale stocks it. Problem is I haven’t gone into town very often since I made my discovery. So I am surviving on water and Crystal Light packets.

It appears that I will be spending my Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays conducting interviews, and then spending my Tuesdays, Thursdays and weekends typing up the oral histories and visiting with various community groups.

Far Richer than Material Wealth...

2007-01-12T05:33:00.000-08:00

(Written Wednesday evening, January 10, 2007) Elijah and I made the six-mile roundtrip to Mbai again today. The journey there was a piece of cake. It was 10 a.m., and the sun had not yet reached its full strength. The trip back, however, was a different story. I finally convinced Elijah to stop at Kiminini market so we could purchase a couple of cold sodas.

I interviewed two women today. They welcomed me into their homes, nicely answered all of my questions, and shared their problems with me. The women’s homes were extremely modest, constructed using wood frames and mud mixed with cow dung. The homes had only two or three rooms, and were furnished with tables and chairs most of us Americans would toss in the trash bin. But, though they have little, these women are very proud. They go to the trouble of planting colorful flowers around their homes, and they do the best they can to provide for their families.
The first woman I interviewed today has truly struggled to support her children since her husband died. Yet she made room in her home and in her heart for a 1-year-old nephew whose mother abandoned him and whose father is HIV-positive. The people I have met have impressed me with their generosity. They may not have material wealth, but they are far richer than most of the Americans I know. They will gladly share everything they have with a stranger from another country, and they look out for one another. They are hard working, caring and grateful for every slice of bread they have.

Education has been a recurring theme in my work so far. The women I have interviewed have attended but not finished school because of financial hardship. Their greatest hope for the future is that their children will be able to obtain a quality education. In Kenya, primary school is free. However, parents must pay to send their children to secondary school. Few of these widows can afford the school fees. Neither of the women I met today is able to send her children to school. In fact, the children showed up for the first day of school only to be turned away. These children desperately want to be sitting in a classroom, but lack of money prevents them from doing so.
We are so lucky in the United States to have free public education through grade 12. But we take it for granted. When I hear these women lament that they cannot afford tuition and the pain on their children’s faces when they talk about how much they would like to be in school, I realize how petty we Americans have become. What a luxury it is for American children to be able to ride a bus to school rather than walk many miles; for our children to have their text books provided to them; for our children to attend classes in a building at all, regardless of its condition; for our parents to take their children shopping for school clothes and supplies; for our teachers to demand more money – and get it; for our administrators and government officials to be bothered about test scores.

We may be unhappy with the state of public education in the United States, but it is far worse in Kenya. Criticize if you will, but there are millions of children here who would give anything to walk in the shoes of an American student.

Mbai Widows Saving & Loan

2007-01-12T05:25:00.000-08:00

(Written Wednesday morning, January 10, 2007) I have been in Kiminini for nearly a week now, but I am not sure that I am adjusting very well. Everything seems to be getting harder, and the weather seems to be getting hotter. Simple things like going to the toilet, bathing and eating are becoming tiresome. Frankly, I hate trekking across the yard to pee in a hole in the ground. I long for a real shower, and I just do not feel like eating so much when I am hot and tired. Kenyans eat so much food! Every time I sit down to eat, Joshua chides me for taking small portions. But most of the time, I am hot and sweaty. Elijah and I have walked some distance every day this week.

Yesterday, Elijah and I attended a meeting of the Mbai widows group. It was an experience I will never forget. Only 11 of the members were in attendance, and each made me feel very welcome. The women were still conducting their business when we arrived, so I was able to see first hand how “table banking” works. They may not participate in the institutional banking system, but their processes and rules are quite formal. The women who receive loans even sign what amounts to a promissory note, which details how much money she is borrowing, how much interest she will pay and when she will pay back the loan.

After the women finished their business, they came up to me one by one, shaking my hand and welcoming me to their circle. Elijah then talked to them about the oral history project. Of course, every word of what he said as in Swahili. So I did not understand a single thing. But the smiles on the women’s faces said everything I needed to know. They were receptive to the idea of sharing their life stories with me.

Singing is apparently a very important part of the culture here, particularly for the women. By the time the widows’ meeting had ended, the women had sung two songs and prayed for a very long time. I kept hearing my name (“Christine”), but I did not know what they were saying about me. As Elijah and I left the meeting place, he explained that they had thanked God for sending me here from the United States. I am the first white person to visit them, and they thanked God for such a miracle. They had never before considered sharing their life stories with their children, and they were grateful someone was willing to take the time to document this information. They thanked God for finally giving them hope for the future.

It was a very humbling experience. Of course, I am here because my master’s degree program requires that I complete an overseas internship. And I chose this particular project because it would benefit people in the community. But I never imagined that it would mean so much. I never imagined that I would be embraced so warmly or that people would view my work as so important. When I think about what these women are going through, I am ashamed for feeling inconvenienced by the toilet and the heat.

The Mbai Widows Group

2007-01-10T09:51:00.000-08:00

(Written Monday evening, January 8, 2007) I am afraid that I will forever be known in Kiminini as “Christine,” the 30-something American who has shamed her family by not having children. For some reason, people here cannot say – or choose not to say – the name “Christy.” When I introduce myself, they insist on calling me “Christine” because they think I have shortened my name from that. I tried a few times to explain that my birth certificate actually reads “Christy,” but to no avail. People here are very adamant. Once they believe something, it is very hard to change their minds.

Elijah, who is serving as my translator on the oral history project, brought up the children issue today as we set out for Mbai, a small village with a brand new widows group, the members of which will be the subjects of my oral history work. He asked how old I am and how long I have been married. I told him, and he seemed shocked. First of all, he said, I look like I am in my 20s (Yeah!!!!). Second of all, he said, Kenyans who are married for nearly eight years and do not have children bring shame upon their families. Here, the sole purpose of marriage is to have children. If a man and a woman marry, and the woman cannot or will not produce children, then the man has every right to seek a divorce. In a bid to defend my gender, I countered with a question – “What happens if it is the man, not the woman, who is unable to produce children?” Apparently the woman is just stuck in the marriage. Elijah said that women are not allowed to talk about their relations with their husbands. End of discussion.

Elijah and I walked nearly 6 miles today. We trekked through three villages and crossed a rickety wooden bridge spanning Kiminini River (which feeds into Lake Victoria, by the way) on our way to Mbai to meet Judith Watulo. Judith is the founder and chairwoman of a widows group with 22 active members. Mbai did not look like much of a village to me – just a few houses dotted the landscape. But Judith was friendly and cooperative when we told her about the oral history project. In fact, she agreed to be my first subject.

According to Elijah, the number of widows in Kenya is growing due not only to AIDS, but also to traditional beliefs and practices. In the early half of the 1900s, it was quite common for a man to take multiple wives. When he died, he would leave all of these wives and their children behind. During the second half of the 1900s, polygamy started to become less common. Growth in the poverty rate made it prohibitive for a man to provide for more than one family. Of course, by this time, AIDS was rampant.

Judith was 14 when she married her 62-year-old husband in 1974. She was the last of his four wives. Judith’s husband died in 2002 at the age of 90, and she has been forced to provide for her family (she has seven children) ever since. She founded the Mbai widows group in 2003.

The women meet every Tuesday afternoon, and they provide financial as well as emotional support for one another. They engage in “table banking,” a form of lending that involves no financial institutions. When the women come together, they discuss their hardships. Then, they pool their money and make loans to members of the group. These loan recipients use the money to generate an income. She might buy goods that she can resell at the market. Or she might purchase seeds so she can plant a crop, harvest enough to feed her family, and then sell the surplus. When it comes time to repay her loan, the woman pays the principal amount along with interest. This money goes back into the pool (which now has grown thanks to the interest) and is loaned to others in the group.

There is no government support for these women. In some cases, the women lose everything because members of the man’s family show up to take what, they believe, is rightfully theirs. And there is no welfare system in Kenya. If a woman cannot depend on her family for help, and she cannot make her own living, then she is just out of luck. Or forced into prostitution.

This is why people like Joshua work so hard to educate Kenyan girls. Still, a girl with an education is at the mercy of her husband. If she marries a man with traditional beliefs, then she must remain at home, cooking, cleaning and caring for the children she will pop out every couple of years. And so, despite educators’ efforts to improve the lives of Kenya’s young people, the cycle of desperate widows continues.

His Name is Joshua: Leader, Teacher and General Contractor

2007-01-10T09:39:00.000-08:00

(Written Monday morning, January 8, 2007) As I become more comfortable with Joshua and his family, I am starting to ask questions. Joshua and his family belong to the Luhya tribe, the second largest tribe in this area. Joshua studied sociology and psychology at university and is a mere 39 years old. His passion for and dedication to community development are admirable.

Joshua began building Pathfinder Academy in 2001. His compound sits on approximately 9 acres of grassy land. He wears many different hats. The people in the community refer to him as teacher, preacher and doctor, to list just a few of his nicknames. Joshua does not teach at Pathfinder; he runs the place. And he is under immense pressure this school year. This is the first year that he has offered grade 8, and the students in that grade will sit for the national exams this spring. In Kenya, the national exams determine a child’s future. If one does well on the national exam, then he is routed to a prestigious high school, which almost guarantees that he will attend college. If one does not do well on the national exam, then he will be sent to a mediocre high school, and he has almost no chance of receiving a college education. Joshua tells his own children that if they do not do well on the national exam, then he will not pay for them to go to a mediocre high school. Secondary education is not free; parents must pay for it. In his opinion, it is a huge waste of money to send a child to a high school that will not pave the way for college. Better would be for the child to finish grade 8, learn a trade, and then begin working.

The new school year begins Wednesday. Joshua does not yet know how many students he will have. He finished last school year with 293 students, the majority of which are girls. The curriculum at Pathfinder includes traditional academic subjects such as mathematics, science and English, as well as life skills training, which includes biointensive farming and family planning. Joshua stands as a pioneer in that area. Topics such as birth control are considered taboo in this culture. But considering that Kiminini lies in Nyanza Province, which has the highest rate of poverty and HIV/AIDS in Kenya, Joshua believes it is important to teach especially the girls how to protect themselves.

Joshua also is very open with his own daughters about family planning. And his family has first-hand knowledge of how devastating HIV/AIDS can be. One of Mama Sandra’s brothers (Barbara’s father) is HIV-positive. According to Joshua, the family began to notice that the brother was ill. After much coaxing, the brother visited a local doctor to be tested for HIV. Of course, the test results were positive. But he refused to believe the doctor. Therefore, he refused to take antiretrovirals. It took a trip to a hospital in Uganda to convince the brother that he was, indeed, infected. He now is taking medication, and his daughter Barbara lives with Joshua.

Many of the students who attend Pathfinder Academy are orphans (children who have no parents) or vulnerable children (children whose parents cannot provide for them because of illness or poverty and children who have been abandoned). Joshua is considering building an orphanage because, as a community leader, people come to him for help when a child is in need. He has been able to place several abandoned or abused children in the homes of friends.

2007 is going to be a busy year for Joshua. He has received several grants for construction projects that must be completed by the end of the year. His plans include building seven new classrooms, a second dormitory and a new kitchen. All of this construction will require close to 35,000 bricks, all of which are being made by hand here on the school grounds. It is a cost-saving measure that allows Joshua to get more bang out the bucks he is receiving. Otherwise, he would be able to build only one classroom, the dorm and maybe the kitchen.

Joshua has partners and supporters all around the world. Wisely, he has linked his Web page to the Web sites of two U.S. organizations, one Canadian organization and one Dutch organization. This maximizes his exposure, and gives him more funding avenues. For instance, a man from Singapore is donating the money Joshua will use to build the new classrooms.

But Joshua’s work extends far beyond the Pathfinder Academy compound. He teaches health and nutrition classes to adults; provides seeds, food and other necessities to the families of his students (what he calls “home-based” care); teaches local farmers how to maximize production so they can feed their families and earn an income by selling their surplus; and supports several area widows groups as they strive to establish small businesses of their own. His work is difficult, and his days are long. He often skips meals, and he sleeps very little. These are the hallmarks of dedication, and I feel confident that Joshua’s family is proud of him.

An Enjoyable Area to PASS Through

2007-01-10T09:37:00.000-08:00

(Written Sunday evening, January 7, 2007) Kiminini is a tiny farming village located in what is known as Kenya’s western highlands. It is comprised of many small dwellings and a market that teems with people in the afternoons. The markets in Nairobi are geared toward tourists, offering beaded jewelry, carved figures, hand-made drums and other such items for sale. Kiminini does not receive many tourists (in fact, Lonely Planet’s Kenya guidebook advises that this area “can be an enjoyable area to pass through” on your way to Uganda). So the offerings at Kiminini’s market are limited to clothing, household items and foods for the locals.

Kiminini sits against the backdrop of Mount Elgon, the fourth tallest mountain in Africa. The tallest mountain in Africa is Mount Kilimanjaro (19,340 feet), which sits on the border of Kenya and Tanzania and is claimed by Tanzania; the second tallest is Mount Kenya, which rises 17,000 feet and has a permanent snow cap; the third tallest mountain is located in Uganda. Mount Elgon straddles the border of Kenya and Uganda, and it is claimed by Uganda. Elgon is an extinct volcano. It is supposed to look like a woman’s breast, but I think men say that about every mountain. Still, it features hot springs, as well as elephants that dig salt out of the caves on the eastern slope.

A Day of Rest

2007-01-07T08:01:00.000-08:00

(Written Saturday evening, January 6, 2007) I feel like a slug today. For Joshua's family, Saturday is a day for worship and rest. They are Seventh Day Adventists and attend a church within walking distance from the school grounds. Gloria and I were left to our own devices for most of day, and we spent the bulk of our time reading. Gloria, who walks six miles a day in Central Park, took a couple of short strolls. And I swept the floor of our hut, tried to shoo a curious heifer away from some wet laundry, and chatted with the children after church.

Joshua and his wife have four children. Sandra is 11; Margo is 9; John is 7; Tracy is 4 ; and Shana is 2. Each of the children is named after one of Pathfinder Academy's Western supporters. Three of Mama Sandra's nieces also are staying here. Barbara, who is 14, is the daughter of one of Mama Sandra's brothers. Esther, 16, is the daughter of one of Mama Sandra's sisters. And Patricia, who is 19 or 20, is the daughter of another of Mama Sandra's sisters. Mama Sandra is one of 10 children, two of whom have died.

The children are beginning to warm up to me. Margo is especially outgoing. After dressing for church, she came into my hut, took both of my hands, and invited me to go to church with her. I had no idea that Saturday was church day, so I really was not mentally prepared to spend two hours (or more, as it turned out) listening to a sermon. I told her that I would go with her next time. When she returned home she filled me in on everything the pastor had talked about. I was impressed that she had paid such careful attention to the sermon. When I was 9 years old and sitting in church, I was probably getting dirty looks from my mother for being fidgety.

Margo, Barbara and I spent some time chatting before the other children returned home. Some neighbor children showed up, and then the games began. They squealed with laughter as they played Hide-and-Seek for what seemed like hours.

Joshua warned Gloria and me that we should take advantage of this down time. Next week, we start our work. I think the first thing on my agenda is to visit a widows group in a nearby town. I am looking forward to working. The last two days have felt like a vacation to me. And that is certainly not why I endured a 10-hour bus ride from hell. Yes, I am still dwelling on that.

Popcorn for Breakfast

2007-01-07T07:52:00.000-08:00

(Written Friday evening, January 5, 2007) Since I woke up so early this morning, I sat in bed and did some writing. I will try to write something every day so I do not forget anything. At 8 a.m., a smiling girl named Esther tapped on my and Gloria's door, announcing that our bath water was ready.

The grounds here at Pathfinder Academy basically are divided into two sections - a living section, where Joshua and his family (his wife Mama Sandra and four children Sandra, Margo, John, Tracy and Shana) reside and the school grounds. The living section is comprised of the family's four-room, mud-wall home; two volunteer huts; another living quarters; an unfinished hut used to store maize; and an outhouse with three stalls - two for "taking care of business" and one for bathing. Esther, Mama Sandra's 16-year-old niece, prepared my bath water by mixing cold and hot water together in a pink tub until it was the right temperature for me. Then, I took my tub of water into the bathing stall, undressed and began washing.

Joshua is actually in the process of building a real shower. He keeps saying it will be ready in a few weeks. If you convert that into Kenyan time, then it will not be complete until after Gloria and I are long gone! In the meantime, though, Gloria brought a 5-gallon, solar camping shower. We prepared it today and look forward to having warm showers in the morning.

I have always been curious about the breakfast habits of various cultures. I often wonder about rice. It is a staple food in most parts of the world, but do people really eat it for breakfast? Gloria and I take all our meals inside Joshua's home. We and the men gather around two coffee tables. Mama Sandra and her daughters wander in and out, but I have no idea what they do while the rest of us are eating. Anyway, breakfast today consisted of boiled potatoes, sliced pineapple, bread with peanut butter and jam, roasted ground nuts (otherwise known as peanuts) and popcorn. I thought popcorn was one of those foods our mothers told us we could not have for breakfast. But at Pathfinder Academy, it is standard morning fare.

I learned all sorts of interesting things during breakfast. We dined with Joshua and his assistant, Elijah, who desperately wants to study agronomy in the United States but cannot find a sponsor (in order to attend university in the United States, international students must keep several thousands of dollars on deposit at a U.S. bank in order to demonstrate that they have the means to support themselves, and poor students typically try to find sponsors who will loan them that money). They told us all about the Lua tradition of renaming a woman after her first-born child. Mama Sandra's name is not Sandra at all. Her eldest child is Sandra, so she will forever be known as Mama Sandra, or Mother of Sandra. It is a way of letting people know she is married and has children. It also is a title of respect for her role as a mother. And if there are two women in a village with eldest daughters called Sandra, then the women pick out some defining characteristic and add that to their moniker. For instance, if the women are of different heights, then one might be called Short Mama Sandra, and the other might be called Tall Mama Sandra. And that is how they are known throughout the village. People typically forget the women's original names. Even their own children may not know the women's birth names.

I also discovered that my 10-hour bus ride from Nairobi to Kitale must be the longest trek in the world! I am closer to Uganda than I am to Nairobi. Uganda is only a 90-minute drive away. Joshua said that I could drive through four south African countries in the time it took me to get to Kitale. And Zambia, which is where Victoria Falls is located, is just a two-hour flight away. I have always wanted to see Victoria Falls, and you do not need a visa to enter Zambia. However, I do not think I am brave enough to go to Zambia alone.

After breakfast, Elijah gave me a long tour of the compound and the surrounding area. Joshua began building Pathfinder Academy in 2001, and it consists of a boarding school for 300 students. Not all of the children board here, of course. Only the ones who come from far away. Elijah said some children come from as far away as 150 kilometers (or about 94 miles). Students who live 7 or 8 kilometers (4 or 5 miles) away sometimes take a boda boda, or a bicycle that has been outfitted with an extra seat on back so the driver can ferry passengers, to and from school. Many others just walk. I admire their dedication to education. I doubt many children in the United States would walk 8 to 10 miles roundtrip to school.

Joshua also has established a biointensive garden on the grounds. It serves many purposes, not the least of which is to provide food for the family and students. However, it also is used to teach the students and local farmers how to grow food without chemicals and how to increase production so they can generate an income by selling the surplus. Those who tend the garden employ techniques such as double tillage and crop rotation in order to decrease water use and to replenish nutrients in the soil, respectively. They grow avocados, bananas, beans, cabbage, kale, maize and squash, to name just a few.

Elijah continued our tour by taking me to a clay pit, where several young men are in the process of making bricks for a few new buildings. It was fascinating to watch them working down in this pit, where they scooped up wet clay, pressed it into rectangular molds, and then placed the wet bricks out in the sun to dry. They cover the stacks of bricks with straw so that they will not crack under the sun's intense heat. After a few weeks, they will remove the straw and build fires beneath the stacks of bricks. The fires bake the bricks and make them sturdier.

There are many different kinds of animals at Pathfinder. Chickens, cows, dogs and sheep wander around freely and provide necessities such as eggs, milk, cow dung (which is used as fertilizer as well as for flooring) and meat. Elijah said that nothing is useless. I asked him about twinning in sheep. I know that goats often give birth to twins. Elijah said they have found that if they alter the diets of these animals - basically feed the female and male sheep more protein before they mate - that they are more likely to bear twins. He said that scientists are experimenting with this in humans, as well.

He also told me about a nearby research center that focuses on animal deformities. Poor farmers find it difficult, expensive and time consuming to care for a dog born with, for instance, only three legs or a horned animal with the horns growing out of its mouth rather than out of the top of its head. So they tend to mistreat or abandon these animals. The research center will accept deformed animals, and then care for them and study them in order to prevent such deformities from occurring in the future. I must see this center. It sounds fascinating.

The community surrounding Pathfinder is quite small and obviously poor. However, they are rather lucky on one point. There is a nearby spring that yields fairly clean water. The pool has only a thin film of bacteria on it. I have seen much worse. The typical family uses about 50 liters of water per day. That increases to approximately 100 liters on laundry day. Of course, before they consume the water, they must boil it to kill the bacteria.

Everyone I have met has been very friendly. As Elijah and I were walking, children kept shouting, "How are you?" at me. That is the first English phrase they learn, so they are quite excited to use it. It is cute at first, but there are only so many times you can say, "Fine, thank you," before getting tired of it. I also met Elijah's grandfather, an elderly man who rode past us on a bicycle. He speaks no English but, thanks to Elijah, I was able to ask him "Habari?" (How are you?) in Swahili and tell him "Asante sana" (Thank you very much) when he welcomed me to Kiminini. Elijah has vowed to teach me even more Swahili.

After the walk, I joined Gloria under a tree, where we watched the children play before they took their baths. Then we gathered in Joshua's house to eat lunch. A young man named Kevin, who grew up here but now is studying sociology at a university in Ghana, joined us. We dined on peas, rice, cabbage and mango.

Later in the day, Joshua drove Kevin, Gloria and me into Kitale, where we checked our email and ran errands. Weekends around here are very slow. We can pretty much do anything we want to do, and I will probably try to get some rest. The students return to school next week, and I will begin my oral history interviews. I am sure that the work and the blazing sun will converge to drain me of my energy. It is not especially hot here yet, probably in the 80s. But we are near the equator and, therefore, much closer to the sun. So, despite my best efforts, I already am a bit sunburned on my chest and the backs of my hands (I have been wearing long sleeve shirts, so those were my only two uncovered spots). I vow to do a better job of applying sunscreen in the future.

Sunrise over Kiminini

2007-01-05T10:28:00.001-08:00

(Written Friday afternoon, January 5, 2007) Collins and I arrived in Kitale at nearly 7 p.m. yesterday. We made quite a pair - the both of us were dazed, jostled and sore. We laughed at our spaghetti legs as we disembarked at the bus station. I was shocked to find that my luggage was still in tact after all that bouncing around. And, as we stretched our legs, a man walked up to us and introduced himself as Joshua Machinga, who would be my host at Pathfinder Academy in Kiminini village.

Joshua took one look at my bags and said he would bring the car to us. As he pulled around the bus, I was pleased to see another American sitting inside the car. Gloria is retired and from New York City. The 81-year-old grandmother signed up with Village Volunteers after meeting the founder of a Kenyan orphanage. She will be my hut mate for the next few weeks before returning home.

Joshua insisted on taking us weary travelers to eat at a local hotel. Gloria, who is being as cautious as she can when it comes to the food, opted not to eat. But I was ravished; I hadn't eaten since 6:30 Thursday morning, when Junior prepared toast, tea and mango juice. I ordered a Coke - the first one I have drunk in decades - because there was no Diet Coke. And I had rice and vegetable curry, which was decidedly Kenyanized. After our meal, we drove Collins to three different bus companies, searching for an available seat back to Nairobi. He insisted on returning home that night, arguing that night travel is easier and shorter because there is so little traffic.

After depositing Collins on a bus that, unfortunately, resembled the one we arrived on, Joshua, Gloria and I set out for Kiminini, which is about a 30-minute drive from Kitale. It was dark and I was bleary eyed, so I didn't see much. But when we arrived at the compound, I was delighted to find out that my hut has electricity. It is a simple, round building with a concrete floor and a thatch roof. The windows are real glass windows that can be opened, and the door is a sturdy wooden door that can be locked. The hut is furnished with two twin beds, mosquito nets, three bedside tables and a dining table with two chairs. I will be living out of my suitcases since there is no bureau.

Mere moments after arriving at the compound, I began to realize how challenging life is going to be for the next three months. We have no toilets, so I had to use a pit latrine. After riding in a bus for 10 hours, it was extremely difficult to squat and aim for the hole, all the while holding my flashlight in my mouth, my pants in one hand and my roll of Charmin in the other hand. Somehow I managed. Gloria said it is okay to pee on the ground outside our hut at night, but that is a concept I will have to get used to.

We have no running water, either, so I washed my face with a pre-moistened facial wipe. And I brushed my teeth while standing beneath the stars, using bottled water to wet my toothbrush and spitting my toothpaste on the ground. Thank God it was not raining!

I poked around in my suitcases for a while, trying to figure out where things were, before going to bed at about 11 p.m. I drifted off to sleep quickly, and have absolutely no memory of dreaming. I was finally awakened at 5:30 this morning by the sound of a radio and a cow roaming around outside. People rise early in Kenya, so I believe I am going to be seeing quite a few sunrises during my stay here.

Absorbing the Shock

2007-01-05T10:26:00.001-08:00

(Written Friday morning, January 5, 2007) I imagine that traveling across Kenya by any means of transportation is an experience. But the bus ride to Kitale proved to be extraordinarily interesting and grueling. When visiting Kenya, the first thing an American must do is shed his notion of personal space. There is no personal space in a place where more than a million people reside in side-by-side, 10-foot-by-10-foot slum homes with rusted tin roofs. Thus, when I arrived at the bus station, I had to quash any feelings of claustrophobia I may have had. It seemed that everyone catching a bus Thursday morning was standing shoulder to shoulder along the sidewalk outside the terminal. Collins explained to me that the public announcement system usually does not work, so people stand outside in order to see their buses arriving.

Our bus showed up an hour later than expected. By the way, when visiting Kenya, the second thing an American must do is shed his notion of time. I do not understand why people here even wear watches; I suppose it is to give the impression that they are trying to adhere to a schedule.

So, having been warned by Junior that the trip to Kitale may take eight hours, Collins stowed my luggage in a compartment beneath the bus and we boarded. The vehicle, which could seat approximately 50 people, probably would have been retired a long time ago if it were in the United States. I was leery about its ability to make the journey, but I was equally ready to arrive at my destination, unpack and settle into a single place for a while.

Collins told me that the rain generally slows down traffic, and he was absolutely correct. What was supposed to be an eight-hour bus ride turned into a 10-hour ordeal that left my rear end numb and my legs shaky. The first two hours were not so bad. The highway was smooth, and the scenery was so familiar that it put me at ease. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt sure that our rickety bus would make it to Kitale after all. Then, about two hours into the journey, our smooth highway morphed into compacted dirt with patches of asphalt. And then a detour took us onto a dirt road with potholes so big that, if I did not know anything about world affairs, I would have sworn they were created by mortars. I began to see the irony in the shock absorber advertisement I had spied several miles back.

There were times I felt like I was traveling inside a washing machine with a seriously off-balance load. And those were the good times, when I was actually able to see the scenery, to include a group of baboons sitting near the road, leisurely watching the vehicles pass. Then there were the times that I bounced nearly a foot above my seat, which was becoming more and more uncomfortable with each passing mile.

Still, I managed to see some pretty cool things along the way. I find it fascinating that cows and goats will graze just a few feet from the roadway. Personally, I would fear for my life. You just never know when those craters in the road will overturn a vehicle. In fact, I saw one overturned lorry. I was thankful it was not one of the dozens of fuel trucks we passed along the way. To be honest, I held my breath every time we passed one of those haulers. Is it possible for a fuel truck to hit a pot hole and burst into flames? In my mind, at least, it was a definite possibility.

Airplanes, Avocado & a Rooster

2007-01-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

(Written Thursday evening, January 4, 2007) The last two days have been a bit of a blur, my only real activity being sitting on airplanes and trying to catch some sleep when I could. I arrived in Nairobi last night nearly 45 minutes later than expected. The flight from Amsterdam was delayed, though I do not know why. I was one of only a few Americans on the flight. The others were a mix of Africans, Asians and Europeans. I have flown internationally by myself only once before - about a year and a half ago to London, where I met up with my husband, who was taking two weeks military leave from his Iraq deployment. I did not feel alone on that trip; I felt very alone traveling to Nairobi all by myself.

It seemed to take forever for the baggage handlers to unload all the boxes, bags and suitcases. I must have waited for about an hour, all the while wondering how I would find Mark "Junior" Gaya, the Village Volunteers representative in Nairobi, in the throng of people waiting outside the baggage claim area. With my 63-pound suitcase, my 40-pound duffle bag and my God-only- knows-how-heavy backpack finally placed on a luggage cart, I walked outside. It was unbelievably easy to spot Junior - at more than 6 feet, he was one of the tallest people waiting. A huge grin spread across his dark face as soon as I recognized the "Village Volunteers" sign he was holding.

Junior was with his cousin, Collins, who would escort me to Kitale the next day. The two of them loaded me and my luggage into a taxi, and we headed for the apartment Junior shares with his sister Wendy, who was vacationing in the coastal city of Mombasa. Junior and Wendy's apartment was a nicely appointed place by Kenyan standards. The downstairs had a living room, dining area, a small kitchen, a room for lounging and watching television, and a bathroom area that consisted of a wall-mounted sink and two closet-sized rooms, one with a toilet and the other with a shower. There was a similar bathroom area and two bedrooms upstairs. My bedroom for the night was furnished with two sets of bunk beds, mosquito nets and a white plastic chair.

Junior and Collins were extremely nice, never once complaining about having to haul my luggage upstairs and insisting that I come downstairs to eat with them after settling in. Although I was not hungry - they must have fed us three or four times on the eight-hour flight from Amsterdam - I went downstairs to join the boys. I found them in the kitchen preparing a meal of rice, beef, sliced mango and Junior's special avocado juice (avocado, milk, water and sugar mixed in a blender). They were even wearing aprons!

I nibbled on some food and tried the avocado juice. It was divine, tasting much like an avocado-flavored smoothie. The boys quizzed me on everything from my educational background to my feelings about Saddam Hussein's death. I avoided delving too deeply into politics, but Saddam's death and Ethiopia's attack on Somalia were the prevailing news.

I finally fell into bed at 1 a.m., hoping in the back of my mind that I wouldn't oversleep. But that didn't prove to be a problem. It began raining a few hours after I went to sleep, and a nearby rooster began crowing at about 5:30 a.m. After about 10 minutes of trying to shake off the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, I stumbled to the shower and began preparing to go to the bus station.

Happy New Year

2007-01-02T09:46:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year to all. One old wives' tale dictates that whatever you do on the first day of the new year, you will continue to do all year long. If so, then I will be going to sleep early and doing a lot of traveling! My husband and I skipped our friends' annual New Year's Eve bash this year, opting instead to stay at home and catch some Z's. On New Year's Day, we drove to Memphis and spent the night so I could get up early today (5:15 a.m.) and start my journey to Kenya. I am sitting in the Detroit airport at this very moment, waiting for my flight to Amsterdam. It's an eight-hour flight. I have a nearly five-hour layover in Amsterdam before embarking on an eight-hour flight to Nairobi. Yes, I will spend nearly 18 hours in the air. But the journey doesn't end there. Nairobi is only a starting point. Come Thursday, I will catch a bus to Kitale. And that's another eight hours of travel! I am sure to be tired by the time I reach western Kenya, but I am not daunted. I simply think of the HIV-positive women with whom I will work once I get settled in to my thatch-roof hut, and I know that every inconvenience I encounter and every hour of travel I endure are small prices to pay to participate in a program that has and will continue to make a difference in people's lives.

What I Will Miss Most

2006-12-30T20:56:00.000-08:00

From the moment I started this blog, I have planned to post a list of things I will miss while I am in Africa. That list was going to include my husband, my dogs, Diet Dr. Pepper and a bunch of items that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t really matter. Tonight, I discovered what really matters – at least to me. Two of my closest friends hosted a going away party for me, and it was eye opening.

Most people simply do not get it. They do not understand why I want to go to Africa, why this trip means so much to me, why I want to work with HIV-positive women, why I care about what is going on in Africa, why I want to do something about what is going on in Africa. And, honestly, I stopped trying to explain myself a long time ago. At some point – probably after watching yet another person’s eyes glaze over at the mere mention of Africa – I stopped talking about it altogether. It just seemed like too much effort for such little reward.

But I realized tonight that I do have a support system. I have people who, despite what is going on in their lives, are willing to listen. And, without me even noticing, they have taken an interest in what is important to me. One friend watched my face light up last year at a journalism conference, where I met author Philip Gourevitch. She bought his book (“We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families”) and read it just because it meant something to me. And, after hearing that I would be working with HIV-positive women for three months, she went out and learned as much as she could about the AIDS pandemic in Africa.

Some of you may be scratching your heads right now. Maybe you have dozens of really close friends with whom you can share your deepest feelings, with whom you can be completely open. I have spent most of my life trying to hide my feelings and trying to keep my thoughts to myself. I now know that I don’t have to do that anymore. KJ will always tell me that what I am about to do is the beginning of something great, and Kitty will always challenge me to reach higher than my wildest dreams. This is what I will miss most while I am in Africa – the abundant strength, support and encouragement that I receive from my friends.

And yes, Thomas, I also will miss you and the dogs.

Sharing the Journey

2006-12-14T09:10:00.000-08:00

I have been working on my blog, trying to make it as appealing as I possibly can with my very limited technological skills. As you can see, I now have additional pages. Please be patient as I develop the content for those sections. By expanding my blog, I hope to provide you with as much information as I can. On the main page - and on many of the subsequent pages - you will hear my voice and see Africa through my eyes. In the "Tidbits" section, I hope to provide you with other perspectives, as well as information on issues that I might not be able to cover. Please know that I also plan to give the people I meet an opportunity to tell you their stories in their own words. So watch for video footage and audio files. I, from my Western point of view, can do only so much to engage you in what is taking place in Africa. I know that if you hear Africa's voices for yourself, you will be affected in an entirely different way.

I look forward to sharing this journey with you!

Untold Stories

2006-12-13T21:09:00.000-08:00

Life has been fairly hectic since I returned home to Arkansas last Saturday. I have had medical appointments (I am trying to squeeze in a few more vaccinations before I leave, and I am trying to make sure I have enough of my prescription medications). I also have gotten my hair cut so it will be easier to manage, visited the optometrist to get more contact lenses and met with friends who want to hear all about the trip. I still must purchase some supplies, but my husband made me promise to hold off on that. Apparently, family and friends are planning to give me gift cards so I can get everything I need. I am very appreciative for their interest in my trip, but postponing my supply run is driving me crazy! In a normal situation, I would have everything packed and ready to go by this Friday. And I don't leave for a few more weeks. According to my husband, my obsessions to plan ahead and to be prepared are two of my most endearing qualities (Ha!).

Nearly everyone I have visited in the last few days has questioned me intently on how I arranged this trip. So I think it is worth noting here. I must complete an overseas journalism internship in order to fulfill the requirements of my Master of International Journalism degree. Yes, I could have chosen to work in a Western country. But where is the fun in that? I returned to graduate school in order to increase my chances of working in Africa. So that is where I am going. However, I found it very difficult to arrange an internship there. I did not know anyone with connections to the African media, and the networking I tried to do when I was in Kenya last May led nowhere. Also, it was going to be a huge challenge to find housing and transportation on my own. So, after a while, I decided it might be worth my time and money to sign up with an organization that specializes in arranging overseas volunteer opportunities/internships. For a fee, these people will arrange your job, room, board, security and in-country travel. Airfare is not included - but a wonderful group of Baylor people awarded me a scholarship that will pay for my program fee and airfare. Thank you, Dr. Mitchell!

I considered many different organizations, some of which charge enormous fees. And they probably would have provided excellent experiences. One organization could arrange an internship with a major newspaper in Ghana; another could arrange an internship with a major newspaper in Uganda. But I did not want to go to Africa and do something that would benefit only me. I wanted to do something that would allow me to give back to the community that hosted me. I finally found Village Volunteers (www.villagevolunteers.org). It is a Seattle-based nonprofit organization, the employees of which work purely on a volunteer basis. Every bit of the fee I paid will go to the African villages where I will be based. In addition, I really liked Village Volunteers' oral history project. It offers me an opportunity to meet people, learn their life stories (that is my favorite part of journalism), and then put together a collection of photos, writings, tape recordings and other materials that will allow children to connect to their mothers long after these ailing women have succumbed to AIDS. Everyone involved benefits.

The Village Volunteers staff also seem very excited to have a journalist on board. One of my goals is to scout around for stories that I can write on a freelance basis. I feel confident that the Village Volunteers staff will support me in this endeavor. After all, they want the world to know more about what is going on in Africa. Africa is a huge continent with a diverse collection of countries and people. And while war, poverty and disease deserve media coverage, they are not the only stories waiting to be told. My goal is to identify some of these untold stories and present them to you - and possibly to the world.

A New Chapter

2006-12-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

My final semester of coursework is coming to an end. It is a bittersweet time, as I pack up my apartment and head back home to Arkansas for Christmas break. My age made me hesitant to come to graduate school, but just about everyone at Baylor has been supportive of me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would receive so many scholarships and so much encouragement. My graduate school experience has been better than I expected - and the time has flown by so quickly. But I am moving on to another exciting chapter of my life. In less than a month, I leave for Kenya. I am both excited and nervous. What does Kenya hold for me? How will it affect my life? I got a little taste of Kenya last spring, when I participated in a two-week, university-wide mission trip to that country. I didn't go to evangelize. I went as a journalist, curious about the activities of other people on the trip. I followed them to orphanages, schools, slums and other places. I saw children bathing in mud puddles alongside the road, and I met refugee women. I sat on the sidewalks of Nairobi next to street children who were high on glue, and I held tiny babies who had been abandoned by their parents. All of these experiences left an indelible impression on me. I can't imagine the person I will be in April, after having spent three months working with women who are HIV-positive and dying of AIDS. I pray that I can bring them just a bit of comfort. And I hope I can calm their fears about their children. Most of all, I want to give those children something by which to remember their mothers. Something that will remind them of who they are and where they came from. Something that will make them smile years from now, when they read their mothers' oral histories and look at their mothers' photographs.