When I first arrived in Kenya I was incredibly hopeful of all that I thought I would be able to accomplish. After learning of my placement in Kibera, I knew that there would be a huge opportunity to instill some positive, sustainable change in the community I would be working in because of, in all fairness, all that the people of that community are lacking. I have always held a conviction that, for any real change to exist and propagate, it has to start with children. Even in the case of political demonstrations in Kenya during the past 25 years, 9 times out of 10 it is led by students from the universities of Nairobi. So, to know that I would be volunteering to help better the lives of children living in the largest urban slum in Africa was a privelege of sorts, a chance to put everything that I believe in to practice because of the kindness of friends and family that gave me that chance.
During my first couple of weeks I set out to do what I had mentally prepared myself for a little over a month before my arrival. I took to playing and mentoring the kids at Mama Tunza's, eventually warming up enough to teach some classes. One thing that I will never forget while I was teaching was the fact that the kids were actually on holiday at the time. I was voluntarily teaching the classes, and any students that filled the seats were voluntarily attending class. I could not have been more proud of those kids, because I knew that they knew that their education was their opportunity to get out of the slum and live a better life. And, to bat, no student in that class was any older than 15; wise WELL beyond their years. Like every 'good kid' I've met, I will never forget these students, and teaching them was an absolute pleasure. I remember teaching a science lesson one day on endosymbiotic cell theory, the theory that links together evolution and cell biology, and having the kids recite the technical jargon that is necessary to learn such a theory. It was beautiful hearing their strong Kenyan accents pronounce English words with 5, 6, and 7 syllables spot-on the first time through. They were so bright, and the only thing that outweighed their intelligence was their eagerness to learn. I have seen one of the hardest places to live in the world, and I have seen beautiful children in it want to learn, and smile, and be happy, and live a good life. How these kids ended up in Kibera may have been out of their control, but the rest of their lives was well within their control.
While I was enamored by the tenacity and beauty of these kids, the other volunteer, Danny, and I knew that something was not quite right about the orphanage and it had nothing to do with the kids and everything to do with the staff. The woman that ran the orphanage, Mama Tunza, always presented herself in a less-than-hygienic manner, and knew very little Kiswahili, and even less English. At the time, there were four volunteers total at the orphanage: Hannah and Nathan, a couple of kids from the U.K., Danny, and myself. We were told before by Nathan that, if a volunteer was there to take care of some of the work around the home, Mama Tunza wouldn't lift a finger. The truth of this comment was just the tip of the iceberg, as Danny and I had already gotten a very clear impression of the proverbial shit-storm we had walked into during the first day or two volunteering there. We rarely saw Solomon, 'the social worker', do anything beside sit on a couch and talk to the kids who happened to pass him by, and Derrick (who I will describe in great detail later in this post), 'the head teacher', had about 10 years on me, and presumably those years were not spent educating himself on how to be a better teacher, to say the least. Yes, I knew I was going into the mother-of-all-slums, and yes, I knew that the conditions would be different and very difficult, for the kids I would be working with more so than myself. But, I've been brought up with a clear sense of right and wrong, and I knew in my gut, my heart, and my head that something was very wrong here. There was no clear explanation as to why, even though a number of kids received sponsorships, all of the kids at the orphanage attended 'school' here and they were not sent to boarding or day schools in the surrounding communities. At the orphanage I am living at now, Shelter, it is not uncommon for the students that live here to walk upwards of 2 hours to a school that the Director knows are better-suited for them than the school that is provided to some of the younger kids here on the ground, even though it would save her money that could be used for other needs like clothing, food, and medicine. So, after my first two weeks at Mama Tunza's
, my direction changed.
One day I was in town, sitting around my host mom's house with a lot on my mind, and decided to call up Irene, the director of V.I.C.D.A. (Volunteer Interns in the Community Development of Africa), just to see how some of the other projects were going and to speak to her about my concerns for my own project. Before I could really spit out what I was trying to say, she told me that she was going to visit another project up in Ngong, an area I had never been to before but that I was open to seeing just for the sake of it. She picked me up and we had a nice, long conversation about Kenya; truly nothing to do with what I had my mind on to begin with, but I was open to hearing about this country I had just arrived in straight from the mouth of a native. Eventually we arrived at a construction site where a large foundation had already been dug and poured, and a small set of shacks had been erected that some of the workers were living in. I walked out with Irene and met the workers. Two in particular struck me: Michael, an unintelligent bastard with no ambition, and Lucas, a quiet and smart man that I would, in time, become very good friends with. Irene told me on the walk back to the car that the construction taking place before us was for a new orphanage for the children that were living at Mama Tunza's, a valiant effort to get them out of the slum, into some fresh air, and closer to a primary and secondary school that would be more suitable for a proper education. As soon as I had heard her say this my mind started doing backflips at the opportunity that I had haphazardly stumbled upon, my chance to take part in something sustainable that would improve the lives of the children that I had taken to caring so dearly for during my first half-month in Kenya. This excitement was encouraged by the fact that all of the workers at the site were Kenyans, as I saw an incredible opportunity to understand the life of a native first-hand by working side-by-side with them. I asked her if it was possible to change my project, to move to a place closer to the site and help the workers with the construction. She said that it would not be a problem, and the rest of the car ride was full of conversation about my new opportunity.
Irene informed me that the new orphanage would be run by Mama Tunza, and I immediately began to tell her my concerns about her placing too much faith in a person that I knew to be far less than trustworthy. I felt a bit out of place in trying to explain to her that she would be better off finding someone else to run the new home and simply moving the kids, without the staff, to the orphanage in Ngong. I tried to convince her that Mama Tunza and her cronies were not people that should be given so much responsibility because they would, ultimately, let those people down that had tried to help them. As the conversation continued, my instinct and 'speak-my-mind' attitude were put on the back burner as she explained that a number of people were involved in the project, including a donor from Ireland, that believed that everyone at Mama Tunza's should be moved to the new location. I made the foolish mistake of believing that my limited time in the country kept me from fully understanding the situation I was in, and was coerced to believing in Irene's seemingly unsubstantiated faith that everything would work out. This was a point I would kick myself in the ass over later. Nothing in this world outweighs instinct. No matter how complex a situation seems or what other people may try to convince you of, if everything in you tells you something's right or something's wrong, 10 out of 10 times you're dead on the damn mark, as time would prove for me.
I spent a full month at the construction site working with only Kenyans. Sure enough, Michael proved himself to be, on a daily basis, exactly who I thought he was on first meeting. He took to over-sleeping, playing with kids in the community, and trying to make conversation with me faaaaaar more often than he did any kind of work, in any capacity or definition of the word. Lucas, also, was a man true to his nature. I loved working with him, and when we found breaks here and there throughout the day I talked to him about his life in Kenya, his family that he had left to find work where he could, and about academics, too. I had found out in the first week that he holds two degrees and is well-versed in calculus and the basic sciences. I remember when he and I would work together digging out a road 50 m long with a pick and a shovel, we would take these small breaks to catch our breath and look at each other with this deep respect; we came from completely different places, had different lives, and different perspectives, but when we were digging we were the same. Just two guys digging a road. As much as I enjoyed living at Shelter and being given the trust and responsibility to take care of the kids who fell ill, and working at the construction site with 'brother Lucas', when the group from TARA Projects in Ireland arrived it was a welcome change of scenery. The pace of anything in Kenya is slow, and when it's just two guys doing nothing but digging with hand tools for a month, it's a little tough to see any realy progress over the course of a day or two. But, when the lads from Ireland came, our daily progress was ridiculous. Seeing the progress we were making kept me going, no matter how much I had to drink or how little sleep I had gotten the night before. And being able to walk away with those guys everyday for two weeks, sitting around a bar and laughing and talking about what we had done that day and what would be done the next, did my heart a lot of good. Kenya, and Africa in general, has a way of getting under your skin, but in a good way. It makes you basic, reduces you to what your real nature is, and if you can't hang then tough shit. It's wild, and beautiful, and if you're not ready for it it will eat you alive. As well as I had felt like I had adapted over the past 6 weeks that I had been in Kenya, I was ready to take a break from all of it for a while. Furthermore, meeting Patty, 'the donor from Ireland' as Irene had called him, and getting to know him and his capacity to light a fire under people's asses to get stuff done helped to instill at least a little bit of the same faith that Irene had told me about the day we first visited the site. I began to feel some relief as to how the whole situation would work out and, more so, an immense sense of pride and good fortune that I had my hand in helping to build an orphanage that would improve the lives of 90 kids living in Kibera, from the start of the trip to the finish of it.
One day at the site, my faith wavered. I saw Mama Tunza and Derrick speaking to Patty and could tell from the good distance I was sitting at that Patty was beginning to get tense and uneasy. I continued to watch the discussion and, eventually, saw Patty pointing his finger at Derrick and saying "That's exactly why we didn't put any single person's name on the title deed, Derrick, so this kind of a discussion wouldn't have to happen! This home is for the kids and the staff who wish to move here to it, and it's a gift!" My heart sank. Everything that I had felt and known for the past 2 months had come to fruition in those two sentences, and I knew there would be problems from there. To provide some background to Patty's statement, Irene had assured me when we first visited the construction site that her name, as well as Mama Tunza's, had been placed on the title deed for the land and any property constructed on it. This was a smart safeguard on Irene's part, as she was not completely ignorant to Mama Tunza's corruptibility and wanted to make sure that the land and property could not be sold if Mama Tunza and her possie had complete ownership of it. Either way, I knew that this gift had been given to the wrong woman and, furthermore, people's faith had been put in the wrong people. If there's one thing I can pride myself on in being agnostic and not placing faith in anything beyond what is right in front of me, it's that I've gotten really damn good at knowing when someone isn't worth the time of day, and when I'd be willing to take a bullet for someone because I believe in them that much, and I knew I wouldn't piss on Mama Tunza if she were on fire.
Unfortunately, the construction wasn't finished by the time the group from TARA Projects left, something that worried me a bit. Not because of the amount of work that was left to be finished, which was trivial at best considering all the progress that we had made while they were here, but because Patty was leaving. Kenyans believe very stronlgy in not making public their anger or frustration about a problem, which seems like a decent practice in theory, but leaves those who have been the source of the problem without any real sense of atonement. Also, the Western World, far more so than Africa, believe in accountability. If something doesn't seem quite right, or if someone isn't being completely honest with you when you are being completely honest with them, that shit just don't fly; but, it does in Africa on more occasions than not. I knew that after Patty was gone it was up to Irene to make sure that the kids found their way to their new home, and with a minimal amount of problems, something I didn't think would happen easily for two simple reasons: 1) Because of the half-assed way I have seen so many things done in this country, and 2) because she has a lot on her plate otherwise as the coordinator of one of the strongest volunteer programs in Kenya. After TARA Projects left, I decided to spend the next two weeks working at Shelter helping another volunteer, Carolyn, finish her projects before she left. We made slow progress in the first week, but after the second week everything was finished that she had set out to accomplish. She just left this morning, in fact, and last night she told me that she was happy that everything was done to such an extent that, even if she could stay longer, she wasn't sure what she would do with her time.
This past Thursday night, all of my feelings, intuition, and experiences came to a boil when Mary, the director at Shelter, told me that Mama Tunza and most of the administration were trying their hardest to secure the title deed for the land with the intention of trying to sell the land and property on it, keep the money, and keep themselves and the kids that they 'care' for in Kibera. I had originally set out that evening with the intent of seeing off another group from Ireland, Maintain Hope, on their last night in Kenya and taking a break from all of the work that Carolyn and I had involved ourselves in over the past half a month. Right or wrong, I drank a lot of whiskey that night. I had a decent enough time with everyone, but had the same thoughts in the back of my mind as I have had for the past 10 weeks: Mama Tunza is one of the worst people I have ever met on this planet and deserves nothing but the products of her ignorance. I spent Friday and Saturday working fervently, trying to take stock in the progress I had made in purchasing medications for the kids through the donation from the Lions Club, writing what became a 43 page manual on how to properly use what was purchased, and organizing a medicince cabinet. Ultimately, the work wasn't enough to exhaust me and I lost a lot of sleep last night thinking about the kids in Kibera that I have come to care so dearly for. I walked out this morning after breakfast into a heavy fog cover, feeling like the weather perfectly reflected my mood, and had a cry. It was a shit cry, though, because I knew I felt more angry than exhausted or sad. All I could think about was going down to Kibera and giving Mama Tunza's a big damn piece of my mind, and tearing Derrick apart like a rag doll.
So, here I am, telling this story of everything that I've worked for since I've been here and being without any clear idea of what steps to take next. I can go back down to the construction site, unsure of what will happen to the orphanage I am helping to build, feeling like it is an issue of futility, or I can talk more to Irene and Mary in seeing if there is anything I can do to help with the legal battle they are trying to win, or I can stay at Shelter and just be with the kids here, or I can go to Kibera and be with the kids there, or, or, or.... I need some advice. I trust and love the people that have written in this blog more than anyone on the planet, and I would bend over backwards to be able to just sit with you guys for an hour and talk this over. But, I can't. I'm stuck in central Kenya, stuck at a crossroads, just stuck. I have two weeks left here, and I want to do anything that I can to come home happy, but I can't do that if things stay the way they are, and especially not if I make the wrong decision on how to spend my time. I love you guys, and miss you more than I can describe right now. Take care, and write back as soon as you can.
Zachary
