Dream away.

Things have become real for me. And it’s made me quite dizzy. The past week has taken my grandiose theoretical opinions/dreams/ideas and placed them directly under the big yellow bus of the real experience. It’s chizi comma ndizi (crazy like a banana).

On Friday, we visited a non-governmental organization in Eastern Nairobi that helps women living with or directly affected by HIV/AIDS. Part of the organization’s work was to provide counseling through home visits to women enrolled in the program. A staff member and four of us visited a young mother who was staying at her mother’s home. I’d rather not lay out the circumstances, but what it came down to was this: within the past two weeks, an elderly mother had found out that two of her daughters and a granddaughter were HIV positive. And there we were talking with them about it in their one-room home. Talk about intrusive.

My ideas of what it means to have HIV/AIDS and what the disease was all about suddenly took on an altogether human look. My ideas about how to design an effective free-ART (antiretroviral therapy) public health program were cut to shambles. This young mother and her 15-month old baby could not get started on the free ART meds from the federal government because they were both too weak from TB. They had fallen through the cracks of a theoretically amazing HIV/AIDS program. And the reality of the matter is that many people, especially young women, do not get tested until they become very ill. Stigma sucks. If they find out that they are HIV positive they cannot get started on the ART meds because they are too sick from whatever brought them to get tested in the first place. The government plan, most of it funded through USAID programs, was failing this family.

On Saturday, we traveled across town to help with a trash clean-up project designed by a very large non-governmental organizations in the slums of Mathere. This organization promoted youth soccer teams in the community and integrated community service by requiring that every soccer team volunteer for x number of hours in order to be in the league. On paper, it seems like a decent idea, but when it came to the actual clean up, all chaos broke loose. The slums of Mathere are home to a massive amount of trash because Kenya lacks a public waste management system. For an hour and a half, with a team of about 100 youth soccer players and random kids, we attempted to put a dent in this mass of used everything.

Imagine if the surface of Mars was covered in trash of all sorts, some of it burning with a thick black smoke. Throw in a few goats, mzungus (white peeps), and some soccer players. Shazam! You’ve got the product of our hard work. I simultaneously wanted to photograph the scene and felt a sense of disgust that I even had the urge to “aim and shoot”. The whole photography deal has really been nagging me here. To me, the trash clean up scene was a landscape altogether foreign to me. Yet there were homes situated right across the street from the huge trash piles, so what right did I have to capture the dramatic poverty of someone’s life in a photograph? I had no relationship with the environment and the people living in it, and therefore no legitimate reason to photograph anything. I was just this advantaged kid who traveled all the way across the pond to visit this way of life. I could leave the smoke and smell whenever I wanted. But I also really wanted to take some pictures. Photography, I’ve found, is much like an anthropological field study.

Those feelings were exacerbated the next day when one my friend’s host mothers agreed to take us on a walk through the Kibera slums. Walking along the railroad tracks surrounded by hundreds of tin-roofed shops and homes was a very intense experience. Everything is sooooo close. Where people sleep, eat, poop, and threw their trash all seemed to be in the same place. Cramming to the utmost degree.

These real experiences have challenged and complicated my own ideas, perceptions and beliefs about development and the global village. But they also make me think of a phrase I once saw masterly spray-painted on some plywood. It goes something along the lines of; “the hope of a different world shapes how we view today.” There is an opportunity for a different social order, a different paradigm of development, a different whatever.

So, I can feel helpless and disheartened by the realities I’ve experienced, but I can also imagine the possibilities of what could be. And I can run into Victor and Bridget, two neighborhood kids who will find any reason to burst into uncontrollable laughter. Or I can walk through the market and stop to talk with someone who sells vegetables. After a few minutes, maybe I can ask to take a photograph of them. I can also see the vibrancy of life that emanates from the streets of Kibera. And I can see the amazing work of my host mother, who will take in and support anyone struggling with HIV/AIDS. I can see the hope and hard work of Kenyans dreaming of a different world.

Tomorrow, I’ll be traveling to the Eastern coast for two-weeks and will be unable to access the information superhighway. We’ll be staying with families in a rural town called Shirazi, chilling with the Islamic community in Mombasa, and maybe throwing some disc on the beach. Take it easy until next time, and let me know what hooliganisms you’ve gotten into.

Mangoness and Mind Scrambling

Walking through my neighborhood the other day, I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I thought I’d be living in some swanky homestay digs, but I’ve discovered that my homestay family lives in a quaint little home in the Ayany neighborhood of Kibera, parts of which encompass the largest slum in Kenya. It is wonderful. The Ayany neighborhood, though close to the slums, is very safe and secure, just so you know Mom. It’s a hustle and bustle of activity all day long. Kibera is actually a very old area of Nairobi and it wasn’t until the 1980s that the slums started to appear. Even in my neighborhood you can find a number of very upscale homes, if you look hard enough. Mama Angetta, a retired schoolteacher, runs the house with love and discipline. Mama’s biological children are all older and living with their own families around town, but she has an adopted daughter, Mary, who has just started high school. There is also an 8-year old girl named Rita staying with us for a while.

Adoption is a funny concept here in Kenya. Because the idea of the family encompasses so much here, rarely is a child seen as adopted. They are simply part of an already established family whose roots run to all corners of a community. I don’t know if the Uncle Samson who visited yesterday is actually related to my host Mama, but by identifying him as Uncle, his relationship to the family is given a level of significance often absent in US relationships outside the immediate family. The family seems to be the essence of life here, and maybe that’s something we’ve left behind in the US as the accomplishments of the individual becomes the focal point of one’s life. Ya know, a few folks have asked why in the world I would leave my family for so long. The value we place on “going solo” is a sentiment not shared by many in this community.

Though the bucket-basin shower combo is quite superb, shaving in the dark without a mirror at 6:30am can make for some pretty interesting sideburns. And I’ve become a mango-fiend. Yum.

The intricate home security systems here in Nariobi make me wonder if each home with a security guard, steel gate, and a barbed wire fence protects a colorful assortment of gems, jewels, rubies, and gold coins locked away deep inside. Anyone that can afford the elaborate accessories of the “compound” seems to be very wary of the hamburglar. For those less well off, security is still no less of a concern. The “compound” also elicits a sense of curiosity about what lies beyond the tall walls and castle-style defense systems. I’m curious, not enough to climb over a wall topped with a mosaic of broken glass bottles, but definitely a bit curious. We’ve got perfect green grass yards that show off our wealth, they’ve got huge walls and security guards to hide theirs. Hmmm.

After joining Mama Angetta at a massive church downtown on Sunday morning (Catholic mass in kiswahili= total confusion for me) we hopped on a matatu to head back home. While driving through Kibera, something that really stood out to me. Wall art and other forms of graffiti are all over the walls, empty buildings, and sides of shops. Within my small scope of Nairobi, my favorite place to walk by is an abandoned apartment building covered with graffiti of superior quality. The Post-Election Violence of 2007 was most concentrated in Kibera because the losing opponent, Raila Odinga, was from the area. Often conveying a political message related to the violence, this artistic canvas is situated directly behind a trash dumping spot. Scattered across the grass is trash of all sorts, most of it burning and smoking in one-way or another. It’s an intense scene that I can only describe as the Beautiful Commons. A work of art and a defacto dump for all to see.

The past week has been a whirlwind of activity. A whirlwind in a great way, but there’s been some heavy overstimulation going on. Every minute there seems to be so many things I could be doing to make the most of my time here and not take this opportunity for granted. My thoughts become even more scrambled when we discuss our biases and ethnocentric tendencies (basically seeing Kenyan culture through the lens of our own culture) only to go home and see these theoretical ideas take form in our everyday lives.

For example, a young boy orders his sister to get him some mango juice when he is totally capable of doing it himself. I might view his behavior as a sexist action (the male superiority complex is very prevalent here, especially with husband/father figures) that undermines gender equality. Yet in that instance I am judging a Kenyan cultural norm by applying my own cultural background to the situation. Moving away from this ethnocentric tendency doesn’t mean that I condone the practice, but it may allow me to have a more complete experience. I want to see what life in a working class Kenyan home is like, and to do that I need to let go of my biases. Anyway, it’s not my place to judge a family’s actions while I am a guest in their home.

500 Shillings? A bit too spicy.

After two lectures on Kenyan history and society, I can confidently say that I knew zilch about Kenya and the East African region before arriving here. Thanks to an Anthropology PhD by the name of Donna Pido (a very enlightening individual who has lived in Kenya for the past 40 years) we students have discovered that Kenya has become a human magnetic vortex, attracting many ethnic groups from all over Africa for the past 3000 years, give or take a year. The complexities of how Kenya came to be are fascinating and a bit overwhelming. From the existence of an Italian exiled-mafioso community in Nairobi to a large population of Indian proprietiers that comprise the backbone of the economy, the demographics of this country both contribute to its beauty and compound politics that are still fragmented by tribal organization.

If you were to ask a Kenyan about who they were, most would identify themselves as a Kenyan. Yet behind this veil of nationalism, what tribe you belong to is really what matters. There are 42 tribes in Kenya, with the Kikuyu being the most abundant and powerful (President Kibeki is a Kikuyu). Some might say that this number pales in comparison to the thousands upon thousands of tribes in the US, though we would never want to describe our social organization in such a primitive way. Our sports teams, religious institutions, friend circles, neighborhood organizations, and families comprise the tribes we know. It’s funny that we often see tribal organization as backwards thinking when in fact the idea of tribe is simply a social construct designed to embrace the basic human need (and want) to be part of a community.

During our last day in Karen, my curiosity got the better of me and I wandered over to the farm that was on the hostel grounds. Picture the quintessential organic farm that we so desperately strive for back home. This quite diverse establishment was nurtured by the expertise of a farmer by the name of Paul, who, after a brief introduction, proceeded to describe each and every vegetable that he was growing and how you could incorporate it into some tasty recipe. He asked about farming in the US, and the only scene I could paint was that of a farm home to endless acres of corn too mutated by genetic engineering to resemble the maize Paul was growing in one corner of his garden. He couldn’t understand why we needed so much maize, and neither could I.

Anyway, I’m moving in with my homestay family this afternoon. I don’t really know much about my fam except that they’re upper-middle class. It seems that oftentimes the mighty wealthy live right across the street from the mighty poor. I’ve got about a 5-10 minute walk to Kibera (one of largest slums in Africa), so I’m pumped to explore and walk and talk with people.

I just recently went to the local grocery store with one of our Academic Directors, Odoch, the other day. Our mission: find a superb soccer ball. There were plenty to choose from, and we spent about 5 minutes just going through them to see what we could find. Upon finding a nice, but slightly overpriced ball, Odoch said; “Oh, 500 Shillings, that’s a bit spicy.” Just found my new favorite word.

Whoa there Betty!

I’ve made it to the magical land, limbs and all, accompanied by some 15 other fine US students on my program. Though we’ve come to study how development really works, my first impressions of Kenya have been confined to a very wealthy part of town. Amid fleeing from a very slow giraffe named Betty a few minutes away from our hostel, I was able to make out the plethora of mansions dotting the countryside outside Nairobi. The district of Karen is home to the vice president, ministers of all sorts, and a large portion of the mzungu (white) population in Nairobi. Imagine a European-style Hamptons with a splash of colonial fervor. That’s our home for the next 4 days as we get acquainted with this little corner of the world often seen as the capital of East Africa.

Kiswahili lessons gave me a lickin’ last night, but Mama Mary (our language coordinator) has declared that we will be fluent within one week if she has anything to do with it. We’ve been out and about a bit too, kicking up clouds of dirt as we kareem through town in our big neon pink bus named the Jazz Quartet. Interior lighting is provided by a number of black lights. Did somebody say rave? I’ve been a bit hesitant to talk with Kenyans when we’re in town. Even if they speak English, which most everyone in Nairobi does, I’m still a bit intimidated. But I’ve learned that the key to starting a sweet conversation lies in your ability to show respect and pick up on subtle queues. When in conversation, many people living in Kenya tend to avoid addressing a topic, issue, or problem directly. It’s just the norm to dance around and imply a message rather than just say it bluntly. This linguistic tradition perforates all types of conversation, and its something that takes a bit of practice to pick up on. I just really want to walk up to someone, start a conversation, and walk away two hours later having learned all about there is to know about life. But I guess that just takes some time.

Today, we spilt into groups to explore different parts of Nairobi. I got to go on a little excursion to the train/bus station with a few other students. What a hoppin place. We kinda just walked around and talked to as many people as we could. Once you get past the whole conversation-starting dealio, Kenyans tend to really open up, especially if you try and throw a few Kiswahili words into the mix. The bus station was home to an army of Matatus, the legendary vans that shuttle people all over Nairobi at all kinds of breakneck speeds. Generally, a Matatu driver will wait until their van is full of people before they will depart for their destination. The fullness of a matatu defies all rules of physical space as goods and commuters are squeezed into every nook and cranny.

Other groups visited the Kenyatta Hospital, University of Nairobi, and a women’s hospital. We had a marathon discussion afterwards as a big group, which is an awesome mix of students who have had some amazing experiences and who are very passionate about international development work. It really adds another element of learning and growth when everyone around you is so focused and driven towards a common goal, kinda like at Colby. But for me, I’m becoming interested in ideas of the media’s influence on public opinion, especially as it relates to development. Questions of how Kenya should develop seem to be at the forefront of many people’s minds, and the local papers and television stations comment on this topic quite frequently. Freedom of speech in Kenya is very progressive and the two major papers in Nairobi, the Daily Nation and the Standard, can comment and critique on whatever they wish without fear of repercussions by the government. In many ways, the media is able to offer more accurate and holistic perspectives than media sources in the US. For a developing nation, freedom of speech can oftentimes be limited or controlled by the ruling power, but its sweet to see this unique media environment here in East Africa.

Over and out Houston.