So I put up a post on the Book of Faces this morning to see if I could guilt anyone into donating money to help one of the local guys I’ve been working with here afford his accounting course fees for this coming semester. As I mentioned in that post (I wonder if anyone has read it because as yet I’ve had precisely zero replies… hmm…), quite a few situations like that have been coming up recently – a few have slid by already and I can see a few more on the horizon heading in my direction.
I wrote previously about perceptions of Westerners here and the instinctive demands for money that you get from little kids as you walk down the street. But this is different – more subtle and much trickier to find the right path through. As I’ve started to develop closer relationships with people, got to know a bit more about their lives and the issues that they deal with every day, I’ve started to realise just how many genuinely worthy causes there are – and just how money really can help if it’s used in the right way. It’s an uncomfortable truth because it makes that line between “I’m here to help” and “I’m not here to give you money” all the blurrier. Someone needs to buy a storage tank for his water shop so he can still sell on the frequent days when the deliveries simply don’t arrive. Someone else wants to re-start a business delivering meals to schools that she had had to abandon after her sister died. A fantastic school and home for HIV/AIDS orphans can’t pay their electricity bills. They want to install solar panels so they won’t have the problem in future – but that costs $1200 and they can’t afford it. And of course there’s young Michel, who might have to stop his accounting studies because he can’t afford the fees – and then what will he do?
As much as we say “I’m not here to give money”, the fact is these are instances where pretty much the most useful thing we can do IS give money. The hardest thing is it’s often not all that much. In Michel’s case, he needs $700. Now, that’s not nothing, but when it comes down to it, I could pay for that myself if I had to. Does that mean I should? Obviously I chose not to and that’s why I put the thing on Facebook – somehow I feel if it’s a lot of people giving money, it’s fundraising, but if it’s one person, it’s a handout. It’s a slippery slope too – if I help this guy out, how can I say no to the next guy?
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Sixth Post
Classic Kite story: on Fridays I’m helping out as a teacher’s assistant at the local community centre. It’s only a ten minute walk so I have a bit more time in the mornings than I do the rest of the week when I have a 20-40 minute minibus ride to work. The variation in journey time is not due to traffic, which is generally very light; it’s some Kenyan thing I don’t understand where some days we will wait at various points for ten minutes or so, occasionally reversing ten metres and then rolling forward again, followed by much discussion in Luo. On other occasions, time will be taken up by three guys trying to strap a hundred kilo bag of grain to the roof or some such. And another thing: why do they wait until the minibus is full before driving the 50 metres back to the petrol station to fill up? Why can’t they do that before taking on passengers??
But I digress. I was telling a Kite story. So I’m up at my usual time of 7…ish this morning, and like a ninja I roll straight into my much-refined-and-now-almost-perfected morning routine whereby I go to the kitchen and put some coffee on the stove, and then, having already had my full bucket shower the night before (an innovation for me), I fill the bucket again with a smaller amount of water, give my face a good wash, get dressed and then head back to the kitchen where the coffee will now just be ready (actually this part is where the routine still needs a bit more refinement – at the moment I’m still getting back to the kitchen about 3 minutes after the coffee starts boiling. And you don’t want boiled coffee, believe me). Then I tuck in to my Weetabix and banana and my slightly burnt coffee, read a few pages of my book and I’m ready to go.
This morning I get all this done by about 8am – less than a one hour preparation time (if you don’t count the 10-20 minutes after 7am that I’m lying in bed thinking about getting up) which is pretty much a miracle by my standards at home. So I have this luxurious 50 minute stretch before I have to leave – unheard of! I settle in to check my emails. Predictably, this is where the wheels start to fall off because of course it takes me longer than 50 minutes to check my emails (internet is very slow here plus I haven’t checked for a few days so there are quite a few. Plus I’m just generally very slow at everything). It gets to 8:45, 8:50, 8:55 and I still haven’t quite finished. I start to be selective and just read the ones that look like they might be particularly interesting. Finally at about 8:57 I finish up, grab my bag and run out the door. I’ll just have to be seven minutes late, ah well.
I get about 50 metres down the road and remember that the class actually starts at 10am, not 9am.
Having magically transformed seven minutes late into 53 minutes early, I head back inside and decide I will use my bonus 43 minutes (plus the 10 minute walk) to write a new blog post.
Then I think “well, that’s an amusing story, why don’t I open the post with that?” Continuing in the classic Kite vein however, my introductory story has turned out to be as long as a whole post in itself. It’s also 9:42am now and this time I really will be late if I don’t finish up in the next few minutes. So instead I’ll try to give this post at least a bit of substantive content by closing with a few miscellaneous tidbits about things I’ve done and seen that won’t fit into a full post themselves. Here goes:
* A couple of days ago, I used a hoe for the first time (careful - that’s hoe with an e on the end – look it up). I sucked at it (remember – ‘e’ on the end) – the head kept spinning around every time I tried to hit the ground with it. The local women who were showing me how to do it killed themselves laughing.
* I was prepared for lots of dust here, but not for the mud (although if I’d thought about it I could have figured it out – it’s the rainy season and what happens to dust when it gets wet? Duh). After a big rain it doesn’t take too long walking around before you are a good couple of inches taller from the mud stuck to the bottom of your shoes. As a result, I am now the proud owner of a wicked pair of gumboots. Weather here has generally been surprising – for example, it’s baking hot during the day but gets quite cold at night. And I’ve seen real tropical rain for the first time.
* A few weekends ago I refereed a soccer game between the village kids and some kids from one of the nearby schools. I allowed a controversial goal which decided the game. Oops. I also watched Manchester Utd beat Manchester City in the last minute of injury time in a tin shed full of about 80 Kenyan men, on a small tv run off a generator whose petrol fumes were filling the room. Awesome.
* I’ve never lived in a rural area before. I was surprised to learn that roosters actually crow all day, not just first thing in the morning. I guess they start crowing first thing, which is where they get their reputation from.
Ok that will do for now, I have to get to the class. And guess what – it’s 9:54am. Late again!
But I digress. I was telling a Kite story. So I’m up at my usual time of 7…ish this morning, and like a ninja I roll straight into my much-refined-and-now-almost-perfected morning routine whereby I go to the kitchen and put some coffee on the stove, and then, having already had my full bucket shower the night before (an innovation for me), I fill the bucket again with a smaller amount of water, give my face a good wash, get dressed and then head back to the kitchen where the coffee will now just be ready (actually this part is where the routine still needs a bit more refinement – at the moment I’m still getting back to the kitchen about 3 minutes after the coffee starts boiling. And you don’t want boiled coffee, believe me). Then I tuck in to my Weetabix and banana and my slightly burnt coffee, read a few pages of my book and I’m ready to go.
This morning I get all this done by about 8am – less than a one hour preparation time (if you don’t count the 10-20 minutes after 7am that I’m lying in bed thinking about getting up) which is pretty much a miracle by my standards at home. So I have this luxurious 50 minute stretch before I have to leave – unheard of! I settle in to check my emails. Predictably, this is where the wheels start to fall off because of course it takes me longer than 50 minutes to check my emails (internet is very slow here plus I haven’t checked for a few days so there are quite a few. Plus I’m just generally very slow at everything). It gets to 8:45, 8:50, 8:55 and I still haven’t quite finished. I start to be selective and just read the ones that look like they might be particularly interesting. Finally at about 8:57 I finish up, grab my bag and run out the door. I’ll just have to be seven minutes late, ah well.
I get about 50 metres down the road and remember that the class actually starts at 10am, not 9am.
Having magically transformed seven minutes late into 53 minutes early, I head back inside and decide I will use my bonus 43 minutes (plus the 10 minute walk) to write a new blog post.
Then I think “well, that’s an amusing story, why don’t I open the post with that?” Continuing in the classic Kite vein however, my introductory story has turned out to be as long as a whole post in itself. It’s also 9:42am now and this time I really will be late if I don’t finish up in the next few minutes. So instead I’ll try to give this post at least a bit of substantive content by closing with a few miscellaneous tidbits about things I’ve done and seen that won’t fit into a full post themselves. Here goes:
* A couple of days ago, I used a hoe for the first time (careful - that’s hoe with an e on the end – look it up). I sucked at it (remember – ‘e’ on the end) – the head kept spinning around every time I tried to hit the ground with it. The local women who were showing me how to do it killed themselves laughing.
* I was prepared for lots of dust here, but not for the mud (although if I’d thought about it I could have figured it out – it’s the rainy season and what happens to dust when it gets wet? Duh). After a big rain it doesn’t take too long walking around before you are a good couple of inches taller from the mud stuck to the bottom of your shoes. As a result, I am now the proud owner of a wicked pair of gumboots. Weather here has generally been surprising – for example, it’s baking hot during the day but gets quite cold at night. And I’ve seen real tropical rain for the first time.
* A few weekends ago I refereed a soccer game between the village kids and some kids from one of the nearby schools. I allowed a controversial goal which decided the game. Oops. I also watched Manchester Utd beat Manchester City in the last minute of injury time in a tin shed full of about 80 Kenyan men, on a small tv run off a generator whose petrol fumes were filling the room. Awesome.
* I’ve never lived in a rural area before. I was surprised to learn that roosters actually crow all day, not just first thing in the morning. I guess they start crowing first thing, which is where they get their reputation from.
Ok that will do for now, I have to get to the class. And guess what – it’s 9:54am. Late again!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The Fifth Post
“Hey, white man!” a random guy said to me as I got off a minibus one day in Kisumu. He didn’t mean it rudely; in fact he seemed quite happy to see me. It’s unusual to see white people walking around and the locals tend to remark on it freely. I reflected that this was the first time in my life that someone had referred to me as ‘white man’. I’ve never really thought of myself as a white man either – never really needed any adjective before. In Kenya, though, I’m very definitely a white man – I stick out like the dog's proverbials and there’s no way you can avoid it. I’ve never been part of a minority before and I think that, while at times it can be uncomfortable, it’s a really valuable learning experience. I’d recommend it to everyone (well, to all white people anyway). Of course, it only goes part the way toward replicating the situation of, say, a refugee in Australia, because the power dynamic is totally different. While I certainly stand out here, I also have the freedom that comes from having money. I’m not a PhD who’s forced to work as a cleaner or a taxi driver, either. Most importantly, I can go back to my own country when I want to.
Mzungu is the Swahili word for a white person (spelling courtesy of the Lonely Planet, but it sounds like ‘moozoongu’) and you come to learn this word very quickly upon arrival in Kenya. A simple walk down the road is always an experience – every ten metres someone is calling this word out, or just saying hello or waving. The kids are the most enthusiastic. It’s always the same thing: either “mzunguuuuuuu” or “how are yoooooooooou?”, to which the only answer they understand is ‘I’m fine’ (I learnt this quite quickly too, after noticing all the blank stares I was getting when I answered ‘good’ or said ‘hello’ back). Interestingly, the local language, Luo, does not have a word for ‘hello’ – the greeting amosi means ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ at the same time. Even when speaking English the following exchange is quite common:
Mzungu: Hello.
Kenyan: Fine.
The kids will call at you no matter how far away. Often you just hear these disembodied little voices emanating from bushes and corn fields, and you end up blindly waving and calling out “Fine! Fine! I’m fine!” in all directions. Now I know how Brad Pitt must feel when he walks down the street (except he probably doesn’t walk through too many corn fields).
Unfortunately quite a few of the kids have learnt a follow-up line, ‘give me money’, which kinda takes away from the fun of the exchange. It’s illuminating in what it says about how white people are perceived here, that even very young children will instinctively make this demand. In Luo culture visitors are treated with great respect, and a lot of emphasis is placed on making visitors feel welcome. So we certainly get plenty of that (at times to embarrassing levels – like when an old lady tries to give up her seat for you on the minibus), but at the same time some people seem to have this expectation that white people should just hand out money to everyone they meet. It’s not that people are lazy or that they aren’t working to provide better lives for themselves and their families, because they certainly are doing that, but there is sometimes a sense of “I’m poor, you’re rich, so you should give me what you have”. People don’t think of that as a demand or even a request; it’s simply a statement of fact, as logical as night follows day. It’s a strange mix.
In some ways it’s a difficult thing to respond to, because we are here to help, we are here because we’re rich and they’re poor. The question is, what is it that we’re doing to help? It’s not even as simple as saying “I’m here to help you make your own money, not to give you my money”, because for the most part giving money is the way people in rich countries help those in poor countries. Make your monthly donation and you’ve done your bit. Of course there is a line somewhere – we generally expect those donations to be more than just cash grants. We expect that those donations will in some way help countries ‘develop’. Finding that line is the challenge – both for us and for the locals.
Mzungu is the Swahili word for a white person (spelling courtesy of the Lonely Planet, but it sounds like ‘moozoongu’) and you come to learn this word very quickly upon arrival in Kenya. A simple walk down the road is always an experience – every ten metres someone is calling this word out, or just saying hello or waving. The kids are the most enthusiastic. It’s always the same thing: either “mzunguuuuuuu” or “how are yoooooooooou?”, to which the only answer they understand is ‘I’m fine’ (I learnt this quite quickly too, after noticing all the blank stares I was getting when I answered ‘good’ or said ‘hello’ back). Interestingly, the local language, Luo, does not have a word for ‘hello’ – the greeting amosi means ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ at the same time. Even when speaking English the following exchange is quite common:
Mzungu: Hello.
Kenyan: Fine.
The kids will call at you no matter how far away. Often you just hear these disembodied little voices emanating from bushes and corn fields, and you end up blindly waving and calling out “Fine! Fine! I’m fine!” in all directions. Now I know how Brad Pitt must feel when he walks down the street (except he probably doesn’t walk through too many corn fields).
Unfortunately quite a few of the kids have learnt a follow-up line, ‘give me money’, which kinda takes away from the fun of the exchange. It’s illuminating in what it says about how white people are perceived here, that even very young children will instinctively make this demand. In Luo culture visitors are treated with great respect, and a lot of emphasis is placed on making visitors feel welcome. So we certainly get plenty of that (at times to embarrassing levels – like when an old lady tries to give up her seat for you on the minibus), but at the same time some people seem to have this expectation that white people should just hand out money to everyone they meet. It’s not that people are lazy or that they aren’t working to provide better lives for themselves and their families, because they certainly are doing that, but there is sometimes a sense of “I’m poor, you’re rich, so you should give me what you have”. People don’t think of that as a demand or even a request; it’s simply a statement of fact, as logical as night follows day. It’s a strange mix.
In some ways it’s a difficult thing to respond to, because we are here to help, we are here because we’re rich and they’re poor. The question is, what is it that we’re doing to help? It’s not even as simple as saying “I’m here to help you make your own money, not to give you my money”, because for the most part giving money is the way people in rich countries help those in poor countries. Make your monthly donation and you’ve done your bit. Of course there is a line somewhere – we generally expect those donations to be more than just cash grants. We expect that those donations will in some way help countries ‘develop’. Finding that line is the challenge – both for us and for the locals.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
The Fourth Post
Kenyans don’t wear sunglasses. While you can buy very cheap sunnies here by Western standards, they are still beyond the reach of most Kenyans (because the shops put them up on the highest shelves ha ha. No I’m kidding I was talking about the price).
(Sorry. I’m truly sorry for that. Please keep reading.)
We were warned before coming to avoid overt displays of wealth as far as possible, so as not to attract any more attention than we already do (I’ll write in the next post about my first experience of being a minority), so one of the things I did in preparation was go and buy a $30 pair of Cancer Council sunnies from the chemist to bring along instead of my fancy Ray Bans. I still feel like a millionaire walking around in them, they’re so unusual here (on top of already looking like a mega-rich tourist simply because I’m white – and despite the fact that I’m wearing $10 shirts from Tarjay). But it actually seems like as much of a cultural thing as a price thing that you never see locals in them.
On weekends here the volunteers often go to the nearest big town, Kisumu, which is about an hour and a half away from the village of Mutumbu where we live. My first weekend here turned out to be a Kisumu weekend for most of the group, so I tagged along. As a result, on the Saturday afternoon I found myself in a park watching a Kenyan rugby match. One of the girls, Kat, had a Kenyan connection through mutual friends back home and he had invited her along to this game – the mighty Kisumu RFC against a Nairobi team, Harlequins, in a semi-final. I asked whether it was the national league and the Kenyan guy said “Yah, something of the sort.” So I’m not exactly sure what that means, but in any case everyone was very happy when Kisumu won through to the final.
At the end of the game, all of a sudden all this beer appeared, served out of the boots of people’s cars all parked on the grass next to the field, dance music started blaring (very cool house mix actually) and the party got started. We met a whole bunch of young funky Kenyans and, lo and behold, I saw someone wearing sunnies! Excited, I pointed out to Kat that this was the first sunglass-wearing Kenyan I’d seen. “What do you mean?” she said, “ that guy there’s wearing them too… and that guy… and that girl… and him… and her…” My unparalleled powers of observation had prior to this failed to notice that, in contrast to what seemed the entire rest of the population of Kenya, the majority of this crowd were wearing sunnies.
Very slowly the penny began to drop as we were introduced to more and more people – this guy’s a professor, this guy’s a magistrate, this guy’s a major in the Kenyan army… we were hanging with the Kisumu elite!
It took me so long to realise this because my idea of the African upper class had been something akin to the British royal family or the Packers – polo and Oxbridge degrees and private jets. But these guys were… well, normal. Just like us really. We sat in the park enjoying some beers for the rest of the afternoon, then went on to this cool outdoor bar for some food and more drinks, danced to reggae (yes, I did – I was in the zone) and watched the football on the big screen. Could have been any evening at home – apart from the reggae of course. It’s an obvious thing to say that we are incredibly lucky having been born in the time and place that we were, and I guess I was aware of that before coming, and even more so since arriving here and seeing the way average Kenyans live, but it was only this experience – meeting the rich kids of Kisumu and realising that we are pretty much the same – that turned this from an idea into reality.
(Sorry. I’m truly sorry for that. Please keep reading.)
We were warned before coming to avoid overt displays of wealth as far as possible, so as not to attract any more attention than we already do (I’ll write in the next post about my first experience of being a minority), so one of the things I did in preparation was go and buy a $30 pair of Cancer Council sunnies from the chemist to bring along instead of my fancy Ray Bans. I still feel like a millionaire walking around in them, they’re so unusual here (on top of already looking like a mega-rich tourist simply because I’m white – and despite the fact that I’m wearing $10 shirts from Tarjay). But it actually seems like as much of a cultural thing as a price thing that you never see locals in them.
On weekends here the volunteers often go to the nearest big town, Kisumu, which is about an hour and a half away from the village of Mutumbu where we live. My first weekend here turned out to be a Kisumu weekend for most of the group, so I tagged along. As a result, on the Saturday afternoon I found myself in a park watching a Kenyan rugby match. One of the girls, Kat, had a Kenyan connection through mutual friends back home and he had invited her along to this game – the mighty Kisumu RFC against a Nairobi team, Harlequins, in a semi-final. I asked whether it was the national league and the Kenyan guy said “Yah, something of the sort.” So I’m not exactly sure what that means, but in any case everyone was very happy when Kisumu won through to the final.
At the end of the game, all of a sudden all this beer appeared, served out of the boots of people’s cars all parked on the grass next to the field, dance music started blaring (very cool house mix actually) and the party got started. We met a whole bunch of young funky Kenyans and, lo and behold, I saw someone wearing sunnies! Excited, I pointed out to Kat that this was the first sunglass-wearing Kenyan I’d seen. “What do you mean?” she said, “ that guy there’s wearing them too… and that guy… and that girl… and him… and her…” My unparalleled powers of observation had prior to this failed to notice that, in contrast to what seemed the entire rest of the population of Kenya, the majority of this crowd were wearing sunnies.
Very slowly the penny began to drop as we were introduced to more and more people – this guy’s a professor, this guy’s a magistrate, this guy’s a major in the Kenyan army… we were hanging with the Kisumu elite!
It took me so long to realise this because my idea of the African upper class had been something akin to the British royal family or the Packers – polo and Oxbridge degrees and private jets. But these guys were… well, normal. Just like us really. We sat in the park enjoying some beers for the rest of the afternoon, then went on to this cool outdoor bar for some food and more drinks, danced to reggae (yes, I did – I was in the zone) and watched the football on the big screen. Could have been any evening at home – apart from the reggae of course. It’s an obvious thing to say that we are incredibly lucky having been born in the time and place that we were, and I guess I was aware of that before coming, and even more so since arriving here and seeing the way average Kenyans live, but it was only this experience – meeting the rich kids of Kisumu and realising that we are pretty much the same – that turned this from an idea into reality.
Monday, April 12, 2010
The Third Post
There are eight other volunteers here with me at the moment. We are all living in the same compound, which is called The White House even though it’s bright pink. Apparently it was white when it was built, but at some point the three main mobile phone companies here went around the district and painted all the shops for free – so the district has a lovely variety of pink and black, orange and white, and green and red buildings.
One of the girls at the White House is a nurse and has been helping out at the local medical centre. Yesterday afternoon we were at a loose end and so she went down there to see if there was anything that needed doing – it was unlikely because apparently there is a local belief that if you go to the doctor in the afternoon you won’t come home. They also don’t go at all on Fridays. Go figure. Anyway we expected to see Kelly back again pretty shortly, but at 6pm she was still there, because a woman had arrived late that afternoon in labour. I say woman – actually it was a 16 year-old girl. It was her first baby at least.
Word of the delivery created a fair bit of excitement back at the compound, and when Kelly eventually showed up everyone was eager for news. Was it a boy or a girl? What was the name? No – she was still in labour. They had thought it was twins, because the mother was so big, but as the labour progressed they realised it was actually just one big baby – a really big baby in a tiny girl. There are no pre-natal screening facilities in the area, so they hadn’t known earlier. They sent Kelly home because it was looking like the birth might take all night.
The next day we finally got the news – the baby had died. It was just too big, and probably suffocated in the birth canal. Again, there were no facilities to do a caesarean in the village. If she’d been at hospital in the nearest city, an hour and a half away, the baby probably would have survived. As for the mother, there is no post-natal counselling or support here – she wasn’t injured, so they just let her sleep it off and then sent her home. Apparently it’s quite common for women to lose their first baby.
There is so far to go for Kenya to get to anywhere near a standard of living where the loss of a first baby is considered anything more than just one of those things. Everywhere you look, there is just so much to do – it’s overwhelming. Where do you even start? Even if parents can afford to send their kids to school, there are no books or stationery. In a crowd of kids walking home from school, those wearing shoes will be in the minority. When I arrived here I was miffed to learn that I’d be sharing a room with another volunteer – I hadn’t had to share a room since I was about eight years old. But in the house next door to us, a family might have four or five or even more people in the same space that we have two. Everywhere you look, buildings, roads and everything else are in a state of disrepair. We’re all over here trying to do our bit to fix it, and plenty of Kenyans are trying too. But how can it ever be more than a drop in the ocean? It’s okay to say, be patient, these things take time – but that would be a lot easier to say if there were clear signs of progress to make you feel the patience was worthwhile. Of course I’m not equipped to answer whether there has been progress here, having been in the country only a week, but the feeling you get is not one of confidence. It’s a bit like Aboriginal disadvantage in Australia – so much effort going towards fixing the problem, but apart from the odd success here and there how far can we say we’ve really come?
I wonder about my own contribution here. I’m certainly learning a lot – the pace and quantity of learning has been so great I can almost see it happening, like watching time lapse photography. The other day I went to talk to the manager of the microfinance program I’m hoping to work on while I’m here. She told me all about the program and I had heaps of questions and she was incredibly generous with her time in answering them all, and I came out knowing much more about microfinance than I did before. Which is great – but aren’t I supposed to be helping them? When I leave here I think I’ll be happy if I can just say that one good thing happened because I was here, that wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t. I actually think if I can do that it will be a real achievement. Baby steps, baby steps…
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Second Post
The Second Post
Amongst it, as Jim would say (hi Jim!). Three days into my Kenya experience, it seems like a good time to come back to the blog.
I feel… incongruous. Sitting in a dusty building in the village where I’ll be living for the next two months, with goats grazing in the courtyard outside, typing away on a laptop. One of these things is not like the other…
This is one of those awkward moments that you get when settling in to a new place/job etc, before you get a routine going, when you’re not really sure what you should be doing and no-one else is either. I spent my first two days in Kenya staying in a hotel in the city of Kisumu, which is about an hour and a half away from here, doing some orientation and sorting out a few basics like getting a SIM card (which I can’t get to work) and discovering where the bank is (which I have already visited three times – even in Kenya I have a talent for spending money). Then this morning we drove out to the village, Mutumbu. We got here around 1pm, so all the volunteers that are living here are out at their work placements. No-one who is here knows which room is supposed to be mine, so I’m sitting in the back of the shop that makes up the front of the house, waiting. Hence the laptop and blog post – though I’m actually not sure I can even post this thing at the moment anyway. I bought a usb modem but the connection is really slow and I have no way of telling how much credit I’ve used. The thing stopped working about 20 minutes ago while I was checking my emails – this may be because it lost the connection, or it may be because the credit has run out, it doesn’t tell me. Oh – and I’m sitting in the dark too. The lights went off just before the modem did. Everyone in the shop took it in their stride.
I find myself making a lot of comparisons to Vietnam, that being the only other developing country I’ve visited. There are quite a few similarities – rundown buildings and roads, and footpaths filled with people selling their wares. Also, while people are clearly not wealthy, there are very few who look completely destitute – in fact it seems there might even be as many of those types in Sydney as there are here, strangely enough. On the differences side of the ledger, Kenya seems (and probably is, statistically) poorer than Vietnam – probably the poorest looking places in Vietnam are sort of the average here. But mercifully Kenya is much, much quieter – the Kenyans are far less fond of the car horn and blasting tacky music than the Vietnamese are. That is truly something to be thankful about.
Amongst it, as Jim would say (hi Jim!). Three days into my Kenya experience, it seems like a good time to come back to the blog.
I feel… incongruous. Sitting in a dusty building in the village where I’ll be living for the next two months, with goats grazing in the courtyard outside, typing away on a laptop. One of these things is not like the other…
This is one of those awkward moments that you get when settling in to a new place/job etc, before you get a routine going, when you’re not really sure what you should be doing and no-one else is either. I spent my first two days in Kenya staying in a hotel in the city of Kisumu, which is about an hour and a half away from here, doing some orientation and sorting out a few basics like getting a SIM card (which I can’t get to work) and discovering where the bank is (which I have already visited three times – even in Kenya I have a talent for spending money). Then this morning we drove out to the village, Mutumbu. We got here around 1pm, so all the volunteers that are living here are out at their work placements. No-one who is here knows which room is supposed to be mine, so I’m sitting in the back of the shop that makes up the front of the house, waiting. Hence the laptop and blog post – though I’m actually not sure I can even post this thing at the moment anyway. I bought a usb modem but the connection is really slow and I have no way of telling how much credit I’ve used. The thing stopped working about 20 minutes ago while I was checking my emails – this may be because it lost the connection, or it may be because the credit has run out, it doesn’t tell me. Oh – and I’m sitting in the dark too. The lights went off just before the modem did. Everyone in the shop took it in their stride.
I find myself making a lot of comparisons to Vietnam, that being the only other developing country I’ve visited. There are quite a few similarities – rundown buildings and roads, and footpaths filled with people selling their wares. Also, while people are clearly not wealthy, there are very few who look completely destitute – in fact it seems there might even be as many of those types in Sydney as there are here, strangely enough. On the differences side of the ledger, Kenya seems (and probably is, statistically) poorer than Vietnam – probably the poorest looking places in Vietnam are sort of the average here. But mercifully Kenya is much, much quieter – the Kenyans are far less fond of the car horn and blasting tacky music than the Vietnamese are. That is truly something to be thankful about.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The First Post
So somebody suggested to me that, if I wasn't into the group email thing (which I'm really not) I should do a travel blog instead. I can't remember who it was, but I remember they told me it was difficult to set up (or I may have misheard). But then Anna Needs told me it was in fact hella easy to set up, and that I should just google 'free blogs' and go from there. So I did. And long story short here I am, in Johannesburg airport with about 30 mins till my flight leaves for Nairobi, and 1 hour 10 mins battery power left on my laptop (I appear to have stuffed up with my international adaptors and so can't charge it), giving it a red hot go.
It being only a day and a half since I left Sydney, not much interesting has happened yet. I arrived in Joburg yesterday afternoon, with an overnight stay before getting my connecting flight on to Kenya. Got through immigration and customs without attracting the rubber glove treatment (still the proud owner of a 100 % record on that front) and got off to my airport hotel without too much difficulty - except that a lot of people kept doing small favours for me (like showing me where the shuttle bus left, driving the shuttle bus, opening the door of the shuttle bus at the other end, etc) in expectation of receiving tips in return. I had to keep saying "I'm sorry, I don't have any cash", which was not 100% literally true because I do have A$70 and $US150 emergency money, but was true in the narrower sense that I didn't have any South African money. People were ok about it, although one guy did say he'd accept foreign currency also - I weighed it up but the smallest denomination I had was US$5 and that felt like a bit too much for walking 20 metres with me to the shuttle bus stop. Note to self: upon return to South Africa, obtain South African currency as a priority.
That will do for the scene setting: here is one little story before I dash off to my flight. The organisation I've come to Kenya with, World Youth International, encouraged me to bring over any old clothes, toys etc that I had, to donate to the community where I'll be volunteering. They have an orphanage there with lots of little kiddies who have very little by way of possessions. Now, I don't have any kids' toys (and they're not getting my ipod); nor do I have any old clothing that would suit the Kenyan climate - even if I could carry it with me. So I did nothing about this request until my second last day in Sydney, when I grabbed a couple of things in KMart - a bucket of playdoh, some crayons and balloons. Still had a bit of an inferiority complex imagining a hundred desperate little kids with a couple of handfuls of playdoh to share between them, but hey, I'm just one man. Anyway the stuff wouldn't fit in my bags so, ingeniously, I threw them into a plastic bag to carry on to the plane with me. If quizzed about bringing on two carry-on bags I could say I had just bought the stuff in the airport.
Fail. The playdoh didn't even make it through the security check - when you think about it, it does bear an uncanny resemblance to plastic explosive, doesn't it? The now diminished bag of crayons and balloons (even less to go round) did leave Sydney with me, but didn't come off at the other end - I left it in the overhead compartment along with all the liquids I'd brought in my carry-on luggage (eye drops and stuff). Those poor kids - maybe they'd be better off WITHOUT me trying to help them?
It being only a day and a half since I left Sydney, not much interesting has happened yet. I arrived in Joburg yesterday afternoon, with an overnight stay before getting my connecting flight on to Kenya. Got through immigration and customs without attracting the rubber glove treatment (still the proud owner of a 100 % record on that front) and got off to my airport hotel without too much difficulty - except that a lot of people kept doing small favours for me (like showing me where the shuttle bus left, driving the shuttle bus, opening the door of the shuttle bus at the other end, etc) in expectation of receiving tips in return. I had to keep saying "I'm sorry, I don't have any cash", which was not 100% literally true because I do have A$70 and $US150 emergency money, but was true in the narrower sense that I didn't have any South African money. People were ok about it, although one guy did say he'd accept foreign currency also - I weighed it up but the smallest denomination I had was US$5 and that felt like a bit too much for walking 20 metres with me to the shuttle bus stop. Note to self: upon return to South Africa, obtain South African currency as a priority.
That will do for the scene setting: here is one little story before I dash off to my flight. The organisation I've come to Kenya with, World Youth International, encouraged me to bring over any old clothes, toys etc that I had, to donate to the community where I'll be volunteering. They have an orphanage there with lots of little kiddies who have very little by way of possessions. Now, I don't have any kids' toys (and they're not getting my ipod); nor do I have any old clothing that would suit the Kenyan climate - even if I could carry it with me. So I did nothing about this request until my second last day in Sydney, when I grabbed a couple of things in KMart - a bucket of playdoh, some crayons and balloons. Still had a bit of an inferiority complex imagining a hundred desperate little kids with a couple of handfuls of playdoh to share between them, but hey, I'm just one man. Anyway the stuff wouldn't fit in my bags so, ingeniously, I threw them into a plastic bag to carry on to the plane with me. If quizzed about bringing on two carry-on bags I could say I had just bought the stuff in the airport.
Fail. The playdoh didn't even make it through the security check - when you think about it, it does bear an uncanny resemblance to plastic explosive, doesn't it? The now diminished bag of crayons and balloons (even less to go round) did leave Sydney with me, but didn't come off at the other end - I left it in the overhead compartment along with all the liquids I'd brought in my carry-on luggage (eye drops and stuff). Those poor kids - maybe they'd be better off WITHOUT me trying to help them?
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