For the second week in Mbakalo, I was still busy with the ABD project and OVC visits. Mo (however) was busy getting sick with Malaria/a stomach bug. On Sunday (6/7), we attended Simon’s church. A one hour ceremony turned into a three hour ceremony, a very interesting, experience needless to say, but something I will likely avoid (and thankfully am traveling) for future Sundays. We were expecting the church to be close, but it was a 45 minute piki piki ride over a river and through rocky terrain. On Monday (6/8), we went out on more ABD visits to see Catherine’s clients. It was more of the same, with one exception (thankfully). We made it to one of the final homes and met someone who was self-sufficient (although prone to drinking and being unfriendly depending). Fortunately, he was in a good mood that day and showed us his farm. It was filled with about every crop imaginable (sukume, banana, millet [like wheat], maize, peas, carrot, mango, amaranth [I think is what it was called], etc.) planted so there is continuous harvesting and quite a number of livestock (cattle, goat, doves [which were flying in and out of the house, resting on the rafters and walls, a bit disconcerting], ducks, roosters, and rabbits [think I got them all]. He also showed us the roofed stables he has for feeding his cattle (each with their own stall. If we were able to help boost him [i.e. give him money through the project], he was going to buy a new cow [and name it Patmo, naturally].) Adjacent to the stalls was his milking stall, where he put in special feed with molasses (he also makes molasses from the corn stalks) to get the cows to come and stay while milking. He showed us the machine he uses for slicing the grass he buys and the corn stalks to make the feed into very fine mulch. I think he would have been happy to have us for the rest of the day, but Mo had been lagging and (of course) we were late for lunch, so we headed back to Mama’s after getting back to the dispensary around 3 and rested for the afternoon (it was much needed).
Mo tried to join me on Tuesday (6/9) and made it as far as the dispensary, but considering he has been lagging yesterday, threw up after not eating much for dinner, and had a sallow, ashen, sickly looking face, I told him walking probably wasn’t the best bet and to stay and rest (which he did until Thursday). So, I went out with Paul (who is a very quiet and deliberate guy, so it was difficult to converse) to meet Carol and got to ride a bike! (For some reason, no one believed I knew how to ride, and there were many shocked people along the route.) The bikes are heavy and only one gear, but it was nice exercise. Today, I experienced some serious AST (African Standard Time). We arrived at the dispensary a little after 9, then proceeded to have tea and talk about Mo (which was of primary concern, so understandable delay) until about 10. Then, when Paul and I were riding to Carol’s, we stopped at Josephine’s house where she proceeded to step out for a few minutes (to run up to the market) and returned with soda and mandazi. Finally, when we arrived at Carol’s house (who actually called to see where we were [that’s how late we were, albeit it was right as we were pulling up to her house]) past 11, she served tea for us (and naturally tried to offer me a second cup, which at that point [after tea and scones at breakfast, tea at the dispensary, soda and mandazi at Josephine’s, and one cup there], I was inclined to turn down.). We finally left the house around noon and proceeded to visit seven clients.One of the clients was an interesting character. (Had we not visited, he would have paid a visit directly to Carol’s house early the next morning to see where she was.) He wanted me to guarantee and tell him when I would return to his home (since none of his previous had returned yet) and bring him a camera when I do (so he could take pictures of all his visitors). I proceeded to inform him that it might not be for several years since I would have school to complete, but he replied that he might be dead by then so I should come sooner. (This became something of a joke as he walked with us to the next client and continued to ask for things. I would tag on “As long as you’re not dead” to each of my responses. [He found this quite humorous.]) He also wanted me to find a way to sponsor/send his son to school (at Moi University in July), and even brought him in to talk to me and explain the situation. I could only look at the school fees (small in comparison) and explain my situation (student with loans who will still be in rural Kenya come July) in return. I tried my best to offer some suggestions and hope, but I could offer little in the form of assurances. (What do you say to something like that?) The day ended around 4:30 with everyone (except myself) concerned that I had missed lunch again. Simon had someone head to the market for soda and chapo (despite my reassurances that dinner would be soon and I had a lot up until noon.)
Wednesday (6/10), I got to ride a bike again (though I used Henry’s [somewhat lighter] bike because he was carrying Josephine and needed a stronger bike). We visited three clients (all women) with the trend seeming to be unsupportive husbands. From their point of view, it must be a difficult situation, knowing you are not positive (though one refused to be tested) and with a wife that is. After asking questions of the last client we visited, I asked if there was anything else I could help with. The husband (also prone to drinking) wanted me to offer advice with how to deal with misunderstandings that arose. Not knowing the nature of these misunderstandings (and after unsuccessfully asking questions to perhaps learn what he really meant), I advised to be patient and gave some generic, vague answer and then Henry proceeded to spend about an hour counseling them, trying to sort the situation out. (Even though it was all in the Luhya mother tongue, it was an interesting experience. We talked a bit afterwards so that I could be filled in a bit more, but the essential message was that alcohol is very cheap, and when men are prone to drink, it is just as easy to get drunk as it is to provide for the family.) After the visits, we headed back to Josephine’s where we had ugali and eggs (crispy and flakey, and a very bright yellow [since they are so fresh]).
While eating, I had a very interesting discussion with Henry about the respective systems each of our nations has for the poor. He wanted to know if there were specific areas of the country where the rich live and the poor live (the best I could think of would be Beverly Hills and Detroit), but I told him rather than having the nation with specific areas it was more likely that each city has it’s areas (think Indian Hill and Over-the-Rhine). People usually know about which parts are “bad” and usually avoid or ignore it. It’s something of a dilemma because the houses the poor can afford are in the run down areas of town. As soon as the city attempts to improve the area, the poor are displaced because property values rise. Henry also asked if there were people who didn’t have homes. I told him that is also typical of every city, but there are some government funded shelters that serve food and provide a place to sleep. He was somewhat surprised, I think, but nodded knowingly when informed that the services were limited and hardly met all of the needs of even the few people that are able to get served. (It helped that I was able to describe the work at the Drop Inn Center my friends and I had done.) I described to him welfare and the typical stereotypes associated with it (how some people see it as people freeloading and cheating the system and being lazy when in fact it speaks of a far larger problem within a capitalist society and can be attributed to poor education, a lack of jobs [or low paying jobs with a minimum wage far below living standards], and people dropping out of school to provide for families [very similar it seems to the HIV/AIDS epidemic here without having to deal with the disease]). I told him about the distribution of wealth (most of the money being with very few) and many other aspects of life in the US. You can already read about the issues in Kenya.
After our talk, it was getting hot in the house, so we went outside to relax in the shade. Josephine’s two sons (who [in the interim] had been decked out in full sets of jean jackets and pants and a Spidee Man (not a misspelling on my behalf) hat and another sports wind breaker and pant suit and hat with flames] and the other children in the surrounding houses came to see the stranger. It’s amazing what closing the gap and reducing the group size can do to the usual chattiness of the children when they see us passing by. When they came close, it was as if a magical barrier had been placed around me holding them a few feet away and caused them to lose their voices. Not even Henry translating could get them to speak. After snapping their photos (and showing them the results of course), we headed back to the dispensary and called it a day.
On Thursday (6/11), Mo was feeling (and looking) quite a bit better, so decided he was able to get back into work (apparently, being sick and laying around the house lacks any excitement). We started by stopping at the nearby primary school to visit with one of the OVC’s. Here, we were mobbed by all of the students out in the yard, all requesting handshakes and “Hello”s. (This also happened the first time when we attempted to visit [6/5].) In order to get through, I simply grabbed as many hands as possible at once, hoping that merely being gripped would be enough. The visit went as well as could be expected, so we then headed through the market to the Mbakalo slums (I honestly couldn’t tell a difference from the normal houses and here) to drop off some money for an OVC’s mom. During our brief conversation with the mother, a few of the kids from nearby houses would peak in the door and when we turned to look, (or make a face) would run out of sight, leaving a squeal of laughter in their place. We then went back to the market to get a couple of piki piki drivers to take us to see the girl. Simon bargained for 120, but the drivers wanted 150, so we left to find someone for a better price. Luckily, as we walked onto the road, a driver from the area we wanted (Martin) stopped and agreed to 120 as one of the two from the market came so he wouldn’t lose out on a deal (and continue to sit in the market [likely not as interesting as going somewhere]). Mo very nearly got bucked off the bike as the other driver had trouble getting his started, but as it turns out, this was the ride that took us through the evergreen forest and up and over some very rocky terrain, and Mo made it safely to accompany us. We sat and talked with the OVC (who, surprisingly, was willing to talk and was ready with [more than one word] answers) and hopped on the bikes to return. Martin was driving a Victor (a type of piki piki) which was running very smoothly, so when we got closer to the dispensary (after one of the bikes ran out of gas), Simon asked if he could ride. Somehow, (much to his dismay) Mo got stuck on the back (/didn’t get off/Simon wouldn’t listen to no) and (as he put it) feared for his life. When the other driver returned, Martin and I jumped on and (also luckily?) found Mo and Simon (in one piece) at the dispensary. (As it also turns out, Simon was definitely asking for a price that was too low, so we settled for 130.) This was just the morning.
When we returned to the dispensary after lunch at Mama’s, we gave Martin a call (he became our driver for the next few days) and he collected another driver from the market. We then raced to meet the last OVC we needed to visit, making it just in the nick of time. Halfway through the return visit, Simon wanted to drive again. Fortunately for me, Simon was not with me on Martin’s bike. Unfortunately for Mo, neither was he. I didn’t have time to pull out my camera and snap a picture (and my other attempts failed), but it was quite the sight when Simon caught up and the driver (still with his helmet) was sandwiched between him and Mo. Martin eventually passed Simon during a climb up a hill and soon raced ahead. We soon came to a rather bumpy bend (with a giant ox cart taking up most of the road), and Martin commented that this was a bit tricky. Sure enough, Simon did not follow us out of the bend. We slowed down to let them catch up, and upon looking back, the driver was back in his usual seat. When we finally returned to the dispensary, we found out that not only did Simon not make it through the bend but also that Simon got stuck in just the right spot so Mo could have a nice conversation with the ox pulling the cart. (Not exactly what you would call his lucky day. [Especially, coming off of being sick]).Friday (6/12) was a day that had finally been settled on to go to Kitale so that we could go to a cyber and type up emails and reports. While the internet was faster and electricity was available, it still wasn’t possible to get much done. (In case you didn’t notice, the last post wasn’t available to be put up as promised.) For lunch, we went to a hotel (their version of a restaurant. What we would call a hotel is called a house.), but because the place was bustling, we were unable to be seated together and were placed wherever something was available. Not having someone to translate for us and tell us what was safe (i.e. simple and edible), I took my chances with the mutton while a couple tables over Mo stuck with his usual fish.
To accompany my order, I also wanted a Fanta (orange soda), but somehow the exchange became a bit muddled. “Warm or cold?” “Cold, please.” “We don’t have cold.” “Oh, that’s ok. Half liter of water, then. Cold.” The waiter left and after a short period, returned with a half liter of Coke. Before he could crack open the lid, “No, cold water.” “Oh.” He left again. This time he returned with a 300 mL bottle of Coke. “No, a water.” “Cold?” “At this point, whatever.” Finally, he returned with a half liter of Coke. At least it was cold.
When I was reading through the menu, I had noticed that they offered fried fish and another type (I don’t remember specifically). When I turned to look up, I saw someone receiving the entire fish and assumed that was the second type, hoping that Mo also saw that there was a distinction. Distracted from this thought as the waiter returned again (this time with my mutton), I heard a cough from Mo. As the waiter moved away, Mo simply looks at me, looks at his plate, and laughs. There was no distinction (that we’re aware of) between the two. While Mo dealt with the challenge of figuring out how to go about eating an entire fish (this not only means head, but skin, fins, and tail), I was busy figuring out how to eat my food. I thought beef of any kind would be a safe choice. In actuality, Kenyans like their bones. My plate was riddled with a mixture of meat and bone, intertwining in a perfect collection as to allow my mouth the pleasure of finding out which was which (typically with a nice crunch). In case you missed the point earlier (or more likely, I forgot to mention it), Kenyans eat with their hands. (I’m sure I could have asked for a fork, but I’m not sure it would have done me any good. The grease from the food probably would have slowly crept up onto my fingers as I stabbed wildly with a silent hope that I hit meat.) I tried to use the chapo to pick up the mutton and avoid getting greasy, but this has two problems. The first is mentioned above (except it becomes a padded crunch). The second is that (eventually) you run out of chapo. Despite my best efforts, I was delegated the task of finishing my “water,” “grabbing” my bag, and snatching my bill with grease-soaked fingers because the wait staff recognized a shadow upon my face indicating that my mind was even thinking about being finished (which [following a logical path and then proceeding to forget about any of the in-between] means that my body will soon come to the same conclusion and vacate the location [without allowing my mind to first consider the precarious position of figuring out where to go next and how to accomplish that task with hands that normally would be considered unusable]) and were hustling other diners over to take my place. I then found the sinks in the back. It was an experience, to say the least.
After washing and paying, I went outside, and it slowly became clear to me and Simon that Mo was relapsing back into a poor situation. He had a desperate need for a toilet with none in sight. We headed for another cyber, and while I inside writing reports, they went on a hunt to help Mo. Three reports later, they returned, and while Mo said he would be ok, we decided to leave and forego any other tasks. We used the boda boda to get back to the matatu stage and headed on the hour journey to Sikhendu (the location of Douglas’s butcher shop). It was very fortunate for all involved that Mo was able to manage through the matatu and piki piki rides back to Mama Anne’s (NB: This was the piki piki ride that inspired the things that I had been calling roads to become things that I had been calling roads, so it demonstrates a bit of Mo’s resolve to hold things together.) After this, Mo passed out (not literally, but he may as well have) and didn’t move until dinner. During this time, Simon brought more medicine from the dispensary (a couple of different anti-bacterials) and later, when Mo took one, threw up everywhere, claiming “Well, I should have just done that before. I feel so much better.”
Saturday (6/13), Mo refused to sit around for any longer (and he needed more TP) and joined me as I headed to the dispensary. In the morning, we painted the dispensary, putting on the first coat of white. Henry (the ABD) donned a surgical gown, mask, and gloves while Mo and I used masks and gloves. We cut some old jugs of cough syrup in half to use for paint buckets and started on the (Patmo) maternity ward. About halfway through the first room, I decided the gloves were of little use (too hot and tight) and my mask hindered my ability to see (it had a plastic guard in front that would have been useful) because it continually fogged up. My initial solution was to breathe in and hold my breath, but air was more important to me than paint, so I turned the mask upside down. This seemed to confuse onlookers passing by (“The mask is to protect your face.” “I know.”), so I simply removed the mask to save myself from explaining the situation multiple times. Our giant twenty liter bucket of paint lasted us for two and a half rooms, but clearly made a difference in brightening up the place (and preventing formation of hazardous dust). In the afternoon, we used the chance to write up some reports and respond to emails, and after that, we called it a day.
This is what I have so far. Obviously, there is more to come. I may even be able to get some more up since we don't have much to do today. I hope everyone is well in their respective locations around the world.
-Pat
After our long day of work, Douglas returned to pick us from outside St. Cecilia’s Girls’ High School in Misikhu. We raced back as the sun began setting to the west, starting to cast hues of orange, yellow, and pink across the sky, illuminating the tips of the maize stalks a fiery gold (perhaps symbolizing the energy the plants will soon provide?). Mt. Elgon rested just below the sun’s rays, a hazy outline on the border with Uganda, formidable peaks crooked, hardly visible against the darkening sky. Children and adults waved and smiled (again, what smiles!) as they saw the Mzungu pass reflecting back the same. At a certain point, Douglas decided it best to take a shortcut. I was half expecting this shortcut to take us past his home, but to my surprise, it did not. Instead, it took us along a narrow path, a thin line of dust curving between grass and maize field, bumpily. At the halfway point, we reached the river and were forced to dismount (not because we couldn’t cross, because it was a bridge made of twisted wood planks and round, shaved braches interposed between and across.) Reaching the other side, women sat beneath a tree, asking to me buy avocado. (I declined, more so because it was in Swahili and we were already pulling away than a disdain for avocado.) From here, the ride went smoothly, shortly returning to the main things I have been calling roads and pulling into the dispensary, hands cold, concluding another day’s work.
Our other rides have taken us across similar bridges, through evergreen forests (with monkeys crossing the thing I have been calling a road according to Mo), across rivers opening a view of different, exotic vegetation resting on its banks, leaves exploding like fireworks from the trunk. Our travels have taken us to places where the things I have been calling roads cease to argue that I should call them roads, and we slow, creeping gently down and up and over the rocky passage. We have raced against the clock to reach a school before visiting hours close, becoming clouds of dust as our speed raises, maxing just above seventy kilometers per hour, shooting past boda bodas and walking people, hearing the whiz as trucks head the opposite direction. We have returned on a thing I have been calling a road under construction, piles of dirt waiting to be shoveled into place, nearly flying off as we avoided an oncoming truck and later again as we hit a bump going a bit too fast. If you cannot guess, I have written this post after this last ride. Piki piki rides. What an adventure. What a thrill.
So far, Mo has worked primarily on the ABD program survey while I have jumped between that (Tuesday and Thursday) and visiting the sponsored OVC’s (Wednesday). Monday, after our arrival, Simon came to get the 60 pound bag of donations with his boda boda and showed us the way to the dispensary. This day was used to meet everyone at the SOTENI dispensary, Flo (one of the nurses), Japheth (a doctor), Issac (the lab tech), Victor (accounts), Dennis (in the computer room), Jane (cleaning staff), and Mttaki (the Local Management Committee (LMC) Chairman), and plan for the next weeks activities. During the course of the day, we also met a number of the ABD’s (in total there are six with an additional supervisor), Henry, Carol, Paul, Josephine, Catherine, Elicah, and Esther (the supervisor). Catherine, who we met the day before, walked us to Mama Anne’s for lunch via one of the number of shortcuts (I’ve come to be wary when I hear this word being used. It doesn’t always entail the smoothest ride on a piki piki).
Thankfully, this has been an isolated incident. Everyone we have met has either tried to invite us into their homes or welcomed us back as we were leaving. We have been told that Kenyans value visitors first and food second, so our presence is viewed as a blessing to the homes. On Friday, Esther has us over for lunch, and she brought plate after plate of food (this one did turn into a feast). First, was chicken and soup with chapo and ugali. Then she brought avocados. This was followed by chai and hard-boiled eggs (which were a very bright yellow, almost gold). Finally, she topped us off with a glass of fermented milk. It was chunky with a sour taste of yogurt (Not something I’d want again necessarily, but I could tell it was saved for special occasions and was not one to turn it down). It was an interesting experience because while we were being continually fed, Douglas, her husband, and the others (two ABD’s) had stopped eating. (It was also interesting because hens were running in and out of the house and jumping on the table with food.) We were their guests (and have been everyone’s it seems), so they were concerned about giving us the best (and in other cases, this entitles us to the best seats [or a chair if there aren’t enough], offers for bags to be carried, and reluctance to let us help. It has been difficult to turn down any form of hospitality even though we’d rather stand [or sit on the ground], or are perfectly capable of carrying a heavy load. [This also has meant that I have had more caffeine from tea and soda in the past week than I have had in the past few years.]) Even on the ABD home visits, some of the clients have provided us with dishes of food (or have expressed disappointment at not knowing we would be coming, so they could prepare). Every time we receive something, it makes me wonder how much they are sacrificing because we are guests (already well provided for guests at that).
Visiting the clients has been… an emotional… ride of sorts (reference anyone?). So far (this is as of writing last week. Next week will be in another post), I have been to eight homes. A farmer and his positive wife unable to comprehend why some people on ARVs look healthy and fit but she can’t eat some foods and has been weakened by the toxic effects. A mother in a dress of gold, set against her dark skin and pale red eyes, with two young children, alert, happy, oblivious, interested only in the strange visitors, set against the somber mood (her husband is also positive). Steven, 4 (maybe), excited to see Henry, running to greet the wazungu, but sensing the seriousness of the visit once inside, knowing only that he takes pills twice a day. A quiet man (positive) and his exuberant wife struggling with the condition but working to spread what knowledge they have learned to the community. Paris, a young child (8), locked out of her grandfather’s small, small hut, taken in by her aunt and uncle next door, with a baby sister to also look after and no fees for school (there is free tuition from the government, but additional fees get tacked on). A woman, eight months pregnant, too weak and too pregnant to work or travel well. A widow (positive and husband was also positive) needing to care for her paralyzed son (also positive, unknown cause of paralysis), whose only means of communication is through moans and tears, struggling to turn him or change the sheets, afraid to ask her other children for help because the son contracted the disease when nursing the father. Brian, another child, with 10+ brothers and sisters and a positive mother, a CD4+ count of 7 (extremely low [normal range is 800-1000]. He should be bedridden.), and no nutritional support from Naiteri and limited from home. Also, Mo has related his visit to a woman so affected by psychological problems, she brings her cows into her small two room hut to prevent theft and exposes herself and her children (possibly sleeping in the same room) to disease and filth. It’s difficult to enter these homes, to hear a paralyzed man begin crying, to see a child unaware, and have only questions.
So far, the experience, in a word, has been surreal. It’s hard to believe that I have been traveling on bumpy dirt roads by foot or on the back of a motorbike, that I have been visiting homes in such desperate state (out of a commercial it seems. Flies everywhere. Chickens running through the house [sometimes jumping on beds and tables]. Small lizards crawling up the walls.), that during the downtime, I have been kicking around a soccer ball or playing a game of volleyball (with an invisible net) with some Africans (some of which include the Chairman and Vice-Chairman of the LMC). Kenya is not nearly as hot or dusty as I pictured it to be. Shorts and t-shirt are comfortable attire, and the landscape is green and hilly. And it’s full of life. Now, it’s bikes and motorcycles and people mingling with cows and sheep and goats (though the same traffic rules apply. Go with what works). A variety of birds and butterflies flit and flutter across the paths, dancing from maize leaf to tree branch to barbed wire fencing, as we walk from place to place. People are sitting outside their shops, working in their fields, talking to their companions (and usually staring at us as we walk by. I’ve found that confronting them [in a sense] by waving, smiling, and saying “Jambo” [Hello] usually gets a smile [and what smiles they have] and wave in response [for the most part]. I have so much more to describe, but since this has been some time in coming, I will stop it here, and leave you waiting until next time. Essentially, I have found that when in Kenya, do as the Kenyans do (occasionally, do as the Romans do). Overall, it’s been good. It’s been thought-provoking. It’s been different.
I do have some pictures from the matatu (more of a greyhound than a real matatu… more later…), but I wish I had been able to get more. Children playing on piles of rocks. The wood/stick shops that littered both sides of the road. The spikes strips (for who knows what [NB: they are for people who run traffic stops, as I have found out later]) that lay as obstacles for the matatu (and other vehicles) to avoid. But also two piki piki drivers sitting erect atop what is theirs, staring off at nothing in particular, talking, waiting for their next fare. A child (8, maybe 9) standing at the end of a field, walking stick in hand, foot raised against a rock, arm across knee, a little brother imitating his every nuance. Even just a picture of the valley, the hills interrupting its seemingly endless expanse. 
That is what I have written so far. It hasn't gotten past the first day here in Mbakalo. Things have been going mostly well. Just wanted to put up a quick post saying I have a longer one coming, but the internet has been touch and go.
