The School Search Begins
The Time I Cried in the Principal’s Office

My school search buddy Onesmus

John was three days into the tenth grade; the clock was ticking. Two matatus and a long, scenic motorbike ride later through the lush, green rolling hills that typify Kenya in my mind, Onesmus (John’s older brother) and I peeled ourselves off the bike and dusted off our shoes in front of the gates of Gaichanjiru High School. A provincial (ie good) boarding school in a rural setting only an hour from our village, I was excited about our prospects here. The principal of Kirwara had not only phoned the principal of this school, but also sent me with a recommendation letter. While I knew anything was possible (like the fact that I might be turned down again), I had a renewed sense of hope. We walked through the gates, I teased the handsome young security guard, and we walked towards the office. The grounds were spacious and the school was building a new administrative building that was really nice (it even had large, nice looking tile as opposed to the heinous tile that is present in most Kenyan buildings. And yes, I used to work in tile so I can assure that I notice it everywhere I go). We stopped at the school’s message board and reviewed students’ school performance for the last three terms as well as KCSE results. They were really good.

I sat in another line for parents waiting to see the principal. Finally, the secretary called me up to find out my reason for visiting. I explained that I came in search of a Form 2 (1oth grade) opening. She had me sit back down, then called me up only a few minutes later and told me that she spoke with the deputy principal, and he said they had no openings. I smiled and told her that the principal was expecting me (not completely untrue), and I wanted to discuss the matter with him. That satisfied her, and she stopped trying to shoo me away. After what seemed like an hour, it was finally my turn. I greeted the principal once again in Swahili, and he said, “Oh I was expecting you.” (I’m pretty sure I’m the only muzungu that’s walked in that school in a decade, so it’s easy to recognize me!).  He continued, “I received a call from the principal at Kirwara, but we must’ve gotten disconnected, so I didn’t get to finish the conversation.” That wasn’t exactly true, as the principal at Kirwara hung up as soon as this principal agreed to see me… before he had time to say anything else that might negate the possibility of an opening at his school.

My meeting at Gaichanjiru was very brief. The principal had only had this job for a week, so the school was pretty behind on setting policies for transfer students and figuring out how many positions were available. He was okay with John’s KCPE score and told me to call him by Monday (it was Thursday) if I didn’t hear from him to see if he would be able to interview John. We made small talk for a minute, and he took notice of my effort at speaking Swahili. Score one for Laura! I left the meeting still not knowing what would happen, but with hope.

The next few days were tough. I couldn’t decide whether to continue visiting schools (in case I waited a week into the school year and found out the school wouldn’t interview John) or if I should hang tight and have faith. Knowing that the principal at Kirwara told me he would help me in any way he could until I found a school, I decided to wait and take care of some other things for a few days.

Monday morning came and no phone call. At 12:30, then again at 1:30, I rang the principal’s cell. He told me to come tomorrow morning at 8:30 and John would have an interview. Yes! Then, he told me John would be sitting for three exams: Math, Chemistry, and English, followed by the interview. Slight deflation. John is weak in math, and his school in the village is behind on the material, so he probably would suffer a bit there. But, I also knew that Chemistry was one of John’s best subjects. I watched the clock until I thought John would be out of school and then called him. No answer. Hello, this is important! I dropped what I was doing and headed over to his house. I sat outside on a concrete block and waited. Onesmus came home, and we decided to visit my friend Margaret, which means we could pass the school on the way and hopefully see John. We saw him just a few minutes up the road, and I can’t help myself. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you and it’s almost 6 o’clock!” He loosened his school tie and told me he had stayed after school to study Biology, his least favorite subject. “Well, okay, that’s a perfectly good excuse, but you have an interview tomorrow at Gaichanjiru!!!” That evening we reviewed some of the Form 1 (9th grade) math topics that his school didn’t get to on last year’s syllabus, and I sent him home to go to bed early.

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Part 1 of our interview at Gaichanjiru as copied from my journal:

10 January 2012

Gaichanjiru Interview Day

My alarm was set for 5:55 but I found myself wide awake at 5:40. We received word yesterday that John had an interview with Gaichanjiru High School, a provincial boys’ boarding school not terribly far from our village. I quickly brushed my teeth, got dressed, and tried to pull my hair up in the dark. The kids had already begun preparing for school, and I waved goodbye to the cook. Arriving at John’s house a few minutes early to see Onesmus standing there in his boxer-briefs brushing his teeth, I yell, “Hodi hodi” (knock knock) in a high pitched voice- the same voice that Onesmus uses sometimes that always make me laugh. When I hear the motorbike pull up behind me, I must admit I was surprised. I told Onesmus to make sure whatever person he scheduled to pick us up did not run on African time (ie come late) but I honestly didn’t expect him to be right on time, let alone a few minutes early. John and Onesmus quickly finished getting dressed, and we hopped on the motorbike to go to the main road. At 6:30, as we bump along the dirt road, washed away in places from the rainy season, I watch the sun rise over the ridge. It was amazing. We come into the next village, and instead of the usual dust and sweat smell during these hot summer days, I smell fried bread waft from all the little hotels (village cafes) that line the road. I begin to think that the crisp, quiet morning is a beautiful premonition for the day ahead of us- that John will be admitted to an excellent boys’ boarding school where 50 out of 162 graduates were eligible to attend public university in 2010.

To be continued in tomorrow’s post!

A matatu cruising in Thika

Our first couple of days trying to find a new boarding school for John were a complete failure. I’m navigating a country’s education system that is completely foreign to me, and trying to figure it out in a matter of days. The school year had already started so if I wanted to transfer John, I needed to do it fast. The most frustrating part is this: I want him to go to a good school. The school with the highest exit exam marks and with amenities to teach him valuable skillsets. Generally, the schools that perform higher require higher entrance marks. Well, no surprise there except it’s the ONLY thing they look at. One test. That’s it. And if you tell John’s score to people in our district they think it’s good; our district has terrible schools and his marks far surpassed the average. But visit a school outside of our district and his score is not as competitive.

Onesmus knew of a few other public boarding schools, but I didn’t want John to make a lateral move- I wanted the best for him. Once I got back from visiting two schools near our village, I did what my Western roots told me to do- a Google search. I found several schools with good reviews in Thika and thought it was a good place to start. It’s a decent sized town less than an hour from our village. The following morning I took a matatu and a motorbike to Thika High School. After signing in with the guard, I had to pause- the campus was really nice. I was skeptical. After a very brief encounter with a secretary, I found out that the school doesn’t accept transfer students and it also has a really high exam mark requirement. I asked her to please recommend other schools that would accept John’s exam score. She thought for a minute and then told me two schools. I wasn’t familiar with either of them, so I asked her to write them down. She did, though she acted very put out by it. I asked her for directions to the schools, and she seemed to relax a little and recognize that I’m just trying to put a boy in school.

Thika

I walked back into Thika and boarded a matatu to a place called Kirwara. I’d never been there before, and a little part of me was happy to explore a new village. The boy sitting next to me was reporting to another boarding school, and so I asked him about some schools and to please let me know when I should get off the matatu. Forty minutes later, when the matatu was full, we pulled out of the stage, bound for new territory. We passed rose farms and other beautiful scenery. My new friend told me when to get off and just told me to take a motorbike to find the school. I took his advice and less than 30 seconds later I was at the school gate. It was less than a half a kilometer from where I was dropped off. Officially the shortest motorbike ride ever undertaken I believe. The guard told me the principal’s office was up a set of stairs. I passed a long line of parents seated on benches, went upstairs, and was quickly told by the secretary that the line was at the bottom of the stairs. The waiting game in Kenya begins once again. Nearly two hours later, it was my turn. I’m anxious. I’ve been fidgeting. This could be it.

I greet the principal in Swahili and inform him that I am looking for a Form 2 (10th grade) vacancy. He tells me that they have no spots left in Form 2, and in fact, they are so overcrowded, they’ve had to turn some classrooms into dorms. He also tells me that I should have started this search in December (yep, check, got that), but doesn’t kick me out the door. I asked about Form 1, and he asks John’s KCPE score. I tell him and he seems to mull it over. I take that as my cue to babble on about John’s role as the Sports Prefect, the captain of the soccer team, and head of the choir at his primary school. I tell him how disciplined he is, and I explain his hardships over the past year, his family issues, his unfortunate school situation. And I feel the principal might bite. He begins to speak… “How old is this boy?” There’s no beating around the bush, so I just have to tell the principal that he’s 21. “He’s too old,” is his immediate response. I try to diffuse the situation, but he talks over me. “He will be much bigger than the other boys. You see the kids out there, they are very small. How big is he?” I tried to tell him that he’s not that big and that I may have a picture with me… but it’s too late. He’s made up his mind.

I don’t know where they came from but I couldn’t hold them back. My eyelids started to fill with tears. I felt like the world was playing a cruel joke that day. I didn’t understand how age could be the final factor in whether someone could go to school. This principal was the first person, though, that I had come across who actually listened. He softened at my concern and asked me what my other options were. I told him I didn’t have any but I was willing to go anywhere, that if he had any suggestions I’d greatly appreciate them. We sat in this awkward silence for a moment because I was trying to pat my face dry. All I could think about was walking down the stairs from his office and have all eyes on me… this crazy, crying muzungu. It wasn’t like a white girl out in this area was common to begin with, let alone waiting in line with parents to see a principal. Then to have me walk out crying? Oh lord. Blink, blink some more.

The principal picked up the phone and called another principal. He was very clever. He asked the principal how many students he had in Form 2, then told him, “Oh that’s great because I have xxx amount of students and am a lot more overcrowded.” He basically cornered him into seeing me, and once the other principal agreed, he immediately hung up the phone. No room for discussion. He told me to go see the principal at Gaichanjiru… “He’s very new, and I’m not sure that there’s a spot but it’s worth a try.” I profusely thanked him but asked him to please write down the name of the school, as I wasn’t really understanding what he was saying. It was a slight miscommunication, in that he took my notebook and wrote a recommendation letter for me to the school. He confirmed that John was a true orphan and included that in the letter. I asked him how to get to Gaichanjiru, and he didn’t know but just told me which overpass on the main road that it was near. I didn’t care. I’d find it. I had a lead, and though Kirwara was a no, I had hope. He told me to please call him after I saw the principal at the other school and let him know what happened. He was surprised what I was trying to do and told me that he as a Kenyan has a responsibility to help these children (actually, I think he was just more surprised that I was dropping in solo at these schools looking like a lost and out of place muzungu). But I really felt like he cared, and I tried to blink a few more times before walking down the stairs and signaling the next parent that it was their turn.

Thika High School was a quick no and Kirwara was an all-afternoon affair but still a no. And then there’s that whole, 27-year old muzungu crying in a principal’s office in a rural school in Kenya. Glad I can check that one off the bucket list.

Some village walks include a train tracks bridge

When I was talking to my best friend the other night, she told me that she was looking forward to reading about our school search for John… and then she chuckled. Just a little. And then it dawned on me… “I think I’m going to omit the part where I cried in the principal’s office.” “No, you can’t!” she replied. Okay, okay, so I guess I’m going to divulge all the details, and then everyone will officially know how ridiculous I am. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I thought I’d waltz into a principal’s office (at only one school), share my story, and be given an admittance form. Easy peasy. But that was so far from the truth… 

Six schools and two weeks later, John and I found ourselves reviewing a play-by-play of our most recent visit. We had found a school. And not just any school, a f*&*ing fantastic school. I’m not even sure who was happier- the boy who’s whole world as he knows it was about to change or the girl who had started to lose hope three schools back. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it really sucked and added more stress and anxiety to my already stressed and anxiety-ridden self.

The Backstory:

Giving the whole story in it’s entirety would fill a book (seriously, and yes I do hope to do that one day) but I think to understand the following, you must understand the past. John is 21 years old (he celebrated his birthday for the first time last month). He is in the ninth grade. While he is an exception, there are plenty of other ‘big boys’ (that’s what we call the older ones) in school, especially since secondary education is not free. We have a 22 year old friend who is in the 10th grade. He worked for several years and went back to school when a few Americans graciously agreed to send him.

John dropped out of school in the 1st grade. He dropped out before it ever even really began for him. His mother was sick and he stayed at home to care for her and work in neighbors’ fields to earn enough money for them to buy basic food supplies to survive. When he was 12, he went back to school just three weeks before his mother passed away. He was a 12 year old in the first grade; he handled criticism and mockery from other village dropouts well and was undeterred. The school allowed him to skip second grade and and he completed primary school (8th grade) in 2010 at the age of 19. He performed well on the KCPE (the exit exam and sole determination of what secondary school you get into), was accepted to two provincial schools (schools are ranked as national, provincial, district, and local), and was so excited to head to boarding school. But things don’t always go as planned, and the orphanage director had other ideas for him. The director sent him and all of the other secondary school eligible children to his friend’s new school in Nairobi. The children didn’t get textbooks. How do you run a school without books? They had to share their single beds with other students, and eat a poor diet. Some days they were made to work in the garden rather than attend school. It was ridiculous and nearly unbelievable unless I hadn’t been told by five of the six sponsored kids themselves (four, of which, ran away or refused to return to school midyear). John left partway through second term (there are three), and the director refused to send him to another school. So, he did what he thought he should do and started working at the orphanage. In term three, he took himself to a day school in the village and finished out the year there.

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Walking a path in the village

Fastforward to December 2011. John and I are sitting in a local restaurant in Nairobi with a very dear friend of ours. Neither of us had seen him since 2010, so we had a lot to catch up on. Our friend “E.” asked John which school he was attending and John told him. “Oh that is such a bad school!” I was taken aback at first. You can’t just tell some kid how crappy his school is. But E. could, and he did. “You can’t go there. If you wan’t to go to university you have to go somewhere else. Like Makuyu Boys. That school you are in is terrible.” I had tried (and failed) to encourage John to switch schools. I would pay for him to go anywhere. He brushed it off by telling me his responsibilities he now had at home and at the orphanage, (yes, infuriating) and that he needed to look after their compound. I should’ve pushed the issue further, since I knew he needed to go to a boarding school, but I didn’t. Thank god for E. John told him that he wanted to become a lawyer, and E. just shook his head and told him that he must go to a good school. I just kept nodding with the ‘see if you won’t listen to me, listen to him’ expression, and John got excited. Once E. told him that he would never become a lawyer if he stayed at his current school in the village, that’s all it took. E. is a university graduate and a good role model for John. John was sold on the idea and willing to go anywhere. The problem? The new school year started back in three days and most schools had already filled any vacant spots. I wasn’t sure if the muzungu factor would help or hurt our case, so E. advised me to take an employee from the orphanage with me. When that plan failed, I asked John’s older brother Onesmus to help out, and he was more than willing.

Two days later, on a Monday morning, John, Onesmus, and I went to visit Makuyu Boys boarding school. It turned out that the day after New Year’s Day is a ‘holiday’, so no one was around. The groundskeeper told us to come back at 8am the following morning, to catch the staff before they had to go elsewhere for some meeting.

Take two, Onesmus and I start walking at 6:45 am on Tuesday (while John reports to his first day of 10th grade at the village school). At 8am sharp, we walk through the school gates. The principal is not in, but we meet with the deputy principal (assistant principal). Not even a minute in to the conversation, and I am shot down. “We don’t take transfer students. They are disruptive.” Taken aback by this strong stance, I assure him that John has excellent discipline, and he won’t be a problem. “And,” I told him, “John was the sports prefect at his primary school. Kids look up to him.” That doesn’t work, so then I inquire if it is possible for him to start 9th grade again with the new students in a few weeks. The deputy principal shoots that idea down as well and tells me that the school in the village is just as good as any other. That couldn’t be further from the truth. My idea that this school search would be so easy quickly deflated. Onesmus told me that Makuyu Boys does have a problem with riots breaking out (hence the ‘no transfers’ policy), and I feel a small bit of relief that I can’t send John there. Plus, I later find out that their exit exam scores have declined in the past few years, and they are actually not a very good school. So, I’m a bit happy that they refuse to take John.

We take a 30 minute matatu ride to head to another boarding school on the other side of our village called Igikiro. Onesmus tells me it’s a good school. The staff have not started working yet (even though their school opens the next day), which is a red flag in my book. The grounds and buildings aren’t as nice as Makuyu Boys, and I decide to scratch it from the list.

And just to fill some space with an unrelated photo....

We head back into Pundamilia, and I stop in to see the principal at John’s current school. John wasn’t sure if he had lost his report card from last term, so I wanted to verify his grades with the principal. Makuyu Boys wanted to know his grades, and I realized I should probably have them with me for my next inquiry. As we wait to see the principal, I notice a posting for the mock KCSE exams from 2011 (this is the exam that is the sole determination of what/if you are allowed to study at university). To get into a public university (public is better than private in Kenya), you need a B+ or better. Then, depending on what you want to study determines whether you needs a B+ or an A-, etc.  But the goal is a B+. Out of 180 students, not a single one had an A, there were only a couple of B+’s, and the average was a D+. An average of a D+???? It was settled- John had to get out of there. When it was my turn to see the principal, I explained that I wanted a copy of John’s grades and he passed the duty over to the secretary. As we sat at his desk, the principal proceeded to play on his phone. I asked if he would like us to step outside so that he could see other parents while we wait on the report form, and he said no, that we were fine. And then he goes back to playing on his phone. What secondary school principal on the first day of school has time to just sit and play on his phone? My frustrations were growing.

Onesmus and I grabbed a late breakfast at my favorite little cafe in the village and decided we needed to make a new game plan. We just had to visit more schools and do it as soon as possible.

John and I spent the morning meeting with craftspeople in Kibera and then meeting up with our friend Jacquie to visit the Masai Market being held at a very  nice outdoor mall called Village Market. Returning to the city in the late afternoon, I was dusty, sweaty, and my feet were filthy from the morning in Kibera. Jacquie and John went back to the hotel, while I ‘ran an errand’. I took my scrubby self over to the Sarova Stanley Hotel and told the concierge that I just wanted to find out if I needed reservations at the Thorn Tree Cafe. They practically pushed me through the restaurant doors to speak with a host, as I tried to resist and apologize for my unkempt appearance. I mentioned that we were coming for a birthday dinner for a boy who had never celebrated his birthday, and the manager had me select a piece of cake that they would deliver after we ate. They also had a live band that evening that would sing Happy Birthday. I was thrilled! 

I made a quick stop to grab John’s birthday present then went back to the hotel to make myself presentable. We arrived back at the Stanley, passed the bell hops in their top hats and spiffy outfits, walked through hotel security, and entered the restaurant. I nodded to the manager to let him know we had arrived, and we were seated by a gracious host. We spent plenty of time studying the menu and drooling over the fare. Jacquie and I could not wait to eat some nice, Western food for a change and John was wondering what everything was. We ordered, then sat back to enjoy the band. Since it was the day before New Year’s Eve, it was pretty quiet at the restaurant. There was a nicely dressed old, muzungu man having coffee nearby and a few travelers here and there but that was it.

Then, a beautiful Kenyan woman walked in and sat at the table next to ours to have coffee (the Stanley is well-known for its coffee drinks and many locals gather here after work just for coffee). I’m familiar with the prostitution scene in Nairobi though and knew this wasn’t just another customer. I leaned over to Jacquie to share my suspicions. We watched as the woman brushed her hair back and eyed the old muzungu man. He was giving a stupidly, creepy smile and drool practically spilled over his lips. Finally, the woman made a bold move and went to sit with him. Discreetly, Jacquie informed John what was going on just behind our table and his jaw dropped. We laughed at his reactions, but if it wasn’t funny enough, he told us that he saw this woman sitting by herself right near us and considered inviting her to our table because she looked lonely. Let’s see here- a guy celebrating his 21st birthday inviting a prostitute to sit at his table… no nothing odd about that. Haha.

We enjoyed our dinner and ordered specialty coffee drinks. The band started to play the Happy Birthday song, while John remained oblivious. The staff circled our table, sang to him, and the hostess placed a big piece of black forest cake before him. He was so surprised.

Cake!

John has never celebrated his birthday. Not a single one. Up until two weeks before his birthday, I thought his birthday was in August. That’s what he had always told me. But I had to dig up his birth certificate in order to start the application process at boarding schools for him. Onesmus, his older brother, handed me the document and as I read over it, I said, “John, your birthday is January 2nd? You told me it was in August… wait, that means you have a birthday really soon. And I’ll be here to celebrate it!” He even had to look at the birth certificate to check the date himself and just shrugged. “Well, I’ve never celebrated my birthday, so I don’t know when it is.” I told him what a big deal it is to celebrate his 21st birthday and my dad tried to tell him over Skype how people in America celebrate it (thanks dad… way to be a positive influence on him;)

So as you can imagine, having strangers in a fancy restaurant sing Happy Birthday to you and serve you cake with your name on it is kind of a big deal. He grinned ear to ear. John offered the hostess, who had affectionately called him ‘Johnny’ all evening, a bite of cake, and without hesitation, she picked up his spoon for a taste. Jacquie and I were a bit shocked at first, but then that’s how things work in Kenya… strangers act like close friends.

And a present!

We surprised John further with a birthday gift (a new phone to replace his broken one) and he was on cloud nine. The Thorn Tree Cafe is known for its message board surrounding an acacia tree (and is what Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree travel forum was named after), so we all pinned up our messages. I wrote mine to the Power Women, thanking them for their inspiring message and strength, while John thanked the staff of the restaurant for making this his first memorable birthday.

Our new friend who John shared his birthday cake with

We strolled out of the restaurant after the band finished, intending to head home. But we heard music coming from a nearby club and decided the night was still young. That club ended up being a dud, but after we found Klub Bettyz (Don’t judge- I, too, thought it was a strip club until we entered. Then I realized it was a classier club than any other I’ve been to in Nairobi). The club was packed and we had to weave our way upstairs to find a seat. We met a lot of fun people, including a couple who is from a neighboring village of John’s and currently studying in Germany. Jacquie and I watched John pull out some of his break dance moves, while we danced with some of the ladies at our table. I hope this is just the first of many more birthday celebrations to come.

Aside from our serious research interest in Diani, we managed to have loads of fun in between! I got a super cheap deal on a room (I’m pretty sure when I mentioned to the guesthouse that I needed a better price, the lady nodded to the boys and said “Oh yes, I’m sure they can’t pay that much. What would you like to pay?” I told her, and it was just that easy. It pays to be local.) Suddenly, the four of us were booked for six days at one of the most beautiful beaches in Kenya. And better yet, I originally booked online for 1 night in a 4-person room, but the largest they actually have was a 3-person room… so the boys stayed in one room and I got another to myself :) We spent most days walking the beach, swimming in the ocean, and taking an afternoon swim in our guesthouse pool. We went into Mombasa for one day, because I, not falling far from the tree, thought that it should be partially educational. So, we took a matatu and the ferry to go to Fort Jesus. We were drenched in sweat, it was blazing hot, and the fort wasn’t that exciting. After we left the fort, we wandered through the Old City. A gentleman came up to me and said something in Swahili, of which I only caught “Pole” (sorry). I grabbed Onesmus to talk to the man and after a brief exchange, I asked Onesmus what the man said. The man was apologizing to me because he thought I had been beaten and felt sorry for me. The back of my knees were red from a bit of a sunburn…clearly he was not familiar with white girl problems (ie sunburns). But I appreciated his genuine concern for me.

I picked a few of my favorite photos from our time at the beach. Hope you enjoy:

We couldn’t get seats on the 9pm bus, so we had to take a later bus. Trying to kill time, John and Patrick borrowed two books I had brought with my: Learn Swahili and Lonely Planet East Africa. I felt like I should be reading a Learn English or Lonely Planet USA book.

Waiting for our overnight bus to the coast.

John shows off his growing shell collection

A monkey waits on the bus

Love these girls!

Onesmus and John goofing around

Someone please tell me what animals made these mystery piles!

Onesmus checks out the snail

Spear fisherman's catch of the day

Women carry goods back to sell

Our guesthouse dogs went to the beach with us and stood guard over our things

The boys at Fort Jesus

Having fun in Mombasa

Boys fishing

Have you ever been to Diani or any other East African beaches?

At the beginning of my trip to Kenya, the boys and I took a little trip. We went to a beautiful beach south of Mombasa called Diani, which I visited in 2010 and loved. On a pre-trip interview, Onesmus and John declared that they thought coastal people surely cook with the saltwater, since, ya know, why would you buy salt when you can get it for free? Patrick, their younger brother (because older doesn’t always mean wiser) did not believe their theory. We deemed it necessary that they ask around and discover the answer for themselves. In those six wonderful days spent at the beach, the boys learned, not only the answer to this question, but so much more!

(If the video does not show up in your browser, please click here.)

Sweet and spunky Margaret, who I've known since she was just a toddler

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

The past seven weeks in Kenya have been quite a ride. In reflection, I’m not even sure how to describe it, but I imagine if bipolar could be an adjective to describe things other than humans, this would be an appropriate time to use it. On this trip to Kenya I experienced some of the most exciting days of my life and also some of the saddest.  Some joyful moments were overshadowed by unfortunate circumstances, but I can’t discount how many amazing things happened. Most days I was up by seven and not in bed until after midnight.  I was busy to say the least! Here’s a brief recap and what you can expect to hear about soon: 

The bad and downright ugly:

The worst part of the trip was dealing with the orphanage. It’s no secret that there have been issues at Watoto Wa Baraka for a while now (this was my third trip back to volunteer there), mostly on the financial side. But when I discovered that an employee and family member of the director broke a child’s leg shortly after I left last time, I was appalled. She caned him until she broke his leg (his femur bone actually). The woman was never fired and kids have complained about her to the director. And nothing was done. I was furious at how many children, staff members, and even volunteers knew what happened. And no one did anything. And she’s still allowed to discipline the children. I spent a good week meeting with different government officials to get the ball rolling on an investigation. I have since heard that the director is hurt that I didn’t speak to him first. One, he would have punished children or fired staff members that he thought told me about it since they were all told it was a big secret (which truth be told, he’d probably be shocked if he found out how I know). And, the fact that he didn’t fire her immediately shows me that he has not put those children first. We are all keeping our fingers crossed that the investigation protects the children and looks out for their best interest. In a small step forward, after I reported the abuse, the director tried to kick out all of the older children that he thought might be talking. I seriously wonder what happened to his conscience. How do you kick orphans out? Luckily, the government intervened immediately and even though the children are still staying in that home, at least they are getting fed well and are still in school. Small steps. I put a lot of people’s lives at risk by reporting the orphanage and am living with those consequences. I’m staying mum on that one but let’s just say for some people, things will never be the same. While I probably won’t write anymore on this issue because it’s downright nauseating just how many things happened while I was there, I will post if anything changes.

My last few days in Nairobi (yes, I still love that dirty overcrowded city), I saw police using unnecessary force on someone, an attempted mugging, and mild mob violence on a child in a slum. It just reached that point where I knew it was time to go.

And now for the amazing and beautiful part of Kenya:

John sporting one of his school uniforms

First and foremost, John is finally in a boarding school. And not just any boarding school- it is seriously amazing! I wish I could gush about every last detail, but I still plan on posting about our school search. He’s in a private boarding school with small class sizes, a proper science lab (a rarity in Kenya), a computer lab with internet, a well-balanced diet, and amazing staff. Schools like this would make people’s jaw drop in our village. While I might need to sell one of my kidneys to make the next payment, I can’t think of anyone else that deserves this as much as he does. When we visited the school the first time, John told the principal, “Never in all my life have I seen a school such as this.” The principal laughed heartily, turned to me, and said, “This boy, he is very funny.” :) If only the principal knew…

Enjoying the beautiful coast of Kenya

At the beginning of my trip to Kenya, the boys and I went to Mombasa. They had never seen the beach and wondered whether people there cook with the salt water. The question has yet to be answered on my blog, but soon! We spent an amazing week swimming in the ocean, playing in the pool, making friends with beach boys, befriending a dog at our guesthouse, and eating delicious food.

I visited my friend’s project called Lisha Mtoto, a feeding and education program in Kibera. It was incredible! I’m so impressed by the children, the parents’ involvement, and the management of it. More on that to come.

I also visited with old friends and made lots, and lots, of new friends- muzungu volunteers who share similar interests and locals that inspired me and lifted my spirits when things got tough. From a restaurant employee who promised to visit John at boarding school to the artisans of Kibera to a local with great ideas, I can’t wait to keep in touch with everyone.

John's birthday dinner at the Stanley Hotel in Nairobi

We celebrated John’s 21st birthday. It’s actually his first birthday ever to celebrate… heck he didn’t even know when his birth date was until I dug up his birth certificate because I needed it for school applications. Jackie and I left him speechless with our little birthday surprise and it was a very memorable evening.

I am now sitting with good company on the Board of Directors for a new children’s home opening south of Nairobi called Zawadi la Tumaini (“gift of hope”).  After everything that unfolded at Watoto Wa Baraka, the opportunity fell into my lap, and it just seemed like good timing. I’m really looking forward to seeing the home come to fruition. I’m certain it will be a loving and happy environment for children.

So, this trip to Kenya was no less of an adventure than any other, and I can’t wait to share some photos, stories, and special moments with you (like the fact that four motorbike taxis broke down on me and I think I’m cursed).

While I spent December and January in hot and sunny Kenya (thank goodness it was summer there!), plenty of people back home were dreaming of ski holidays across the pond. I can say without an ounce of doubt that I had no problems skipping out on part of the winter back home :)

Here are just a few more pictures from the beautiful kids of Watoto Wa Baraka. I will miss them dearly and I hope they always know how much I love them…

Smart and sporty Daniel and sweet Mary who never fails to smile on command

Baby Joyce, the drama queen and future actress. Love this girl.

Ebenezer, the most helpful and loving child I think I've ever met

Lulu, irresistibly cute and could care less about muzungus :)

Mwangi, Mwangi, and Solomon. The Mwangis are the best of friends!

New Year's Eve at Mithini- sharing the joy of s'mores with these kids!

Wambui, a great big sister who looks after Margaret and Mary as if she were their mother.

If you have followed my blog for a while, or my personal facebook page, you might recognize the girls in the first and last picture… they are John’s nieces and I posted their photos from 2008 in this post. And if you need to see another precious photo of Mwangi, click here.

Baraka, a sandal maker in Kibera with a great smile

Day 2 of our Nairobi shopping research project:

When you visit the curio shops at the craft markets in Nairobi, most of the vendors aren’t the ones actually making the products. They source them from all over Nairobi and Kenya, but I heard several people mention Kibera. Kibera has a lot of people (I put this vaguely because some sources say 170,000 while others say 1 million or more) so just asking around about crafts people could take some time. While I did visit Power Women the previous day, I wanted to visit more artisans. The question was, how to go about this… 

Slum Tourism
Slum tourism is complicated. And truth be told, I go back and forth on how I feel about it. The idea of a bunch of muzungus parading around a slum, snapping photos of people like they live in a zoo is perhaps my worst nightmare.  I can only hope it doesn’t happen that way. But if people end up purchasing goods within the community, then it’s definitely a benefit to the people. When I visited Nomonde’s restaurant in Cape Town, I would say that it is similar to slum tourism and it never hurts to educate oneself and interact with other people. Perhaps that is the solution- to engage.

I read a review about Explore Kibera Tours and decided to contact them on Day 1 to ask about a custom tour to visit crafts people. They “offer safe walking tours for open-minded travelers and aims to solely benefit Kibera by hiring local staff, supporting local development projects, and bringing a stream of demand to local craft makers.” The following day John and I met up with our guide Fred in front of the Nakumatt supermarket within walking distance to Kibera. I explained my interests to Fred and learned that he is currently a university student living in Kibera and works as a tour guide part-time.  He took us to four different craftspeople, but two of them stuck out in particular.

Msafari's Leather Sandals

Msafari Leather Works
The first is a man named Baraka who is head of a group called Msafiri (translation: ‘traveler’… love it already). His group has 12 boys and 3 girls in it and they started with trash collection in Kibera. From there, they started a car wash and eventually went on to make leather and beaded sandals on order. These sandals are very popular in Kenya, but I expressed my surprise to find someone making them in Kibera. Most of these sandals are made in Malindi or Mombasa on the coast and shipped up to Nairobi. Baraka smiled; he’s from Malindi and taught the craft to the other members of the group. The workshop is no larger than a 5’ x 8’ space, and actually John and I had passed right by it the day before when we walked around. I never would have guessed that they were crafting these beautiful shoes in this tiny little shop. The toxic smell of the glue is hard to miss and I whispered to John that it’s probably killing the ozone. I ask Baraka to see a completed sandal, and when I inspect it closely, I notice that it has a stamped pattern along the stitching on the sole. I ask him how he makes it and he pulled out a small number stamp set. I laughed. I look at the sandal again and see the number ‘7” repeated. And on other shoes is the number “1” or the number “5”. Like the smell of the black tar-looking glue, Baraka’s smile is also hard to miss. He pulls out his ‘portfolio’ (a stack of photos) and shows me many different designs and colors. They really are beautiful.

Raw materials: Bones from the butcher

Victorious Youth Group
The final shop that Fred took us to was probably the most exciting. It is a bone bead business that has 25 employees, is the supplier to women’s craft groups in Kibera, and sources their raw materials (cow, camel, and goat bones) from butchers within Kibera. While Victorious Youth Group does make some of their own bone jewelry and accessories (to sell to people like me who stop by their workshop), they sell most of their beads to other craftspeople to create their own pieces. Though I asked plenty of questions about operations, pay, working conditions, etc, John asked only one question: “Do you train people in the craft?” The group told us they were currently training four people….for free! They said if a person can afford to pay, they will, but otherwise they will train others for free. We asked about the risk of creating competition, and they simply said they want to help others find employment and that the group is confident in their own creative abilities to stay one step ahead. They also hope that the person they train might try to sell elsewhere and therefore, not create competition. Yes, I was impressed.

Shaping beads from bone

Jewelry and accessories made of bone

The tour through Explore Kibera was only 500 Ksh per person (about $6). If you are in Nairobi and curious to see Kibera, I highly recommend them.

A view of Kibera from the train tracks

I’ve been on a 3-day shopping tour of sorts in Nairobi. Not so much to purchase goods but more to research and learn about the people behind the beautiful crafts and curios sold around Kenya. I took my friend John from the village with me; I want to expose him to as much as I can and I also appreciate his assistance with translation and questioning at times.

Day One (Thursday):

By the time 7am rolled around, I think John and I had been in and out of consciousness for a few hours. Staying at a shoddy hotel right downtown near the main public transportation hub and lots of bars, the noise in the alley below was buzzing late into the night and started again very early in the morning.  We walked downstairs for our complimentary breakfast (okay the fact that this place is called a bed and breakfast is laughable because it’s definitely a hole in the wall). We… or I guess I should say I, decided to visit a women’s group in Kibera called Power Women on our first morning. Kibera is the largest slum in Kenya and the second largest in Africa. If you read online, it’s not recommended that you venture into Kibera without a local, but a.) the group’s website had independent directions and they sounded easy and b.) I had a Kenyan with me, which makes me appear to be with a local for the most part. We picked up bus 32 by the Hilton and asked the driver to tell us when we reached the Olympic Stage. The bus wound it’s way past several ugly office buildings, a park, and some typical Nairobi sites. Then, the landscape suddenly changed, and when I saw the rusted metal shanties, I knew we were entering Kibera. Suddenly, I got butterflies in my stomach. This isn’t my first, or even second, visit to a slum in Nairobi. However, I have always been escorted by a local. It wasn’t about safety. I operate under the general assumption that people are not out to harm me. But I was more concerned about how much I would stick out and whether or not there would be a level of acceptance. Would they think I was there to look at the place as if it were a zoo? Would they wait for me to pull out my camera and try to take photos? Or look at the area in disgust? I was nervous. I apprehensively climbed down the bus steps and turned 360 degrees in search for the Olympic Primary School, a landmark in my directions. I didn’t see it, so I stopped a man in front of me. He told me to head straight down the road and took me to the center of the street to point out the fence in the distance. I thanked him and we started walking. I felt very few people staring… less even than I think stare at me back in my village.

A nursery school in Kibera

When we reached the primary school, I did not see the women’s shop but instead saw a painted gate that described a day care, nursery school, and women’s handicraft inside. We stared at the gate for a minute debating whether to check it out. Then a woman passed and noted in Swahili that people were inside. We reached under the metal flap of the solid gate to undo the latch. We opened the gate and approached the door of the house. Two women stood there and I asked in an unconfident tone if they sold beadwork. They told me, ‘Yes.’ I asked if they had some inside. They, again, told me, ‘Yes.’ Unsure as to whether I should invite myself in, I asked if I could see it, and suddenly they warmed up. The women at this school only do beadwork when school is in session, so these two were there only to clean that day. They had very few examples available since school wasn’t in session. We exchanged information and I told them I would try to visit in January when the school is open. Dorcas, one of the women, grabbed a beaded ring and gave it to me ‘for stopping by.’ I tried to refuse but she insisted. Now how’s that for hospitality?

Power Women Shop

We asked her about our next landmark, Carolina for Kibera, and the women told me that it was where they had been trained to open up their daycare and nursery. We found the organization but unfortunately, the shop was not right in front of it, as the directions said. I went up to the askari (the security guard) and asked him about a women’s handicraft group that might be located nearby. He smiled and said, “Oh you must mean Power Women. It’s down there in the blue building.” We entered the shop, and I saw two women sitting to the side. When I went to greet them and shake hands, they pulled out two chairs for John and I to sit down. It was great because I wanted to find out more about their business, but how many shops do you walk in where you are offered a chair to sit and get to know each other? We wasted no time, and since I couldn’t really contain my excitement I just said, “I want to learn about your project and how it started.” Elizabeth, who I later found out, is the Chairwoman, started to explain. As she spoke, Doreen, the other woman, got up and grabbed products that related to Elizabeth’s story. So it goes something like this:

Elizabeth and the other women met at an NGO that works with women living with HIV/AIDS. All of the women and some of their children are ‘living positively’. In 2004, the women wanted to do something about the stigma against HIV/AIDS and decided to form a group. Each woman contributed 10 Ksh per week (about 12 cents) and at the end of two months the group had 3000 Ksh. They purchased supplies to make little beaded pins with the red ribbon symbol on them. However, the women learned that they could not sell them except around the time of December 1^st, when it is World AIDS Day. One of the women saw a beaded necklace at Nakumatt (a supermarket here in Kenya) and showed the other women how to make it. After that, all of the women had to come with a design and show everyone how to make it. The shop opened in 2005 and the group now has 20 women.

Products of Power Women

Though the women still struggle, they have an amazing system and camaraderie (I may have fired question after question at them, but I am so grateful that they were more than happy to answer them all!). The money they receive from sales goes to four things. One: To purchase materials to make more products. Two: To purchase food for breakfast and lunch that the women can come to the shop to eat daily. This way, every woman is guaranteed a meal to be able to take her ARV medication. Three: For emergency situations should a woman or a member of her family becomes ill or if there is a death in the family. Four: To pay the women for living expenses such as rent, food, and children’s school fees.

Elizabeth & Doreen hold hands for a photo

Power Women recently purchased the building they are operating in now, and it has an extra room. They are thinking of turning it into a salon to earn additional income. John and I walked around and looked at all of their products. I asked Elizabeth and Doreen if I could take a picture of them and they agreed. I pulled out my camera and when I looked up, they are smiling and holding hands. The bond these women have appears to be unshakeable and so very genuine. John and I left the shop feeling nothing but admiration for these women and fiercely motivated to pursue our goals for the future. We wanted to walk around and explore the area. We reached the train tracks (yes, a train runs right through Kibera) and got a view of the density of Kibera. We paused to take it in, and I took a few photos. I was intrigued by the tarps on some of the roofs with a pair of eyes. After asking several shopkeepers, we found out that the tarps were placed there for a documentary or movie about Kibera. I noted to John as we walked around that hardly anyone yelled “Muzungu” and not a soul had come up to ask me for money. I was quite surprised. A gentleman even lovingly pushed his children up to greet me. We walked passed a bulldozer working on improving a dirt road, when a woman stopped John in the street. The two of them are conversing, and I’m afraid that I’ve spoken too soon. I’m waiting for John to translate and assume she is asking for money or food. Finally, John turns to me and says, “This woman says she is… (he paused to speak in a more hushed tone) living with HIV and someone told her she shouldn’t have any sugar. So, she wants to know what fruits don’t have sugar.” John and I encourage her to continue to eat fruits and only trust the advice of her doctor. I’m the last person people should ask for medical advice, but thankfully, I knew the answer to this one.  She didn’t want a handout- just information. I further felt faith in Kibera and its people.

The eyes of Kibera

We stopped in Kibera’s local market to pick up some blankets and headed back to the city centre to drop them off. Then, it was off to find another bus to head out to an area called Westlands. There are two higher-end shops I wanted to visit there, but realizing I left my map at the hotel, we just dropped in at the mall. We grabbed lunch at the food court and dicussed our thoughts of the morning. John was highly motivated by the women’s ability to collectively save a small amount of money each week and then use the small seed money to grow a business. He hopes to implement this idea with friends in his village for a different project. I was extremely impressed by the women’s ability to come up with their own idea and implement it when most people would claim to have nothing to give.

We spotted a huge crafts market across the street from the mall, which I had no idea existed. Trying to kill time before a movie started at the mall, we walked through and talked to several of the soapstone artists. As we left the crafts market with a few more ideas, we were shaken out of our bubble by several teenage boys sniffing glue- right out in the open. It’s extremely common among street children and those living in the slums here but I have never seen it outright and especially didn’t expect it in a nicer area of town. The reality of poverty is quite different from the romanticized photos of media. (Don’t get me wrong- I love National Geographic). We went back to the mall and wrapped up the long day by watching Sherlock Holmes 2.

Shopping/research day one in Nairobi: Extremely rewarding!

Note: Before venturing in to Kibera alone, please take safety into consideration. I don’t want to give the wrong idea- parts of Kibera are still extremely dangerous, and when I tried to visit a local friend’s project in a different neighborhood, he refused to escort me himself without an armed police officer. Kibera has 14 different neighborhoods and some areas are safer than others.

Onesmus and John opened their presents, and they were shocked. Shocked! First they were excited over their shirts and a few bracelets, but the Manchester United scarf, a watch, and a deck of playing cards were the big hits. They put their new gifts away, except for a bracelet and a watch, and we set off on foot to visit their sister. It was a sunny day but not too hot.

Siblings

We walked through fields, past a few cows, a sheep, and bougainvillea and sunflower plants and arrived at the sister’s family’s home. She greeted all of us, and I watched as the boys ragged on their sister. Some things are the same across all cultures it seems :) She and her sister-in-law invited us to sit inside and then before I know it, we are being served goat stew, chapati, and hot chocolate. I can’t be rude so I manage to partake in a second lunch and am relieved that I don’t spot any hairy goat meat. Actually, his sister and her family had prepared a really tender goat stew and I even picked up some of the pieces on the bone and tried to prove myself by tearing the meat off of it. It felt a little barbaric actually, but at least I tried to look like a local before I passed some of meat to the boys. I’ve never been served hot chocolate in Kenya, as chai is much more typical, but being the Christmas holidays, I was spoiled with a treat. While John’s sister Felister was busy in the kitchen, her husband and daughter showed up and made conversation. We touched on the importance of women having good hair in Africa. While I’m always told how dirty my shoes are by locals, I was told at this lunch that I have good hair. Score one for Laura. Since Felister has her own salon (well, as they say in Kenya, ‘saloon’), hair was quite a big topic of discussion. Her husband wanted to know why white people have different colored hair. I wish I knew. And when I told him that as a blonde, my hair has gotten darker as I’ve gotten older, he asked me if my hair would turn black. A very logical assumption if you don’t know about white people hair, but I had to explain that, no, my hair would not turn black.

As it got late in the afternoon, we got up to leave, but first I wanted to take a photo of John and Onesmus with their sister. It turned into a family photography session, and I loved seeing the toothless grins of the husband’s parents. They were such warm and friendly people.

The skies looked dark and a few droplets fell from the sky. We decided it was more urgent that we get going, and we said goodbye to the family. Felister and her brother-in-law wanted to walk with us part of the way. Not even five minutes later, it starts raining, and I swear you would have thought that Kenyans would melt in the rain. With haste, we turned down a path to a house to seek shelter under the overhang of their roof. Suddenly the rain turns into a torrential downpour, and a lovely woman invites the five of us inside. She lights the oil lantern and kids peep out from the dark corners to stare at the muzungu. The woman places wash basins outside to catch the rainwater, easing her burden on collection the following day. The tin roof is rusted in parts and water drips from the tiny holes. No homeowners or motorhome insurance exists in these parts. After fifteen minutes or so, it is starting to get dark, and I decide that I should go ahead and leave. It’s not all that safe for me to be out at night here, plus I can just imagine trying to find my way in the dark while sliding in the mud. The rain lets up a little, and the homeowner goes to John’s church so she offers him an umbrella. We are standing at the door, and the woman also tries to give me a sweater. I was touched by her hospitality towards this random white girl that shows up at her house in the rain, but gently refuse.

We make a bolt out the door and try to avoid the puddles that have already formed. I run ahead of John, knowing that I’m going to get muddy and wet anyways, so the umbrella doesn’t really matter. From behind I hear, “Laura, you must wait for umbrella. Laura!! Wait for umbrella!!” I give a ‘Muahaha’ laugh and explain to John that the rain won’t kill me. To ease his anxiety, I attempt to stay under the umbrella, at least for a minute or two. We slide on the muddy paths and both agree that we will need to wash our shoes the next day. About halfway home, it gets dark, but we had at least made it past the most uneven parts of the path. The unexpected downpour of rain leaves me chuckling inside, as it reminds me once again, that the days are always unexpected in Africa. I’m grateful that I can huddle in a complete stranger’s home to seek refuge from the rain and even be offered a sweater by her. I’m happy that my shoes were already muddy and dirty so who cares if I splash in the puddles… it can’t get worse. And I smile knowing that I have answered a lot of questions that day about what crops we grow in America, where Arnold Schwarzenegger lives, whether kids get the dangly things in their throat cut off when they’re little, and why muzungus have different colored hair.