Not 'The End'

In my time here I have seen the best that Africa has to offer and the worst. I was dropped into the thick of things and told to figure it out for myself. It has been one of the most valuable experiences of my life. I have seen the top of Mt. Kenya and the palm fringed beaches of Mombasa. I have seen lions stalking animals in the wild and danced in a Maasai manyatta. I have eaten Nyama Choma from a butchery that would be condemned in the United States and been on adventures that developed countries couldn’t dream up. I have had laughs and made friends that will never fade, regardless of the separation of distance and time. I have had so much fun that it should not be legal and I will never forget these incredible people and places. But as is Africa, there are shadowy experiences that I will never forget as well. I have seen violence so close that the blood ran up to my shoes. I have seen crime so close to home that I stared the perpetrator in the eyes while the victim cried on my shoulder. I have seen death so close that I dug the grave. I wish these were figures of speech, exaggerations or literary tools used to evoke a reaction, but they are not. They are real experiences with real stories, real emotions and real people behind them. I would be lying if I said that this trip was a cakewalk; a vacation from reality where I rode a safari van through Africa, looking out the window and taking pictures at the lifestyle of the indigenous people. I have become invested in relationships, had bad days, had good days, accepted and lived the lifestyle and to be honest, I’m so happy for that. I would also be lying if I said that I was living like an average Kenyan. I have been living well, eating every meal until I am full, sleeping in safe and comfortable beds, affording luxuries that most people here wouldn’t even dare to think about. But at the same time, I have been faced with situations that have forced me so far out of my comfort zone that I forgot where I left it; and good or bad, I don’t think I would change a minute of it.

                I have left my blood (mostly from walking barefoot and getting in and out of matatus), sweat (mostly in Mombasa) and tears (mostly from getting emotionally invested in the nightly, filmed in Spanish dubbed in English, soap operas). The thing that I can’t seem to shake, no matter how positive this experience has been is that I am leaving and they are not. I take an airplane home, get in a hot shower and start telling stories but these people continue living these stories. Do I think I “changed” anything? Absolutely not. But that doesn’t mean that for the people that I did work with, live with, teach and play with, I didn’t have a positive impact. Do I think that Faraja is better off now than when I got there? Yes. Do I think that it is well off? No.  There is so much that still needs to be done and it is indescribably bittersweet. Selfishly, it feels great and everything to have come work “with the less fortunate”, but they aren’t more fortunate for me having been there. And that isn’t to say that I didn’t work my ass off. There are just so many complications that keep Kenya from achieving its potential. Corrupt government and police forces, an unacceptable lack of importance placed on education paired with a dependency on outside sources for income generation, rooted in the imperialism and colonial degradation of the indigenous population. The people aren’t complacent. Kenya is one of the hardest working nations in the world. And they aren’t dumb; almost everyone speaks at least 3 or 4 languages fluently.  Still, a staggering number can’t read or write in ANY of those languages (so you tell me that something isn’t missing there). And listen, I’m not a sociologist, a political scientist or even completely sure of what profession would make these kinds of conclusions, but everyone from the glue junkie who sits on the steps behind my house to the President of the United States knows that SOMETHING is wrong.  But I knew I wasn’t going to change the world. I didn’t even think I would do as much as I did. But what do you do when the landlord wants to kick you out of your house so she comes to your door and cuts off your power, even after you FINALLLLLLY paid your bills? Let me rephrase that. What do you do when that happens and you don’t have the 200 shillings ($2.50) to take a matatu to the courthouse and back-- let alone pay any sort of legal fee? That is a true story. And there are more just like it that I won’t share because they are complicated and mindboggling to any western mind. And those are just Faraja stories… that have happened since I’ve been here. There are 2.4 million orphans JUST in KENYA. I’m not a mathematician either, but these numbers adds up to a lot of hardship that needs to be taken care of, and not by individuals, by collective action. The Kenyan history is incredibly complicated (and pretty different depending on what tribe and background the Kenyan you are speaking with belongs to). That is why I am going to stop preaching in this, my final blog, and if you want to debate, I got nothing but time until I get a job (oh yeah, about that…)

I think that in a lot of ways, I came to help people and those people I came to help have changed my life.  I’ve learned more from Kepha than I did from some of my college courses. I’ve grown up more in the last 4 months than I probably had in the last 23 years. It is something that I both won’t and can’t forget and I’m grateful for every second it. The times I wanted to laugh, the times I wanted to freak out and the times I needed sleep but didn’t. The times the electricity went out and the water shut off. The times that I had to walk the 40 minutes (I’m a slow walker) to Faraja just after a rain storm and the roads were flooded with God knows what. The times I got ripped off by street vendors, matatu conductors, restaurant owners, beach boys, probably little old ladies… and the times that I was able to fit in (enough) to not get ripped off. Being the only person that I knew that didn’t get robbed. The little things that I will never forget. The songs with Kepha. Walking through the neighborhood and being treated like a celebrity. Seeing someone you knew in a random place. Getting as close with someone in 3 or 4 days as you would after knowing them for years.  The little things, the best things.

When I was younger (and still a certain extent today), I was not a fan of saying goodbye. It felt too permanent. I preferred “I’ll see you later” or “talk to you soon” or any other form of goodbye. I grew out of that phase as the years went on and now I don’t really think about that anymore (still don’t like goodbyes in general). But as the wick of the flame that is my East African adventure is quickly burning out, I find myself returning to that adolescent feeling.  I wish I could skip out and not have to deal with the impending goodbye, but I know that the last glimpse or hug isn’t what’s important. The emotion that you feel in that moment of sadness is generated from all the positive times that you’ve shared with the person or place. It’s not hard to say goodbye to something you don’t like. So instead of dwelling on the teardrops falling from Kepha’s eyes as I tell him I don’t know when I will see him again, I’ll focus on the mornings that he came sprinting to the gate screaming and laughing to see me. Instead of focusing on the sun setting on my last night in the most amazing place in the world, I’ll remember the dozens of sunrises I watched as a new day began.

                I started this blog off by saying that there are moments in life where you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world (seems like yesterday and 10 years ago at the same time). Milliseconds of complete and utter serenity and acceptance of your surroundings. It would be a joke to say that I felt that way for 4 straight months, but as I conclude this trip, I get that same warm feeling taking over(and not because I’m living on the equator or have malaria). I have pushed my limits in every direction and instead of having stretch marks, I have grown into my new form. So as I sign off, I’m not going to say goodbye. I’ll say tutaonana (we’ll be seeing each other). So for now, tutaonana Kenya. I’ll be seeing you again.

Mombasa

On my last day at Faraja until after Mombasa (remember, I extended my stay, so I am coming back for at least a few weeks)  Moraa and I took the trip out to Roinguy (sounds like wrong guy) to make the first live drop of the newly finished, and certified by the Ngong Township District Children’s Office, grand proposal. We were taking it to ADRA, a Christian-based African Organization with goals of helping to improve the lives of children. I got dressed up and boarded a matatu (oxymoron) and had a successful (albeit short)meeting with an administrator after the 2 hour journey to ADRA. On the way home Moraa, who admitted she was not good at goodbyes, told me she had a meeting in Kiserian (she does work 24/7) and when her stop came she gave me a hug and said “see you in a month! Be safe and God bless” and was gone.

                As soon as she was gone, the conductor saw a well-dressed white man in his van and attempted to almost triple the price of fare on him… Granted I would have done the same if our roles were reversed, but this time I caught him off guard. He said “80 bob” which would have been the most expensive matatu ride I’ve ever been on by far, for a ride that was not very long (granted it totals out to be about a dollar). I said “Wewe! Wacha! Una sema thelathini!” (you! Stop! You said 30!). He laughed, knowing he couldn’t pull a fast one and shook his head, smiling, as he accepted my 30 shillings.

                I arrived back at Faraja to say a quick goodbye to the kids before I went to go pack and board the night bus to Mombasa. This quick goodbye was a brutal preview of the horrible goodbye I am facing in a few months when I leave for good. I explained to all of the older kids that I was leaving for Mombasa and I would be back. Easy enough. I was playing with Kepha, preparing to say goodbye when he told me to come to the chickens. I told him I couldn’t and when he asked why I said “Ni me enda.” (I am going).

                “Wapi?” (Where?) he responded in 2 year old Swahili

                “Mombasa” I told him.

                He grabbed my hand, pulling me towards the front gate and said excitedly “twende!” (Let’s go!)

Although my Swahili has improved, I have no idea how to expain to a 2 year old that I am leaving and he isn’t. Probably even in English. One of the older kids came to rescue and explained what was happening. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and when I put him down he started hysterically crying. He could not be consoled by his brother and sisters picking him up and only stopped when I picked him back up. Eventually, the kids told him that he could have a sweet if he went inside, giving me time to sneak off, but halfway down the street I heard him yell “GEN!!! Natacka enda! (I want to go!)” and start crying. I almost didn’t go to Mombasa. My only saving grace is that I will see him and the rest of the kids again in a month. But that goodbye will be harder.

                After an uneventful and sleepless overnight bus to Mombasa, I finally arrived at my new home with Nikki and Jack. Instead of living on the beach and being a matatu ride from the school (and rough neighborhood) that we work at, we are living next door to the school and are a matatu ride away from the beach. Not what we had expected, but I kind of like it this way. The neighborhood is a suburb compared to Ngong, but still, I wouldn’t walk around alone too late at night… it is still Kenya. I have become very comfortable here because nothing has happened to me, but I have to remember that nothing has happened to me because I have been smart.

                In Mombasa I live with a huge family. My house mom is a woman with 6 children, 3 live with her, one lives next door and 2 live in Nairobi. The 3 that live with her have 2 kids, the one next door has one and there is chris, a cousin who is visiting from Nairobi. My house is a mini compound, behings a gate and cement walls with broken bottle pieces lining the top as barbed wire/ There is a tree in the “yard” that I climb at least once a day to relax, read or watch the sunset over the perforated aluminum rooftops that run, rusted, until they meet coconut trees in the distance. It is a perfectly choreographed scene of the natural beauty of Kenya, side by side with the intense hardships of the people that live here. The rooms of the house are not connected, they are encompassed in the same walled-in expanse, but you have to walk outside to get from room to room. Jack and Nikki said I share a tiny room, but ats least we have a fan and individual beds (not bunked). The food is incredible, the people are incredibly friendly and there is constant stimulation. They have 4 dogs that roam the yard, accompanied by 6 ducks, 2 rabbits and 2 or 3 turkeys, one of which is enormous and UGLY. I have become close with the son who lives next door, Moya. We spend nights in the tree talking about politics, cultural similarities and differences and just generally shooting the shit.

                The school that I teach in (yeah, I teach, God help these kids) is less than a minute walk away from the house. It is a TINY school with my classroom, consisting of a few desksm two iron clad windows and a small “chalkboard”. The kids are on break right now, so only about half of the class comes to school as part of a summer school-type program. Again, this is not a regulated part of school, so I am not taking a job away from a Kenyan, although the legality of this “tuition period” seems questionable in my westernized mind. Either way, the kids are great, eager to learn and energetic. They get shy when you call on someone or single someone out, but at 10-13, who didn’t? They all have great attitudes.

                The challenge with this group of kids is that they are a hodgepodge of students. Tuition is meant to keep kids off the street and out of trouble, but in doing so I have a group of 5^th to 8^th graders who are at very different stages of knowledge. I may teach science and some kids have alreaday learned the subject while others are clueless. Or one of the younger ones is learning it now and the older ones haven’t touched the subject in over 3 years. It is a struggle and it is draining but if you look for the little things, the smiles and the right answers from a kid who has been previously struggling, it’s worth it! I like teaching, but the last few weeks has made me question whether I could make it as a teacher.

As you can probably tell from the way that I am writing, I have been in Mombasa for a little while (2 weeks as I sit here writing). Mombasa as a city… is HOTTTTTTT. Almost everyday reaches 100 degress and this isn’t even the hot season. Other than having to buy a mini towel to wipe the constantly developing sweat from my face, the city is great. I spend my afternoons on some of the world’s most beautiful beaches, swimming in the Indian Ocean (bucketlist, check), have scope out Fort Jesus and Old Town (scene from Inception in Mombasa which looks more like the Middle East than Africa) eaten the street food, am currently sitting in the beautiful Uhuru Gardens, have seen dolphins on a makeshift wooden boat, visited a remote island near Tanzania with my house family and have generally started to adapt to the wayyyyy slower lifestyle here. Besides developing pimples on my forehead like a 13 year old despite taking 19 showers a day, I have no complaints. A few days ago I was exiting a matatu near my house when I heard “Hewitt!” a name I hadn’t heard since before I went to Israel. I turned and saw Ben Levy, a friend from UW. A familiar face in a foreign world. He has been volunteering here for a little while and even though I was planning on calling him the following day to meet up, having known he was in Mombasa, the unexpected sighting blew me away! It made me remember my life before this adventure and was a great feeling as well as a good person to have around in Mombasa because I have always really liked Ben and he has been in this city for long enough to know the ropes.

                As for now, I’m settling into Mombasa, the heat and the beach and the school and as soon as I have more to report, the stories will keep on coming!

Faraja Update!!!

I was once told that it’s not the end destination that matters, but the path that was traveled to get there. In this particular situation, I believe that it is both. It is the bitter that makes the sweet taste so good. It is the perfect formation of clouds that make the sunset spectacular. After months of hard work with no end in sight, things seem to be coming together, albeit only for the time being. Faraja was on the brink of eviction. It is 4 months in the hole on rent, a year plus behind on its water bills (Moraa goes to church with the man that supplies water, he is giving them it for free, but wants to be paid eventually) and gets electricity when it can convince someone to give it to them for free (rarely) but has never paid a bill. When you barely have money for necessities, the luxuries are out of the question. When you don’t have money for neccesities, you have to prioritize which necessities are most important and which ones will wait. But eventually, it will catch up. Eviction is a big deal in itself, but in the circumstance of caring for 35 children, it can be devastating.  It’s not that Faraja couldn’t handle it. They have been displaced 4 times, have lived in one of the worst slums known to man, slept in fields, lived for a few months in an abandoned car (rotating nights for the privilege of sleeping inside the vehicle) and made due with nothing. It’s not that they wouldn’t persevere; it’s that I believe that they have earned the right not to need to. Almost more daunting than the fact that they will be without shelter is the fact that if they are forced to move, there are countless fees to be paid; new school fees, uniforms, transportation etc etc. Realistically these fees are not all that much money, but when you have NO money and you are forced to borrow and beg for necessities, the fees may as well amount to trying to buyout Microsoft. The only real income generating activity that Faraja has is a few chickens in the backyard that lay eggs. When there is no money to feed the chickens, they stop laying eggs and even resort to eating each other. When they are fed and taken care of they produce enough income to pay for themselves and provide food. Rent and everything else is a struggle and a constant stressor. Coupled with the fact that the only administration to speak of at Faraja is Moraa, who is so busy keeping the house from collapsing, the situation is grim. The landlord wants them out. Moraa put her faith in God. She said that everything always works out. The verdict is still out for me, but in this situation, it’s hard to argue. The timing, the results, the situation seem to be divine, but maybe I’m just hanging around Moraa too much.

                As you guys know I have been backhandedly asking for donations for Faraja, even though  I promised I wouldn’t. My roommate Portia has been doing the same thing and the results have been staggering. Through generous donations and support we have been able to raise enough money to pay off the rent debt, pay off the water bill, pay a huge chunk of school fees, provide feed for the chickens which should get Faraja at least temporarily stable from the income generated, provide enough food for a few weeks which relieves the stress of not knowing where the next meal is coming from for the children and take care of so many more basic needs such as hospital bills and medicines, transportation to the free health clinics offered for children with HIV/AIDs and so much more. The fact that people want to (and do) help has been one of the most uplifting realizations that I have ever had. People can and do make a difference every day and although Faraja still has A LONG way to go, without THIS help, who knows what would have happened to the house, and way more importantly, the children. They have been through too much in their short lives, seen things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, struggled through things that human beings shouldn’t EVER have to go through, and they are still too young to even truly provide for themselves. They have no parents, no people to guide them and provide for them. They need some sort of help, financially, emotionally and developmentally because they have been drifting aimlessly through a 3^rd world country, caused by the loss of their parents and have been forgotten by society. It is impossible to truly sympathize with them from an ocean away, let alone sitting on the same couch as them because it is impossible to put yourself in their shoes. But they are people and the support that has been provided by people who have never met them and probably never will (unless I sneak Kepha home in my suitcase) is the type of story that proves that there is a common human bond. An innate human decency that proves that at the root of the human spirit, past all of the problems that face the world, there is some sort of beauty.  Thank you again to everyone who donated, you will be hearing from me individually as soon as I get the chance, I’m sorry for the delay in response but your kindness is changing lives. And thank you to everyone who is reading this. I hope that I’m doing a decent job of relaying what is going on and I hope that you are getting a tiny taste of the tiny taste of Africa that I am getting…

                These perfectly timed individual relief efforts have given me the opportunity to finish the grant proposal I have been working on for the last few weeks. The grant aims to stabilize the home in the immediate future enabling Faraja to provide basic necessities as well as individualized care for vulnerable and orphaned children in the Ngong community. It also attempts to create funds to amp up the chicken project, eventually leading to a self sustainable home, add permanent staff as well as continue the efforts of volunteers and create an awareness campaign in the Ngong community about the plight of orphaned and vulnerable children. It shows that orphaned and vulnerable children in Ngong are a community problem and by teaching how community members can help, it will also help prevent the increase in OVC’s. Summing up a 13 page, official grant proposal into a few sentences is difficult, especially late at night after a loooonnnngggg day, but I put my heart and soul into that document and we are going to look to start distributing it as soon as possible.

                So that is where we stand. The clouds broke and the forecast calls for clear skies for the time being. There will be trials and tribulations again. There always are. But as for now, everything looks okay, and that’s the only way to take it. Day by day. Until next time….

My Triumphant Return to the Monkey Park (And my Dream Realized!!!!)

As a special treat, the enlarged and adopted Faraja volunteer crew (for the week) decided to plan a trip to City Park (See earlier post “I got robbed by a little old lady and I didn’t even see it coming”) after a long week. We wanted to do something special for the kids, especially with Abi’s impending departure and Moraa’s absence, limiting our combined knowledge of how to run an orphanage to right around zero. City Park was the most appealing excursion option because the park itself is free, none of the kids had ever been , and they all expressed interest in it (organizing 35 kids with differing interest to agree on a day trip… good luck). We got in touch with one of the coordinators of Fadhili (our program) to see if we could rent a matatu or bus for the afternoon to take us down into Nairobi. When we broke the news to the children, there was a moment of confusion, followed by one of the older children explaining the plan in Swahili, followed by a rush of excitement, shown moreso by the volunteer, Portia, than by all of the children combined. Kids starting getting their hair braided for the next morning, getting outfits ready, washing themselves, their clothes, each other. There were huge productions being put on by the kids over clothing and hair and God knows what else. The following morning, I set out with Dama to the school to run a few errands. The kids were out on break, but 35 kids find a way to stay involved somehow. We took care of business and met the rest of the crew in town, where the transportation would be waiting. As we have come to expect, nothing goes as planned in Kenya, the transportation was late and the kids were nowhere near ready, but no harm no foul and everything worked out in the end. When our transportation arrived, it was a hybrid, half-bus and half-matatu (bigger than a matatu, slightly smaller than a standard bus and decorated/painted like a matatu). We took off towards the park and had made it all the way to the Santack/Kimbo stop on route 111 when it happened… Our bus came fully equipped with a driver and a conductor, but because we were a private bus for the few hours, the conductor didn’t need to do anything. He sat in the back of the bus, official conductor uniform (maroon vest) laying on the seat beside him. It may have taken me 20 minutes, but I finally worked up the courage to ask him to borrow the jacket and be the conductor for the ride. He laughed and said “you want to be a conductor?!”, to which I’m sure I blushed, but mustered up the strength to stutter “y-y-yes”. He tossed the jacket to me with a smile but I swear, it felt like Queen Elizabeth herself had tapped me on the shoulder with her ceremonial sword and dubbed me Sir Benjamin Hewitt. Back in the real world, I was tossed a sweat-drenched, B.O. stenched (if it’s not a word it should be, I like the way it sounds) vest and given a chance to hang out the door of a moving vehicle. Regardless, I stuck my body out that door with pride and did justice to the title “conductor”. We passed stop after stop and people did double and triple takes. Kids ran after the bus and grown-ups squealed, laughed, gawked, tried to catch a ride and even yelled after the bus in confusion or in jest.  On the ride home Nikki and Jack had to get off at Karen to run a quick errand. This gave me the chance to really shine. I slapped the door of the bus twice, signaling the driver to stop. He turned in amazement and  to see if I was serious and pulled up to the Karen stop. Jack and Nikki exited and a swarm of Kenyans ran up to the bus to get on, they stopped dead in their tracks when they saw a mzungu conductor and eventually I needed help from the “real” (notice the quotation marks) conductor to help explain that the bus wasn’t available. I slapped the side of the bus and yelled “Twende!” (let’s go!). The driver turned and laughed, shouting “una fanya kasazuri!!” (you’re doing a good job… spelled phonetically). This was the (selfish) highlight of my whole trip. I can’t stress how much fun I had, how hysterical the reaction was and how quickly this is going on my ever expanding resume of being a matatu conductor… But lets get back to the “real” (again, quotations) story… The kids, and the monkey park… sureeeee, like the kids are what’s important here after such a monumental moment you say? I agree….

                But anyways, where were we? Eh-hem… oh yeah, so we arrived at City Park and found a little field where we busted out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, juice boxes and cookies for all the kids. It was a stretch from the ugali and githeri that is served daily for lunch, but the western style picnic lunch was well received!

                Once everyone had their fill, we purchased bags of peanuts for all the kids to attract the monkeys to play with. The monkeys must have been wise to the plan because as soon as Portia brought a bag out of her pocket, a monkey snatched it and bolted into a tree… I think it was the same pick-pocketing Colubus that ripped me off of a granola bar, having been emboldened by theft success. We snuck the kids the remaining peanuts and set them loose on the unsuspecting monkey population. It was one of the most fun afternoons I could have possibly dreamed up. The monkeys were chasing the kids, the kids were chasing the monkeys… total pandemonium. Kepha was petrified of the monkeys—who were his size—but the kids were determined to get him to interact with them. The kids quickly learned that you could lure a monkey onto your shoulders using the peanuts as bait, and this revelation quickly changed everything. Someone finally got Kepha to hand a monkey a peanut and his fear melted into laughter. Emboldened by his new discovery he yelled at the monkey in his signature broken English and monosyllable Swahili “Gunnnnkeey! Cuja!” (come), then he would point to his should and yell “HAPA!!” (here). As soon as a monkey so much as looked at him he would squeal and run (waddle) away laughing in a high pitch shriek… we carried on with the monkeys as long as the kids energy would allow—way longer than the volunteer’s—and then climbed into some trees and played with the monkeys in their home environment. On the ride home, I manned my post, while almost all of passengers fell asleep for the entirety of the ride. We arrived back home safe in Ngong, due to my conducting skills (I would like to believe), and started the preparations for dinner. It was an incredible day and a good time had by all.

Pictures coming soon... They are on my FlashDisk and I thought they were on my computer... Oooooppps.

Running Faraja... Kind of

Moraa told us that she had to leave down for a clinic to get her recertification from the government to maintain custody over the children. Seeing as this wasn’t exactly optional Me, Portia and Abi volunteered to stay at Faraja for the few days that she had to be gone, in order to make sure that things went smoothly. Why we thought a few mzungu could run an orphanage is still a mystery to me, but we did a pretty good job… if I do say so myself. We headed out to Faraja early so that Moraa could take off after explaining our duties. Hospital visit in the morning, cooking, cleaning, washing etc in the afternoon, have dinner for the kids, make sure that they are all prepared for bed, bed then chores before dawn, get the kids ready and off to school then breakfast and resume daily activities. Simple enough, right?

                What ensued was one of the most hectic, fun, crazy, frustrating, hysterical and goofy few days of my life. Nothing went right, but nothing went wrong. We maintained the balance of Faraja Children’s Home and didn’t do any (lasting) damage to the place. The hospital visit went as expected, taking 14 kids to the hospital all with different needs and reasons for going… The hospital is the most inefficient place I have ever encountered and it took over 4 hours to get all the kids in and out get their needed medications, pay for their visit and medication etc. The house didn’t have enough money to pay for the visit and for the medication. In a situation where the children would be forced into a situation of going to a doctor, knowing they were sick but not being able to afford the medication OR skipping the doctor visit all together and being sick without knowing it,  the wazungu crew (wa=plural) picked up the tab. Before I make that statement with a self-gratified, smug smile, I should clarify. The hospital visit to the doctor plus medication for all 14 kids cost 1,300 shillings with comes out to around $16. This is the type of poverty I keep harping on. Imagine skipping a trip to the doctor (mind you these are not stomach aches and common colds that the kids are fighting off) because you can’t pool $16 dollars. AND THAT WAS FOR 14 KIDS. We’re talking about just over a dollar per kid. No co-pay, no insurance coverage, just a dollar and change payment for something that in some cases can save a life.

                The other wazungu took the kids home after they were getting upset because it was almost 3 and they hadn’t had any food. The chemist told me (after a little over an hour of waiting) that the kids didn’t have to be there to get their medication, after telling me they had to stay otherwise they couldn’t get their meds… twice. Regardless, as I walked the backstreets of Ngong towards Faraja, I couldn’t help but think about the Nairobi, or more specifically Ngong Hospital (supposedly Nairobi Hospital is amazing and people fly in from other countries if they can afford it if they have serious health problems).  When I arrived back at Faraja, there was chaos. The kids were off of school and running around like madmen and women. Eunice (not sure if I mentioned her, AMAZING woman ((20 year old)) who works at Faraja and basically ran the house, I don’t know how it will function without her) *** Eunice left soon after this post was written due to lack of payment for her work, I still keep in touch with her regularly and I really reallllly hope that she will find her way back to Faraja eventually*** That was a long side note. Anyways, Eunice, Portia and Abi were going to town cooking some Githeri (if I remember correctly) and rations were passed out to everyone. We all ate like we’d never eaten before and then went to work. Feeding and cleaning the chickens (which I’m no longer terrified of… thank you very much), getting dinner ready, cleaning the house, doing laundry, washing, tutoring for the kids school work… everything. It was a great day and we all really came together in Moraa’s absence. Sometimes I really feel like the kids could run the place itself, that’s how mature they are. But I know that although it feels that way, it is not the case.

                That night as we sat in the living room (eating ugali and beans) the volunteers looked around with huge smiles on their faces and the kids, worn out by a long day, were ready for bed. We got them upstairs and played around for a long time until finally they were ready to sleep. The boys sleep in one room with about 8 beat-up and dirty mattresses thrown on the hard floor. Most of the tiny mattresses are the bed for 2 of the boys and a few of the bigger ones have manipulated into getting their own bed. It is the same way with the girls. They drag mattresses across the room, break out blankets (no pillows) and fold them neatly across the top of the mattress. The girls sleep 2 in a bed (some 3) and Kepha sleeps in the girls room with one of the oldest girls. It is horrifying how this arrangement works and is sad how it has gone on for so long that it is normal. But the kids insist that they love it this way. It is more cozy they say. They offer Jack and I to join them and although the social rules in Kenya are way different than at home, our Western minds would not allow us to sleep in a bed with 2 young boys. “I’ll take the couch, thanks!”  The house was dark and we had had a long day. It seemed early, felt late and really didn’t matter because we sat up talking in the living room by cellphone light. Every creak and footstep was terrifying, but we all made it through the night (some sleeping less than others) on couches, on the floor and in any space we could find to sleep.

                Rooster calls and commotion. I check my phone to see what time it is; 4:57 am. It is still pitch black out but I drag myself out of bed and join the kids in cleaning and getting them all ready for school. Mary (oldest kid) had the foresight to make breakfast the night before, so the cooking was taken care of. We got everyone bathed, dressed, ready and out the door by 7. We came back into the house and decided we needed to pass out before we started taking care of the responsibilities. Even Kepha looked at us and seemed to shake his head as he crawled up the stairs to get back into his bed.

                When we woke up for good, we took care of all the responsibilities that are needed to run a children’s home. The girls cooked chapatti and we took care of all the chores and then settled in for a minute. I worked on the grant and the girls and Jack helped me. We played with Kepha and kept at the work until the kids came back for lunch.

                Fast forward past all the work, to when the kids got home. We had a blast. I got my hair braided (one piece… that stuff HURTS) and the girls were trying to teach me to braid hair (useless), but it was fun anyway. Portia learned how to make chapatti, on her own, and all of the kids (and mzungu) watched and laughed as she struggled (but in the end was VERY successful, I must say!). We played soccer in the small rocky frontyard and made sure everything was set. We had a fast dinner and then the kids rehearsed their songs for church… amazing. Abi took videos and I’m going to see if I can get them on facebook (Abi, if you read this, can I put it on facebook? Or can you?) Another very successful night at Faraja. I learned more about myself in the few days I spent living in Faraja than most other periods of my life. It was an amazing experience that really solidified our places in the lives of the people at Faraja. No longer were we people who were visiting, we were part of the group. We had broken the barrier, seen the good, the bad and the ugly. We lived the life, we ate the same things, slept in the same house, did the same work. It was amazing (and exhausting) and I have SOOOOOO much respect for what Moraa does, 24/7. As we drifted off to sleep that night,  I thought about all the things that I was thankful for in my life. My family, my friends, the opportunities that I have been afforded, the life decisions that I have made to put me in the position I am in, health and happiness. Things that go unnoticed and unrewarded. I was also thankful for the experience that I was having at that moment. Living in an orphanage will humble you, and it showed me how important the little things in life are, because for me this was a great experience, but one that I will inevitably leave behind eventually. For these kids, and 2.4 million kids just like them in Kenya alone, this is reality. With my mind racing, I drifted off to sleep. It had been a long day and I needed the sleep because  the following day, we had a special treat planned… and that day is a blog post of its own.