Dababase issues, Kisumu the sequel

Week of September 28th – October 4th

The new work week started off with a feeling of productivity, despite my questionable weekend. I spent the majority of the day searching on the internet for a suitable database system or database template for the OVCs. Many times I thought I was on to something but was left out to dry when I took a closer look at the options. At the end of the day, I felt as though I wasted a complete day as a blind man searching for a bright needle in a haystack—many options with little experience in the subject. At least I tried my best to find a system that was pre-made, which would have saved me the hassle of formatting fields and items and blah-blah tedious bullshit. Therefore, it was worth a try; but now I believe I will have to build the system from scratch, which is even more daunting than I thought.

The night was spent relaxing in the house for the most part, reading more of The Stand by Stephen King—don’t laugh people, I need an easy read after all the journal articles. Also, I made a mental decision to go back and spend a night out of Bungoma because I didn’t like the idea of reading a book every night when there is so much adventure to be had. I can be a tourist on weekends, right Dr. Tamas? There is another Student For Development…student in Kisumu and I have a strong urge (withdrawal symptom) to meet and speak to another Canadian. It turns out that the girl, Jen, has her own pool at her house so I think this will be a good weekend.

The spectacular failure of the database search from Monday carried into Tuesday and I was not feeling very up for hitting the computer again. I took a walk to get some samosas and bananas. A samosa ran for $2 back in Gagetown, NB, but they are about $0.06 here and taste better, so I found a suitable addiction. On the way back from a shop in Marill (my village), I was slowed down by a donkey sluggishly dragging a cart full of water-jerrys in the heat. The donkey was stumbling back and forth, spilling the water and almost running the cart off the path numerous times. Each time it swayed, the man directing in would whip it and yell in anger at the donkey. Ok, animal cruelty is wrong, but it might be wise for me to let this one slide—2 large, angry men with weapons—I know what my feet are for. After a few hundred meters, the donkey gave up and layed down, exhausted and blocking the path. I haven’t witnessed much animal cruelty so what happened next stuck in my memory a bit. The man started whipping the donkey and slapping it in the face, trying to get the donkey up. The animal didn’t even have enough energy to avoid the blows or stand up. It took the beating in stride until the second man stopped the first man from continuing. Eventually both men hauled up the cart and the donkey was able to stand and continue along the way. The animal is clearly overworn, but it may be the only way for the 2 men to generate income by utilizing Bungoma’s need for transported water in this time—the taps have been dry for a while now.

At the office, the coworkers held the monthly mentors meeting. This involved gathering all the mentors from the various districts and discussing upcoming activities and problems within the past month. CREADIS is strongest in its ability to mobilize communities to help themselves. Often, we do not deal directly with the orphans because of the transportation issues to see them. Instead, the organization trains mentors from far-off rural areas and supports them through a complex network of mentors (who are the spokespersons for the families at risk).

People back in Cape Breton seem to think that I am working directly with a small group of kids to bring them out of poverty. If I agreed, people would probably applaud and girls will be interested, but if CREADIS did that, they may only be able to help 100 people really well, while forgetting about the thousands of others. While that idea looks took in pictures, it suffers in the breadth of its impact. CREADIS has instead focused on being a facilitator for people to bring themselves into a better situation. NGOs for OVCs cannot treat vulnerable populations as babies in a day-care (not financially possible to help everybody like this, and it seems to have ethical problems with the degradation of human dignity). I will likely not return to Canada with many photos of kissing babies like a presidential candidate, but I hope to play a part in helping a large number of people enough to improve their situations even a little bit. To my family: no, you will not be getting a postcard from Bungoma, would you get one from northern Nunavut?

That night, Natalie Abdou called from the Coady Institute and (as always) put my mind at ease with many things. Apparently, the director of CREADIS thinks I am doing a very good job. She mentioned it to me before but it I nice to hear that she wasn’t just blowing smoke up my ass. Also, she gave me some email contacts of people that specialize in database management systems—I am no longer alone in my struggle.

On Wednesday, I emailed all my contacts asking (actually, I begged) for help on choosing an easy database management system. Now I play the waiting game and redirect my efforts. I decided to start doing work on some cost-benefit analysis. What I had to do was take the financial statements devolved for each project area (for example, condom dispersal) then look at related indicators that could be isolated as an effect from funding. Basically, how much does it cost to, lets say, raise a students grade-marks by 10%? Lots of numbers and it is not a mandatory thing for my work plan, but I believe it will greatly help clarify the impacts of funding from donors in key areas—thus leading to more funding and better work in Kenya. My only concern is that most benefits cannot be isolated easily from one cost (or funding amount).

Antony has taken it upon himself to teach me some Kiswahili and is a very strict teacher. He will not greet me in English, and if he taught me a phrase in his mother tongue, he ignores me until I speak it in Kiswahili. Great man this Antony is. Also, it couldn’t come at a better time because I will soon be spending 2 weeks in Tanzania, which has Swahili in its purest form with very few English speaking people. Another thing I have realized concerning linguistics: it is not my language that is the greatest barrier, it is the accent. Kenyans seem to understand British or in Dutch accents well, but ‘American English’ is very strong to them. Add to that a mild Caper accent and you got yourself a crazy foreigner that cannot be understood. I can understand their English very well by now, but I remember how frustrating it was when I first arrived and could not understand their English. Now imagine the idea that every time I go to a community, they are put in the same situation as I was in when I first arrived—they are hearing a Canadian accent for the first time in many cases. Now I understand why my food science professor can understand my questions perfectly, but I cannot tell what the zombie Jesus he answers back with.

Thursday has arrived and I can now check my mail for advice on the database. Still no water, the internet doesn’t really work in the night, and the power is still shaky at best. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. But I’m not in Rome; I am in Kenya with deadlines and commitments. Fuck it, where will angst and longing get me? My concept map for the directed study is due, but it will not arrive in time, sorry Doris, I’ll make up for it by making it pretty with colors, when was the last time you got a literature review with pink stars in it?

It seemed the experts from the Coady all agreed that Microsoft Access was the easier system to use. I never suspect the obvious. Also, to rub the salt in my wound, Janet told me everybody knew how to use Access already she concurred with the idea. Now to look for a template on Access databases. Holy poop, when did I turn into a techno-geek? I’ve worked as a woodsman; I’ve shot lots of guns and helped treat a heart attack at 60kms/h in the back of a LAV tank. Two months ago I didn’t know how to say ‘database system template’, let alone get excited when I find one (PS I found 2!). It seems like I gained another employability note on my clusterfuck resume—right between ‘helped AIDS-orphans’ and ‘can kill things with a gun’.

To celebrate my small accomplishments, I decided to reward myself with some goat meat at The Ark (and yes, that’s a serious reward for me now). I love Kenyan food! Fuck KD and Swanson TV dinners. Nothing tastes fresher than a goat that was breathing an hour ago.

On Friday, I confirmed the plans to meet Jen in Kisumu, and then invited 2 friends to accompany me. I am excited to get out and be a tourist again. Bungoma is a quiet, peaceful place that is nice to live in, but it can get very boring if you spend a few weekends there.

I spent most of the Friday work day doing course work in my nutrition directed study. I had wasted lots of time looking for software on creating concept maps, only to revert back to something I could understand easily: Microsoft Word. My hatred for technology is coming back with a vengeance lately and it really sucks because I’ve created such a dependency on it. I suppose things will work out in the end, but it was sure annoying trying to do the concept map when every arrow and box kept moving around and hiding on me. I heard somewhere that technological advancements actually slowed things down due to training and errors caused by their complexity—ironic considering advances in technology are solely to speed up a process and make them more convenient to the person. I believe my coworkers expected me to be very efficient because I am more technologically advanced than most of them. However, the unfamiliarity of what I am working with really takes a bite into my time.

After the day, Jerry and I went into town for food and a beer at Jumbas, which is where we met John once again (I think he’s stalking us). We chatted and talked about everything under the sun, but it was very boring to me because it was just 10 relatively “rich” men sitting and mocking the government, women, and everything else. It caused me to want to go for some excitement somewhere else, but I did not want to waste another night spending money on beer and getting hit on by hookers. Therefore, I just shut up and sat there, for the majority of the night.

After a while, a man in a suit and glasses (clearly drunk) started saying, “Tomb Raider Chronicles and Grand Theft Auto”. I suppose he assumed I played videogames so we talked for a few minutes before the conversation made me feel slightly strange. I told him I had to go to the washroom and got up to leave into the dark alley towards the toilet. To my surprise he also got up and started following me, so I stopped before I turned the corner into the alley. When I turned around he had his nose very close to me face and was speaking lowly and secretive to me. He said, “These men want to beat me up, so you have to walk me home”. John and Jerry noticed this and my entourage began to grow, as if there somebody was about to get boot-fucked.

I told John that I was OK and the small gang at Jumbas backed off. I told him that I couldn’t walk him home and turned around again, but he grabbed my hand and tried to force me to stay. I assumed he was either homosexual or wanting to rob me, because the people that ‘wanted to beat him’ were the same people I came with: peaceful people. I realized Jerry would not let the man follow me into the bathroom so I removed his grip and started walking carefully to the washroom. It sucks being the smallest one of your friends, but it’s good because you feel safe around them if anything bad happens. When I came back down to the bar, he was glaring at me from outside in a strange way—maybe just a drunk way. John told me that the soldier kicked him out, so I waved him off and he staged away alone. Problem solved, I suppose. I had a suspicion that he was homosexual, which made me feel somewhat bad for him because homosexuals would likely be driven to such sketchy methods of meeting other men. From the outside, this man seemed dangerous and was outcasted; but my woman’s intuition would say he behaving in the only way he knew safe, in secrecy. I could be completely mistaken with his sexual preferences, so I withhold any concrete judgment; I just offer my interpretation to a foreign idea based on limited reliable information.

On Saturday, my 2 friends and I went to the ‘stage’ (bus stop) and were on our way to Kisumu to meet Jen. The ride was uneventful but after 2 hours in a cramped van, we arrived in town. Everybody was very hungry by this point and we seized the oppurtuinty to eat some fresh fish from Lake Victoria at one of their famous lakeside restaurants. I was terrified to eat the fish because it was just…a fish—head, tail, ass, eyeballs. We shared the fish between the 3 of us, so that means we had to crack the spine in 3 and break the fish apart—not very appetizing. The fish was delicious once I got over my trauma, but I did not know how to eat it very well so I believe I wasted more meat than I ate—why do fish have so many bones if these don’t need the structural support of a land mammal? The Darwin in me is starting to come out I believe. The chicken was even better and I can honestly say I am very efficient at eating kuku by now because there was no wasted meat. I am becoming a Kenya one step at a time.

Afterwards, we grabbed a beer at the bar and waited for Jen’s arrival. I was somewhat nervous to meet her because she was a Canadian who was doing her master’s in development—I’m not even a development student—so I felt she might view me as unintelligent. However, I passed over this idea quickly because even if she thought I was unintelligent, it wouldn’t really make a negative difference on me and I would only strive to become more intelligent in development issues. She turned out to be a very nice girl (albeit over-opinionated at times) and the four of us got along well. One of my friends was clearly trying to pick her up, but she’s a big girl. We all went out to grab another bite to eat, then started the long night of drinking—smells like we were going to have a good time.

The problem with hanging out with grad students is that they always want to have serious conversations, even when they are too drunk to make valid arguments. Maybe I just accept my stupidity early, but I hate talking about the ethical considerations of modern warfare against Islamic countries by Western forces when I am trying to get a ham on. I eventually spoke my displeasure and everybody surprisingly agreed that this was not a good time to have serious conversations about such things. From that point on, we drank, danced, and had a good time. Besides, what good ever became of drunken bantering?

After a few bars, we arrived at a place called ‘Bottoms Up’, named not for the drinking innuendo, but the sexual one. I was later told that all the women in the bar except Jen were prostitutes. Jen made me realize the place was not good for her because the women might get angry at her for taking their business away. Only 2 prostitutes tried to have sex with me this night, maybe I had boogers or something. After a long night of drinking and dancing, we went back to our respective places. However, my friend wanted to pick up women so I decided not to block them from doing so. It turns out that one wanted to pick one up naturally, and the other one simply picked up a hooker from the street. As I was leaving, I considered interjecting myself, but then a hooker bag-tagged me. I think she meant to…cop a feel, but she was too drunk to do so without force. I lost my interest in interjecting. When we were waiting for the tuktuk to take us back to the hotel, the same woman came out walked behind me. She had the eyes of a mad woman—thousand yard stare and her brows looked as though she was blinded by the sun, even in the dark of night. She lunged at my neck for a kiss and clawed my back hard as she passed by me. I stood there dumbfounded, and apparently that was enough encouragement for her to try again. However, I snapped out of my daze quick enough to jump in the first car and leave as she kicked the back of the car.

To my surprise upon entering my small hotel room, there was a woman sitting on my bed. Apparently, my friend bought me a hooker because “he wanted me to have an African woman”. I thought he was joking, but apparently not. I laughed at the situation and prayed she knew English. I took out some money and paid her to stay 20 minutes—just long enough for everybody to believe I was having sex with sex—so that she can slip out the back. I told her, “I’m not going to have sex with you”, and to my surprise again, she replied sincerely with “thank you”. I sat on my bed, smoking and thinking about the past hour’s events, but then gave up and went to sleep.

The next day, Sunday, I needed to be back in Bungoma early because I was having dinner at a friend’s house, a girl—the importance of which will soon be explained. However, I wanted to swim so we arrived at Jen’s house before leaving.

I convinced my friend to come into the water because it was not very deep—big mistake. When he made the final step into the 6 foot deep water, he started thrashing around as if he was drowning. The look on his face was that of complete terror and I did not know what to do. To be honest, half of me wanted to do what my father did to my brother and I, let him struggle his way through it or sink—then I would rescue him. Also, if he eventually calmed down and stood on his toes, he would be fine. Luckily for him, Jen did a water rescue and he calmed down after a few minutes. Jen, some Dutch medical student, and I spent the rest of our time teaching him how to swim. It is funny seeing a grown man in the water for the first time, you would swear he wanted to kill the water by slapping it. After about an hour, he learned well enough so that he could keep his head about water awkwardly. I don’t know if he will ever go swimming again, but it made me feel good to help teach him a good way to cool down in the African sun.

After Jen rejected my other friend’s advances on her, we headed back on the van to Bungoma because I was feeling stressed about my meeting with Maggie—you can’t blame African time for being 6 hours late. The driver of the van was adamant on placing a fourth person in the back with us and the three seats. However, the more outspoken friend decided to take a stand for safety and comfort reasons. He paid good money for a seat (not half a seat) and it was dangerous to over pack a van in rainy conditions. This lead to an intense argument that concluded with my friend pulling out the tribal stereotype card and threatening to hurt him. In 12 hours, he bought hookers, became violent, and showed his ignorance using tribalism—I think I’ll forget about that friend.

The driver became very angry and insisted on speeding recklessly back to Bungoma Town. This made the other passengers very nervous because the weather was not desirable, and I believe it made the drivers ahead of him very nervous too. One such vehicle was a sugarcane transport truck that tried to speed up and away from the van. The result was that the truck started fish-tailing and fell off the shoulder, but everybody was fine and our driver did not even slow down. I felt surrounded by assholes, some sacrificing safety for capital, others participating in dangerous stereotyping while the wounds of 2007 were still fresh.

After arriving semi-safely back at the apartment, I called Maggie so that we could meet—she invited me to go eat with her family. Jen warned me that this could be an arranged marriage but said it would be disrespectful to dodge the dinner. Also, I was almost positive she was mistaken because lots of men and women invite me to dinner at their houses. When she arrived to pick me up, I realized I was wrong—she was dressed very nice, too nice to be friends. I did not view this as a major problem because I could easily explain the miscommunication on cultural differences—it is a cop out but whatever keeps me from gaining a wife. Dinner was nice and the family was very welcoming (almost too welcoming). After dinner we went out to grab a beer with her cousins, and then headed our separate ways because we all had work the next morning. I felt that I handled the situation well, but was still very nervous about the potential situation I got myself into. I believe, in Kenya, I will never be just Dan the friend; I will always be Dan the white friend. Even when I do stupid things, people laugh at my mistakes because I am a white man. In a half-masochistic way, I wish people would be upset when I do stupid things because I don’t want to be known as the ‘stupid foreigner’ who does not know how to act in Kenya. In the past, this has led to favoritism towards me, which does nothing but further isolate me. For example, I can spoke in am offered the best seat on the bus while others have to suffer. I will have to work harder at becoming a Kenyan and opposing the idea that I am the whimsical, token white man.

Attack of the small viscous animals, new friends, and a heartbreaking sight. A rose between 2 thorns.

Week of September 23rd – 29th
I continued with my resource library on Wednesday. CREADIS hired a new staff member named Anthony on Tuesday, and this morning he brought something to my attention: I have been withdrawing myself from other staff members. Of course he did not say this outright, his comment was more along the lines of, “You spend a lot of time working on the computer”. My justification for this was two-part. First, I cannot understand most Swahili unless they explain the words I do not know, so I often do not want to but into their conversations and ask them what they are talking about. Secondly, my work up until this point has involved a heavy dependence on the computer because that is where the resources were coming from. However, he made me realize that I should not just put my nose to the grindstone for the whole workday because I will seem antisocial and uninterested in other people.
I have really slacked off in the last two weeks with learning Swahili due to the reasons mentioned above. Anthony explained that it would be a good thing for me to learn as much Swahili as possible (agreeing with my theory from my first entry). Jerry joined in and told me that most interns also give up on Swahili (FYI Swahili and Kiswahili are interchangeable) and revert back to their laptops. This was my resumed my earlier motivation to become comfortable with the language by December, because my lack of conversation with coworkers will greatly limit my changes for experiential learning in the field and at the office. Also, Swahili is a sexy language and I will love to be able to say I can speak it. I spent the tea-break (everybody stops working around 10:30AM to drink tea and chat) learning new words and getting more involved in their conversations—which is hard because it is their instinct to speak in Swahili, even if they are talking to (or about) me. This made me feel better, so mission accomplished I suppose.
Then I went back to the computer to continue my work on the resource library (I never learn it seems) and found great resources. Instead of focusing on staff education, I tried looking for toolkits that could help during workshops, discussion forums, etc.
I have learned at CREADIS that it is common for a person in one project to switch over and help out on another project. Once I realized this, I stopped my favoritism towards HIV/AIDS/OVCs resources and started looking for items in other projects, namely: women’s rights, agriculture, good governance, and micro-financing. This helped me immensely because I would rather know a little of everything than a lot about one thing—it is all involved in the same system anyways. For example, you cannot fully explain AIDS if you do not explain how gender inequality causes women to become more affected due to a lack of land rights (government) and thus having a smaller crop yield (agriculture), forcing them back into risky behaviors such as prostitution. Poverty is a multi-faceted problem which requires multi-faceted work.
After work, I met with a Kenyan-born person named John who lives Berlin. From our conversation outside Marill (my village) he seemed very knowledgeable in worldly matters (his master’s thesis was on the psychology of the Hutu mind during the Rwandan genocide of 1994) so I was very interested in grabbing a beer and learning more about him. Jerry and I went to our favorite local bar (The Ark) and met John there. He is a very lively (and rich) person so we had a great time just listening to his stories. He invited Jerry and I to go partying in Nairobi that weekend, which would be great, but it seemed like we should be flying by the seat of our pants—2 day’s travel for 1 day’s drinking—but we told him it would be nice. When we received our bills for food and beer, all of them were completely wrong. John cursed the lady but I merely corrected her and asked for the new bill. When she came back, it was still wrong because she told us we drank more beer than we did. John attributed this to me being a muzungu and started verbally attacking the waitress. I sunk low in my chair; but he was right in his argument. She brought back a third bill (which was correct) but tried to say the beer Jerry was drinking was not paid for; however, he paid for it at the bar. John verbally insulted her again. If you have not read Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, I will explain. He was a man that sold his soul to the devil, and it was from this play that came the idea of a tiny angel on one shoulder with a tiny devil on your other shoulder, each pulling you different ways. I was Dr. Faustus, Jerry was the tiny good person, and John was the tiny evil person; and I did not know which was to let myself be pulled. However, Dr. Faustus followed the devil’s temptations and eventually was sent to spend eternity in hell (spoiler alert? Oops, too late), so I decided to follow Jerry and leave peacefully.
Thursday was a very traumatic day for me. I am fairly oriented with nature and wildlife, but most potentially dangerous animals in Canada are very visible—wolves, moose, and cats, for example. I was working away on the computer with the resource library, feeling as though the resource library was large enough to give to Janet. To reward myself, I decided to sneak out back and have a cigarette (disregarding the faulty idea of a negative reward after a positive task). As I turned the corner into the alleyway, I heard a lizard start to scamper up the wall but did not take much notice because they are very timid—at least I thought so. As I walked, I saw an animate object leap from the top of the 8-foot wall out of the corner of my eye. My instinct was to duck and bend down to avoid the thing hitting my head if that was what it was aiming for. It narrowly missed my head, but hit my back. For a split second I thought I had escaped the danger; but then I felt the weight of the foot-long chameleon clinging onto my upper back. I was gripped in terror and started slapping my back viciously. After about 3 seconds I felt the weight leave my back, and the claws scraped down the length of my arm as it desperately tried to avoid falling. However, it landed flat on its back, stunned long enough for me to get a good profile of the perpetrator. After a moment, it recovered and ran up to the top of the wall in front of me once again. The urge to smoke was much stronger now, but I had to walk down the narrow alley under the lizard once again—so I gave up on the idea. I went back to the office and told Anthony about my experience; to my surprise he simply laughed and said, “So you killed it?” Stepping on my first cockroach was horrific enough (the splatter coming out the sides of my sandal, so I could not imagine the feeling of crushing a life-form that had both musculoskeletal and circulatory systems.
As I waved my hands around for emphasis as I described the event, I saw that my hand some bloody abrasions, so I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up. When I returned to ‘the cave’ to chat more with Anthony, a mouse came into the room and ran over my foot—hiding somewhere under my desk. I got up and went outside to smoke so I could calm down. Then I saw the lizard in the same place, peering down at me. I couldn’t go back to the cave, and I couldn’t smoke. I decided to sit in the lobby with my computer for the rest of the day and I completed the resource library. I later told Jerry about my experience, but he also brushed it off as normal. I suppose the situation may be reversed if they saw a man smoking a joint in public, for example, but I decided to take his advice and accept the fact that things like this happen and will likely happen again before December 11th. Lizards are foreign to me, and my instinct reaction was to use bug-spray on it to shoo it away—then I realized they were closer to small dinosaurs than to giant bugs. Instead, I used my opposable thumbs to pick up a stick and poke at it shyly from a distance so it would not peer down at me anymore. I believe I killed it, because it did not move no matter how hard I poked at it. The next day it was gone.
That night when Jerry and I were eating, we once again met John at Jumba’s—my parents know what is coming next—we had a few beer which were enjoyable, but made me feel very unproductive afterwards because this was 2 weekday evenings in a row. I like the fact that my wolf pack has grown to three wolves, but I will have to limit my wolf pack nights.
Friday! It was almost the weekend; all I had to do was hand my resource library to Janet via flash-drive and attend a workshop. She seemed very approving of the resources I gave her and she even brought in other staff to advise them about using some of the tools in future. We skimmed over many of the topics, but we agreed that reading through them all would take far too long. When I left her office, I felt very content with the work I did. Dissemination of information is very easy and sustainable because it exists when you don’t—as opposed to running workshops on safe sex.
Later that morning, Geoffrey and I walked to the Westgate Inn, located in a private field close to the rundown airstrip in Kanduyi. It was a hotel (which means restaurant in Kenya) and a place where people can spend a night in a nice room (which is not usually described as a hotel). I took the opportunity of waiting for others to arrive (African time was 90 minutes late this time) to make plans with Geoffrey as I stop in London waiting for the long flight home. I also gave him more advice on ‘muzungu culture’ such as how time issues are stricter—cannot show up half an hour late for a meeting. After Jerry showed up, I asked him some questions about Tanzania/Zanzibar safaris and transportation because that is where Kate, Court and I plan on going for our vacation. For a driver, he does not seem to travel much because he was not very knowledgeable about Tanzania—he does not seem to travel far away.
Also, while we were waiting, Geoffrey informed me that we had applicants for a new job at CREADIS, and Gladys wanted me and him to review the candidates. I have never been part of a hiring process, but I took it as a great sign of trust. The job to be filled was mainly for developing a website, but also to organize fundraising activities. Only one person (a man from Tanzania) had everything we were looking for: IT training, website development knowledge, and fundraising experience. Opened and shut case, I was sure of whom to suggest to Gladys.
The workshop was meant to refuse the organization’s policy manual and financing reporting procedures. Very dry stuff, but I believe it is important to review these things yearly with all staff to ensure all procedures are clear and still relevant—but that does not make it any easier to enjoy, because cleaning a toilet is also well and often. By the time the financial reporting procedures were finished, I could see that I was not the only person struggling to stay attentive.
Afterwards, Gladys asked Geoffrey and me what we thought about the candidates. We informed her of who we advised, and she replied, “Oh. The man? I was thinking the woman?” It seemed to me that affirmative action was in place, because I could not understand why anybody would choose the woman (not because she’s a woman, because she was not as qualified). I may be mistaken by the subtly of her comment, and I apologize to her if this is so, because subtlety in a foreign culture can be tricky; however, if I am correct in my theory, she was also not displaying gender equality by showing favoritism to a woman due to her biological disposition. Rather than dwell on the comment, I will simply take a note of it and avoid letting it change my opinion of the person unless it recurs in another situation. This is an uncomfortable idea for me, as a male, to speak about but I will never learn if I ignore the idea.
The day concluded and we all said our farewells to Geoffrey. Then I returned back to the apartment to do a little house work before going down to Jumba’s with Jerry (we decided to avoid Nairobi). At Jumba’s, we saw Joshua (coworker in HIV/AIDS projects) on a bodaboda, so we decided to invite him for a beer. It was nice to be hanging out with people other than Jerry and John, so we had a fun time at the outdoor bar before the three of us went into Good Friends disco for some dancing and music. I believe Joshua was a lightweight because after coming back from the toilet an hour into GFs, he was very weak and his breath smelled of vomit. I felt bad for bringing him to the disco because he previously stated he was tired, but I don’t believe he blamed me and Jerry. Joshua left at around 11, just as Jerry and I were getting enough liquid courage to go dancing.
When I went outside to have a puff, I saw a prostitute that came on to me earlier in the night with 2 men. One man was standing away, while the other had the woman by the wrist. He was trying to force her to come home with him (or them). She refused but the man did not stand for it, he grabbed her wrist tighter and I felt a minor rage build in my chest—but I ignored it and stayed calm, thankfully. After a few back-and-forth rounds, the woman ripped her arm loose (clearly having a bad temper) and stormed back into the bar, the men realized they had failed and finally left peacefully. Afterwards, a man named Erick approached me and started talking about things like peace, NGOs, poverty reduction, and other pop topics among rich Kenyans. I say this because I could clearly tell he was only speaking to me in this way because he had ulterior motives. For example, he told me he was trying very hard to reduce poverty, but could tell me how he was doing so. Then his true motives were shown, “So can you find me a Canadian girl?” I told him I did not even know any Canadians in Bungoma, and he immediately cut the conversation and went back inside. Erick progressively got more intoxicated and started to cling onto me; when I danced with a girl, he would try to take the girl away for himself—whatever Erick, just don’t grab her wrist.
I gave up on the dance floor and sat down by myself in the back of the disco. What comes next was undoubtably the hardest things I have ever witnessed, and after returning to the house later that night, I cried like a baby for an hour straight until I fell asleep—to prove my seriousness, I have never done that. Infact, it is very rare for me to even get fazed by a traumatic sight for more than 5 minutes, my life until this point has made it hard to be dramatic at things.
I wish I never witnessed what happened, and I doubt I can explain it in a way that will make people understand, but here it goes anyways. I am in Kenya partly so I can tell the raw truth of good and bad experiences to Canadians.
The woman was a beautiful young woman of about 17 years. She had an innocent smile that reminded me of when I first let the compound kids play the Pinball computer game. She was sitting by herself; and I only half-noticed her at first. Then a large, overweight man of about 45 years came and sat with her to talk. Innocent enough until her started yelling and grabbing her until I thought he was going to hit her. My attention was now focused and I felt the rage in my chest building once again. I took deep breaths and watched them closely incase he became violent. When she became visibly scared of the man, the man got angrier and threw her arm away, disgusted, and walked away.
I watched the woman without drawing too much attention to the fact, and noticed she was crying hard, but hiding it well enough for me to barely notice it. Her friend (who was a prostitute) came over and comforted her, but she shooed the woman away. It was then that I realized the woman (she wasn’t a woman, but still a child to me) was also a prostitute. I was very scared for the girl’s safety and I tried to signal her to come over to my table. My plan was to pay her double what she usually gets; she can come home with me, eat and drink tea, then sleep peacefully in my bed while I was on the coach. However, she didn’t notice me, and within seconds the angry fat man returned for a second, then signaled her to go home with him. I would have been able to handle the situation, but as she got up to leave with the fat man, she looked at me and smiled innocently through her tears, then waved to me as if to signal, ‘don’t worry, I will be fine’. This struck me harder than anything else, and I was stunned for 7 seconds at most. Then I realized I could not have this on my conscience if I didn’t try to stop her from going with him.
I ran out to the dance floor, then out to the alleyway, but she was already long gone. I found her friend (the prostitute) and sat her down with me. She could not speak English so I struggled to ask her for the girl’s number. If I could reach her, I could take her away from that man. She did not understand and after 20 minutes of trying, I let her go. She then went to Jerry and asked her to translate what I was saying to her. I still had hope of saving the girl because I finally got the number. I called many times, but the phone operator said it was an invalid number. I gave up, there was nothing more I could do; but that was exactly why my heart had the sinking feeling. I could have stopped it, but didn’t; so now she is likely getting raped by an old man for money. Her desperation gave me great pity for those that are given no other option but to sell themselves at such a young age. That is what I learned.
How can I understand it? I can’t, at least not yet. I have found no understanding of what I saw that night which can make me think anything but a murderous rage for the fat man’s evil. I seem very violent on this Friday, but it will be tamed as I slowly forget the vividness of the images.
On Saturday I slept until 3PM. I had no will to seize the morning after what I saw. Hunger finally drove me awake after Jerry called me from Generations saying he ordered a lot of ugali and goat meat for us. Ice cream can make most people feel people, but rare steak has always worked best for me. After a few hours at Generations, we once again ate some meat (kuku or chicken this time) at The Ark—I could not get enough of my comfort food it seems.
That night I lay in bed watching movies again, even though my community map for the Coady was past due, because I think a day of deep thought was what I needed most. The deep thought once again did not seem to help the sadness from Friday, but at least now I am sad and not murderous.
Saturday was a day of reflection, but Sunday was my recovery day. I woke up around 10AM and did my weekend routine of cleaning and etc. Afterwards, I made my way into town to pick up some bread and drinking water (boiling water 1litre at a time isn’t working well on my little burner) at the supermarket. I was slightly uneasy because that day I received an email from the Embassy telling me to watch out for radical Islamic Somalians because they were abducting Western people in Kenya as retaliation for the US assassination of a leading Al Shabaab member. But what can I do, run from everybody that worships Allah, I think not. I met my friend who works in the supermarket, named Abby. He is very nice and seems like a caring individual. He even tried to set me up with the woman that works in cosmetics one aisle away. FYI My last 2 major girlfriends have also worked in cosmetics at a supermarket. Confucius say: no such thing as coincidence. Abby spoke to me of the importance of praying, stating, and “If you don’t pray before bed you have nightmares from the devil”. To each their own as I say, but as I told my father many times, let me figure out my own spiritual beliefs. He asked me what my religion was and I said, “Fallen Catholic”. He then said, “I am a Muslim from Somalia”. This caught me off guard, especially because of the recent email. I don’t think I was being stereotypical; I was just surprised because of my recent letter from the embassy. The surprise passed by unnoticed and he went on telling me about himself until he asked me for ‘a great favor’. He said, “I am a married man, but can you bring me a nice white woman, I would like that very much”. I laughed, but realized he was serious, so I humored him by saying I will look into it. So if anybody reading this is looking for a nice, married, Somalian muslim with three kids, you know where to find him. When I came home, I completed the assignment for the Coady Institute then relaxed to some reading. Later in the night, I used Skype with my girlfriend for the first time, but it was very poor due to connection problems. However, it was a great relief to see another Canadian face.
Even though I had my rough patch this weekend, that stressful situation did not force me to relax. Instead, I am trying to use it as fuel for the growing fire of my work and experiences which will be essential if I am to continue riding this wave back in Canada. This has been a long blog, so I will post this one for 5 days as opposed to a full week. Also, it will be easier for you readers to understand my dates if I start on a Monday, I think.

Another Week Bites The Dust

Week of September 16th – 22ND
On Wednesday, I handed in the reviewed M&E documents to Janet. I was a little nervous about what she would say about it, because this was the first concrete work I had completed since arriving. I taught her how to use track changes on Microsoft office programs. That way I could note all the changes easily without changing the document itself. I did not want to just go in like the expert and start changing things around, so I just made suggestions that she could ignore or accept as we reviewed them. As expected, she loved some ideas and kindly rejected others after explaining her reasons. My worrying was once again futile and I believe I am gaining more self-confidence from the work I am doing here. To be honest, I didn’t think I knew much about M&E, but it turns out I have done similar activities in the past—I just doubted myself. The OVC database management system, on the other hand, is something I am fairly certain that I am uncertain about. Baby steps Daniel, it will all work out.
When I arrived home after work, I became stressed out about my directed study. I did not realize that the deadline for my outline was approaching very fast. I have never taken part in anything like this before (a self-directed course where you are the only student) and I was very unsure about what it entails. To make things worse, the only way I could contact my supervisor was by email—and the internet has proven to be shitty at best (compared to my high standards back in Canada of course). Alas, I finally had all my questions and concerns listed so I sent her an email for clarification, then continued with what I could do on the project. I am starting to feel that I took on a large amount of work for this trip. On one hand, it really helps me to clarify my experiences; on the other, it limits my experiences because I will not have as much free time to gain foreign experiences. I believe I made the right choice in taking the directed study because once in a lifetime opportunities only come once in a lifetime—so if I am interested in food security, how could I not take this directed study? Who knows, maybe it will open up a door to an honors thesis, job opportunities, or grad studies in the area. Besides, I will have lots of time to sleep when I am dead.
On Thursday, I did not do many productive work activities (back to being obsolete after only a few days it seemed). Instead, I did a lot of reading and research. For the morning, I concentrated on reading my food security/HIV articles and expanding them with internet research to broaden my information base. In the afternoon, I started reading some things on my Development Studies correspondence course—the fancy name for this blog (kidding Dr. Tamas). As I read through a few articles, I was kicking myself for not reading them before coming to Kenya. As I am reading through the readings, I am realizing some of my embarrassing moments could have been avoided with by understanding the readings. I felt very busy and was very uncertain of what to do with my correspondence course (another first for me), so I just plugged-up and did nothing about it. I have heard people say: in stressful situations some people wake up and others fall asleep. I hope this is not a sign that I am the latter, which could be very bad for me. However, (if I am one to sleep through a battle) I believe I am evolving. In the army (I’m a reservist, so not really the army) you don’t have the opportunity to sleep under stress. Many people have told me I am great in stressful situations, but it could be that I am afraid to get butt-stroked by the Sgt if I just sit down and cry.
I realize it is very easy to relax when things become stressful (as you can see from the last entry), but this only extends the problem in a cyclic fashion. For example, you get behind on a project, then you sleep; then you’re more behind than before, so you sleep longer. This cycle continues until you either become depressed or an external party picks up the slack for your laziness. The solution to this is very obvious, but I have to remind myself often: work harder and do not get down on yourself. In the words of my favorite Flogging Molly song, “So go and bow your head and weep / For the world won’t change while you sleep / Because the summer that was lost now is gone”. If I get scared, I can’t let the fear show, not because of a macho-man guise, but rather to ensure my fear does not make the issue worse.
After work, I went down to Jumba’s with Jerry and had a beer, which turned into 2, which turned into a few. I met a nice man that worked at the sugar factory, and he decided to give me a present. The present was…termites. Termites are a delicacy in Kenya because they are believed to make a person big and strong—which makes sense because bugs have a high protein content—but they are still bugs to me! I explained that in Canada, eating termites are like eating mosquitoes. Jerry responded, “No, mosquitoes are bugs, termites are very nutritious food”. Semantics, Jerry; mosquitoes may be nutritious also. The woman dumped the termites on a piece of newspaper and threw some salt on them—many of them were still alive. I could not refuse such a generous gift, so I picked 3 up and popped them in my mouth (avoiding the ones that were still crawling). I was very nervous at how they would taste, but they actually were not that bad with the salt on them and I ate about 150 of them.
Afterwards, I started thinking back to my childhood; the last time I can remember trying something I believed to be gross. I remember trying ketchup (I hated ketchup) as a young lad. I gagged and spat out the ketchup, disgusted. The strange thing I realized is this: I was much more shocked at the bitter taste of ketchup and Pepsi than I was after swallowing my first live termite—I did not gag after my first termite. I realized that the initial shock of eating a termite was constructed by my opinion of termites being something people should not eat. I struggled to find a logical reason for not eating it, but came up empty. Termites are a very sweet and nutritious food, which is a lot more than I can say about TV-dinners. I believe I have made a great mental stride in bridge identity politics. I value something, Kenyan people may value something else, but it was only after learning their values that I could accept this custom. In hindsight, this example of value bridge building seems simple, but only after I examined my own values. I look forward to having more of these eureka moments, because it really made me feel one with the group.
Friday was the day that Jerry and I planned on going to Kisumu to pick up Gladys and Leonard (the accountant) from the airport. FYI, Kisumu is the area where President Obama’s father was born, and Obama’s grandmother still lives there. It turns out that 3 days after I left the Kisumu area, they made it a protected area, which means it will be guarded and promoted for tourism. I have warned my friends about this for years, but they were usually as drunk as me when I spoke that they may not remember. We have killed so many wild animals that we have to have them caged in zoos so we can view them. Pretty soon, wild animals will be so rare that we will have human zoos where we have to pay to see certain people. Well the time had arrived. We pay a fortune to see the Maasai tribe in Maasai Mara and now we have an old lady as a tourist attraction.
I digress. Kisumu is a great little city; it borders Lake Victoria and avoids the hectic speed of Nairobi. I saw many interesting things on this trip, but the most significant was the remains of the post-election violence in the downtown area. We would be observing the many nice buildings in town, then pass by a large building that was burnt in the violence of 2007. Massive, once elegant buildings that sometimes towered over the surrounding buildings were left burnt and gutted like a skeleton. Kisumu is predominately Luo, with a small minority of Kikuyu owning large businesses in the area. When the violence started, the Luo would attack the Kikuyus in Kisumu—but the Kikuyu would not have adequate numbers to defend themselves. Men were forced to watch their wives and children raped and murdered, and then the man would be killed. Most prosperous Kikuyu in the downtown area had their shops and homes burnt down. If a matatu or a bus came into town, the rebels would put up roadblocks and force everybody out of the bus. The travelers were forced to show their ID cards, which showed their tribe. If any of the passengers were Kukuyu, the family was raped and murdered.
This was the first concrete evidence I saw in Kenya that the post-election violence actually happened. Not that I doubted its existence, but a long chill went down my spine each time we passed by the remains of a once large and lucrative structure. I have seen some things that I wish I did not (initially), but I have to tell these stories in hopes that we can all ensure it does not happen again. WARNING: realist coming out. Things like this will likely happen many times in the future, but I hope we notice them early enough to avoid it escalating to this point. As another side note, I believe this opportunity will provide a great insight into the ethical considerations of conflict management, which will help me immensely in bridging the obvious gap between my morals and my part-time career as an army medic. I hope to be seen as less of a walking contradiction.
On a happier note, I went down and relaxed on Lake Victoria for a short time. The cool air off the water and the children swimming made me miss home, but it also served as a calming factor after what I just witnessed. A hippo could be seen in the distance on the Lake, women were cooking fresh fish, men were making money cleaning vehicles that drove partly into the lake, and kids were swimming naked in the Lake—unaware of their nakedness. It was a picture of beauty as the sun was setting out on the water. How could these people be capable of the horrific events of 2007? I suppose you need to view true hatred in order to appreciate true love.
We walked back to town and had a bite and a beer at the restaurant. I had an uncontrollable urge to watch the Lion King ever since I arrived in Kenya and heard a man say “Hakuna Matata” to me, but there was not a copy in the mall. I got over my disappointment and we went to the airport to wait for their arrival. This was another very eye-opening day that once again left me lying awake in bed, sorting it out.
Saturday began like every other Saturday in Kenya. I woke up to the sun shining and kids laughing. Screwed the dog on the computer for a few minutes, and then set myself on cleaning. My clothes have been piling up, but I was determined to have all my clothes cleaned by noon. My fingers became raw again, but I was very satisfied when I washed my last article of clothing—I know it does not seem exciting, but wouldn’t you be excited if you didn’t have to bleed for another 2 weeks? Geoffrey (a coworker) was having a fundraiser for his grad studies in London on this day, so I met Don, Gladys’ son and we went to meet Valarie at the office. The three of us walked to Kanduyi, where Geoffrey and his family were having the fundraiser at a place called Generations. It was a nice compound; painted brightly and full of free-roaming cats that fed on scraps and kept pests out of the compound. For the majority of the fundraiser I sat on a lawn chair, drank Coke, and enjoyed the peace that the cats seemed to ensure. As many people know, I really hate cats; my grandfather hated cats and it has been passed down to me every since. However, the cats just minded their own business because nobody every tried to domesticate them to the extreme extent it is done in Canada. Cats are wild animals but they can form a symbiotic relationship with humans, that is all—Kenyans realize this, why can’t so many of my ex-girlfriends realize they are not a woman’s best friend. I’ll stop; this is neither the time nor the place to cat-bash.
We did a ‘merry-go-round’ fundraiser with CREADIS members and Geoffrey’s family. I put in 1000Ksh for a good cause, but the person holding the bowl immediately made me feel like a muzungu. 1000Ksh is about $15, so I figured $15 would be a worthy donation for grad studies in the UK, that’s a 2 day pass in the Underground (Subway). The person holding the bowl told everybody, “That is an elephant”. To explain his comment, the 1000Ksh is the note with a picture of the elephant on it. For him to say this, he obviously believed the donation was overly generous and Geoffrey thanked me sincerely. Instead of feeling like I did a good deed, I felt reverted back to somebody that is different from Kenyans. I turned red and sunk down in my chair while people thanked me and I shyly tried to explain myself casually. I spent about 6 hours at the fundraiser, but 5 of those hours were just sitting down shooting the shit with Geoffrey. He has never left Africa, so I gave him some pointers (even though I only spent a day in London). I told him about the efficiency of the Underground as opposed to taxis, and gave him some much needed advice on dressing for winter.
When I finally left Generations, I realized the sun was down and I had to get to the restaurant fast before it closed—so I had my first solo matatu trip. The conductor (man in charge of the money and passengers) was surprised I wanted to get it because most white people feel safer on bodabodas. I don’t believe anybody spoke English in the van, but seemed happy that I was there—no asking for money, just ‘Habari’ and ‘sema’ (which translates to ‘say’ but is like saying what’s up). I have realized I know enough Kiswahili to get around without getting lost, which is a comforting thought. I can by no means speak the language well, but hopefully I will learn enough phrases that eventually more complete sentences will result.
Sunday was the due date for my directed study proposal (I thought; it turned out to be due Monday) so I woke up with a drive to complete that. Murphy’s Law was once again in place because since Saturday, evening, we started having power issues. There would be a blackout for a few hours, and then it may come on for 20 minutes or so. I realized that it would take all day for my laptop to charge so I just took my notebook into town and decided to write down the outline the old-fashioned way as I ate my lunch. I have become spoiled by technology in the last few years, so I have forgotten how satisfying it is to write down a report on paper as opposed to on a screen. I worked through quite a lot of the details on paper, but when my ideas ran dry I decided to go home and check to see if the battery was more charged. When I arrived, I was happy to see that the power was back so I opened up the computer. However, it must have just come back because it only had a few minutes of power—then there was another blackout. To avoid becoming frustrated with the situation, I took a break and watched a little of Braveheart. The power did not come back, and I couldn’t think of anything to do without technology, so I went to bed very early—around 8PM.
Just as I was starting to fall asleep, all my lights turned on. I was tempted to sleep through it, but I had to get up and at least turn them off, in order to save power—it is very frowned upon to leave lights on unnecessarily. I decided to have some tea and check my mail, which is when I realized I had forgotten to call my parents. I called them, somewhat frustrated that I should have been asleep by now. Afterwards, I went to bed again and as I fell asleep, Jerry called me asking how my day was. I fell asleep again and I got another message and was up again on the computer. I’m a night owl; it seems like even if I go to bed early, people will assume I am up late due to the fact that I usually am. Next time I will turn off my phone.
Monday was a holiday (I never found out which one but I suppose it did not matter to me much), so I tried to seize the opportunity to FINALLY complete my outline. However, once again the power was lacking, so I did more work on my paper notebook instead of my electrical notebook. I began to panic. The outline was due today, there was no power, and I had to send it through email. The power eventually resumed at about 7PM so I worked fast to complete it by midnight, but I have learned a valuable work lesson: I cannot exist as the procrastinator in Kenya as I sometimes can in Canada. Blackouts are often unpredictable, but it is very important for me to be in front of the 8-ball instead of behind it.
My main task for the new work week (starting on Tuesday) was to expand the resource library. CREADIS has only had internet in the offices for a short time—I am unsure when it was installed—but it seemed to me that this great information source was not fully being utilized. People often browsed and checked their mail, but they did not seem to have a great computer resource library. Thank you to Olga and Doris for the great resources and ideas. I would spend the remainder of the week (once again) out of the field and working on my computer organizing tools and journal articles related to project areas. I became very happy working on this minor project because this information I give to CREADIS will (hopefully) be put into use long after I leave for Canada. In fact, a computer resource library is something that CREADIS can expand themselves—it kills no trees, it is costless, and I am working on ensuring that it will always be there no matter what disaster happens. This resource library will also help me greatly because it forces me to study topics such as: community mobilization, policy guidelines, and special considerations for OVCs.
I went home very satisfied from a long day’s work on the computer and got to my after-work routine. My day has been very systematic after work (good because I can handle things better, but maybe bad because I have less of a free spirit). I put on some music, boil some water for tea, sweep or mop the floors and then do any other cleaning that is necessary. Next, I check the water flow and top up my jerry-cans if the water is running cleanly (little did I know this would be the last day for a long time that water was present). As a side note, how the hell can it rain every day and the taps still not run? El Nino has apparently officially arrived, so why are people still becoming dehydrated. I can see the headline now: “Dehydrated Man Drowns”. I believe there is little utilization of rainwater in place; most water eventually just runs out into the Indian Ocean and becomes useless as it mixes with the salt water. My apartment complex is relatively posh compared to many places, but there is still no gutter—combine this with the lack of water from the bore hole and you can imagine my frustration. Back to my routine, I save the boiled water then go into town for dinner and any other miscellaneous items I need. When I arrive home I have a cup of tea and check my email (which takes about half an hour until good circumstances. I usually get a visitor every day or two, so I save some tea and bread in that case. After that, I am dead tired but try to force myself to complete work on this blog or my directed study.

September 9 -15

Week of September 9th – 15th
For the remainder of the week I attended a workshop for all staff that was put on by one of CREADIS’ donors, AED. The topic of the workshop was the ‘Most Significant Change’ since 2007. I have never used such a method to measure progress, but it seems like a great way to evaluate an organization’s growth. The changes noted in an organization were broken into about 6 categories such as: financial, human resource, and public relations. For each topic, we would break into teams and write down any growth in the category since 2007, one topic at a time. After all changes were written down, the group would have to choose the MSC—most significant change—that had the largest affect on the growth of the organization. Since I was very new in the organization I did not add much to the conversations, but I received more information in those 2 days than I did from any orientation before that. For example, I learned that CREADIS was one of the most respected NGOs in Western Kenya, and funding from donors jumped from 2 million Ksh to 32 million.
When we broke from our groups, we took turns presenting our information to the other group, and they did the same for us. It took all day, but we eventually had a wall full of notes with significant organizational changes from the six different topic areas. By this time, I realized that my work plan was not going to be sent to the Coady Institute in time for the deadline on Friday because of this surprise workshop. I was starting to stress out about the work plan because I was feeling very unproductive and unprofessional by not meeting the deadline. I decided to just write down some ideas for work projects and hand them to Janet (the assistant director). She could either agree or disagree, but I had to get to work—I have been there for four weeks and had nothing to show for it.
The second day of the workshop was a great day for me. From the 2 groups, we each had one most significant change chosen for each topic area. The next step was to decide which group had the better MSC, to narrow the topic MSCs from 12 to 6. Then we took these 6 changes and each voted for which one we wanted, eliminated those which did not receive a vote, and voted again. We did this again until we came to just one significant change, which became the organizations Most Significant Change since 2007. The MSC we chose was the growth in community structures gained. Some people still saw the funding increase as the MSC, but for CREADIS, this funding only grew because donors saw how effective we were at helping communities to help themselves.
However, we were not done there. Instead, we looked once again at the changes in each of the topic areas. First we explained how it grew, and then offered suggestions to how we can make sure it continues to grow. Lastly, we looked at the limitations to each change. For example, CREADIS is well respected in the public relations topic, but our message is limited by the lack of an updated website, no facebook group, etc. This gave me a surge of ideas for my work plan. Before this workshop, I did not know what to do because I did not know where the organization was lacking. After the workshop, I was more motivated to work because I had many ideas of what to work on. For example, I can make a facebook group easily, I can expand the resource library from internet sources, I can help teach some staff on how to design and update a website regularly. It’s too bad I had this surge of ideas on a Friday afternoon, because I wanted to get back to the office and work on these things immediately.
The weekend was very relaxed in general. After the workshop on Friday I just went back to the apartment, watched some movies, spoke to some friends and family in Canada, and then passed out. Woo! Party animal, I know.
On Saturday morning I was woken up (as usual) around 7AM with the young kids running around laughing and trying to wake me up so they can play with me. Usually, back in Canada, I would be cranky that I was denied a chance to sleep in later. However, I think something changed in me. I woke up happy and wanting to go out and seize the day. The sun was shining, kids were playing, and I was still riding the wave of productivity from the workshop. So I got up and started doing all my chores. I opened the door so I could listen to music while I washed my clothes, and the kids came over and started speaking to me in Swahili. I replied, “Hakuna Swahili” and they just laughed, so I directed them to my computer and started the Pinball game for them. There was an older child with them so I was not afraid (as I usually am) about them messing up my computer—which is my lifeline here in Kenya.
I don’t think I am very good at washing clothes. Either that or I am doing it too good. The older child approached me, half embarrassed, and said, “Your socks are still dirty, let me assist you.” I realized my socks were still dirty looking, but my fingers were already raw and bloody in places, so I knew it was my technique, not laziness, that kept them from being clean. I watched intensely as she washed one sock, and it came out white as snow within a few seconds. I tried to imitate her with another muddy sock but there I could not for the life of me figure out her technique. I got frustrated and just went back to ripping my fingers apart with the clothes.
Later, Jerry came to visit while I was still washing clothes and again pointed out that my socks were still dirty. He went over the technique about 10 times with me and I finally figured out how to do it properly—by properly I mean the socks were clean but my fingers continued to become raw. Afterwards we went down to an outside bar in town and had 2 beers each. There’s something very relaxing about drinking in the African sun while watching people go by. I fell in love with the bar and it was hard to drag me away, but I knew I had to keep productive and not waste the day.
I spent that night at home again and did some work for my directed study. That’s kind of a lie. I DID do some work, but I spent a lot of the night relaxing once again. There is nothing important to note, no growth of change in myself, just a lot of episodes of South Park and MSN.
On Sunday, it was the same shit, different smell. I washed clothes, dishes, the floor, then made a trip into town for food. I was getting very bored of samosas and chips by this time so I decided to pick a random thing on the menu. It was called kuku pilau. Apparently that means rice and chicken—so much for an adventure. I apologize for this entry so far, but it didn’t seem like anything hit me as strange and wonderful—it was just a normal weekend in Bungoma. Maybe I am adapting really good to things, but I think it was just a slow weekend.
That night I finally talked to my brother on Skype. This was probably the most exciting part of my weekend—don’t laugh. It was the first time I saw a live Canadian face in 4 weeks and we told informed me on the news back at home. Before I tell this next part, I will give you some background info. All my life, I’ve loved certain music, but was never given the oppurtuinity to see them live because I’m from a small part of Eastern Canada. I always said I would give my left arm (it’s half lame anyways, who needs it) to see Megadeth and Flogging Molly. I actually made plans to drive down to Boston one time, but the plans fell through because other people did not want to go. I spent about 6 years hoping they were come to Halifax or Moncton so I could go see them. Guess what happened when I move to the other side of the world? Megadeth, Slayer, Machine Head, Flogging Molly, and Dane Cook are all coming to Halifax. Murphy’s Law, once again. I tell myself that this is the better opportunity, and God or Allah or whoever is just testing my commitment to my values, but sweet chocolate Christ why did all that have to happen in the 4 months that I cannot go to see them. Oh well, fuck Flogging Molly, I have lions and can smoke in bars. If anything, all those wonderful things happening in Halifax has only furthered my cause here in Bungoma. It’s hard to explain, but I have always been motivated to do good things when I was tempted to do the opposite. If my values were never put into question, I don’t think I would really value anything.
Monday, a new work week, and my chance to approach Janet with ideas for my work plan. I was supposed to go out to the field today to work on the gender equality project in again, so I decided that I would just hand her my ideas and be off. However, Janet found me first and told me to stay in the office to figure out my official work plan. Yay! Things are coming together. We spent the day going over some ideas for the plan, and I think we worked out a pretty good system of work for me. Some things are very intimidating and foreign to me, such as designing a database for the OVCs projects. I will stress out later; for now I am just happy to be put to work. I have never sat on my ass in an office and it was making me very antsy. Little did I know that the majority of my work will involve me sitting on my ass in a productive way. Once I realized that the majority of my work will be on analyzing reports and other documentation, I hit the books in order to get accustomed to their way of collecting data. When I was hired as a monitoring and evaluation associate, I assumed their M&E was piss poor, but I was wrong. Most of my work seems to be done for me because I could find very few mistakes from the few documents that I reviewed on Monday.
After work I did the usual thing of going to the Coffee Garden Restaurant (I am terrible at cooking, and it is hard to make a nutritious meal on my small propane tank). When I exited the restaurant to go back home, I saw a terrifying sight that I don’t believe I will ever forget.
Out of the corner of my eye a saw a boy spinning around and dancing in the middle of the street, with cars passing by him in a very unconcerned way. At first, I did not take much notice to him because I was getting used to the differences in pedestrian-driver interactions. I have often seen children playing in the street with goes rushing by but was no longer fazed by it. The boy appeared to be very poor, with ripped and dirty clothes, but once again that was no shock by now. What was shocking was that this boy (aged no older than 10) was holding a pint-sized liquor bottle—almost empty. I realized that this small boy was most likely ‘drinking his worries away’, but in a busy township with many wreckless drivers.
Seeing his drunken dance on the road, combined with the poverty-ridden situation surrounding him, gave me a sinking feeling in my stomach that is usually reserved for the death of a close relative. I stopped walking and gazed at him in astonishment and horror as the cars rushed by—this lasted maybe ten seconds. Before I could shake my paralysis, the boy had bounced down the street and was gone forever. What did I learn from this? I think I lost more in spirit than I gained in wisdom, but I’m not writing this blog to cop out on touch questions.
First, I learned that the desperate circumstances in developing countries have brought a sense of helplessness to communities. Instead of assisting this child, people passed by him as casually as he was a pan-handler in Niagara Falls. As I eluded to in an earlier entry, Westerners have also become desensitized to many images of kwashiorkor (extended bellies with frail limbs) or naked starving children, but Kenyans seem to be more desensitized to dangerous behavior and other indirect effects of poverty.
Secondly, I learned that one of these indirect effects includes psychosocial trauma that far exceeds my expectations learned from textbooks or documentaries. As my philosophy teacher would say, “you can be smart from books, but wisdom comes only after experience”. Tough questions; tougher situations; but my poverty lens is becoming clearer still.
On Tuesday I spent the majority of the work day reviewing M&E documents. I have heard from many CREADIS staff and donor representatives that the organizations M&E tools are better than most—looks like I have my work cut out for me (never understood that term either). I sat in the office—or as I affectionately call it, the cave, due to it’s lighting and seclusion—and painstakingly reviewed all the documents. I saw painstakingly not because there was so much to look at (which there was), but because I had to strain my mind just to improve their already stellar documents. Sometimes my comments offered little improvement but I felt obliged to write them because, well, that was my job. The day ended at 6PM and I crashed back at my home just in time for the heavy rain to come.
I did not bring raingear with me; so therefore I had little choice but to sit at home and relax with a warm cup of Kenya Tea. I have not had coffee in 4 weeks but I found a great substitute. Another night of ‘personal admin’—relaxation for my wellbeing.

Very large first blog, but covers everything until last week.

August 17th, 2009
Habari! Well, I know I am very late posting my first blog, but better late than never; but not by much. However, I have been keeping a diary since I have touched down, so I will transform it into something that is rated PG-13. My recap of the first day is quite long because there was much to write about, I promise the others will not be as intense.
I will begin on the Kenya Airways flight 101. After being on only Air Canada flights, I immediately noticed I was going to a strange (and hopefully wonderful place). The plane was the same model as the large Air Canada Boeings, but one thing that struck me as strange was that the capacity was only about 30% filled. I wondered how the airline could be making money with an almost empty flight. I later realized that an Air Canada Jazz-type aircraft would take a full day of travels because it only reached half the speed of the larger models.
It was Monday, and I had not really slept since Thursday night (farewell parties and packing), so I seized the opportunity to stretch out on 3 empty seats around me. After several lucid dreams, I woke up to the captain announcing that we were passing Mount Kenya to our left. I have never seen a mountain, so I enjoyed looking at it poking well above the clouds. Then I realized I was technically, somewhat, officially in my host country.
When I got off, my heart began to race a little, but only because I was warned that the airport was notorious for thieves. I realized I needed to get out and meet my people ASAP, so I wandered around, looking for the way out.
I was misled by people in the customs lines, and that delayed me about 45 minutes. By the time I got my luggage and went to the exit, my person was not around and I assumed I missed her. I decided to get some money changed and look a second time. I did not see a sign with my name, but I saw a sign saying “Gladys”—my host supervisor. The person immediately took my bags and said we had to hurry if we were to make the Easy Coach. Well, looks like my person found me.
I never want to drive in Nairobi, or even walk there. I was terrified of the driving; people cutting each other off, people yelling and running across the highway, etc. I decided to just let it be and accept the chaos because it was out of my control.
Being on long flights can make a smoker go crazy, so I casually asked the driver about the “no smoking” sign on his dash. He told me I can smoke if I want to and I felt all my stress leave. However, when I lit up, the matatu (taxi van) driver to the left in the jam started yelling at me in anger. I rolled down the window and asked me to repeat himself (in hindsight a bad move) and he yelled, “Smoking is illegal in Kenya!” I did not believe him so I looked to the taxi driver, who was already yelling back and driving recklessly through the traffic jam to get away “illegal smoking guy”. The driver then explained that smoking in PUBLIC was illegal in Kenya, so you cannot smoke if somebody is able to see you.
After talking, I realized that the driver was not the person I was supposed to meet, and the person with the “Gladys” sign was not either. So I was alone in Kenya with no cell phone and nothing but an idea of going to the Easy Coach bus station (which had already left Bungoma for the day). The driver was great and reassured me that he would not leave me until I was safely in the hands of the person I was meeting. He called my person and we finally met with each other.
Still being very naïve about Kenya, I figured the bus ride that was 400km would take about 6 hours at the most. Instead, the trip took about 10-11 hours and it was past nightfall before I got to Bungoma. During the drive, I accepted the tourist in me and leaned from left to ride to see the mountains, valleys, and zebras. I felt very comfortable with Don; he was my age and, importantly, he was a local that would stop from doing something if necessary.
At every stop in a big town, The Fear started to take me over. Dozens of people would approach me and say, “Muzungu! You support me.” Meaning they wanted me to buy their goods, but I was much too intimidated to break out my wallet containing 15 000 Ksh; and I doubt they could make change for 1000s anyway.
Many events struck me very hard, but the most shocking one was when 2 small children, street-kids, casually picked up a discarded lime quarter and casually ate the leftovers. No matter how much I told myself I would see many similar things, thinking it and seeing it are two different things.
We finally arrived after dark in Bungoma at my host director’s house, and they went completely out of their way to make me feel as comfortable as I could. They even allowed me to take a bath, and I was ecstatic! The first time I will be clean in 3 days (little did I know this would become a regular thing for a while after that). However, I did not know what I was supposed to do with the wash basin in front of me, so I struggled awkwardly to wash my hair, failing terribly. Then I didn’t know where to put the waste water, so Don laughed and took care of it for me.
I finally travelled across the road to my compound, and settled down to bed, too tired to unpack or put up the mosquito net. One day down, four months to go.
August 18th, 2009
I woke up very confused and disoriented. It took me about an hour to be mentally able to brush my teeth and unpack slightly. There was still a kit explosion in my apartment when Don arrived to orient me to the area. My biggest unknown was how to use the ‘washroom’. By washroom I mean the whole in the floor with some kind of tap on the wall. I hoped to invent a sitting toilet sometime, but then realized I should just stop complaining and accept the fact that my apartment was stellar compared to 90% of the homes I saw on the way—hell, I had a shower, somewhat.
We travelled to town in a boda-boda (a bicycle taxi), to which I was not accustomed and almost made the driver tip several times. We walked from the start of the town to the end, and I got the most important advice from Don: where the safe restaurants were—apparently only the Coffee Garden in the town centre. They will make lots of money off of this bad-cook. We then went into the supermarket and for some unexplained reason, I felt very at home. Maybe it was the materialism of it all, maybe the fact that the shoppers did not stare at me, or maybe because I saw peanut butter; it’s a mystery. There I purchased a phone and immediately started to text my parents and girlfriend at home. They were more relieved than me, for obvious reasons.
The hoped to do the majority of my shopping at the street markets, both to save money and support the poor, but have realized that the comfort of the supermarket is unresistable after the 2km of stares as I travel into town. I was at first worried about the shop-keepers hiking up the prices, but then realized paying 5 cents for a lime instead of 2 cents is still a bargain.
In the early afternoon we travelled to the office to meet the staff. I was very nervous, would they view me as a waste of their time and money, will the lack of professional skills be a problem? To my relief, everybody was in the field so I had to go through the same stress the next day.
By this time, I spoke to enough people to realize my biggest barrier was going to be language (more specifically accents). Even when people spoke English, I could not understand them half the time. I continued to eat and take tea at my host director’s house until I settled in. This was when I realized another difference in myself and the majority of Bungomians? Bungomers? I usually consider myself a generous person, but when I take from other people, I can’t help but to feel bad. I told the director I felt bad about taking her food and inconveniencing her family, but they just laughed it off. It wasn’t until the next week that my good friend Jerry explained it to me. When a person has something, all their family and friends also have it. To conteract my negative feelings, I decided to imitate this action. When I have visitors, I try to give them food and other resources, because those resources will come back to me. People in Kenya still have many problems between tribes, but this community cohesion is something that we all can learn a lot from.
As an objection to my own theory, I also realized that if I give somebody something, many of them want more. For example, if I pay the boda-boda double once, he will expect double or triple next time. As they say in nutrition class, everything in moderation; I cannot through money at people to make myself feel better, but I can share to certain people.
August 19th to 25th, 2009
When I finally met the employees of CREADIS, I realized my worrying was not needed, because all people were very welcoming. I had the feeling everybody loved me and the place was still new and exciting…for now. I went to attend a workshop in Mabanga for school children for the rest of the week. The driving conditions are (to a lesser extent than large cities) very foreign to me, and I feared for my safety often as Jerry (the driver) did his thing. Eventually, as with most scary things, I became desensitized to the fear and accepted that if I die a horrible death in the vehicle, it is just a risk of living in Kenya.
This worked well for me because luckily Jerry is a great driver. However, I realized I was merely ignoring the risks, as opposed to minimizing the risks. I began asking Jerry about the driving rules in Kenya, and I realized that most of the ‘suicidal’ movements he made have security measures that we simply do not use in Canada. The driving is still more offensive than defensive, but learning about the safety guidelines helped ease my mind very much.
I am starting to realize that fear of the unknown is much greater than any other fear in my life. The foreignness of certain things causes me to perceive them as a danger to my safety. If I took more time to learned the deep-rooted reasons for certain actions, I would realize my own naivety—why would people do something to hurt themselves, when a safer option seems obvious to me.
I believe further illustration of this point will allow to understand many of the obscure issues with HIV/AIDS. For example, many people believe the AIDS epidemic is self-induced because people keep having unsafe sex. However, discussion with locals has made me realize that people feel most safe and happy with a large family (I understand there is much more contributing factors, but I will omit listing them because this blog seems very long). On that note, I will post this and start reflection on my second week of my internship.
I summary, a sub-conscious desire for things I am used to could severely limit my effectiveness here, so I must constantly be aware of my own values, combined with a through examination of the actions (and deeper values) that will determine how this internship will inevitably play out.
Week of August 26th – September 1st
The time of (somewhat) easy access to internet has come. I have recently bought a flash broadband modem and it could rival the most worth-while purchase to date. The blogs for this week and the following two weeks have been written during (or close to) the week it mentions, but have been burning a whole in my hard-drive ever since.
During the first week of my placement, I seemed somewhat blinded by all the differences around me. I noticed that some things have changed, but was still too new to fully understand them—and thus act accordingly. I merely went along my merry way as a stranger in a strange land, and did not adapt to fit in a great deal because I did not fully realize that I was indeed a stranger.
I will first tell you of the hard times, and how I dealt with them, and then tell some success stories. I live in my own apartment in an empty compound close to my organization. I hindsight, I am unsure if this has helped or hindered me. On one hand, I have noticed the adapting process to be mentally tiring. If the adapting process continued after work, trying to fit into a new living situation with locals may cause more anxiety as feeling there was no break. On the other hand, living on your own means that if something goes wrong, you are alone in solving the problem. I realized this fact in a number of ways.
First, water rationing has confused the hell out of me. Is there a time when the pipes run? Are other people getting to the water before I am? Why are the pipes dry every damn time I try to boil some drinking water or clean myself? After 3 days of living off of expensive bottled water, I was beginning to get a little kooky and angry at the Republic of Kenya. I caught myself cursing the country, and realized that this was not the way I wanted to spend 4 months. I decided to ask my coworkers for help (a fairly hard thing for me to do) and they were more than willing. Jerry offered to join me to carry some water back to the apartment, teach me how to wash my clothes, use the burner, etc. I felt somewhat like a burden to him, but he assured me it was no problem to him, because he likes company and helping others.
Secondly, going outside seemed to be a hassle because I had massive language and accent barriers with the majority of people I met during my daily activities. For example, I took a boda-boda back from town one day and told him to go to “Marill”—the village I reside in. He replied in Swahili that he understood me, so we set off. Upon reaching Marill, I told him that he can stop now and started to get off as he pulled to the shoulder. However, he did not stop as expected and continued off-road. I fell off the seat and hung on for dear life as the other bodas driving by started laughing. I finally got back on the seat safe and told him to stop again. He continued but said, “OK”. I said, “This is OK here, I have arrived”. He replied, “OK, thank you.”
I started laughing out loud as we went deeper into foreign territory. After a few seconds, I composed myself, bent my legs, and jumped off the back of the bicycle. He finally stopped and looked at me, half confused and half laughing. I approached him, gave him the extra money for traveling farther, and said thank you in Swahili. I then turned around and walked back a few hundred meters where he just drove.
When I got home, I realized that I needed learn the common phrases I will likely use often. Thank you, sorry, stop here (si mama hapa), yes, no, I am not American, etc. This has since helped me in field, town, and at work, and people are often taken back when they hear my butchered Swahili telling them ‘good morning’. This course and my CIL training has taught me about the many cultural barriers that are relevant to my situation; however, the most obvious one is the most important one to fix—language.
On a somewhat related note, I have started going to the field. I love the field. I get to travel, see more of the world, and meet interesting and great people in any and all situation. I believe I will be spending the majority of my time working on computers or otherwise in the office because I have more computer skills than many of the staff. However, I know this will rot my soul. I have never worked sitting down and dislike it strongly; however, my comfort is secondary to my effectiveness (and no workplace psychologists, they are not inseparable). The field is a selfish way to broaden my world view, to enhance my effectiveness once I leave CREADIS; but the most effective thing for me to do is work to fill in gaps in the organization, most often computer-related activities such as database management, report writing, website development, etc.
In order to keep myself being utterly bored by looking at a screen, I have approached some coworkers and explained to them that it is hard for me to write an accurate report or notice relevant trends in statistics. They are very aware of the fact that people came to Kenya from Canada not only to help, but to broaden their horizons. Also, Gladys (the director) has alluded to the fact that I remember CREADIS in the years to come—inviting me back once I am done school, and telling my friends and family about Bungoma, CREADIS, and others so that the message of their work can be spread. I realize most people say, “Oh I’ll be back, you wait and see!” but never come back. Therefore, I am not saying I am coming back to Bungoma, I am simply stating that I hope to return in the situation presents an opportunity.
The last point for today is from my weekend out on the town with Jerry. I enjoyed the disco: the women were beautiful (and ‘loved’ me), the company was good, and the beer was usually cold. I was surprised that I could just look at a girl and dance with them, but I soon started to wonder why this was the case. Jerry reassured me they just ‘wanted to see what a mzungu was like’, but I had my doubts. However, don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth (how does that saying make sense), and I accepted my new popularity in stride. As the night went on and I become more ‘vulnerable’, it started to down on me that something was off—these girls were very forward. Jerry then informed me that the majority of the females—sometimes looking as young as 15—were prostitutes. God giveth, and God taketh away. I was only popular for my perceived riches, so I did not want to be popular anymore. As I was somewhat drunk by this point, I started being forward with them. If asked for my name, I would reply, “Dan, and no because I don’t have any more money.” Maybe this was harsh, but I did not want people to like me because I had beer money.
It was only after researching the idea for sex for food in my directed study on HIV and food security in Africa that I realized these women were not gold-diggers, they were simply using sex as a means to an end. Sex leads to money, money leads to food, and food leads to survival. Sounds pretty rational to me, but my family and friends did not think so. I can understand their fear; to them, everybody in Kenya could have AIDS, and the worries of those close to me at home are taken out on the women struggling for survival.
Week for September 2nd - 8th
I just read my last blog and realized parts of it are very hard to read—and some makes little to no sense. I apologize for that. Which brings me to my next point—sickness! Yes, I officially have my first African sickness. As with most sicknesses, I believe it could have been prevented if I had taken the right precautions—but I didn’t. Smoking is very affordable in Kenya and that has definitely worsened my condition. The few days I went without proper eating or water would have suppressed my immune system. Also, the lack of immunity to local ailments made me a perfect candidate. Last week, I attributed my condition to being hungover and dehydrated (oops), but the lethargic feeling had not improved for days.
On Wednesday, I went with Valarie and Geoffrey (coworkers) to Mt. Elgon to speak to the district officers about a new project on gender and good governance. FYI, Mt. Elgon is the area where a rebel army became the more powerful than the local government and caused all sorts of chaos. There has been a relative peace in the area ever since Martial Law was initiated 1-2 years ago. The government offices were heavily guarded by the army and we needed to be cleared by them before we could enter the premises. A man that I assumed to be the Platoon Sergeant met us at the gate and was very friendly. However, even with the sun shining in a beautiful plot looking down the slopes of a great mountain, shaking hands with a man holding a rifle still made me feel uneasy.
Most of the district officers were very supportive of the project and seemed very educated themselves on the topic of gender rights. One man even offered us his Land Rover and driver so that we would not have to slide down the mountain on a dirt bike if it started to rain. Then we came to our last meeting of the day with the District Education Officer…
He would not cooperate with us at all, and advised us to travel to Nairobi (10 hour drive) to get formal permission to work with kids. He then turned his attention to me, asking how well I speak Swahili. He told me outright that I would be of no use to the people because many of these vulnerable groups do not speak English. I told him I would not be giving the workshops, just monitoring and helping Valarie’s efforts. All three of us (the staff) realized it would be bad to start an argument with the man and simply left the baseline survey with him and cursed him as we left.
Geoffrey and Valarie attributed his arrogance to him being of the Luo tribe. They said that the Luo tribe was historically very proud and did not trust many other tribes. My first minor tribal conflict and I do not like it. As you can tell, the wounds of the post-election violence of last year were still raw. I believe it is great that Kenya celebrates their individual tribes, but when government officials use their power to help out their tribe, it can and will lead to violence and further muting of minority tribes. Another thing was troubled me was how they attributed his arrogance to his tribe. My coworkers have degrees in equality, but they stereotyped a whole tribe in one sentence by calling them arrogant. These people should be leading the march against stereotypes, not simplifying their problems with them. Once again, I keep my voice fairly quiet because if I try to change everything, I will change nothing. Instead, I just stated, “Maybe he was just an asshole, lets get lunch.”
It started to rain and the downhill mountain road will soon be impassable, so we were forced to take pika-pikas. The driver spoke fairly good English and was a very nice man. I was nervous to ask the question, but I decided to ask anyways: what’s the real story of the Mt. Elgon violence. He told me a number of short stories he witnessed. First, if the King (of the rebellion) liked your wife, he would have sex with her. If you refused, you were killed, if she refused, she was raped and killed. Secondly, as a sort of twisted eye-for-an-eye theory, if you did not listen and follow instructions, your ear was cut off. If you were too outspoken, they cut your lips off. The wounds were covered in salt and you were not allowed to go to the hospital, or you would be killed. Third, if you were still too outspoken, 2 holes were drilled—one in your jaw and one in your hard palate. A padlock was used to lock your jaw shut, and the man would walk away with the key. Shamefully, I thought of the many horror movies I have seen; then I realized these Hollywood movies only desensitize us into apathy. Then when we hear about all these horrific stories on the news, people are not really mortified, and there is little public outcry. I daydreamed about this for a while until I saw some cows out of the corner of my eye. I yelled ‘ng’ombe!’ to the driver and he jammed on the breaks and narrowly missed him. Once again, instead of being scared, I began to laugh—not a madman laugh—but a laugh of maybe irony. When you speak of the dangers in Eastern Africa, you may think of Al Shabaab, tribal conflicts, food poisoning, malaria, AIDS, etc. Nope, that was the second time I was almost tackled by a runaway cow. Advice to Al Shabaab: stop the suicide bombings—invest in rabid moose, it will scare the crap out of the CF.
Friday was very uneventful. Valarie and I went to the Uganda border (Teso) to do the same thing as Wednesday in a different district. Only one thing struck me as strange, and it infuriated me to my core. We were walking to the District Commissioners office (the head of the district), half-assedly noting the poverty levels of the citizens of Teso. It seemed that Teso was doing slightly worse than many other districts, but why? Teso is a border district that flourishes in trade with its Uganda neighbors. I think I found the answer in the DCs office. He had a very large antique wooden desk; gold on his neck and hands; a large TV; and the office was about 10-12 times larger than my residence in Lane Hall. Nice new floors, furnished with coaches you see on films about royalty. The man’s words spoke of empowerment, but his tone spoke of indifference. I believe he was even intimidated by me there, because every time I wrote something down, he would lose his train of thought. Valarie later told me he was scared that I would go back to America and tell my government about him. But I won’t tell Big Brother Mr. DC, this time…
Corruption is rampant in Kenya. The poverty gap is extreme, but the most shocking thing is that the richest people are in the government. Even the president of the anti-corruption committee in Kenya is corrupt! The people are trying to throw him out but he will not leave, and the president has backed him up for another term even though he was ineffective in the first time (according to the people). I believe a trimming of the fat is necessary if Kenya ever wants to bring itself out of poverty. I do not know how this will be done peacefully because most politicians are there because of their use of force. I am very worried about the future of Kenya. It has historically been a very stable African country, but every camel has its own carrying capacity. If peaceful, Kenyans will continue to suffer in hunger. If they revolt, Kenyans will likely suffer from the hand of the government. I hope I am wrong in this theory, maybe a strong leader will appear that has the courage to take from the rich and give to the poor—but not even Robin Hood could do this peacefully at all times.
Saturday, I did my usual cleaning and housework (I am getting a maid soon, a very good investment for both of us). Then I made my way into town to meet a student at Mabanga who said she had a problem that she needed to tell me in person. I was dreading this moment because, on one hand she could be lying and just be a temptress, but on the other she could have a real problem. I assumed she just was ‘in love’ with me and tried asking her this in not so many words. She became offended when I hinted at the fact and I was taken by surprise.
She decided to tell me her issue. She was considering not mentioning it and just enjoying our sodas, but she felt she needed to explain it to me to put my mind at ease. Her parents have died of AIDS and she—along with her sister and two brothers—were living with her aunt. She was one year away from graduation and her aunt recently told her she does not have money for her to continue school. After the aunt paid for her own children, and her male adoptees, there was no money left. Wow, I really missed the ball on that one, eh? I wanted to break down crying and hug her, but I was too shocked to do anything but stare at her.
My activities at the bar with the prostitutes have made me assume that she wanted money or something else. I admit, I have created a stereotype and I am very ashamed of it. However, I needed an event like this in order to become aware of my own ignorance—I just hope I did not hurt that girl. I have always been very adaptable (in my opinion) and can think quickly if I need to. From now on, instead of assuming things so I can better prepare for them, I will start playing things by ear more. I can always prepare for the worst, as long as I don’t let my negative feelings sway my opinions unless they are proven first. For example, if I am put into a similar situation again, I will simply meet the person and ask them what is wrong. Their response—rather than my opinion—will guide my actions.
The night came and Jerry asked me to a rumba night at the bar. I was very excited because I love live music, and I love new music. I have never witnessed rumba music, but I loved it as soon as I walked in. I took a seat close to the band and started dancing in my seat. It reminded me of the fast-paced music you would hear on a regular Nintendo game such as Double Dragon or Contra—feel free to laugh at me. One of Jerry’s friends was clearly trying to get with me, so I decided to dance with her—harmlessly. I am getting used to being a very hot item in the bars, but I fear I will become too cocky, especially when I come back to Canada. On the other hand, I grew up deathly shy and Kenya seems to be making that a thing of the past, so I will keep my ego in check and continue opening up. I could never dance to the club music back in Canada, the simplistic rhythm of most songs limit me to left and right movements of my hips, but I think rumba dancing will help me out.
Sunday. Nothing too exciting happened except that the sickness was still around and was getting worse. I was now contemplating going to the hospital, but decided against it because my stash of medicine was probably just as good if not better than the hospital’s, not to mention the dreaded lineup. I finished my housework for the week and started playing games on my computer. Some of the young kids came to visit me so I put on a game on my laptop so they could play. Within a few minutes I had all the neighborhood kids in my living room trying to play. It made my soul feel good that they were laughing, dancing and joking with each other. After half an hour or so, I wanted to get back to work and told them they could play more tomorrow. Sounds easy enough, right? But the children were too young for school and therefore did not know English. I used every word for ‘go’ in the thesaurus, but they just spoke something I couldn’t understand and went back to the game. I tried using body language to motion them out of the house, but either they didn’t want to leave or they didn’t understand. Eventually I just picked up a kid and dropped her outside my door, then picked up another kid and did the same. As I was carrying kids out, more kids were running back in. I kept pissing into the wind this way for about ten minutes until I gave up, smiling through my frustration at them. Eventually their parents came looking for them and I told them about my dilemma. They laughed and told them it was time for bed. The strange thing was that the mothers said this in English and everybody immediately left. Maybe I’m just a pushover.
Later in the night a friend visited the house with 2 women. According to him, he could have one and I could have the other (awkward). I ended up text messaging my way out of it, so I would not hurt the girl’s feelings, but I think she was still disappointed.
On Monday of the new work week, not much happened once again. There was so much ‘nothing’ that it started to worry me. The work plan was due this week and I did nothing in the organization yet. I confronted the director and assistant director a few times, but nothing ever came of it. The good thing is that I have had ample time to research my directed study on the link between HIV/AIDS and food security in Kenya. Gladys, the director, has told me there would not be much time for me to research it, but she allowed the opposite. As a result, my food security lens came back with a vengeance. Everything I saw seemed to relate somehow with the cyclic effects HIV and food security had on each other. Without a doubt, this has been the area where I have gained the most knowledge. The link is sometimes direct, but often times it takes many years (as we are just discovering the long wave effect of HIV on subsequent generations). For example, if the girl mentioned earlier were to drop out of school, it is likely that she would not gain employment and may marry early—leading to food insecurity. But this is not the place to speak of this, so that’s a story for another group. Unless you want to hear more, then email me.
Tuesday was another fieldtrip. We were handing out money to community mentors in 4 rural areas: Sirisia, Kamlega, and 2 other long names I cannot remember. The money would be put into a pool, and OVC caregivers could withdrawal some to invest in more expensive agricultural inputs such as fertilizer and seeds. Microloans are gaining popularity and I believe the idea of the community controlling it’s own loans is a great idea, as opposed to outsiders being the gatekeepers. The mentors were very positive and intelligent beyond most of their education levels, but the Kamlega mentors really stood out in my mind. Iddi is a very stocky Muslim who is also a caregiver of 4 OVCs. When he saw me, he brought out his best seat and forced me to sit with them as they exchanged the funds. He introduced me and made sure I remembered everybody’s name, as they were instructed to remember both my names. The forceful kindness was unexpected at first, but his energy transferred to me and for the first time in the field, I felt comfortable enough to laugh and joke around with the others openly. Iddi explained to me that he was Muslim and then said, “You don’t like people like us do you? You think we enjoy death. But I love life.” His stereotype of me caught me off guard and I felt the need to tell him he was wrong. However, then I realized in a way he was partly right, not for me, but for other mzungus.
I knew from the people that the Kenyan people respected Northerners, but I was slowly beginning to realize how they thought we viewed them. Many Kenyans tend to think Americans and Europeans do not respect Africans. This may explain why Kenyans are so kind to mzungus—because they want to be respected. Many of my friends back home are very disrespectful of Africans. Coming from Cape Breton, many of them don’t know where Kenya is, but assume the worst about them. Infact, I was the butt of most racist jokes by a select group of my friends—a group that openly lives on social assistance with no intention of working. To quote Stan from South Park, “Oh, life is hard is it? Try living in a developing country, pussy.” I assume we’re all adults here and can take a low-grade of profanity, but if I offend anybody, I apologize. Just tell me and I will stop immediately.