After months of research, study, planning
and organisation together with reams of form-filling and the joys of
vaccination, we narrowly escaped a snow-bound
Our arrival at
Our side of the dual carriageway appeared completely blocked, with traffic facing in both directions! Despite this, innumerable brightly-painted coaches, cars and clapped-out-looking mini-buses (matatus, as we later learned), all emitting loud noises and noxious exhaust, were forcing their way into any gap in any direction – even over the central reservation (which appeared to have been attacked by an army of giant moles and to have an incline of about 1 in 3).
We didn’t know it at the time but the way Kenyans cope in traffic jams actually reflects their approach to any problem that seems to prevent them reaching their goal. At high speed, with little apparent forethought for the effect on others or the possible outcome, they will twist and turn, explore every route and push themselves (and everyone else) to the absolute limit. If you don’t struggle, you won’t succeed…and if you don’t succeed anyway, well, God has a reason for that!
Finally (about 10pm), we arrived at the Sandton to experience what came to be a familiar game on booking into any hotel – confuse your already weary visitor further by pretending you have never heard of them then, just before they collapse in despair, smile welcomingly, pick up copious amounts of luggage and lead them to their room. The result is that, whatever the state of the room, the traveller is so grateful to be there that they willingly bestow a large tip on anyone around at the time.
Room 611 was comfortable though we were wary of the fan/air conditioning; it worked but produced worrying sparks and crackles. The first of our water problems also reared its head; the shower somehow managed to leak more water onto the floor than fell from the nozzle and what did fall was very grudging and cold.
We knew we had arrived when, about 5am, we were woken by an amazingly harmonious crescendo of music, singing and calls to prayer. Bright sunlight pulled us from our beds by 7am and we breakfasted on a mixture of hard fried eggs (we were to realise these are a compulsory part of any Kenyan breakfast), delicious sausages and an unidentifiable stewy goo which was later revealed, surprisingly, to be tomatoes, onions and bananas – you might not guess how like boiled potatoes stewed bananas are!
Intrepid as ever, we set off to “do”
At some point, pretty much all of the major colonial building have either been taken down or are in such a state of disrepair that they would look better if they had fallen down! 1960’s concrete blocks of Parliament and similar buildings have taken their place. These are quite heavily guarded so, perhaps wisely in view of their appearance, there is little chance of photographing them.
Eventually, we found an oasis of peace in
the
Another amazingly contorted taxi ride took us to the station where we discovered the automatic transfer system that seems to exist everywhere. Open the car door, step off a coach or a matatu and, unless you are prepared with a convincing story, have already got a tight hold on all your possessions and can easily carry them, you will find yourself being escorted somewhere then surrounded by a sea of happily smiling, expectant faces who expect recompense for deciding where and how you should go next!
We were delivered to a kind gentleman who turned out to have some kind of a reserved site on the platform, conveniently just big enough for two plastic chairs. It was also conveniently placed for him to reveal his true vocation – he was a railway historian with a special interest in (and photographs of) the main line – that is, pretty much the only line in the country. A fascinating history lesson ensued with plenty of blood-curdling detail of man-eating lions and suchlike, not to mention intimate details of most of the engines and rolling stock since the year dot – many of which he was delighted to discover came from “near” our home – Newton-le-Willows. Needless to say, there was a price to pay for this attention but it did pass the time and provide a nice picture of a steam train for Dad!
Finally, it was time to board the overnight
train to
The train is enormously long (16 carriages)
and, although the “First Class” carriages (8 apartments in each) are fairly
quiet and calm, the lower classes are packed! It is a throwback to the days of
the Empire – apparently fantastically endowed with water, electric light,
air-conditioning fans, etc. etc. It’s only when you
investigate that you discover that virtually nothing works! There’s a
nice guard with a lantern (the first one didn’t work) to show you the way to
the spotless, sweet-smelling hole in the floor that constitutes the Choo (loo) and amazing, silver service (or something like
it) dinner and breakfast. We were fortunate, we met a couple returning from
working in the
Between meals, the guard warned, you should stay in your cabin with the blinds down and the door locked!
The journey is downhill and round the bend almost
all the way – or seems like it - and the journey takes about 3 hours longer
than the scheduled 13. It gets light regularly roundabout 6am in
A remarkably pain-free taxi was waiting to take us an unexpectedly calm, short distance to the Manson Hotel in Mombasa, which somehow remains relatively cool and has reasonable water and electricity supplies to help cope with the much higher temperatures here than back in Nairobi.
Here, in the form of nets, we met our first
signs of mosquitoes. In England, we had been led to believe that, on setting
foot in Kenya, we would be besieged by ravenous swarms of malaria-carrying
mosquitoes which, unless we plastered ourselves with deterrent, sprayed
chemicals lavishly and consumed expensive pills, would undoubtedly kill us –
provided, of course, we hadn’t already succumbed to cholera, yellow fever,
rabies or any one of the innumerable, foul diseases apparently just waiting to
carry us off. We had believed it all, suffered many injections and not been
entirely convinced by the
I’m sure these precautions are wise and necessary but (probably because of them) mosquitoes are much less of a problem than we had expected. You could count the number we saw, heard, or suffered from, throughout our visit, on the fingers of one hand. And with respect to other diseases, we both kept fitter and felt better than we had for a long time!
People tell you that Mombasa is a much safer place than Nairobi; the threat of a more direct, Islamic response to criminals is more of a deterrent than the countrywide threat of retribution if a money-providing tourist (or their purse) is, in any way, harmed or attacked - thus reducing the likelihood of them recommending Kenya to other tourists or returning in the future to spend more money.
Well, that may be true – it’s certainly quieter with fewer people and much less traffic but we were persistently pestered by touts of every kind. They didn’t accept the recommended polite refusal methods either. We had done our best to memorise the layout of the town so we could look “purposeful”. We avoided eye-contact and ignored them; we claimed to have a friends imminently appearing. Admittedly, as in Nairobi, we couldn’t help being obvious – once again, we were virtually the only white people in town, and it was a while before we realised that we were also drawing attention to ourselves by walking far faster than anyone else ever does (except the Masai and the inhabitants of Karen, near Nairobi as we discovered later). Wherever we turned, some man was ready, waiting for us! We even stated (ironically, with honesty) that we had no money.
Maybe that was hard to believe, since we
were visiting every ATM in town at the time, but it was true. Did you know that
you have to inform your bank if you are going to
Several stressful hours, after inadvertently (but interestingly and with determined calm) exploring pretty much the whole town, new and old, on foot and using up the whole holidays credit on all our phones, we finally managed to speak to the bank and get the promise of money.
The town is a fascinating mix of very narrow, Arabic lanes with houses where everyone is in traditional, Islamic clothes and large, open, rich-looking areas. There’s a long, sea-side walk where the tropical colours are magnificent in the bright sunlight and a remarkable forest of baobab trees. I fell for these in a big way – later we discovered that they are part of the culture and tradition.
Apparently, when first created, baobabs were the most beautiful trees, and knew it. Despite warnings from God, they constantly flaunted themselves with great pride, until one night… That night, God uprooted all the baobab trees and replanted them, upside down, to teach them a lesson. So that’s why their branches spread out like roots!
Originally brought to
There’s more! Because they grow so old, many have enormous trunks. This makes them very suitable for hiding offerings and sacrifices to the “old” gods inside or for dancing round to catalyse various actions – many people still consider them sacred. There’s a modern problem though, the seeds (which taste of lemon and are commonly coloured, mixed with sugar and sold as sweets) often can’t germinate at today’s higher temperatures. Nothing’s perfect.
Mombasa was the first place where we were encouraged to speak Swahili – we’d learned a bit from books and the internet and, in time, became quite good especially when we were together. Brian claimed he couldn’t speak the language but became very good at understanding it. This was helpful as I was always at least two minutes behind, trying to translate what I wanted to say into short phrases and sentences – pretty much like a two-year old – and cope with the horrendous verb prefixes and suffixes which seem to turn a sentence into a single word!
Anyway, the waiters seemed to appreciate our efforts and so did our in-country coordinators (Alice and Isaiah) when we met up for the induction session – though then (and later) I was aware, from politely disguised body language or expression, that I probably hadn’t actually said what I thought I had – shades of “’Allo, ‘Allo!
Here, we ran into a feeling that we’d met a
bit in
We determinedly refused to consider the obvious implications behind this view…and with the honour of all 50+’s across the world, but especially in England, at stake, threw ourselves, unusually enthusiastically, into team games and problem-solving ice-breakers, listening intently to all the information we were given about the project and accommodation we were going to. Brian did pick up a faint indication from the man who was to be our local contact, Zack, that things weren’t quite what we were expecting…
Finally, we left the other volunteers,
three ladies in their 30’s who were working with children affected by AIDS in
Then eager hands grabbed our luggage and ran off – we followed to find them happily hefting our precious cargo (most of it was kind donations) onto the roof of a matatu. Here, it was lashed down with rope and what wouldn’t fit was squashed unceremoniously under the back seat – we were squashed, equally unceremoniously, on top of it. With great relief, we saw Zack was coming, too!
The 2-3 hour journey turned into a good 4
hours of speedy, hair-raising thrills. You pay a lot of money at
As we regained our land-legs, we were relieved to make out the shadowy outlines of all our “luggages” (note: next time, just take money – there are plenty of places to spend it and the advantages of travelling light cannot be overestimated) –until a shadowy figure appeared from nowhere, somehow put the two largest on his bike and determinedly set off, up the hill, with them. Zack encouraged us to scramble up a steep bank with what remained of the stuff then appeared to conjure women and children out of the darkness. These phantoms divested us of the rest of our possessions and marched us slowly but deliberately onwards and round the corner.
A whole army then appeared through a gate, surrounded us and herded us towards a flickering light – we had arrived at the Heartbeat Project.
As the storm lantern cast fantastic shadows, we were greeted with great formality then taken, with such concern, to our room that, when told, “We have no electricity and no running water but we are so glad that God has sent you and hope you will be happy,” one could only reply positively. A mixture of relief that we had finally arrived, together with exhaustion, made it no moment for trying to explain that we weren’t angels or to discover why our destination did not remotely resemble what we had been told to expect!
I then discovered that I must develop a strong bladder. A seemingly-endless exchange of greetings and enquiries took place (after a few days, we got quite good at this custom, though I did tend to get the right words in the wrong places quite often), in the course of which, Zack discovered he was related to our host’s wife (this usually happens, it seems; wherever you are, long-lost cousins suddenly discover themselves). Then there was a terrible dilemma, the “men” - Bishop Dickson (our host and the man behind the whole enterprise) and Pastor Evans (who was to be the project co-ordinator) - hadn’t yet arrived but the guests shouldn’t have to wait for a meal…what to do? Eventually, politely, we asked if we could “wash our hands” only to be told that we need not worry, Sophy would provide water before eating. More desperately, I asked for a toilet and found myself being part of a lamplit procession across they yard, through the open gate, along a short path across the shamba to set of three corrugated iron huts. The middle one was proudly indicated as being “not local, but western-style, for our guests alone”. And so it was, sort of. The escort party kindly waited outside “so you will not be frightened”. Relief!
I cannot remember what the meal was – the men arrived before long and what with the number of people, the many different conversations all going on at the same time and not yet having adjusted to the low light level, it was all rather unreal. Lovely, warm water was provided to wash our hands and I recall an apology – we should have had a goat, but (as seems to happen quite often) regrettably, it had died in “mysterious circumstances”.
I remember endless discussions as to whether we would prefer to shower in the evening or the morning - with a clear indication that “the African way” was in the evening. There was a degree of polite incredulity when we said we’d just like to go to bed now and wash in the morning. There were more many-sided discussions regarding what and when breakfast should be and revealing that no-one (except me) expected us to need the toilet during the night, but that the gate would not be locked, just in case. Finally, bed and sleep, even though feet passed (the house was a series of about 8 adjoining rooms, few interconnected, built round a rectangular yard, housing an ever-expanding and changing number of people – never less than 10) and talk continued well into the early hours.
Inevitably, I did need the toilet in the night and set off intrepidly only to find the door shut, bolted and, far worse, sealed with a chain. I summoned Brian and several minutes later, after patient persistence and an awful lot of chain rattling we discovered and undid the clasp. Unfortunately, the chain then fell against the iron gate with a noise that would have wakened the dead. Opening the gate caused yet another unearthly clanking as we fled across the ground to the toilet.
While I was waiting for Brian, I suddenly realised how utterly peaceful and beautiful everywhere was. There was no need for a torch. It was warm and although the sky was a soft, deep, dark colour, more stars than I have ever seen were set in intricate patterns all over it, and they twinkled cheerfully, they really did! The full moon had now moved over the hill and was making a silver pathway across the ground, nothing was moving and the only sound was the gentle creaking of the insects. It was quite magical.
Once we had mastered the chain so could move more silently, we came almost to look forward to those night-time prowlings. The contrast between the gentle, spacious silence at that time and the noisy, brazen, hot day when trucks bumped and clattered their way over the road with illicit food from Tanzania and matatus hooted to announce their departure to school, work or town with people shouting and music playing over the sound of clanging pots could not have been greater.
This time, however, was different. As we stood there, lost in wonder, a huge shadow fell across the open gate. Hand-in-hand, like Hansel and Gretel we tiptoed cautiously towards it to find Mama Catherine (Dickson’s fairly traditionally-built wife with a heart to match her build) unable to hide from the moon in the shadows, clearly wondering what on earth her guests were up to and very anxious for our welfare. She sent us swiftly back to our room and reassembled security arrangements herself. We didn’t argue.
I say “our room”; it was a few weeks later when Pastor Evans strangely requested a photograph of the bed we had been sleeping in and the table with all our stuff on it. Then one Sunday, he happened to mention that he really liked our room; after Church he often used to relax on the bed. This was how we discovered that he had given up his room, the bed and table he had bought for his home once he was married, to the wazungu guests. He was now sleeping on a couch in the store room, along with at least one of the orphan boys. What kindness! It came as a double surprise as he is not the most immediately appealing character. Slightly sinister-looking, regularly suffering from general malaise (usually brought on by indigestion – he tended to eat massively but rarely, a trait that he also exhibited in his work) and strictly aware of protocol together with his duties as a Christian ,not to mention being our temporary “son”, it took some time to uncover his kind and clever, witty personality
When we tried to thank him, as on many other occasions, he told us that such was Taita custom. Regardless of what we did at work, in the home we were honoured guests, the more so because of our great age; we were as parents to him. In the same way that he could not allow his parents to suffer or do menial tasks in his presence, he would care for us. All we had to do was to accept his sacrifice or work. Any objection on my part was met by irrefutable logic or biblical precedent. I learned to smile and say, “Thank you!” They learned to smile and accept my misgivings as he cleaned my filthy, smelly shoes, carried Brian’s bag or whatever.
We learned that, in
Back to the first morning: a knock on the door heralded Sophy and the first of many calls, “Sister Aleen, I have already prepared the water!” She took me to the bathroom – next to the toilet – where a bowl of steaming water (daily fetched from 3km away and kindly heated in pots over the open fire because “our systems” would suffer if we used cold water when the sun made us so hot – in the last week, only, we were honoured to be allowed to use water heated only by the sun) rested on a stool; a Blue Band margarine tub floating in it. There was a large bar of brightly-coloured soap beside it.
Indicating the nail on the inside of the
door, she told me that was for my towel and my “clothies”
and that the African way was to use the tub to scoop out water which would then
run across the hard-packed floor and out of the hole at the back, into the
garden. Sounded sense to me, though I quickly realised that Western-style
modesty was an inconvenience and adapted to wearing the barest minimum of “clothies” for the journey across the usually packed yard.
There is a good system of privacy in
Brian followed then… problems! We had not used enough water! Knowing that water was a scarce commodity, we had used it adequately if sparingly but there was much left! Our hosts thought we had not liked it!
Explanations and assurances followed but it was another week before we learned the really desperate situation regarding water in the area. The piped supplies (300KES per month) had been disrupted either on purpose or by wear and tear. Water now had to be fetched from a pipe which, coincidentally, was on land owned by the local MP, 3 km away. It must be paid for on collection and was now costing 10,000KES each month to supply the house, home and school.
We became quite inventive with uses for the left over water especially once we realised that our high-level “western” cistern relied on rain (not much!) or someone clambering on the roof to fill it – a bit disconcerting when you are sitting or showering underneath and some water misses the tank and shoots through the ventilation hole in the roof). Yet another week passed with endless conversations about “Madge” (water = maji), “Juma” (not the man this time, but the word for this week) and the “matatu” (actually “matata” = problem) before our hosts would admit to us that anything was wrong and allow us to share the problem. Again, the guests must be cared for at all costs.
Finally, we were called for breakfast. This was our first experience of another local custom which took some getting used to: we must be served food first, AND must be eating before anyone else gets anything. Exhibit one: Guests eating.
In addition, the men of the family cannot help themselves to anything. Even if the sugar or the chai (tea) is on the next table, they do not get up or ask a guest to pass or pour it. The daughters of the house (that includes the foster-children) must serve the men. If they are not there, they must be shouted for.
Anyway, breakfast settled into a regular routine of very well-fried eggs (2 each) with mandaazi (crisp, doughnutty things preferable to the strangely sweet, sliced bread) – 1 on week days, 2 on Sundays (because lunch – insistently and kindly made only for us - would be late).
Concern was expressed that we did not
liberally cover our food with either ketchup, salt or chilli sauce – but it was
very tasty as it came. Provided the cow had done its stuff, we got chai to drink – a delicious mixed tea where everything is
boiled together in a huge kettle. The smoke from the fire adds extra flavour.
Again, concern – why didn’t we lace the tea with 3-4 teaspoons of sugar in
addition to the little that had already been brewed with it? Kenyans struggle
to understand a person with a small/normal appetite, especially if they are
slow eaters so quickly taught me how to say, “
Next, we were taken up to the Children’s’ Home cum school to work out our work schedule. Here, it became obvious (despite kind efforts to conceal it) that daylight and conversation had revealed that we were not quite what was expected, even though full details had been forwarded in advance. This was understandable when, as time went on, we realised that all information had been conveyed by email. Hearttbeat’s system was dodgy to say the least and no-one could open attachments.
Foreigners are not common in that area and
previous visitors had been mainly from
In a touching and much more friendly way
than we experienced in other regions of
Then there was our age. We were definitely unexpectedly old!
Taita custom treats “elders” with enormous respect and care - something which was to regularly conflict with our western principles! Brian could not go anywhere far, carrying a bag before some body would wrest it from him and hobble off bent double under the extra burden. We were regularly considered to be tired and rest was advocated. Menial tasks, like shoe-washing, must be performed for us, by people we considered our equals - if not superiors! For some time, we were considered quite unsafe to let out of the premises alone – we might get lost!
There was no arguing with much of these views – though I tried! In time, I learned to smile graciously and accept whatever was on offer. They learned to smile understandingly at the effort that caused me!
Next, our gender. We discovered the people at Heartbeat to be more “enlightened” (as Sophy would say) than many local people but they still found it hard to accept that people of our age and gender had skills to offer that were outside the norm for the community. Women (especially old ones) had kitchen-related duties; men did manly things like chopping down trees, making essential furniture (no IKEA or B&Q flat packs here, just long pieces of wood that must be sawn up then hammered together to a plan in someone’s head) and looking after cows. So that’s how we started off.
After a few days, Brian’s obvious skill and enthusiasm with a camera found him a role as Official Photographer. He discovered that having one’s picture taken was a great treat and became extremely popular!
Once it became apparent that he could use a PC, he was occupied making ID cards for all the students – the High School had just opened for the first time two weeks before our arrival. A successor to the Nursery already on site, the High School had been built, out of necessity, to provide reasonable secondary education at an affordable price (no secondary education in Kenya is free) for Dickson’s children, once they passed their Year Eight KCPE exams and left Primary School. Opened to others who could not afford (or could not find – free Primary education has led to a serious shortage) secondary places, numbers almost doubled during our stay.
It was also important to update a brochure to make it (and the Home) more appealing and acceptable to the world at large. If it was to be registered, the High School had to have evidence of budgeting; an introduction to Excel was called for! Figures were hard to ascertain – how do you show the goat or the firewood that someone has contributed as part of their fees or account for the fact that many students paid no fees but were subsidised (on paper at least) by the Bishop?
The Children’s Home had already been
registered as a charity but again, needed accounts and budgets to both attract
and reassure sponsors. It is an unusual, and quite remarkable, set up. Over the
years, Dickson and Catherine have taken in 35 orphans and are caring for them,
as near as possible, as if they were their own children. Dickson grew up an
orphan on the streets in
Aged from about 6 up to 20, the children were not at all what we had in mind as orphans. They seemed healthy and happy and all play their part in the household. Heartbeat’s children are much more in touch with the local culture and tradition, as well as the deprivations and problems, than other orphans we heard of, and saw, in more established, better-supported homes. In fact, they were so self-sufficient that it was a couple of weeks before we realised that we hadn’t actually met most of them!
Education had a bit to do with this. Most
of the orphans attend
As a matter of policy, Heartbeat does not take in any children who are known to have AIDS, are HIV-positive or have TB. They once did. One of the most common reasons for parents’ death is AIDS and Catherine and Dickson took in three children all from the same family. One child was clearly unwell and after tracking down an old family friend, who also happened to be a trusted, retired doctor, reliable tests were carried out revealing the problem in two of the three children. Conditions and experience at Heartbeat are such that to keep potentially infectious children would put all the others at an intolerable risk so, with regret (and not a little guilt), all were returned to their extended family.
Medical services in
Hospitals are often quite a distance away and vary enormously. There are places where you are handed out large, somewhat random supplies of pills with little or no information as to how to take them or what they are meant to achieve. Often, we were told, the potions are even antagonistic! Then there are the very expensive places where the care is fantastic but you probably have no chance of getting in!
The medicines dished out are unlikely to be the real thing. We found that the paracetamol and ibuprofen we had brought were considered much more effective than nominally the same thing kept, in enormous numbers, stashed in a box under the table in the office. We also discovered that medical skills and knowledge, it seems, are things that middle-aged, white women are expected to know about. Take plenty of painkillers and plasters with you – and clove oil (or similar) for toothache. In situations like this it’s no surprise that traditional, herbal “doctors” are making a big comeback in some areas.
Getting back to the children, the Kenyan government policy, now, coincidentally, is to keep orphans in the community. They hope to reduce the complete turnaround and unforeseen backlash that generous overseas nations have contributed to by founding and supporting Orphanages: a generation of relatively spoilt young people, better educated than most but out-of-touch with reality and their own culture. Dickson got there first!
As half-term approached Brian became caught up in typing exams for the teachers, and the administrative arguments that that raised. With limited electricity, considering the cost of ink and paper, how many copies was it reasonable for the teachers to require? In fact, did they need any? They could always do as they did in lessons and write everything on the board. Individual papers were a luxury! After all the school already had 6 textbooks between roughly 80 students…How much notice should they give? And who was the right person to make the demands or approach with complaints? So the arguments developed and rolled until he began to yearn for the early days, spent walking the cows, and to long for the nursery teacher to be off sick, so he could play with the little children!
Kenyan education is very proscriptive. Secondary education is grouped into four years which can only be accessed by examination. The outcome of the final, Year 4 KCSE exams decides your future – unemployment, low wages, further education – the marks define you. Books are recommended by the government and seem largely to be learned, parrot-fashion. Understanding seems an optional extra. Examinations, held twice each term, stick rigidly to the text; if you cannot regurgitate the facts you have been taught, you will fail. You will have to repeat that session. No soft options here! 50% or less is abysmal – even if you only joined the school a week ago. Corporal punishment follows – a lot of stick and very little carrot. Yet the teachers were really nice people, caring and dedicated enough to take relatively low salaries to sustain the Heartbeat open-door principle. Anther inexplicable anomaly.
Brian’s intensive activity was only moderated by the fact the electricity came from an old, very noisy generator which, at times (not many – the nursery teacher somehow even managed to perform with the wretched thing actually in her room on occasions), could not be run. It also obligingly broke down for a while, blowing up the PC power supply as it did. But then the wiring was improved…
Another limiting factor was the ink supply. Heartbeat has two printers (if you count the one that perpetually prints out-of-focus, increasing the overall effect of being somewhat out of this world). Because of the expense, re-fills are preferred to new cartridges, but ink runs out.
The nearest supply meant a matatu journey to the next village, Mwtate. Then, that man was found to be unreliable so the journey was longer – to Voi. This effectively meant a day out for someone, because as well as catching, and squeezing into, the transport, you had to exchange prolonged greetings, then bargain fiercely over the cost of both transport and ink.
Exhaustion might drive you to indulge in a “soda” (Fanta Orange was much loved) but, then, lack of funds could mean you had to flag down some unsuspecting, and probably unknown, driver, (and there weren’t many) to get home again.
What about me? I immediately realised that, to our new friends, t it was quite inconceivable that I might actually run my own business, be able to do bookkeeping or keep accounts. This was strange – if you wanted to know the prices (or rise in prices!) of anything at all, Mama Catherine could tell you. If anyone needed money, it was carefully counted out from the knotted corner of her leso (the bright, attractive Taita equivalent of an apron – often complete with a meaningful motto) and the change scrutinised thoroughly before being returned to its safe store. It was also (literally) laughable that I might be capable of using a computer. It was just about believable that I might be able to help with little children in the Nursery and - thanks to the combined efforts of Sophy (and, later, the new Chemistry teacher, Audline Mwemba) - it was faintly possible that I might be able to help in the High School. Obviously, my chief role was to help washing up and preparing food.
A beautiful leso
was presented to me, proudly declaiming that, “It is better to be let down by a
puncture in your tyre than by a false friend.” At first, I thought my
calf-length shorts had been deemed inappropriate so needed covering up. Later I
learned that, whilst in this
I was taken to meet the kitchen helpers – possibly the best thing that could have happened. I met Josai, the cook, Juma, the handyman, Gladys, the very smart house-mother, Lavinia and Maria, two local widows who helped at Heartbeat. This small community usually worked (very hard) away from the public eye or scrutiny from supervisors. Everyone knew what had to be done, and when, and, despite major hiccoughs – like no water - it always happened!
The ladies, in particular, spoke very little English and everyone was very keen that I shouldn’t feel left out – they encouraged and corrected my efforts in Kiswahili! I learned a lot about the people we worked and lived with, the area, the children, the community – you name it, I found out more from these kind, discerning and non-judgemental people than I would have done anywhere else.
In some tribes, widows have a hard time of it. They can find that they have no right to any of their late husband’s (or any shared) property or assets. Maybe not even his body. Sometimes, where polygamy still occurs, everything, including the widow herself, is handed over to the brother-in-law. Maria and Lavinia considered themselves fortunate to be able to keep their independence - thanks to the Bishop’s protection.
Gladys was nominally in charge but when she
left – after 2 days of my company – nothing changed – we just worked harder. I
was assured that Gladys’ departure was nothing to do with me – her husband had
a good job and considered it unsuitable for his wife to be working – even on a
voluntary basis, for a charity. Far better that she stay
at home and look after him and the children – the fact that he was in
Wives can be little better off than widows! Some are expected to care for their husband’s whole family – many only discover the true nature of their husband (and their role as wife) after marriage. Gender awareness is becoming a major issue in a country where domestic violence and divorce rates are high but the stigma (especially in the eyes of the church) is hard to shake off. However, I never quite shook off the suspicion that our presence at Heartbeat might have been slightly mis-interpreted – especially since both nursery teachers left (to start their own outfit – taking most of the resources and many of the children with them) after one week of my assistance!
Water permitting, the day began with washing up the mugs and dishes from breakfast and tea the night before. This was a very thorough exercise. Everything had to be scoured, rinsed, then stacked to dry. Mugs had to be done first whilst the water was cleanest; really dirty sufurias (big pots, like witches’ cauldrons were left to last. No matter how much there was, only in exceptional circumstances (like the cows stampeding, ignoring Lavinia’s fiercely brandished shovel and drinking most of the soapy water) could one have more than two containers of water – one for washing, one for rinsing.
I was really grateful to Ellie, a former
student with experience of volunteering in
I have never seen such enthusiasm – unless it was our last day when we presented two pairs of plastic gloves which were nearly ripped apart as ownership was claimed – and I became responsible for maintaining a supply of scourers.
As time went by, we had to change to scourers without the sponge because these could be bought in the local shop – run by another relative of our host – for approximately 12p (120 KES) each. I hope they are still getting them; I did assure the authorities that using them saved soap and time so was worth the expense!
Eventually, I was trusted to wash up by myself (and get it done by “saa sita” – midday, when lunch made everything dirty again) – sometimes even to move the site of operations to “kivulini” – the shade under the mango tree! I didn’t often get to do the sufurias, though – this was technical stuff, for experts only, involving steel wool.
At the outset, everything for washing had been loaded into the pot before water was added; I didn’t get on well with this. I wasn’t as adept at balancing things in the overfull container as the others; my plates always seemed to have streamers of left-over, green sikuma wiki interlacing them or ugali gluing them together. A mixture of tea-leaves and porridge set round the base of some mugs was a struggle to remove without tipping the piled-up things onto the red, sandy ground. Hoping no one would notice, I had modified the system slightly.
It had been noticed. In the last week, my pride knew no bounds when Lavinia demonstrated that she had watched me. She had seen how I only put a few things in the washing water at a time, leaving the others soaking in the dirty sufuria. From now on, I was told, they would “kuosha viombe kwa Mwingereze” – wash the dishes like the English!
If I’d been told before coming that I would be washing up for hours each day, I’d have been prepared for total boredom, stiff legs, an aching back and dry, cracked hands. Actually, I found this outdoor activity (like most of the others I did) gave me the luxury of time to watch, listen, think and learn. It also allowed me to receive daily language instruction from Ruth and some other High School students. The day I was able to tell them, in Kiswahili, that unlike all previous days, “The knife is NOT in the kitchen, the knife is here!” was one of much jubilation – and I got to share the mango the knife was needed for.
Strangely, despite working bent double from the waist (none of that, western, bend the knees stuff here) with no protection – the water was too deep to use gloves and I suspect they wouldn’t have stood up to the scouring activities - any aches I had vanished immediately I straightened up and my hands didn’t suffer at all! I didn’t need any of that Bura cure-all, Vaseline.
While the washing up was in progress, cooking also took place. I quickly discovered this was not for me. Everything was cooked in one pot, balanced on three stones with burning logs between. These had to be positioned just right and pushed in as they burned down. Although the kitchen was inside, it had plenty of open window spaces but, even so, I found the heat and the smoke a bit much. Brian coped better! Before we left, Josai and Juma had built had an extension to the kitchen. Brick compartments, open to the outside, could be stacked with wood from outside, as necessary, to provide heat to cook up to three pots at any one time. Not needing constant supervision and being able to cook more than one thing at once, this was a great time-saver – once the unforeseen problem of the fire going out when the rains came was overcome – with yet more corrugated iron.
I did fry some onions once, using a small “mwiko kwa kupica” (an oar-shaped stirrer, never less than 1 metre long). These then went on to produce a particularly revoltingly-coloured pot of pojo (a sort of wheat and bean stew). However, the time that I took to hack up the Friday treat of meat introduced a definite health hazard from flies and my almost total inability to wield the large mwiko at all, let alone enough to stop the thick ugali mix of cornflour and water from sticking and burning led to a tacit but mutual decision that since I couldn’t stand the heat, I should stay out of the kitchen.
After washing up, on a good day, I had an hour or so to spare before lunch (a hot meal cooked especially for us, back at the house, by Mama Catherine – kindly considered necessary, we were ungratefully relieved when we left and no longer had to eat large helpings of spaghetti, rice or chapattis together with stew and greens in the heat of the day!).
During the first week, I spent this time in
the Nursery class. It was constructed several years earlier with some help from
Plan International. They provided chairs and tables, as part of their
construction assistance, to the nearby
In our first week, 2 teachers worked with nearly 40 under-7’s in one room – and kept them all apparently happily occupied. One thing I noticed immediately was how involved with each other (both kindly and forcefully!) these very young children are – if “mwalimu” is busy, never mind, someone will muscle in and put you on the right tracks!
I also learned that the new English Early Years Framework has obviously been stolen from Kenya; the government may not fund nursery schools but it has a very strict, timetabled approach to what must be displayed and/or taught (within the subjects of Language – linking mother-tongue to Kiswahili and introducing English, Science and Maths) and when it must be done.
The topic that week was Buildings: Homes; all the different types of home that the different tribes build. This was very interesting to me as we had seen many different types of home, especially from the train and matatu.
We learned about huts; pretty much the most basic wood-framed, corrugated-iron covered structures found (“h-u-t - hat” was regularly heard being (mis-)chanted). Then there were Maasai houses; small but very intricate circular structures with many internal compartments built most from sticks, grass and leaves. These, we discovered later, are very dark, unexpectedly cool and designed for quick pitching and removing to suit the nomadic lifestyle.
More substantial Block Houses were common in the Bura area – the blocks are locally made “bricks” cemented together into a series of one-storey rooms, whitewashed inside and out and roofed with corrugated iron. The overall structure is rather like a barn conversion but hot and noisy when it rains!
And there’s more - like the wood-framed, packed-earth structures we later saw near the coast, kept cool by coconut palm roofs…
All this inspired me, with encouragement from the teachers and Brian (who revealed unexpected talents in drawing by lamplight and producing workable resources from a mixture of “rubbish” and some of the things we had kindly been given to bring from England), to tell the story of the Three Little Pigs.
Maybe it was the thought of sweets (“peremende”) that all little children seemed to think we would dish out indiscriminately, but this seemed to go down well. One little girl had to be removed because the sight of me (not the Big Bad Wolf as I had feared) was too much for one who had never seen mzungu before (even after four weeks, we had the same effect on her!) – but the others “huffed” and “puffed” very kindly and gratifyingly! And they hissed fiercely at the “mbwa mbaya” – bad dog/wolf!
They even accepted my promise of sweets – raisins, actually - tomorrow (“kesho peremende”) enthusiastically, if dubiously at first; Kenyans definitely know more about Sun Maid Raisins now than they did before our visit!
I was inundated with beautiful flowers and
children wanting to stroke my hair – thin, soft, pale hair being a novel
attribute! And so began the heart-warming and amusing dialogue that was to
follow us wherever we went for the next four weeks. From an apparently deserted
countryside, a chorus of “How are you?” would be repeated until we located the
source and replied, “Very well, thank you!” Adding,”Nzuri
When “next week” finally came, we had to be saved from near riots by some small boy powerfully shouting, and determinedly demonstrating the meaning of, “Pageni laini – make a line!” as we handed out “real” sweets – thoughtfully heart-shaped ones, given us by our neighbour at home.
Over the next few days, I continued to provide about an hour of education/entertainment based on the same theme – making simple English anagrams from their key “Buildings: Homes” words, playing snap and Simple Simon style games to identify and match upper and lower case letters, modelling plasticene -all seemed quite popular. Then the teachers left!
On Friday, they told me the Bishop had sacked them! They would hope to get more work but must stay at home until they did. Impressed by the skill and enthusiasm of the two teachers, I practised enormous tact (I hope) as I took this up with Sophy. And so I learned another African habit – only tell someone what you want them to believe.
She told me the Bishop couldn’t pay them both anymore; he just wanted one teacher. Those teachers had always worked together so would rather lose their jobs than be split up. Amazed already by the teacher:pupil ratio, I continued in tactful mode – how would any one teacher manage so large a group? It was allowed, Sophy told me – so the conversation ended…until next week.
On the Monday morning, Sophy vanished early to be found later (and joined by an enthusiastic Brian) occupying nursery children until their parents came to take them home. Later, a furious Bishop denounced the erstwhile teachers. They had set up their own school and had been seen, staggering downhill loaded with sacks of resources they claimed they had made, followed by a string of infant deserters!
Whatever the truth, and I hope it was nothing to do with me, Heartbeat now needed to find a new Nursery teacher – just the one now numbers were reduced – and had a desperate need of resources. My pre-lunch job changed! Not teaching – you had to have proper qualifications for that and Sophy’s elder sister had a teacher friend with a small baby who was looking for a small, part-time diversion (and was happy to become part of the Church in an elaborate welcoming ceremony later on, so give her services, virtually free, for the benefit of the community) – I was taught to sew and (it took longer) to thread my own needle!
We didn’t fully realise it then, but we had also come across the apparently established habit that, in any 5-day week, you will only work three days. Monday will be lost because you will be sorting some major unpleasantness that disrupted Friday! Alternatively, you will have some major event over the weekend that needs preparing on Friday and leaves you quite unfit for normal duties on Monday! “Are you tired, Sister Aleen?” “You should rest, Brother Brian!”
The major event that preceded this particular Monday was Valentine’s Day which coincided with Brian and I going “on safari” to Tsavo East.
The safari had been arranged by i-to-i. It was an opportunity for the latest batch of volunteers to relax in luxury, compare notes after one week and see the legendary wildlife; proceeds went to the company’s charity fund (for distribution amongst the projects at Christmas).
Valentine’s Day, of course, goes back a bit
further and turns out to be a big thing in
Our hosts were most concerned that we would be away on the actual day and determined we should not miss out. Dinner that evening was (very) fresh, local chicken – Brian had seen it arrive, still alive, in a bag! It was very tasty even though comments were passed when, after considerable gnawing, we left the bones – Kenyans, apparently eat every scrap (though I never actually saw evidence of this)! Then there were “keksi”! Known on less auspicious days as “breads” these are squares of plainish cake (or sweetish bread) made special by the inclusion of a red layer. And they do seem special! It’s a triumph of association over logic because the colour is just that, no flavour is added – and everyone adores them.
Just when we thought we had finished, Evans arrived, hot-handed rather than hotfoot, bearing sausages! Apparently, these, too, are specially associated with Valentine’s Day – you can work out the reason why - no doubt it’s the red meat inside. Evans knew the English liked sausage and chips so had persuaded the local hotel to provide – well, not chips, they weren’t frying that night.
He hadn’t allowed for our English appetites – but, Kenyan style, we struggled to succeed – I could write a whole book on the tastiness and texture of Kenyan sausages compared to the multifarious things we get in England - and the kind thought acted as a digestive aid. Alerted to the many types of food and gift we should find on offer at the Safari Lodge, we determined to bring something back for the family. We did, too! Rather worn roses and slightly tattered sweets were kindly accepted on our return and our efforts for each other – another addition to the tatty teddy family and a card - were admired if clearly considered rather low key!
The safari was good; Julius was an
excellent driver and coped patiently with the mix of girlish glee and grumpy
old us. He fed us interesting bits of information that helped cement the
different animals in our minds –even explaining that there were no tigers in
The view from the window was quite spectacular: a large herd of elephant came for drinks at a man-made pool just outside. We were surprised to see that they weren’t grey at all but brown! Apparently, the dust and sand are an elephant’s all-in-one fly-repellent and Factor 40– they can get seriously bitten or burnt! Zebra followed, once the elephants had moved on slightly to scratch their backs on a handy rock; then buffalo. It is hard to describe the wonder of seeing these animals, moving freely in a land so unlike ours.
Another tour with Julius showed us eagles, ostriches (black males and smaller, brown females) guinea fowl, partridges, vivid black, red and white cranes, secretary birds whose delicate, rather short-sighted way of walking doesn’t seem to fit with their diet of snakes and weaver birds – the compasses of the plains. We learned they always attach their strange, suspended nests to the west of trees.
There were more buffalo to be avoided; they may look quite humorous, with horns resembling a particularly dated hairdo, but, bad-tempered and irrational, they can use those same horns to kill anything that annoys them. We narrowly missed running over a chameleon as we spotted a jackal (larger than I had imagined), springboks, warthogs, emotional little dikdiks (faithful to the last, if their mate dies, they will commit suicide) and, my favourites, giraffes. These are surprisingly hard to see – camouflage really does work! Also, they tend to freeze when disturbed, rather than run. You have to search the trees diligently to find which ones have four legs. All this and more before returning to Tsavo Lodge and the welcoming hyraxes (close relatives of elephants – though you’d never guess it) that patrol its entrance, for dinner and drama!
There’s one disadvantage to luxury; it means there are mirrors. You get to see just how dirty your toenails have become and how unkempt you must look beside other Westerners – not to mention Africans who, to me, always seem to look incredibly clean and tidy whatever the circumstances! Some considerable time was spent rectifying the most obvious deficiencies and lessons were learned – keep all nails cut to the quick and heighten the sense of touch so you can pluck out offending hairs!
Finally we made it down to dinner where I got straight to the matter in hand – before I chickened out. Josai had told us that the Lodge kept very good pineapple juice in its kitchen. A very heavy hint had been dropped that we should obtain some for him. Tentative enquiries revealed that this was indeed true! However, I would need to ask again in the morning as the person concerned was not available just then. Still, the ice had been broken!
Unfortunately, the morning revealed that they were temporarily out of stock…but we didn’t give up! We actually found some – a very big and dusty tin - in Voi on the way home. It was much appreciated!
But back to that evening. In conversation, we came to feel that we were in a rather different situation than the other volunteers (and indeed, volunteers in general). They had clearly defined hours and tasks to fulfil; we never knew what we would do next or when. They had impersonal lodgings, with water and electricity, but poor, mostly Western-style, food and little or no insight into the life of the Kenyans around them. They thought our living conditions verging on the horrific but it seemed to us that we were living in luxury compared to them. We had heated water, no cockroaches or mosquitoes and hot, middle-class Kenyan food. Unlike the girls, who had to contend with touts, matatus and noise to get to work each day – one had even had her Blackberry snatched from her hand through an open window – we could walk to work, and through the village, in complete safety.
I became quite homesick for the
interesting, evening social and political discussions around the oillamp at Bura. In these, we had
learned that the President of Tanzania was a good man; unlike the Kenyan
President, he did not allow his people to see all their food overseas. Helpful
hints had been given: never chose a wife in the hot season; it is easy for her
to look “shiny” then. Wait and see how clean she is when it is cold! We had
tried to offset the attraction of the
Back at Tsavo! As darkness began to fall, attention became focussed on the water holes. Two buffalo had become isolated from the main herd and were trapped in the water by four grown lionesses, one with two cubs, and two with one cub each. Eight lions at one viewing! Eat your hearts out big game hunters! If I am honest, they were rather a long way away; without binoculars, I, at any rate, wouldn’t have seen them at that time.
Anyway, the plot thickened as it got darker and the lions moved closer. We were able to follow the action from the observation tunnel – provided you didn’t mind descending quite a long way, into the dark, stepping over the biggest ants I have ever seen (definitely gi-ants!) and only being protected from the action by glass and/or bars. Plenty of opportunity for yet more girly squeals…
Eventually, one of the cubs got bored (they were clearly supposed to be sitting quietly and safely whilst mother got on with getting dinner) and made a rush for the buffaloes who had unwisely stepped out of the water. The lionesses immediately rushed to protect that cub though the other babies sensibly decided discretion was the better part of valour and kept out of the way.
Amongst the grunts and bellows (lions don’t roar!) one buffalo ran off and the other despite being badly hurt, made it back to the water. Lions (now only visible as moving cats’ eyes) staked out the pool, hoping that the dying animal would, at least, collapse somewhere where they could get at it without getting their feet wet. But it didn’t. Or at least not before we went to bed, needing to make an early start next day – nor overnight during which time agonised bellows could be heard, gradually weakening, outside our window. Dawn and a clearly suffering buffalo was being tended by his friend again; the lions had retreated - for now - and we were off on safari again!
There is something magical about the early
morning light – we didn’t see anything much new, but it all looked different!
There was a giraffe gazelle (basically a gazelle with an intermediate length
neck- as you might guess) and some smooth rocks in a pool were pointed out –
hippos, apparently. We spent some time searching the rocky areas for leopard or
cheetah but no-one was convinced that we had seen any. Later (after a visit to
The visit was clearly a put up job. As the bus turned up a track, a man leapt out in front and rushed ahead – to alert the villagers to the fact that wazungu we coming, so they must change into appropriate costume and assume appropriate positions, I’d guess! For all my cynicism, we did enjoy the experience – it was on a par to visiting a Civil War re-enactment (or something similar) in this country: you know it ‘isn’t real, but it’s interesting just the same.
Men, women and children clad in brightly coloured blankets crowded around the bus as we dismounted and, bizarrely, we were welcomed in fluent Italian! Once more, the ancient among us (Brian & I) were treated with great respect – not least because a misunderstanding had arisen: we were assumed to be the parents of the other three buxom beauties!
We were taken into a Maasai hut and it was everything I had learned about in nursery! We saw the areas for cooking and eating; remarkably small, clean and tidy. I was encouraged to clamber up into a narrow doorway that led to the raised sleeping area- and was immediately aware of something gently trying to insinuate itself into my lap. A delightfully chubby baby clearly expected to be cuddled and had definite designs on my glasses! As eyes became a bit more accustomed to the darkness, we discovered the mother was patiently sitting behind me – surprisingly unconcerned at the attention and handling her offspring was having as he was passed around the visitors! We were also encouraged to enter (one at a time because of the “compact” design) the storage area where an almost empty sack of corn lay on another raised platform.
When we emerged, our Italian-speaking host assured us everything was free – Maasai would not charge visitors, but if we felt like contributing something so the mother could feed her baby – we had seen how short food was - they would not be offended. A lengthy pause followed during which it became obvious that we were going nowhere unless we did pay up. But how much? And were they really expecting Brian and I to pay for everyone? Where was Julius – that fount of information, knowledge and wisdom?
Brian had an idea… he explained (with a
certain amount of licence) that, in
This approach was not acceptable (a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush). Predictably, Brian produced his wallet, recently refilled, the watchful eye of Julius, at Barclays Bank, Voi (the bank is manager is one of Pastor Evans’ “very best friends” – he had a lot of these; we were never sure they knew their esteemed position before Evans told them…). Keen eyes did rapid calculations as to his net worth – we were still very new and uncertain about the art of bartering - and a crisp KES 1000 was accepted.
We added this experience to our knowledge
of bargaining and tipping in
We hadn’t realised it at this time but life is much easier if you divide up any money you have, placing relatively small amounts in different places to avoid disclosing your full worth at any one time. It makes it less of an obvious lie when you come to pay for anything, having declared yourself a volunteer (NOT a tourist!) with “pesa kidogo” (little money). Whatever do not leave any money you might want in a hurry in your money belt – it’s far too difficult to get at!
Once finances had been sorted out, we were trundled off to an open area. Here, the tribe performed a wedding dance for us, starring Vicky, Michelle and Lillian - though Brian got to carry a staff that seemed important.
I was feeling rather vulnerable at this point; Julius was still nowhere to be seen and when we became the centre of an apparently serious discussion as to whether we would accept five goats each for our three daughters, I found my Swahili of little use.
Fortunately, the moment passed and the Maasai moved on to demonstrating how they made fire - like Boy Scouts, with two sticks…only their sticks didn’t want to perform at first. Eventually, honour was saved as the bunch of dry grass burst into gratifying flames and we were hustled off to the “market”.
Before you had time to look or choose anything, everyone’s arms, legs and necks were covered in very pretty, beadworked bracelets, necklaces and suchlike. A clever selling technique! If you tried to turn or walk away, it looked as if you were stealing the stuff so were pounced on by fiercely bargaining tribesmen. If you tried to remove the stuff, you looked unappreciative and ungrateful! But I had seem my salvation – the ubiquitious (though I didn’t know it then) wooden animals were piled at the back of the stall. I indicated I was more interested in these and was rapidly divested of all my jewellery.
Now I discovered a surprising side to my character. At home Brian is very much the one to spot a bargain or complain over prices. We had imagined he would shine at bartering, and he had successfully brought the cost of the safari down on the grounds that we had less far to travel than the others. Almost by accident, we discovered I had an unexpected talent! I enquired the price of a large elephant (Daniel had asked us to bring him one home – though I think he was – humorously - referring to the real thing) and a giraffe. On being told KES 5000 (about £50 – remember, they had seen Brian’s money supply), I was so astounded, I truly thought it was a joke, so laughed and turned to walk away. (We weren’t familiar with the annoyed, clicking “Tt” sound that should follow such a statement just yet, nor the raised eyebrows and jerk of the head that somehow convey disdain and disgust at such time wasting – we learned!)
The Maasai salesman followed, how much
would I pay? Still unfamiliar with the exchange rate, I took off too many zeros
and offered him KES 50 for the two animals – 50p and a ludicrously low offer!
This time, it was he who roared with helpless mirth. As we both mopped our
streaming eyes, friends for life through this shared amusement, he suggested
KES 1000 each but, to my surprise, accepted KES 500 each. So I learned that bargaining
is supposed to be a fun thing – something that helped quite a few times during
our stay in
We returned, high on our experiences to the bus to find a definitely sulky-looking Julius ensconced tightly in the driver’s seat. He asked, rather brusquely, about our time; querying unexpectedly closely into the amount of money that had changed hands, he demanded to inspect our purchases. The giraffe’s leg was faulty, he declared. He had expected as much, we had been cheated and Brian (not me, to my relief) must get our money back. If you looked very closely, you could see he was right; there was clear evidence that the leg had been broken and glued back together. We suggested he, Julius, would be much more able to achieve this but he refused – he wanted no dealings with Maasai. We were slightly stunned at his attitude (perhaps it was he, not the girls, who had wanted to miss out the Maasai visit?) but Brian departed and returned shortly with a flawless giraffe.
This was our first introduction to the
immense tribal differences within
Finally, we returned to Heartbeat. The
Bishop and Sophie were delighted to show the other volunteers around the site
before Julius took them back to
We were shocked and saddened by the events concerning the Nursery teachers. However, it highlighted another Kenyan characteristic. Don’t dwell on the past for one moment. Don’t waste time on pointless anger or any attempt to rationalise or understand. Move straight on.
This seems a bit unnerving at first; it is almost as if whatever has happened was actually expected. It’s very practical, though, in terms of survival. I’d like to think I will emulate the approach from now on – but somehow, I doubt it!
How could you run a Nursery with no
resources? Even the reduced numbers needed something to learn from and (as
mentioned before) the Kenyan government is quite specific as to what that
should be! Mostly, wall charts are involved. Some can be made by stitching onto
sacks; empty cement sacks are best for this – they may be dirty but they don’t
fray as easily as the ones from the World Food Programme. Josai
had a huge pile of the latter – they arrive, complete with rice, beans, corn
etc. on a good day and stitching has to compete with their re-use to gather
local greens. Kenyans are well aware of the importance of fresh greens in the
diet; an amazing quantity of cabbages, sikuma wiki (cow kale in
The stitches are of a particular type (a bit like chain stitch), must be in wool but you can choose between red and/or blue! The charts should show the alphabet (upper and lower case) vowels (with the long and short sounds, as well as combined phonemes, being distinguished by illustrated words such as bike, hat and sweater) and numbers up to 20.
I think even the needle size must be prescribed – it was unnaturally small for the job, by my standards! No choosing one with an eye big enough for even my visually-challenged abilities! There were just two, identical needles on site and I had a choice: keep pestering Sophie (or the new teacher) every half-hour or so to thread my needle – increasing their suspicions that I really was too old to be of much use - or learn to thread my own needle.
It took most of one day but I did it, the African way. Stretch the wool to break it; this way you get the strands of unequal lengths. Trim the uneven end diagonally with the all-important “mkasi. All past worries about explaining (at immigration) the reason for 24 pairs of scissors, packed in amongst the delightful, girly panties that the Massey family, back in England, had kindly donated were forgotten in the relief of having these! Now suck the end to make the threads hold together and offer it, thinnest end leading, to the needle’s eye. It works, it really does! And if it doesn’t, just try the other end.
I spent many days, in that pre-lunch hour,on my first effort, the alphabet, stitched on top of a pattern from the nursery teacher. I was extremely proud of it and don’t know what made me count the letters. When I did, to my horror there were only 25! Further inspection revealed no F. My limited knowledge of Swahili was enough to realise that there was no reasonable excuse for this omission and although, fortunately E came at the end of a line, the sack width precluded just adding an opportunistic F. A patch had to be found, stitched then sealed onto the main work of art – a bit lop-sided but at least no one would go to prison for our omission!
Other charts had to be drawn on manilla paper, another scarce resource. Most important of all was the national flag. Again, regulations required a specific colour of paper and flag, size and detail were also vital. All nursery teachers (and most students, even by the time they are halfway through Primary) seem to be remarkably adept artists – fortunately. The flag was undertaken by three enthusiastic orphans; all I had to do was provide the appropriate coloured pencils.
I’ve yet to come across a white pencil or crayon but managed to “borrow” some white chalk (another kind donation) from the teachers’ office. Incidentally, don’t even think of the excitement that a gift of coloured chalks might invoke – chalk (and it’s keenly fought over), in Bura at any rate, is ONLY white – nothing else is considered capable of doing the job. Another government decree? Maybe!
After lunch, Brian returned to the office, first locating Juma to start (or re-start) the generator. This gave me an opportunity to tactfully discover if the kitchen staff was still on lunch break.
Lunch break, once the children had been fed and were back in lessons, was a very sociable occasion. People from all over the place seemed to just materialise and sit down to a convivial bowl of boiled maize – what I thought of as corn –on-the cob, but off the cob…
It seems to go white on cooking – or is it just that they only boil the unripe grains? Anyway, it swells and resembles a cross between pop-corn and rice krispies. It tastes quite good, if a little bland, and is certainly filling. The corn is washed down with scalding hot, deliciously sweet chai.Take 2 mugs, 1 empty and 1 full. Pour a few centimetres - no more – into the empty mug. Every time you want a swig, drink that then just pour a little more out. If you have to hurry, do a more drastic complete transfer from one utensil to the other and back again until you can drink the stuff without taking the skin off the inside of your lips.
This is obviously a time for relaxing, catching up with all your friends and relations as you sit, for once, out of the line of sight of authority in the shape of the Bishop and Head Teacher. I was made very welcome the first time I gate-crashed the party but suspected I was a somewhat restraining influence – local habits and customs could be quite different from Western ones. I enjoyed the chai, but having just been stuffed with rather more superior food, back at home, by Mama Catherine, I couldn’t comfortably eat a scrap more – a slightly awkward, if understandable, situation. I decided, from then on, to let them have their break in peace.
I learned to read the signs. If the washing up from lunch had been placed under the mango tree, and there was water, it was tacitly accepted that I could wash up, all by myself – an honour, believe me! If this wasn’t the case, I would continue my pre-lunch stitching until people reappeared.
The major occupation of the afternoon was preparing the greens for tea. Lunch usually comprised a porridgy bowl of Pojo (bean stew of rather revolting colour but tasting better than it looks) or Boboro (a variation on ugali) but tea always included green vegetables.
During the week, back at the house, we
would see ladies wander in carrying large sacks - often on their heads. The
contents would be rigorously scrutinised and heated conversations would ensue
between the ladies and Mama Catherine. Sometimes we even saw money quickly
removed from the knot of Mama’s leso (and, just as
quickly, securely re-tied up). The major part of the booty then found its way
up to the Home. “Mkata mboga”
(chopping vegetables) was a daily exercise and quite enjoyable! Seated on
little wooden chairs (a numb bum was one disadvantage) or benches in the shade
of the mango tree, where, if there was any breeze (“Baridi
The Home only had three knives – just blades strapped onto pieces of wood and I learned to avoid the one with the thinnest strapping – that one gave me blisters. With Josai usually needing one in the kitchen, this might have limited progress but a production line built up to maximise efficiency. Most commonly, we were dealing with sikuma wiki.
Kenyans laugh about sikuma wiki – the name means “push the week” and comes from the fact the lots of people get paid on Fridays and spend most of their money on meat. This means they haven’t much left to feed the family on for the rest of the time so use cheap, not all that nice (it tastes rather like a mild version of spinach), sikuma wiki to “push” the days by until Friday and meat comes again!
Someone rolls the leaves into a tight spiral which experts then grip tightly in one hand, shaving shreds off the other – and bits of fingers if you don’t pay attention! – into a basket. Novices, like myself, can use a “kibao” a small piece of wood, kept clean in the kitchen so it can be used as a chopping board. The baskets are emptied into a sufuria until a vertitable mountain of the stuff has been prepared.
At first, I rolled, educated in the art by the younger orphans - they finished primary school after lunch - and Gladys, together with Maria or Lavinia, chopped. Once Gladys and Maria had disappeared, I was promoted to a cutter! Two little girls (Stacie and Cililia) in particular seemed to consider it their duty to supply me, at high speed, with beautifully rolled leaves and, if he was off school, David would supervise activities.
David had a very good command of English (and seemed to “have a bad leg” quite often) and will make a very good line manager one day! When he was there we were all galvanised into action – I even had to learn how to say, “Please wait!” to avoid being deluged in greens. When he wasn’t, we relaxed into a peaceful stupor. I don’t think many words were ever exchanged between us but I got to know (and hum along with) some of the local songs – mostly religious – which kept us rhythmically working in the afternoon heat.
There were moments of excitement; insect
grubs or eggs might be spotted and a leaf summarily discarded. It might be
reprieved later; all discards were judicially re-inspected at the end of the
job and anything boasting a reasonable tinge of green after any mildew had been
rubbed off, and not obviously alive, was vigorously chopped and added to the
pot. None of that “remove and discard the outer leaves” approach that we have
here in
Then there were the hens and ducks. Once they realised we were pretty much dozing they became bold and would sidle up to our baskets and the pot of goodies. A desultory toss of a convenient stalk might deter, but for the more determined, loud screeches, threats and menacing knife-waving was required. Tossing the stalk could develop into a contest. Who could throw the furthest, bounce the most, hit the sleeping dog…anything was fair game.
We had variety. There was spinach – apart from cost, that wasn’t much different from sikuma wiki, but it’s a good source of chlorophyll should you want to carry out chromatography investigations! Cabbage is much quicker and easier to chop but more expensive – and more inclined to rot – so features less often.
There might be an additional task: sorting beans or corn (wheat to me). This was a more relaxed task – we were just separating out the chaff and checking for the little holes that weevils make. The downside is that immediately you put the “nzuri” into water, you (and everyone else” sees just how much “baya” you have missed as it all floats to the surface!
Most of the corn and beans had been grown
on site. Heartbeat Home gets a lot of support from a church in
The Canadians had helped Bishop Dickson rent a 10 acre field and had provided funds for a tractor to plough it. They’d also supervised the original purchase of seed. All that was then required was for an edict to be given out in church. Planting would take place on such and such a day. A fierce looking troop of women would turn up armed with vicious-looking “mijembe” (hoes – the Dutch scoopy sort, not the one with blades on a semicircular support) and the job would be done. If the job needed finishing, the Bishop would lead an enthusiastic bunch of high school students in a “practical agriculture” lesson!
As well as variety, we had tension! Between 3pm and 4pm each afternoon the cows would come home.
In our first days, Brian, together with Josai or Juma and sometimes some of the orphans, had taken the cows, on ropes, for walks to get grass – there was none in the compound. This time-consuming process was preferred to the harder task of cutting the (very tough) grass and was often taken over by the local Maasai, Paolo. When he wasn’t around (he doubled up as the local, “traditional” doctor – we saw him doing something traditional with two sticks to try and ease Ben when he developed a painful-looking, gum and lip infection) and no one else could be spared, the cows were taken out and tethered beside the road to eat whatever they could get at.
Obviously, they had no water, and when they were released, they didn’t wait for their deliverer, but tore home at top speed, ropes trailing behind. One in particular, the “bad” cow, apparently hated women and, if she thought we might be between her and the dregs of washing-up water left from lunch, she’d direct the stampede straight at us.
Lavinia kept a handy shovel beside her to brandish fearlessly and divert the charge but, if she wasn’t there, discretion was the better part of valour and a hasty retreat (with the greens!) into the nearby dining area or dormitory was advisable!
I did wonder if there were ulterior motives behind the whole mkata mboga exercise. We might not say much on the job but we were ideally positioned right in the centre of the compound to see and hear just about everything that went on: teacher disputes, management problems, student rebellions – we knew about them from the minute they began to develop, if not before!
Then there were the mangoes. Whilst we were at Heartbeat, they began to ripen and fall (both naturally and with a little help). Well, we had the knives necessary to open them so it was only fair that we should get first taste! Delicious!
Eventually, by default, I became chief chopper on Tuesdays and Fridays - Lavinia went to church.
Church, at Heartbeat, is quite something. Despite appearances, every fifth building (or thereabouts) throughout Bura Station is a church of some sort or another. Although you might not realise it unless service is in full swing and you might wonder how they find the people to make up all the congregations…but they do!
You can tell if a service is taking place
by the noise. In this poor, rural area of
Heartbeat’s church, founded by Dickson, was built by his followers. I believe that the Canadians had provided the brick machine which came in handy again just before our arrival to make another 7000 bricks so the High School could be built.
To be continued...