a picture of mama rose

Realized I have yet to post one!

for more info....

For more info about SHOFCO, as well as about Kibera and it's history visit:

http://www.shofco.org/

Kibera

Today was, at long last, a day without class or any other obligations. I decided not to go to church…not quite up to watching another woman catch the spirit and begin communicating with Jesus in tongues. So instead I went with Matt (a great guy who, believe it or not, goes to Wesleyan!) to explore the city. We decided to just hop into a matatu, and go for an adventure. We went around to the city center, got a little (intentionally) lost and just wandered through central Nairobi. I love just hopping into a rickety old vehicle, holding on tight (when it’s scary, I just pretend it’s an amusement park ride) and seeing where we end up (as routes/schedules, well they don’t really exist here,) so anyone’s guess is as good as mine as to where you’ll really wind up.

After adventuring with Matt, I met Kennedy in Kibera. I realize I have yet to write extensively, or at all, about Kennedy, SHOFCO, and my project in Kibera. Let me begin by saying that Kennedy is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met—in just a month he’s become my African brother. We have had the best conversations about the different social norms, our lives, as well as about theatre and its role here…I began communicating with Kennedy through email about 5 months ago via Ma-Yi Theatre Company in the states. Two years ago, after running out of money for college, Kennedy (who is only 23 himself!) decided to, instead of pursing funds to continue schooling in America move to Kibera (the second largest slum in the entire world, and the largest in Africa) to help his people. He moved to Kwatrikera, which is just an area, or village as it’s called of Kibera and founded what is called SHOFKO: the shining hope for the youth of Kibera. At the beginning, SHOFKO used soccer to keep youths off the streets—away from prostitution, drugs, drinking, AIDS, and starvation by both occupying their time, and providing anyone who played with a meal. Soon, Kennedy decided that theatre would actually perhaps be a more effective tool of uplift—so he and a bunch of youths brainstormed the problems of Kibera, and began to observe closely with the intent to both act out these problems, as well as possible solutions. Now SHOFKO has over 80 youths involved, and has also begun what Kennedy calls “The Women’s Empowerment Program” where women, especially those striken with HIV/AIDS make jewelry, which Kennedy then helps them sell in an effort to introduce them to microfinance. After talking with Kennedy, we decided that I will create and direct a piece that I will create in collaboration with 20 of these youths as my major project while here. We’ve begun meeting about the process, as well as about the topic—which I very much want to choose as a group. After our first talks about a month ago it became clear that coming to Kibera each day to do this work and then leaving would not create an atmosphere that was conducive to productive collaboration—as the youths would perceive me as a muzungu outsider, as in a position of unequal power. And so I decided that in order to create collaboratively, I need to live in and with the community with which I’m working. At first, well Kennedy was a bit shocked, as he said that he’s had white friends visit, but don’t think any white person has really ever lived in Kibera. But after thinking it over, he decided that it was the best idea possible—a opinion that was confirmed after he told the youths. The difference in their reception of me after they learned I would live with them only affirmed my decision. Before hand they were dubious—wary of this white outsider who wanted to “help.” After hearing I would like with Kennedy they first reacted with disbelief, and then, with empowered confidence, awe and excitement that I wanted to live with them, that I so wanted their respect and felt that hey, if they can live in Kibera, well so can I. No barriers. No hierarchies. Just people living and creating together. When I came to Kibera today—they were so welcoming, all said how excited they are to have me as one of them, they hugged me and called me their sister, slapped me five, talked my ear off with ideas…it was just incredible. So beginning November 8thn through December 10th I will live in half of Kennedy’s room (it’s a very small concrete room, no electricity etc. in which we will just hang a curtain down the middle) in Katwikera Kibera for a month. I am so excited, so awed by the kindness of the people and the excitement of the youth that I am there excited to work with them, in possession of some knowledge about theatre that they desperately want to partake in, that I’m young (they are ages 16-25), and this brave, and I guess kind of radical white girl. It will be the experience of a life time…I can’t even describe the poverty of Kibera to you. Here, a person can eat on $1 a day, but most are unable to do even that. I felt surprisingly safe there---and Odoch (my program director, and the guy responsible for our safety) has approved the location—and Kennedy (already the protective big brother) says he will never leave my side. But honestly—I really felt that the whole community will envelop me, embrace me and that together we will be able to create and learn so much.

Mombasa

After leaving Bodo we went to Mombasa, the second largest city in Kenya, where we stayed in guesthouses for four days. Mombasa is an incredibly interesting city—as the majority of its citizens are Muslims. I was awoken each morning my the dawn call to prayer, and this chanting could be heard throughout the day. As it was Ramadan, most food shops were closed during the day—and instead stayed open late at night. It felt almost like being in a Middle Eastern coastal city. The buildings are mostly whitewashed, almost everyone you pass is dressed in traditional Islamic apparel—and many women are wearing the full higab. It really felt like another world. While there we broke the Ramadan fast with Jamal and his family at his home—his wife had made about 25 dishes, toured around the city, hung out and visited a school for children with cerebral palsy and autism (which was so sad, as the school was so so poor,) visited an AIDS orphanage (also sad) and had a few lectures about Swahili Coastal culture, in addition to continuing Kiswahili. I liked Mombasa, but in many ways prefer Nairobi. Mombasa is first of all, hot. And second of all, I felt more heckled on the street by men than I ever feel in Nairobi—which I think because in Mombasa whites are even more of an oddity. I feel like in both cities you have to adopt a hard front—you have to embrace the New Yorker within and walk purposefully, alertly and essentially radiate a message that says “you don’t want to mess with me.” Perhaps I feel this more acutely in contrast to the village… Anyhow, the highlight of Mombasa was seeing Gabi, one of my best friends from home who is now there on a research grant. I met the family she is living with in Likoni, a part of Mombasa and fell in love with her sisters Cynthia, Queen and Molly, as well as with her dear friend and translator Quawme. Just such good people. It was wonderful to see Gabi, and I was able to go with her on one of her interviews. She is researching the way in which Kenya’s development policies impact street vendors, and has been working with several of her subjects since she herself was an SIT student a year and a half ago (on the Mombasa program). She has also set up a scholarship fund that pays for 6 children of street vendors to go to private school. Here in Kenya there is a huge gap in public and private education. It is said that if a 10 year old who has gone to public school switches to private they will not be caught up until they are 12, a pretty massive difference. So we talked with Mama Someu, one of Gabi’s long time subjects who has five children, and owns and cooks in two cafes in order to have a prayer of feeding and schooling her children. I was so moved by this woman’s story. I saw with Gabi, holding Mama Someu’s youngest, a six-month-old boy (the cutest baby I’ve ever seen I might add) while Gabi asked questions and Quawme translated. Gabi’s scholarship sends Mama’s second oldest daughter to school, and helps pay for two others. This woman works all the time, and makes between 50 and 100 shillings a day (64 to a dollar), thus constantly struggling to feed her children and paying little by little for their schooling. She has no husband, and one of her cafes is in the quarry, where the purchasers do not pay with cash, but with stones, which Mama then has to sell to people who buy the stones—quite a physically taxing process. To boot, her oldest daughter, who runs the café in town hasn’t been coming home, has been lying about where she is, refuses to go to school and has been missing for the past four days at the time I spoke with her. At this, Mama Someu just broke down and began to sob—as the assumption is that the girl is off with a boyfriend, and in Likoni in such cases…it’s only a matter of time before she is pregnant. It was incredible to get to hear her story, as well as see Gabi in action. Later, Gabi took me home for dinner where she, Queen, Cynthia, Molly and I made dinner, and had the best time. Like I said—people here just take you in as their family. Afterwards, the girls Quawme, Gabi and I went out (thus the pictures on the ferry) and had a ball at a crazy African club—dancing the night away together. Gabi is coming to Nairobi with Quawme and Queen (who lives here!) tomorrow for the week and we’re going to go see a rugby game, some theatre, and just hang out! I can’t wait. I feel so at home here, and it’s great to be back in Nairobi, home with Mama Rose—who missed me a lot. And although I had such amazing experiences—the feeling was mutual.

Here are some pictures!I think now I've figured out how to rotate them---sorry about the others!

From top to bottom:
left: a mosque, one of the many in Mombase, right: me drinking the most AMAZING avocado juice--Gabi introduced me and I'm hooked!
next row left: me and Gabi, right: me, Gabi, Queen and Cynthia cooking dinner
next row: us on the ferry about to go out! left to right: molly, cynthia, queen, gabi and me.
last row: left to right--Queen, Gabi, Quawme, me and Cynthia.

More pictures from Bodo

Again, from top to bottom:

the village at night
the village
from left to right: my dad,my mom, me, fatuma mkubwa
left to right: mom, fatuma, me, my friend isha
the village
the village
me in my classroom!
me with a baby on my back
me with Alfani and his little brother
a crocodile i saw
a dance party to the drummers at mama pole's
the drummer boys
more party
me and subhiti
my grandmother
me with bakari, saidi and the rest of my entourage
the soccer game
the team picture after the game
my backyard
our courtyard
our house from the front
my mom and my dad

Pictures from Bodo

Okay all my apologies for the accidentally repeated picture as well as the sideways pictures--still figuring out how to work this---anyone know how to change that?

Well for now, take what you can get! From top down:

me
a bunch of kids
me
me with my mom (left) and Fatuma Mkubwa (right)
My favorite swimming spot
My mom with Elizabeth's baby in our kitchen
Me with my little friend Rahema
me in front of the train
Sean, Rose (a Swahili teacher) and me on the train
me
and me
a pet monkey

Life in Bodo Village

At long last I am back in Nairobi, back at a computer and full of stories (as well as covered in bug bites) after two of the most full weeks of my life. I have so much to
report, and will try to give you all a good picture.

To begin with, we left Nairobi and took a legit 17-hour train ride to Mombasa on one of those trains that was literally from the 1800’s. We ate breakfast and dinner in the dining car, and shared four person compartments complete with bunk beds (and straps so as not to fall off the top bunk!) I roomed with Samantha, Klarissa and Kyla—who is becoming a very dear friend. Our room became the unofficial meeting/party room (don’t ask me how.) After dinner there were about 15 students, 5 Swahili teachers (who were traveling with us) and Odoch crammed into this tiny room “dancing” to music and drinking “juice” (ala mango with some vodka.) It was a blast, but I have to say, 15 hours later I was ready to get off—although seeing the country side via a train that moved about 10 miles an hour was quite incredible.

After we arrived in Mombasa we went to the market (still in the same clothes, unshowered and dripping from the heat) to shop for gifts to bring our families in the village, as well as kangas and mumus—traditional clothing. We then took a 2-hour bus ride and an hour ferry ride to Bodo, which is in Kenya’s South Coast. After unloading the bus, which was greeting by what seemed like the entire village, Mary (our program coordinator/group mother) just called out our names, handed us two jugs of water, a mosquito net and two roles of toilet paper and sent us off with our family. My mother immediately grabbed my wrist, and about 10 children quickly clamored to carry my bags, and I was dragged (or guided) to our hut, while my mother spoke rapidly in Kiswahili. Upon arriving at our hut we put my stuff in a room, which I assumed was mine, and my mother once again grabbed my wrist and began to drag me around the hut, showing me the washroom, the toilet/hole, all the while speaking at light speed in Swahili. Unsure of anything that she wanted me to do, I alternated between responding with ndyo (yes) and asante (thank you) coupled with what I am sure was a blank stare. She then dragged me to a mat in the center of the courtyard, and indicated I should sit. The sun was fast setting, and as it is Ramadan and this was a very Muslim village I gathered that the family was preparing to break the fast. A man who I assumed was my father appeared, as well as my brothers Ramah and Isa, my aunt (at least that was what I was told, more on this later) Fatuma, my grandmother, my older brother Hassan and later his wife Elizabeth who, thank god, spoke perfect English! However, at this point, in my first night, no one spoke a word of English, and I sat there unsure of how to do anything—how to sit, talk, eat, wash…and these huge platters of food appeared—chapati, rice, beans with coconut, cassava and meat, one for the men and another for the women who were seated on separate mats, but no utensils. I looked around, unsure of how to begin, until I saw everyone dig in with their hands—so I took a deep breath and just copied them. I will say, eating rice and beans with my hands for the first time—I made a mess, although I was trying desperately to pretend that all this was perfectly normal. Now, well I much prefer to eat without utensils, they’re really unnecessary, and once you get the hang of it—using your hands is actually neater. But anyhow. That night I wanted to cry. Everything seemed so foreign, sitting in a grass hut, eating with my hands, with a very limited understanding of the language 8,000 miles away from home. This night it really hit me that I am in such an entirely different world, a world that is so difficult to understand unless you have lived inside of it. A world whose simplicity I gained unlimited appreciation for. After dinner, what seemed like half the village came over to greet me, and again, speak quickly in Swahili. After what seemed like forever of this, I was taken to my room, given a kanga, and I assumed, was supposed to go to bed. So I did. Exhausted, overwhelmed and wishing I could just ask someone how everything worked.

I woke up in the morning covered in bug bits, as my mosquito net was too small for my bed. Upon examining the bites, well some were quite strange, so I quickly got dressed in the kangas I’d brought with the intention of going to school to show Mary. I was about to walk out the door when my mom (who was already awake, I shared a room with her and with Fatuma) began speaking fervently in Swahili, and called Fatuma over who joined in—both making frantic hand gestures, to which I, once again, gave a blank stare and tried to say “I have to go to school.” To no avail. They took me back into my room. Removed the clothes I had donned, wrapped me in a kanga, and took me out to the washroom. I protested, saying I’d showered last night, but my aunt began to bathe me, dousing me in hot water. Afterwards, I was again lead back to my room, where they dressed me. A quick side note: during our stay in the village I invented a new verb: to mumu, or to be mumued. This means to be forced to wear/dressed in a mumu, a loose fitting, sometimes okay, but usually hot, long, and often horribly ugly dress (think bad 1980’s prom) with about 6 petticoats underneath, and a kanga around your head. After I was deemed “presentable” Fatuma brought in a loaf of white bread cut into little sandwiches covered in about an inch of butter. She indicated that I had to eat. By now I got the picture that unless I ate, I wasn’t leaving. So I ate one, motioned that I was full, and thought that would be that. Nope. They sat there and watched, protesting each time I said I was full, until I realized that unless I ate the whole loaf—I would sit there itching all morning. So I gulped, and chowed down, and then ran out the door, about to throw up. At school, I had 6 jiggers (little insects that go into your feet and lay eggs) removed, and found out that in addition to mosquito bites, I also had bed bugs. Let’s just say it was a rough start to life in the village.

Later that day, I met my sister Elizabeth (whom I love, by the way) and I went home to study during a break, during which, once again my mom and Fatuma began to rapidly talk in Swahili, only this time Elizabeth could translate. They wanted to know what was wrong with me, as I’m 21, unmarried and without children (Elizabeth is also 21, married and with a baby, and is pregnant again.) They wanted to know why I was in school instead of looking for a husband. I tried to explain that things work differently in America-but they were convinced I must have some hidden malady, or some undesirable quality. After arguing about this for a while, my mama took away my books, dressed me again, and sent me out visiting in order to socialize and thus find a husband. That day I had 6 proposals of marriage, and 3 matches arranged by my family. Ay. I went to talk to Mary—who tactfully visited my family, and by the time I got home from afternoon classes, things had calmed down at home.
Now all these foreign behaviors may seem off putting, but as I got to know my family, and the people in the village I saw that all of this was done with love, with the intention of making me happy. Bodo is an incredibly poor village, but each day my family would dress me in new clothes, give me the best food (even though they were fasting) and even gave me their bed to sleep on. My Mama Matime became a dear friend, we began to be able to communicate better—and starting joking about all the things I did wrong (I constantly made fun of mazungus) and she told Elizabeth to tell me that should I need anything, to just ask, and to have no fear, as she and my baba (father) would provide me with love and care. She taught me how to cook chapatti, how to weave a mat—and had such a contagious laugh and enjoyment for life. One night (a little later, when my Swahili was better) she and I sat up talking, laughing, and singing Swahili songs—and she made me promise to some day return to my African mother and family. And they really did become my family—my “aunt” Fatuma (really my father’s second wife) gave me my Bodo name, Fatuma Mdogo (which means small Fatuma), and would take me around. Ramah, my 18-year-old brother appointed himself my personal tour guide and introduced me to all his friends (who soon became part of my constant entourage). Within four days I couldn’t walk around the village without Saidi and Bakari, two brothers aged 13 and 14 who constantly professed their love and fought about who got to marry me (they were so funny), Subhiti and Ali (two great guys who helped with the program, more on them in a minute), my 10 year old best friend and mchumba (fiancée) as I joked named Alfani about 8 other village boys aged 5-11. Odoch would laugh each morning at my entourage, and I left leading with 12 proposals of marriage. What can I say…but on a serious note…I really loved the people. My dad was so nice, we joked all the time, and Elizabeth became such an amazing friend and confidante. I even taught my mom and Fatuma to swim—as they didn’t believe that women were physically capable of doing so, nor did they thing women were capable of playing soccer. It was such a cool moment when they came to see me play in our SIT/Wazungu vs. The Villagers game—they cheered like crazy. And yes. I played soccer. And I assisted in scoring a goal—but damn, they were really incredible.

Here is a typical day in my life in the village. I wake up in my hut around 5:30, go outside and do my business in my hole—a somewhat precarious situation. I’d then take a bucket shower, be mumued, eat breakfast which my mom made each day (often chapatti because I loved it) and walked about 2 minutes to school. Walking in the village is amazing. Everyone yells your name an greets you, and walking 10 feet can take about 10 minutes. As soon as I stepped out of my door my entourage swarmed me, and Alfani would carry my backpack to school. Upon arriving I would swiftly remove all my petticoats and store them for the day—and would put them back on before I went home. This became a running joke—especially with our Swahili teachers, but I’m sorry—a mumu is hot enough! We then had Swahili class from 7 am until 12 noon, and my classroom was on this porch, so we could watch the mothers carrying water on their heads and the children playing. After Swahili we were free and as the village was right on the Indian ocean I’d usually go swimming for about an hour before lunch, eat, read or study or just hang, maybe do yoga by the beach (if I was in the mood for an audience, as within 5 minutes half the village would be watching) and then I’d go home for afternoon visiting. We’d then go around to people’s houses and say hi, and they’d come to us. This is what I’m saying—the pace of life in the village is so slow that the emphasis is all on personal relationships. I felt like just part of a big extended family. We’d then break the fast together, and sit and talk as a family (which I was more able to do as the week went on). Afterwards, Ramah and I would go check out the activity in the street. Nights in the village were magical. There are a thousand kids running around, and everyone is just hanging out. At around 8:00 we’d all congregate around this one house (Mama Pole’s, the one house with electricity) where about 10 little boys between the ages of 6 and 12 would come with their home made drums and just rock out with Swahili songs. We would all dance, and soon the whole village would be on this one porch. Then a bunch of us would go inside, and have a Bob Marley dance party to an old music video. Still singing, “One Love, One Life,” all of us students, all our siblings and friends and about 100 kids would go down to the beach and go for a night swim.

I learned so much in these 12 days. About the meaning and importance of loving, kind, open personal relationships—Africans don’t have so many of the stiff formalities or steps that we Westerners often go through before becoming close to someone. They talk freely about their feelings, their problems…and act with a generosity that is really mind blowing. The simplicity of life actually allowed for such depth of experience—every moment is full, no matter if you are just cooking, sitting, talking, walking…you really savor each moment without rushing onto the next. I realized that we really don’t need so much of what we have, and maybe would be happier without all these things—perhaps we’d be more in touch with ourselves and with our communities. Living here made me want to live in a community like this. A place where people look out for one another, a sister is not just someone to whom you are related to by blood but also someone whom you love, elders give children their time and advice, without pressuring or imposing their own values. Individuality is appreciated and people are taken and loved for who they are—quirks and all. Children are not coddled, but given responsibility and freedom (they play by themselves all day, and often you see 3 year olds with their baby siblings on their backs in a kanga). Children are not treated as if they are fragile or breakable, but just allowed to live and let live. Goats, cows and chickens wander freely, until their owners go and find them. And everything is done in the spirit of giving. In the village—one family doesn’t enjoy their food if they know another has nothing—sharing and giving are the names of the game. When I left, my family gave me a hand woven rug, a dress (mumu), a handmade fan, and a kanga—I was so touched (and I gave them some things in return.) As we left, I cried, as I told my mom I didn’t want to leave her, hugged my dad, Fatuma Mkubwa (as she was called after they had named me) and promised to return someday. And I will—to my Bodo family—because that is what the village became.