Postscript

It’s been a month since I came home. I’ve spent the time organising my thousands (literally) of photos from Kenya, catching up with everyone here and catching everyone up with my first experience of Africa.

My time at Bosco Boys (volunteer stint mark two for me) was certainly a positive experience all things considered and I have no regrets about going there. Looking back, I had my fair share of ups and downs and undoubtedly there were occasions of frustration, doubt, confusion, annoyance and dejection. Even so, on reflection every day was an educational experience for me.

The evening before I left I was invited to give a short ‘goodnight’ to the boys. Sensing the opportunity for pulling off a coup de langue, I decided to do it in KiSwahili. Partly due to the limitations on what I could actually say in that language, I chose to explain to them the reason I came: kwa sababu nilitaka kusoma – because I wanted to learn. I had worked as a mwalimu, I said, lakini ninyi ni walimu zangu – but you are my teachers.

I acknowledge how clichéd it sounds (I gave an inner groan even as I uttered it) but I did want to tell the boys directly that I hadn’t come to help, to save or to solve. Rather, I had come to listen, to see, to learn and to meet them in person. I feel I achieved that, at least.

To end, I thanked them and said I looked forward to seeing them again - nitarudi moja siku – to which sentiment everyone burst out laughing. It turned out I’d just said the equivalent of ‘I will return day one’. As every single person kindly pointed out that evening, I should have said siku moja (‘one day’). I didn’t mind though. It’s good to go out on a laugh!

I said at the start that I would try not to make any sweeping conclusions about the entire continent of Africa (or indeed of Kenya) just from my short time spent at Bosco Boys. In fact, while I was there, I was often asked, ‘How do you find Kenya?’ After joking, ‘Just above Tanzania,’ I would go on to admit: ‘I live at Bosco Boys, work at Bosco Boys and hang out at Bosco Boys, I don’t really know Kenya – but I know Bosco Boys very well!’

More than that, though, going to Kenya has had an impact on how I view Africa as a whole. It feels more real to me now: less distant, less different, less impenetrable. And I can’t wait to go back!

Winding down

That Sunday with the street kids in situ at Kariua was the beginning of the end for my time at Bosco Boys. The following week was the last week of term and the students had exams. Showing a surprising demonstration of organisation, Gary and I managed to finish all the computer tests by Tuesday (having started the previous Thursday) and so I was able to fully enjoy my final week and start preparing for James’ arrival on the Friday.

James arrived in the evening after a closing-down ceremony for the school had taken place during the day. Bosco Boys was still very much open for the boarders though and it was with happy nostalgia when James was introduced to everyone at mass on Saturday morning, just as I had been three months previously.

The following day, the vast majority of the boarders went home. Bosco Boys isn’t an orphanage and almost all of the boys have family somewhere in Kenya with whom they can (and are encouraged to) spend the holidays.

So it was a much quieter Bosco Boys that James, Gary and I said goodbye to on Monday morning as we began our holiday. Our trip took the three of us to Isiolo, Wamba and Samburu National Park and James and I continued on to Lake Nakuru, Lake Naivasha and the stunning Masai Mara. We returned to Bosco Boys, had a party thrown for us at St Vincent Maisha Bora centre, said our final thank yous and goodbyes and, on Palm Sunday, headed for the airport.

Stuck on glue

You might remember that for my very first Sunday in Kenya, I was invited to go meet a group of street kids ‘in situ’. At the time, I promised that I would go back, and last Sunday I finally kept my word – 9 weeks later – when I returned with a couple of pre-novices to Kariua.

Little had changed about the boys themselves. Their appearance was much the same, with the same filthy clothes. One boy in fact looked the spitting image of the Artful Dodger thanks to his oversized trousers and his dark suit jacket which draped over a torn shirt.

What was more noticeable to me this time, however, was the extent of the glue-sniffing that was going on. Almost every boy had a bottle in his hand or even in his mouth. A few boys seemed completely out of it, unable to raise the energy even to stand up. With those who were more with it, we organised a game of football, throughout which the boys continued to sniff the glue from their bottles while they were running after the ball.

I was going to write about my team’s glorious 8-5 triumph and my storming midfield performance, hitting the post twice, scoring a goal and setting up two more. However, having written the previous paragraph, I now realise that it’ll sound less impressive when you consider the opposition wasn’t totally sober.

After the game we sat in the shade as a group to have a chat, the brothers said a short prayer and then we shared some bread before we left.

The real work takes place during the week by a Kenyan social worker and a foreign volunteer. They meet with the street children most days, get to know them, try to help them to find crucial documents like birth certificates from their homes and eventually refer them to centres like Don Bosco Lang’ata where they can hopefully begin a rehabilitation process. After spending some time at Lang’ata, the boys could then come here to Bosco Boys Kuwinda to resume (or, in some cases, start) their primary schooling.

It’s never as straightforward as that, though. 5 of the last 6 boys who have been referred to Lang’ata have run away. One was even there with the group on Sunday. This boy had run away twice so that he could return to the streets and to sniffing glue, but was once more asking to be taken back to Lang’ata. It’s heartbreaking to see people so young so afflicted by their addiction, but at the same time I can’t help but wonder – given the number of runaways - if more could be done at Lang’ata (and Bosco Boys) to provide support specifically to overcome any drug addiction.

Football matters

Kenya v Angola
Saturday 25^th March 2011
African Cup of Nations Qualifier
Nyayo Stadium, Nairobi
Cost: 300/=

I just had to go.

On the morning of the game, while Gary was in town buying tickets, I asked the director if I could also take a couple of the boys with us.

‘No, no, it’s too dangerous,’ Father said. ‘You know, these Kenyans like to fight. Angola’s not too bad as there won’t be any opposition fans, but if it were a local team there would be fights for sure.’

‘So, it’s too dangerous to take the boys?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘But you’re not worried about me?’

‘You can sort yourself out.’

Hmm… Thoughts of the Jesus Cup riot resurfaced in my mind. ‘Well, if I’m not back this evening, try calling my mobile, okay?’

‘Oh no,’ came the reply, ‘we’ll call the British Embassy. They’ll arrange everything.’

Not brimming with confidence about my security, I left to meet Gary and go to the stadium.

As it happens, there were no problems. In fact, the match was very exciting and the atmosphere was electric. Angola are ranked a lowly 107 in the world but were still the clear favourites courtesy of Kenya’s awful recent form. Placed 124^th in the world rankings, Kenya were yet to score in the qualifiers and were still reeling from a 1-0 defeat at the hands of tiny Guinea-Bissau.

So it was ominous when Angola’s star man Manucho scored in the first half and threatened on other occasions to increase their lead. Kenya were dreadful and the crowd soon became restless. I began to fear how the supporters would react if things didn’t improve.

A double substitution midway through the second half changed the course of the game. Jamaal, one of the subs, poached an equaliser from a rebound before Mariga, who plays for Inter Milan, scored a stunner in the last few minutes. The crowd erupted. Everyone came up to me and Gary to give jubilant high-fives, fist bumps and hugs in celebration. On the final whistle, everyone streamed out of the ground (peacefully) in sheer disbelief that Kenya had actually managed to win.

As it stands:

Group J

	P	W	D	L	GF	GA	Pts
Uganda	3	2	1	0	4	0	7
Kenya	3	1	1	1	2	2	4
G Bissau	3	1	0	2	1	2	3
Angola	3	1	0	2	2	5	3

03-05/09/10: Guinea Bissau 1-0 Kenya
03-05/09/10: Uganda 3-0 Angola

08-10/10/10: Kenya 0-0 Uganda
08-10/10/10: Angola 1-0 Guinea Bissau

25-27/03/11: Guinea Bissau 0-1 Uganda
25-27/03/11: Kenya 2-1 Angola

03-06/06/11: Uganda v Guinea Bissau
03-06/06/11: Angola v Kenya

02-04/09/11: Kenya v Guinea Bissau
02-04/09/11: Angola v Uganda

07-09/10/11: Uganda v Kenya
07-09/10/11: Guinea Bissau v Angola

Slumdog Millionaire II

On Friday I went to Kibera, one of the largest slums in the world. I was there to meet David Kitavi, director of the Ushirika Children’s Centre, and his colleague James who would show me around.

The morning I spent with James was so interesting I even began to take notes, some of which I’ve written up here. Note: apart from the most cursory of Wikipedia searches, I haven’t verified anything he told me, but I can vouch that he sounded terribly convincing at the time.

Within Kibera there are 13 distinct ‘villages’, separated today by the slightest of roads and streams. The total population of Kibera is almost always a number plucked out of the air. Guesstimates put it at 1 million people, though others say even 1.5 or 2 million isn’t inconceivable. By contrast, a recent official government census claimed that the total population is only 150-200,000 people.

Presumably not wanting to encourage people to live there, the Kenyan government doesn’t recognise Kibera and does not provide any public service whatsoever to its inhabitants. Until, of course, election time comes and they come looking for votes. Or until they need to use Kibera to encourage the drawing out of aid money from foreign governments. Perfectly reasonable.

Kibera started life following WWII when the then government set aside an area of forest to the south west of Nairobi for the Nubians who had served the Allied Forces during the war. “Kibra” is the Nubian word for ‘forest’, though today the trees have been replaced by a jungle of iron corrugated homes and electricity pylons.

The land was only provided on a temporary basis while the government promised to construct more permanent housing elsewhere. During the first decades following independence, however, there was a huge influx of people coming to Nairobi who needed somewhere to stay. The post-independence government quickly prohibited the erection of permanent housing but the settlers ignored them and semi-permanent homes began to appear regardless. The cheap rents offered by the first landlords attracted more people and settlers soon began to establish themselves across the different, expanding villages among the fast-disappearing forest.

Following a massive population increase in Kibera during the ‘90s, a group of youths decided that they needed to protect an area for themselves to play sports. They chose an area in their village and declared it to be for their use. When developers tried to build on the land, they would come at night and tear down anything that had been put up. Soon enough they were left undisturbed.

The sports attracted young people from across the local area and the older youths decided to begin teaching the younger ones. Before long an informal education system was begun, leading eventually to referrals to get into proper primary schools (note: primary education was not free under the dictatorship of Daniel Arap Moi).

With support from the local community and the parents of the boys and girls they were helping, a group of 5 young people managed to open their own primary school in Laini Saba and named it Ushirika, which means ‘coming together’ or ‘cooperation’, a name chosen to emphasise the importance of the whole community’s involvement in the education of children.

Today, alongside the primary school which specifically targets children from dysfunctional families, there is also a youth development programme and a women’s empowerment project.

This latter is essentially a group loans scheme for which, James explained, the participants must pass through 5 stages of training before they can begin saving:

1. Individual Self-Screening

2. Group Formation

3. Group Fund + Development

4. Constitution (every group writes its own)

5. Record-Keeping

There are currently 755 women and 107 men who are involved in the scheme. I was told that an incredible 1.5m Kenyan shillings were saved during 2010 between all participants across four Kiberan villages.

Not every microfinance scheme has this kind of success, nor does every group within this project always return savings. Even so, this project just seemed to work. I suspect it’s because of the goodwill and support built up by the fact that the development was begun by local young people and has grown organically from within the community. ‘These are our brothers and sisters,’ James points out, proudly. ‘We’re not coming from outside.’

I also found it telling that the centre is completely secular, apolitical and non-tribalist. It has its own values by which is lives, symbolised by the word CHARIOT: Commitment, Honesty, Accountability, Respect, Integrity, Openness and Teamwork.

All in all, I was greatly impressed by what has been and continues to be developed at Ushirika thanks to the initiative of the local people. People taking matters into their own hands to benefit their community and actively not wanting governmental support: what better example of his Big Society could David Cameron wish for?

Odds and ends

After a few more downbeat posts, I wanted to lighten the tone with some short anecdotes which fall short of being worthy of entire posts by themselves.

When I first arrived, I was shocked at how the pre-novices would pile their plates at breakfast with slice after slice of white bread, sometimes just taking half or whole loaves at a time and painting each part with thick butter. Meanwhile, I just took a couple of slices, as I might back at home, with a bit of tea. I find it funny how quickly my stomach has adapted though and now I can’t survive the morning unless I’ve had at least (at least!) 5 slices of bread with 3 cups of chai. I’m looking forward to getting back to cereals when I get home…

I once caught one of the pre-novices singing ‘Never Be The Same Again’ over breakfast. I had to question him on this, as it made a change from the usual humming of church hymns. ‘Hold on! Are you singing Mel C?’ ‘Yes,’ he replied, sheepishly, ‘I like her music.’

I only discovered recently that as well as football, volleyball and basketball practice, the boys also get the chance to attend karate training during their afternoon games. Today I went along and so had my first ever taste of karate class. I found the idea of me even trying to do karate frankly hilarious – as anyone who knows me might – and, fortunately, so did the boys. I was sweating profusely, struggling to keep up with the teacher’s instructions and utterly failing to keep a straight face – and that was just the warm up! It was really good fun and the boys impressed me with how good they were. Although the teacher did say that it’s a constant struggle to keep the boys interested when they’d rather be off ‘playing football or basketball or tennis or badminton’. I’m not sure that the boys do play badminton, but I take his point nonetheless.

Since a couple of volunteers left a fortnight ago, I’ve been filling in for them at an orphanage just across the road from Bosco Boys. I go in the early evening to help out during the kids’ study time. It’s a wonderful place: the 18 boys and girls are lovely, the atmosphere is relaxing (relative to Bosco Boys, I suppose that is) and the Sister who runs the home by herself always goes out of her way to make sure that I’m well fed, which is obviously very important. She also makes sure that a couple of boys walk me back to Bosco Boys in the evening once it’s dark. On one occasion, as she let us out, I commented that it was so dark I could hardly see a thing. She replied, ‘Well, I can see you because your skin is so white I can see it in the dark!’

So much for my tan, then.

The War of Jesus Cup

Jesus Cup is now over. The 6-week sport and culture extravaganza hosted and organized by Bosco Boys has been brought to an end for another year. Bosco Boys itself had mixed success, winning all the volleyball cups and the girls’ football and netball trophies, but flopping in the boys’ football and basketball.

JC2011 was overshadowed by controversy throughout. It began with the ludicrous indexing system for every participant (see rants in previous posts) which caused countless arguments. I’ve suggested that next year they could try having only a height restriction, which might prove easier to oversee.

As for the matches themselves, they were consistently dogged by dodgy refereeing decisions. Almost every football game involved a refereeing mistake that inevitably led to heated scenes between rival teams, coaches and spectators who were never backwards about coming forwards to berate the opposition. One team would then sit down, strip off and refuse to continue. Sometimes even the referee walked off, complaining about the lack of respect he was being shown. Twice in one day I witnessed whole-team strops which took a quarter of an hour to sort out and later heard about a full scale brawl incited by an incident in an under 14s football match. People here take winning very seriously.

The final under 17s match held on the last day proved to be just as explosive. Ngamwanza (a project for street children) v Kuwinda (a team made up of local people from the slum) finished a bitterly-fought 1-1 draw and had reached 7-all on penalties. Kuwinda saved the 15^th penalty only for the ref to blow his whistle and say it should be retaken as the ‘keeper had strayed off the line.

This was the spark which ignited the tensions that had built up through the game. The Kuwinda team was incensed at the referee and the subsequent debate escalated until over 100 people were crowded together arguing and threatening each other.

Typical Kenya, I thought. Over-officiousness, tribal conflicts, accusations of corruption and ultimately no resolution except disgruntlement and grudges. And throughout the arguing the hip-hop music continued to blare out and the fans who weren’t interested in the bickering just kept dancing.

After 20 minutes of watching the commotion, I got bored and walked off. In fact, I don’t know who actually won the game, but as there were disturbances during the award ceremony from Kuwinda people I presume that they went on to lose.

These disturbances grew and quickly led to out-and-out violence as people picked up sticks and began to throw stones. The two policemen who were there to control the crowd of hundreds could only stand by and watch, cowering behind their batons. Fortunately for me, I was apart from the fray when the violence proper kicked off and one of the boys just told me earnestly to get out of there quickly.

I returned later to see that the police had arrived and that the referee was being put in an ambulance. He had been beaten severely and had serious injuries to his head and shoulders.

He had been the target of the violence initially, but this had soon spread to general looting as the people from Kuwinda slum began to run off with anything they could lay their hands on. Fr Sebastian’s camera, the laptop and speakers which had been playing music and even the parked cars were all targeted. Extra police arrived relatively quickly, only to be driven away by stones. They only returned an hour later once everything had calmed down.

Unfortunately, before “the war” - as the boys now call it - one of the Bosco boys had borrowed one of my point-and-shoot cameras to take some pictures. It wasn’t until later in the evening that he came to me and confessed that a group of young men from Kuwinda had beaten him and taken it from him. It was the only thing that was stolen during the fracas.

The loss of the camera itself hasn’t been too bad (I had accepted the risk of the camera being broken, lost or stolen when I handed it out, which is the same reason as to why I never let anyone touch my new expensive camera), but I was very upset by the thought that my careless supervision had made the boy become a target. Luckily he wasn’t hurt, but it was certainly a sober ending to what should have been a celebratory day.