I've uploaded a handful of photos onto Picasa, most of which have come from the times I've had my camera with me on Jesus Cup duty.
http://picasaweb.google.com/simontreacy/KenyaSimonPhotos?authkey=Gv1sRgCJKc8525p8uFsQE#
Thursday, January 27, 2011
What's going on?
Almost everyone here is bilingual, speaking at least English (the official language of the education system) and Kiswahili. Some speak many more languages than that. My friend Isaac, one of the Kenyans who works here, says that he can speak 6 tribal African languages and understand 6 others.
It’s a shame then that so few people seem to understand me. My accent, which is clearly not East African English, is unusual to most of the kids. I have been told that they would understand me better if I put on an American accent, but I wouldn’t want to inflict that on them. Instead, I’m trying my best to speak more clearly, separating the words as I go.
Outside of the classroom, however, Kiswahili is the language of choice. There are times when the amount of Swahili that goes on here can feel quite ostracising for me since I can only pick out one or two words at the moment. I feel like I miss out on an lot of information or instructions because so much is going on around me which I don't understand. But I’m trying to pick up enough phrases so that I can at least pass the time of day with someone before I revert to the colonial tongue…
I do feel a certain amount of pressure to learn the language though. People often reminisce about previous volunteers who learned Swahili fluently within a couple of months. Well, bully for them, I think to myself. Yesterday one of the boys pointed at a German volunteer who has been here for over 6 months, saying that ‘She can speak Kiswahili, why can’t you?’ I wanted to point out the unfairness of this comparison given that I’ve barely been here for two weeks, but I couldn’t be bothered to raise to the bait.
We had three computer classes yesterday. Previous classes had managed to change enough of the settings to bring down a network of 16 computers, which meant that it wasn’t worth bringing in a class of 50 or so students into a computer room which only had 14 working computers. So, instead, I gave a couple of computing theory classes, talking about what a computer is, its functions and uses, its advantages and disadvantages and so on. Amazingly, I felt the classes went very well and for the most part the students listened and even took notes.
By the time it came to the third class of the day, which was with the youngest students, Gary had managed to fix the network and so we let them into the computer room to practise typing in Word. This didn’t quite work out as lots of little hands makes for lots of mischief, especially with computers around, and the class involved a good deal of running around, repairing crashing computers, telling kids to stop pressing random buttons, and so on. By the time we’d got them all out I felt like I’d run a marathon.
I also discovered that one of the kids at Bosco Boys is called Safari Simba. What a great name! :D
Skin deep
Michael, one of the smaller boys, was sitting next to me the other day. He took my left hand and was looking at it earnestly and turning it over in his hands. Eventually he asked inquisitively, ‘Why isn’t your hand black?’, pointing to my palm. ‘See, mine is black here and white here’, he said, flipping his hands to show his pale palms. In his head, the irreducible logic was that as the back of my hand is white my palms should therefore be black.
The following week, the same Michael pulled gently at my hair and asked ‘Why is your hair like this but mine like this?’ gesturing towards his own closely-shaven afro. I feel that my brief explanation of genetics didn’t quite satisfy his curiosity.
On the ball
At first I played with the younger boys as at first glance the older ones looked pretty serious, kitted out in their various strips, and I thought I’d need some training before I took on those my own size.
The pitch is less than perfect. The large number of bobbles, divots and gaping holes makes the bounce as unpredictable as that of a rugby ball. Well, that’s my excuse anyway.
Somehow I’ve been persuaded to play in the Jesus Cup for the Bosco Boys Over 17 Boys Football team, despite my early protestations to not play. I have been warned that when mzungus take part, they are often targeted by the opposition. In Kenya, mzungus are softies (because we wear trainers to run, because we don’t do any manual labour) whereas Kenyans are ‘hardcore’. Clearly I need to get some training in before our first match next week!
Summary
Where am I?
I’m staying at Bosco Boys, a centre for ‘children in need’. Type Kuwinda, Nairobi, Kenya, into Google maps and work your way slightly to the north-west until you see collection of buildings next to a football pitch and a forest to the north. That’s Bosco Boys!
What is Bosco Boys?
Bosco Boys is a co-ed school by day and a boys’ orphanage by night. As summarised succinctly by Peter in one of the computer classes from this week:
In my schooll we are divided into two groups DAY SCHOLARS and BOADERS. In day scholar they normally pay but for we boaders we does not pay becouse many of us are brought here by various problems maybe you was a dtreet boy or maybe you does not have parents and so you were brought here as an opharn.
Where am I staying?
I live onsite, in a volunteer house which I have to myself since I’m the only male volunteer staying here at the moment. Next door live a few girls from Slovakia who live at Bosco Boys but work at different Salesian projects in the area. Gary, from Germany, lives with a Kenyan family, but comes to Bosco Boys during the weekdays.
The room is large and the bed is comfortable. I have a fridge and the shower is amazing and has always had hot water (so far). And yes, the Chinese diggers moved on after a few days leaving me to sleep in peace.
And the weather?
Almost perfect.
Cold first thing (what would be described as 'fresh' back at home), warm during the mornings and late afternoon (somewhere in the 20s), a lovely cool temperature in the evening. Only too hot in direct sunlight between 1 and 3 in the afternoon and only too cold once night properly sets in.
Hakuna matatu
I am starting to think the matatu is the reason that many Africans are more religious than we are in the West. It is because every time they step near any road they come close to one of these small minibus death traps which zoom Nairobians around the city and in doing so take a step closer to their maker.
The bus on the way back from town today (16th Jan) was essentially a Disney ride without the characters dressed in costumes. We sat at the back, though sitting is a relative term as three times I found myself airborne somewhere above my seat. Countless others I was flung hither and thither and every whichway. It was a bumpy ride.
On the plus side, I’d made a friend on the matatu. A boy sat next to me and looked at me goggle-eyed with a big grin that screamed ‘I’ve just found a mzungu!’.
I had begun to get used to the looks I got as I walked around Nairobi. At Bosco Boys, a foreign visitor, white or otherwise, is no biggie. In some of the posh parts around here, it’s not big deal either as there are plenty of mzungus hanging around. But in many other places seeing a white person is still a novelty and something to raise an eyebrow at. Or, more accurately, stare, nudge your mate and unsubtly whisper ‘look, mzungu’. Pointing is recommended for further clarification of the mzungu’s whereabouts, as if the blazing milk white skin weren’t enough already.
Generally the adults try to play it cool – unless they’re trying to sell you something – but it’s the reaction of some of the younger kids which I love. Sometimes their eyes go wide in amazement that someone should look like I do. Other times they look at me quizzically, as if something must be wrong with me. It’s a sign that I’m settling in that I’m even looking at my hand now and thinking that it is kind of weird. I can see my veins and everything. Gross, man…
Anyway, I greeted this kid on the bus: ‘Mambo,’ I said. ‘Poa,’ he replied. The start of many a great friendship. We were soon separated by the sheer quantity of people that was shoehorned onto the bus. Everytime I thought, ‘right, now this matatu is definitely full’, I was proved corrected. Even so, he managed to catch my eye a couple of times and give me a big ‘hey, you’re a mzungu!’ grin. He waved, grinning, as he got off the bus. I waved back. It was a good moment.
Meanwhile my chaperone for the day, brother Deo (one of those preparing for the pre-noviciate) had conspired to fall asleep despite his head being gently flung from the seat in front to the headrest behind.
Deo had taken me with him to meet some street kids in situu in Nairobi centre. A couple of brothers go there every week to meet the kids, organise some games, talk with them and share some bread. For some, it could be the start of a process which leads to them getting some kind of help, such as into a project like Bosco Boys or a school.
This was real poverty. The contrast with the well-fed, well-looked after boys at Bosco Boys was stark. These boys looked like they had just spent the night sleeping in the dirt. Their clothes looked like their only clothes. We got a big game of football going in which I took part, at one point making a crucial Carragher-esque clearance of the line. One boy played through the whole game in a heavy jacket that seemed to be from a kind of factory. Playing in the midday Kenyan sun, he must have wished he had been picked to play for the ‘skinnies’ team.
Johnny foreigner
On my first Saturday here, some of the boys were given a bit of cash as a reward for academic results or improvement last term and I joined them on an outing to a huge sprawl of a market to the east of Nairobi.
I was chaperoned on this shopping trip by two of the older boys, Kelvin and Kelvin. Sadly, it was to be a frustrating afternoon for them since their 1000 shillings budget wasn’t quite enough to buy the football boots they were looking for.
All the shops in the part of the market we were walking around were basic sheds of wood, with row upon row of second hand or counterfeit clothes and multitudes of hawkers milling around them trying to get your attention. The track between the shops was just dirt and scattered trash.
I must have looked very conspicuous – sporting my sunglasses and cap – and if it weren’t for the Kelvins I would probably have been pestered more than I was. I still had my fair share of calls of ‘hi, mzungu!’ (white man) made at me, as well as lots of questions about which is my favourite EPL team as I was ushered towards a hut of t-shirts or shoes. I found it very funny when on one occasion we passed a few guys who, once I hadn’t responded to mzungu, shouted ‘albino!’ at me instead.
As we were returning to the bus, I noticed that some shopkeepers were shouting John or Johnny at me. I asked a Kelvin. ‘They’re guessing your name’, he said. I laughed, appreciating the cleverness of the tactic, though I would have been really freaked out if my name was actually John...
We had been told to get back to the meeting point to get the bus back at 4.30. The two Kelvins and I got back at 4.45. We were the first back. At 5.15, with a handful more boys, the decision was made to leave. ‘We told them 4.30’, the bus driver explained. ‘They’ll find their own way back.’ I found it bizarre that we had just left behind over half of the boys that had come out with us, but I was assured it was perfectly normal!
On the way back to Bosco Boys, we drove past Kibera, which was described to me (with a little pride, perhaps?) as the largest slum in the world. From the road which runs past it you can also see the flats which the government has built to relocate the slum inhabitants. A good idea, ne c’est pas? Except that I’m told the benefactors of this project have already sold on the flats to slightly wealthier people, keeping the cash and preferring to stay in the rent-free slum.
I was chaperoned on this shopping trip by two of the older boys, Kelvin and Kelvin. Sadly, it was to be a frustrating afternoon for them since their 1000 shillings budget wasn’t quite enough to buy the football boots they were looking for.
All the shops in the part of the market we were walking around were basic sheds of wood, with row upon row of second hand or counterfeit clothes and multitudes of hawkers milling around them trying to get your attention. The track between the shops was just dirt and scattered trash.
I must have looked very conspicuous – sporting my sunglasses and cap – and if it weren’t for the Kelvins I would probably have been pestered more than I was. I still had my fair share of calls of ‘hi, mzungu!’ (white man) made at me, as well as lots of questions about which is my favourite EPL team as I was ushered towards a hut of t-shirts or shoes. I found it very funny when on one occasion we passed a few guys who, once I hadn’t responded to mzungu, shouted ‘albino!’ at me instead.
As we were returning to the bus, I noticed that some shopkeepers were shouting John or Johnny at me. I asked a Kelvin. ‘They’re guessing your name’, he said. I laughed, appreciating the cleverness of the tactic, though I would have been really freaked out if my name was actually John...
We had been told to get back to the meeting point to get the bus back at 4.30. The two Kelvins and I got back at 4.45. We were the first back. At 5.15, with a handful more boys, the decision was made to leave. ‘We told them 4.30’, the bus driver explained. ‘They’ll find their own way back.’ I found it bizarre that we had just left behind over half of the boys that had come out with us, but I was assured it was perfectly normal!
On the way back to Bosco Boys, we drove past Kibera, which was described to me (with a little pride, perhaps?) as the largest slum in the world. From the road which runs past it you can also see the flats which the government has built to relocate the slum inhabitants. A good idea, ne c’est pas? Except that I’m told the benefactors of this project have already sold on the flats to slightly wealthier people, keeping the cash and preferring to stay in the rent-free slum.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Measuring up
I still have some stories from over the weekend to write up, but before then I just wanted to write about today while it was fresh in my mind.
We had a computer class before lunch. We currently have about 28 computers working, which is just enough to start bringing classes in. Sadly 5 minutes into today's lesson there was a power failure. Every time there's a power failure all the computers switch off and it takes 5-10mins to get all the system back up again. To make matters worse, the kids don't sit there patiently while Gary and I run around resetting computers, but instead they try and do it for themselves, clicking 'okay' or 'cancel' at random, trying to guess at the admin password, or, completely lost, end up fiddling with the security settings. Finally, we managed to get all the computers going again and the kids restarted their typing exercise.
And then there was another power cut. Class over.
As I was recovering over lunch, Fr Sebastian called me asking if I could accompany one of the teachers to go take photos of the other teams taking part in the Jesus Cup (great name). Jesus Cup seems to be a big deal here. From what I can gather it's a large competition spread over a number of weekends starting a week on Saturday including football, volleyball, basketball (etc.) singing, playing instruments, performances and so on. It's organised every year by Bosco Boys and about 17 different youth projects from around Nairobi take part.
Fr Sebastian told me that the teacher was leaving at 1.30. I looked at my watch. It read 1.35. 'Righto, I'll go get my camera then!' and dashed off.
Typically, we left sometime after 2.
On the way to wherever it was we were headed first, we suddenly turned off the main road and started driving down some residential streets. Isaac, a Kenyan volunteer explained to me, 'There's a checkpoint ahead and the driver doesn't have a licence.' Good good.
We arrive at what Isaac tells me is a young offenders' institute for girls. They're ready for us, all uniformed up in their football kits. I notice that their shirts look very new. And they're all Chelsea tops. And the shorts are Chelsea ones too. 'The Chelsea team came here recently', Isaac explains.
So, now to work. I had been told to come take photos of all the participating teams. What I didn't realise was that we were also coming to measure the participants' height and weight. Isaac took down each girl's name, asked them to stand on the scales we had brought, and the teacher then used a measuring stick to work out their height.
'And what shall I do?', I asked.
'Here, take this', the teacher said, handing me a scientific calculator.
'Ah, I see. You want me to divide their height by their weight.'
'No, add them together.'
The rules, apparently, said that you couldn't play in the girls' under 17s football team if your combined height in cm and weight in kg was more than 225. But that's crazy, I insisted to Isaac, becoming increasingly agitated by the arbitrariness of it all. You're equating 1cm with 1kg. It's blatant discrimination against tall people, I argued. Isaac agreed. 'But those are the rules!'
Laughing, I accepted his argument. In fact, I laughed throughout the whole bizarre measuring process as one by one the girls came forward to be told their weight and height. Everyone must have thought that this mzungu was an utter nutcase. But I wasn't quite so pleased when two of the girls were told they weren't eligible to play for the football team because their scores were over 225. It's crazy! At Bosco Boys it wouldn't matter so much because the tall/heavy players could turn out for the over 17s team which doesn't have a size limit, but sadly I'm not convinced that there were enough girls at the Juve to form an over 17s team...
Anyway, I took a photo of the football and volleyball teams and we said our goodbyes. The next stop was Utume, a centre run by Bosco Boys as a preparatory step between being on the streets and coming to stay at Bosco Boys proper. Some of the kids were very light - imagine a 10-year-old only weighing 27kg! - but on the plus side it meant that they all qualified for their age range.
Tomorrow I'm told we have the remaining 15 centres to go visit and reenact the same measuring farce. Seeing as it took us most of the afternoon just to get through two projects today, I have a gut feeling our merry band of measurers fully equipped with measuring stick, scales, calculator and camera will be zooming round Nairobi for most of the weekend.
We had a computer class before lunch. We currently have about 28 computers working, which is just enough to start bringing classes in. Sadly 5 minutes into today's lesson there was a power failure. Every time there's a power failure all the computers switch off and it takes 5-10mins to get all the system back up again. To make matters worse, the kids don't sit there patiently while Gary and I run around resetting computers, but instead they try and do it for themselves, clicking 'okay' or 'cancel' at random, trying to guess at the admin password, or, completely lost, end up fiddling with the security settings. Finally, we managed to get all the computers going again and the kids restarted their typing exercise.
And then there was another power cut. Class over.
As I was recovering over lunch, Fr Sebastian called me asking if I could accompany one of the teachers to go take photos of the other teams taking part in the Jesus Cup (great name). Jesus Cup seems to be a big deal here. From what I can gather it's a large competition spread over a number of weekends starting a week on Saturday including football, volleyball, basketball (etc.) singing, playing instruments, performances and so on. It's organised every year by Bosco Boys and about 17 different youth projects from around Nairobi take part.
Fr Sebastian told me that the teacher was leaving at 1.30. I looked at my watch. It read 1.35. 'Righto, I'll go get my camera then!' and dashed off.
Typically, we left sometime after 2.
On the way to wherever it was we were headed first, we suddenly turned off the main road and started driving down some residential streets. Isaac, a Kenyan volunteer explained to me, 'There's a checkpoint ahead and the driver doesn't have a licence.' Good good.
We arrive at what Isaac tells me is a young offenders' institute for girls. They're ready for us, all uniformed up in their football kits. I notice that their shirts look very new. And they're all Chelsea tops. And the shorts are Chelsea ones too. 'The Chelsea team came here recently', Isaac explains.
So, now to work. I had been told to come take photos of all the participating teams. What I didn't realise was that we were also coming to measure the participants' height and weight. Isaac took down each girl's name, asked them to stand on the scales we had brought, and the teacher then used a measuring stick to work out their height.
'And what shall I do?', I asked.
'Here, take this', the teacher said, handing me a scientific calculator.
'Ah, I see. You want me to divide their height by their weight.'
'No, add them together.'
The rules, apparently, said that you couldn't play in the girls' under 17s football team if your combined height in cm and weight in kg was more than 225. But that's crazy, I insisted to Isaac, becoming increasingly agitated by the arbitrariness of it all. You're equating 1cm with 1kg. It's blatant discrimination against tall people, I argued. Isaac agreed. 'But those are the rules!'
Laughing, I accepted his argument. In fact, I laughed throughout the whole bizarre measuring process as one by one the girls came forward to be told their weight and height. Everyone must have thought that this mzungu was an utter nutcase. But I wasn't quite so pleased when two of the girls were told they weren't eligible to play for the football team because their scores were over 225. It's crazy! At Bosco Boys it wouldn't matter so much because the tall/heavy players could turn out for the over 17s team which doesn't have a size limit, but sadly I'm not convinced that there were enough girls at the Juve to form an over 17s team...
Anyway, I took a photo of the football and volleyball teams and we said our goodbyes. The next stop was Utume, a centre run by Bosco Boys as a preparatory step between being on the streets and coming to stay at Bosco Boys proper. Some of the kids were very light - imagine a 10-year-old only weighing 27kg! - but on the plus side it meant that they all qualified for their age range.
Tomorrow I'm told we have the remaining 15 centres to go visit and reenact the same measuring farce. Seeing as it took us most of the afternoon just to get through two projects today, I have a gut feeling our merry band of measurers fully equipped with measuring stick, scales, calculator and camera will be zooming round Nairobi for most of the weekend.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The IT crowd
On my first day I also met another volunteer here at Bosco Boys: Gary from Germany. He's been in Kenya since last summer (which is winter here, technically) working mostly as a teacher in the computer room here at the school. Fr Sebastian had asked me if I wanted to help him out working with the kids when they have computer classes. So this day I bumped into Gary on his way to take a lesson with form 6 and I decided to tag along.
Unfortunately, the computer room wasn't ready to be used, so this was going to have to be a computing class taught in a normal classroom without any computer in sight.
Poor Gary. The class wouldn't shut up. There were about 60 of them squeezed into the classroom and they all seemed to be doing something different and almost all of them were doing it noisily.
Gary managed to get across to the few at the front who chose to listen that this term we'd be working on typing and mouse skills. But the class disintegrated after about 10 minutes and Gary wisely decided that we should all go play football.
Another 10 minutes had passed by the time we found a ball to play with.
Finally, by the time we got to the playing field it was time to head back for lunch.
Not an auspicious start...
On the plus side, Gary reckons that they're better behaved once they actually get into the computer room, so let's hope that's true.
Unfortunately, the computer room wasn't ready to be used, so this was going to have to be a computing class taught in a normal classroom without any computer in sight.
Poor Gary. The class wouldn't shut up. There were about 60 of them squeezed into the classroom and they all seemed to be doing something different and almost all of them were doing it noisily.
Gary managed to get across to the few at the front who chose to listen that this term we'd be working on typing and mouse skills. But the class disintegrated after about 10 minutes and Gary wisely decided that we should all go play football.
Another 10 minutes had passed by the time we found a ball to play with.
Finally, by the time we got to the playing field it was time to head back for lunch.
Not an auspicious start...
On the plus side, Gary reckons that they're better behaved once they actually get into the computer room, so let's hope that's true.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Karibu
I had to drag myself out of bed on the first morning at Bosco Boys. I had not had a good night's sleep, on account of the unfamiliar cacophony of grasshoppers, dogs, birds and Chinese-operated diggers which thundered on throughout the night. I got up though and made my way to the chapel for 6.30 mass with the boys.
I walked into the chapel to find a hundred identical shaven black heads atop a hundred identical grey uniforms turn towards me. A bit unsure of myself, I sat down at the first available pew - safe for the time being.
The mass itself was unremarkable, largely given that it was unintelligible to me being, as it was, entirely in Kiswahili. But I remember being blown away by the sound of the boys singing, backed by guitar, African drums and rainshaker.
After mass I was asked by the priest to stand up at the front to introduce myself and 'say a few words'. I'm not sure which words in particular he wanted me to say but given that he had already told them that I was Simon from England and I'd be here for three months he had already taken my best material. Judiciously, I decided that some degree of repetition was called for. 'Hi everyone! I'm Simon. I'm from England. And I'm here for 3 months. I look forward to getting to know you all!' Hardly an Oscar-winning performance, I know, but it got a welcoming round of applause.
I then had to go and do the same in front of the pupils at the school.
Later, one of the boys confessed to me that he hadn't understood a word of what I'd said on either occasion but he liked it because it was short. 'Some of these people come and stand and look lost and confused and talk for aaages.' A vindication for not waffling!
Throughout the first day - indeed, the whole week - all the staff and volunteers and people associated with Bosco Boys were very welcoming. Everyone said 'karibu' to me, meaning 'welcome'. One teacher who had already welcomed me three times in our conversation ended it by using what has become my favourite use of the imperative: 'Feel welcomed!'
For their part, the boys' reception was less enthused, but some of the more confident ones did make an effort to come shake my hand and others made a high five or fist bump as they passed me.
I also got to try out my first bit of kiswahili. If you say 'Mambo' (hey) to a young person they'll reply 'Poa' (cool). That was really fun :)
I walked into the chapel to find a hundred identical shaven black heads atop a hundred identical grey uniforms turn towards me. A bit unsure of myself, I sat down at the first available pew - safe for the time being.
The mass itself was unremarkable, largely given that it was unintelligible to me being, as it was, entirely in Kiswahili. But I remember being blown away by the sound of the boys singing, backed by guitar, African drums and rainshaker.
After mass I was asked by the priest to stand up at the front to introduce myself and 'say a few words'. I'm not sure which words in particular he wanted me to say but given that he had already told them that I was Simon from England and I'd be here for three months he had already taken my best material. Judiciously, I decided that some degree of repetition was called for. 'Hi everyone! I'm Simon. I'm from England. And I'm here for 3 months. I look forward to getting to know you all!' Hardly an Oscar-winning performance, I know, but it got a welcoming round of applause.
I then had to go and do the same in front of the pupils at the school.
Later, one of the boys confessed to me that he hadn't understood a word of what I'd said on either occasion but he liked it because it was short. 'Some of these people come and stand and look lost and confused and talk for aaages.' A vindication for not waffling!
Throughout the first day - indeed, the whole week - all the staff and volunteers and people associated with Bosco Boys were very welcoming. Everyone said 'karibu' to me, meaning 'welcome'. One teacher who had already welcomed me three times in our conversation ended it by using what has become my favourite use of the imperative: 'Feel welcomed!'
For their part, the boys' reception was less enthused, but some of the more confident ones did make an effort to come shake my hand and others made a high five or fist bump as they passed me.
I also got to try out my first bit of kiswahili. If you say 'Mambo' (hey) to a young person they'll reply 'Poa' (cool). That was really fun :)
Smile: you're in Kenya
I saw the title for this post on a poster as I collected my bags at Jomo Kenyatta airport, Nairobi. I thought it was a bit more authentic than Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up which was what was playing over the intercom as I passed through passport control.
I was met at the airport by three boys: Peter, Kelvin and Wilbert, who drove us the 30min journey here to Bosco Boys where I was met by the director, Fr Sebastian.
I was taken to the volunteer house. My window backs onto the garden where some vegetables are grown. Behind that in the distance is a forest-covered hill. It looks idyllic. Except, that is, for the construction works going on in between. Apparently the Chinese are digging an oil pipeline through Kenya up to Juba in Sudan and right now it is passing by my room. What better representation of the current Asian wave of influence in Africa could you ask for?
I wasn't best pleased to discover that they work (noisily) through the night. Though I suppose the quicker they get it down, the sooner they'll move on and out of earshot.
I was met at the airport by three boys: Peter, Kelvin and Wilbert, who drove us the 30min journey here to Bosco Boys where I was met by the director, Fr Sebastian.
I was taken to the volunteer house. My window backs onto the garden where some vegetables are grown. Behind that in the distance is a forest-covered hill. It looks idyllic. Except, that is, for the construction works going on in between. Apparently the Chinese are digging an oil pipeline through Kenya up to Juba in Sudan and right now it is passing by my room. What better representation of the current Asian wave of influence in Africa could you ask for?
I wasn't best pleased to discover that they work (noisily) through the night. Though I suppose the quicker they get it down, the sooner they'll move on and out of earshot.
Arrived at last
Here I am, sitting at my new desk in my new room in my new home for the next few months. I feel tired and thirsty but also glad to be finally here.
Before I left, everyone I met and everything I read seemed to have something extra to tell me about Kenya or Africa. These ranged from "you'll love it there, for sure" to "don't forget to take your own syringes", from "the people are so welcoming" to "watch your back" and "Nairobi is affectionately known among tourists as Nairobbery".
Even the Nationwide employee who I met earlier this week told me that since humans originated from there, going to Africa will feel like going home.
All this, added to my own perceptions and preconceptions of Africa meant that my idea of what I was letting myself in for was a bewildering, schizophrenic mess.
So, above all, I feel a certain amount of relief that I'm now here so that I can get down to experiencing things for myself!
Before I left, everyone I met and everything I read seemed to have something extra to tell me about Kenya or Africa. These ranged from "you'll love it there, for sure" to "don't forget to take your own syringes", from "the people are so welcoming" to "watch your back" and "Nairobi is affectionately known among tourists as Nairobbery".
Even the Nationwide employee who I met earlier this week told me that since humans originated from there, going to Africa will feel like going home.
All this, added to my own perceptions and preconceptions of Africa meant that my idea of what I was letting myself in for was a bewildering, schizophrenic mess.
So, above all, I feel a certain amount of relief that I'm now here so that I can get down to experiencing things for myself!
Looking ahead
I had intended to write an entry before I left discussing my hopes and expectations for my time in Kenya. But every time I came to write something the words just didn't come. My head was buzzing about what kind of things I could expect to find when I got here, but there were too many abstract ideas and too little concrete information to pin any thoughts down on page. Essentially I just hoped to settle in, get on with whatever it was I ended up doing and to have a good time.
So it was for that reason, and that I was still packing up until the last minute, that I haven't posted any entries yet - but I'm hoping to make up for that now! The next few entries are choice sections from my handwritten journal...
So it was for that reason, and that I was still packing up until the last minute, that I haven't posted any entries yet - but I'm hoping to make up for that now! The next few entries are choice sections from my handwritten journal...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
How to Write about Africa
I cannot write about Africa.
This might seem a pity, given that you are reading a travel blog about my first experience of being in Africa. However, in my preparation for going away, I have realised that I cannot claim to write about Africa. Nor about Kenya, for that matter, the eponymous hero of this blog. Nor even about Nairobi, where I’ll be spending the next three months working as a volunteer.
By way of explanation, I’d encourage you to read this article by Binyavanga Wainaina on how to write about Africa: http://www.granta.com/Magazine/92/How-to-Write-about-Africa/Page-1
Almost without exception, everything I have read or heard about Africa from a Westerner since I began preparing to go to Nairobi has tripped up over at least a few of the very clichés which Wainaina acerbically parodies in his article. And I know I, inevitably, am doomed to do the same.
And yet, I do not pretend to write about Africa. I only want to write about my own experience based on my time living in a small corner in one city, Nairobi, where I’ll be staying at a Bosco Boys centre for children in need.
To echo the beginning of my Bolivia blog, I don’t know what direction or form this blog will take or how often it will be updated, if at all. Still, I hope that you find it interesting and all your comments are more than welcome along the way. All of your continued support is very much appreciated!
ttfn,
Simon
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