African Braids

I have always admired the long African braids I have seen so many girls with. It wasn't until this year that I realised that they are actually fake extensions that are plaited in.
Right from early on the kids have loved playing with my hair and are always asking me if they can plait it- I have spent the majority of the year with my hair in plaits of some description.

Quite frequently I am asked why I don't plait extensions in and so finally I succumbed to it and commissioned one of my students mothers to plait in some 'real' african braids. A number of hours later it was finally done...however my lack of appropriate care (swimming down at the coast, getting sprayed with mud and filling my hair with ceiling dust putting up mosquito nets) necessitated removal after less than a month.

I headed over to a group of girls on the weekend and asked if they wanted to help remove them. They were quick to oblige and started working straight away. Once one had finished removing a piece of the fake hair she asked me what I wanted to do with it. I didn't care about it in the slightest and said 'if you want to keep it you can keep any that you remove'.... next minute, my hair is being pulled from every direction as the girls scramble to remove it all, folding it carefully and packing it away to save for Dec 24th so they can re-use it to plait into their hair and be 'very beautiful' for Christmas.
Brand new a entire head piece costs a total of 90 cents but for a student that is pretty unachievable so they jump at the chance to take, wash and re-use my second hand ones.

Being a student...

I think the best way to really understand something is to experience it personally.

Although as a teacher I have a fair bit of insight into schooling in Kenya there are doubtless things I miss...so I decided to go to school for a day!

I chose a day in the holidays when all other classes were away except form 4 which I didn't have to teach, got myself a school uniform, loaned myself the necessary textbooks and much to the delight of the students I headed along to the form 4 class just to see what it was actually like.

Nine hours later my stomach is grumbling after only having a cup of tea and some maize and beans all day, my head is a whirl of translating skew lines to be on the same plane, the failings of King Saul, the structure
of the DNA molecule, electrolysis of copper 11 sulphate, endangered animals in Kenya and a confused headache from experiencing an hour of Kiswahili grammar (of which I understood 29 words the entire lesson- yes I kept a tally).

I am aware of the anxious rapid heartbeat you instantly get when the Chemistry teacher directs a question at you and you haven't got a clue what he is talking about. The feeling of not completely understanding the Maths teachers geometry diagram but noticing everyone else is nodding and copying it down so you feel like you are the only stupid one who doesn't get it.
The utter confusion when you don't actually understand the language the teacher is speaking in. These are feelings that the students here would experience often!

The education system here requires a lot of hard yards. Eleven subjects for two years and then narrowed down to eight for the next two years followed by 21 examinations at the end of it all. The students here are required to do a lot of memory work and have a lot of motivation to study for something they won't be assessed on officially until four years time.

I don't know how well I'd go in this education system for four years and I'm thankful that I don't have to find out.

After this day I certainly have a new found understanding and respect for all my students.

Challenges of teaching PE!

Unfortunately PE (physical education) is marginalised in Kenyan secondary schools. The focus on academics, coupled with lack of space and resources means that PE often gets neglected. 

Having studied human movement for four years I was super keen to get PE happening in this school, and had brought with me a large amount of sports supplies. Initially I was told I would have to do it during lunchtime but after a bit of negotiating and persuasion I finally managed to wangle one lesson per class per week to do Lifeskills or PE on an alternate basis.

The kids absolutely love it and get super excited when it is time for our lessons and they get a chance to get outside and do something physical. I love teaching them sports like Ultimate Frisbee, Oztag, badminton and Australian Rules rather than the traditional soccer, netball and volleyball as they have never even seen many of these sports and love learning new games.

Teaching a class of form 3s Australian Rules Football last week took an unexpected turn... As usual the kids were getting super involved, the unique and unfamiliar nature of the game was a cause of great hilarity and noise levels and excitement were high. What I hadn't factored in was the fact that form 4s were in the middle of their National Kenyan Examinations (a very big deal). I am racing around refereeing when suddenly I notice a man brandishing a large rifle on the side of the field!

Security for examinations is tight and armed guards come to ensure there is no cheating or adverse examination conditions for the candidates.

It appears my PE lesson is causing the latter.

My usual default is to do whatever men with guns tell me to do, but on the other hand I really don't want to abandon the only PE lesson with this class for the fortnight... so I decide to negotiate with gun-toting-grumpy.

He finally agrees that if we make no noise at all we can continue.

Anyone who has ever played or watched Aussie Rules with a group of novices will know this is next to impossible, however an absolute credit to my students as they are able to play the rest of the lesson in complete silence- a testimony to how keen they are for PE lessons! 

Lost

I see him standing silently at the door and I know instantly that something is up. His face looks worried and his eyes are dewey. I walk over to him and offer a hand. His voice catches as he whispers 'I'm so sorry madam'...

I instantly guess what has happened as the electrical items for the school that I sent him to the market to collect are nowhere to be seen. 

'Did you loose the money?' I gently ask. 

He doesn't seem to comprehend that I have figured it out and starts to explain... 'I ran to the market and once I had collected everything at the counter I put my hand in my pocket and...' His voice trails off and he turns away and gulps. 

He tries again 'madam, I ran back as fast as I could and I have been searching...' 

'It's okay!' I try to reassure him, 'it is ok, it was an accident, I understand'.

I find my wallet and produce the required amount again. 'Here, you can take this and quickly go back before the shop shuts' 

He stands like a statute.

'It's not ok madam! 1000 shillings is a LOT of money'

He is physically shaking and I can tell this is a really big deal. 

I sit him down and decide to explain it out, I talk about how things happen for a reason, how we can learn from this that it is important to be careful, I get him to think about whoever finds the money and how happy they will be, maybe God knew they needed the money more than we did. 

He stops shaking but is still visibly upset. 

'Madam, when you struggle and struggle to get even 50 shillings... 1000 shillings is SO much money. I have never lost anything like that amount of money before!' 

Finally after much discussion he softly says 'it is okay madam' and gets up to return for the items. 

Later on I hear him at the door again. He comes in, puts the receipt on the counter. Looks at me with sad eyes and says again 'I'm so sorry madam'.

I feel like crying. 

Not because I care about the money. 

This upsetting event, this huge loss that he, an educated, hardworking 20 year old is grappling with, that has made him not want to eat, that has caused him to run kilometers in panic and that has shaken him so badly... is $12.60.

Twelve dollars sixty. In the scheme of things it is nothing. And yet here it is SO much. 

I can't wait. Cannot wait for the time where there is no more poverty.

"Even so, Come Lord Jesus". 

Health 'not so' professionals...

I am just sitting down to dinner when a girl pokes her head in the door- 'Tabby, can I see you for a minute?' 

I am a little surprised because I am visiting an area down at the coast and hence the kids here don't know me as well (or usually have many requests). I jump up immediately and as I reach the door I hear sobbing. Instinct kicks in and I race over to the young teenager -Mwongeli- who is clearly distressed, her entire hand is completely red with blood and it is pouring down her arm. 'I'm coming back' I call out and race to grab some first aid gear. 

The story soon comes out- she fell in the dark and landed on a glass bottle and there is still a large amount of glass inside her hand. By now the muscle has seized up around the glass and try as I might I can't get it out. I bandage it quickly to stop the blood and we decide to go to the nearest health centre that has night shift doctors. 

Myself, Jeremy (a local friend) and the two girls speed along the dirt road- fortunately Jeremy is an excellent driver and despite the dodgy roads and pitch blackness we arrive safely at the centre in less than 15 minutes. 

A 'doctor' approaches us and asks what's wrong, upon hearing he turns and walks away. We decide to take a seat, Mwongeli is still sobbing softly and recalling past waits and dramas with hospital experiences I fish around in my purse and find some painkillers for her. 

The doctor returns and is behaving so erratic it is soon apparent that he (and his two colleagues) are completely drunk. 

Initially he sees the bandage and says she has already been treated and hence we have no need for him. Jeremy explains the concept of first aid and finally he takes us through to a treatment room. I try to enter with her but the doctors refuse. Screaming and yelling ensues from the room and then the door bangs open and the doctors ask me to come in to 'console' her. 

The drunk doctor is holding a wad of bloody gauze and the hole in Mwongeli's hand is gaping open as he roughly wipes it out. I quickly put my arms around her head and arm, directing her not to look, telling her she is brave and that it will hurt less if she is still. 

The doctors are now more interested in my arrival than the wound and start asking my name, where I am from, my marital status and contact details. I try to direct attention back to the injury and ask if they have removed the glass. He says they have but decides to dig around a little more regardless. Mwongeli screams and writhes. 

I ask if they are going to use anaesthetic as it is obviously agonising... they seem to see the merit in this idea and a needle is produced and rammed into her hand so hard it snaps.

By now I am loosing patience and Mwongeli is beside herself in pain. Becoming frustrated I ask if they are even real doctors and the one about to stitch gets so offended he stops working. 

After a bit of placating towards the doctors and consoling towards Mwongeli finally we get it stitched up. The doctor remarks to me 'you are so good at consoling!' I feel like saying 'wish I could say the same about your doctor skills!' but I figure it is in everyone's best interests for me to bite my tongue. 

Painkillers are arbitrarily shaken into a bag and we are out of there. 

The relief of the pain and drama being over washes over us and we are fortunately all able to see some humour in the whole situation and have a good stress releasing giggle about the whole experience. 

Sometimes the Kenyan health system is surprisingly good, but other times I am vividly reminded that I am living in a developing country. This occasion is definitely the latter! 

Kalalani

One of the sponsored children.

The car is filled with the overpowering stench of goat- from the two in the back which we have been generously gifted with by the locals. The 'road' is so muddy we are constantly getting stuck or else sliding into the bushes- one of our tires has burst but we have pumped it up again with a bike pump and so far it is holding out. 

We pull up beside a Masai dressed in a traditional blanket, riding a motorbike- he explains that the 'road' is worse up ahead. The three local men in the car who are assisting with directions attempt to get out to assess which way we should go...I smile as they yoyo the electric window and tug on the cup-holder. I show them for the 7th time the lever to open the door and they quickly exit and start beating down bushes to make a way for us to pass through. 

Kalalani is remote. In the coastal region of Kenya but over a 2 hour drive from any reasonable sized town. We had decided to visit to meet with the people there and bring some food relief for sponsored families. We are told that this tribe are not as blessed as other tribes in Kenya. This region struggles for water. There are no rivers or water sources nearby. Now it is the rainy season so the roads are muddy but even so, most people don't have much water storage capacity so are required to walk long distances every day to collect. 

Hungry dogs watching on as kids eat rice with their hands.

The houses are mud and sticks and there are no toilets. Apparently it is traditional to just go in the bush. Despite the abject poverty the people are so generous. They are so excited to have a visit and prepare us a feast of rice and chicken, we are even given the privilege of spoons- everyone else makes do with their hands.

We had to borrow a local church to meet in as we don't have a meeting hall here yet. The children from this area used to walk from Friday to Sunday in order to come to church and for sponsorship relief, now that has changed and someone comes to visit their area fortnightly, meeting in a local school or a borrowed church. 

The 'church' we met with the families in.

So often in Kenya I am struck by the contrasts. The extreme poverty and hardship these people face is equally matched by their determination and generosity. The thought of children walking for two days to reach somewhere every week is mind-blowing. The love that is shown by the volunteers making the trek out here to provide relief every fortnight is equally inspiring. 

This is certainly a place where sponsorship is needed, well utilised and appreciated. 

The Funeral

Even though we are quite tired and more than ready for bed we decide the right thing to do is to go. Three of us climb into the car and I manoeuvre  down the dirt road. We drive for a couple of kilometres before the road turns into something resembling a goat track. I push on but after a while decide it is too much and we get out to cover the remaining couple of kms by foot. It is pitch back and we only have one small torch, lighting our path through the maize fields, over the hills, across a river and in the direction of the music. A clearing to the right of the road opens up into space where a crowd are seated in a semicircle facing a group of rhythmical dancers. The grieving family are surrounded by friends, neighbours and family, and selected people speak about how he was such a good dancer and singer and such an integral part of the church choir. A church member gives some encouraging words, bible passages are read and prayers are said. We stay until after midnight before bidding farewell and heading home to return in the morning.
 
Festus was only in his 20s, his family are extremely poor. He had decided to go to college to study masonry and was blessed enough to be sponsored to do so, however he complained of sickness which continued to worsen until he had to be hospitalised and then tragically last week he could fight no longer and cancer took him. 

There is a resounding thud as the first spadeful of dirt hits the tin covering the coffin at the bottom of the hole. My eyes well up as I watch the muscly lad in his 20s feverishly shovelling spadeful after spadeful of dirt into the hole, covering the body of his friend. He is working hard and fast as if the physical labour will provide a distraction from the pain inside. Earlier on in the funeral he spoke about how much he loved and will miss his friend... People in their 20s shouldn't be burying their friends! 

Why? Why? Why? I look around at the crowd of people gathered for his burial. His mentally disabled uncle, his shattered mother, stoic brothers and weeping classmates. Why would God take someone when they are so young and seemingly full of life!?! 

A wise king once said it is better to go to a funeral than a feast (Ecclesiastes 7:12). Today I feel I understand a little about what he meant. Funerals are a graphic reminder to us that our life now is short and every day we live is a gift from God. It really puts life into perspective and makes you motivated to act while you can.