Karen, Nairobi, Kenya
I expected memorable moments from this trip but wondering aloud about a horrible smell and then realizing it was me will not go down as one of the high points in my life. But as with any experience, you take the good with the bad and so has been the case in Kenya. At least I can now take pride in mastering the art of the "bucket shower."
Junior, the in-country Volunteer Coordinator, met me at the airport. Enthusiastic and extremely amiable, Junior could sell air conditioners to the Eskimos. He knows everyone in Nairobi and has one or two cousins in every profession in the city. Calling in favors with cab drivers, travel agents, hotel managers, and anybody else that could help, he toured me around the country to museums, the port city of Momobasa where we ate crocodile and rode a camel, and the Maasai Mara Game Reserve where we were lucky enough to meet a Maasai tribe, be escorted to their village, and invited into their hut. (Although made of cow dung, it was actually a very cozy home.) We were teamed up on safari with Agnes and Alex, a friendly couple from Paris, and placed a stone's throw distance from buffalo, wildebeest, elephants, giraffes, lions, cheetahs, leopards, impalas, zebras, and hippos.
Despite some challenges and chaos, the Kenyan demeanor and charm made me feel right at home. The general lack of order in Nairobi with people walking wherever and whenever they please bothers noone, and the lack of stress in pedestrian faces is puzzling but enviable and inviting. Most appealing is the laughter heard among the crowds as passer-bys stop to greet a familiar face.
If you crave adventure, go no further than the nearest corner to ride a matatu or in English, a simplified minivan. For all you mothers most familiar with this vehicle, just imagine chucking the car seats, piling in 15 strangers and then throwing the kids wherever they'll fit. And no popular DVDs playing to calm the troops! They do however come complete with a fare collector. He sits somewhere in the middle but never speaks. He gently taps you on the shoulder and you're expected to know how much to pay. He's got the whole crew of passengers working, passing money and change from front to back and back to front.
Then there are the roads. The city center is OK but once you get to the neighborhoods, hold onto your cookies. They may have been paved at one point but are now a mixture of rock, dirt, and potholes. The skilled drivers press on, zigzagging their way down the streets from one area to another while at the same time avoiding the other matatus, cars, trucks, and buses. You do see some unsuccessful vehicles on the side of the road but nobody seems to be overly concerned about suffering a similar fate. When it's time to get off, tap the window with some type of coin, and the driver will hit the brakes. Just get out quickly and make sure it's your stop, because you won't have time to get back on.
My time at Nyumbani orphanage has been eye-opening and rewarding. There are 92 HIV-positive children that are some of the warmest, friendliest people you could ever meet and several volunteers from other parts of Africa, the U.S., the U.K., Canada, and Germany. The kids welcome the volunteers with open arms and at any given time, you have two on each arm, three on each leg, one hugging you and one less than an inch from your face looking right into your eyes with a big ear-to-ear grin. They love my bald head and without warning a group of them will come over to pat it, rub it, or kiss it. They sometimes remark about the softness of my remaining hair as they rub their cheeks against it. (My own nieces and nephews are also fascinated with my head, but they are more inclined to ask why I don't have hair and hope the curse never comes their way.) I think these kids like the fact that we have something in common as the hair on all the kids is kept very short. They often approach saying only, "Come" which means they have something to share. Some of the older kids call me "Goldberg" and insist I am actually the famous wrestler. I keep telling them the truth, that I'm "Stone Cold Steve Austin," but they aren't having it. I need to be well-rested when I go near their cottage because a group always runs over expecting to be lifted over my head. My days consist of helping in the kitchen, assisting in the classroom, and doing sports and activities and anything else to keep the kids occupied and smiling.
It's very touching to see the kids interacting. They all take care of one another. If one is not feeling well, another will not hesitate to serve them their food or give them a hug. You would never know the tough life they have endured. Two of my favorites are Amal and Samuel. Amal is five and from Somalia. After her mother died of AIDS, her grandmother kept her hidden and chained to a bed all day long in an effort to protect her from being killed by the Moslem tribe. She could barely walk when she came to the orphanage and after three years is still behind in behavior and speech. But she smiles all day long, content to be doing just about anything.
Samuel is unfortunately in bed most of the day. He doesn't say much but seems to have a mind that records every move of those around him. He is ten but looks five and always wears a hood that covers his head. The only thing that Samuel seems to look forward to is Harry Potter. Already on Book Five, the volunteers take turns reading to him. We have to make sure to start where the last volunteer left off without repeating any sentences or we will hear it from Samuel who is more intelligent than most kids I've known. While reading, you can look up at any moment and see Samuel's beautiful eyes, even more pronounced with his hood, staring intently at you eagerly anticipating more of the Harry Potter storyline.
And I can't forget to mention Queen Rose. Yes it's her real name and let's just say that her name speaks for itself!
And so despite my first stomach ailment, food not to write home about, and some lonely moments of adjustment, I'm happy to be in Africa and am looking forward to what the days ahead will bring!