Fear

I lay awake at 11:20 writing this, which for here is far past my bed time, and long after everyone else has gone to sleep.  The past few days have been absolutely packed with events, all of which have left my brain full and flying late into the night.

I have become comfortable and relaxed with my surroundings.  The bed I’m sleeping in has become my own, and when I’m away from Kochia for long, I ache to come home. Silivia and Emmanuel are my parents (and great friends) here, and I think I now know all 20 kids boarding at Abba by name.

Failing is my biggest fear in life.  The only time I can honestly tell you that I’ve tasted failure is when I got waitlisted at Duke. I cried big, bitter tears, and packed my bags for Trinity months later.  I get up every morning, and put one foot in front of the other, until I’ve completed everything that I needed to that day. I never (okay never is a strong word…) failed to do what I have set out to do. So maybe it’s not just failure that terrifies me, it’s also the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever experienced it for long, and don’t know it well. Fear of failing has pushed me to remain in my comfortable surroundings.

I have interviewed almost 20 people here with HIV. They were surface interviews that I promised myself I would follow up on and expand. I have found many distractions to keep me from doing this.  The people I’m interviewing have asked me how I will help them. How I will get them funding so that they can afford food and to send their children to good schools. My stomach turns when I tell them I will try. I go back to the house full of terror that I won’t come up with anything. That I will disappoint their expectations and fail.

I told Silivia I wanted to go around to the Grandies they support in the community and meet them. I have been saying this for a while now, but we actually did this yesterday and today. We walked to the first lady’s house, which is in the middle of a beautiful clearing, surrounded by trees. Her cheeks droop towards the earth.  She has sad, big eyes, and wrinkles cover her entire body.  A racking cough fills her lungs, and she pauses multiple times during her story to clear them. Her hair is turning white on top of her head, and the veins on her hands stand up and twist around each other like the stems on ivy plants.  She points to the one picture on the wall, and explains that that is the son who has fallen sick.  She is hungry, and has no food, or cow to sell to support her sick son.  In one of the stories she is relating, she mocks his wife, and shapes her mouth like she has just eaten a sour lemon and breathes out.  Her hands seem to be too big for her body, and are swollen from years of hard work.  The fingers don’t move, and they look very heavy as she moves them when she speaks.

My neck and back were sticky with sweat.  The inside of the house was acrid, and very hot.  I cross and uncross my legs, wishing severely that I understood Luo.  I wonder what this old woman’s life has been like.  It sounds filled with pain and loss, but she is still a lively and smiling lady.  I wonder if she has eaten today, or if people visit her often.  I bend down and take her hand as I say goodbye.   She touches her worn cheeks to both of mine, thanks me for coming, and tells me she is praying for me.

We walk to the next old lady’s house. I tell Silivia that I can’t believe how many people have died in this area.  She points to houses as we pass them, explaining that all the owners are dead, and that death surrounds this place.  It’s hard to comprehend.

It is a miracle that the next lady’s house is still standing.  There are holes in the iron sheets that serve as a roof, and the mud/wood structure looks like it will fall with a small amount of wind.  The front door has holes so large you could almost step through them. The old lady was seated outside her house when we walked up.  A large pipe dangled from her mouth, and a cane lay next to her on the ground. She turns over to her knees, and pushes on the ground with her hands to stand. Her head reaches my chest, as she leads us into her house. She explains she had twelve children, but only two of them remain.  She is too weak to work in the garden, and the food she eats is from neighbors and friends in the community.  An iron sheet above her bed has been donated by others, so that she can at least remain dry when she sleeps.

Silivia, Emmanuel, and I return to the house.  I tell them I want to see more ladies tomorrow.  They warn me of expectations and the hunger these Grandies have.  I tell them of my fear.  Before I left, people told me they worried about how my heart would remain whole in Africa.  They warned me of the pain and suffering I would experience.  Silivia explains to me I cannot save the world, or carry all of its burdens. So what do I do? I find myself straddling a gap that is so wide my toes are about to slip off the ledge.  I have only scratched the surface of all of these problems, because fear has kept me from digging further.  What happens when I see all of them, and can do nothing? I think I still hold lofty dreams that I can make change somewhere, and a big part of me really doesn’t want this dream to fall. 

Tuesday I travelled back from Kisumu after meeting with KIRDI (Kenya Industrial Research Development Institution).  The facility tests different products and works on making them, then turns them over to NGOs and CBOs in Kenya.  They are taking the fish skins from fish processing plants and making leather out of it, which is then turned into shoes, belts, bags, and wallets.  The process is pretty simple (but a bit smelly), and the plan is to give the leather to entrepeneurs at different stages that they would then develop into products. I bought a very nice bag made from cow and fish leather and told them they would certainly have a huge market back home for them.

The ride home from Kisumu was long.  We (Paul, Berend, and I) tried to leave by four, but were not on the road until close to six.  The President has ordered police road blocks to check for the insurance on vehicles.  People explained that the government needs money (for teachers after they were striking), and this is how they get it.  Our Matatu waited in a gas station for about an hour for the police to leave.  We listened to a Nigerian hip hop song on repeat and bought peanuts from the ladies who sell them out of buckets through the windows of the bus.  We finally were on our way, only to have a puncture ten minutes later.  We filed off the bus as the sun was setting.  They changed the tire and we got back on the bus.  I found a chicken in a black plastic bag (alive) in the seat that I was in.  It squawked as I pushed it over and took my seat.  Silivia called me every five minutes demanding 'Where are you?!' and that we shouldn't be travelling at night.  We arrived home safely and Emmanuel collected me on the piki piki.  I was very happy to be home in Kochia.

Abba is going under a bit of restructuring.  We have formed a management team with someone from the outside who has managed schools in the past.  He is extremely organized, and I have been busy typing lists of kids into excel spreadsheets. This has been extremely satisfying for my type A brain, and is moving the school forward.

I was worried in Kisumu about what I would do upon returning to Kochia.  There are many different projects that can be done, but I am racked with indecision about what I want to actually be doing. I find myself asking similar questions about what I want to do that I did back in Bellingham.  I have asked many people here and back home, and their answers are mostly the same.  Find something that you love, and do that.  People then follow up this answer with 'and don't worry, it'll take your entire life to find it.' Comforting.

I have met so many different people from all over the World here. They are all doing different things and are at different stages and ages in their life.  Silivia explained that at the end of the day, it doesn't matter as long as you're laughing and smiling. I fully agree. Maybe it doesn't really matter what you end up doing, as long as you can laugh during the process.

Silivia and I headed to a big market that is close to the house on Thursday. When we were on the way there, she received a call that the police had stopped the school vehicle.  We were dropped off some distance from where they were, and she instructed me to walk in front of her and towards the market.  She headed in the opposite direction to talk to the police.  People stopped and greeted me the whole way there, and I waited on a rock for Silivia to come meet me.  If the police see me with her, the price goes WAY up. 

She met up with me as dark rain clouds rolled in to cover the market.  We hurried to buy cabbage, and onions.  The rain started to come down, and everyone scattered and ran for cover. We struggled to carry the ten cabbages we had just bought to somewhere dry.  I laughed the entire time, as Silivia told me to hurry - she hates the rain! We crowded under an awning with about twenty other people, and waited for the downpour to stop. We continued shopping after, with mud collecting on our shoes and legs.  Emmanuel picked us up on the piki piki, and we sped home under a dark sky.

I find myself missing the baby grand piano at my parents' house more than ever.  My fingers itch to press the semi-resistant keys and to be seated on the hard bench.  I am kicking myself for not buying a roll out keyboard before coming here.  I love playing the piano, and miss being consumed by the music. What do you love to do?

Confusion

I write this entry from the top of the hotel I am staying at in Kisumu.  There is a rooftop bar, with free wi fi internet and hip hop/music from home.  It is overlooking a park with trees and walkways similar to Central Park in New York, and Lake Victoria is not far off in the background. My heart and brain are overflowing with feelings, and I find myself longing for that bowl in Harry Potter that Dumbledoor puts his memories into - thinking that if there were less going on in there, I would be able to form some sort of clear understanding or picture of how I feel.  Since this is not the case, hold on to your seats as I take you on a few tangents that I have experienced in the past week.

I met with the director of the Doctors Without Borders office last week on Thursday.  After conducting almost 20 brief interviews with people living with HIV in Kochia, I decided a trip to Homa Bay where they are actually getting their ARVs from was necessary. I entered the meeting with many questions formed with the knowledge from past papers written, research before this trip, and the recent interviews I had had. 

All the research and knowledge I walked in with was quickly replaced. The patents on ARVs are starting to run out, which has allowed for the development of cheaper generic drugs in the past five years.  THey have been able to combine pills that were originally made by different pharmaceutical companies, bringing the 6 or 7 pill count downt to 2 that you take 12 hours apart. The huge figure of 10,000 dollars to treat a patient for one year has dropped downt to a more reasonable figure of 100.  The Kenyan government (with assistance from USAID and PEPFAR) provides ARVs for free to every person living with HIV.  I explained that many of the people I interviewed were having trouble getting the proper amount of food that is required when you take ARVs, and that sexual education in schools was non-existent.  The director responded that that was outside of what they deal with, because MSF works exclusively with hospitals and providing medical services as opposed to social. I am now on a hunt to find the social services (NGOs, CBOs, etc) that are trying to address these problems. 

The bigger issue and disease now is TB.  The director explained to me that there is much more stigma surrounding this disease, and people here think that it is only a 'poor persons's disease.'  People are not being tested for it frequently when they go to health centers, because most of the focus is on the voluntary counseling and testing of HIV. Many people who are living with HIV also have TB, but few know or are being treated for it, so this is where Doctors Without Borders have been focusing. The visit was very interesting, and opened my eyes to the difference between what is being presented in literature and what is actually happening on the ground.

I spent this past weekend in Kisumu (3rd largest city in Kenya). It has been like a mini vacation from Kochia, and I feel quite spoiled.  The gaps in income back home in the U.S. are known by everyone (or almost everyone), but I have never had the opportunity to experience how the different groups are living, being very fortunate with the upper middle class upbringing my parents have given me (thank you).  I have now experienced it in Kenya.  I spent yesterday laying by a pool in a resort that reminds me of places I've stayed with my family in Hawaii.  The drive to get here was on a bumpy dirt road, through mud houses that looked similar to where I live in Kochia.  I was unable to swallow the guilt that was lodged in my throat as I snacked on fries while looking out onto Lake Victoria.

I have met many volunteers during my stay here, and find myself wrestling with the concept of 'helping.' I have had conversations with many of you via email or phone about this, and find myself still confused.  Personally, I'm not sure how much I can do to change the disparities that exist here.  My heart is urging me to come back home, spread what I have seen to as many people as possible and work to change our country's foreign economic policies and mentalities - but this by itself is a daunting task. The pull to do something to change the inequalities here is felt by everyone that has spent longer than 2 weeks here, but the answer to how still evades me.

Surprise!

I have had many surprises in the past couple of weeks. All of them have been quite exciting and brought new epxeriences, people, and places into my life - which I am extremely grateful for!

Seth, a Western student who was with the group when I arrived here, popped into SIlivia and Emmanuel's house when we were eating lunch last week. I'm not sure who was more surprised to see him - me or Silivia and Emmanuel. He listened to some incredible interviews I had with HIV positive people, and we went on a fantastic hike with Paul, Berend, and Kevin, our piki piki driver, the next day. We hiked to the top of Homa Hill, and although my out-of-shape-quads screamed at me all the way up (and down), the view from the top was absolutely stunning. We were escorted up by barefoot, laughing boys - who ran past me and laughed at the sweaty Mzungu lady trailing behind. There were cows, baboons, and goats on our way up and down. All in all it was great to see Seth, and the hike was one of the best I have ever done.

We received an urgent call to come to Nairobi on Wednesday. It came around noon, and we were leaving that night. I found myself digging my feet into the ground and trying to stay - I have only heard negative things about Nairobi, and wasn't too excited to be travelling there at night. One piki piki ride and many hours later, we were on our way in a Matatu to Kisii, because apparently the bus we were supposed to catch had bypassed Homa Bay (woops). We were able to meet up with it around 10 o'clock at night, and luckily crawled to an empty seat over bags and people in the aisleway. The ride was desperately cold, and very bumpy. Don't sit in the back of an Akamba bus on the way to Nairobi. THere are more speed bumps on that road than any other place in the world, and if are able to sleep in the cold, you'll be woken up as you fly from your seat and bump into your neighbor!

I had the pleasure of staying with a woman that came to visit Abba, while I was there. She has a TV in her house, warm water, and wi-fi internet. I felt like I was on vacation, and enjoyed many movies and music videos with her kids. Nairobi is a bit like any other big city in the states, with less traffic laws and more gated communities/houses. There are stop lights here, but I'm not entirely sure why - because literally no one even looks at them, and you better watch out for matatus (small Nissan vans) because they will run you over if you don't move. For all the horrible things people have said about Nairobi, I found it quite thrilling. I think I'm still in love with New York after spending time there before I left, and people move as fast in Nairobi as they do in New York (unless you're in a vehicle at 8 am or 5 pm).

The ride home from Nairobi was a bit better. We left the station at 930 at night, and
arrived in Rongo at 6 in the morning. I was met there by some friends of Emmanuel and Silivia, and we caught a Matatu to Homa Bay. I was lucky enough to be put in the front seat. They pack these vehicles as full and tight as they possibly can, but the front was nice and roomy. The windshield was cracked and had orange tape over it, looking like someone had let their four year old child run wild with the crayons. The inside of the van was decorated with silver christmas tinsel, and the rearview mirror in the front hung by a thread. I watched (and heard) the driver push the van up to 80 mph, and said a silent prayer that we would make it to Homa Bay in one piece.

Today there was a mobile clinic with some of the dentists Silivia used to work with. I showed up expecting to not be able to help with a whole lot. Silivia pulled me over to an older lady, and explained that she 'was like me' - meaning she had type 2 diabetes. Emmanuel translated as I asked her if she was on medication, and how she was feeling. She has no meter, and goes to the doctor every 2 months, but has periods where she feels like she is going to faint. I scratched my head, trying to remember which foods have complex carbohydrates and telling her to avoid soda. I then instructed her to get her eyes checked by the opthamologist that had come - and steered her to that line, feeling good that I had at least sent her in the direction of a trained specialist.

I'm feeling a bit homesick, knowing that at this time the great migration back to Bellingham for college is beginning. Drop me an email if any of you get the chance - I would love, love, love to hear from all of you!