Karachuono

Thursday I traveled with a friend of mine to the area his mom is living in. It's called Karachuono, and is about a 30 minute piki piki drive from where I am living. His mom told me that Rachuono was a man that was around long ago that had many wives. Each smaller area in this large area of land is named for one of his wives. The specific place we were in was called Kokoth, and the area that Silivia grew up in is Kanjira.

We walked to greet a couple different old grandmothers in the area. This place is quite interior, so most people have not seen any Mzungus around. The first old lady we went to see scolded Seth, the boy that took me, for not calling her ahead of time. I sat behind her in a chair in the shade, and she told me about growing up as she placed her withered hand on my knee. She explained that her husband first brought 5 bulls to her father, then when they actually married 4 more. I laughed as I said she must have been quite beautiful - usually people only bring between 5-8 cows - and she confirmed she was expressive and very beautiful. Her husband fought in both wars, spending some time in Madagascar before bringing her to her home now. She gave birth to 13 children, although only 6 remain now - the era of HIV decimating members of this family. We left, explaining we were going to see some other grandmas in the area.

The next house we walked to was at the base of Homa Hill. The walk was long - on a pathway lined with trees. The sun was hot and we walked slowly, jumping to pieces of shade. Her home was placed on the slope of the hill - and it was large and beautiful. Her granddaughter was outside washing clothes in a black basin, and she told us she had gone to the farm. We walked inside this house. The sitting room was huge, with a large wooden dining table taking up one half and multiple sofas filling the other. Her and her husbands initials were carved into the wall near the ceiling of the entire room. A light breeze billowed the white curtains inwards towards us. It was extremely quiet up here, and surrounded by tall, leafy green trees.

The mama finally entered. She was sweating, and apologized as she explained she was looking for a lost goat. She has a slight gap between her teeth, and walks with the assistance of two canes. She continued apologizing as she fussed around to bring us water. Her husband's brother's home is next door, and she told us we most go over and visit them as well. We stood to do this as she prepared lunch for us.

We walked into another large compound, after removing a hastily built fence to keep the stray goats inside. One of the grandmother's made noise as she pushed us to come through the front door instead of the back - some sort of taboo for first time visitors. We sat in the sitting room with two other women and one man. They brought a large mud basket full of ground nuts (peanuts) and I began to help shell them. They exclaimed in surprise that I knew how to do this. I laughed remembering Mariner's games with my family when I was little, my dad buying fresh roasted peanuts there.

They asked me what I was doing here, and I told them I wanted to come hear their stories, that I loved spending time with old people and I wanted to hear about when they were young. They again looked at me with surprise - my generation here uninterested in their experience.

The man and woman sitting across from me are married, and began to tell me about life before there was money, matches, or clothing. They explained that life was hard then, but at least working hard provided them with the food and shelter they needed. That life now they thought was actually harder, explaining that they didn't understand this new technology and that it made their lives more difficult. I cracked groundnuts happily, sitting back as the old lady in spectacles began to tell me an old wives tale.

We caught a ride back to Kochia from the local Chief. I rolled down my window and sat in happy silence, Luo music playing in the background. Wind rushed past my face and I thought about these elderly people I had the privilege of meeting today. They all were shocked that I wanted to hear about THEM. The stereotypes they hold about white people telling them that the place I come from is too great to want to know about their lives. I'm saddened greatly by this belief - but hope that maybe I can change a few of their minds, and hear some wonderful stories in the process. I will be travelling back there on Tuesday - to interview individuals with HIV in the area, and hopefully to visit these old grandies again.

Yesterday, I went with Silivia and Emmanuel to a meeting for the piki piki drivers in the area. They have formed their own group, along with some other people from the community to try and bring more money to each individual.

Emmanuel carried two plastic green chairs on his head, placing them in an already crowded room. Some people sat on the floor, others sat on jerry cans and chairs. I sat next to the secretary, who held a book of lined paper. Boxes for each member had been drawn with a pen and ruler, and the collections of money they had received for each day sat next to their names. He went down the list, calling each name out and saying how much they owed, heckling some.

This group is now acting as a bank. A daily collection is taken from the forty members, and will be returned at the end of the month to them. They are trying to encourage people to save, so that a microfinance group can come in and set up loan schemes for them. Often, they hold merry go rounds – which are a collection of money from each member that is then given to a set few. Each person in the group gets their turn during a different week.

A new member wanted to join their group. Silivia explained they have something called a kuodo – where they gossip about the person, and decide if they are allowed to join. This certain member was asked to wait outside, while people in the group brought forth information they knew about him, if he was reliable or a heavy drinker. They then voted – raising their hands if they agreed to accept him – and he was allowed back into the room, and told he was a new member.

I sat in my green plastic chair in front of the small window, wind blowing against the back of my neck. One of the six women in the group sat next to me, holding a very tiny baby to her chest. I sat in amazement – at the tenacity of this group of people to change their situation. At the ability of a large group of people to sit down together, air their views and ideas and do something to change where they are at. At the power of social pressure and gossip to strengthen the paying of fees. I wondered what would happen if each of our communities back home would meet like this weekly, how much we could change.

An inside look

I think the universe took my last blog questions a little too seriously. I found myself vomiting all Friday night, and made my way to the largest private hospital in Kisumu on Saturday. After being stuck in a traffic jam for over an hour to make it to the hospital - I found myself trying to navigate the administration desk? I was steered to the triage nurse, who seemed more concerned with the tattoo on my wrist than my vitals. I sat and waited, and waited, and waited to be called by a doctor. This hospital is the fanciest I have ever been in, with lots of ventilation and windows. All receptionists wear heels, and carry trays of afternoon tea to nurses and doctors. The patients are all dressed to the nines - I'm sure I gave people a lot of entertainment in my basketball shorts and oversized t-shirt.

I was herded into a doctor's office upstairs, where I sat for longer - while a movie from thailand played on the large flat screen in front of me. Finally someone read through my chart, and pushed me back downstairs after proclaiming "a diabetic child that's been vomiting, why have you not put her on fluids?! My very dehydrated self could have kissed the doctor, but decided against it and followed the nurse back downstairs.

The emergency room in this hospital consists of about 6 rooms - all of which were full. I sat on the tiled floor, worried that if I stood for longer I may very well pass out. I finally saw a doctor, and she spoke so quietly all of my answers to her questions sounded like I was shouting at her. She stuck me in a room in the corner of the waiting area, where a nurse then came to stick an IV in my arm to give me fluids.

She asked me how I was, and told me this IV would be easy to place - because I was so brown and my veins were so visible. I should have known that statement spelled trouble. After 4 misses and a doctor being brought in - I had 500 ml of saline dripping into my hand, and was on my way to get my blood drawn. I waited until the lab technician called my name, hoping that he would not struggle as much finding a vein as the nurses before him had. He pulled one vial of blood - no pain - and I walked out of the room, only to be called back in because he hadn't realised he needed two vials of blood. Oh boy.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally had my results back. The doctor informed me I had a bacterial infection - I think she said in the blood, but she was speaking so quietly I could barely hear her, and was feeling delusional from the fever that was coming back. I filled my prescriptions for pain medication, anti nausea, and my antibiotics, walking out of the breezy hospital 6 hours after I had arrived.

Upon reflecting about my previous questions - I agree with all of them whole heartedly. It seems that the bigger an institution grows, the more cracks and holes there are for patients to get lost in. I understand the necessity of a hospital - that every sort of testing that needs to be done can be completed here, but I found myself wondering if you splintered each ward into it's own entity, if there would be less wait time, less times you have to remind the nurses what's wrong with you.