On Africa — Part 1
On Africa
A boy. Fifteen years young. Wheelchair bound. He has a smile which lights my world — lit only briefly, mind — for like the candle lamps which quiver within the corrugated homes of these Kenyan kids, he lets his smile fade with his head, hanging it to look down at the floor instead.
The metaphorical lamp turns dull.
“Hello,” I say, stooping and finally kneeling.
He looks up and smiles again, nervously now, holding my gaze only momentarily — a fleeting homage.
Gently he replies; “Hello,” and I rest a hand on the side of his chair, glancing at his frankly ruined shoes.
“How about I see if we have a new pair of shoes for you?” I ask, and he nods, smiling again, and I shake his good hand. There’s the faintest hint of pain in his face, straining his poor arm and gurning a little. I want to put an arm round his shoulders and ask him if he’s okay, but I don’t.
I head off and fetch a pair of sneakers, running back to him and spinning his chair first so he laughs a little. I wonder to myself that this interaction is going well. I’m in a room full of disabled children you see — kids struck down not by their own fault, but by chance — and, so cruelly stricken in a nation so utterly poor as Kenya.
This young lad, with a smile so swell. Ah, I ache for him. I know his legs don’t work. One of his arms doesn’t either, but he speaks English so well, that sweet Swahili gentleness in his voice.
“I like these shoes,” he says, me showing him a pair of Nike low-tops.
I give him a high-five, squatting again so we’re eye level. I go to remove his shoes. His left foot is shaped like a club, bent aggressively at the ankle. His right foot hangs from his limp right leg. It’s then that I look to his bare feet. The nails are all gone, toes eaten away slightly (the effects of a common parasite I’m told), filth ridden. There’s an emaciated slenderness to his ankles and calves. These are the legs of man who will never walk, I think, and I almost start to sob, looking anywhere and nowhere before instead settling back at his face.
He however, doesn’t seem upset. He wears that smile again — the one that lit my world — and, for a moment, I think that maybe I can make a difference here.
Here in beautiful, tough Africa.
- October 1st, 2019. Kianjai Church, Meru County, Kenya.
It is with great peril that I write about my recent experiences in Africa. One risks the curtailing of one’s own desires to compose pieces of work about travel you see, for my first foray into this great continent was so utterly transcendent that I feel it simply does not match any stereotype that some individuals would assume and match to the region.
Allow me to first state that I had no immediate plans to visit Africa, or in particular, Kenya and Tanzania. It remained the final continent aside from Antarctica that I had not visited, and yet, I had planned to spend October galavanting throughout Nepal’s Annapurna region, still seeking to put one foot in front of the other in search of bettering oneself. Alas, three days short of booking my flights to Kathmandu, my employer informed me that I was one of a handful picked to go on an aid mission to Meru, Kenya. Though I was rather ecstatic for this news, (my boss giving me her blessing as well) I knew little of what to expect or how to prepare. Still, the rest as they say, is history. I was to work with disabled children in the draught stricken area of Kianjai, collect notes for a piece of writing, and then take a vacation as I saw fit. I picked Tanzania as this destination because I felt climbing a mountain (namely, Mt Kilimanjaro) suited my adventurous tastes, as well as satisfying a need for a break without flying too much further.
It’ll just be some enlightening charity work, and a holiday, I figured. In hindsight, I see the ridiculousness of this.
In the 18 days spent out of country there was no break per say. There was only an eye-opening period in Kenya, and some of the toughest days I’ve ever had climbing Mt Kilimanjaro above Tanzania’s animal laden plains.
Perhaps, from my journal notes featured here, you will be able to extrapolate your own picture of what I saw in Africa.
A humid morning. The sun rises out of the flats as I watch its lulled appearance turn magnificent upon the foothills of the mountain.
It’s 5am, and I’m finally about to board the first of two flights home. Embarking, I’m stunned by the orange hue of the sky, and even more so by the ring of puffy white clouds that grip Kilimanjaro. I feel happy. So happy in fact, that maybe there’ll be no proverbial ‘need’ for a holiday for quite some time. Not only did I conquer the mountain, but I learnt much about myself on the journey. I can only hope with all my heart that I contributed to a positive movement in Kenya as well.
For now, it’s time to head back to Blighty, but first, I look out the window after take-off. East of us stands Kili. It could be the lonely mountain from “The Hobbit”! I mean, my god she’s wonderful, and from the aircraft I can see her summit — that summit — Uhuru they call her — which I somehow stood upon, all covered with snow and ice and ridden by dire winds, a smile so wide and genuine across my face.
I sit back in my seat; “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” I muse. It’s easy to see why Hemingway wrote about the mountain. It’s like a woman, only the greatest one that there ever could be.
- October 14th, 2019. 18500ft in the air over Kilimanjaro National Park, Tanzania.
I landed in Nairobi toward the end of September’s languid spell. Languid, I say, because it always seems to cast despair on England’s population, as if everyone is left lazy from the fairer months. September is after all, the month where summer truly seems to die. People go back to work and glumly prepare for winter. Darkness creeps in and the days shorten. It has thus become a time of year which I favour for holidaying, escaping the cruelty of a colder London.
Indeed, disembarking on a warm morning in Kenya made me think that maybe the good weather would be lingering with me throughout my stay in Africa. A second chance at summer for all of us who were given the chance to help out in a great cause.
My colleagues and I; charismatically led by the HR Director of OLIVER, a Miss Amina Folarin, made our way north of Nairobi toward Meru County and the small town of Kianjai.
I often talk about travelling, about how wide, wonderful, and varied the world is. But this morning I had a thought.
I was ogling out a starboard-side window aboard my flight, just watching the sky and all the clouds. You know what’s funny? It doesn’t matter where you are in the world, but if you’re somewhere high up in the air, the world will always look the same.
In the sky the world is very much equally wonderful. There’s blankets of cumulonimbus thousands of feet below, an unidentifiable land, the sea — dark blue — and the sky — light blue — baked in the sun’s glow or black, lit by the moon’s light. In this manner, I see how the Earth isn’t so varied. Only on land, as I might soon see in Africa, can our world be so different. With every region that I visit, I feel a new culture, I see a new people, a new world. Ways of life differ you see. But now, lingering in the sky, there is a strange comfort in knowing that one wonderful place in our world — the air — is very often the same wherever it is you may be hanging.
Up here, there are no changing ways of life, and the atmosphere ensures that the sky feels often the same as long as you remain this high, floating through it as we all do when we fly — a poetic infinity gliding through the clouds.
- September 27th, 2019. 34000ft above North Africa.
Arriving at our digs, an orphanage built by the International Peace Initiative, I immediately perceived the surroundings.
Lush green spaces. Small patches where vegetables grew. I remember a variety of trees — trees which I hadn’t seen in the city or in any village en route. A pair of cats wandered about, skulking and purring between our legs. Local people, thin, but not dramatically so, smiled at us and bid us welcome. One man was practising carpentry and building beds. It was a merry place, oddly, as if the resources of the immediate area had all congregated in one spot so that it appeared there was no drought, no suffering. Just joy instead.
Of course, one’s immediate perception of anything in this life is seldom ever the correct one. What I learnt in our introduction with the orphanage’s leader, an enigmatically named Dr K (it turned out her name was Karambo), was that the entire complex had been established over 10 years. With all her efforts, she’d managed to secure some meagre funding, irrigating her crops and seeing that new buildings fitting her vision were formed. The orphanage looked the way it looked (remarkably beautiful, I’d add) due mainly to her efforts. This effort; an effort which I could see via the way it had elegantly aged Dr K’s striking face, had paid off.
I’m rooming with two fella’s named Eugene and Ali. They’re good guys. Eugene seems reserved, almost stoic, but somehow still quietly confident behind his seemingly shy shell. He also looks like he could knock out anyone who crossed him, but by the kindness in his voice I doubt he’d hurt a fly. Ali’s the louder of the pair. I’d say his heart is more closely aligned with adventure and trying new things. He smiles a lot — laughs too — and on the plane over here we bantered in the aisle whilst I told him about books and he drank a beer. We’re the same age too, him and I, but I always enjoy how different two men can be despite being at the same stage in life, so I know I’ll enjoy getting to know him more.
The room itself is pretty basic, but more than suitable. We’ve each our own bunk, and though the electricity seems to die every hour, I reckon we’ve everything we need. I mean look, I didn’t come to Africa for luxury, and this is the way to travel anyway — roughing it a little. I never found as much comfort in any place in life as I have after travelling and being a little uncomfortable. Admittedly though, I am glad our toilet is western. I prefer to avoid squatting.
Out a window at the end of the corridor there’s a generous view of the sunset. It gets dark early here, so the sun’s glow, red like a blood orange hanging from some Spanish tree, is going down fast. People seem to go to bed early and wake early here, so that’s what we’ll do after supper too. Sleep with the setting sun, and rise as it does — maybe that’s an African proverb?
Still, watching the sky do its thing over Mt Kenya now, I find myself wondering what the week ahead will bring. And, looking at that mountain there, 400m less in height than Kilimanjaro I hear, I wonder what the week after this one will bring too. Travel isn’t only exciting because of where you are. It’s exciting because of where you’ll be.
Presently however, I return to the room, the lads unpacking and me wondering if either of them will think thoughts remotely similar to mine right now. Or, will they simply treat every day as it comes, with no thought to the views outside this orphanage, and the mountain which looms somewhere on the fringes of that darkening horizon over yonder.
- September 29th, 2019. International Peace Initiative orphanage, Meru, Kenya.
The week soon progressed, and we found ourselves visiting schools every day. My first observation (before we even reached any school) was the squalor of any and all hamlets in the Kianjai area. Describing these basic villages is simple enough. Take some tobacco coloured soil, clay-like in consistency, and pepper it with rocks. That’s your basic landscape. It’s important to note that 85% of this soil won’t be arable. There may be patches of dry grass here and there, but there’s certainly no water, oh no. The sight of water, still or otherwise, was so rare that I was always pleasantly surprised when our morning shower actually ran. Better still though, was the feeling of seeing an irrigation system or borehole in a village. Thank God they can grow some crops or drink some water, I’d think.
The patches of dry grass I mentioned were generally yellow, and there might’ve been the odd scattering of twigs, branches and decaying stumps. These were the remnants of deforestation, for the poorest in those places once took to the woodland for firewood and to make a living off of what little logging was once available. Now the trees are all gone. Amongst this desolation, place several huts made of mud and wood and corrugated metals, and you have your hamlet.
I can’t even begin to guess how many of these villages we saw, though it was even more shocking to see the interiors of the local people’s humble homes. No furniture, full of dirt, reeds for mats or beds, maybe a small stove and an oil lamp. Generally, there were no windows. It was less than basic, and I can honestly say now that no human being should live that way. Still, what can one do? I told myself I couldn’t save them. Many seemed happy somehow, or perhaps they hid their desperation from us. It’s a question I know I’ll ask myself every time I think of Kenya.
The larger towns weren’t much better.
Though there might be several concrete buildings here, maybe an asphalt road too, the workers in these place were no doubt the same men and women who lived in such turgid conditions back in their small hamlets. Meru was a good example of this. Though it had a modern hotel as its focal point, it didn’t mean that things were necessarily going well for the local people. I took the local mall being pretty much empty aside from tourists as a sign of this.
Everything bought at markets could be negotiated, but the draught meant that grain was increasing in price anyways. I wondered if the majority could afford food. Indeed, even maize seemed difficult for many of the Kenyans we encountered to afford, so on our first day we found ourselves combining efforts with a local charity to purchase and donate 100kg of it to the community. I’ll admit this felt good (I’m really making a difference now, I told myself), but playing a role where I stood posing for photos outside of a church whilst holding a heavy bag of grain was not the reason for turning up in Africa. I guess this is where that terrible ‘white saviour’ cliché comes from, but the locals truly seemed to savour it so maybe what people back home thought didn’t ultimately matter.
Today we visited our first few schools. With dust blowing about the clay-coloured fields, the wind hot and dry, we departed our vehicles clad in sun cream and linen.
Across the way was a brown football pitch, and to its side, one long building, paired with a small water tower and row of outhouses. Lined up outside the building were boys and girls of varying ages — children whispering tirelessly to each other, tugging on jumpers full of holes and laughing if they made eye contact with any of us. We shook hands with the principal and proceeded to be introduced to the students, but first I noticed my hands shaking. Was I nervous? I don’t get nervous often, but today perhaps I was.
I took in the surroundings again. It was a desolate place, but not sad, and the lay of the land meant I could spot a few nearby village huts, where mothers and fathers watched curiously from afar. As seems the norm in Meru county, mountains and hills loomed on the horizon.
After observing more of the children’s attempts at gossiping about the presence of “mzungu” (generally meaning white people), we started to divide them up. Ali and I took about twenty of the boys off to play football, and the others took those who remained into a variety of classes.
Running around the field with those boys was very surreal. I forgot that we were at 2100m in altitude, so during our warm up every stride was admittedly harder than I anticipated. I quickly found myself toward the rear of the pack, the Kenyan boys looking back in laughter or running along side me to shake my hand. Ali soon took over with a series of training drills before dividing them into two teams of ten. I must say I’m very grateful he led the way with regards to the football, for not only am I pretty useless at playing it, but I lack the compassion of a true football fan. Many of the children in Kenya were (we found) huge football fans, so it was a blessing that Ali had the knowledge and enthusiasm for the sport.
Anyways, we played football, and it was good. It was the first time I’d seen children behave so carefree in years. It reminded me of when I was a wee boy, running around the block, cycling through the woods or what not. “Be back in an hour” my Mum would say, and I’d be off, off out there in the wild, the world my oyster and little else to worry about. These kids, varying from barely ten years old to as old as twenty in a few cases, had this same carefree sense in their body language. If they had any concerns the football took it away. They were simply kids running in a field without a worry in the world. Back the UK I’m used to seeing children be pandered to, constantly under watch, for society demands it. They aren’t as carefree and curious as they once were. I suppose the threats of others and the technology of our world has removed that veil of innocence. Standing on that field earlier though, I saw that veil once more.
When we said good bye and left the school, I felt a tinge of sadness. I knew we’d left the pupils with some computers, with footballs, and with a sense of our own wonder about the world so that they too might wonder, but what really did they gain? Whilst try we have, the little goodness we injected is but an iota in the grand scheme of things. Sure; those boys had a blast playing sport, smiling and shouting as they did, but tonight when I sleep, I’ll sleep with thoughts about what they really gained.
I hope those kids keep learning. I hope they keep dreaming. I hope the footballs we gave them last. Their life is tougher than mine, and they deserve a life far less tough. And so it is, that Africa, I am learning, is a tough tough place.
- September 30th, 2019. Kianjai, Meru County, Kenya.
Meeting new folk is one of the great joys I experience through travel, but Kenya was an opportunity to get to know my fellow colleagues better. It would be unjust not to mention these others, for we broke bread every evening together, unwinding by discussing what we witnessed and each felt about the passing Kenyan days. It bound us close, and will remain a favourite memory of mine from the whole volunteering experience.
We nine of us (The Fellowship of Kenya) were wonderfully led by Amina. She is loud, energetic, fun, and truly caring. My respect for her will forever rest at a high, for the effort I saw her make in Kenya was nothing short of what I can only describe as a manifestation of true passion. Of the aforementioned nine, I was of course one, and then there was Cristina, Ewa, Eugene, Ali, Kat, Kathryn and Jackie. I laugh when I think of this bunch. Totally eclectic, totally international. Cristina; our graceful and bright Spaniard, a fast talker with an even faster smile. Ewa; the Pole — sweet-hearted and new to travel in distant lands. She’s also a talented dancer, as I discovered through some after dinner lessons much to the amusement of the group. Eugene; big, strong, stoic, but ultimately gentle — a real force of calm within our clan. Ali; the third of us three Englishmen, an adventurous soul and all round likeable guy — seldom was he caught out, seldom did he rest from the superb job he did of leading the games of football. Kat; our kind Canadian, born in Hong Kong, and as witty as she was excellent behind a camera. Kathryn; the first American, caring and gentle — I found her frequently smiling, quietly on the look out for everyone’s well-being throughout the trip. Jackie; also from the States, soon to be wed (at the time) and wonderfully fun to have around. We nine of us made a great team. We nine of us got each other through the entire experience.
***
God damn!
Today I saw animals of all types! Elephants, Hippos, Giraffes, Jackals, Buffalo, Monkeys… The list is probably longer, but how can a man as simple as me possibly remember them all?
As we rode our vehicles out into the plains, red dust collected behind the rolling wheels, collected in our hair, on our clothes — but despite the Martian landscape I knew that in front of us lay what is truly Africa. Beautiful nature, awakening with the sun, brimming with life unseen except upon these bountiful lands. With that sun the animals too emerged. I had my camera of course and it wasn’t long before we stumbled on a small herd of Elephants.
The shutter became my mirror into their world. A looking glass which took me in.
It’s a world I thought I knew a little bit about. I’d seen these creatures in Thailand, in the zoo, and on TV after all, but little prepares you for how majestic they appear in the African bush. They’re giants; leathery grey old souls with the seeming ability to crush most other animals. But then they also possess the intelligence and compassion to pour out tears for their brethren or recognise would-be challengers.
Watching them earlier, what I noticed most was the way they wander, their knees bending backwards, stepping almost soundlessly through the brush. Oh to be an Elephant! That is to be as graceful as a water dancer who skirts the surface of any small pool, the ripples insignificant and beautiful, yet still deliberate. It’s a gentle little show for all those who might notice. When a calf follows that ripple of an adult, they swing their trunks playfully, walking in their mother’s shadow, smiling as a child smiles when he holds his parent’s hand. They are the best of the animal kingdom, and as the vehicle kept rolling through the savannah, I wondered if the others were as awed as I was in that very moment.
It was a moment of natural perfection.
- October 5th, 2019. Meru National Park, Kenya.
On Africa will continue in Part 2.
