What Katy Loved: December 2011

The Matatu

As I clamber into another matatu, I think back to the first time i squeezed myself into one. An awkward situation at best. About the size of a small mini bus, twenty two strangers found themselves intimately pushed against one another. When twenty people were positioned in the matatu (a sad looking fourteen seater pushed to its limits), I foolishly believed that this cosy experience was as cosy as it was going to get. I was wrong. As we were about to leave, a large african cucu and her small jojo prized the door open. My eyes widened as she reversed her rather plump matina in my direction. Where was she planning on sitting? And with a small child on her front? The mad woman. Just then, a small plank of wood was thrust in my face. Surely not! This was to be this lady's seat. It was forced down between two seats on either side of the already tiny gangway, soon followed by the lady. It turns out she was a very jolly lady who had a love for muzungus. This is something I've noticed about the people here. They love a white person, want to know everything about you and will force a lot of tea down your neck. They are incredibly happy people who work harder than anyone I have ever met - but their smiles! Their smiles beam: they are truly happy people. They will laugh hysterically and won't stop until they are out of breath or choking. At first I was taken aback. What ARE they laughing at? Turns out they're just happy and now I join them in their fits of laughter.

The remainder of the journey in the matatu was uncomfortable. The rickety vehicle bounded along the pit-hole infested, dirt track; everything that wasn't strapped down jumped, leaped, heaved and hoed... Including the contents of my bra.
That is now something that has become a very usual experience but still fills me with a lot of joy... And a tiny bit of fear.

'Tounane rojo'

As I place my panga down and hand over my mud covered gloves, the smile on my face soon fades. The realisation that I would soon be leaving this land causes my heart and spirits to dip. My kenyan father, who has loved, taught and guided me throughout my time here holds my arm and gives me a knowing look before I pull on my heafty mountain of a bag ready to leave. He knows. He knows that I have learnt: he knows I am leaving him as a better, more passionate and more informed person. And he knows we shall meet again. I brush away my tears and I smile. I have learnt and I am ready to go.
From this family and community I have learnt values that couldn't have been taught elsewhere. I have learnt to endure all that life will throw my way; take on the challenges, work hard and reap the benefits- and do so smiling. I have learnt that community, family and friends are everything. Without which we are shell like beings playing a game of dodgums- avoiding the connections that we are capable of having. And that is a sad existence. I have been taught to embrace each day and to remain positive always. For I have met people who, through the way they carry out their lives, have shown me that even though you may suffer, you must see the beauty in each day. Iit keeps you strong.
Kenya has taught me how to really love the world and all around me.
So, I leave- I leave behind a piece of my heart and I leave having new insight.
The people who suffer from poverty are the people who show me that together they will not suffer. Positive energy and determination. I am both inspired by and in awe of these people. There is much to be learnt in Africa.

Reflection:

First, I shall tell you a tale about this marvellous name, 'Kanana'. It comes from a time in my life spent with a loving family in Kenya. Detached to me by blood, but joined by love. The Karimis: each of them beautiful, bright and vibrant - and a real ambassador for what the human has the potential to be. Existing solely for eachother and truly believing in the power of 'goodness', the Karimis welcomed me. Arms and hearts open. Ready to teach and prepared to learn.

It was a warm evening, sitting in the living room with the family when they turned to me and said. 'It is time'.
I knew what was coming as they had forewarned me. I tingled all over. I was going to receive a Kenyan name. Magical.
'Your name is Kanana', my Kenyan mother told me. I smiled. (Not only because Kanana rhymes with banana but because they were going to tell me what it meant). I looked over at my Kenyan family who then went on to explain its meaning: 'You are the loving one Kanana, the one who keeps all others well.'
A long contemplative pause. Then, a humble 'thank you' poured from my lips and danced across the room.

They understood me and understood my mission in life. And that, my fellow humans is all you really need to know about the person whose words you might stumble accross and decide on reading.

Two and a half months, (or ten weeks or some amount of days) of my mid twenties have been spent in Meru of the country Kenya of the continent Africa. It is a small town near the twin peaked Mt kenya, four hours north of Nairobi. I lived there, worked there and loved there. It is a place so special it has claimed a part of my heart that will never be overwritten.
The soil there is rich with red iron, the plants a wide variation of lush greens to moisten the appetite. The people as kind and as friendly as you could ever desire a person to be. The children as free and curious as the animals, the animals as colourful as dreams and the dreams, like the conciousness, vivid and full of adventure.
Daily, I would walk, with my newly found friends, in and around the forest. Up steep hills that at first took my breath away (and not only because of their beauty), over tough grounds which were either thick, gooey sludge or uneven, dusty rocks, depending on rainfall. Greeting people from Meru with a 'Muga' (how're you doing) which was generally always followed by a 'Kwega' (I'm fine) and then if you were feeling in a particularly chatty mood, you could follw that up with a 'Kathongi' (Everything is fine). This quite often received an outburst of cackling from the Kenyan people - which, if I'm honest, at first silenced me and caused me to become a little self concious. 'Why are they laughing? And so hysterically?''. After a short while however, I could also be found in the same fits of hysterics with the African men, women and children. The laughter was that of pure joy - not to mock, which is something I hadn't been used to.

Work was like nothing I had ever done before - we were armed with a panga (machette), a pair of stealthy gardening gloves and a pair of, what I originally thought to be, good walking shoes (these 'Hi-tec' shoddy creations lasted me until the last week of extreme walking and then gave up all hope. Holes in the toes and all over the soles. Tsk. Still, my Kenyan father took great pleasure in taking these from me when I left Kenya. Nothing goes to waste there. He'd fix them up a treat.)
A typical day at work involved an hour long, morning treck in whatever conditions the weather felt like throwing in our direction, a safety circle at the beginning of the day ensuring we had all the equipment to stop us from 'seriously harming' ourselves and then, we were generally given the task of either clearing (my favourite job - it involved hacking the life out of huge thorned bushes, shouting at it as you did it) and the more sedate, planting of small Meru Oak trees. Both tasks were beneficial to the environment but might have sometimes seemed a little 'samey' - but what utter joy to be there. Working outside, in the sunshine, in a forest, with nature and good friends surrounding me.
A friend had told me, before I left for Kenya, to name each tree I plant after someone I love. So this is what I did. And I took great pleasure in it. There are now small trees growing in Africa that will one day be big trees, that have my friend's and family's greatness attached to them. I should hope this will help these trees to survive whatever comes their way.

And, It was there in the forest that I found my inner peace. And I truly did. Calmer and more focussed energies swim around in my body and all around me - and it is quite spectacular.

I also found an incredibly tall, incredibly fascinating, incrediby bare chested and incredibly stoned middle aged Canadian hippy called Mike. It wasn't really what I expected to find in a Kenyan forest. But hey ho, it is something that I'm very pleased to have stumbled across. I placed down my panga and he picked out a joint from a lime green, plastic tube he had round his neck. Medicinal usage of course. If you looked down, down past Mike's very short shorts, you could see his legs were covered in impressive scars. Painful? I imagine so. Some few years ago, he'd been in a car accident - a very serious one by the appearance of his legs. He'd not been able to walk for over a year and he'd had some brain damage (not something very apparent in speaking to him at first). This is why I found him in the forest - Embracing every moment of his life. He'd come over from Canada with his wife who originated from Meru and found himself wandering around the forest on his own. I felt that his height, his bare chest and his wild curling hair kept any possible danger at bay. It wasn't usual for a Mzungu (white person - or, literally translated as 'the white foamy scum that comes in off the ocean') to be wandering the forest on their own.
Mike had been travelling all his life. Even more so since his accident and had so much to tell me. My brain felt overloaded at times but always inspired. Maybe I wrote some of the things he said down - I do hope so... let me just go and find my diary and see. Ah yes, Thursday 9th December 2010, Mike sung 'Redemption' by Bob Marley as he took me, a few others and his boxing, Kenyan stoner buddy on a stroll around the forest. He took us to the aquafur (please do not quote my spelling), basically a small, man made reservoir where the elephants usually go to bathe. Apparently they no longer go there because anti malarials are now put into the water - it makes the water a magnificent turquoise though. He also showed me the sausage plant which looks like where a lufa may come from - commonly used in a shower to scrape away the day's dead skin cells from a body. Together we munched on passionfruit and we talked about the forest we were existing in. A magical place like no other.

King Muru is the largest oak in Meru. The largest and the most hollow. It takes ten or more people to wrap themselves around the trunk with their arms spread out wide, touching each other's fingers. I'm not sure how many people could fit inside. We joked that we could fit all of the people from Meru inside. And maybe an extra Ng'ombey (cow).

I saw huge leaves fall from great distances to the ground. Bigger than myself. I saw cows, who looked a little monstourous - yet oddly beautiful with huge, fatty lumps on their necks. I saw snakes slide quickly across clearings in the grass. I saw giant and colourful spiders with thick and strong yellow webb catching giant insects and delicate butterflies. I saw elephants magestically move across the landscape. I saw and heard monkeys leap great distances from tree to tree, calling for their mates. I saw plant life and insects I never knew existed and never knew could exist. Sigh. I saw things that will stay with me forever.

Not all was beautiful in Kenya though. Most was. But not all.

Donkeys are beaten within an inch of their life. Abused and with noone to be their saviour. It seems odd in a country predominantly Christian, where the donkey features in the bible as a bit of a superstar. I wish so much to educate people on how to be nice to your animals - but sadly, that would be a lost casue. It is in the roots of their culture and it would be extremely difficult to change people's attitudes.

There were also children. Some fortunate enough to be able to afford education, some not. Some of the less advantaged children were more often than not, orphans (through family memebers dying from AIDS/HIV) who would soon find themselves on the streets, begging and sniffing glue. The glue sniffing children are everywhere and it broke my heart to see them - and even more so to leave them. No matter how much you may try to inject a little bit of love in their life by talking and playing with them and maybe giving them something to eat and maybe seeing them crack a smile, what sort of existence is that really?! A small empty bottle of gin held up to their lips, filled with glue for the children to sniff on to stop their hunger pains. Heartbreaking. I asked one boy why he sniffed glue, he replied simply by rubbing his tummy and telling me 'It makes it better'. It wouldn't happen at home. It wouldn't be allowed. Morally. As a human being in an adult position, if you saw that, I imagine you'd try anything to try and stop it.
People in Kenya do try to help wherever they can, they really do and charities and childen's homes are set up. But, one must remember, the individual in Kenya is quite often poor, struggling enough to feed and support themselves and it is also quite often the case that there are more glue sniffing children than there are places to look after them.
It is something I found hard to digest and hard to leave behind. What does rest my worrying mind though is that people in Kenya are trying their best to support one another, so perhaps one day the glue sniffing will no longer be an issue.

Then of course, there is the AIDS/HIV issue. It is rife and it is affecting a lot of people. It is however being treated as is the stigma that goes alongside it. And, when on 14th December 2010 (my 25th birthday), I sat in an AIDS/HIV support group meeting with over 100 people there to help eachother, my heart was overwhelmed with love and respect for what these people are trying to do for eachother. A group made up of volunteers and people affected by the virus. A group of people who will do anythign and give anything they can to help. Although there is a stigma with the disease and people often try to hide themselves away and deal with it on their own, this was a great event which celebrated the lives they have. It educated people about the health care they can receice, it told them to be strong and rejoice in the life they have, that life is not over, to live healthy lives and to stay pro-active. It warmed me up. My skin tingled. I had a permanent smile on my face for the day. I had a lump in my throat. It was beautiful. A truly beautiful experience where we were all rejoicing in life. AIDS/HIV are scary and daunting, but having love around you will get you through any of the tough times. And that is the truth.

My short time in Kenya has taught me so much. And to summarise in a few words; thank you for showing me love. Love in abundance.

Here are some photos:

The walk to work

I fell in love with this tree

Painting a mural for the children at a Children's Home in Meru.

A large and beautiful 'family'. A lot of these children are orphans, taken in by these wonderful women, who have HIV/Aids, to offer them shelter and food. True inspiration.

Joining in the celebrations at a local wedding. Such bright and colourful occasions that I couldn't resist getting involved in.

Meeting Napoi and her Nomadic tribe, this pictre was taken inside her hut. The men of the tribe do nothing but impregnate women and smoke cigarettes while the women do everything else; sourcing materials and water, building the huts, bringing up the children, hunting... the list goes on. Respect!