Paralympic flame to shine light on kenyan disability discrimination

My boss out in Kenya, Fredrick Ouko, and our colleague Alfred Simiyo, have been selected to carry the paralympic torch on its relay through London this week. They will join Team GB wheelchair sprint star Anne Wafula Strike and other representatives of ANDY's UK partner organisation, AbleChildAfrica, in recognition of the success of one of our joint programmes getting young disabled people into work. Like Kenyan-born Anne, both Fredrick and Alfred lost the use of their legs to childhood polio. Here, Fred says what it means to him, and how it will help ANDY get even better results for young Kenyans with disabilities.

This week we will be carrying the Paralympic torch through the heart of London. It is a fantastic honour, and wonderful recognition of some of the work we are doing to help people like us – youth with disabilities in Kenya – to take control of our own lives and escape lives of poverty and dependence.

To be even, a small part of London 2012 is a dream. With 2 million tickets sold, and the UK’s national television stations all covering the event, the eyes of the country and much of the globe will be on London, celebrating the achievements and talents of people with disabilities.

It only goes to show how different a World we will be flying into. In Kenya most people would never even consider that we have any potential, aspirations or talents.
The employer interviewing us for jobs, the teachers in schools, the bank manager considering whether to give us a loan for business, the Government department planning healthcare, even the parents deciding whether to spend money sending their disabled child to school – very few see us as equal or deserving. And our place in society is destined to be the dark alleys where people think we belong.

Many see us a burden or something to be ashamed of, or if we’re lucky someone to pity. Many don’t see a person at all, but Viwete or Kiguru - Swahilli words for ‘thing’.
When families fled serious political violence after our elections in 2007, some even took the opportunity to leave their children with disabilities behind. Our former president this month denounced the appointment of a highly educated, experienced human rights defender and public servant to an important government commission because he ‘cannot see’ the issues – he is blind. Unfortunately, many agree with him

It is this prejudice that denies the millions of disabled Kenyans living in poverty the tools they need to escape. I was lucky; as I had what every child needs - parents who have always believed in me. They believed in my talents and pushed me to gain the education I needed, and then supported me when I decided to start my own community organisation at 20 years old. But lets not think it came easy, my Dad has told me of the many questions he was asked on his decision to support my education. He could have invested all his time and money on my siblings, as they thought I was not a good enough investment venture due to my disability. It is people like my parents who are responsible for getting me to where I am today. They chose to look at me as a child like any other who deserved everything needed to succeed in life.

But less than 20% of children with disabilities make secondary school, and just 2% make university. ANDY’s programmes are designed to give people with disabilities the opportunities which society often denies us; the chance to take part in sports, learn how to write a business plan and access credit, gain an internship, get HIV and health information in a format they can understand, or build the skills to seek election. Every one of us who takes on a role in our community; from running a business to running for election, becomes more than their disability and asks questions of the old attitudes. It is the only way we challenge the stereotypes that have existed in our society because this is when we are viewed as contributors to the overall efforts of national development

And that’s why it is so important that we try to take some of this Paralympic magic back to East Africa, to inspire and support even more youth with disabilities in Kenya and change society’s attitudes on a much bigger scale. We are telling our story in schools, offices, government departments, in newspapers and across social media – challenging myths and changing minds.

Cheer them on from London Zoo at 10am on Wednesday.

To find out more about AbleChildAfrica’s life-changing work in East Africa, got to http://ablechildafrica.org, and follow us on facebook and Twitter. To donate Text 'Able11' followed by £5, £10 or £20 to 70070

Banging heads against brick walls

A block of flats in Leeds has now been without running water for six days. Before anyone stops reading; this isn’t going to be a preachy post about how we don’t know we’re born because thousands of Kenyans survive without basic services every day.

The starkest difference between the two countries lies in the response it has prompted from  the flats' residents, and the fact that any of the institutions and companies involved are doing anything in return.  In the UK – especially among the middle classes who live in this block of flats – we use every trick in the book to shame and embarrass companies into correcting their mistakes, and demand that the organisations that represent us fight our corner. So this lack of water has been making headlines across all media, the local council has intervened to provide local showers and toilets, and health inspectors have even been to check it’s still safe to live there.

But before any inspired Kenyans pick themselves off the floor and decide to follow their lead and take the fight to Kenya Power and Lighting (nkt!), I have a cautionary tale from my time in Nairobi. When we arrived inwe moved into a relatively new block of flats which were apparently built without anyone checking they could be supplied with water. We tried not to think about what other short-cuts were taken. When the water pressure isn’t there, Nairobi Water Company (nktest!) just doesn’t refill the tanks which supply each of the households. On the sixth floor, this affected us more often than most. To make matters worse, after we'd introuced some simple rationing, the water supply was inexplicably cut off. After a couple of days queuing, a lot of emails and phone calls we found that this was down to the unpaid bills of previous tenants. After we’d paid the bill twice, they promised to put it back. But the pipe was never reconnected. Now I am a pushy, educated complainer. If I reach retirement, I will spend it sending angry, pompous versions of whatever has substituted the letter to whatever has substituted local councillors. I am a customer service nightmare; I expect everything I pay for to work. If it doesn’t, I complain. The more a company tries to ignore me, the deeper I dig my heels in. So armed with the email trail showing the broken promises and Nairobi Water admitting liability, I asked how I could claim the compensation for the supply of water I’d had to purchase privately. The reply was sent with the typed equivalent of a straight face:

We have no system for reimbursing you for this cost incurred. Thank you and we hope to be able to have the honour of serving you again in the future.

I searched in vain for the paragraph which began ‘If you are unhappy with this response you can choose to escalate the complaint or write to the ombudsman . . .’

Our neighbours just shrugged their shoulders and got on with it. These were the middle classes. Voters. People who actually paid for their water supply. It was very difficult to accept this level of nonchalance in a country where people carry round two or three different SIM cards and switch between them to get the absolute best deal. This was the beginning of my deflation. My first experience of powerlessness as a consumer (unrelated to supporting Leeds United, anyway).  After farcical trips to the post office, involving seven separate transactions and some unexplained taxes on parcels, and hours queuing in Electricity House querying our bills to be told ‘just pay it’, I was beaten. Usually, white skin and the power/wealth it insinuates in Kenya guarantees a different response. But I can happily report that most institutions’ bureaucracy, unaccountability and poor service sees no colour. I can easily understand why people don’t sacrifice hours of income to try and make sense of it all. Kenyans simply seem to be used to having no power when dealing with their institutions.

As Allys Williams, our flatmate in that often waterless flat in Nairobi ,wrote in the penultimate post of her (and fiancé eddie’s) very readable blog :

(Seeing Kenyans) Growing up without loads of “stuff” isn’t the worst thing; the sad part is when you see people who can’t reach beyond the present moment because they have been let down so badly by their world that they have no sense of agency. Believing that one day you will be able to take charge, even just a little, is worth a parking lot full of Ferraris.

That’s why in many countries VSO’s focus is on strenthening civil society; empowering people and non-governmental organisations with the knowledge and skills to hold power to account, to exercise their rights and take control of their own future. I worked with the brilliant Action Network for the Disabled on its human rights and advocacy programme, which was giving Kenyans with disabilities the knowledge, skills and confidence to make the rights they have gained on paper in the new Kenyan constitution work as a positive force for their lives. It’s a great example of how well the VSO process can work; I supported the programme team to help create a clear and distinctive guide to the rights of persons with disabilities, to refine workshops to train and support human rights activists in Kenya’s three main cities, and create the partnerships and connections to extend the impact of the campaign. By marrying my expertise with their knowledge we expanded the impact of the programme, and created materials which are now being used within the disability mainstreaming work of the Kenyan government, and by an international charity’s huge Kenya-wide advocacy programme supporting over 10,000 people. I visited the places where the people ANDY had trained were helping people with disabilities in their communities into school, registering to vote, accessing buildings and challenging the negative perceptions Kenyan society still holds about disability.

It was stunning to see, in the space of those twelve months, the change that could be achieved by a fairly small organisation led by an inspirational man who has overcome enough barriers to know that he and his fellow Kenyans can get over a few more.

Go on, sponsor me to run the Leeds half marathon for ANDY.   Just give them £3 and they'll change someone's life. Good deal.

If I finish the Leeds half will you buy ANDY a pint?

The Leeds half marathon is a humble challenge compared to many of my friends' fundraising endeavours; walking through the sahara, running actual marathons across the globe and the like. But I think you'd probably buy me a pint or a coffee at the finish line if you were there, so why not give that money to Action Network for the Disabled (ANDY) - the charity I spent last year working for in Kenya - instead?

Take a look at this slide show if you are considering sponsoring me. It goes a bit quickly, so use the pause button. Or just sponsor me here 




If the slideshow is as frsutrating to use as it was to create (alternatives to picassa will be happily considered), here are the words::

I’m running the Leeds half marathon - mostly to help my old colleagues to carry on transforming the lives of Kenyans with disabilites, and a little bit to sort out my belly.
Life is tough enough for Kenyans, and its even tougher if you're disabled. Most of Kenya's 6m disabled people live in poverty and lack the basic tools anoyone needs to escape a life of dependency. Stigma and abuse is rife, few get an education, employers and banks reflect society's negative attitudes towards disability, and just getting around on uneven, mud paths  and slums can be a long and undignified daily challenge.
But as big as the challenge is, the price of your daily coffee or (hopefully not daily) beer can make a real difference to people with no access to school, healthcare or income.
£3 (or more if you like) could provide ANDY with the cash to help one of the millions of Kenyans with disabilities living in slums like Kibera.
It could pay for qualified but often overlooked disabled candidates to attend one of the life-changing internships which ANDY arranges or for ANDY to offer entrepreneurs a loan to start their own business.
It can help put on an advocacy training session to help disabled people in rural communities to understand the country's new constitution and hwo to make the msot of their rights, or it could help to maintain new equipment for ANDY's internet cafe, which churns all its profits back into its programmes.

ANDY is helping thousands of disabled Kenyans to shape their own lives. It is a unique organisation led by disabled Kenyans like Ouko, who climbed Mt Kilimanjaro in 2010 just to prove that losing the use of both legs as a child shouldn’t stop anyone.

So to sponsor me please make a donation directly to ANDY’s justgiving page, putting some reference to me or the leeds half marathon in the message: http://www.justgiving.com/actionnetworkforthedisabled

Thanks!

GW

May we be performance managed on earth as we shall be in heaven

In Nairobi, when a man stands up in the aisle of the bus you're on, asks for your attention and declares that his fellow passengers have nothing to fear as he is not about to preach or hawk goods, you can guarantee that he is about to both preach and hawk.

Justin, who professes to be a convict turned medical student, does not disappoint. Today was the second time I've suffered him on the 24 bus – the one that goes to Karen, the richest of the rich white settler suburbs of Nairobi. His story is an impressive one; drug addict sentenced to seven years in prison, finds the Lord, gets and education and an unexplained 3-year cut in his jail sentence; I refrain from shouting 'grass' at him, as I doubt it would amuse my fellow passengers as much it would me. He ends his presentation with a plug for his now published story, which is available in (some) bookshops with all proceeds funding the studies which will complete his full life turnaround. He does, however, want to leave us with something we can take away and remember him by. He produces a slim but 's inspiring' volume entitled 'your letter from prison'. Again, one has learned to wait for the catch, and sure enough he only wants to inspire and deliver a message from God to those of us who will part with 100 Kenyan Shillings. Some passengers buy it, but not enough for Justin. He decides to escalate his sales pitch with a classic Kenyan merging of God with anything you personally want to happen. God has blessed us, we are told, by giving us this opportunity to support him. We don't even have to buy the book – we can do God's will simply by giving him money.

He moves towards the back of the bus to tout for more contributions to his studies, and delivers his knockout blow, implying not taking that this opportunity to support him is not something you'd want to be raised when stood before the gates of heaven asking for entry. It seems to work, as many fellow passengers are moved to contribute notes as well as coins.

Justin's story is a good one, and for all I know it could be true. Life is very tough for students here, and many have to look to innovative ways of raising their own funds. But in Kenya, God is brought into everything, so some of the world's poorest people are answering calls to do God's will by giving generously to their church, to people like Justin, to the many people who carry well-worn sponsorship forms for their school fees, uniforms or their own faith-based charity. Some of my colleagues informed me that as a foreigner I could make a lot of money if I started a church in Kibera, and that even in the slums the congregation is encouraged to give money every week – one colleague even reported that they'd been told to 'forget coins and only give paper'.

VSO training does prepare you for the totally different role the church plays in the lives of Kenya; its sheer omnipresence, if you will.As is the case all over the world, faith can be a great moral driver for positive change here in Kenya. Much vital and brilliant work is being done by people and organisations motivated and guided by their faith. This applies to many of my colleagues, who share the same principles and attitudes to others that I recognise in those members of my family who were raised in the British Sunday School tradition.

The central role of the Church in people's lives gives it an immense power; it must be and often is the trusted communication channel that delivers incredibly important messages and services which are improving the lives of tens of thousands of people. But the hardest thing to come to terms with is the level of religion mixed in with just about everything else, including sales (shops are often called God is Able and religious verse appears everywhere) and – of greatest concern to my life – on public transport. You only truly understand the full context when driving down the wrong side of the road in a Matatu, reading the sticker on the window which states that 'we do our best, God does the rest'.

One hears references to God's will so often it has the same hollow ring to it as my nephew's 'sorry' after he's just been caught playing football in the house ten minutes after he was last told off for it (my sister should read on for some advice on how to stop this happening in the future!). The ubiquity of the references – and the fact that Christian values are often not reflected in the subsequent actions of those invoking the name of the Lord – means its impossible not to be cynical. It was the same in UK local government for a while, but instead of the Almighty it became impossible to have a conversation or meeting without using 'no child left behind, multi-agency approach' or whatever the latest 'on-message' term was.

When you hear a prayer at the beginning of meetings asking God to support the team in responding to emails, delivering their actions and meeting deadlines, or even a senior politician with a rather colourful track record encouraging God to 'deliver us from corruption', I do often compose my own internal prayer, but for obvious reason have not delivered it:

“Thankyou God for giving us all a brain and the capacity to take responsibility for our actions, and to tell right from wrong. I note from scripture that the incompetent, the lazy and the feckless are not promised a wonderful deal in this or the afterlife – may they be performance managed on earth as they shall be judged in Heaven. We would, therefore, of course prefer that our Lord Almighty prioritised answering the prayers of the 1 in 5 children who are dying before the age of 5 years old outside our office doors, and I'll make sure I reply to my emails before the end of the day.”

To try and understand a bit more about this, I went to a church recently. For the first time since school, I was in a place of worship without a wedding or a funeral to attend. I went because I was very curious about something which plays such a central role in most Kenyan's lives. Almost everyone goes to church, and pastors are revered and respected figures. A few weeks ago I started asking colleagues about their churches to try and find one I could attend; my criteria was that I would not be invited to introduce myself to the congregation, be the only white face, or that they would expect this to be anything other than a one Sunday stand.

My colleague Philo obviously understood this and did her research for me, finding a suitable candidate a couple of miles from my house. The scale was very impressive. A huge marquee, staffed by 5 teams of ushers and technicians, full professional lighting rigs, sound systems and plasma screens beaming the action in close-up I counted about 40 rows of 72 seats each, most of which were full by the time the opening 'concert' by the faith team (a band and seven or eight singers playing songs I didn't recognise in a mix of English and kiSwahilli) had finished. The concert, with its choreographed dancing and singalongs, was a stroke of organisational genius – it provided cover for all those who were inevitably filtering in up to 45 minutes after the start time. I did remark to my colleague that it's a blessing for Kenyans that there is no commandment demanding punctuality.


The band itself was more Coldplay than the gospel I'd hoped for. They reserved their 'lighters in the air' number for the finale, just before the collection boxes went round. Its easy to return to the default cynical setting, but after that I understood what the literature I'd been handed as we walked in meant when it said that this wanted to be a relevant, contemporary church. A team took to the stage to perform a sketch, which advertised the church's services, up-coming charity events, a new radio programme they'd started (and of course informed people how they could support the church's events and services), before the main event was announced. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. A husband and wife team, Pastors Oscar and Beatrice, emerged and settled into the latest in a series of seminars on parenting. They say in Britain that you are never more than ten metres away from a rat; in Nairobi, the same applies to a powerpoint presentation, and Microsoft's package reared its head once again here. The Pastors delivered it in an easy, jocular, anecdote-driven style; the pentecostal Anne and Nick. Much of it was entertaining, and contained really sensible and strong messages (no-one is perfect, be consistent, teach your children to take responsibility for themselves). Indeed, only the occasional reference to biblical verses – which many in the audience feverishly wrote down – reminded me I was in church. There was only one rather large issue which I found unsavoury – the fact that the congregation was encouraged to hit their children. Whose truth do we choose to believe, asked Pastor Oscar, the many pyschiatrists who will tell you that it damages a child's self esteem, or the Lord who says: A rod and a reprimand teaches a child wisdom, but an undisciplined child disgraces its mother?' But I chose not to stand up and contradict him. Instead, when offered the time for personal prayer at the end of the service, I thanked the Lord for giving me parents who did not hit me.

In truth, I am no closer to understanding the central role the church plays in life here, or being able to spot who is motivated by belief, who is just undertaking the ritual they've been raised with and who is using faith to manipulate others. It is another reminder to anyone going to live in another culture, even for a year or two – you are not going to understand it.

‘Why are you all so obsessed with race?’

A (black) Kenyan friend asked me this question on Friday evening as we were having another conversation about being treated differently in Kenya due to the colour of our skin. It was perplexing that he should ask this question at this time, given what had just transpired. We were a mixed group in a not at all mixed bar in the centre of Nairobi. Just like the people who can’t contain themselves and have to shout ‘mzungu/whiteman/taxi’ as they pass you on the street, so the compere of the evening could not ignore our presence, promptly taking to his microphone to trot out the same tired theme which rears its head seemingly every time a white woman is in a room with Kenyan men. ‘If you are dancing next to a white girl, make sure you get their number because then you can f**K them and produce little Obamas’. He then proceeded to lead many men in a rehearsal of the line ‘can I have your number?’, before telling what I assume was a joke: ‘In Holland, men let their dogs lie in their bed while they f**k their wives’.

So I responded honestly to my friend: who exactly does he think is obsessed with race? Is it  us who, having consumed more Tusker (and eaten less) than we probably should have, responded by booing, hissing and heckling with the odd ‘booooooooooorrrring!’ Or is it the society that won’t ever let us forget that we’re white? In this instance, even if they thought we should be happy not to be able to sit in a bar without someone making an issue of our skin colour, surely they didn’t think it was acceptable that we should sit there while a group of men were encouraged to try and f**k our wives and girlfriends?

But its probably an idea not to try and take on gender issues at the same time as race.

We knew coming here that being in a minority – however privileged – would potentially be a major culture shock and challenge. And however distasteful and strange I find it, I understand why it is deemed acceptable to behave here in a way that is unimaginable back home. This is a country where tribal affiliation still play a huge role, with stereotypes applied to all members. Often, one is considered  Meru, Akamba, Digo, or (definitely) Mzungu before being Kenyan. It’s not a surprise that the tribal differences which the colonial powers chose to utilize are still so evident nearly half a century after independence.  It’s no wonder that many volunteers find that colleagues, neighbours and local shopkeepers look at us and see the wealth and success of the ex-pats, settlers and honeymooners (not to mention the scantily clad, easy women of the popular soft porn station, MTV). Our neighbours often stare into the flat, and kids will wander in if the door is open, presumably expecting to see evidence of a decadent lifestyle which will blow their minds. They must be very upset to see little more than a fifteenth-hand, falling apart sofa, a water-filter and a coffee table complete with a sticker explaining its heritage: ‘A gift from the American people’.  Don’t worry, Barrack, we’re only borrowing it.

Attitudes in Britain only changed with exposure. But here in Kenya there is incredibly little meaningful mass exposure. White settlers and many of the European ex-pats may as well be living in a totally different country to the majority of black Kenyans. Black and Asian Africans have hardly had the rosiest of relationships across east Africa, but I do not know enough about the current situation to conclude whether things are improving.  Many volunteers report that as our placements come to an end, colleagues are asking for us to leave our possessions; laptops, spectacles, clothes. These aren’t Kenya’s poor; these are middle class people who pay school fees and probably own cars. They just think we have the money to replace them. If just one person believes us as we inform them that these are not items we can afford to replace, then that’s a net improvement in cultural understanding. The perceptions of us and our motherlands are quite incredible. One of my colleagues thought I was lying to him when I told him that there are homeless people in Britain. He was amazed, given that he understands we are ‘paid by the government not to go to work’. Interactions with volunteers and other more representative Europeans must be helping people understand that while we’re all white, there is as much in common between me and most of the white people in Kenya - historically, culturally and certainly financially - as there is between my colleagues and Colonel Gadhaffi. We’re a very diverse bunch, and often come from cultures that respect and appreciate that diversity.

I know that Britain is far from perfect, and how long our culture of (predominantly) racial understanding took to establish. I know that our experiences in Kenya in no way compare to the decades-long struggles of Jewish, Caribbean and Asian communities arriving in an initially hostile, suspicious and outright prejudice country. But I also know that I have come here with an open mind and to try to understand and engage with the culture I am living in. And this cultural exchange is a dialogue, so I have a responsibility to explain to someone why I don’t think its right not to treat me as an individual, to make assumptions about your life because of the colour of your skin, or encourage a room full of drunk men to try and f**k your wife.

My name is not Mzungo

In Kenya if you are a white person you cannot escape the word Mzungo following you around wherever you go. Commonly thought to mean ‘white person’ a quick internet search states that there are many different interpretations of this Swahili-based word, from ‘stranger’ or ‘person of foreign decent’ to the more interesting ‘one who wanders aimlessly’ or ‘ one who runs around in circles’, describing the way Africans saw early European traders and missionaries. The word, or a derivative of it, is used in most Bantu languages of East, Central and Southern Africa.

But ever since we arrived in Kenya and could be forgiven for thinking that this word was pinned on our backs and people thought it was our name I have been trying to grapple with the question, is it racist?

Fresh from a recent visit home where we savoured the anonymity of UK life I came straight back to shouts of ‘Mzungo how are you’ (the regular favourite). The first and second person to ask this on my 10 minute stroll out at lunchtimes will usually receive a short ‘very well thanks’ from me, the third or fourth a polite smile but no answer but by the fifth and sixth person it is down to completely ignoring them or a not very polite reply. Some people who say this act like they just can’t suppress it and the excitement of seeing you makes them blurt out the term despite themselves, others you sense deliver the word with much more ill feeling. VSO training asks you to think about what it will be like to live as a minority and if you are prepared for that, I thought on the whole I was but I didn’t expect that on a daily basis people would feel the need to remind me that I am different to them.

Obviously this minor inconvenience in my daily routine does not compare with the discrimination that thousands of people across the world have suffered and continue to suffer as a result of their race and I am well aware that we are not stopped from doing anything, prohibited from certain places or abused in any way. We are however treated differently as a result of our skin colour, mostly based on the assumption that we have lots of money, or according to children in Mombasa, lots of sweets that we will happily give out. But it is the notion of pointing out someone’s difference that makes me uncomfortable, and surely in some way that is discrimination?

Here in East Africa it is clearly a culturally acceptable term and one that colleagues tell me is not meant as an insult, more stating a fact. With our basic Kiswahili you can hear children on buses being taught by their parents to call you the word, they can be very surprised if you respond in their language to tell them that is not your name! I have even heard reports that the growing number of Chinese people in this part of the world are also being called Mzungo by people who must take it to mean foreigner, or as a friend tells us, someone with money. But in the end to my British sensibilities the concept of shouting a word that denotes the colour of your skin at a total stranger in the street just seems rude and, well, wrong. And what erks me more is when people who know me say it to my face. The security guard at work recently stopped me to ask ‘where are you going for lunch Mzungo?’ when I asked him why he called me that he replied ‘because you are one’. Hmmm.

So while I don’t think I have yet resolved to decide whether it is racist or not one thing I do know is that it is bloody annoying and I will not miss it!

Good day, bad day

It’s a good day in Nairobi. You wake up to a beautiful clear morning, wind your way past the cockerels in the yard and board your matatu with no hassle. You dance to the reggae vibes as you breeze through the traffic and the driver volunteers your change without being asked. You arrive at work to find a colleague has done a proactive piece of work and told you how you really helped them. At chai break you share a mandazi or some bread with colleagues who always offer you some of the little they have. You see another colleague sporting a fantastic new hairstyle that seems to have changed her personality as well as her image. You spend a day busy at work and feel you have made some real progress, people respond to your emails, you have an encouraging meeting with the management team, you have a plan of action for delivering capacity building. At lunch time you go and eat with colleagues, laugh with the lady in the food van who keeps asking if you are cold yet (in the mild Kenyan winter) and share stories about life in the UK. Colleagues insist you come to their house and they will cook Kenyan food for you. As you head home you walk past monkeys swinging in the trees and observe the hustle and bustle of the city. You have an encouraging exchange of Kiswahili with the vegetable stall holder and practice slang words with the children outside. You see women in beautifully coloured outfits swaying past you, followed by a man herding his cattle through the city streets. You go out into the Nairobi nightlife for drinks with friends at a nearby trendy bar that could be anywhere in the world, except it is still warm enough to sit outside. You remember why you love this city…..

It’s a bad day in Nairobi. You wake up to discover the milk is off (no fridge) and hear on the radio about the latest corruption scandal in Kenyan politics. You wait for ages for a matatu and then board amongst hysterical pushing and shoving. You then sit stationary for ages in the traffic, cursing the thick black smoke your lungs are forced to inhale. You get overcharged, for the journey, for a paper, for a soda, anything really, because you are a mzungo. You are reminded of this fact several times during the day when people randomly shout the word at you in the street, some with happy smiles as they say it, but not all. At work you have nothing to do, no-one has given you any work and you can’t think what to do next to move things on. No-one seems to care. Then the internet stops working and you wonder how you will make it through the day. Your boss recounts terrible stories of disabled children being locked in houses by their families in a very matter of fact way, you ask him what can be done and he shrugs ‘we keep trying to educate people’. Over chai break a colleague tells you how his house was burgled last week. ‘How horrible’ you reply ‘Its ok’ he says ‘because I know who it was and I told the police and they have killed him’. You have a meeting in which you don’t understand how colleagues are talking and talking but not saying anything. Nothing is decided and you head back to your desk, frustrated, to do battle with the strange insects that have accumulated there in your absence. As you leave work it begins to rain, you get charged more again on the matatu and the jams are awful. As you travel up the street however you see why, the worst car accident you have ever seen a few metres in front of you, mangled vehicles but no sign of the passengers who you presume have already been cleared away. Everyone on the matatu tuts and you drive on, passing five more ambulances on your route home as Kenyans drive as carelessly as ever in the rain. You arrive home soaking wet to find no electricity, so you try to make a phone call but oddly there is no reception in your flat today. The power returns and you settle down to watch the latest knock off DVD bought round the corner and discover it doesn’t work, and then the power goes off, again. You have no idea where your candles are and so you go to bed. Then you really miss home.

Nuns, protests and buses in Tanzania

Visiting a friend in Southern Tanzania last month turned out to be quite an experience. After a great few days relaxing in Mombasa, including a poor attempt to kayak around the island, we boarded the bus to Dar, dollars in hand hoping we would get a visa at the border. 9 hours, two visas and a very bumpy Tanzanian road later we arrived in Dar-es–Salaam (Haven of peace) on a bank holiday weekend to find pretty much the whole city shut. Then began our ridiculous attempts to continue our journey on to the very south of Tanzania to a town called Mtwara, during rainy season and assisted by an array of characters much more adept at conning the mzungo than those in Kenya.

So it goes:
5.30 am, arrived at bus station with tickets bought the previous night and then waited, and waited and waited. About 4 hours later the penny finally drops with our fellow Tanzanian passengers that no bus is coming and the crowd gets angry. Several phone calls to the bus company and finally a representative arrives.
‘ No bus today’ we were told. Then, a sudden change of heart
‘A bus for some of you who bought your tickets here’
‘What bus?’
‘The small Chinese hopper bus over there’ which had just driven away for fear of being mobbed by angry passengers wanting to get on. Then a little while later…
“Go get on the bus’
‘What bus this time?’ The same hopper bus now hiding behind some trees to avoid said angry mob.
Soon enough this bus is discovered and a scuffle for seats is followed by a protest of people we’d never seen before claiming they had been thrown off the hopper bus. A short while later and we are on the move, hurray! But wait a minute, where’s that we are headed? The police station! Justice is then done as the police oversee the reimbursement of all fares (though we get back less than we paid as we had been overcharged in the first place).

Actually never been this far away from home

‘Great now we go to Mtwara?’
‘No now we go back to the bus station, no bus today’
‘Er hang on, why is that man winking at us and saying you two mzungo will go to Mtwara?’
So arriving back at the bus station some savvy passengers realize that the bus company still intends to take the bus to Mtwara, possibly with only us on it
‘No-one leave the bus’ they say (or at least I think they do as this whole episode is in fluent Kiswahili and we haven’t a clue!)
They refuse to get off so we decide to and as we leave a police man comes after us
‘Where are you going this bus will take you two to Mtwara’
‘Just us? When and how much?’
‘Well what you have to understand about transport in Tanzania is that it is very very expensive………………’

Later that same day
‘Hello are there any flights to Mtwara tomorrow morning’
‘Yes there are’
‘Can we book them’
‘No there are no flights tomorrow morning’

Absolutely worth all the hassle

Next morning as we turn up at airport at 6am on our friend’s advice‘Are there any flights to Mtwara this morning’
‘Yes’
‘Can we book a seat’

‘No the flight is full’
‘So we can’t get to Mtwara today’
‘No’
‘Ok, thank you’
‘But you can go at midday if you want’

Virtually a private beach at our disposal

So after a frustrating day trying to leave Dar we finally arrived on a ‘blown our budget’ flight into the beautiful little town of Mtwara where our friends Adrian and Caroline hosted us wonderfully. Staying at a beach house which took us right out onto a pristine beach which only us and the fishermen used, swimming, snorkeling and eating gorgeous fresh fish, drinks at sundown overlooking the bay, taking in the slower pace of life and slowly becoming enchanted by the town. On our third day we were joined in the beach house by a group of nuns (the house belongs to the Benedictine order) with whom we struggled to find appropriate conversation but shared a lovely breakfast of hot chocolate and stodge.
All in all well worth the hassle and we can’t wait to find an excuse to go back.

The Lord provides 5 star accommodation

Kenya vs UK - six months in

Today marks the sixth month anniversary of our arrival in Kenya and to celebrate we thought we would do a quick comparison of things we like and don’t like here and at home. It goes without saying that we miss family and friends but other than that there are some things which surprised us:

The things we love about Kenya
1. Never knowing what the day will bring - seeing a camel walk down our street or monkeys in the trees near our house, rainstorms so violent you think your house might wash away
2. The taste of the fruits
3. Finding out what Kenyans know and like about the UK; the Premier League obviously, Top Gear (strangely), the Royal family
4. Colours – it’s like a different spectrum
5. Having ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ holidays every month – Kenya is a stunning country
6. Having a sense of perspective; the relative ease and privilege of British life, the sense that there is more to life than work, but also of geography. We can’t believe how many people we haven’t visited on account of how far away they live in the UK. The island is tiny!
7. Giraffes, warthogs, elephants and hippos-our favourites of all the amazing wildlife we have seen so far
8. DVD Derek and his latest pre-release titles

The things we don’t like and won’t miss about Kenya
1. Food, especially ugali. The carb based diet, augmented with chewy meat, is not the greatest
2. Traffic - the chaos of the matatus and the amount of time you can be sat in queues breathing in the foul black air
3. Dust - the feeling that you are never truly clean in Nairobi
4. Prayer - having to adhere to it in meetings, having to listen to the call to prayer, having to nod in agreement about the merits of organized religion
5. Bugs and flies
6. Shouts of ‘mzungo, mzungo' in the street, for no apparent reason other than to remind you that you are white and not black it seems
7. Being overcharged for all sorts of things because you are a mzungo and in particular being told ‘what you have to understand about xxxx in Kenya is that it is very, very expensive…..'
8. Kenyan politics-much more about personality than ideology but you get the feeling that they are all screwing the country over
9. Attitudes to women and homosexuals
10. Plugs which hiss at you, showers which ‘make you dance’ and the general quality of electrical fittings
11. The absolute disregard for customer service

The things we miss about the UK
1. Proper cups of tea made without boiling a vat of full fat milk
2. Cakes that have sugar in them
3. Dressing gowns-mornings are quite nippy now in Nairobi
4. Being able to walk around freely after dark
5. Good roads
6. Nice bathrooms including a bath
7. The NHS and public services- truly what sets Britain apart from the rest of the world
8. Cheese
9. 5-a-side football and the Championship
10. Clean fingernails
11. Bus timetables
12. Queues
13. Sandwiches
14. Being paid each month

The things we don’t miss about the UK
1. The weather
2. Incessant complaining about how hard life is in one of the richest countries in the world
3. Having a TV
4. Celebrity obsessed culture
5. Health and safety culture- if there is a river at the bottom of your playground just teach children not to play near it.
6. Waiting for transport-you may have to queue once you are in it but you never wait long for transport in Nairobi
7. Watery tomatoes
8. Pessimism

Ryt laidz neet in

 To celebrate two of my colleagues securing proper jobs within ANDY's comic-relief funded new sports and access to work programme, I invited the two of them and the other male in the Kibera field office, Maxwell, round to ours for a few bia baridi and a simple dinner.

A Yorkshire calendar kickstarts any party

I had to leave it at the men in the Kibera office because I was unsure how the first invitation round to my house coming on the day Joanne went away for a couple of days would have been perceived by Kenyan ladies. Besides, the flat is great but the four of us filled all the available seating.

Anyway, those lucky enough to make it onto the exclusive VIP guest list were treated to avocado and tomato salads - one with pastrami and the other with ham - the obligatory bowl of crisps and some cold-ish beer. Cold-ish because our fridge packed in again, having just secured its second full week of functionality since it was purchased in early January.The soundtrack alternated between traditional music from western Kenya and a whistlestop tour of my music collection, and a merry time was had by all. it was of course a valuable cultural experience. This is what I learned:

1. It doesn't matter how skint your guests are, how much you've bought or how much cheaper it is than Tusker - they'll still make fun of you for serving them Allsops lager.
2. Any food served which is not ugali with beef will be referred to as 'English food'.
3. Even taking into account the cultural differences and the playboy reputation of the tribes these three belong to, one of our guests still managed to amaze me with some rather odd views about women.
4. Raphael's football loyalty is not, as I had hoped, on a journey down the M62.

Geoffrey enjoys yet another hilarious quip from his host

5. The 7/11 on Jamhuri High Street is in fact open until 11, and sells Tusker, but the female proprietor does not appreciate jokes about confusing her husband and the other man who works in the shop.
6. Hangovers are still nowhere near as bad here - I think its the additional sweating.
7. Despite all speaking fluent English, they were unable to pick out more than one word in 20 sung by Dave from the Zutons.
8. These three would have loved the regular floor-fillers at Leeds' mid-late 90s mod/indie superclub, Brighton Beach. 

Allsops - Kenya's Carling, apparently

I bless the rains down in Africa

There are two rainy seasons in this part of Africa - the short rains, which were taking place when we arrived here in November and we now know are very timid compared to the 'long' rains, which have just begun. The torrential downpours are something to behold – like nothing I have ever experienced, even during a life residing in the grim north of England and visits as deep into Scotland as Loch Ness.

The rain is very much welcomed by all those who appreciate what has been happening here; lots of fires caused by the extended dry weather, and fears over water – and resultant food shortages later in the year – in some of the more remote areas of the country. Cattle prices have been rising high as many died due to malnourishment, and a devastating effect is feared on crops this year. The country is also heavily reliant on hydro-electric power, so the longer we went without a downpour the more frequent and long-lasting the power cuts.



Jamhuri high street after a light shower



The rains are once again very late this year. All this is very confusing to Kenyans, who have up until recently been able to plot their weather patterns almost to the day, and during those days almost to the hour. It is helping to make the environment and global warming real to its citizens, but immediate remedies - such as trying to reduce the number of people chopping down trees to make charcoal – will simply serve to deny persons access to a traditional livelihood.

But when the rain did arrive it was easy to forget how important the rain is to the very fabric of the country and bemoan the chaos it causes in Nairobi.  A city which struggles to move faster than ten miles an hour in the rush hour simply grinds to a halt.  And to add insult to injury the matatus will charge much more to sit in a traffic jam in the rain than they do to move in the sun. They will complete less journeys, and are already operating within extremely tight margines, so have to take more money for the jobs they do. There is of course a large amount of opportunism but it is simply accepted.

Jo copes with the rain in typically elegant fashion

These issues show how narrow the margines are for the poor; if matatu journeys go up by 40 bob a day then tough decisions have to be made – about eating, sending children to school, even going out touting for work around the industrial areas. Now add another dimension to that; imagine you have a disability. Add to that a totally new dimension; getting around if you’ve got a disability. Many simply can’t leave their house as the small lanes between houses fill full of water and the steep paths turn from the driest dust into the thickest mud in a matter of minutes. The slums have no irrigation, which is a big problem as all the water runs from the nice middle class area we live in down the hill to collect in Kibera. If you can't leave your house there’s no sick pay or calling in to explain to your boss that you'll have to work from home today. Most of the time you are your own boss and if you don’t do it no-one can open your stall for you.

A footnote – my near death experience in the rain



The first time it rained properly this year I made the mistake of trying to wait it out at work. The rain simply belts down, relentlessly for hours at a time. I realised after about an hour that the rain was not going to pass quickly, and so set off on the ten minute walk home sporting umbrella, north face jacket and wellingtons. The streets, I quickly discovered, were in the process of turning into rivers. Clay-red, flowing rivers which covered undulating, broken road surfaces – making walking steadily impossible. Many a Kenyan laughed as I plodded past them, confidently placing one foot in front of the other only to sink up to my waste as I found one of the many potholes. The flowing water passed over a couple of the open sewers which line the streets in Kibera, but all thoughts of what exactly was in the liquid filling my wellingtons were replaced by blind panic as I heard a worrying, loud popping and hissing above my head.



No idea what that liquid may have contained



I looked up to see that the electrical wires running overhead had probably been hit by lightning, with the popping, hissing and sparks travellling down the wire towards where i was stood. I froze, knee deep in water, waiting for the end. Then two seconds later I forgot about my dignity and ran for what I thought was my life. Most of the Kenyans nearby stared at me but a couple decided to join my dash for safety. The noises continued, the heart quickened but the panic was soon over and I was back in Neema Court
, telling Jo of my epic quest while pouring the foul water down the drain.