“The true result of endeavor, whether on a mountain or in any other context, may be found rather in its lasting effects than in the few moments during which a summit is trampled by mountain boots. The real measure is the success or failure of the climber to triumph, not over a lifeless mountain, but over himself: the true value of the enterprise lies in the example to others of human motive and human conduct.” —Sir John Hunt, leader of the 1953 British expedition that first ascended Mount Everest
In one week I will return to Kenya, for my fifth visit. And two weeks from today I will be somewhere along the Machame route on Mt. Kilimanjaro! I’ve been training hard these past two months with an excellent trainer. He’s helped me increase my endurance–rather than walk on my treadmill, or even jog, I set it at the highest incline, strap on ten pounds and my hiking boots, and “hike” for an hour, sweat pouring off me. The first 15 minutes are hard, but soon, it is a rhythm, and then it’s easy. I look forward to it the next day!
Check out my rainproof jacket, embossed with our Kilimanjaro logo, compliments of Neil Herson, president of ASD Healthcare and fellow teammate!
Twice a week I’ve been doing plyometrics, simple looking exercises that are deceptively hard. Dan’s license plate reads “TRNZ4MR” and he is a Transformer! I’ve shed 7 pounds of fat and have toner muscles. Just in two months! I have learned to love to eat egg white and protein bars, and no longer crave M&Ms, my stress food. I feel ready for Kili.
My daughter, feels ready too. She worked out with Dan once–and when she hit my iPod, which had been playing the Doors for an hour–the shuffle picked a song out of 4,200 songs… called “Kilimanjaro.” (Hear Twilight Zone music playing, anyone?)
Today we sorted through all our gear. It’s a lot of planning. We have to plan for 5 days in Nairobi, visiting hemophilia patients, the members of the Jose Memorial Hemophilia Society, the hospital and doctors. We’ll be taking visits to the villages, far from Nairobi. Then, we will leave on the 5th to fly to Arusha, Tanzania. The next day, we start our 6 day climb!
All of this benefits Save One Life and our Africa programs. All ten climbers are paying their own expenses. Every penny raised goes to the organization and to fund our programs in Africa. Please stay tuned as I hope to bring you stories of our adventures, and portraits of the people whose lives we touch. I am most anxious to see Peter, who has hemophilia, and his younger brother Zakayo, who was in a psychiatric ward when I visited him, a victim of the riots that broke almost two years ago. The ward was a grim place. His brother was declared “cured” but the family had no money to pay for his care. No money? No release. The poor young man was trapped in that place. We paid the $300+ fee to get this young man released to go home to his family. For us this is what it means to save one life. One child, one young man, one hemophilia patient at a time. They all have names and stories and our climbers will have the immense privilege to enter their world, and experience a little of what they endure.
Our climb up Kilimanjaro may be the hardest thing we have ever done in our lives, but pales next to the daily lives of those who live in poverty with hemophilia. Thinking of them makes our climb a stairway to heaven, as the money we raise will help ease their suffering. We get to relax after our six day ordeal; theirs never seems to end.
Please make a contribution to the fundraiser! 100% of your donation goes to Save One Life and our Africa program, and not to climbers’ expenses! Help change the lives of those in Africa with hemophilia–one at a time. Visit SaveOneLife.net and click “Donate”
Today was a field trip, outside of the bustling, clogged streets of Nairobi. We headed to Murang’a, a town about 90 minutes away, off on the highways pitted with deep and numerous potholes. The shoulders of the highways are crumbling and soft so in dodging the potholes, we have to be careful not to veer too close to the shoulders or we will need up in a ditch.
You may think Africa is hot (the very name means “Away from the cold”—A frika), but Kenya is quite pleasant, with cool breezes, mostly dry air, and even chilly in the evening. No wonder so any settlers came here and stayed. The climate, the rich red soil, the friendly people make Kenya a country where people dream of living.
Maureen Miruka, mother of two-year-old Ethan and founder of the Jose Memorial Hemophilia Society, was our fearless driver. With us also was Paul, the 24-year-old administrator of the Society. How nice that Maureen hired him—he has hemophilia and many of the young men with hemophilia cannot hold down jobs. Remember that there is no factor in Kenya unless it is donated, and the donations are only enough for a few.
Our first stop was the Murang’a District Hospital, where we met the gracious Senior Nursing Officer Danny Mengai. Joining us later was Dr. Nguyo. Maureen had met them previously, explained about hemophilia and this time brought with her their very first ever donation of factor! This is factor that my organization Project SHARE had donated to her organization. This was the kind of teamwork and outreach I like to see. Imagine: Murang’a has a higher than normal concentration of people with hemophilia and there has never till now been any factor in the hospital. And you can bet that fresh frozen plasma is hard to come by as donating blood is not a tradition in Kenya, or in any African country.
I learned today that a big teaching opportunity for the JMHS would come in December: this is when the vast majority of circumcisions are done. Why? I asked. For religious purposes? No, Maureen replied: school holidays. Boys are circumcised around age 12 and this is when we can get referrals for bleeding disorders to the Society. Dr. Nguyo assured us he would check with Maureen at that time, and also refer anyone suspected of a bleeding disorder.
Back in the Toyota and then on to visit patients. This was our very first official field visit—sorry, the second. We must give Paul credit. He had visited previously by himself to do the groundwork, and take down patient information for Save One Life. And he did an excellent job! Our goal is to start enrolling patients from Kenya, and ask anyone reading this blog to consider sponsoring a child form Kenya. The needs are terribly great and it won’t take much to change their lives.
Take Peter for example. Just down the street from the hospital, on a red dirt road, in a small apartment lives Peter, age 19, with hemophilia. He is thin and speaks softly, like most Kenyan boys. He was so curious about his condition, and wants to be a doctor when he grows up, “So I can help other people like me. Because I know how they suffer.”
That’s an understatement. I am not sure we can understand how much these children suffer, with no relief, night after long and desperate night. (Photos: Peter; his kitchen; Me with family)
Let’s imagine what it is like for Peter when he has a bleed. There’s no money to get to the hospital. He has no crutches, of course, no wheelchair. He remains housebound. He tries to hide it from his distraught mother. She is single, and caring for Peter, and his brother, who has emotional problems as well as hemophilia, and also has adopted her two nieces, abandoned by her sister. The mother makes only about $20 US a month washing clothes and housekeeping for people. Peter’s bleed worsens, as does his pain. At night they all sleep in one room (the only other room they have, which also functions as a “kitchen,” because it has a charcoal pot in it) probably a few of them crammed into one bed. If anyone moves, this sends shooting, excruciating pain from the bleeding joint. Peter can’t get up and watch TV as a distraction, or Facebook, or do Wii, or pop a painkiller, or grab ice from the freezer or treat himself to a Coke. They don’t have a refrigerator, and own nothing but the basics—a table, chairs, couch, a bed or two, a boom box. If he gets up he’ll wake everyone. And in Africa, kids don’t whine and demand and complain. They suck it up with dignity. He lies there all night, trying to control the pain. The last thing he wants is for his mother to find out, which will add to her worry and suffering. He learns to be stoic and fight the pain, because there is simply no other choice. This bleed goes on day after day and night after night. It finally subsides… until next week, when this scenario happens all over again.
This is his life, and he cannot imagine any other.
We record his family history, ask him about his schooling, and his plans. We learn that his brother is in a mental ward. The entire family was terrorized last year during the post election violence. Thugs entered their home, set it ablaze, and chased them out into the streets. This is a nice, Christian, impoverished family, with two young men with hemophilia; they deserve nothing of what has happened to them. The younger brother, already fragile, is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. We make plans to go visit him. He’s ready to come home, but the family has incurred $350 in fees and like most developing country hospitals, the patient is not released until the bill is paid. You hear that right. Peter’s brother could be there indefinitely. We’ll see about that.
Who wouldn’t want to sponsor Peter? What a lovely young man; so sensitive and sweet, so gracious and kind. If he were placed in America, there would probably be nothing he couldn’t accomplish with his winning perspective.
The road calls, and we soon leave, after first handing out some presents to the family. On to the next patient: Peter’s uncle, also named Peter. He is older, with a family: wife and two children. He lives, well, basically, in a jungle. We park by the side of the road, surrounded by banana plants, overgrowth, trees and vines. Someone actually lives in that thicket of vegetation. We pull over under a big tree and a crowd of children gather, from the other side of the street. They giggle and whisper, “Mzungu!” and cover their mouths. What does that mean, I ask Maureen. Maureen smiles and says, “White.” Not many people like me make it out here, I guess.
I dissolve our differences by hauling out my stash of Tootsie Pops. Never, ever travel in developing countries without them. They withstand the heat and luggage manhandling, and are beloved by everyone. I hand out one to each bystander and immediately have fans!
We should have brought machetes because to get to Peter the uncle, we have to step over rocks and push back the big banana leaves. A short walk down the twisty sort-of trail and we arrive at their plot of land. Such poverty.
A split-log home, tin roof, muddy ground. The floor inside the house is missing; it’s just mud. There is no electricity. There are indicators of various levels of poverty and this is one key: do they have electricity? Believe it or not, you can do without plumbing. An outhouse will do and most people in the villages have them. But when you don’t have electricity…. You might as well be living in the 1800s. No, even earlier, in this case.
This family owns nothing, nothing. No vehicle, hardly any furniture. A homemade chicken coop housed a few chickens that had no food or water and the heat was growing. I felt for them, sadly. They cackled unrelentingly. A dog was penned in the back, also in a homemade kennel, with hardly any ventilation, whining to be released. The children padded around barefoot, the wife was a bit cautious, not too friendly. (Photos: the outhouse; Peter with family)
I gave the children the customary Tootsie Pops, which they eagerly accepted, and a superball and a toy kitten that shook when you pulled his tail. They were frightened by the toy at first. Then they thought it hysterical, and they made it shake over and over. I had rescued some toys from the CVS store which operates right beneath my office. Apparently, they ditch whatever they don’t sell every month: perfectly good toys, baby items and medical items. I retrieved toys for kids, baby strollers, thermometers, heat wraps, you name it. Yeah, I am a Dumpster Diver and proud of it. Everything is neatly wrapped in clear plastic bags and in perfect, new condition. And these kids had a ball with the toys.
After our interviews with Peter, we headed for the next house. Also perched in a jungle-terrain, on a hill, Charles’s home at least has electricity. And the animals look well cared for. We were greeted by the father, Sampson, an elegant elder man, his wife, who eyed us warily, and later told us this was the first time she ever met anyone else who had a child with hemophilia (! She must be about 60), Charles and his new wife, Hannah.
Charles approached us on a crutch, with obvious crippled joints. But what a nice young man: age 24, speaking fluent English (Kiswahili is the national language but most educated people—meaning grammar school and high school—can speak English as Kenya was once an English colony). Charles shared so much with us: his hopes to return to college and study electrical engineering, because he has a knack to fix anything, and he longs to contribute to his family. His parents are elderly. How much longer can they work and support him? It’s such a source of shame for an African man to be supported by his own parents. Hannah was sweet and gave me a little tour of their farm. The animals were all housed in self-made, split-log cages, but really well done and humane. A cow, goats, chickens and a dog. As clean as can be for living in jungle-like surroundings. They don’t have a refrigerator and Charles could really use one for ice for his joints. He lives so far from any hospital and they of course don’t own any kind of transportation! Not even a horse.
We were so impressed with the family. So good, high hopes, willing to work hard. Charles needed $350 to get his school fees paid for so he can return and get his degree. He just doesn’t have that kind of money. People like him, Peter and all the others we met live day to day. It’s truly survival. And when thugs burn your house down, or the rains come and wash away your farm or crops, you are really threatened with starvation and just pure survival.
We just cannot imagine their daily lives. I have a hard time, and I have seen it in front of me. How do they do it?
And yet I never hear a complaint, or curse. The only think I hear are blessings: May God bless us for our work, may we have a safe journey, thank you for helping us. Now maybe you can see why I return over and over. Despite their poverty, they have a richness many of us in developed societies lack.
We parted on such happy terms, and we all chattered on the way back about what a diamond in the rough Charles was! Peter too, in a different way.
We visited two more families, Stanley, a grown man, and Derrick, a one year old and actually Paul’s nephew. By then it was really growing late and I was out of Tootsie Pops and just about anything else in my purse that I had given away.
Our last stop of the day was at a home of a better off family. They have a proper concrete home, electricity, and the father is employed as a teacher. The son with hemophilia neatly dressed with shoes. We had a nice courtesy visit, and afterwards, to show their appreciation, the mother presented Maureen with a magnificent rooster!
They popped the rooster into a plastic bag, tied the top and carried it out to the car, its crested head popping out. When they opened the “boot” (trunk), the animal lover in me sprung out. We just can’t put a rooster all trussed up in a plastic bag into a hot trunk! It was 90 degrees and we had a two-hour journey back on horribly bumpy roads! The poor thing…
So I rode with the rooster in my lap, all the way back to Nairobi for two hours at night, petting it as if it were a cat. The doorman at the Holiday Inn was pretty surprised when he opened my door to let me out!
I’d call it a successful day all around for Save One Life and Save One Rooster.
(Please consider sponsoring one of the families mentioned above! Just $20 a month. See http://www.SaveOneLife.net)
It’s with great pleasure and joy that I’ve returned to Kenya, in east Africa, to visit the patient groups and the patients I have grown so fond of over the past nine years. I first arrived in 2001, returned again last year and was eager to not wait eight years before returning again!
Kenya is best known nowadays in America for its elite athlete runners (one just won the Boston marathon last week) and as the ancestral home of our president. But it is very important for hemophilia care as its national hospital has become a training center for many in east Africa. There are an estimated 4,000 people with hemophilia in Kenya, and about 400 identified and registered. Yes, there is a long way to go in providing care, but seeing where it has come in nine years, it has been making steady progress.
I landed late last night after a six hours flight to London, an overnight stay and then an eight+ hour flight straight to Kenya. I was greeted by Maureen Miruka and partner Sitawa, parents of Ethan, who has hemophilia. Maureen founded the Jose Memorial Hemophilia Society to help organize patients with bleeding disorders and to provide programs that address their needs. Jose was Maureen’s first son, who died three years ago that same evening.
My first stop today was the Kenyatta University Hospital, to visit with the chief hematologist, Dr. Walter Mwanda, and the Kenya Haemophilia Association. We had a wonderful meeting and it was exciting to get caught up on the many outreach activities planned, and the ideas of their young president, James Kago, who has hemophilia. What devotion: James just became a father for the first time on Saturday, and here he was, attending to affairs of the state! Our meeting, originally a courtesy call, lasted three hours. We all share a deep passion for helping those suffering with hemophilia in Kenya, and it showed in our bubbling over of ideas and concerns and a pledge to help the KHA and all patients. (Photo: Dr. Wanda and KHA)
Next stop: a visit with James’s new baby girl Tiffany! It’s been a long, long time since I have held a newborn and there is perhaps no greater joy.
Next stop was to meet at my hotel with Maureen and James, and also Geoffrey Mosongo, a young man with hemophilia who has established a new program to help young men with hemophilia get scholarships, finish school and find work. Geoffrey rightly recognizes the needs patients have as they mature to find employment. The meeting was to put heads together to find better ways to create results. I was very impressed with the level of respect and compassion each has for the other, and for each other’s organizations.
The meetings went on well into tonight, for we are ten hours ahead of Boston time.
Tomorrow I go off for a field visit about two hours outside of Nairobi, the capital, to meet with patients in their homes. Stay tuned!
The Kenyan Flag: The black stripe represents the African people; the red stands for the blood shed for independence. The green represents Kenya’s natural resources. The thin white stripes symbolize peace and unity. The central emblem is a shield of the indigenous Masai warriors.
Good Book I Just Read Pooling Blood by Cheryl D’Ambrosio
This is the true story about two sisters with bleeding disorders (factor V deficiency), as told by their stepmother. It is absolutely compelling; a beautiful tribute to the story of Cheryl’s fight to keep the girls alive, and educate a medical community often ignorant of girls with bleeding disorders. From the opening scene of a blood smeared bathroom, to the blossoming of the girls socially at camp to a near-death experience while on a vacation, the book is a roller coaster of emotions and learning experiences. I started reading it while on the treadmill; three miles never flew by so fast! The book is a testament to advocacy and persistence, and Cheryl is a gifted storyteller.
The only places where the book falls short is when medical or industry related material is shared. The description on page 114 of Bayer’s Kogenate FS production stoppage is completely wrong; the explanation of volunteer versus paid blood donors is outdated and incomplete. The glossary however is very good. Readers should enjoy the story, learn from Cheryl’s experience and prepare to be very inspired.
I flew into Tanzania today, a quick one-hour flight from Nairobi. I was greeted so warmly, so kindly by the members of the Tanzania Hemophilia Society, who made me feel instantly welcome and part of the family. Richard Minja, founder, and I have been communicating for four years, working to establish the society, and when we met he greeted me with an unabashed hug! We feel as though we have already met; so strong are the ties that bind people who live with bleeding disorders.
En route to LumuruBeautiful Kenya
But first, let me finish telling my tale of Kenya. I wish I could bring you all with me to experience what I experienced: glimmers of hope in patients who were desperate for care, for a solution to some very difficult problem. Overall, Kenya has a great physician and hospital at Kenyatta Hospital, but the problems faced by Kenyans with hemophilia are institutional, cultural and logistical. Overcrowded emergency rooms mean that patients wait hours before being seen: those with serious bleeds risk life itself. Factor often is not available, and what little there might be must be used sparingly. The medical staff devote their entire lives to helping patients but even they cannot overcome a culture in which patients are meek, do not speak up when they are bleeding, and do not challenge the current system. The traffic in Nairobi pretty much dictates everything; your entire day is planned around how best to avoid traffic. You can literally sit for hours, inching along. Patients can never get to a hospital quickly this way. So many patients live very far from the hospital, and many do not own cars. How can they get from a rural house on a long, miles long red muddy road to a highway and then into Nairobi when they have no car and no reliable public transport?
So we know what we must do.
On Thursday, I flew back from Zanzibar, and pretty much just sorted myself out the rest of the day, trying to keep up with email. Maureen and her partner Sitawa picked me up at the airport and we met with Salome and Dolphin, two members of the board of directors, to finish plans for the big charity event they were holding Friday.
Charity’s Home
On Friday, April 24, we started our day early by visiting Mrs. Eva Muchemi, of the Diabetes Management and Information Center. She was wonderful! Diabetes and hemophilia actually have a lot of things in common, as both are chronic disorders. Eva gave us many tips in running a nonprofit and establishing family-based programs for education. One of the coolest things I learned (no pun intended) was how to create a “traditional cooler,” to store insulin or any biological product. Using two tin cans, charcoal (abundant in the developing world), and a rubber ball as a stopper, local artisans can make these insulated cooler cheaply. In that way, patients can store insulin at home!
Next stop, the hotel where the event would take place, to check on preparations. The rich smell of roses filled the air and I can see that Maureen and team pulled out all the stops for this event, which is in memory of Jose, Maureen’s firstborn, who died just shy of his sixth birthday on April 25, 2007. Rather than submerge herself in extended grief, she empowered herself to create this society to ensure that no other child should die of untreated bleeding.
Then, Salome, who is a nurse at Kenyatta and also a mother of a child with hemophilia, and I went to visit Charity, a vivacious mother of three who lives in Lumuru, on the outskirts of Nairobi. As we finally disentangled ourselves from vicious traffic, and patiently endured a police roadside checkpoint, we zoomed along the highway. Immediately the countryside unfolded, and a beautiful Kenya revealed itself. It’s a double-edged sword: along with the lush countryside comes increased poverty, though I have to say that rural poverty is quite different than urban poverty. What you forfeit in modern conveniences, you make up for with clean air, space, and peace. But life is hard there.
I snapped dozens of photos long the way, which will have to wait till I am back in the US, where we have high speed Internet. It takes too long to upload photos. But what photos! Wait till you see them all.
Turning onto a rusty and rock-encrusted dirt road, we bounced and banged our way to Charity’s house. We passed donkey-pulled carts, women balancing immense loads of vegetables or firewood on their heads, and random donkeys grazing on the thick grass. Finally we arrived.
Daniel
Charity is a woman with a dazzling smile and lovely, British-clipped accent. She was so excited to have an American visiting her home-what an honor for her! But it was an honor for me. How often do we get this chance, to share intimately in the life of a struggling soul? Out of the house shyly emerged her children: Patrick, 14, Daniel, 11 (who has severe factor VIII deficiency) and giggling Ann, 5. Another cousin tagged along. Daniel actually looked in good shape, though a bit small for his age, while Patrick is slim and robust, strong. We had a tour of the home, the separate “kitchen,” which is a wooden shed, inside which was a steaming pot of soup. The smoke was really thick inside: directly above the pot was a cord of wood, which was being dried by the smoke. Nearby were vats of water–their household supply. Back out in the bright sun, we went to the rear of the house, where I was surprised to see two cows, which give fresh milk daily, and a cute calf. A small cat followed us about. The kids started to loosen up and we took photos.
Inside, we listened to Charity’s story: Daniel misses a lot of school though he is a good student. Education is absolutely paramount to them, for it ensures a future for the entire family. There’s no such thing as welfare for the elderly. You are cared for by your family or not at all. So you’d better believe these kids get educated. Daniel’s knees show signs of arthropathy, especially in the left knee. Unbelievably, though they have electricity, there is no TV, no washing machine and no refrigerator! Try to imagine no refrigerator, especially for a child with hemophilia. A small one costs $200 and we pledged to source finds for one. The kids smiled broadly when I whispered this might mean keeping the occasional Coca-Cola in the house for special occasions.
Patrick wanted to see photos of my family, and my pets, and when I handed him my iPhone, he wasn’t phased by the technology. He immediately got the hang of its touch, and skimmed through my photos, asking such intelligent questions.
Laurie Kelley with Charity and children
David, the father, came by, limping. He had been mugged two years ago, and left with a shattered leg and has been unable to work. When I broached the subject of their income, I think tears came to his eyes. For a man not to be able to support his family seemed wrong. I looked about the humble abode, seeing how clean and neat the children were, the wonderful food Charity placed on the table for us to eat, and how attentive they were. Charity earns $35 US a month selling vegetables from their small farm out back.
We will enroll them in Save One Life, which will almost double their monthly income. Charity said they need money most for transport to the city for treatment. They almost always will need a taxi or to pay a driver.
As we spoke, I glanced up at the cupboard next to me, on which was an appropriate plaque at eye-level: “Weeping endures through the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5. So appropriate for a child with savage joint bleeds, and a mother who holds him all night helplessly. To see their smiles today meant we have brought some measure of joy.
When it was time to leave, there were hugs and the kids were all smiles. In fact they piled into the back seat of the car for a lift to homes near the highway, so they could visit a friend. And we returned to the congested city for our big charity event, which I will need to write about in a day or two. Stay tuned!
I am writing from Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania for two days of R&R. The very name Zanzibar conjures up spices, for it once produced 66% of the world’s cloves, and myriad other spices. It also served as the launch pad for the explorations into the interior by Livingstone, Richard Burton, and John Hanning Speke. Watch “Mountains of the Moon,” an excellent adventure movie, to get an idea of old Zanzibar.
Now, there is terrific poverty surrounding resort compounds. I am grateful to be here complements of Andrew and Julie, parents to a toddler with hemophilia. I’ll be seeing them tomorrow night for dinner and get to hear their story more. They live in Nairobi, Kenya, but own the Bluebay Beach Resort, a world-class resort on, what Andrew’s father Steven correctly said, is the most beautiful beach in the world.
A few days ago, Sunday, I attended Parklands Baptist Church for the 8:30 and 11:30 services, as I was invited to speak to the congregation about my visit. What an amazing experience! With only a half hour break between services, I enjoyed the singing, spirit and sermons. Six hours of church flew by. We prayed, sang songs in Swahili, and the music–I find most Africans love music and have its rhythms and words woven into their lives. My thanks to Pastors Simon and Ambrose for allowing me to speak about hemophilia and our mission to their congregation and to participate in their energetic and passionate services.
After church, around 3 pm, we quickly changed into hiking gear, grabbed a bag lunch to eat in the car, and then trudged into another adventure–the Kibera slum. With approximately one million people living in crowded, unsanitary conditions, the slum is the largest in Africa, and the most studied. There is a documentary about it–I haven’t seen it yet but intend to. It’s a place that completely fascinates me. When we turn the corner, off the main road, and head into the dirt road leading down to Kibera, I feel like we are being swallowed up into the pulsating entrails of a massive, living, writhing organism.
Immediately, my sense come alive as I take in the scenery, which deteriorates rapidly as we enter. The mud and stick homes and corrugated steel-roofed homes lining the road close in on us, and the crowd of people walking by thickens. The road gets bumpier and tighter. Immediately there are the smells: sometimes a ripe, thick stench of garbage, then the welcomed acrid waft of charcoal burning.
We greet David Lerner, the lovely young man who works for Compassion International, a Colorado-based nonprofit, who will be our guide into the slum. He climbs into the car and we exchange greetings. David, only 23, grew up in Kibera, and has such a worldly and mature perspective at such a young age. He is handsome, eloquently spoken and has had harsh life lessons. He is a survivor, someone with a perspective that no one I know has. He is remarkable; so young, so organized, a devout Christian. He helps run a school of 208 children, all sponsored by people in developed countries. I told him I want to come back and spend a day at the school. He gave Maureen good ideas about child sponsorships programs, and how they are run. Maureen will be running our program Save One Life, and it appears that David’s sponsorship program is run very much like ours.
After touring the school, we visited Anna, a mother with eight children. It’s hard not to be moved visibly by their poverty. Everything seems grey, including the children, covered with a layer of grime and dirt. She breast-feeds her baby while the other children play within a few feet. They giggle and grab my hand, hiding behind one another as they catch a peek at us. She sits in front of her house, selling vegetables, cigarettes in crushed, used packages, and charcoal in white buckets. Anna is a good mother, and sends her children to school. They don’t have hemophilia, and are not registered yet with David’s school. But he knows them and they give us a photo op. “Want to go inside?” asks David, gesturing to their tin shack, the door to which is barely covered by a torn curtain. I hold the hand of her little daughter who leads me in. The 10′ by 10′ windowless dwelling has one bed, a small charcoal pot–burning with coals–many bags of clothes filling the dirt floor, and the biggest surprise, her husband, lying on the bed. He’s lying on the bed, having a siesta while she is selling, breast-feeding and watching all the children. Where they all sleep is beyond comprehension.
We are sometimes harassed by the local guys, who are obviously drinking. I realize we are in the “business district” of Kibera. In 2001, when I came here, I was in only the residential area, and rarely saw grown men. So there’s a bit of tension. You must always be alert and wary. When we get into the car, Maureen fans herself in the front seat, as we must keep the windows up constantly and the sun is hot. We inch along in the car, with Sitawa driving, and move with peristaltic action, as men bang the hood sometimes. In Swahili they shout, “Hey! Why are you doing that? Open your window instead!” Sitawa and Maureen laugh. I never feel like we are in danger, but surely if you do something stupid–argue with them, get angry with them, get out of your car at the wrong time–you risk being hurt or harmed.
How to describe Kibera? An economy of poverty; children toddling everywhere, people lounging by their homemade shops, selling vegetables and charcoal. Goats strutting about freely, starved dogs, barefoot children with runny noses; and the occasional good chuckle: we pass by the “Beverly Hillz Salon,” in the midst of mud and garbage strewn lots. I realize that Kibera isn’t just a place where the poor live, it’s actually a thriving economy, based on bartering, marketing and hard work. It has schools, markets and its own radio station. It’s like no other place I’ve ever seen. I have to afford some respect to its inhabitants, who survive against all odds, and certainly in conditions we as Americans could not tolerate for a moment. As we depart, our car slamming against potholes and inching alongside people walking purposefully, dust swirls up from the unpaved roads, and we know we are simply inches away from misery, inconvenience, disease, alcoholism, crime and hardship.
When we are spat out of the slum and hit the highway, it seems already worlds away. We let David out, and he will bicycle back to the slum. We spent only two hours there and it was overwhelming to think that David has spent his life there and could possible spend the rest of his life there, a diamond in a mountain of coal.
We depart for the evening, each of us to our own worlds, wondering what it must be like to live in the world of the other.
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