To Hell and Back

DISCLAIMER: If you don’t get a little bit emotional reading some of this then you are either a robot or Kevin Beerman.

It’s been a little while since my last post and I’ve been meaning to write this one for a while.  I’ve sat down and attempted to get my thoughts out onto paper a handful of times in the past week or so but I’ve never been successful because last weekend was just too much to process.  We’re all aware to a certain extent of the extreme poverty and living conditions that exist around the third-world but absolutely nothing can prepare you for coming face-to-face with it.  I’m a pretty cynical person, especially when it comes to humanity and the way that we treat each other/our planet/animals but even the worst I could imagine is nothing next to the lives that some of these people in Kenya somehow struggle though day in, day out.  I of course knew what I was getting into when I signed up to volunteer in Africa; I knew that I would see some real shit.  But, like I said, there is nothing that can prepare you for a trip to the Nakuru garbage slum.

Before we get to that though, let’s take Frank Turner’s advice and begin at the beginning.  I signed up to do the IVHQ organized “outreach weekend” for the 24-25^th of September.  There were two vans full of volunteers embarking on the trip to some of the most impoverished areas in Eastern Africa (probably the world).  On the first day we visited the KCC slum, named after the KCC Milk factory right behind it.  The KCC slum was the smallest and least depressing slum we visited; perhaps that’s why we stopped there first.  We met an incredibly inspiring volunteer from New Zealand (his name eludes me currently) who has been there since 2009.  He originally came to Kenya on a short volunteer trip, similar to the one I am on now, but after seeing the lack of opportunity for the kids living in the KCC slum, he set up a program and has stayed for two years (and counting) to see it through.  When he first got there, the nearest school was something like a 45-minute walk away and not worth the cost/effort for the kids and their families.  Most kids were lucky to still be in school by the time they hit double-digits and were therefore trapped in an endless cycle of poverty and disease.  What the incredible young man has done at KCC is inspiring to say the least.  He has built a school that, while still far from perfect in his eyes, is close, safe, and adequate for the educational needs of young children.  He is still working on the school and hopes to one day expand it to be able to accommodate more children (it only fits 80 or so currently) and also to be able to accommodate children over a certain age.  Before he arrived at KCC there were no programs in place whatsoever but it is now a somewhat popular placement for IVHQ volunteers coming to Kenya.  It is truly inspiring to see what one person can accomplish if they set their mind on it and commit to seeing it through.  I don’t think I’ll be staying in Africa for two years to set up something similar but he has definitely given me a little bit of inspiration that I can take home and apply to my life.

We walked around the slum and observed the reality of these people’s daily struggles.  There is also a “women’s empowerment” program set up there; rape and other various forms of abuse are huge issues in African slums.  They were gracious enough to allow us to interrupt one of their meetings so that we could see how it is that they attempted to make life better for the women of the KCC slum.  They showed us the crafts that they make from old strips of paper and glue and even taught us how to do it.  I tried to roll a bead three separate times, only succeeding on my final attempt, and only succeeding in my eyes (I suck at crafts, hard).  I hadn’t brought my money with me otherwise I would have thrown them some business, but many of the other volunteers bought gifts from them.  On our walk back to the school we stopped to entertain some kids who loved having their pictures taken.  It was pretty alright until some kid punched me right in the nuts.  My friends Smijai and Amber gave him a stern talking to but he did it again.  I mean I know they hate “westerners” there and I can definitely understand why, but why did he target me specifically.  Do I give off an “evil white person” vibe or something?  I really hope not.

When we got back to the school we played with the kids for probably an hour.  It was amazing.  Patrick, currently the only volunteer placed there, had brought tonnes of sporting equipment from back home and the kids loved it.  I spent the next little while playing soccer, baseball, frisbee etc. with them.  I also read a class of the younger kids a few books.  They didn’t understand English and so the teacher had to translate what I was saying into Swahili but they seemed to enjoy it nonetheless.  It was a wonderful experience to see the joy in the kid’s eyes as they played with real soccer balls and not just plastic bags fashioned into irregular shaped balls. 

The next day, after a night at a hotel which apparently had hot showers (mine seemed to be the only room that didn’t have one, three weeks without a hot shower and counting /first-world problems) we spent some time in the morning portioning out flour and fat to distribute at the slums we were to visit that day.  It was messy, but luckily for me I was covered in flour by the end and not fat.  I got the cushy job: scooping flour into bags.  The first slum we visited was the IDP camp which started after the 2007/2008 violence that tore the country in two and saw thousands of people brutally murdered, raped, or orphaned.  I don’t follow international politics very closely like I used to, but here’s the sparknotes: the 2007 Kenyan General Election was a forgone conclusion before the votes were in.  Everyone knew that the opposition was going to win; the current government’s moment in the sun was up.  But, of course, the election was compromised by the corruption of the government and, much to the dismay of the majority of Kenyans, the government “won.”  Cries of scandal and corruption rose from all around the country, but the government refused to admit anything had been done wrong.  The opposition was furious and demanded a re-count or a completely fresh election but no such thing occurred.  People took to the streets and began rioting (pay attention Vancouverites: this is what a “real” riot is caused by, not losing a fucking hockey game).  Things quickly turned ugly and before too long, the machetes were out.  Neighbours were murdering their life-long friends over political differences and psychopaths were roaming the streets, using the unrest as an excuse to ruin families.  Hundreds of children were orphaned. Thousands were brutally murdered.  Many women were kidnapped and raped, often by groups of more than ten men and often for extended periods of time.  (So, how are those troubles that you have feeling now?  Not so bad hey?)  The final result was that thousands of people had literally nowhere to go, many young people not even having living relatives to turn to.  So began the IDP camp near Naivasha (IDP stands for “Internally Displaced Person” which is a fancy way of saying “woah, you got fucked over by your own country, hard”).  These people grouped together, far away from the major road to avoid more violence and heartbreak, and began helping each other get their lives together again.  After the dust settled, the government set up a program to give these IDPs a meagre amount of money for their troubles, maxing out at about $100.  Think about that: your family has been slaughtered by machete in front of you while a group of men took turns raping you and your reward for enduring that hardship was enough money to last a month, maybe.  What made me really angry (but didn’t exact surprise me) was hearing that most of these people didn’t even get their cut of the money because greedy, corrupt government officials took advantage of the situation and stole from the fund set aside to help those effected by the violence.  Evil.  That’s all I can say.

We played a game of soccer with the kids and distributed the rations we had prepared and then headed of towards Nakuru to visit the infamous garbage slum.  The title of this post refers mainly to this; the Nakuru garbage slum is hell on Earth.  It is a massive dumping site where what seems like the vast majority of the garbage produced in Kenya ends up, but here’s the kicker: people live in it.  These people have literally nowhere else to go and so they live in a massive pile of garbage. As we were walking through we came across a garbage truck dumping its load and it is then that I saw what will never leave me.  People were fighting each other to get to where the trash was coming out of because they sift through the rotting, stinking waste for food.  Yeah, they eat the garbage, and it’s a pretty intense competition to get the best stuff.  I don’t really know how to elaborate on that so I’ll just let you imagine it: dozens of people pushing and shoving each other into the piles of shit and plastic to get front row for the delivery of goodies from the garbage truck.  It should be no surprise then that the rates of disease there are through the roof.  I’m talking unbelievable, jaw-dropping figures. The slum has been around since 1981 and some people have been living there (and I use “living” very loosely) for thirty fucking years.  I couldn’t stand thirty minutes of the stench but most of the people there don’t even know anything else.  Most of the kids there have literally no options in life and are forced to either run away or prostitute themselves.  The rate of prostitution is alarmingly high and girls start at a very young age.  But why do they have to do this?  Well there are a number of reasons but perhaps the most disturbing is that most (nearly all) of the men of the families that live in the slum do dick all.  They sit behind the massive pile of trash and get wasted/stoned, then come home in the evening and demand food, threatening to beat or rape the kids if they do not get any (yes you read that right, many of the men there are known to rape their own kids, nice guys).  There is one girl there, at least I think she’s still there, that pastor Anthony (our tour-guide) told us about.  At twelve she was kidnapped and held captive for nearly a month during which she was continually raped by a gang of at least ten men.  I didn’t even know what to do when I heard that.  My body went numb and the next few hours of my life felt like a dream; I literally kept pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t just in the worst nightmare ever.

So again, unsurprisingly, the rate of HIV/AIDS is alarmingly high.  Pastor Anthony said the “official” number was somewhere between 60 and 70%, but that he feared it was much higher.  I will be helping with a medical camp there on Wednesday which will involve doing blood tests for HIV so I guess I will find out.  The absolute worst part of all this though is that the government refuses to acknowledge that these people exist. It is a dumping site according to them, nothing more.  Every so often, they show up with their bulldozers and destroy the people’s homes.   These people run and hide but after a few days, having nowhere else to go, they are forced to return and rebuild in vain, with the knowledge that the bulldozers will be back in another few months.  The other slums, KCC and the IDP camp, are officially recognized as slums by the government so they receive some support.  They get very little compared to what they should, but it’s better than nothing, and that’s what the people in the garbage slum get: absolutely fucking nothing. 

Alright I’m a little depressed writing this and I think I’ve given all the information I can remember so let’s move on to something happy.  But shockingly, we aren’t leaving the garbage slum for this.  At our vans, before we left, the women of the slum showed us what they do with their time.  They make glorious, beautiful necklaces, bracelets, purses etc. etc. etc. from the garbage and try to sell it to volunteers when they come by.  After we had distributed the food we all bought lots of stuff, much more than we needed (I bought so much junk I didn’t want, Merry Christmas guys, don’t like your presents fine but it’s about where it came from and what the money went towards).  It shocked me how friendly and genuinely happy these women were and really made me take a good hard look at my life and the pointless crap that I worry about.  What happened when we were about to leave is the single most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed.  The citizens of the slum sang and danced with us to send us on our way.  Here’s the video.  While it does no justice to the sheer beauty of the moment I hope that you can appreciate why I was so touched:

These people were genuinely happy while living in the worst situation imaginable.  When life gives you lemons, right? Make some lemonade, paint that shit gold, do what you gotta do to make the most of your life.  I’m a little embarrassed that it took me travelling half way around the world for the sentiment of that overused phrase to sink in, so be it. I’ll get over it.  Never forget how lucky you are; we are all truly blessed to be living with clean water, good food, a permanent roof over our heads, and a decent shot at a good education.

I have been to hell and back, I truly believe that.  But the feelings that I take away from the experience are overwhelmingly positive.  I have seen the human spirit triumph over unimaginable evil and come out the other side singing and dancing.  Be happy with what you have and never again take your life for granted.

*If you are interested in helping out the people in this slum, and they desperately need it, contact Pastor Anthony.  An official website is in the works and will be finished soon. I will post the link but until then you can email him at njoshanthony@yahoo.com and ask what help you can offer.  More than anything, the kids need to get the hell out of there.  A sponsorship program is being set-up as I type.

**Please excuse the gratuitous profanity contained in the above post.  That’s my voice when I’m writing something that I’m angry about and I was really really angry about what I saw at the slums.