Outside the bubble

 

Slum, Nairobi. photo: F. Hoogervorst

A young girl followed me home the other day.

I was out walking the dog in our neighborhood of dirt lanes. Our walks generally follow a star-like pattern – going down one lane and turning back, then the next. We have other routes, but that’s our most common one. We pass houses, three schools, and an evangelical church, from which we sometimes hear singing and chanting.

I didn’t notice at first that the girl was purposefully tagging behind me. It just seemed we were headed the same way. I did notice that her school uniform was a different color from the ones you see in our neighborhood. The local school uniform is a grey/blue and white checked pattern dress for the girls and the same fabric for the boys’ shirts, matched with blue shorts. This girl’s dress what red and white checked.

And then it became obvious that she was following my amblings, copying the way I turned back at the end of each lane and staying just a few meters behind me. She looked lost and hesitant, so as I came to the gate of our compound I stopped and talked to her.

“Shouldn’t you be going home now?” I asked. It was about 4 pm by this point, which is when the lanes by our house start filling up with post-school-day kids and cars.

She looked at me and burst into tears

We live in a protected compound, behind gates and guards and alarm systems. It’s not our preference, but it’s how it is. Crime in Nairobi is serious, common, and often violent. Security is an omnipresent reality. It’s a constant concern and major source of employment.

Anyone who can arrange or afford it lives and works behind protective barriers of one type or another. We are hardly unique in this way.

But it’s a far cry from the world of young Anna, as I learned this girl was called.

I’d meant to go back to work after walking the dog. This outing was to be just a break from long hours of writing tasks related to the fact that I am juggling four separate work contracts.

But here I was with a young girl in distress. She told me that her mother had kicked her out of the house at lunchtime and had said not to return if she didn’t want a beating – or something along those lines. I tried to ask questions, understand more about where she lived, if there was anyone else who could help her, and such things.

I took her to our house. I gave her food. And I fetched our wise and big-hearted housekeeper, Susan.

With Susan’s help, I was able to get young Anna back to her home. It turned out she lived in a slum that is a good 2-hour walk from our house.

Anna’s neighborhood is a place I never would have gone, or found, on my own – even though it is tucked between more well-travelled spots and probably houses thousands of people.

The story Susan got when we dropped Anna at her place was different from the version she’d given us. It involved a mother who works long days to feed her children, a younger sister who tries to keep Anna out of trouble, and a 13-year old Anna who doesn’t like to go to school. I’m not sure where the full truth was in Anna’s story. Maybe she doesn’t like school. Maybe there are more ominous reasons for her behavior. Crime and violence are rampant in the Nairobi slums, especially against girls and women. The likelihood of emerging from life there unscathed is slim.

The true story of Anna and her (mis)adventures is probably muddy and complex – much like the dirty lanes and ramshackle sheds that make up the place Anna, and many like her, call home.

Tea Time

I visited one of the tea growing regions of Kenya, recently. It was located about two hours north of Nairobi, past Thika and near the start of the lush Aberdare Mountain range. The tea plants grow on steep hillsides at elevations that are over 2,000 meters above sea level. The leaves are shiny and emerald green. When it’s sunny, the fields practically sparkle.

Kenya, it turns out, is one of the world’s leading tea producers, just behind China, India, and Sri Lanka. Who knew? I didn’t. But then, I’m more of a coffee drinker.

Like a lot of other people, prior to coming to Kenya, the images I had involved golden savannahs populated with zebra, wildebeests, and gazelles hotly pursued by lions and cheetahs.

But Kenya is really quite diverse geographically. Yes, there are deserts in the north, savannahs in the south, and the Great Rift Valley in the center. But there are also lush, green forests with moss-strewn trees and giant ferns straight out of Jurassic Park. There are volcanic peaks, mangrove swamps, and long white beaches. There are steep hills covered with patchworks of crops such as beans, potatoes, maize, coffee – and tea.

My outing consisted of a group of 5 Kenyans, 4 Mexicans, and 2 Italians. There was also a Dane, a Portuguese, his Brazilian girlfriend, and me. (Britt was nursing a sore heel and couldn’t join us.) Our lack of familiarity with tea production united us – as did our pleasure at enjoying the great Kenyan outdoors.

We learned about tea planting and picking. We discovered that though the plants look like thick bushes, they are actually trees that are kept trimmed to waist height. They are vegetatively propagated (like potatoes and sweetpotatoes), meaning they are grown from plant cuttings and not from seeds. They thrive in the Kenyan highlands, naturally resisting most pests and disease – at least for the time being (climate change notwithstanding).

We tried our hand at picking tea leaves. Though the plants are thick with them, you are just supposed to gather the top two. And this, while balancing an awkwardly round basket on your back and making your way through the dense branches and steep incline, is harder than it looks. Professional pickers fill numerous baskets each day, working from 6 am to 6 pm for a pay of about $5 a day. That doesn’t sound like much, but is considerably more than the $1.5/day poverty rate.

We drank cups of hot tea and visited a tea factory, watching the steps as the green leaves were pulverized, dried, and turned into the stuff you buy at the store.

 

By the end of the process, workers were heaving 75 kg bags of tea onto trucks for destinations worldwide. Where they might end up ultimately, I don’t know. But I can tell you the journey begins on hilly, windy dirt roads filled with the gigantic ruts and potholes that you find all over Kenya – especially during the rainy seasons (Apr-Jun, Oct-Nov).

It is amazing to see where tea originates and to think of all the forms and meanings it engenders. There’s high tea, tea ceremony, tea parties (some charming, some not) and tea for the tillerman. Tea is equated with philosophy and religion, with comfort and quenched thirst. It comes up in politics and even in poetry.

 Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of toast and tea
    T.S. Eliot

Kids

Everywhere you go in the countryside, you see kids.(my photo)

When you drive around the countryside of Kenya, you are bound to see lots of little kids. Older ones may be walking to school in their matching uniforms or tending herds of goats. Younger ones might cluster in a playful group, shyly waving as you pass by.

It really struck me the first time I came to this country; how many little kids there are.

It’s not just an impression. There really are lots of young children in Kenya. Kids under age 15 make up over 40% of the population. And the average family size is 4-5 children per mother – with bigger families in rural areas and smaller ones in the cities.

Our day guard has 5 children, and doesn’t even live in the same region as his family. They are off in the western part of the country, while he tries to make more money for them here in Nairobi. Our housekeeper is from a family of 8 siblings and has 5 children, along with several grandchildren.

Most children get a primary education. Though it’s free, families have to pay for uniforms, books, and school supplies. Sometimes, they can’t, and children have to stay home. If forced to choose, families will keep boys in school rather than girls. That’s all the more common for secondary school, which is not free. Kids living in slums, on the streets, or in isolated and nomadic communities generally have no access to a school.

There’s a public primary school by our house. I pass by often walking our dog. The kids laugh and talk to me. If I’m jogging and we happen to be in the dirt lane at the same time, they’ll run along beside me. Most are afraid of the dog, which isn’t surprising in a city where most dogs are raised as guard animals and pretty viscous. Some want to pet him, and even ask me if I’ll give him to them.

Like children all over Kenya, these kids walk long ways to get to school and back. Their uniforms are often worn; sometimes pretty dirty, too. The school buildings and facilities are basic. They do have a large grassy field for playing, and the whole place is very animated.

On the same lane, barely 100 meters away is another primary school. This one is private. Everything here is very groomed and nice. There’s a big outdoor pool, tennis courts, music building, lots of sports fields, and that’s just what I can see from walking by. We can hear them from our house doing their sports, eating lunch, taking recess, or having special celebrations. There’s a good vibe.

These kids don’t walk to school. They are driven in SUVs with red diplomatic plates or Mercedes sedans driven by wealthy Kenyans. Though the lane is full of speed bumps, they typically drive off quickly, leaving the public school kids, people walking to work, and occasional dog walker in their dust.

Showing them their photos always gets a smile. (photo. C.Staub)