Travel diary of volunteering in Kenya - Arrival

“BEEP!” “BEEP!” The alarm pierces through my shallow sleep. Its face flashes a young hour and, having put my head to rest only 3 hours earlier, a little too soon for my liking. But admittedly I cannot pretend to care the slightest. Right now, rolling over and dosing off is not an option. My flight to Kenya is later this afternoon and I have a to-do list that would intimidate even the richest in time. Although I packed most of my luggage the night before, I still have considerable ways to go in stuffing my carryall. In the end everything comes together and Hein, Sibel & I make our way to Schiphol just in time for our Kenya-bound flight. My flicht schedule shows Amsterdam-Amman-Nairoibi, during which we are also joined by Maaike, a fellow volunteer who seems great fun. The first leg of the journey, a 5hr flight to Jordan’s capital, is comfortable, but largely spent deciphering the Arabic symbols on the seat in front of me. Amman’s airport, a dull whitewashed building, with tear-shaped window frames and scarfed airport saleswomen, turns out a short but boring wait. Part II of the flight, I’m told, will last approximately 5.5 hours. With the collection of African literature carried along and the private multi-media screen lodged in front of me, I don’t mind too much. I am placed next to a paunchy jolly Indian guy who has actually grown up in Kenya, but is now following his studies in the UK. We exchange some friendly jokes and I prod for some valuable pointers into the African ways. The conversation quickly turns to one of the things Kenya is best known for: safari. He quickly remarks: “You should check out the Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania! It’s this huge crater with a watering hole smack in the middle, so all the animals inside are basically fucking trapped! So you’ll probably see, like, every animal in the world there!” I had been to the crater two years earlier, and his assertions were pretty accurate… Besides the crater I had seen most of East Africa’s well know safari parks. The only one still on my list was Tsavo West, not too far from Malindi, the coastal town that will be hosting us the coming weeks. Tsavo West is known for its “Man Eater’s Junction”. This too-appropriate of a name refers to a section of the Kenya-Uganda Railway, which was coined during its construction in 1898. According to the tale, up to 140 of the Indian workers were snatched and devoured by a legendary lion duo (given the names ghost and darkness), having found a strong liking for human flesh. As the legend has it, catching the two was not the easiest task and included several failed attempts at human bait, before the project manager himself, Lt. Col. J.H. Patterson, took down both beasts with a cage and four shots each. Tsavo is said to still contain these ‘man-eaters’, all with a testosterone overdose, little mane hair and an aggressive disposition. We will have to see if the trip allows for a visit! We arrive in East Africa’s flight hub, Jomo Kenyatta Airport, at the dodgy time of 3:00 AM. After the usual problematic visa arrangements and already having to buy off two airport employers we move on to the final flight, a small air-hop to Mombasa. After a short hour flight, with a small jerk of the tiny propellered bush plane and a huge jolt in my excitement, we start our descent towards the tiny airstrip below. My customized Africa iPod playlist on full blast, I stare out through the small oval window pane. Slowly the plump-bellied clouds disperse and reveal the African landscape, quickly materializing before my eyes. Below me, the seemingly enormous Kenyan coastal metropolis of Mombasa stretches out. As we decrease in altitude, the rough aerial view starts transforming into a detailed landscape, revealing the brick-red dirt roads, the open-roofed shantytowns and the countless tiny African figures bristling about below. My expected image of an Africa city has again been confirmed. Having retrieved my gorilla-sized duffel bag, stripped off most of my layered winter clothing and taken a small DEET shower, we delve head-first into the African scenery. As we walk out of the airport and are greeted by the bright sub-Saharan sun, we are approached by Everlyne, a young and friendly Kenyan woman. She turns out to be the one temporarily in charge of Kenya Xperience!, the guiding organization for the different volunteers. We follow her and the driver across the parking lot, until they come to a halt, point their fingers and say “jump in”. Before us stands a large bus. The vehicle looks magnificent, as if it drove here straight from a modern-day Livingstone expedition. A pseudo-colonial, fern-green and beige, open-flanked safari bus. Our mode of transport up to Kilifi, a coastal town, half-way up to our destination (Malindi), where we will undergo a one day training in Swahili and African customs. As we set off through the downtown area of Mombasa I am enraptured by what’s around, and eagerly take in these encounters with East Africa. The roads are bumpy and heavily pitted with potholes, the houses made of timber and clay or rough slabs of concrete. A sense of liveliness can be felt all around. Construction work seems ubiquitous and continuously ongoing on these roads. Sweaty bare-backed toilers are swinging picks at the road surface or sawing up big tablets of wood on the street-side. The roads themselves are crowded by matatus (the small local taxi-busses), jeeps, trolleys and rickety bikes, their hind rack stacked high with 2m piles of hay bales or bundles of firewood. Along the walkway, countless pedestrians can be seen, sauntering ahead in a comfortable tempo. Many of the women, wrapped in their kangas, balance immense barrels on their head, using their free hands to wave at familiar faces. On both sides of the long dirt road I am faced by endless rows of tiny shops, their colorful painted walls flaunting names of phone-companies and the products sold within. It surprises me that having driven for 40 minutes, I have not been able to spot a single white person among the crowds. This close to the airport, in the second biggest city of one of Africa’s biggest tourist destinations, not a single Westerner in sight. I figure that a white person is a lot more uncommon in these corners than I initially had thought. This theory is only confirmed by the scores of staring faces on the sidewalk, each face marked with either a puzzled blank expression or a big ear-to-ear smile and an arm stretched out before them. “Mzungu! Mzungu!” – “White man”, or, more literally, “one who wanders around aimlessly”. ————————————————————————————————- Kilifi is a nice town. The sun is fierce, but the people not so. The town’s pitted roads are bristling with Kenyans, all eyeing us curiously, but with a friendly demeanor. Having no tall buildings, Kilifi has no skyline, making it difficult to navigate without a map. Everlyne checks us into the local Peacock Hotel, leaving us for a short powernap before the scheduled ‘introductory/cultural training’. The eventual short crash course in Kiswahili and Kenyan manners is slightly wasted on my previous visits, but a half descent way to get back into the Kenyan way of things. We finish the short day with a walk around the town’s centre, a short visit to the local beach and a fantastic African dinner on top of one of the beautiful coastal cliffs, Tuskers, ugali and two hours of waiting included. Afterwards we head back to our hotel for some early rest before our journey up to our place of destination, our children’s orphanage in Malindi…

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Travel Experience Kenya (Diary) - Meeting the children!

As we rattle across the tarmac on our way further up the coast from Kilifi to Malindi, there is again much to take in. Long rows of palm trees flank us on both sides and signal the proximity of the coastline. On the side of the road there are plenty of spontaneously erected market stands and their colorful pyramids of red onions, tomatoes and coconut shells. The landscape is rich with lush green forestry, playing host to the few vervet monkeys that can be spotted from the van. Reaching further North, we eventually trail off the smooth asphalt and onto a rocky dirt road. The long, wildly winding track takes us past the community’s many stick-and-clay houses, thick bramble bushes and immense brick-red insect hill that must have taken decades of collaborative construction by enormous termite colonies. Finally, the vehicle comes to a sighing rest next to a small compound. The metal gate proudly presents its name in colorful letters: ‘Heart Children’s Home’. Home for the coming weeks. Upon entering, we are enthusiastically received by the group of children living within. They excitedly crowd around us, quickly offering their small hands for initial introductions and trying to get a good view of these new faces. Heart orphanage was started in 2005 by Mama Lucy, an incredibly warm-hearted African mama, who has given up her life for the home and these kids. It currently hosts around 24 children, each without living parents or with those that are able to take care of them. The orphanage consists of a large concrete building, facing a sizeable front garden. The yard mostly consists of dry sand and coral rocks, with a fire pit in the back, used for burning trash, and a large tree up front, offering a large area of shade to those sitting outside. The house is split up into three areas, one hosting the boys unit, the second that of the girls, and the third functioning as a guesthouse. Each of the house compartments has a verandah looking out onto the court, one of which is used as the house’s kitchen. It all has a very welcoming African feel to it. Heart has two ‘Aunties’ as fixed employees. One, mama Betty, is a kind and timid Kikuyu, placed in charge of cooking, a considerable task in itself for 24 children three times a day. Prior to each meal, mama Betty will shuffle towards me quietly and, after having called my attention, would pause for several ruminative moments, staring down at the floor, before softly enquiring whether I would like to take my breakfast, lunch or supper. The other, aunty Suzan, is a tall slender woman, hired to take on the administrative and logistical tasks and assist the children with their studies. As a former teacher, her English is good, but because of her extreme soft-spokenness, this is usually lost on her listeners. What is particularly nice about the orphanage is the fact that the children are spread out over a wide age range. There is Lydia, just over two years old, with an adorable pearl-white smile and a stubborn attitude. There is Furaha, an 11 year old girl with a beautiful complexion, who is somewhat shy towards others, but loves being in social settings. Then there is Steve, 18 years of age and therefore no longer officially residing at the orphanage. Having just finished his primary and secondary education he comes across as a bright one. He aspires to study both medicine and law at Uni coming years, and seems to be a real entrepreneur at heart. The next few days I will try to spend getting closer to the kids and setting up something of a plan, so as to get a better idea of what we can achieve here during our short stay. But before I make the plunge, we head over to Watamu, yet another tropical coastal town, to prepare for a Kenyan New Year’s celebration…

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Travel experience Kenya (Diary) - Watamu

Watamu is a tropical paradise. With a backdrop of swaying palm trees, the beach that lies a 100m from my hotel stages a stretch of pearl white sands and turquoise water. It’s a sight akin to common postcard or desktop images. Across the beach you see large outcrops of jagged bedrock that lie exposed during low tide, and provide shelter for moray eels and mudskippers during high tide. In a side bay many jerry-built fishing boats lie anchored and a cluster of thatch roofed cabanas stand on a cliff, overlooking the spectacle. The water is absurdly warm and rolls in with small, soft waves. Like I said, tropical paradise. I (together with HJ & Siebel) will spend the first week of our Kenyan stay in this luxurious getaway. We are staying in an small resort called ‘Beach View’, which is said to live up to its name only when scaling the roof’s sundeck and jumping high up in to the air. Viewed from above, Watamu town is basically a long road, winding along the shore, passing place names that you’d expect to find on a treasure map, including ‘Turtle Bay’ and ‘Barracuda Beach’. The only part that is distressing in this, for the rest completely tranquil coastal town is the absurd amounts of Italian tourists. Scattered all across the beach and thronged inside the many air-conditioned Italian-owned hotels, if anywhere in Watamu you’d decide close your eyes and throw a fist forward, chances are you’d hit one of these Mediterraneans, indecently dressed and tawny from sun-exposure, right in the nose. The supermarkets offer panettone and ‘Gazzetta dello Sport’ and many of the restaurants have swapped their menu’s nyama choma and coconut rice for carbonaras and gnocchi di patate. I have even been confronted with the upsetting phenomenon of Speedo swim shorts with belt buckles attached… Mio dio!! You can tell the trend has not gone unnoticed by the locals, with almost every child in your passing yelling after you with an anticipatory ‘ciao’ or begging for another ‘caramella’. Why there are so many Italians on the coast of this previously British colony has remained a running mystery during our stay and promises some google-research upon my return. On a Saturday, having found a bit of time away, I take a small trip inland for a solo-venture: a search for the Ruins of Gedi, the excavated remains of an ancient society. From the road junction Gedi, a faded sign and a 10 minute hike down a lonely dirt road with thick overgrowth brings me there. The sites, excavated in the 1950s after their rediscovery, reveal the remnants of this previously thriving jungle community. Secretive though they were, the Gedi inhabitants, a Muslim people, were a busy trade partner with the rest of the world. Discovered amongst the crumbling walls were Venetian beads and Chinese coins, as well as an Indian lamp and scissors from Spain. I had a guide give me a tour, but mostly enjoyed just strolling though the maze of ruined walls. There are huge pillar tombs, tall mihrabs and a grand palace, some swallowed by immense baobabs and tamarind trees. The jungle-feel is amplified by the squawking hornbills in the treetops and the few dozen Sykes monkeys that follow me around, soliciting for one of the fig bananas I’ve carried along. An employee points to some of the monkeys, introducing them as ‘Muammar’ and ‘Saddam’. After these brief introductions I have officially run out of fruit to offer and decide to make a quick exit, before ‘Idi’ and ‘Fidel’ care to make my acquaintance…

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Travel experience Kenya (Diary) - Transport in Kenya

Throughout my stay in Kenya, getting from A to B has been a source of continuous adventure. When strolling around the streets of any Kenyan town, apart from the car horns and market quarreling, you can expect to be continuously greeted with the question “taxi?”. In this country any car can be a taxi, and any scrap of metal can be a car. Irrespective of whether it has a ‘TAXI’ sign perched on the roof, a running meter, seat belts or interior cushioning. Due to the strong competition between the many drivers, they have learned some sneaky ploys in order to generate an extra shilling here and there. Besides nearly pulling bypassing pedestrians into their cars, a common phenomenon is cabbies confidently nodding their heads when a customer exclaims his/her desired destination, assuring him-or-her that they know the mentioned address as if it were their own. They then proceed with a random joyride towards the other edge of town, afterwards asking, with an ever confused and gloomy expression, for some extra money to cover the extra travel expenses. This strategy of asking for more money than initially bargained for is, in general, a rather frequent reoccurrence, often leading to a heated my-word-against-yours debate. The Kenyan coastal area is also teeming with other forms of personal transportation, cheaper and more entertaining than the conventional taxi-car. Inspired by street-scenes of South-East Asia, an easy way to get around is by one of the countless tuk-tuks. Fast and somewhat comfortable, I used these three wheelers for most short trips around the area. For a bit of an adventure and a very fair price you can hop on the back of a piki-piki, the speeding motorcycles. But without the provision of a helmet and their full speed zigzags, they are not for the faint-hearted, especially when travelling along the brittle rock and sand-roads. Cheaper still are the boda-bodas, basically a rickety bicycle with a happy cyclist offering a dink on the back. During my stay, when traveling between the orphanage and Malindi town, I would often hitchhike the 15 minute drive. Once with a lorry carrying large sandbags, from which I clumsily dropped my lens cap (which generated a full-on search expedition in the dark with all passengers involved), once with a small bus, which refused herds of eager African hitchhikers before presenting us with their vacant spots, and once with a large open truck, transporting an immense pile of sand. While the six other male roof-riders were comfortably stretched out on the pillow of sand, I was tensely clamping on around me, hoping to prevent the next bump from propelling me into the surrounding sugarcane fields. The most memorable means of travel, however, has got to be a ride in one of the numerous matatus. These small passenger busses, plastered with huge stickers praising baby Jesus and Puma sneakers alike, are the ultimate example of maximum profitability. The basic rule of the matatu is “we are never full”, which is adhered to ever relentlessly. A single unit has 5 rows of seats, which, in Holland, if things get really wild, would host a maximum of 15 squeezed passengers. In Kenya basic geometrics play out differently, with an easy 30 people being able to hitch a ride. The fares are cheap and the experience is fun. Just be prepared to share the personal area surrounding your face with a local armpit!